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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d6cfbdb --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61442 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61442) diff --git a/old/61442-0.txt b/old/61442-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index df6a71d..0000000 --- a/old/61442-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6121 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 1 of 3, by -Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61442] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - A HOUSE - DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF - - BY - MRS OLIPHANT - - IN THREE VOLUMES - VOL. I. - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCLXXXVI - - - - - A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -The day was warm, and there was no shade; out of the olive woods which -they had left behind, and where all was soft coolness and freshness, -they had emerged into a piece of road widened and perfected by recent -improvements till it was as shelterless as a broad street. High walls on -one side clothed with the green clinging trails of the mesembryanthemum, -with palm-trees towering above, but throwing no shadow below; on the -other a low house or two, and more garden walls, leading in a broad -curve to the little old walled town, its campanile rising up over the -clustered roofs, in which was their home. They had fifteen minutes or -more of dazzling sunshine before them ere they could reach any point of -shelter. - -Ten minutes, or even five, would have been enough for Frances. She could -have run along, had she been alone, as like a bird as any human creature -could be, being so light and swift and young. But it was very different -with her father. He walked but slowly at the best of times; and in the -face of the sun at noon, what was to be expected of him? It was part of -the strange contrariety of fate, which was against him in whatever he -attempted, small or great, that it should be just here, in this broad, -open, unavoidable path, that he encountered one of those parties which -always made him wroth, and which usually he managed to keep clear of -with such dexterity--an English family from one of the hotels. - -Tourists from the hotels are always objectionable to residents in a -place. Even when the residents are themselves strangers--perhaps, -indeed, all the more from that fact--the chance visitors who come to -stare and gape at those scenes which the others have appropriated and -taken possession of, are insufferable. Mr Waring had lived in the old -town of Bordighera for a great number of years. He had seen the Marina -and the line of hotels on the beach created, and he had watched the -travellers arriving to take possession of them--the sick people, and the -people who were not sick. He had denounced the invasion unceasingly, and -with vehemence; he had never consented to it. The Italians about might -be complacent, thinking of the enrichment of the neighbourhood, and of -what was good for trade, as these prosaic people do; but the English -colonist on the Punto could not put up with it. And to be met here, on -his return from his walk, by an unblushing band about whom there could -be no mistake, was very hard to bear. He had to walk along exposed to -the fire of all their unabashed and curious glances, to walk slowly, to -miss none, from that of the stout mother to that of the slim governess. -In the rear of the party came the papa, a portly Saxon, of the class -which, if comparisons could be thought of in so broad and general a -sentiment, Mr Waring disliked worst of all--a big man, a rosy man, a -fat man, in large easy morning clothes, with a big white umbrella over -his head. This last member of the family came at some distance behind -the rest. He did not like the sun, though he had been persuaded to leave -England in search of it. He was very warm, moist, and in a state of -general relaxation, his tidy necktie coming loose, his gloves only half -on, his waistcoat partially unbuttoned. It was March, when no doubt a -good genuine east wind was blowing at home. At that moment this -traveller almost regretted the east wind. - -The Warings were going up-hill towards their abode: the slope was gentle -enough, yet it added to the slowness of Mr Waring’s pace. All the -English party had stared at him, as is the habit of English parties; and -indeed he and his daughter were not unworthy of a stare. But all these -gazes came with a cumulation of curiosity to widen the stare of the last -comer, who had, besides, twenty or thirty yards of vacancy in which the -indignant resident was fully exposed to his view. Little Frances, who -was English enough to stare too, though in a gentlewomanly way, saw a -change gradually come, as he gazed, over the face of the stranger. His -eyebrows rose up bushy and arched with surprise; his eyelids puckered -with the intentness of his stare; his lips dropped apart. Then he came -suddenly to a stand-still, and gasped forth the word “WARING!” in tones -of surprise to which capital letters can give but faint expression. - -Mr Waring, struck by this exclamation as by a bullet, paused too, as -with something of that inclination to turn round which is said to be -produced by a sudden hit. He put up his hand momentarily, as if to pull -down his broad-brimmed hat over his brows. But in the end he did -neither. He stood and faced the stranger with angry energy. “Well?” he -said. - -“Dear me! who could have thought of seeing you here? Let me call my -wife. She will be delighted. Mary! Why, I thought you had gone to the -East. I thought you had disappeared altogether. And so did everybody. -And what a long time it is, to be sure! You look as if you had forgotten -me.” - -“I have,” said the other, with a supercilious gaze, perusing the large -figure from top to toe. - -“Oh come, Waring! Why--Mannering; you can’t have forgotten Mannering, a -fellow that stuck by you all through. Dear, how it brings up everything, -seeing you again! Why, it must be a dozen years ago. And what have you -been doing all this time? Wandering over the face of the earth, I -suppose, in all sorts of out-of-the-way places, since nobody has ever -fallen in with you before.” - -“I am something of an invalid,” said Waring. “I fear I cannot stand in -the sun to answer so many questions. And my movements are of no -importance to any one but myself.” - -“Don’t be so misanthropical,” said the stranger in his large round -voice. “You always had a turn that way. And I don’t wonder if you are -soured--any fellow would be soured. Won’t you say a word to Mary? She’s -looking back, wondering with all her might what new acquaintance I’ve -found out here, never thinking it’s an old friend. Hillo, Mary! What’s -the matter? Don’t you want to see her? Why, man alive, don’t be so -bitter! She and I have always stuck up for you; through thick and thin, -we’ve stuck up for you. Eh! can’t stand any longer? Well, it is hot, -isn’t it? There’s no variety in this confounded climate. Come to the -hotel, then--the Victoria, down there.” - -Waring had passed his interrogator, and was already at some distance, -while the other, breathless, called after him. He ended, affronted, by -another discharge of musketry, which hit the fugitive in the rear. “I -suppose,” the indiscreet inquirer demanded, breathlessly, “that’s the -little girl?” - -Frances had followed with great but silent curiosity this strange -conversation. She had not interposed in any way, but she had stood close -by her father’s side, drinking in every word with keen ears and eyes. -She had heard and seen many strange things, but never an encounter like -this; and her eagerness to know what it meant was great; but she dared -not linger a moment after her father’s rapid movement of the hand, and -the longer stride than usual, which was all the increase of speed he was -capable of. As she had stood still by his side without a question, she -now went on, very much as if she had been a delicate little piece of -machinery of which he had touched the spring. That was not at all the -character of Frances Waring; but to judge by her movements while at her -father’s side, an outside observer might have thought so. She had never -offered any resistance to any impulse from him in her whole life; indeed -it would have seemed to her an impossibility to do so. But these -impulses concerned the outside of her life only. She went along by his -side with the movement of a swift creature restrained to the pace of a -very slow one, but making neither protest nor remark. And neither did -she ask any explanation, though she cast many a stolen glance at him as -they pursued their way. And for his part, he said nothing. The heat of -the sun, the annoyance of being thus interrupted, were enough to account -for that. - -This broad bit of sunny road which lay between them and the shelter of -their home had been made by one of those too progressive municipalities, -thirsting for English visitors and tourists in general, who fill with -hatred and horror the old residents in Italy; and after it followed a -succession of stony stairs more congenial to the locality, by which, -under old archways and through narrow alleys, you got at last to the -wider centre of the town, a broad stony piazza, under the shadow of the -Bell Tower, the characteristic campanile which was the landmark of the -place. Except on one side of the piazza, all here was in grateful shade. -Waring’s stern face softened a little when he came into these cool and -almost deserted streets: here and there was a woman at a doorway, an old -man in the deep shadow of an open shop or booth unguarded by any window, -two or three girls filling their pitchers at the well, but no intrusive -tourists or passengers of any kind to break the noonday stillness. The -pair went slowly through the little town, and emerged by another old -gateway, on the farther side, where the blue Mediterranean, with all its -wonderful shades of colour, and line after line of headland cutting down -into those ethereal tints, stretched out before them, ending in the haze -of the Ligurian mountains. The scene was enough to take away the breath -of one unaccustomed to that blaze of wonderful light, and all the -delightful accidents of those purple hills. But this pair were too -familiarly acquainted with every line to make any pause. They turned -round the sunny height from the gateway, and entered by a deep small -door sunk in the wall, which stood high like a great rampart rising from -the Punto. This was the outer wall of the palace of the lord of the -town, still called _the_ Palazzo at Bordighera. Every large house is a -palace in Italy; but the pretensions of this were well founded. The -little door by which they entered had been an opening of modern and -peaceful times, the state entrance being through a great doorway and -court on the inner side. The deep outer wall was pierced by windows, -only at the height of the second storey on the sea side, so that the -great marble stair up which Waring toiled slowly was very long and -fatiguing, as if it led to a mountaintop. He reached his rooms -breathless, and going in through antechamber and corridor, threw himself -into the depths of a large but upright chair. There were no signs of -luxury about. It was not one of those hermitages of culture and ease -which English recluses make for themselves in the most unlikely places. -It was more like a real hermitage; or, to speak more simply, it was -like, what it really was, an apartment in an old Italian house, in a -rustic castle, furnished and provided as such a place, in the possession -of its natural inhabitants, would be. - -The Palazzo was subdivided into a number of habitations, of which the -apartment of the Englishman was the most important. It was composed of a -suite of rooms facing to the sea, and commanding the entire circuit of -the sun; for the windows on one side were to the east, and at the other -the apartment ended in a large loggia, commanding the west and all the -glorious sunsets accomplished there. We Northerners, who have but a -limited enjoyment of the sun, show often a strange indifference to him -in the sites and situations of our houses; but in Italy it is well known -that where the sun does not go the doctor goes, and much more regard is -shown to the aspect of the house. - -The Warings at the worst of that genial climate had little occasion for -fire; they had but to follow the centre of light when he glided out of -one room to fling himself more abundantly into another. The Punto is -always full in the cheerful rays. It commands everything--air and sea, -and the mountains and all their thousand effects of light and shade; and -the Palazzo stands boldly out upon this the most prominent point in the -landscape, with the houses of the little town withdrawing on a dozen -different levels behind. In the warlike days when no point of vantage -which a pirate could seize upon was left undefended or assailable, it is -probable that there was no loggia from which to watch the western -illuminations. But peace has been so long on the Riviera that the loggia -too was antique, the parapet crumbling and grey. It opened from a large -room, very lofty, and with much faded decoration on the upper walls and -roof, which was the salone or drawing-room, beyond which was an -ante-room, then a sort of library, a dining-room, a succession of -bed-chambers; much space, little furniture, sunshine and air unlimited, -and a view from every window which it was worth living to be able to -look out upon night and day. This, however, at the moment of which we -write, was shut out all along the line, the green _persiani_ being -closed, and nothing open but the loggia, which was still cool and in the -shade. The rooms lay in a soft green twilight, cool and fresh; the doors -were open from one to another, affording a long vista of picturesque -glimpses. - -From where Waring had thrown himself down to rest, he looked straight -through the apartment, over the faded formality of the ante-room with -its large old chairs, which were never moved from their place, across -his own library, in which there was a glimmer of vellum binding and old -gilding, to the table with its white tablecloth, laid out for breakfast -in the eating-room. The quiet soothed him after a while, and perhaps the -evident preparations for his meal, the large and rotund flask of Chianti -which Domenico was placing on the table, the vision of another figure -behind Domenico with a delicate dish of mayonnaise in her hands. He -could distinguish that it was a mayonnaise, and his angry spirit calmed -down. Noon began to chime from the campanile, and Frances came in -without her hat and with the eagerness subdued in her eyes. “Breakfast -is ready, papa,” she said. She had that look of knowing nothing and -guessing nothing beyond what lies on the surface, which so many women -have. - -She was scarcely to be called a woman, not only because of being so -young, but of being so small, so slim, so light, with such a tiny -figure, that a stronger breeze than usual would, one could not help -thinking, blow her away. Her father was very tall, which made her tiny -size the more remarkable. She was not beautiful--few people are to the -positive degree; but she had the prettiness of youth, of round soft -contour, and peach-like skin, and clear eyes. Her hair was light brown, -her eyes dark brown, neither very remarkable; her features small and -clearly cut, as was her figure, no slovenliness or want of finish about -any line. All this pleasing exterior was very simple and easily -comprehended, and had but little to do with her, the real Frances, who -was not so easy to understand. She had two faces, although there was in -her no guile. She had the countenance she now wore, as it were for daily -use--a countenance without expression, like a sunny cheerful morning in -which there is neither care nor fear--the countenance of a girl calling -papa to breakfast, very punctual, determined that nobody should reproach -her as being half of a minute late, or having a hair or a ribbon a -hair’s-breadth out of place. That such a girl should have ever suspected -anything, feared anything--except perhaps gently that the mayonnaise was -not to papa’s taste--was beyond the range of possibilities; or that she -should be acquainted with anything in life beyond the simple routine of -regular hours and habits, the sweet and gentle bond of the ordinary, -which is the best rule of young lives. - -Frances Waring had sometimes another face. That profile of hers was not -so clearly cut for nothing; nor were her eyes so lucid only to perceive -the outside of existence. In her room, during the few minutes she spent -there, she had looked at herself in her old-fashioned dim glass, and -seen a different creature. But what that was, or how it was, must show -itself farther on. She led the way into the dining-room, the trimmest -composed little figure, all England embodied--though she scarcely -remembered England--in the self-restrained and modest toilet of a -little girl accustomed to be cared for by women well instructed in the -niceties of feminine costume; and yet she had never had any one to take -counsel with except an Italian maid-of-all-work, who loved the brightest -primitive colours, as became her race. Frances knew so few English -people that she had not even the admiration of surprise at her success. -Those she did know took it for granted that she got her pretty sober -suits, her simple unelaborate dresses, from some very excellent -dressmaker at “home,” not knowing that she did not know what home was. - -Her father followed her, as different a figure as imagination could -suggest. He was very tall, very thin, with long legs and stooping -shoulders, his hair in limp locks, his shirt-collar open, a velvet -coat--looking as entirely adapted to the locality, the conventional -right man in the right place, as she was not the conventional woman. A -gloomy look, which was habitual to him, a fretful longitudinal pucker in -his forehead, the hollow lines of ill health in his cheeks, disguised -the fact that he was, or had been, a handsome man; just as his extreme -spareness and thinness made it difficult to believe that he had also -been a very powerful one. Nor was he at all old, save in the very young -eyes of his daughter, to whom forty-five was venerable. He might have -been an artist or a poet of a misanthropical turn of mind; though, when -a man has chronic asthma, misanthropy is unnecessary to explain his look -of pain, and fatigue, and disgust with the outside world. He walked -languidly, his shoulders up to his ears, and followed Frances to the -table, and sat down with that air of dissatisfaction which takes the -comfort out of everything. Frances either was inaccessible to this kind -of discomfort, or so accustomed to it that she did not feel it. She sat -serenely opposite to him, and talked of indifferent things. - -“Don’t take the mayonnaise, if you don’t like it, papa; there is -something else coming that will perhaps be better. Mariuccia does not at -all pride herself upon her mayonnaise.” - -“Mariuccia knows very little about it; she has not even the sense to -know what she can do best.” He took a little more of the dish, partly -out of contradiction, which was the result which Frances hoped. - -“The lettuce is so crisp and young, that makes it a little better,” she -said, with the air of a connoisseur. - -“A little better is not the word; it is very good,” he said, fretfully; -then added with a slight sigh, “Everything is better for being young.” - -“Except people, I know. Why does young mean good with vegetables and -everything else, and silly only when it is applied to people?--though it -can’t be helped, I know.” - -“That is one of your metaphysical questions,” he said, with a slight -softening of his tone. “Perhaps because of human jealousy. We all like -to discredit what we haven’t got, and most people you see are no longer -young.” - -“Oh, do you think so, papa? I think there are more young people than old -people.” - -“I suppose you are right, Fan; but they don’t count for so much, in the -way of opinion at least. What has called forth these sage remarks?” - -“Only the lettuce,” she said, with a laugh. Then, after a pause, “For -instance, there were six or seven children in the party we met to-day, -and only two parents.” - -“There are seldom more than two parents, my dear.” - -She had not looked up when she made this careless little speech, and yet -there was a purpose in it, and a good deal of keen observation through -her drooped eyelashes. She received his reply with a little laugh. “I -did not mean that, papa; but that six or seven are a great deal more -than two, which of course you will laugh at me for saying. I suppose -they were all English?” - -“I suppose so. The father--if he was the father--certainly was English.” - -“And you knew him, papa?’ - -“He knew me, which is a different thing.” - -Then there was a little pause. The conversation between the father and -daughter was apt to run in broken periods. He very seldom originated -anything. When she found a subject upon which she could interest him, he -would reply, to a certain limit, and then the talk would drop. He was -himself a very silent man, requiring no outlet of conversation; and -when he refused to be interested, it was a task too hard for Frances to -lead him into speech. She on her side was full of a thousand unsatisfied -curiosities, which for the most part were buried in her own bosom. In -the meantime Domenico made the circle of the table with the new dish, -and his step and a question or two from his master were all the remarks -that accompanied the meal. Mr Waring was something of a _gourmet_, but -at the same time he was very temperate--a conjunction which is -favourable to fine eating. His table was delicately furnished with -dishes almost infinitesimal in quantity, but superlative in quality; and -he ate his dainty light repast with gravity and slowly, as a man -performs what he feels to be one of the most important functions of his -life. - -“Tell Mariuccia that a few drops from a fresh lemon would have improved -this _ragoût_--but a very fresh lemon.” - -“Yes, Excellency, _freschissimo_,” said Domenico, with solemnity. - -In the household generally, nothing was so important as the second -breakfast, except, indeed, the dinner, which was the climax of the day. -The gravity of all concerned, the little solemn movement round the -white-covered table in the still soft shade of the atmosphere, with -those green _persiani_ shutting out all the sunshine, and the brown old -walls, bare of any decoration, throwing up the group, made a curious -picture. The walls were quite bare, the floor brown and polished, with -only a square of carpet round the table; but the roof and cornices were -gilt and painted with tarnished gilding and half-obliterated pictures. -Opposite to Frances was a blurred figure of a cherub with a finger on -his lip. She looked up at this faint image as she had done a hundred -times, and was silent. He seemed to command the group, hovering over it -like a little tutelary god. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The Warings had been settled at Bordighera almost as long as Frances -could remember. She had known no other way of living than that which -could be carried on under the painted roofs in the Palazzo, nor any -other domestic management than that of Domenico and Mariuccia. She -herself had been brought up by the latter, who had taught her to knit -stockings and to make lace of a coarse kind, and also how to spare and -save, and watch every detail of the spese--the weekly or daily -accounts--with an anxious eye. Beyond this, Frances had received very -little education: her father had taught her fitfully to read and write -after a sort; and he had taught her to draw, for which she had a little -faculty--that is to say, she had made little sketches of all the points -of view round about, which, if they were not very great in art, amused -her, and made her feel that there was something she could do. Indeed, so -far as doing went, she had a good deal of knowledge. She could mend very -neatly--so neatly, that her darn or her patch was almost an ornament. -She was indeed neat in everything, by instinct, without being taught. -The consequence was, that her life was very full of occupation, and her -time never hung heavy on her hands. At eighteen, indeed, it may be -doubted whether time ever does hang heavy on a girl’s hands. It is when -ten years or so of additional life have passed over her head, bringing -her no more important occupations than those which are pleasant and -appropriate to early youth, that she begins to feel her disabilities; -but fortunately, that is a period of existence with which at the present -moment we have nothing to do. - -Her father, who was not fifty yet, had been a young man when he came to -this strange seclusion. Why he should have chosen Bordighera, no one had -taken the trouble to inquire. He came when it was a little town on the -spur of the hill, without either hotels or tourists, or at least very -few of these articles--like many other little towns which are perched on -little platforms among the olive woods all over that lovely country. The -place had commended itself to him because it was so completely out of -the way. And then it was very cheap, simple, and primitive. He was not, -however, by any means a primitive-minded man; and when he took Domenico -and Mariuccia into his service, it was for a year or two an interest in -his life to train them to everything that was the reverse of their own -natural primitive ways. Mariuccia had a little native instinct for -cookery such as is not unusual among the Latin races, and which her -master trained into all the sophistications of a cordon bleu. And -Domenico had that lively desire to serve his padrone “hand and foot,” as -English servants say, and do everything for him, which comes natural to -an amiable Italian eager to please. Both of them had been encouraged and -trained to carry out these inclinations. Mr Waring was difficult to -please. He wanted attendance continually. He would not tolerate a speck -of dust anywhere, or any carelessness of service; but otherwise he was -not a bad master. He left them many independences, which suited them, -and never objected to that appropriation to themselves of his house as -theirs, and assertion of themselves as an important part of the family, -which is the natural result of a long service. Frances grew up -accordingly in franker intimacy with the honest couple than is usual in -English households. There was nothing they would not have done for the -Signorina--starve for her, scrape and pinch for her, die for her if need -had been; and in the meantime, while there was no need for service more -heroic, correct her, and improve her mind, and set her faults before her -with simplicity. Her faults were small, it is true, but zealous Love did -not omit to find many out. - -Mr Waring painted a little, and was disposed to call himself an artist; -and he read a great deal, or was supposed to do so, in the library, -which formed one of the set of rooms, among the old books in vellum, -which took a great deal of reading. A little old public library existing -in another little town farther up among the hills, gave him an excuse, -if it was not anything more, for a great deal of what he called work. -There were some manuscripts and a number of old editions laid up in this -curious little hermitage of learning, from which the few people who knew -him believed he was going some day to compile or collect something of -importance. The people who knew him were very few. An old clergyman, who -had been a colonial chaplain all his life, and now “took the service” in -the bare little room which served as an English church, was the chief of -his acquaintances. This gentleman had an old wife and a middle-aged -daughter, who furnished something like society for Frances. Another -associate was an old Indian officer, much battered by wounds, liver, and -disappointment, who, systematically neglected by the authorities (as he -thought), and finding himself a nobody in the home to which he had -looked forward for so many years, had retired in disgust, and built -himself a little house, surrounded with palms, which reminded him of -India, and full in the rays of the sun, which kept off his neuralgia. -He, too, had a wife, whose constant correspondence with her numerous -children occupied her mind and thoughts, and who liked Frances because -she never tired of hearing stories of those absent sons and daughters. -They saw a good deal of each other, these three resident families, and -reminded each other from time to time that there was such a thing as -society. - -In summer they disappeared--sometimes to places higher up among the -hills, sometimes to Switzerland or the Tyrol, sometimes “home.” They all -said home, though neither the Durants nor the Gaunts knew much of -England, and though they could never say enough in disparagement of its -grey skies and cold winds. But the Warings never went “home.” Frances, -who was entirely without knowledge or associations with her native -country, used the word from time to time because she heard Tasie Durant -or Mrs Gaunt do so; but her father never spoke of England, nor of any -possible return, nor of any district in England as that to which he -belonged. It escaped him at times that he had seen something of society -a dozen or fifteen years before this date; but otherwise, nothing was -known about his past life. It was not a thing that was much discussed, -for the intercourse in which he lived with his neighbours was not -intimate, nor was there any particular reason why he should enter upon -his own history; but now and then it would be remarked by one or another -that nobody knew anything of his antecedents. “What’s your county, -Waring?” General Gaunt had once asked; and the other had answered with a -languid smile, “I have no county,” without the least attempt to explain. -The old general, in spite of himself, had apologised, he did not know -why; but still no information was given. And Waring did not look like a -man who had no county. His thin long figure had an aristocratic air. He -knew about horses, and dogs, and country-gentleman sort of subjects. It -was impossible that he should turn out to be a shopkeeper’s son, or a -_bourgeois_ of any kind. However, as has been said, the English -residents did not give themselves much trouble about the matter. There -was not enough of them to get up a little parochial society, like that -which flourishes in so many English colonies, gossiping with the best, -and forging anew for themselves those chains of a small community which -everybody pretends to hate. - -In the afternoon of the day on which the encounter recorded in the -previous chapter had taken place, Frances sat in the loggia alone at her -work. She was busy with her drawing--a very elaborate study of -palm-trees, which she was making from a cluster of those trees which -were visible from where she sat. A loggia is something more than a -balcony; it is like a room with the outer wall or walls taken away. This -one was as large as the big _salone_ out of which it opened, and had -therefore room for changes of position as the sun changed. Though it -faced the west, there was always a shady corner at one end or the other. -It was the favourite place in which Frances carried on all her -occupations--where her father came to watch the sunset--where she had -tea, with that instinct of English habit and tradition which she -possessed without knowing how. Mr Waring did not much care for her tea, -except now and then in a fitful way; and Mariuccia thought it medicine. -But it pleased Frances to have the little table set out with two or -three old china cups which did not match, and a small silver teapot, -which was one of the very few articles of value in the house. Very -rarely, not once in a month, had she any occasion for these cups; but -yet, such a chance did occur at long intervals; and in the meantime, -with a pleasure not much less infantine, but much more wistful than that -with which she had played at having a tea-party seven or eight years -before, she set out her little table now. - -She was seated with her drawing materials on one table and the tea on -another, in the stillness of the afternoon, looking out upon the -mountains and the sea. No; she was doing nothing of the sort. She was -looking with all her might at the clump of palm-trees within the garden -of the villa, which lay low down at her feet between her and the sunset. -She was not indifferent to the sunset. She had an admiration, which even -the humblest art-training quickens, for the long range of coast, with -its innumerable ridges running down from the sky to the sea, in every -variety of gnarled edge, and gentle slope, and precipice; and for the -amazing blue of the water, with its ribbon-edge of paler colours, and -the deep royal purple of the broad surface, and the white sails thrown -up against it, and the white foam that turned up the edges of every -little wave. But in the meantime she was not thinking of them, nor of -the infinitely varied lines of the mountains, or the specks of towns, -each with its campanile shining in the sun, which gave character to the -scene; but of the palms on which her attention was fixed, and which, -however beautiful they sound, or even look, are apt to get very spiky in -a drawing, and so often will not “come” at all. She was full of fervour -in her work, which had got to such a pitch of impossibility that her -lips were dry and wide apart from the strain of excitement with which -she struggled with her subject, when the bell tinkled where it hung -outside upon the stairs, sending a little jar through all the Palazzo, -where bells were very uncommon; and presently Tasie Durant, pushing open -the door of the _salone_, with a breathless little “Permesso?” came out -upon the loggia in her usual state of haste, and with half-a-dozen small -books tumbling out of her hand. - -“Never mind, dear; they are only books for the Sunday-school. Don’t you -know we had twelve last Sunday? Twelve!--think!--when I have thought it -quite large and extensive to have five. I never was more pleased. I am -getting up a little library for them like they have at home. It is so -nice to have everything like they have at home.” - -“Like what?” said Frances, though she had no education. - -“Like they have--well, if you are so particular, the same as they have -at home. There were three of one family--think! Not little nobodies, but -ladies and gentlemen. It is so nice of people not just poor people, -people of education, to send their children to the Sunday-school.” - -“New people?” said Frances. - -“Yes; tourists, I suppose. You all scoff at the tourists; but I think it -is very good for the place, and so pleasant for us to see a new face -from time to time. Why should they all go to Mentone? Mentone is so -towny, quite a big place. And papa says that in his time Nice was -everything, and that nobody had ever heard of Mentone.” - -“Who are the new people, Tasie?” Frances asked. - -“They are a large family--that is all I know; not likely to settle, -more’s the pity. Oh no. Quite _well_ people, not even a delicate child,” -said Miss Durant, regretfully; “and such a nice domestic family, always -walking about together. Father and mother, and governess and six -children. They must be very well off, too, or they could not travel like -that, such a lot of them, and nurses--and I think I heard, a courier -too.” This, Miss Durant said in a tone of some emotion; for the place, -as has been said, was just beginning to be known, and the people who -came as yet were but pioneers. - -“I have seen them. I wonder who they are. My father----” said Frances; -and then stopped, and held her head on one side, to contemplate the -effect of the last touches on her drawing; but this was in reality -because it suddenly occurred to her that to publish her father’s -acquaintance with the stranger might be unwise. - -“Your father?” said Tasie. “Did he take any notice of them? I thought he -never took any notice of tourists. Haven’t you done those palms yet? -What a long time you are taking over them! Do you think you have got -the colour quite right on those stems? Nothing is so difficult to do as -palms, though they look so easy--except olives: olives are impossible. -But what were you going to say about your father? Papa says he has not -seen Mr Waring for ages. When will you come up to see us?” - -“It was only last Saturday, Tasie.” - -“----Week,” said Tasie. “Oh yes, I assure you; for I put it down in my -diary: Saturday week. You can’t quite tell how time goes, when you don’t -come to church. Without Sunday, all the days are alike. I wondered that -you were not at church last Sunday, Frances, and so did mamma.” - -“Why was it? I forget. I had a headache, I think. I never like to stay -away. But I went to church here in the village instead.” - -“O Frances, I wonder your papa lets you do that! It is much better when -you have a headache to stay at home. I am sure I don’t want to be -intolerant, but what good can it do you going there? You can’t -understand a word.” - -“Yes, indeed I do--many words. Mariuccia has shown me all the places; -and it is good to see the people all saying their prayers. They are a -great deal more in earnest than the people down at the Marina, where it -would be just as natural to dance as to pray.” - -“Ah, dance!” said Tasie, with a little sigh. “You know there is never -anything of that kind here. I suppose you never was at a dance in your -life--unless it is in summer, when you go away?” - -“I have never been at a dance in my life. I have seen a ballet, that is -all.” - -“O Frances, please don’t talk of anything so wicked! A ballet! that is -very different from nice people dancing--from dancing one’s own self -with a nice partner. However, as we never do dance here, I can’t see why -you should say that about our church. It is a pity, to be sure, that we -have no right church; but it is a lovely room, and quite suitable. If -you would only practise the harmonium a little, so as to take the music -when I am away. I never can afford to have a headache on Sunday,” Miss -Durant added, in an injured tone. - -“But, Tasie, how could I take the harmonium, when I don’t even know how -to play?” - -“I have offered to teach you, till I am tired, Frances. I wonder what -your papa thinks, if he calls it reasonable to leave you without any -accomplishments? You can draw a little, it is true; but you can’t bring -out your sketches in the drawing-room of an evening, to amuse people; -and you can always play----” - -“When you _can_ play.” - -“Yes, of course that is what I mean--when you can play. It has quite -vexed me often to think how little trouble is taken about you; for you -can’t always be young, so young as you are now. And suppose some time -you should have to go home--to your friends, you know?” - -Frances raised her head from her drawing and looked her companion in the -face. “I don’t think we have any--friends,” she said. - -“Oh, my dear, that must be nonsense!” cried Tasie. “I confess I have -never heard your papa talk of any. He never says ‘my brother,’ or ‘my -sister,’ or ‘my brother-in-law,’ as other people do--but then he is such -a very quiet man; and you must have somebody--cousins at least--you must -have cousins; nobody is without somebody,” Miss Durant said. - -“Well, I suppose we must have cousins,” said Frances. “I had not thought -of it. But I don’t see that it matters much; for if my cousins are -surprised that I can’t play, it will not hurt them--they can’t be -considered responsible for me, you know.” - -Tasie looked at her with the look of one who would say much if she -could--wistfully and kindly, yet with something of the air of mingled -importance and reluctance with which the bearer of ill news hesitates -before opening his budget. She had indeed no actual ill news to tell, -only the burden of that fact of which everybody felt Frances should be -warned--that her father was looking more delicate than ever, and that -his “friends” ought to know. She would have liked to speak, and yet she -had not courage to do so. The girl’s calm consent that probably she must -have cousins was too much for any one’s patience. She never seemed to -think that one day she might have to be dependent on these cousins; she -never seemed to think---- But after all, it was Mr Waring’s fault. It -was not poor Frances that was to blame. - -“You know how often I have said to you that you ought to play, you -ought to be able to play. Supposing you have not any gift for it, still -you might be able to do a little. You could so easily get an old piano, -and I should like to teach you. It would not be a task at all. I should -like it. I do so wish you would begin. Drawing and languages depend a -great deal upon your own taste and upon your opportunities; but every -lady ought to play.” - -Tasie (or Anastasia, but that name was too long for anybody’s patience) -was a great deal older than Frances--so much older as to justify the -hyperbole that she might be her mother; but of this fact she herself was -not aware. It may seem absurd to say so, but yet it was true. She knew, -of course, how old she was, and how young Frances was; but her faculties -were of the kind which do not perceive differences. Tasie herself was -just as she had been at Frances’ age--the girl at home, the young lady -of the house. She had the same sort of occupations: to arrange the -flowers; to play the harmonium in the little colonial chapel; to look -after the little exotic Sunday-school; to take care of papa’s surplice; -to play a little in the evenings when they “had people with them”; to -do fancy-work, and look out for such amusements as were going. It would -be cruel to say how long this condition of young-ladyhood had lasted, -especially as Tasie was a very good girl, kind, and friendly, and -simple-hearted, and thinking no evil. - -Some women chafe at the condition which keeps them still girls when they -are no longer girls; but Miss Durant had never taken it into her -consideration. She had a little more of the housekeeping to do, since -mamma had become so delicate; and she had a great deal to fill up her -time, and no leisure to think or inquire into her own position. It was -her position, and therefore the best position which any girl could have. -She had the satisfaction of being of the greatest use to her parents, -which is the thing of all others which a good child would naturally -desire. She talked to Frances without any notion of an immeasurable -distance between them, from the same level, though with a feeling that -the girl, by reason of having had no mother, poor thing, was lamentably -backward in many ways, and sadly blind, though that was natural, to the -hazard of her own position. What would become of her if Mr Waring died? -Tasie would sometimes grow quite anxious about this, declaring that she -could not sleep for thinking of it. If there were relations--as of -course there must be--she felt that they would think Frances sadly -deficient. To teach her to play was the only practical way in which she -could show her desire to benefit the girl, who, she thought, might -accept the suggestion from a girl like herself, when she might not have -done so from a more authoritative voice. - -Frances on her part accepted the suggestion with placidity, and replied -that she would think of it, and ask her father; and perhaps if she had -time---- But she did not really at all intend to learn music of Tasie. -She had no desire to know just as much as Tasie did, whose -accomplishments, as well as her age and her condition altogether, were -quite evident and clear to the young creature, whose eyes possessed the -unbiassed and distinct vision of youth. She appraised Miss Durant -exactly at her real value, as the young so constantly do, even when -they are quite submissive to the little conventional fables of life, and -never think of asserting their superior knowledge; but the conversation -was suggestive, and beguiled her mind into many new channels of thought. -The cousins unknown--should she ever be brought into intercourse with -them, and enter perhaps a kind of other world through their means--would -they think it strange that she knew so little, and could not play the -piano? Who were they? These thoughts circled vaguely in her mind through -all Tasie’s talk, and kept flitting out and in of her brain, even when -she removed to the tea-table and poured out some tea. Tasie always -admired the cups. She cried, “This is a new one, Frances. Oh, how lucky -you are! What pretty bits you have picked up!” with all the ardour of a -collector. And then she began to talk of the old Savona pots, which were -to be had so cheap, quite cheap, but which, she heard at home, were so -much thought of. - -Frances did not pay much attention to the discourse about the Savona -pots; she went on with her thoughts about the cousins, and when Miss -Durant went away, gave herself up entirely to those speculations. What -sort of people would they be? Where would they live? And then there -recurred to her mind the meeting of the morning, and what the stranger -said who knew her father. It was almost the first time she had ever seen -him meet any one whom he knew, except the acquaintances of recent times, -with whom she had made acquaintance, as he did. But the stranger of the -morning evidently knew about him in a period unknown to Frances. She had -made a slight and cautious attempt to find out something about him at -breakfast, but it had not been successful. She wondered whether she -would have courage to ask her father now in so many words who he was and -what he meant. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -As it turned out, Frances had not the courage. Mr Waring strolled into -the loggia shortly after Miss Durant had left her. He smiled when he -heard of her visit, and asked what news she had brought. Tasie was the -recognised channel for news, and seldom appeared without leaving some -little story behind her. - -“I don’t think she had any news to-day, except that there had been a -great many at the Sunday-school last Sunday. Fancy, papa, twelve -children! She is quite excited about it.” - -“That is a triumph,” said Mr Waring, with a laugh. He stretched out his -long limbs from the low basket-chair in which he had placed himself. He -had relaxed a little altogether from the tension of the morning, feeling -himself secure and at his ease in his own house, where no one could -intrude upon him or call up ghosts of the past. The air was beyond -expression sweet and tranquillising, the sun going down in a mist of -glory behind the endless peaks and ridges that stretched away towards -the west, the sea lapping the shore with a soft cadence that was more -imagined than heard on the heights of the Punto, but yet added another -harmony to the scene. Near at hand a faint wind rustled the long leaves -of the palm-trees, and the pale olive woods lent a softness to the -landscape, tempering its radiance. Such a scene fills up the weary mind, -and has the blessed quality of arresting thought. It was good for the -breathing too--or at least so this invalid thought--and he was more -amiable than usual, with no harshness in voice or temper to introduce a -discord. “I am glad she was pleased,” he said. “Tasie is a good girl, -though not perhaps so much of a girl as she thinks. Why she goes in for -a Sunday-school where none is wanted, I can’t tell; but anyhow, I am -glad she is pleased. Where did they come from, the twelve children? Poor -little beggars, how sick of it they must have been!” - -“A number of them belonged to that English family, papa----” - -“I suppose they must all belong to English families,” he said, calmly; -“the natives are not such fools.” - -“But, papa, I mean--the people we met--the people you knew.” - -He made no reply for a few minutes, and then he said calmly, “What an -ass the man must be, not only to travel with children, but to send them -to poor Tasie’s Sunday-school! You must do me the justice, Fan, to -acknowledge that I never attempted to treat you in that way.” - -“No; but, papa--perhaps the gentleman is a very religious man.” - -“And you don’t think I am? Well, perhaps I laid myself open to such a -retort.” - -“O papa!” Frances cried, with tears starting to her eyes, “you know I -could not mean that.” - -“If you take religion as meaning a life by rule, which is its true -meaning, you were right enough, my dear. That is what I never could do. -It might have been better for me if I had been more capable of it. It is -always better to put one’s self in harmony with received notions and -the prejudices of society. Tasie would not have her Sunday-school but -for that. It is the right thing. I think you have a leaning towards the -right thing, my little girl, yourself.” - -“I don’t like to be particular, papa, if that is what you mean.” - -“Always keep to that,” her father said, with a smile. And then he opened -the book which he had been holding all this time in his hand. Such a -thing had happened, when Frances was in high spirits and very -courageous, as that she had pursued him even into his book; but it was a -very rare exercise of valour, and to-day she shrank from it. If she only -had the courage! But she had not the courage. She had given up her -drawing, for the sun no longer shone on the group of palms. She had no -book, and indeed at any time was not much given to reading, except when -a happy chance threw a novel into her hands. She watched the sun go down -by imperceptible degrees, yet not slowly, behind the mountains. When he -had quite disappeared, the landscape changed too; the air, as the -Italians say, grew brown; a little momentary chill breathed out of the -sky. It is always depressing to a solitary watcher when this change -takes place. - -Frances was not apt to be depressed, but for the moment she felt lonely -and dull, and a great sense of monotony took hold upon her. It was like -this every night; it would be like this, so far as she knew, every night -to come, until perhaps she grew old, like Tasie, without becoming aware -that she had ceased to be a girl. It was not a cheering prospect. And -when there is any darkness or mystery surrounding one’s life, these are -just the circumstances to quicken curiosity, and turn it into something -graver, into an anxious desire to know. Frances did not know positively -that there was a mystery. She had no reason to think there was, she said -to herself. Her father preferred to live easily on the Riviera, instead -of living in a way that would trouble him at home. Perhaps the gentleman -they had met was a bore, and that was why Mr Waring avoided all mention -of him. He frequently thought people were bores, with whom Frances was -very well satisfied. Why should she think any more of it? Oh, how she -wished she had the courage to ask plainly and boldly, Who are we? Where -do we come from? Have we any friends? But she had not the courage. She -looked towards him, and trembled, imagining within herself what would be -the consequence if she interrupted his reading, plucked him out of the -quietude of the hour and of his book, and demanded an explanation--when -very likely there was no explanation! when, in all probability, -everything was quite simple, if she only knew. - -The evening passed as evenings generally did pass in the Palazzo. Mr -Waring talked a little at dinner quite pleasantly, and smoked a -cigarette in the loggia afterwards in great good-humour, telling Frances -various little stories of people he had known. This was a sign of high -satisfaction on his part, and very agreeable to her, and no doubt he was -entirely unaware of the perplexity in her mind and the questions she was -so desirous of asking. The air was peculiarly soft that evening, and he -sat in the loggia till the young moon set, with an overcoat on his -shoulders and a rug on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes -silent--in either way a very agreeable companion. Frances had never -been cooped up in streets, or exposed to the chill of an English spring; -so she had not that keen sense of contrast which doubles the enjoyment -of a heavenly evening in such a heavenly locality. It was all quite -natural, common, and everyday to her; but no one could be indifferent to -the sheen of the young moon, to the soft circling of the darkness, and -the reflections on the sea. It was all very lovely, and yet there was -something wanting. What was wanting? She thought it was knowledge, -acquaintance with her own position, and relief from this strange -bewildering sensation of being cut off from the race altogether, which -had risen within her mind so quickly and with so little cause. - -But many beside Frances have felt the wistful call for happiness more -complete, which comes in the soft darkening of a summer night; and -probably it was not explanation, but something else, more common to -human nature, that she wanted. The voices of the peaceful people -outside, the old men and women who came out to sit on the benches upon -the Punto, or on the stone seat under the wall of the Palazzo, and -compare their experiences, and enjoy the cool of the evening, sounded -pleasantly from below. There was a softened din of children playing, and -now and then a sudden rush of voices, when the young men who were -strolling about got excited in conversation, and stopped short in their -walk for the delivery of some sentence more emphatic than the rest; and -the mothers chattered over their babies, cooing and laughing. The babies -should have been in bed, Frances said to herself, half laughing, half -crying, in a sort of tender anger with them all for being so familiar -and so much at home. They were entirely at home where they were; they -knew everybody, and were known from father to son, and from mother to -daughter, all about them. They did not call a distant and unknown -country by that sweet name, nor was there one among them who had any -doubt as to where he or she was born. This thought made Frances sigh, -and then made her smile. After all, if that was all! And then she saw -that Domenico had brought the lamp into the _salone_, and that it was -time to go indoors. - -Next morning she went out between the early coffee and the mid-day -breakfast to do some little household business, on which, in -consideration that she was English and not bound by the laws that are so -hard and fast with Italian girls, Mariuccia consented to let her go -alone. It was very seldom that Mr Waring went out or indeed was visible -at that hour, the expedition of the former day being very exceptional. -Frances went down to the shops to do her little commissions for -Mariuccia. She even investigated the Savona pots of which Tasie had -spoken. In her circumstances, it was scarcely possible not to be more or -less of a collector. There is nobody in these regions who does not go -about with eyes open to anything there may be to “pick up.” And after -this she walked back through the olive woods, by those distracting -little terraces which lead the stranger so constantly out of his way, -but are quite simple to those who are to the manner born--until she -reached once more the broad piece of unshadowed road which leads up to -the old town. At the spot at which she and her father had met the -English family yesterday, she made a momentary pause, recalling all the -circumstances of the meeting, and what the stranger had said--“A fellow -that stuck by you all through.” All through what? she asked herself. As -she paused to make this little question, to which there was no response, -she heard a sound of voices coming from the upper side of the wood, -where the slopes rose high into more and more olive gardens. “Don’t -hurry along so; I’m coming,” some one said. Frances looked up, and her -heart jumped into her mouth as she perceived that it was once more the -English family whom she was about to meet on the same spot. - -The father was in advance this time, and he was hurrying down, she -thought, with the intention of addressing her. What should she do? She -knew very well what her father would have wished her to do; but probably -for that very reason a contradictory impulse arose in her. Without -doubt, she wanted to know what this man knew and could tell her. Not -that she would ask him anything; she was too proud for that. To betray -that she was not acquainted with her father’s affairs, that she had to -go to a stranger for information, was a thing of which she was -incapable. But if he wished to speak to her--to send, perhaps, some -message to her father? Frances quieted her conscience in this way. She -was very anxious, excited by the sense that there was something to find -out; and if it was anything her father would not approve, why, then she -could shut it up in her own breast and never let him know it to trouble -him. And it was right at her age that she should know. All these -sophistries hurried through her mind more rapidly than lightning during -the moment in which she paused hesitating, and gave the large -Englishman, overwhelmed with the heat, and hurrying down the steep path -with his white umbrella over his head, time to make up to her. He was -rather out of breath, for though he had been coming down hill, and not -going up, the way was steep. - -“Miss Waring, Miss Waring!” he cried as he approached, “how is your -father? I want to ask for your father,” taking off his straw hat and -exposing his flushed countenance under the shadow of the green-lined -umbrella, which enhanced all its ruddy tints. Then, as he came within -reach of her, he added hastily, “I am so glad I have met you. How is he? -for he did not give me any address.” - -“Papa is quite well, thank you,” said Frances, with the habitual -response of a child. - -“Quite well? Oh, that is a great deal more than I expected to hear. He -was not quite well yesterday, I am sure. He is dreadfully changed. It -was a sort of guesswork my recognising him at all. He used to be such a -powerful-made man. Is it pulmonary? I suspect it must be something of -the kind, he has so wasted away.” - -“Pulmonary? Indeed I don’t know. He has a little asthma sometimes. And -of course he is very thin,” said Frances; “but that does not mean -anything; he is quite well.” - -The stranger shook his head. He had taken the opportunity to wipe it -with a large white handkerchief, and had made his bald forehead look -redder than ever. “I shouldn’t like to alarm you,” he said--“I wouldn’t, -for all the world; but I hope you have trustworthy advice? These Italian -doctors, they are not much to be trusted. You should get a real good -English doctor to come and have a look at him.” - -“Oh, indeed, it is only asthma; he is well enough, quite well, not -anything the matter with him,” Frances protested. The large stranger -stood and smiled compassionately upon her, still shaking his head. - -“Mary,” he said--“here, my dear! This is Miss Waring. She says her -father is quite well, poor thing. I am telling her I am so very glad we -have met her, for Waring did not leave me any address.” - -“How do you do, my dear?” said the stout lady--not much less red than -her husband--who had also hurried down the steep path to meet Frances. -“And your father is quite well? I am so glad. We thought him looking -rather--thin; not so strong as he used to look.” - -“But then,” added her husband, “it is such a long time since we have -seen him, and he never was very stout. I hope, if you will pardon me for -asking, that things have been smoothed down between him and the rest of -the family? When I say ‘smoothed down,’ I mean set on a better -footing--more friendly, more harmonious. I am very glad I have seen you, -to inquire privately; for one never knows how far to go with a man of -his--well--peculiar temper.” - -“Don’t say that, George. You must not think, my dear, that Mr Mannering -means anything that is not quite nice, and friendly, and respectful to -your papa. It is only out of kindness that he asks. Your poor papa has -been much tried. I am sure he has always had my sympathy, and my -husband’s too. Mr Mannering only means that he hopes things are more -comfortable between your father and---- Which is so much to be desired -for everybody’s sake.” - -The poor girl stood and stared at them with large, round, widely opening -eyes, with the wondering stare of a child. There had been a little -half-mischievous, half-anxious longing in her mind to find out what -these strangers knew; but now she came to herself suddenly, and felt as -a traveller feels who all at once pulls himself up on the edge of a -precipice. What was this pitfall which she had nearly stumbled into, -this rent from the past which was so great and so complete that she had -never heard of it, never guessed it? Fright seized upon her, and dismay, -and, what probably stood her in more stead for the moment, a stinging -sensation of wounded pride, which brought the colour burning to her -cheeks. Must she let these people find out that she knew nothing, at her -age--that her father had never confided in her at all--that she could -not even form an idea what they were talking about? She had pleased -herself with the possibility of some little easy discovery--of finding -out, perhaps, something about the cousins whom it seemed certain, -according to Tasie, every one must possess, whether they were aware of -it or not--some little revelation of origin and connections such as -could do nobody any harm. But when she woke up suddenly to find herself -as it were upon the edge of a chasm which had split her father’s life in -two, the young creature trembled. She was frightened beyond measure by -this unexpected contingency; she dared not listen to another word. - -“Oh,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, “I am afraid I have no time -to stop and talk. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast. I will tell -him you--asked for him.” - -“Give him our love,” said the lady. “Indeed, George, she is quite right; -we must hurry too, or we shall be too late for the _table d’hôte_.” - -“But I have not got the address,” said the husband. Frances made a -little curtsey, as she had been taught, and waved her hand as she -hurried away. He thought that she had not understood him. “Where do you -live?” he called after her as she hastened along. She pointed towards -the height of the little town, and alarmed for she knew not what, lest -he should follow her, lest he should call something after her which she -ought not to hear, fled along towards the steep ascent. She could hear -the voices behind her slightly elevated talking to each other, and then -the sound of the children rattling down the stony course of the higher -road, and the quick question and answer as they rejoined their parents. -Then gradually everything relapsed into silence as the party -disappeared. When she heard the voices no longer, Frances began to -regret that she had been so hasty. She paused for a moment, and looked -back; but already the family were almost out of sight, the solid figures -which led the procession indistinguishable from the little ones who -straggled behind. Whether it might have been well or ill to take -advantage of the chance, it was now over. She arrived at the Palazzo out -of breath, and found Domenico at the door, looking out anxiously for -her. “The signorina is late,” he said, very gravely; “the padrone has -almost had to wait for his breakfast.” Domenico was quite original, and -did not know that such a terrible possibility had threatened any -illustrious personage before. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -It was natural that this occurrence should take a great hold of the -girl’s mind. It was not the first time that she had speculated -concerning their life. A life which one has always lived, indeed, the -conditions of which have been familiar and inevitable since childhood, -is not a matter which awakens questions in the mind. However -extraordinary its conditions may be, they are natural--they are life to -the young soul which has had no choice in the matter. Still there are -curiosities which will arise. General Gaunt foamed at the mouth when he -talked of the way in which he had been treated by the people “at home”; -but still he went “home” in the summer as a matter of course. And as for -the Durants, it was a subject of the fondest consideration with them -when they could afford themselves that greatest of delights. They all -talked about the cold, the fogs, the pleasure of getting back to the -sunshine when they returned; but this made no difference in the fact -that to go home was their thought all the year, and the most salient -point in their lives. “Why do we never go home?” Frances had often asked -herself. And both these families, and all the people to whom she had -ever talked, the strangers who went and came, and those whom they met in -the rambles which the Warings, too, were forced to take in the hot -weather, when the mistral was blowing--talked continually of their -county, of their parish, of their village, of where they lived, and -where they had been born. But on these points Mr Waring never said a -word. And whereas Mrs Gaunt could talk of nothing but her family, who -were scattered all over the world, and the Durants met people they knew -at every turn, the Warings knew nobody, had no relations, no house at -home, and apparently had been born nowhere in particular, as Frances -sometimes said to herself with more annoyance than humour. Sometimes -she wondered whether she had ever had a mother. - -These thoughts, indeed, occurred but fitfully now and then, when some -incident brought more forcibly than usual under her notice the -difference between herself and others. She did not brood over them, her -life being quite pleasant and comfortable to herself, and no necessity -laid upon her to elucidate its dimnesses. But yet they came across her -mind from time to time. She had not been brought face to face with any -old friend of her father’s, that she could remember, until now. She had -never heard any question raised about his past life. And yet no doubt he -had a past life, like every other man, and there was something in -it--something, she could not guess what, which had made him unlike other -men. - -Frances had a great deal of self-command. She did not betray her -agitation to her father; she did not ask him any questions; she told him -about the greengrocer and the fisherman, these two important agents in -the life of the Riviera, and of what she had seen in the Marina, even -the Savona pots; but she did not disturb his meal and his digestion by -any reference to the English strangers. She postponed until she had time -to think of it, all reference to this second meeting. She had by -instinct made no reply to the question about where she lived; but she -knew that there would be no difficulty in discovering that, and that her -father might be subject at any moment to invasion by this old -acquaintance, whom he had evidently no desire to see. What should she -do? The whole matter wanted thought. Whether she should ask him what to -do; whether she should take it upon herself; whether she should disclose -to him her newborn curiosity and anxiety, or conceal them in her own -bosom; whether she should tell him frankly what she felt--that she was -worthy to be trusted, and that it was the right of his only child to be -prepared for all emergencies, and to be acquainted with her family and -her antecedents, if not with his,--all these were things to be thought -over. Surely she had a right, if any one had a right. But she would not -stand upon that. - -She sat by herself all day and thought, putting forward all the -arguments on either side. If there was, as there might be, something -wrong in that past--something guilty, which might make her look on her -father with different eyes, he had a right to be silent, and she no -right, none whatever, to insist upon such a revelation. And what end -would it serve? If she had relations or a family from whom she had been -separated, would not the revelation fill her with eager desire to know -them, and open a fountain of dissatisfaction and discontent in her life -if she were not permitted to do so? Would she not chafe at the -banishment if she found out that somewhere there was a home, that she -had “belongings” like all the rest of the world? These were little -feeble barriers which she set up against the strong tide of -consciousness in her that she was to be trusted, that she ought to know. -Whatever it was, and however she might bear it, was it not true that she -ought to know? She was not a fool or a child. Frances knew that her -eighteen years had brought more experience, more sense to her, than -Tasie’s forty; that she was capable of understanding, capable of -keeping a secret--and was it not her own secret, the explanation of the -enigma of her life as well as of his? - -This course of reflection went on in her mind until the evening, and it -was somewhat quickened by a little conversation which she had in the -afternoon with the servants. Domenico was going out. It was early in the -afternoon, the moment of leisure, when one meal with all its -responsibilities was over, and the second great event of the day, the -dinner, not yet imminent. It was the hour when Mariuccia sat in the -ante-room and did her sewing, her mending, her knitting--whatever was -wanted. This was a large and lofty room--not very light, with a great -window looking out only into the court of the Palazzo--in which stood a -long table and a few tall chairs. The smaller ante-room, from which the -long suite of rooms opened on either side, communicated with this, as -did also the corridor, which ran all the length of the house, and the -kitchen and its appendages on the other side. There is always abundance -of space of this kind in every old Italian house. Here Mariuccia -established herself whenever she was free to leave her cooking and her -kitchen-work. She was a comely middle-aged woman, with a dark gown, a -white apron, a little shawl on her shoulders, large earrings, and a gold -cross at her neck, which was a little more visible than is common with -Englishwomen of her class. Her hair was crisp and curly, and never had -been covered with anything, save, when she went to church, a shawl or -veil; and Mariuccia’s olive complexion and ruddy tint feared no -encounter of the sun. Domenico was tall, and spare, and brown, a grave -man with little jest in him; but his wife was always ready to laugh. He -came out hat in hand while Frances stood by the table inspecting -Mariuccia’s work. “I am going out,” he said; “and this is the hour when -the English gentlefolks pay visits. See that thou remember what the -padrone said.” - -“What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her ears. - -“Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico. - -“That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa expecting a -visit? What did he say?” - -“The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, “all that -is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, some for the -family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.” - -“You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife, calmly. “Why shouldn’t the -dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, my soul--only that -the padrone does not receive, and again that he does not receive, and -that he never receives. I must repeat this till the Ave Maria, if -necessary, till the strangers accept it and go away.” - -“Are these special orders?” said Frances, “or has it always been so? I -don’t think that it has always been so.” - -Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a -half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not -involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken upon -her. - -“_Carina_, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the -spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself -Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to -disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It appears, -however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the -padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no -secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is -not very wise. _Che!_ you know that as well as I.” - -“And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention--if -he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means -when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone -out; he is not at home.” - -“_Che! che! che!_” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be -a lie.” - -Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said, with a troubled -look; “but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come in all the -same.” - -“He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a cheerful -laugh, standing square and solid against the door. - -This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not go on -with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil in her hand, and -the colour growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. It was very -certain, then, that her father would not expose himself to another -meeting with the strangers who called themselves his friends--innocent -people who would not harm any one, Frances was sure. They were -tourists--that was evident; and they might be vulgar--that was possible. -But she was sure that there was no harm in them. It could only be that -her father was resolute to shut out his past, and let no one know what -had been. This gave her an additional impulse, instead of -discouragement. If it was so serious, and he so determined, then surely -there must be something that she, his only child, ought to know. She -waited till the evening with a gradually growing excitement; but not -until after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so -slowly and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the -day was over. It could not put him out, or spoil his appetite, or risk -his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but after -consideration, Frances did not think that a very serious matter, -probably because she had never known what it was to pass a wakeful -night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and care. - -“Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something Tasie was -saying.” - -“Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.” - -“Not serious, perhaps; but---- she wants to teach me to play.” - -“To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always heard she was -excellent at both.” - -“These are games, papa,” said Frances, with a touch of severity. “She -means the piano, which is very different.” - -“Ah!” said Mr Waring, taking the cigarette from his lips and sending a -larger puff of smoke into the dim air; “very different indeed, Frances. -It is anything but a game to hear Miss Tasie play.” - -“She says,” continued Frances, with a certain constriction in her -throat, “that every lady is expected to play--to play a little at least, -even if she has not much taste for it. She thinks when we go home--that -all our relations will be so surprised----” - -She stopped, having no breath to go further, and watched as well as she -could, through the dimness and through the mist of agitation in her own -eyes, her father’s face. He made no sign; he did not disturb even the -easy balance of his foot, stretched out along the pavement. After -another pause, he said in the same indifferent tone, “As we are not -going home, and as you have no relations in particular, I don’t think -your friend’s argument is very strong. Do you?” - -“O papa, I don’t want indeed to be inquisitive or trouble you, but I -should like to know!” - -“What?” he said, with the same composure. “If I think that a lady, -whether she has any musical taste or not, ought to play? Well, that is a -very simple question. I don’t, whatever Miss Tasie may say.” - -“It is not that,” Frances said, regaining a little control of herself. -“I said I did not know of any relations we had. But Tasie said there -must be cousins; we must have cousins--everybody has cousins. That is -true, is it not?” - -“In most cases, certainly,” Mr Waring said; “and a great nuisance too.” - -“I don’t think it would be a nuisance to have people about one’s own -age, belonging to one--not strangers--people who were interested in you, -to whom you could say anything. Brothers and sisters, that would be the -best; but cousins--I think, papa, cousins would be very nice.” - -“I will tell you, if you like, of one cousin you have,” her father said. - -The heart of Frances swelled as if it would leap out of her breast. She -put her hands together, turning full round upon him in an attitude of -supplication and delight. “O papa!” she cried with enthusiasm, -breathless for his next word. - -“Certainly, if you wish it, Frances. He is in reality your first-cousin. -He is fifty. He is a great sufferer from gout. He has lived so well in -the early part of his life, that he is condemned to slops now, and -spends most of his time in an easy-chair. He has the temper of a demon, -and swears at everybody that comes near him. He is very red in the -face, very bleared about the eyes, very----” - -“O papa!” she cried, in a very different tone. She was so much -disappointed, that the sudden downfall had almost a physical effect upon -her, as if she had fallen from a height. Her father laughed softly while -she gathered all her strength together to regain command of herself, and -the laugh had a jarring effect upon her nerves, of which she had never -been conscious till now. - -“I don’t suppose that he would care much whether you played the piano or -not; or that you would care much, my dear, what he thought.” - -“For all that, papa,” said Frances, recovering herself, “it is a little -interesting to know there is somebody, even if he is not at all what one -thought. Where does he live, and what is his name? That will give me one -little landmark in England, where there is none now.” - -“Not a very reasonable satisfaction,” said her father lazily, but -without any other reply. “In my life, I have always found relations a -nuisance. Happy are they who have none; and next best is to cast them -off and do without them. As a matter of fact, it is every one for -himself in this world.” - -Frances was silenced, though not convinced. She looked with some anxiety -at the outline of her father’s spare and lengthy figure laid out in the -basket-chair, one foot moving slightly, which was a habit he had, the -whole extended in perfect rest and calm. He was not angry, he was not -disturbed. The questions which she had put with so much mental -perturbation had not affected him at all. She felt that she might dare -further without fear. - -“When I was out to-day,” she said, faltering a little, “I met--that -gentleman again.” - -“Ah!” said Mr Waring--no more; but he ceased to shake his foot, and -turned towards her the merest hair’s-breadth, so little that it was -impossible to say he had moved, and yet there was a change. - -“And the lady,” said Frances, breathless. “I am sure they wanted to be -kind. They asked me a great many questions.” - -He gave a faint laugh, but it was not without a little quiver in it. -“What a good thing that you could not answer them!” he said. - -“Do you think so, papa? I was rather unhappy. It looked as if you could -not trust me. I should have been ashamed to say I did not know; which is -the truth--for I know nothing, not so much as where I was born!” cried -the girl. “It is very humiliating, when you are asked about your own -father, to say you don’t know. So I said it was time for breakfast, and -you would be waiting; and ran away.” - -“The best thing you could have done, my dear. Discretion in a woman, or -a girl, is always the better part of valour. I think you got out of it -very cleverly,” Mr Waring said. - -And that was all. He did not seem to think another word was needed. He -did not even rise and go away, as Frances had known him to do when the -conversation was not to his mind. She could not see his face, but his -attitude was unchanged. He had recovered his calm, if there had ever -been any disturbance of it. But as for Frances, her heart was thumping -against her breast, her pulses beating in her ears, her lips parched and -dry. “I wish,” she cried, “oh, I wish you would tell me something, papa! -Do you think I would talk of things you don’t want talked about? I am -not a child any longer; and I am not silly, as perhaps you think.” - -“On the contrary, my dear,” said Mr Waring, “I think you are often very -sensible.” - -“Papa! oh, how can you say that, how can you say such things--and then -leave me as if I were a baby, knowing nothing!” - -“My dear,” he said (with the sound of a smile in his voice, she thought -to herself), “you are very hard to please. Must not I say that you are -sensible? I think it is the highest compliment I can pay you.” - -“O papa!” Disappointment, and mortification, and the keen sense of being -fooled, which is so miserable to the young, took her very breath away. -The exasperation with which we discover that not only is no explanation, -no confidence to be given us, but the very occasion for it ignored, and -our anxiety baffled by a smile--a mortification to which women are so -often subject--flooded her being. She had hard ado not to burst into -angry tears, not to betray the sense of cruelty and injustice which -overwhelmed her; but who could have seen any injustice or cruelty in -the gentleness of his tone, his soft reply? Frances subdued herself as -best she could in her dark corner of the loggia, glad at least that he -could not see the spasm that passed over her, the acute misery and -irritation of her spirit. It would be strange if he did not divine -something of what was going on within her: but he took no notice. He -began in the same tone, as if one theme was quite as important as the -other, to remark upon the unusual heaviness of the clouds which hid the -moon. “If we were in England, I should say there was a storm brewing,” -he said. “Even here, I think we shall have some rain. Don’t you feel -that little creep in the air, something sinister, as if there was a bad -angel about? And Domenico, I see, has brought the lamp. I vote we go -in.” - -“Are there any bad angels?” she cried, to give her impatience vent. - -He had risen up, and stood swaying indolently from one foot to the -other. “Bad angels? Oh yes,” he said; “abundance; very different from -devils, who are honest--like the fiends in the pictures, unmistakable. -The others, you know, deceive. Don’t you remember?-- - - ‘How there looked him in the face - An angel beautiful and bright; - And how he knew it was a fiend, - That miserable knight.’” - -He turned and went into the _salone_, repeating these words in an -undertone to himself. But there was in his face none of the bitterness -or horror with which they must have been said by one who had ever in his -own person made that discovery. He was quite calm, meditative, marking -with a slight intonation and movement of his head the cadence of the -poetry. - -Frances stayed behind in the darkness. She had not the practice which we -acquire in later life; she could not hide the excitement which was still -coursing through her veins. She went to the corner of the loggia which -was nearest the sea, and caught in her face the rush of the rising -breeze, which flung at her the first drops of the coming rain. A storm -on that soft coast is a welcome break in the monotony of the clear skies -and unchanging calm. After a while her father called to her that the -rain was coming in, that the windows must be shut; and she hurried in, -brushing by Domenico, who had come to close everything up, and who -looked at her reproachfully as she rushed past him. She came behind her -father’s chair and leaned over to kiss him. “I have got a little wet, -and I think I had better go to bed,” she said. - -“Yes, surely, if you wish it, my dear,” said Mr Waring. Something moist -had touched his forehead, which was too warm to be rain. He waited -politely till she had gone before he wiped it off. It was the edge of a -tear, hot, miserable, full of anger as well as pain, which had made that -mark upon his high white forehead. It made him pause for a minute or two -in his reading. “Poor little girl!” he said, with a sigh. Perhaps he was -not so insensible as he seemed. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -It is a common impression that happiness and unhappiness are permanent -states of mind, and that for long tracts of our lives we are under the -continuous sway of one or other of these conditions. But this is almost -always a mistake, save in the case of grief, which is perhaps the only -emotion which is beyond the reach of the momentary lightenings and -alleviations and perpetual vicissitudes of life. Death, and the pangs of -separation from those we love, are permanent, at least for their time; -but in everything else there is an ebb and flow which keeps the heart -alive. When Frances Waring told the story of this period of her life, -she represented herself unconsciously as having been oppressed by the -mystery that over-shadowed her, and as having lost all the ease of her -young life prematurely in a sudden encounter with shadows unsuspected -before. But as a matter of fact, this was not the case. She had a bad -night--that is, she cried herself asleep; but once over the boundary -which divides our waking thoughts from the visions of the night, she -knew no more till the sun came in and woke her to a very cheerful -morning. It is true that care made several partially successful assaults -upon her that day and for several days after. But as everything went on -quite calmly and peacefully, the impression wore off. The English family -found out, as was inevitable, where Mr Waring lived, without any -difficulty; and first the father came, then the mother, and finally the -pair together, to call. Frances, to whom a breach of decorum or civility -was pain unspeakable, sat trembling and ashamed in the deepest corner of -the loggia, while these kind strangers encountered Mariuccia at the -door. The scene, as a matter of fact, was rather comic than tragic, for -neither the visitors nor the guardian of the house possessed any -language but their own; and Mr and Mrs Mannering had as little -understanding of the statement that Mr Waring did not “receive” as -Frances had expected. - -“But he is in--_è in casa_--_è_ IN?” said the worthy Englishman. “Then, -my dear, of course it is only a mistake. When he knows who we are--when -he has our names----” - -“_Non riceve oggi_,” said Mariuccia, setting her sturdy breadth in the -doorway; “_oggi non riceve il signore_” (The master does not receive -to-day). - -“But he is in?” repeated the bewildered good people. They could have -understood “Not at home,” which to Mariuccia would have been simply a -lie--with which indeed, had need been, or could it have done the padrone -any good, she would have burdened her conscience as lightly as any one. -But why, when it was not in the least necessary? - -Thus they played their little game at cross-purposes, while Frances sat, -hot and red with shame, in her corner, sensible to the bottom of her -heart of the discourtesy, the unkindness, of turning them from the door. -They were her father’s friends; they claimed to have “stuck by him -through thick and thin;” they were people who knew about him, and all -that he belonged to, and the conditions of his former life; and yet they -were turned from his door! - -She did not venture to go out again for some days, except in the -evening, when she knew that all the strangers were at the inevitable -_table d’hôte_; and it was with a sigh of relief, yet disappointment, -that she heard they had gone away. Yes, at last they did go away, angry, -no doubt, thinking her father a churl, and she herself an ignorant -rustic, who knew nothing about good manners. Of course this was what -they must think. Frances heard those words, “_Non riceve oggi_,” even in -her dreams. She saw in imagination the astonished faces of the visitors. -“But he will receive us, if you will only take in our names;” and then -Mariuccia’s steady voice repeating the well-known phrase. What must they -have thought? That it was an insult--that their old friend scorned and -defied them. What else could they suppose? - -They departed, however, and Frances got over it: and everything went on -as before; her father was just as usual--a sphinx indeed, more and more -hopelessly wrapped up in silence and mystery, but so natural and easy -and kind in his uncommunicativeness, with so little appearance of -repression or concealment about him, that it was almost impossible to -retain any feeling of injury or displeasure. Love is cheated every day -in this way by offenders much more serious, who can make their -dependants happy even while they are ruining them, and beguile the -bitterest anxiety into forgetfulness and smiles. It was easy to make -Frances forget the sudden access of wonderment and wounded feeling which -had seized her, even without any special exertion; time alone and the -calm succession of the days were enough for that. She resumed her little -picture of the palms, and was very successful--more than usually so. Mr -Waring, who had hitherto praised her little works as he might have -praised the sampler of a child, was silenced by this, and took it away -with him into his room, and when he brought it back, looked at her with -more attention than he had been used to show. “I think,” he said, -“little Fan, that you must be growing up,” laying his hand upon her -head with a smile. - -“I am grown up, papa; I am eighteen,” she said. - -At which he laughed softly. “I don’t think much of your eighteen; but -this shows. I should not wonder, with time and work, if--you mightn’t be -good enough to exhibit at Mentone--after a while.” - -Frances had been looking at him with an expression of almost rapturous -expectation. The poor little countenance fell at this, and a quick sting -of mortification brought tears to her eyes. The exhibition at Mentone -was an exhibition of amateurs. Tasie was in it, and even Mrs Gaunt, and -all the people about who ever spoilt a piece of harmless paper. “O -papa!” she said. Since the failure of her late appeal to him, this was -the only formula of reproach which she used. - -“Well,” he said, “are you more ambitious than that, you little thing? -Perhaps, by-and-by, you may be fit even for better things.” - -“It is beautiful,” said Mariuccia. “You see where the light goes, and -where it is in the shade. But, _carina_, if you were to copy the face -of Domenico, or even mine, that would be more interesting. The palms we -can see if we look out of the window; but imagine to yourself that -’Menico might go away, or even might die; and we should not miss him so -much if we had his face hung up upon the wall.” - -“It is easier to do the trees than to do Domenico,” said Frances; “they -stand still.” - -“And so would ’Menico stand still, if it was to please the signorina--he -is not very well educated, but he knows enough for that; or I myself, -though you will think, perhaps, I am too old to make a pretty picture. -But if I had my veil on, and my best earrings, and the coral my mother -left me----” - -“You look very nice, Mariuccia--I like you as you are; but I am not -clever enough to make a portrait.” - -Mariuccia cried out with scorn. “You are clever enough to do whatever -you wish to do,” she said. “The padrone thinks so too, though he will -not say it. Not clever enough! _Magari!_ too clever is what you mean.” - -Frances set up her palms on a little stand of carved wood, and was very -well pleased with herself; but that sentiment palls perhaps sooner than -any other. It was very agreeable to be praised, and also it was pleasant -to feel that she had finished her work successfully. But after a short -time it began to be a great subject of regret that the work was done. -She did not know what to do next. To make a portrait of Domenico was -above her powers. She idled about for the day, and found it -uncomfortable. That is the moment in which it is most desirable to have -a friend on whom to bestow one’s tediousness. She bethought herself that -she had not seen Tasie for a week. It was now more than a fortnight -since the events detailed in the beginning of this history. Her father, -when asked if he would not like a walk, declined. It was too warm, or -too cold, or perhaps too dusty, which was very true; and accordingly she -set out alone. - -Walking down through the Marina, the little tourist town which was -rising upon the shore, she saw some parties of travellers arriving, -which always had been a little pleasure to her. It was mingled now with -a certain excitement. Perhaps some of them, like those who had just -gone away, might know all about her, more than she knew herself--what a -strange thought it was!--some of those unknown people in their -travelling cloaks, which looked so much too warm--people whom she had -never seen before, who had not a notion that she was Frances Waring! One -of the parties was composed of ladies, surrounded and enveloped, so to -speak, by a venerable courier, who swept them and their possessions -before him into the hotel. Another was led by a father and mother, not -at all unlike the pair who had “stuck by” Mr Waring. How strange to -imagine that they might not be strangers at all, but people who knew all -about her! - -In the first group was a girl, who hung back a little from the rest, and -looked curiously up at all the houses, as if looking for some one--a -tall, fair-haired girl, with a blue veil tied over her hat. She looked -tired, but eager, with more interest in her face than any of the others -showed. Frances smiled to herself with the half-superiority which a -resident is apt to feel: a girl must be very simple indeed, if she -thought the houses on the Marina worth looking at, Frances thought. But -she did not pause in her quick walk. The Durants lived at the other end -of the Marina, in a little villa built upon a terrace over an olive -garden--a low house with no particular beauty, but possessing also a -loggia turned to the west, the luxury of building on the Riviera. Here -the whole family were seated, the old clergyman with a large English -newspaper, which he was reading deliberately from end to end; his wife -with a work-basket full of articles to mend; and Tasie at the little -tea-table, pouring out the tea. Frances was received with a little -clamour of satisfaction, for she was a favourite. - -“Sit here, my dear.” “Come this way, close to me, for you know I am -getting a little hard of hearing.” - -They had always been kind to her, but never, she thought, had she been -received with so much cordiality as now. - -“Have you come by yourself, Frances? and along the Marina? I think you -should make Domenico or his wife walk with you, when you go through the -Marina, my dear.” - -“Why, Mrs Durant? I have always done it. Even Mariuccia says it does -not matter, as I am an English girl.” - -“Ah, that may be true; but English girls are not like American girls. I -assure you they are taken a great deal more care of. If you ever go -home----” - -“And how is your poor father to-day, Frances?” said Mrs Durant. - -“Oh, papa is very well. He is not such a poor father. There is nothing -the matter with him. At least, there is nothing _new_ the matter with -him,” said Frances, with a little impatience. - -“No,” said the clergyman, looking up over the top of his spectacles and -shaking his head. “Nothing _new_ the matter with him. I believe that.” - -“----If you ever go home,” resumed Mrs Durant; “and of course some time -you will go home----” - -“I think very likely I never shall,” said the girl. “Papa never talks of -going home. He says home is here.” - -“That is all very well for the present moment, my dear; but I feel sure, -for my part, that one time or other it will happen as I say; and then -you must not let them suppose you have been a little savage, going about -as you liked here.” - -“I don’t think any one would care much, Mrs Durant; and I am not going; -so you need not be afraid.” - -“Your poor father,” Mr Durant went on in his turn, “has a great deal of -self-command, Frances; he has a great deal of self-control. In some -ways, that is an excellent quality, but it may be carried too far. I -wish very much he would allow me to come and have a talk with him--not -as a clergyman, but just in a friendly way.” - -“I am quite sure you may come and talk with him as much as you like,” -said Frances, astonished; “or if you want very much to see him, he will -come to you.” - -“Oh, I should not take it upon me to ask that--in the meantime,” Mr -Durant said. - -The girl stared a little, but asked no further questions. There was -something among them which she did not understand--a look of curiosity, -an air of meaning more than their words said. The Durants were always a -little apt to be didactic, as became a clergyman’s family; but Tasie -was generally a safe refuge. Frances turned to her with a little sigh of -perplexity, hoping to escape further question. “Was the Sunday-school as -large last Sunday, Tasie?” she said. - -“Oh, Frances, no! Such a disappointment! There were only four! Isn’t it -a pity? But you see the little Mannerings have all gone away. Such sweet -children! and the little one of all has such a voice. They are perhaps -coming back for Easter, if they don’t stay at Rome; and if so, I think -we must put little Herbert in a white surplice--he will look like an -angel--and have a real anthem with a soprano solo, for once.” - -“I doubt if they will all come back,” said Mr Durant. “Mr Mannering -himself indeed, I don’t doubt, _on business_; but as for the family, you -must not flatter yourself, Tasie.” - -“_She_ liked the place,” said his wife; “and very likely she would think -it her duty, if anything is to come of it, you know.” - -“Be careful,” said the clergyman, with a glance aside, which Frances -would have been dull indeed not to have perceived was directed at -herself. “Don’t say anything that may be premature.” - -Frances was brave in her way. She felt, with a little rising excitement, -that her friends were bursting with some piece of knowledge which they -were longing to communicate. It roused in her an impatience and -reluctance mingled with keen curiosity. She would not hear it, and yet -was breathless with impatience to know what it was. - -“Mr Mannering?” she said, deliberately--“that was the gentleman that -knew papa.” - -“You saw him, then?” cried Mrs Durant. There was something like a faint -disappointment in her tone. - -“He was one of papa’s early friends,” said Frances, with a little -emphasis. “I saw him twice. He and his wife both; they seemed kind -people.” - -Mr Durant and his wife looked at each other, and even Tasie stared over -her teacups. “Oh, very kind people, my dear; I don’t think you could do -better than have full confidence in them,” Mrs Durant said. - -“And your poor father could not have a truer friend,” said the old -clergyman. “You must tell him I am coming to have a talk with him about -it. It was a great revelation, but I hope that everything will turn out -for the best.” - -Frances grew redder and redder as she sat a mark for all their arrows. -What was it that was a “revelation”? But she would not ask. She began to -be angry, and to say to herself that she would put her hands to her -ears, that she would listen to nothing. - -“Henry!” said Mrs Durant, “who is it that is premature now?” - -“I am afraid I can’t stay,” said Frances, rising quickly from her chair. -“I have something to do for Mariuccia. I only came in because--because I -was passing. Never mind, Tasie; I know my way so well; and Mr Durant -wants some more tea.” - -“Oh but, Frances, my dear, you really must let me send some one with -you. You must not move about in that independent way.” - -“And we had a great many things to say to you,” said the old clergyman, -keeping her hand in his. “Are you really in such a hurry? It will be -better for yourself to wait a little, and hear something that will be -for your good.” - -“It cannot be any worse for me to run about to-day than any other day,” -said Frances, almost sternly; “and whatever there is to hear, won’t -to-morrow do just as well? I think it is a little funny of you all to -speak to me so; but now I must go.” - -She was so rapid in her movements that she was gone before Tasie could -extricate herself from the somewhat crazy little table. And then they -all three looked at each other and shook their heads. “Do you think she -can know?” “Can she have known it all the time?” “Has Waring told her, -or was it Mannering?” they said to each other. - -Frances could not hear their mutual questions, but something very like -the purport of them got into her agitated brain. She felt sure they were -wondering whether she knew--what? this revelation, this something which -they had found out. Nothing would make her submit to hear it from them, -she said to herself. But the moment was come when she could not be put -off any longer. She would go to her father, and she would not rest -until she was informed what it was. - -She hastened along, avoiding the Marina, which had amused her on her -way, hurrying from terrace to terrace of the olive groves. Her heart was -beating fast, and her rapid pace made it faster. But as she thought of -her father’s unperturbed looks, the calm with which he had received her -eager questions, and the very small likelihood that anything she could -say about the hints of the Durants would move him, her pace and her -excitement both decreased. She went more slowly, less hopefully, back to -the Palazzo. It was all very well to say that she must know. But what if -he would not tell her? What if he received her questions as he had -received them before? The circumstances were not changed, nor was he -changed because the Durants knew something, she did not know what. Oh, -what a poor piece of friendship was that, that betrayed a friend’s -secret to his neighbours! She did not know, she could not so much as -form a guess, what the secret was. But little or great, his friend -should have kept it. She said this to herself bitterly, when the chill -probabilities of the case began to make themselves felt. It was harder -to think that the Durants knew, than to be kept in darkness herself. - -She went in at last very soberly, with the intention of telling her -father all that had passed, if perhaps that of itself might be an -inducement to him to have confidence in her. It was not a pleasant -mission. Her steps had become very sober as she went up the long marble -stair. Mariuccia met her with a little cry. Had she not met the padrone? -He had gone out down through the olive woods to meet her and fetch her -home. It was a brief reprieve. In the evening after dinner was the time -when he was most accessible. Frances, with a thrill of mingled relief -and disappointment, retired to her room to make her little toilet. She -had an hour or two at least before her ere it would be necessary to -speak. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -When one has made up one’s mind to reopen a painful subject after -dinner, the preliminary meal is not usually a very pleasant one; nor, -with the tremor of preparation in one’s mind, is one likely to make a -satisfactory dinner. Frances could not talk about anything. She could -not eat; her mind was absorbed in what was coming. It seemed to her that -she must speak: and yet how gladly would she have escaped from or -postponed the explanation! Explanation! Possibly he would only smile, -and baffle her as he had done before; or perhaps be angry, which would -be better. Anything would be better than that indifference. - -She went out to the loggia when dinner was over, trembling with the -sensation of suspense. It was still not dark, and the night was clear -with the young moon already shining, so that between the retiring day -and the light of the night it was almost as clear as it had been two -hours before. Frances sat down, shivering a little, though not with -cold. Usually her father accompanied or immediately followed her, but by -some perversity he did not do so to-night. She seated herself in her -usual place, and waited, listening for every sound--that is, for sounds -of one kind--his slow step coming along the polished floor, here soft -and muffled over a piece of carpet, there loud upon the _parquet_. But -for some time, during which she rose into a state of feverish -expectation, there was no such sound. - -It was nearly half an hour, according to her calculation, probably not -half so much by common computation of time, when one or two doors were -opened and shut quickly and a sound of voices met her ear--not sounds, -however, which had any but a partial interest for her, for they did not -indicate his approach. After a while there followed the sound of a -footstep but it was not Mr Waring’s; it was not Domenico’s subdued -tread, nor the measured march of Mariuccia. It was light, quick, and -somewhat uncertain. Frances was half disappointed, half relieved. Some -one was coming, but not her father. It would be impossible to speak to -him to-night. The relief was uppermost; she felt it through her whole -being. Not to-night; and no one can ever tell what to-morrow may bring -forth. She looked up no longer with anxiety, but curiosity, as the door -opened. It opened quickly; some one looked out, as if to see what was -beyond, then, with a slight exclamation of satisfaction, stepped out -upon the loggia into the partial light. - -Frances rose up quickly, with the curious sensation of acting over -something which she had rehearsed before, she did not know where or how. -It was the girl whom she had remarked on the Marina as having just -arrived who now stood looking about her curiously, with her -travelling-cloak fastened only at the throat, her gauze veil thrown up -about her hat. This new-comer came in quickly, not with the timidity of -a stranger. She came out into the centre of the loggia, where the light -fell fully around her, and showed her tall slight figure, the fair hair -clustering in her neck, a certain languid grace of movement, which her -energetic entrance curiously belied. Frances waited for some form of -apology or self-introduction, prepared to be very civil, and feeling in -reality pleased and almost grateful for the interruption. - -But the young lady made no explanation. She put her hands up to her -throat and loosed her cloak with a little sigh of relief. She undid the -veil from her hat. “Thank heaven, I have got here at last, free of those -people!” she said, putting herself _sans façon_ into Mr Waring’s chair, -and laying her hat upon the little table. Then she looked up at the -astonished girl, who stood looking on. - -“Are you Frances?” she said; but the question was put in an almost -indifferent tone. - -“Yes; I am Frances. But I don’t know----” Frances was civil to the -bottom of her soul, polite, incapable of hurting any one’s feelings. She -could not say anything disagreeable; she could not demand brutally, Who -are you? and what do you want here? - -“I thought so,” said the stranger; “and, oddly enough, I saw you this -afternoon, and wondered if it could be you. You are a little like -mamma.--I am Constance, of course,” she added, looking up with a -half-smile. “We ought to kiss each other, I suppose, though we can’t -care much about each other, can we?--Where is papa?” - -Frances had no breath to speak; she could not say a word. She looked at -the new-comer with a gasp. Who was she? And who was papa? Was it some -strange mistake which had brought her here? But then the question, “Are -you Frances?” showed that it could not be a mistake. - -“I beg your pardon,” she said; “I don’t understand. This is--Mr -Waring’s. You are looking for--your father?” - -“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently; “I know. You can’t imagine I -should have come here and taken possession if I had not made sure first! -You are well enough known in this little place. There was no trouble -about it.--And the house looks nice, and this must be a fine view when -there is light to see it by.--But where is papa? They told me he was -always to be found at this hour.” - -Frances felt the blood ebb to her very finger-points, and then rush back -like a great flood upon her heart. She scarcely knew where she was -standing or what she was saying in her great bewilderment. “Do you -mean--_my_ father?” she said. - -The other girl answered with a laugh: “You are very particular. I mean -our father, if you prefer it. Your father--my father. What does it -matter?--Where is he? Why isn’t he here? It seems he must introduce us -to each other. I did not think of any such formality. I thought you -would have taken me for granted,” she said. - -Frances stood thunderstruck, gazing, listening, as if eyes and ears -alike fooled her. She did not seem to know the meaning of the words. -They could not, she said to herself, mean what they seemed to mean--it -was impossible. There must be some wonderful, altogether unspeakable -blunder. “I don’t understand,” she said again, in a piteous tone. “It -must be some mistake.” - -The other girl fixed her eyes upon her in the waning light. She had not -paid so much attention to Frances at first as to the new place and -scene. She looked at her now with the air of weighing her in some unseen -balance and finding her wanting, with impatience and half contempt. “I -thought you would have been glad to see me,” she said; “but the world -seems just the same in one place as another. Because I am in distress at -home you don’t want me here.” - -Then Frances felt herself goaded, galled into the matter-of-fact -question, “Who are you?” though she felt that she would not believe the -answer she received. - -“Who am I? Don’t you know who I am? Who should I be but Con? Constance -Waring, your sister?--Where,” she cried, springing to her feet and -stamping one of them upon the ground--“where, _where_ is papa?” - -The door opened again behind her softly, and Mr Waring with his slow -step came out. “Did I hear some one calling for me?” he said.--“Frances, -it is not you, surely, that are quarrelling with your visitor?--I beg -the lady’s pardon; I cannot see who it is.” - -The stranger turned upon him with impatience in her tone. “It was I who -called,” she said. “I thought you were sure to be here. Papa, I have -always heard that you were kind--a kind man, they all said; that was why -I came, thinking---- I am Constance!” she added after a pause, drawing -herself up and facing him with something of his own gesture and -attitude. She was tall, not much less than he was; very unlike little -Frances. Her slight figure seemed to draw out as she raised her head and -looked at him. She was not a suppliant. Her whole air was one of -indignation that she should be subjected to a moment’s doubt. - -“Constance!” said Mr Waring. The daylight was gone outside; the moon had -got behind a fleecy white cloud; behind those two figures there was a -gleam of light from within, Domenico having brought in the lamp into the -drawing-room. He stepped backward, opening the glass door. “Come in,” he -said, “to the light.” - -Frances came last, with a great commotion in her heart, but very still -externally. She felt herself to have sunk into quite a subordinate -place. The other two, they were the chief figures. She had now no -explanation to ask, no questions to put, though she had a thousand; but -everything else was thrown into the background, everything was inferior -to this. The chief interest was with the others now. - -Constance stepped in after him with a proud freedom of step, the air of -one who was mistress of herself and her fate. She went up to the table -on which the tall lamp stood, her face on a level with it, fully lighted -up by it. She held her hat in her hand, and played with it with a -careless yet half-nervous gesture. Her fair hair was short, and -clustered in her neck and about her forehead almost like a child’s, -though she was not like a child. Mr Waring, looking at her, was more -agitated than she. He trembled a little; his eyelids were lifted high -over his eyes. Her air was a little defiant; but there was no suspicion, -only a little uncertainty in his. He put out his hand to her after a -minute’s inspection. “If you are Constance, you are welcome,” he said. - -“I don’t suppose that you have any doubt I am Constance,” said the girl, -flinging her hat on the table and herself into a chair. “It is a very -curious way to receive one, though, after such a long journey--such a -tiresome long journey,” she repeated, with a voice into which a -querulous tone of exhaustion had come. - -Mr Waring sat down too in the immediate centre of the light. He had not -kissed her nor approached her, save by the momentary touch of their -hands. It was a curious way to receive a stranger, a daughter. She lay -back in her chair as if wearied out, and tears came to her eyes. “I -should not have come, if I had known,” she said, with her lip quivering. -“I am very tired. I put up with everything on the journey, thinking, -when I came here---- And I am more a stranger here than anywhere!” She -paused, choking with the half-hysterical fit of crying which she would -not allow to overcome her. “She--knows nothing about me!” she cried, -with a sharp accent of pain, as if this was the last blow. - -Frances, in her bewilderment, did not know what to do or say. She looked -at her father, but his face was dumb, and gave her no suggestion; and -then she looked at the new-comer, who lay back with her head against the -back of the chair, her eyes closed, tears forcing their way through her -eyelashes, her slender white throat convulsively struggling with a sob. -The mind of Frances had been shaken by a sudden storm of feelings -unaccustomed; a throb of something which she did not understand, which -was jealousy, though she neither knew nor intended it, had gone through -her being. She seemed to see herself cast forth from her easy supremacy, -her sway over her father’s house, deposed from her principal place. And -she was only human. Already she was conscious of a downfall. Constance -had drawn the interest towards herself--it was she to whom every eye -would turn. The girl stood apart for a moment, with that inevitable -movement which has been in the bosom of so many since the well-behaved -brother of the Prodigal put it in words, “Now that this thy son has -come.” Constance, so far as Frances knew, was no prodigal; but she was -what was almost worse--a stranger, and yet the honours of the house were -to be hers. She stood thus, looking on, until the sight of the -suppressed sob, of the closed eyes, of the weary, hopeless attitude, -were too much for her. Then it came suddenly into her mind, if she is -Constance! Frances had not known half an hour before that there was any -Constance who had a right to her sympathy in the world. She gave her -father another questioning look, but got no reply from his eyes. -Whatever had to be done must be done by herself. She went up to the -chair in which her sister lay and touched her on the shoulder. “If we -had known you were coming,” she said, “it would have been different. It -is a little your fault not to let us know. I should have gone to meet -you; I should have made your room ready. We have nothing ready, because -we did not know.” - -Constance sat suddenly up in her chair and shook her head, as if to -shake off the emotion that had been too much for her. “How sensible you -are!” she said. “Is that your character?--She is quite right, isn’t she? -But I did not think of that. I suppose I am impetuous, as people say. I -was unhappy, and I thought you would--receive me with open arms. It is -evident _I_ am not the sensible one.” She said this with still a quiver -in her lip, but also a smile, pushing back her chair, and resuming the -unconcerned air which she had worn at first. - -“Frances is quite right. You ought to have written and warned us,” said -Mr Waring. - -“Oh yes; there are so many things that one ought to do.” - -“But we will do the best we can for you, now you are here. Mariuccia -will easily make a room ready. Where is your baggage? Domenico can go to -the railway, to the hotel, wherever you have come from.” - -“My box is outside the door. I made them bring it. The woman--is that -Mariuccia?--would not take it in. But she let me come in. She was not -suspicious. She did not say, ‘If you are Constance.’” And here she -laughed, with a sound that grated upon Mr Waring’s nerves. He jumped up -suddenly from his chair. - -“I had no proof that you were Constance,” he said, “though I believed -it. But only your mother’s daughter could reproduce that laugh.” - -“Has Frances got it?” the girl cried, with an instant lighting up of -opposition in her eyes; “for I am like you, but she is the image of -mamma.” - -He turned round and looked at Frances, who, feeling that an entire -circle of new emotions, unknown to her, had come into being at a bound, -stood with a passive, frightened look, spectator of everything, not -knowing how to adapt herself to the new turn of affairs. - -“By Jove!” her father said, with an air of exasperation she had never -seen in him before, “that is true! But I had never noticed it. Even -Frances. You’ve come to set us all by the ears.” - -“Oh no! I’ll tell you, if you like, why I came. Mamma--has been more -aggravating than usual. I said to myself you would be sure to understand -what that meant. And something arose--I will tell you about it after--a -complication, something that mamma insisted I should do, though I had -made up my mind not to do it.” - -“You had better,” said her father, with a smile, “take care what ideas -on that subject you put into your sister’s head.” - -Constance paused, and looked at Frances with a look which was half -scrutinising, half contemptuous. “Oh, she is not like me,” she said. -“Mamma was very aggravating, as you know she can be. She wanted me---- -But I’ll tell you after.” And then she began: “I hope, because you live -in Italy, papa, you don’t think you ought to be a medieval parent; but -that sort of thing in Belgravia, you know, is too ridiculous. It was so -out of the question that it was some time before I understood. It was -not exactly a case of being locked up in my room and kept on bread and -water; but something of the sort. I was so much astonished at first, I -did not know what to do; and then it became intolerable. I had nobody I -could appeal to, for everybody agreed with her. Markham is generally a -safe person; but even Markham took her side. So I immediately thought of -you. I said to myself, One’s father is the right person to protect one. -And I knew, of course, that if anybody in the world could understand how -impossible it is to live with mamma when she has taken a thing into her -head, it would be you.” - -Waring kept his eye upon Frances while this was being said, with an -almost comic embarrassment. It was half laughable; but it was painful, -as so many laughable things are; and there was something like alarm, or -rather timidity, in the look. The man looked afraid of the little -girl--whom all her life he had treated as a child--and her clear -sensible eyes. - -“One thinks these things, perhaps, but one does not put them into -words,” he said. - -“Oh, it is no worse to say them than to think them,” said Constance. “I -always say what I mean. And you must know that things went very far--so -far that I couldn’t put up with it any longer; so I made up my mind all -at once that I would come off to you.” - -“And I tell you, you are welcome, my dear. It is so long since I saw you -that I could not have recognised you. That is natural enough. But now -that you are here--I cannot decide upon the wisdom of the step till I -know all the circumstances----” - -“Oh, wisdom! I don’t suppose there is any wisdom about it. No one -expects wisdom from me. But what could I do? There was nothing else that -I could do.” - -“At all events,” said Waring, with a little inclination of his head and -a smile, as if he were talking to a visitor, Frances said to -herself--“Frances and I will forgive any lack of wisdom which has given -us--this pleasure.” He laughed at himself as he spoke. “You must expect -for a time to feel like a fine lady paying a visit to her poor -relations,” he said. - -“Oh, I know you will approve of me when you hear everything. Mamma says -I am a Waring all over, your own child.” - -The sensations with which Frances stood and listened, it would be -impossible to describe. Mamma! who was this, of whom the other girl -spoke so lightly, whom she had never heard of before? Was it possible -that a mother as well as a sister existed for her, as for others, in the -unknown world out of which Constance had come? A hundred questions were -on her lips, but she controlled herself, and asked none of them. -Reflection, which comes so often slowly, almost painfully, to her came -now like the flash of lightning. She would not betray to any one, not -even to Constance, that she had never known she had a mother. Papa -might be wrong--oh, how wrong he had been!--but she would not betray -him. She checked the exclamation on her lips; she subdued her soul -altogether, forcing it into silence. This was the secret she had been so -anxious to penetrate, which he had kept so closely from her. Why should -he have kept it from her? It was evident it had not been kept on the -other side. Whatever had happened, had Frances been in trouble, she knew -of no one with whom she could have taken refuge; but her sister had -known. Her brain was made dizzy by these thoughts. It was open to her -now to ask whatever she pleased. The mystery had been made plain; but at -the same time her mouth was stopped. She would not confuse her father, -nor betray him. It was chiefly from this bewildering sensation, and not, -as her father, suddenly grown acute in respect to Frances, thought, from -a mortifying consciousness that Constance would speak with more freedom -if she were not there, that Frances now spoke. “I think,” she said, -“that I had better go and see about the rooms. Mariuccia will not know -what to do till I come; and you will take care of Constance, papa.” - -He looked at her, hearing in her tone a wounded feeling, a touch of -forlorn pride, which perhaps was there, but not so much as he thought; -but it was Constance who replied: “Oh yes, we will take care of each -other. I have so much to tell him,” with a laugh. Frances was aware that -there was relief in it, in the prospect of her own absence, but she did -not feel it so strongly as her father did. She gave them both a smile, -and went away. - -“So that is Frances,” said the new-found sister, looking after her. “I -find her very like mamma. But everybody says I am your child, -disposition and all.” She rose, and came up to Waring, who had never -lessened the distance between himself and her. She put her hand within -his arm and held up her face to him. “I am like you. I shall be much -happier with you. Do you think you will like having me instead of -Frances, father?” She clasped his arm against her in a caressing way, -and leant her cheek upon the sleeve of his velvet coat. “Don’t you -think you would like to have _me_, father, instead of her?” she said. - -A whole panorama of the situation, like a landscape, suddenly flashed -before Waring’s mind. The spell of this caress, and the confidence she -showed of being loved, which is so great a charm, and the impulse of -nature, so much as that is worth, drew him towards this handsome -stranger, who took possession of him and his affections without a doubt, -and pushed away the other from his heart and his side with an impulse -which his philosophy said was common to all men--or at least, if that -was too sweeping, to all women. But in the same moment came that sense -of championship and proprietorship, the one inextricably mingled with -the other, which makes us all defend our own whenever assailed. Frances -was his own; she was his creation; he had taught her almost everything. -Poor little Frances! Not like this girl, who could speak for herself, -who could go everywhere, half commanding, half taking with guile every -heart that she encountered. Frances would never do that. But she would -be true, true as the heavens themselves, and never falter. By a sudden -gleam of perception he saw that, though he had never told her anything -of this, though it must have been a revelation of wonder to her, yet -that she had not burst forth into any outcries of astonishment, or asked -any compromising questions, or done anything to betray him. - -His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He had not -been a doting father to her; he had even--being himself what the world -calls a clever man, much above her mental level--felt himself to -condescend a little, and almost upbraided Heaven for giving him so -ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to see, was a -brilliant creature, accustomed to take her place in the world, fit to be -any man’s companion. But the first result of this revelation was to -reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the modest and true -little soul which had developed by his side without much notice from -him, whom he had treated with such cruel want of confidence, to whom the -shock of this evening’s disclosures must have been so great, but who, -even in the moment of discovery, shielded him. All this went through -his mind with the utmost rapidity. He did not put his new-found child -away from him; but there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in -the kiss he gave her. “I am very glad to have you here, my dear,” he -said more coldly than pleased her. “But why instead of Frances? You will -be happier both of you for being together.” - -Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of -disappointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so -triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished her -father’s arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned to her -chair. “I shall like it, as long as it is possible,” she said. “It will -be very nice for me having a father and sister instead of a mother and -brother. But you will find that mamma will not let you off. She likes to -have a girl in the house. She will have her pound of flesh.” She threw -herself back into her chair with a laugh. “How quaint it all is; and how -beautiful the view must be, and the mountains and the sea! I shall be -very happy here--the world forgetting, by the world forgot--and with -you, papa.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“She has come to stay,” Frances said. - -“What?” cried Mariuccia, making the small monosyllable sound as if it -were the biggest word in her vocabulary. - -“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as much as I -am. She has come--home.” Frances was a little uncertain about the word, -and it was only “_a casa_” that she said--“to the house,” which means -the same. - -Mariuccia threw up her arms in astonishment. “Then there has been -another signorina all the time!” she cried. “Figure to yourself that I -have been with the padrone a dozen years, and I never heard of her -before.” - -“Papa does not talk very much about his concerns,” said Frances in her -faithfulness. “And what we have got to do is to make her very -comfortable. She is very pretty, don’t you think? Such beautiful blond -hair--and tall. I never shall be tall, I fear. They say she is like -papa; but, as is natural, she is much more beautiful than papa.” - -“Beauty is as you find it,” said Mariuccia. “_Carina_, no one will ever -be so pretty as our own signorina to Domenico and me.--What is the child -doing? She is pulling the things off her own bed.--My angel, you have -lost your good sense. You are fluttered and upset by this new arrival. -The blue room will be very good for the new young lady. Perhaps she will -not stay very long?” - -The wish was father to the thought. But Frances took no notice of the -suggestion. She said briskly, going on with what she was doing, “She -must have my room, Mariuccia. The blue room is _quite_ nice; it will do -very well for me; but I should like her to feel at home, not to think -our house was bare and cold. The blue room would be rather naked, if we -were to put her there to-night. It will not be naked for me, for, of -course, I am used to it all, and know everything. But when Constance -wakes to-morrow morning and looks round her, and wonders where she -is--oh, how strange it all seems!--I wish her to open her eyes upon -things that are pretty, and to say to herself, ‘What a delightful house -papa has! What a nice room! I feel as if I had been here all my life.’” - -“Constanza--is that her name? It is rather a common name--not -distinguished, like our signorina’s. But it is very good for her, I have -no doubt. And so you will give her your own room, that she may be fond -of the house, and stay and supplant you? That is what will happen. The -good one, the one of gold, gets pushed out of the way. I would not give -her my room to make her love the house.” - -“I think you would, Mariuccia.” - -“No; I do not think so,” said Mariuccia, squaring herself with one arm -akimbo. “No; I do not deny that I would probably take some new things -into the blue room, and put up curtains. But I am older than you are, -and I have more sense. I would not do it. If she gets your room, she -will get your place; and she will please everybody, and be admired, and -my angel will be put out of the way.” - -“I am such a horrid little wretch,” said Frances, “that I thought of -that too. It was mean, oh, so mean of me. She is prettier than I am, and -taller; and--yes, of course, she must be older too, so you see it is her -right.” - -“Is she the eldest?” asked Mariuccia. - -Frances made a puzzled pause; but she would not let the woman divine -that she did not know. “Oh yes; she must be the eldest.--Come quick, -Mariuccia; take all these things to the blue room; and now for your -clean linen and everything that is nice and sweet.” - -Mariuccia did what she was told, but with many objections. She carried -on a running murmur of protest all the time. “When there are changes in -a family; when it is by the visitation of God, that is another matter. A -son or a daughter who is in trouble, who has no other refuge; that is -natural; there is nothing to say. But to remain away during a dozen -years, and then to come back at a moment’s notice--nay, without even a -moment’s notice--in the evening, when all the beds are made up, and -demand everything that is comfortable.--I have always thought that there -was a great deal to be said for the poor young signorino of whom the -priest speaks, he who had always stayed at home when his brother was -amusing himself. _Carina_, you know what I mean.” - -“I have thought of that too,” said Frances. “But my sister is not a -prodigal; and papa has never done anything for her. It is all quite -different. When we know each other better, it will be delightful always -to have a companion, Mariuccia--think how pleasant it will be always to -have a companion. I wonder if she will like my pictures?--Now, don’t you -think the room looks very pretty? I always thought it was a pretty room. -Leave the _persiani_ open that she may see the sea; and in the morning -don’t forget to come in and close them before the sun gets hot.--I think -that will do now.” - -“Indeed I hope it will do--after all the trouble you have taken. And I -hope the young lady is worthy of it.--But, my angel, what shall I do -when I come in to wake her? Does she expect that I can talk her language -to her? No, no. And she will know nothing; she will not even be able to -say ‘Good morning.’” - -“I hope so. But if not, you must call me first, that is all,” said -Frances cheerfully.--“Now, don’t go to bed just yet; perhaps she will -like something--some tea; or perhaps a little supper; or---- I never -asked if she had dined.” - -Mariuccia regarded this possibility with equanimity. She was not afraid -of a girl’s appetite. But she made a grimace at the mention of the tea. -“It is good when one has a cold; oh yes,” she said; “but to drink it at -all times, as you do! If she wants anything it will be a great deal -better to give her a sirop, or a little red wine.” - -Frances detained Mariuccia as long as she could, and lingered herself -still longer after all was ready in the room. She did not know how to go -back to the drawing-room, where she had left these two together, to say -to each other, no doubt, many things that could be better said in her -absence. There was no jealousy, only delicacy, in this; and she had -given up her pretty room to her sister, and carried her indispensable -belongings to the bare one, with the purest pleasure in making Constance -comfortable. Constance! whom an hour ago she had never heard of, and -who now was one of them, nearer to her than anybody, except her father. -But all this being done, she had the strangest difficulty in going back, -in thrusting herself, as imagination said, between them, and -interrupting their talk. To think that it should be such a tremendous -matter to return to that familiar room in which the greater part of her -life had been passed! It felt like another world into which she was -about to enter, full of unknown elements and conditions which she did -not understand. She had not known what it was to be shy in the very -limited society she had ever known; but she was shy now, feeling as if -she had not courage to put her hand upon the handle of the door. The -familiar creak and jar of it as it opened seemed to her like noisy -instruments announcing her approach, which stopped the conversation, as -she had divined, and made her father and her sister look up with a -little start. Frances could have wished to sink through the floor, to -get rid of her own being altogether, as she saw them both give this -slight start. Constance was leaning upon the table, the light of the -lamp shining full upon her face, with the air of being in the midst of -an animated narrative, which she stopped when Frances entered; and Mr -Waring had been listening with a smile. He turned half round and held -out his hand to the timid girl behind him. “Come, Frances,” he said, -“you have been a long time making your preparations. Have you been -bringing out the fairest robe for your sister?” It was odd how the -parable--which had no signification in their circumstances--haunted them -all. - -“Your room is quite ready whenever you please. And would you like tea or -anything? I ought to have asked if you had dined,” Frances said. - -“Is she the housekeeper?--How odd!--Do you look after everything?--Dear -me! I am afraid, in that case, I shall make a very poor substitute for -Frances, papa.” - -“It is not necessary to think of that,” he said hastily, giving her a -quick glance. - -Frances saw it, with another involuntary, quickly suppressed pang. Of -course there would be things that Constance must be warned not to say. -And yet it felt as if papa had deserted her and gone over to the other -side. She had not the remotest conception what the warning referred to, -or what Constance meant. - -“I dined at the hotel,” Constance went on, “with those people whom I -travelled with. I suppose you will have to call and be civil. They were -quite delighted to think that they would know somebody at -Bordighera--some of the inhabitants.--Yes, tea, if you please. And then -I think I shall go to bed; for twenty-four hours in the train is very -fatiguing, besides the excitement. Don’t you think Frances is very much -like mamma? There is a little way she has of setting her chin.--Look -there! That is mamma all over. I think they would get on together very -well: indeed I feel sure of it.” And again there was a significant look -exchanged, which once more went like a sting to Frances’ heart. - -“Your sister has been telling me,” said Mr Waring, with a little -hesitation, “of a great many people I used to know. You must be very -much surprised, my dear; but I will take an opportunity----” He was -confused before her, as if he had been before a judge. He gave her a -look which was half shame and half gratitude, sentiments both entirely -out of place between him and Frances. She could not bear that he should -look at her so. - -“Yes, papa,” she said as easily as she could; “I know you must have a -great deal to talk of. If Constance will give me her keys I will unpack -her things for her.” Both the girls instinctively, oddly, addressed each -other through their father, the only link between them, hesitating a -little at the familiarity which nature made necessary, but which had no -other warrant. - -“Oh, isn’t there a maid who can do it?” Constance cried, opening her -eyes. - -The evening seemed long to Frances, though it was not long. Constance -trifled over the tea--which Mariuccia made with much reluctance--for -half an hour. But she talked all the time; and as her talk was of people -Frances had never heard of, and was mingled with little allusions to -what had passed before,--“I told you about him;” “You remember, we were -talking of them;” with a constant recurrence of names which to Frances -meant nothing at all,--it seemed long to her. - -She sat down at the table, and took her knitting, and listened, and -tried to look as if she took an interest. She did indeed take a great -interest; no one could have been more eager to enter without -_arrière-pensée_ into the new life thus unfolded before her; and -sometimes she was amused and could laugh at the stories Constance was -telling; but her chief feeling was that sense of being entirely “out of -it”--having nothing to do with it--which makes people who do not -understand society feel like so many ghosts standing on the margin, -knowing nothing. The feeling was strange and very forlorn. It is an -unpleasant experience even for those who are strangers, to whom it is a -passing incident; but as the speaker was her sister and the listener her -father, Frances felt this more deeply still. Generally in the evening -conversation flagged between them. He would have his book, and Frances -sometimes had a book too, or a drawing upon which she could work, or at -least her knitting. She had felt that the silence which reigned in the -room on such occasions was not what ought to be. It was not like the -talk which was supposed to go on in all the novels she had ever read -where the people were _nice_. And sometimes she attempted to entertain -her father with little incidents in the life of their poor neighbours, -or things which Mariuccia had told her; but he listened benevolently, -with his finger between the leaves of his book, or even without closing -his book, looking up at her over the leaves--only out of kindness to -her, not because he was interested; and then silence would fall on them, -a silence which was very sweet to Frances, in the midst of which her own -little stream of thoughts flowed on continuously, but which now and then -she was struck to the heart to think must be very dull for papa. - -But to-night it was not dull for him. She listened, and said to herself -this was the way to make conversation; and laughed whenever she could, -and followed every little gesture of her sister’s with admiring eyes. -But at the end, Frances, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, -felt that she had not been amused. She thought the people in the village -were just as interesting. But then she was not so clever as Constance, -and could not do them justice in the same way. - -“And now I am going to bed,” Constance said. She rose up in an instant -with a rapid movement, as if the thought had only just struck her and -she obeyed the impulse at once. There was a freedom about all her -movements which troubled and captivated Frances. She had been leaning -half over the table, her sleeves, which were a little wide, falling back -from her arms, now leaning her chin in the hollow of one hand, now -supporting it with both, putting her elbows wherever she pleased. -Frances herself had been trained by Mariuccia to very great decorum in -respect to attitudes. If she did furtively now and then lean an elbow -upon the table, she was aware that it was wrong all the time; and as for -legs, she knew it was only men who were permitted to cross them, or to -do anything save sit with two feet equal to each other upon the floor. -But Constance cared for none of these rules. She rose up abruptly -(Mariuccia would have said, as if something had stung her), almost -before she had finished what she was saying. “Show me my room, please,” -she said, and yawned. She yawned quite freely, naturally, without any -attempt to conceal or to apologise for it as if it had been an accident. -Frances could not help being shocked, yet neither could she help -laughing with a sort of pleasure in this breach of all rules. But -Constance only stared, and did not in the least understand why she -should laugh. - -“Where have you put your sister?” Mr Waring asked. - -“I have put her--in the room next to yours, papa; between your room and -mine, you know: for I am in the blue room now. There she will not feel -strange; she will have people on each side.” - -“That is to say, you have given her----” - -It was Frances’ turn now to give a warning glance. “The room I thought -she would like best,” she said, with a soft but decisive tone. She too -had a little imperious way of her own. It was so soft, that a stranger -would not have found it out; but in the Palazzo they were all acquainted -with it, and no one--not even Mariuccia--found it possible to say a -word after this small trumpet had sounded. Mr Waring accordingly was -silenced, and made no further remark. He went with his daughters to the -door, and kissed the cheek which Constance held lightly to him. “I shall -see you again, papa,” Frances said, in that same little determined -voice. - -Mr Waring did not make any reply, but shrank a little aside, to let her -pass. He looked like a man who was afraid. She had spared him; she had -not betrayed the ignorance in which he had brought her up; but now the -moment of reckoning was near, and he was afraid of Frances. He went back -into the _salone_, and walked up and down with a restlessness which was -natural enough, considering how all the embers of his life had been -raked up by this unexpected event. He had lived in absolute quiet for -fourteen long years: a strange life--a life which might have been -supposed to be impossible for a man still in the heyday of his strength; -but yet, as it appeared, a life which suited him, which he preferred to -others more natural. To settle down in an Italian village with a little -girl of six for his sole companion--when he came to think of it, nothing -could be more unnatural, more extraordinary; and yet he had liked it -well enough, as well as he could have liked anything at that crisis of -his fate. He was the kind of man who, in other circumstances, in another -age, would have made himself a monk, and spent his existence very -placidly in illuminating manuscripts. He had done something as near this -as is possible to an Englishman not a Roman Catholic, of the nineteenth -century. Unfortunately, Waring had no ecclesiastical tendencies, or even -in the nineteenth century he might have found out for himself some -pseudo-monkery in which he could have been happy. As it was, he had -retired with his little girl, and on the whole had been comfortable -enough. But now the little girl had grown up, and required to have -various things accounted for; and the other individuals who had claims -upon him, whom he thought he had shaken off altogether, had turned up -again, and had to be dealt with. The monk had an easy time of it in -comparison. He who has but himself to think of may manage himself, if -he has good luck; but the responsibility of others on your shoulders is -a terrible drawback to tranquillity. A little girl! That seemed the -simplest of all things. It had never occurred to him that she would form -a link by which all his former burdens might be drawn back; or that she, -more wonderful still, should ever arise and demand to know why. But both -of these impossible things had happened. - -Waring walked about the _salone_. He opened the glass door and stepped -out into the loggia, into the tranquil shining of the moon, which lit up -all the blues of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps all over the -quivering palms. How quiet it was! and yet that tranquil nature lying -unmoved, taking whatever came of good or evil, did harm in a far more -colossal way than any man could do. The sea, then looking so mild, would -suddenly rise up and bring havoc and destruction worse than an army; yet -next day smile again, and throw its spray into the faces of the -children, and lie like a harmless thing under the light. But a man -could not do this. A man had to give an account of all that he had done, -whether it was good or whether it was evil,--if not to God--which on the -whole was the easiest, for God knew all about it, how little harm had -been intended, how little anything had been intended, how one mistake -involved another,--if not to God--why, to some one harder to face; -perhaps to one’s little girl. - -He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, which, all of -them, were so indifferent to what was happening to him, with a feeling -that the imperfect human lamp which so easily got out of gear--as easily -as a man--was a more appropriate light for his disturbed soul; and met -Frances with her brown eyes waiting for him at the door. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -“It is not because of this only, papa--I wanted before to speak to you. -I was waiting in the loggia for you, when Constance came.” - -“What did you want, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that you have a -right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared to-night; I am -rather exhausted--to-night.” - -Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. “It shall be -exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal--oh, a great -deal more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am the same person; and -I thought it might save us all trouble if you would tell me--as much as -you think I ought to know.” - -She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest pose, -a little stiff, a little prim--the training of Mariuccia. After -Constance, there was something in the attitude of Frances which made her -father smile, though he was in no mood for smiling; and it was clear -that he could not, that he ought not to escape. He would not sit down, -however, and meet her eye. He stood by the table for a few minutes, with -his eyes upon the books, turning them over, as if he were looking for -something. At last he said, but without looking up, “There is nothing -very dreadful to tell; no guilty secret, though you may suppose so. Your -mother and I----” - -“Then I have really a mother, and she is living?” the girl cried. - -He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your age -that means a great deal--I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you knew---- -Yes; you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose that seems a -very wonderful piece of news?” - -Frances did not say anything. The water came into her eyes. Her heart -beat loudly, yet softly, against her young bosom. She had known it, so -that she was not surprised. The surprise had been broken by Constance’s -careless talk, by the wonder, the doubt, the sense of impossibility, -which had gradually yielded to a conviction that it must be so. Her -feeling was that she would like to go now, without delay, without asking -any more questions, to her mother. Her mother! and he hadn’t thought -before how much that meant to a girl--of her age! - -Mr Waring was a little disconcerted by having no answer. Of course it -meant a great deal to a girl; but still, not so much as to make her -incapable of reply. He felt a little annoyed, disturbed, perhaps -jealous, as Frances herself had been. It was with difficulty that he -resumed again; but it had to be done. - -“Your mother and I,” he said, taking up the books again, opening and -shutting them, looking at the title-page now of one, now of another, -“did not get on very well. I don’t know who was in fault--probably both. -She had been married before. She had a son whom you hear Constance speak -of as Markham. Markham has been at the bottom of all the trouble. He -drove me out of my senses when he was a boy. Now he is a man: so far as -I can make out it is he that has disturbed our peace again--hunted us -up, and sent Constance here. If you ever meet Markham--and of course now -you are sure to meet him--beware of him.” Here he made a pause again, -and looked with great seriousness at the book in his hand, turning the -leaf to finish a sentence which was continued on the next page. - -“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Frances; “I am afraid I am very stupid. -What relation is Markham to me?” - -He looked at her for a moment, then threw down the book with some -violence on the table, as if it were the offender. “He is your -step-brother,” he said. - -“My--brother? Then I have a brother too?” After a little pause she -added, “It is very wonderful, papa, to come into a new world like this -all at once. I want--to draw my breath.” - -“It is my fault that it comes upon you all at once. I never thought---- -You were a very small child when I brought you away. You forgot them -all, as was natural. I did not at first know how entirely a child -forgets; and then--then it seemed a pity to disturb your mind, and -perhaps set you longing for--what it was impossible for you to obtain.” - -It surprised him a little that Frances did not breathe a syllable of -reproach. She said nothing. In her imagination she was looking back over -these years, wondering how it would have been had she known. Would life -ever be the same, now that she did know? The world seemed to open up -round her, so much greater, wider, more full than she had thought. She -had not thought much on the subject. Life in Bordighera was more limited -even than life in an English village. The fact that she did not belong -to the people among whom she had spent all these years, made a -difference; and her father’s recluse habits, the few people he cared to -know, the stagnation of his life, made a greater difference still. -Frances had scarcely felt it until that meeting with the Mannerings, -which put so many vague ideas into her mind. A child does not naturally -inquire into the circumstances which have surrounded it all its life. It -was natural to her to live in this retired place, to see nobody, to -make amusements and occupations for herself--to know no one more like -herself than Tasie Durant. Had she even possessed any girl-friends -living the natural life of youth, that might have inspired a question or -two. But she knew no girls--except Tasie, whose girlhood was a sort of -fossil, and who might almost have been the mother of Frances. She saw -indeed the village girls, but it did not occur to her to compare herself -with them. Familiar as she was with all their ways, she was still a -_forestière_--one of the barbarous people, English, a word which -explains every difference. Frances did not quite know in what the -peculiarity and eccentricity of the English consisted; but she, too, -recognised with all simplicity that, being English, she was different. -Now it came suddenly to her mind that the difference was not anything -generic and general, but that it was her own special circumstances that -had been unlike all the rest. There had been a mother all the time; -another girl, a sister, like herself. It made her brain whirl. - -She sat quite silent, thinking it all over, not perceiving her father’s -embarrassment--thinking less of him, indeed, than of all the wonderful -new things that seemed to crowd about her. She did not blame him. She -was not thinking enough of him to blame him; her mind was quite -sufficiently occupied by her discoveries. As she had taken him all her -life without examination, she continued to take him. He was her father; -that was enough. It did not occur to her to ask herself whether what he -had done was right or wrong. Only, it was all very strange. The old -solid earth had gone from under her feet, and the old order of things -had been overthrown. She was looking out upon a world not realised--a -spectator of something like the throes of creation, seeing the new -landscape tremble and roll into place, the heights and hollows all -changing; there was a great deal of excitement in it, both pain and -pleasure. It occupied her so fully, that he fell back into a secondary -place. - -But this did not occur to Waring. He had not realised that it could be -possible. He felt himself the centre of the system in which his little -daughter lived, and did not understand how she could ignore him. He -thought her silence--the silence of amazement, and excitement, and of -that curious spectatorship--was the silence of reproach, and that her -mind was full of a sense of wrong, which only duty kept in check. He -felt himself on his trial before her. Having said all that he had to -say, he remained silent, expecting her response. If she had given vent -to an indignant exclamation, he would have been relieved; he would have -allowed that she had a right to be indignant. But her silence was more -than he could bear. He searched through the recesses of his own -thoughts; but for the moment he could not find any further excuse for -himself. He had done it for the best. Probably she would not see that. -Waring was well enough acquainted with the human mind to know that every -individual sees such a question from his or her own point of view: and -he was prepared to find that his daughter would be unable to perceive -what was so plain to him. But still he was aware that he had done it for -the best. After a while the silence became so irksome to him that he -felt compelled to break it and resume his explanations. If she would -not say anything, there were a number of things which he might say. - -“It is a pity,” he said, “that it has all broken upon you so suddenly. -If I could have divined that Constance would have taken such a step---- -To tell you the truth, I have never realised Constance at all,” he -added, with an impulse towards the daughter he knew. “She was of course -a mere child: to see her so independent, and with so distinct a will of -her own, is very bewildering. I assure you, Frances, if it is wonderful -to you, it is scarcely less wonderful to me.” - -There was something in his tone that made her lift her eyes to him; and -to see him stand there so embarrassed, so subdued, so much unlike the -father who, though very kind and tender, had always been perhaps a -little condescending, patronising, towards the girl, whom he scarcely -recognised as an independent entity, went to her heart. She could not -tell him not to be frightened--not to look at her with that guilty, -apologetic look, which altogether reversed their ordinary relationship; -but it added a pang to her bewilderment. She asked hastily, by way of -concealing this uncomfortable change, a question which she thought he -would have no difficulty in answering--“Is Constance much older than I -am, papa?” - -He gave a sort of furtive smile, as if he had no right to smile in the -circumstances. “I don’t wonder at your question. She has seen a great -deal more of the world. But if there is a minute or two between you, I -don’t know which has it. There is no elder or younger in the case. You -are twins, though no one would think so.” - -This gave Frances a further shock--though why, it would be impossible to -say. The blood rushed to her face. “She must think me--a very poor -little thing,” she said, in a hurried tone. “I never knew--I have no -friend except Tasie--to show me what girls might be.” The thought -mortified her in an extraordinary way; it brought a sudden gush of salt -tears--tears quite different from those which had welled to her eyes -when he told her of her mother. Constance, who was so different, would -despise her--Constance, who knew exactly all about it, and that Frances -was as old, perhaps a few minutes older than she. It is always -difficult to divine what form pride will take. This was the manner in -which it affected Frances. The same age! and yet the one an accomplished -woman, judging for herself--and the other not much more than a child. - -“You do yourself injustice,” said Mr Waring, somewhat rehabilitated by -the mortification of Frances. “Nobody could think you a poor little -thing. You have not the same knowledge of the world. Constance has been -very differently brought up. I think my training a great deal better -than what she has had,” he added quickly, with a mingled desire to cheer -and restore self-confidence to Frances, and to reassert himself after -his humiliation. He felt what he said; and yet, as was natural, he said -a little more than he felt. “I must tell you,” he said, in this new -impulse, “that your mother is--a much more important person than I am. -She is a great deal richer. The marriage was supposed to be much to my -advantage.” - -There was a smile on his face which Frances, looking up suddenly, warned -by a certain change of tone, did not like to see. She kept her eyes -upon him instinctively, she could not tell why, with a look which had a -certain influence upon him, though he did not well understand it either. -It meant that the unknown woman of whom he spoke was the girl’s -mother--her mother--one of whom no unbefitting word was to be said. It -checked him in a quite curious unexpected way. When he had spoken of -her, which he had done very rarely since they parted, it had been with a -sense that he was free to characterise her as he thought she deserved. -But here he was stopped short. That very evening he had said things to -Constance of her mother which in a moment he felt that he dared not say -to Frances. The sensation was a very strange one. He made a distinct -pause, and then he said hurriedly, “You must not for a moment suppose -that there was anything wrong; there is no story that you need be afraid -of hearing--nothing, neither on her side nor mine--nothing to be ashamed -of.” - -All at once Frances grew very pale; her eyes opened wide; she gazed at -him with speechless horror. The idea was altogether new to her artless -mind. It flashed through his that Constance would not have been at all -surprised--that probably she would have thought it “nice of him” to -exonerate his wife from all moral shortcoming. The holy ignorance of the -other brought a sensation of shame to Waring, and at the same time a -sensation of pride. Nothing could more clearly have proved the -superiority of his training. She would have felt no consternation, only -relief at this assurance, if she had been all her life in her mother’s -hands. - -“It is a great deal to say, however, though you are too inexperienced to -know. The whole thing was incompatibility--incompatibility of temper, -and of ideas, and of tastes, and of fortune even. I could not, you may -suppose, accept advantages purchased with my predecessor’s money, or -take the good of his rank through my wife; and she would not come down -in the world to my means and to my name. It was an utter mistake -altogether. We should have understood each other beforehand. It was -impossible that we could get on. But that was all. There was probably -more talk about it than if there had been really more to talk about.” - -Frances rose up with a little start. “I think, perhaps,” she said, “I -don’t want you to tell me any more.” - -“Well--perhaps you are right.” But he was startled by her quick -movement. “I did not mean to say anything that could shock you. If you -are to hear anything at all, the truth is what you must hear. But you -must not blame me over-much, Frances. Your very impatience of what I -have been saying will explain to you why I thought that to say -nothing--as long as I could help it--was the best.” - -Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle, but she made no -comment. “Good night, papa. To-morrow it will all seem different. -Everything is strange to-night.” - -He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the little -serious face, the face that had never been so serious before. “Don’t -think any worse of me, Frances, than you can help.” - -Her eyes opened wider with astonishment. - -“Think of you, worse---- But, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,” -she said, simply; “I am thinking of _it_.” - -Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling experiences -during the course of the evening, but this was the unkindest of all--and -it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She was not thinking of his -conduct, which was the first thing in his mind, but of IT, the -revelation which had been made to her. He might have perceived that, or -divined it, if he had not been occupied by this idea, which did not -occupy her at all--the thought of how he personally had come through the -business. He gave a little faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and -kissed her. “That’s all right,” he said. “Good night; but don’t let IT -interfere with your sleep. To-morrow everything will look different, as -you say.” - -Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she had -reached the door, returned again. “I think I ought to tell you, papa, -that I am sure the Durants know. They said a number of strange things to -me yesterday, which I think I understand now. If you don’t mind, I would -rather let them suppose that I knew all the time; otherwise, it looks -as if you thought you could not trust me.” - -“I could trust you,” he said, with a little fervour,--“my dear child, my -dear little girl--I would trust you with my life.” - -Was there a faint smile in the little girl’s limpid simple eyes? He -thought so, and it disconcerted him strangely. She made no response to -that protestation, but with a little nod of her head went away. Waring -sat down at the table again, and began to think it all over from the -beginning. He was sore and aching, like a man who has fallen from a -height. He had fallen from the pedestal on which, to Frances, he had -stood all these years. She might not be aware of it even--but he was. -And he had fallen from those Elysian fields of peace in which he had -been dwelling for so long. They had not, perhaps, seemed very Elysian -while he was secure of their possession. They had been monotonous in -their stillness, and wearied his soul. But now that he looked back upon -them, a new cycle having begun, they seemed to him like the very home -of peace. He had not done anything to forfeit this tranquillity; and yet -it was over, and he stood once more on the edge of an agitated and -disturbed life. He was a man who could bear monotony, who liked his own -way, yet liked that bondage of habit which is as hard as iron to some -souls. He liked to do the same things at the same time day after day, -and to be undisturbed in doing them. But now all his quiet was over. -Constance would have a thousand requirements such as Frances had never -dreamed of; and her brother no doubt would soon turn up--that -step-brother whom Waring had never been able to tolerate even when he -was a child. She might even come Herself--who could tell? - -When this thought crossed his mind, he got up hastily and left the -_salone_, leaving the lamp burning, as Domenico found it next morning, -to his consternation--a symbol of Chaos come again--burning in the -daylight. Mr Waring almost fled to his room and locked his door in the -horror of that suggestion. And this was not only because the prospect -of such a visit disturbed him beyond measure, but because he had not yet -made a clean breast of it. Frances did not yet know all. - -Frances for her part went to the blue room, and opened the _persiani_, -and sat looking out upon the moonlight for some time before she went to -bed. The room was bare; she missed her pictures, which Constance had -taken no notice of--the Madonna that had been above her head for so many -years, and which had vaguely appeared to her as a symbol of the mother -who had never existed in her life. Now there seemed less need for the -Madonna. The bare walls had pictures all over them--pictures of a new -life. In imagination, no one is shy, or nervous, or strange. She let the -new figures move about her freely, and delighted herself with familiar -pictures of them and the changes that must accompany them. She was not -like her father, afraid of changes. She thought of the new people, the -new combinations, the quickened life: and the thought made her smile. -They would come, and she would make the house gay and bright to receive -them. Perhaps some time, surrounded by this new family that belonged to -her, she might even be taken “home.” The thought was delightful -notwithstanding the thrill of excitement in it. But still there was -something which Frances did not know. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“What is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, walking out upon -the loggia, where the Durants were sitting, on the same memorable -afternoon on which all that has been above related occurred. The General -was dressed in loosely fitting light-coloured clothes. It was one of the -recommendations of the Riviera to him that he could wear out there all -his old Indian clothes, which would have been useless to him at home. He -was a very tall old man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the -complexion, extremely spare, with a fine old white moustache, which had -an immense effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might be -adapted in his case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the General -looked; and yet he was at bottom rather a mild old man, and had never -hurt anybody, except the sepoys in the Mutiny, all his life. His head -was covered with a broad light felt hat, which, soft as it was, took an -aggressive cock when he put it on. He held his gloves dangling from his -hand with the air of having been in too much haste to put them to their -proper use. And his step, as he stepped off the carpet upon the marble -of the loggia, sounded like that of an alert officer who has just heard -that the enemy has made a reconnaissance in force two miles off, and -that there is no time to lose. “What is this I hear about Waring?” he -said. - -“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs Durant. - -“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking his head. - -“But what is it?” asked the General. “I found Mrs Gaunt almost crying -when I went in. What she said was, ‘Charles, we have been nourishing a -viper in our bosoms.’ I am not addicted to metaphor, and I insisted upon -plain English; and then it all came out. She told me Waring was an -impostor, and had been taking us all in; that some old friend of his had -been here, and had told you. Is that true?” - -“My dear!” said Mr Durant in a tone of remonstrance. - -“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It could not -possibly be kept a secret--so few of us here, and all so intimate.” - -“Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt. - -“Oh, my dear General, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you had better -tell the General, your own way.” - -The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He was dying -to tell all that he knew, yet he could not but improve the occasion. -“Oh, ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is anything to be told, the -best of women is not to be trusted. But, General, our poor friend is no -impostor. He never said he was a widower.” - -“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls----” the General began; then with -a start, “I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl--a girl in ten -thousand,” he added, with a happy inspiration. Tasie, who was still -seated behind the teacups, give him a smile in reply. - -“Poor dear Mr Waring,” she said, “whether he is a widower or has a -wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr Waring a flirt. He -might be any one’s grandfather from his manner. I cannot see that it -matters a bit.” - -“Not so far as we are concerned, thank heaven!” said her mother, with -the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. “But I don’t think -it is quite respectable for one of our small community to have a wife -alive and never to let any one know.” - -“I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person of rank,” -said Mr Durant. “It has disturbed me very much--though, happily, as my -wife says, from no private motive.” Here the good man paused, and gave -vent to a sigh of thankfulness, establishing the impression that his -ingenuous Tasie had escaped as by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and -then he continued, “I think some one should speak to him on the subject. -He ought to understand that now it is known, public opinion requires---- -Some one should tell him----” - -“There is no one so fit as a clergyman,” the General said. - -“That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but with our poor friend---- -There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.” - -“O Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but respect to -you.” - -“I should say that a man of the world, like the General----” - -“Oh, not I,” cried the General, getting up hurriedly. “No, thank you; I -never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your business, Padre. -Besides, I have no daughter: whether he is married or not is nothing to -me.” - -“Nor to us, heaven be praised!” said Mrs Durant; and then she added, “It -is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a girl that has -never known a mother’s care! How much better for her to be with her -mother, and properly introduced into society, than living in that -hugger-mugger way, without education, without companions! If it were not -for Tasie, the child would never see a creature near her own age.” - -“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to heighten the -hardship of the situation than from any sense that this was true. - -“Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-Indian. “He -ought to be made to feel that everybody at the station---- Wife all -right, do you know? Bless me! if the wife is all right, what does the -man mean? Why can’t they quarrel peaceably, and keep up appearances, as -we all do?” - -“Oh no--not all; _we_ never quarrel.” - -“Not for a long time, my love.” - -“Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty years. We had a -little disagreement then about where we were to go for the summer. Oh, I -remember it well--the agony it cost me! Don’t say ‘as we _all_ do,’ -General, for it would not be true.” - -“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the General. “All the more -reason why you should talk to him, Padre. Tell him he’s come among us on -false pretences, not knowing the damage he might have done. I always -thought he was a queer hand to have the education of a little girl.” - -“He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, taught her to -knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the time in such a fine -position, able to do anything for her! Oh, it is of Frances I think -most!” - -“It is quite evident,” said the General, “that Mr Durant must -interfere.” - -“I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, a man -like that----” - -“There is no such great harm about the man.” - -“And he is very good to Frances,” said Tasie, almost under her breath. - -“I daresay he meant no harm,” said the General, “if that is all. Only, -he should be warned; and if anything can be done for Frances---- It is a -pity she should see nobody, and never have a chance of establishing -herself in life.” - -“She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs Durant. “As for -establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of Providence, -General. It is not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into a -girl’s mind--unless it is put there, which is so often the case.” - -“The General means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would make her more -fit to be a companion for her papa. Frances is a dear girl; but it is -quite true--she is wanting in conversation. They often sit a whole -evening together and scarcely speak.” - -“She is a nice little thing,” said the General, energetically--“I always -thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junketing of any -description, in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers in this -place. The Padre should interfere.” - -“If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr Durant. - -“I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “I’m not too fond of -interference myself. But when a man has concealed his antecedents, and -they have been found out. And then the little girl----” - -“Yes: it is Frances I think of most,” said Mr Durant. - -It was at last settled among them that it was clearly the clergyman’s -business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin with, but -he liked the moral support of what he called a consensus of opinion. Mr -Durant was not so reluctant as he professed to be. He had not much scope -for those social duties which, he was of opinion, were not the least -important of a clergyman’s functions; and though there was a little -excitement in the uncertainty from Sunday to Sunday how many people -would be at church, what the collection would be, and other varying -circumstances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was -monotonous, and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies -which Mr Durant had held, he had come in contact with various romances -of real life. These were still the days of gaming, when every German -bath had its _tapis vert_ and its little troup of tragedies. But the -Riviera was very tranquil, and Bordighera had just been found out by the -invalid and the pleasure-seeker. It was monotonous: there had been few -deaths, even among the visitors, which are always varieties in their way -for the clergyman, and often are the means of making acquaintances both -useful and agreeable to himself and his family. But as yet there had not -even been many deaths. This gave great additional excitement to what is -always exciting, for a small community--the cropping up under their very -noses, in their own immediate circle, of a mystery, of a discovery -which afforded boundless opportunity for talk. The first thing naturally -that had affected Mr and Mrs Durant was the miraculous escape of Tasie, -to whom Mr Waring _might_ have made himself agreeable, and whose peace -of mind might have been affected, for anything that could be said to the -contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-breadth escape; -although it had not occurred previously to any one that any sort of -mutual attraction between Mr Waring and Tasie was possible. - -And then the other aspects of the case became apparent. Mr Durant felt -now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, to allow -Waring to suppose that everything was as it had always been, was -impossible. He and his wife had decided this without the intervention of -General Gaunt; but when the General appeared--the only other permanent -pillar of society in Bordighera--then there arose that consensus which -made further steps inevitable. Mrs Gaunt looked in later, after dinner, -in the darkening; and she, too, was of opinion that something must be -done. She was affected to tears by the thought of that mystery in their -very midst, and of what the poor (unknown) lady must have suffered, -deserted by her husband, and bereft of her child. “He might at least -have left her her child,” she said, with a sob; and she was fully of -opinion that he should be spoken to without delay, and that they should -not rest till Frances had been restored to her mother. She thought it -was “a duty” on the part of Mr Durant to interfere. The consensus was -thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the entire -community. “We will sleep upon it,” Mr Durant said. But the morning -brought no further light. They were all agreed more strongly than ever -that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it was undeniably a duty for -the clergyman to interfere. - -Mr Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the mid-day -breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the day, the time -for business, before social intercourse is supposed to begin. He was -very carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, and was indeed a very -agreeable example of a neat old clerical gentleman. Ecclesiastical -costume was much more easy in those days. It was before the era of long -coats and soft hats, when a white tie was the one incontrovertible sign -of the clergyman who did not think of calling himself a priest. He was -indeed, having been for a number of years located in Catholic countries, -very particular not to call himself a priest, or to condescend to any -garb which could recall the _soutane_ and three-cornered hat of the -indigenous clergy. His black clothes were spotless, but of the ordinary -cut, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned. But yet neither _soutane_ nor -_berretta_ could have made it more evident that Mr Durant, setting out -with an ebony stick and black gloves, was an English clergyman going -mildly but firmly to interfere. Had he been met with in the wilds of -Africa, even there mistake would have been impossible. In his serious -eye, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of -gentle determination diffused over his whole person, this was apparent. -It made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened the door. After -what had happened yesterday, Domenico felt that anything might happen. -“Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, foretells the nature of the -tragic volume,” he said to Mariuccia--at least if he did not use these -words, his meaning was the same. He ushered the English pastor into the -room which Mr Waring occupied as a library, with bated breath. “Master -is going to catch it,” was what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might -have said. But Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle. - -Waring’s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong room, -with three windows and as many doors, opening into the dining-room on -one hand, and the ante-room on the other. It had the usual -indecipherable fresco on the roof, and the walls on one side were half -clothed with bookcases. Not a very large collection of books, and yet -enough to make a pretty show, with their old gilding, and the dull white -of the vellum in which so many were bound. It was a room in which he -spent the most of his time, and it had been made comfortable according -to the notions of comfort prevailing in these regions. There was a -square of carpet under his writing-table. His chair was a large old -_fauteuil_, covered with faded damask; and curtains, also faded, were -festooned over all the windows and doors. The _persiani_ were shut to -keep out the sun, and the cool atmosphere had a greenish tint. Waring, -however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat with his chair -pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a novel. He had -the air of a man who had taken refuge there from some embarrassment or -annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man occupied in so-called studies -needing leisure, with his note-books at hand, and pen and ink within -reach. Such a man is usually very glad to be interrupted in the midst of -his self-imposed labours, and Waring’s first movement was one of -satisfaction. He threw down the book, with an apology for having ever -taken it up in the half-ashamed, half-violent way in which he got rid of -it. Don’t suppose I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say. -But the aspect of Mr Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose -hurriedly, and gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,” he said. - -“Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun is down, -it is never so fresh in the evening. Especially for business, I find it -the best time.” - -“That means, I suppose,” said Waring, “that your visit this morning -means business, and not mere friendship, as I had supposed?” - -“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, smoothing his -hat with his hand; “but I don’t deny it is something more serious: -a--a--question I want to ask you, if you don’t mind----” - -Just at this moment, in the next room there rose a little momentary and -pleasant clamour of voices and youthful laughter; two voices -certainly--Frances and another. This made Mr Durant prick up his ears. -“You have--visitors?” he said. - -“Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring, with a -smile. - -Now was the time when Mr Durant realised the difficult nature of his -mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst of the -consensus of opinion, with everybody encouraging him and pressing upon -him the fact that it was “a duty,” the matter seemed easy enough. But -when he found himself in Waring’s house, looking a man in the face with -whose concerns he had really no right to interfere, and who had not at -all the air of a man ready to be brought to the confessional, Mr -Durant’s confidence failed him. He faltered a little; he looked at his -very unlikely penitent, and then he looked at the hat which he was -turning round in his hands, but which gave him no courage. Then he -cleared his throat. “The question is--quite a simple one,” he said. -“There can be no doubt of your ability--to answer. I am sure you will -forgive me if I say, to begin with----” - -“One moment. Is this question--which seems to trouble you--about my -affairs or yours?” - -Mr Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. “That is -just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my dear Waring, that -you have been received here--well, there is not very much in our -power--but with every friendly feeling, every desire to make you one of -us.” - -“All this preface shows me that it is I who have been found wanting. -You are quite right; you have been most hospitable and kind--to myself, -almost too much so; to my daughter, you have given all the society she -has ever known.” - -“I am glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. My dear -friend, was it right, then, when we opened our arms to you so -unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character--under false -colours?” - -“Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “This is going a little too far. I -suppose I understand what you mean. Mannering, who calls himself my old -friend, has been here; and as he could not hold his tongue if his life -depended upon it, he has told you---- But why you should accuse me of -holding a false position, of coming under false colours--which was what -you said----” - -“Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “did you never -think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and--well, still a -good-looking man--did you never think that there might be some -susceptible heart--some woman’s heart----” - -“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “I never supposed -for a moment----” - -“----Some young creature,” Mr Durant continued, solemnly, “whom it -might be my duty and your duty to guard from deception; but who -naturally, taking you for a widower----” - -Waring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up before his -table like a little boy who was about to be caned. Exclamations of -dismay fell unconsciously from his lips. “Sir! I never thought----” - -Mr Durant paused to contemplate with pleasure the panic he had caused. -He put down his hat and rubbed together his little fat white hands. “By -the blessing of Providence,” he said, drawing a long breath, “that -danger has been averted. I say it with thankfulness. We have been -preserved from any such terrible result. But had things been differently -ordered--think, only think! and be grateful to Providence.” - -The answer which Waring made to this speech was to burst into a fit of -uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering his gravity. -As soon as he paused, exhausted, to draw breath, he was off again. The -suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, became ludicrous beyond -description. He quavered forth “I beg your pardon” between the fits, -which Mr Durant did not at all like. He sat looking on at the hilarity -very gravely without a smile. - -“I did not expect so much levity,” he said. - -“I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running down his -cheeks. “Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character of a gay -Lothario is the last one in the world----” - -“It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergyman. -“Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should -withdraw. Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce.” - -“It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. But I -think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set before me, -we may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr Durant,” continued -Waring, “you have only anticipated an explanation I intended to make. -Mannering is an ass.” - -“I am sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr Durant, -with much gravity. - -“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, who is very -unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more distinctly. Constance, I -want you here.” - -The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there suddenly -appeared in the doorway the tall figure of a girl who had never been -seen as yet in Bordighera--a girl who was very simply dressed, yet who -had an air which the old gentleman, acquainted, as he flattered himself, -with the air of fine people, could not ignore. She stood with a careless -grace, returning slightly, not without a little of that impertinence of -a fine lady which is so impressive to the crowd, his salutation. “Did -you want me, papa?” she quietly asked. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The revelation which thus burst upon Mr Durant was known throughout the -length and breadth of Bordighera, as that good man said, before the day -was out. The expression was not so inappropriate as might be at first -supposed, considering the limited society to which the fact that Mr -Waring had a second daughter was of any particular interest; for the -good chaplain’s own residence was almost at the extremity of the Marina, -and General Gaunt’s on the highest point of elevation among the olive -gardens; while the only other English inhabitants were in the hotels -near the beach, and consisted of a landlady, a housekeeper, and the -highly respectable person who had charge of the stables at the Bellevue. -This little inferior world was respectfully interested but not excited -by the new arrival. - -But to Mrs Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first importance; and -Mrs Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it was a revelation of -further wickedness, and that there was no telling where these -discoveries might end. “We shall be hearing that he has a son next,” she -said. They had a meeting in the afternoon to talk it over; and it really -did appear at first that the new disclosure enhanced the enormity of the -first--for, naturally, the difference between a widower and a married -man is aggravated by the discovery that the deceiver pretending to have -only one child has really “a family.” At the first glance the ladies -were all impressed by this; though afterwards, when they began to think -of it, they were obliged to admit that the conclusion perhaps was not -very well founded. And when it turned out that Frances and the new-comer -were twins, that altogether altered the question, and left them, though -they were by no means satisfied, without anything further to say. - -While all this went on outside the Palazzo, there was much going on -within it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrassment. -Mr Waring, with a consciousness that he was acting a somewhat cowardly -part, ran away from it altogether, and shut himself up in his library, -and left his daughters to make acquaintance with each other as they best -could. He was, as has been said, by no means sufficiently at his ease to -return to what he called his studies, the ordinary occupations of his -life. He had run away, and he knew it. He went so far as to turn the key -in one door, so that, whatever happened, he could only be invaded from -one side, and sat down uneasily in the full conviction that from moment -to moment he might be called upon to act as interpreter or peacemaker, -or to explain away difficulties. He did not understand women, but only -his wife, from whom he had taken various prejudices on the subject; -neither did he understand girls, but only Frances, whom, indeed, he -ought to have known better than to suppose, either that she was likely -to squabble with her sister, or call him in to mediate or explain. -Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; and he knew -that, yet lived in a vague dread, and did not even sit comfortably on -his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel--which was the -condition in which he was found by Mr Durant. The clergyman’s visit did -him a little good, giving him at once a grievance and an object of -ridicule. During the rest of the day he was so far distracted from his -real difficulties as to fall from time to time into fits of secret -laughter over the idea of having been in all unconsciousness a source of -danger for Tasie. He had never been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to -have run the risk of destroying Tasie’s peace of mind was beyond his -wildest imagination. He longed to confide it to somebody, but there was -no one with whom he could share the fun. Constance perhaps might have -understood; but Frances! He relapsed into gravity when he thought of -Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous suggestion which would amuse -her. - -Meanwhile the girls, who were such strangers to each other, yet so -closely bound by nature, were endeavouring to come to a knowledge of -each other by means which were much more subtle than any explanation -their father could have supplied; so that he might, if he had understood -them better, have been entirely at his ease on this point. As a matter -of fact, though Constance was the cleverer of the two, it was Frances -who advanced most quickly in her investigations, for the excellent -reason that it was Constance who talked, while Frances, for the most -part having nothing at all interesting to say of herself, held her -peace. Frances had been awakened at an unusually late hour in the -morning--for the agitation of the night had abridged her sleep at the -other end--by the sounds of mirth which accompanied the first dialogue -between her new sister and Mariuccia. The Italian which Constance knew -was limited, but it was of a finer quality than any with which Mariuccia -was acquainted; yet still they came to some sort of understanding, and -both repudiated the efforts of Frances to explain. And from that moment -Constance had kept the conversation in her hands. She did not chatter, -nor was there any appearance of loquacity in her; but Frances had lived -much alone, and had been taught not to disturb her father when she was -with him, so that it was more her habit to be talked to than to talk. -She did not even ask many questions--they were scarcely necessary; for -Constance, as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives for -the step she had taken. These revelations gave Frances new lights almost -at every word. - -“You always knew, then, about--us?” Frances said. She had intended to -say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled modesty and pride. - -“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, if not -oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham who found out -that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in the world. Papa does -not much like him. I daresay you have never heard anything very -favourable of him; but that is a mistake. We knew pretty well about you. -Mamma used to ask that you should write, since there was no reason why, -at your age, you should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I -suppose he thought it better not.” - -“I suppose so.” - -“I should not myself have been restrained by that,” said Constance. “I -think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience of that sort at our -age is too much. I should not have obeyed him. I should have told him -that in such a matter I must judge for myself. However, if one learns -anything as one grows up,” said this young philosopher, “it is that no -two people are alike. I suppose that was not how the subject presented -itself to you?” - -Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said had she -been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do so now? The -idea was a very strange one to her mind, and yet what could be more -natural? It was with a sense of precipitate avoidance of a subject which -must be contemplated fully at an after-period, that she said hurriedly, -“I have never written letters. It did not come into my head.” - -“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial scrutiny. -Then she added, with a sequence of thoughts which it was not difficult -to follow, “Don’t you think it is very odd that you and I should be the -same age?” - -Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. She -looked wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced than she -felt herself to be. “I suppose--we ought to have been like each other,” -she said. - -“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t know whether -you are like her in mind--but on the outside. And I am like _him_. It is -very funny. It shows that one has these peculiarities from one’s birth; -it couldn’t be habit or association, as people say, for I have never -been with him--neither have you with mamma. I suppose he is very -independent-minded, and does what he likes without thinking? So do I. -And you consider what other people will say, and how it will look, and a -thousand things.” - -It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not at -all in the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did she -consider very much what other people would say? Perhaps it was true. She -had been obliged, she reflected, to consider what Mariuccia would say; -so that probably Constance was right. - -“It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. He is -invaluable; he never forgets; and if you want to find anything out, he -will take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell you why I left home. -If we are going to live together as sisters, we ought to make confidants -of each other; and if you have to go, you can take my part. Well, then! -You must know there is a man in it. They say you should always ask, ‘Who -is She?’ when there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as -natural to ask, ‘Who is He?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.” - -The language, the tone, the meaning, were all new to Frances. She did -not know anything about it. When there is a row between men; when a girl -gets into a scrape: the one and the other were equally far from her -experience. She felt herself blush, though she scarcely knew why. She -shook her head when Constance added, though rather as a remark than as -a question, “Don’t you know? Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any -personal experience, but as a general principle? The man in this case -was well enough. Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; -that I had better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he -would have advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that -this is a point upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma pressed me -more than a mother has any right to do--to a person of my age.” - -“But, Constance, eighteen is not so very old.” - -“Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl, somewhat imperiously; -then she paused and added--“in most cases, when one has been much in the -world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle ages when your mother -thinks she can make you do what she pleases and marry as she likes. That -must be one’s own affair. I must say that I thought papa would take my -part more strongly, for they have always been so much opposed. But after -all, though he is not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is -his side.” - -“Did you not like--the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing could be more -modest than this question, and yet it brought the blood to her face. She -had never heard the ordinary _badinage_ on this subject, or thought of -love with anything but awe and reverence, as a mystery altogether beyond -her and out of discussion. She did not look at her sister as she put the -question. Constance lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined -with cushions, which was her father’s favourite seat, with her hands -clasped behind her head, in one of those attitudes of complete _abandon_ -which Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl. - -“Did I like--the gentleman? I did not think that question could ever -again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the good of a -sister. Mamma and Markham and all my people had such a different way of -looking at it. You must know that _that_ is not the first question, -whether you like the man. As for that, I liked him--well enough. There -was nothing to--dislike in him.” - -Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like -reproach. “I may not have used the right word. I have never spoken on -such subjects before.” - -“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said Constance. -“I suppose papa has brought you up to think that such things must never -be spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original about it. I have been asked -if he was not rich enough, if he was not handsome enough, if it was -because he had no title: and I have been asked if I loved him, which was -nonsense. I could answer all that; but you I can’t answer. Don’t I like -him? I was not going to be persecuted about him. It was Markham who put -this into my head. ‘Why don’t you go to your father,’ he said, ‘if you -won’t hear reason? He is just the sort of person to understand you, if -we don’t.’ So, then, I took them at their word. I came off--to papa.” - -“Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think----” - -“I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good sense. They -think him romantic, and all that. I have always been accustomed to -think so too. But the curious thing is that he isn’t,” said Constance, -with an injured air. “I suppose, however foolish one’s father may be for -himself, he still feels that he must stand on the parents’ side.” - -“You speak,” said Frances, with a little indignation, “as if papa was -likely to be against--his children; as if he were an enemy.” - -“Taking sides is not exactly being enemies,” said Constance. “We are -each of our own faction, you know. It is like Whigs and Tories. The -fathers and mothers side with each other, even though they may be quite -different and not get on together. There is a kind of reason in it. -Only, I have always heard so much of papa as unreasonable and unlike -other people, that I never thought of him in that light. He would be -just the same, though, except that for the present I am a stranger, and -he feels bound to be civil to me. If it were not for his politeness, he -is capable of being medieval too.” - -“I don’t know what medieval means,” said Frances, with much heat, -indignant to hear her father thus spoken of as a subject for criticism. -Perhaps she had criticised him in her time, as children use--but -silently, not putting it into words, which makes a great difference. And -besides, what one does one’s self in this way is quite another matter. -As she looked at this girl, who was a stranger, though in some -extraordinary way not a stranger, a momentary pang and impotent sudden -rage against the web of strange circumstances in which she felt herself -caught and bewildered, flamed up in her mild eyes and mind, unaccustomed -to complications. Constance took no notice of this sudden passion. - -“It means bread and water,” she said, with a laugh, “and shutting up in -one’s own room, and cutting off of all communication from without. -Mamma, if she were driven to it, is quite capable of that. They all -are--rather than give in; but as we are not living in the middle ages, -they have to give in at last. Perhaps, if I had thought that what you -may call his official character would be too strong for papa, I should -have fought it out at home. But I thought he at least would be himself, -and not a conventional parent. I am sure he has been a very queer sort -of parent hitherto; but the moment a fight comes, he puts himself on his -own side.” - -She gave forth these opinions very calmly, lying back in the long chair, -with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes following -abstractedly the lines of the French coast. The voice which uttered -sentiments so strange to Frances was of the most refined and harmonious -tones, low, soft, and clear. And the lines of her slim elastic figure, -and of her perfectly appropriate dress, which combined simplicity and -costliness, carelessness and consummate care, as only high art can, -added to the effect of a beauty which was not beauty in any -demonstrative sense, but rather harmony, ease, grace, fine health, fine -training, and what, for want of a better word, we call blood. Not that -the bluest blood in the world inevitably carries with it this perfection -of tone; but Constance had the effect which a thoroughbred horse has -upon the connoisseur. It would have detracted from the impression she -made had there been any special point upon which the attention -lingered--had her eyes, or her complexion, her hands, or her hair, or -any individual trait, called for particular notice. But hers was not -beauty of that description. - -Her sister, who was, so to speak, only a little rustic, sat and gazed at -her in a kind of rapture. Her heart did not, as yet at least, go out -towards this intruder into her life; her affections were as yet -untouched; and her temper was a little excited, disturbed by the -critical tone which her sister assumed, and the calm frankness with -which she spoke. But though all these dissatisfied, almost hostile -sentiments were in Frances’ mind, her eyes and attention were -fascinated. She could not resist the influence which this external -perfection of being produced upon her. It was only perhaps now in the -full morning light, in the _abandon_ of this confidence and candour, -which had none of the usual tenderness of confidential revelations, but -rather a certain half-disdainful self-discovery which necessity -demanded, that Frances fully perceived her sister’s gifts. Her own -impatience, her little impulses of irritation and contradiction, died -away in the wondering admiration with which she gazed. Constance showed -no sign even of remarking the effect she produced. She said -meditatively, dropping the words into the calm air without any apparent -conception of novelty or wonder in them, “I wonder how you will like it -when you have to go.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Within the first few days, a great many of these conversations took -place, and Frances gradually formed an idea to herself--not, perhaps, -very like reality, but yet an idea--of the other life from which her -sister had come. The chief figure in it was “mamma,” the mother with -whom Constance was so carelessly familiar, and of whom she herself knew -nothing at all. Frances did not learn from her sister’s revelations to -love her mother. The effect was very different from that which, in such -circumstances, might have been looked for. She came to look upon this -unknown representative of “the parents’ side,” as Constance said, as -upon a sort of natural opponent, one who understood but little and -sympathised not at all with the younger, the other faction, the -generation which was to succeed and replace her. Of this fact the other -girl never concealed her easy conviction. The elders for the moment had -the power in their hands, but by-and-by their day would be over. There -was nothing unkind or cruel in this certainty; it was simply the course -of nature: by-and-by their sway would be upset by the natural progress -of events, and in the meantime it was modified by the other certainty, -that if the young stood firm, the elders had no alternative but to give -in. Altogether, it was evident the parents’ side was not the winning -side; but all the same it had the power of annoying the other to a very -great extent, and exercised this power with a selfishness which was -sometimes brutal. Mamma, it was evident, had not considered Constance at -all. She had taken her about into society for her own ends, not for her -daughter’s pleasure: and, finally, she had formed a plan by which -Constance was to be handed over to another proprietor without any -consultation of her own wishes. - -The heart of Frances sank as she slowly identified this maternal image, -so different from that which fancy and nature suggest. She tried to -compare it with the image which she herself might in her turn have -communicated of her father, had it been she who was the expositor. It -frightened her to find, as she tried this experiment in her own mind, -that the representation of papa would not have been much more -satisfactory. She would have shown him as passing his time chiefly in -his library, taking very little notice of her tastes and wishes, -settling what was to be done, where to go, everything that was of any -importance in their life, without at all taking into account what she -wished. This she had always felt to be perfectly natural, and she had no -feeling of a grievance in the matter; but supposing it to be necessary -to tell the story to an ignorant person, what would that ignorant -person’s opinion be? It gave her a great shock to perceive that the -impression produced would also be one of harsh authority, indifferent, -taking no note of the inclinations of those who were subject to it. That -was how Constance would understand papa. It was not the case, and yet it -would look so to one who did not know. Perceiving this, Frances came to -feel that it might be natural to represent the world as consisting of -two factions, parents and children. There was a certain truth in it. If -there should happen to occur any question--which was impossible--between -papa and herself, she felt sure that it would be very difficult for him -to realise that she had a will of her own; and yet Frances was very -conscious of having a will of her own. - -In this way she learned a great many things vaguely through the talk of -her sister. She learned that balls and other entertainments, such as, to -her inexperienced fancy, had seemed nothing but pleasure, were not in -reality intended, at least as their first object, for pleasure at all. -Constance spoke of them as things to which one must go. “We looked in -for an hour,” she would say. “Mamma thinks she ought to have -half-a-dozen places to go to every evening,” with a tone in which there -was more sense of injury than pleasure. Then there was the mysterious -question of love, which was at once so simple and so awful a matter, on -which there could be no doubt or question: that, it appeared, was quite -a complicated affair, in which the lover, the hero, was transferred into -“the man,” whose qualities had to be discovered and considered, as if he -were a candidate for a public office. All this bewildered Frances more -than can be imagined or described. Her sister’s arrival, and the -disclosures involved in it, had broken up to her all the known lines of -heaven and earth; and now that everything had settled down again, and -these lines were beginning once more to be apparent, Frances felt that -though they were wider, they were narrower too. She knew a great deal -more; but knowledge only made that appear hard and unyielding which had -been elastic and infinite. The vague and imaginary were a great deal -more lovely than this, which, according to her sister’s revelation, was -the real and true. - -Another very curious experience for Frances occurred when Mrs Durant and -Mrs Gaunt, as in duty bound, and moved with lively curiosity, came to -call and make acquaintance with Mr Waring’s new daughter. Constance -regarded these visitors with languid curiosity, only half rising from -her chair to acknowledge her introduction to them, and leaving Frances -to answer the questions which they thought it only civil to put. Did she -like Bordighera? - -“Oh yes; well enough,” Constance replied. - -“My sister thinks the people not so picturesque as she expected,” said -Frances. - -“But of course she felt the delightful difference in the climate?” -People, Mrs Durant understood, were suffering dreadfully from east wind -in London. - -“Ah! one doesn’t notice in town,” said Constance. - -“My sister is not accustomed to living without comforts and with so -little furniture. You know that makes a great difference,” said her -anxious expositor and apologist. - -And then there would ensue a long pause, which the new-comer did nothing -at all to break: and then the conversation fell into the ordinary -discussion of who was at church on Sunday, how many new people from the -hotels, and how disgraceful it was that some who were evidently English -should either poke into the Roman Catholic places or never go to church -at all. - -“It comes to the same thing, indeed,” Mrs Durant said, indignantly; “for -when they go to the native place of worship, they don’t understand. Even -I, that have been so long on the Continent, I can’t follow the -service.” - -“But papa can,” said Tasie. - -“Ah, papa--papa is much more highly educated than I could ever pretend -to be; and besides, he is a theologian, and knows. There were quite -half-a-dozen people, evidently English, whom I saw with my own eyes -coming out of the chapel on the Marina. Oh, don’t say anything, Tasie! I -think, in a foreign place, where the English have a character to keep -up, it is quite a sin.” - -“You know, mamma, they think nobody knows them,” Tasie said. - -Mrs Gaunt did not care so much who attended church; but when she found -that Constance had, as she told the General, “really nothing to say for -herself,” she too dropped into her habitual mode of talk. She did her -best in the first place to elicit the opinions of Constance about -Bordighera and the climate, about how she thought Mr Waring looking, and -if dear Frances was not far stronger than she used to be. But when these -judicious inquiries failed of a response, Mrs Gaunt almost turned her -back upon Constance. “I have had a letter from Katie, my dear,” she -said. - -“Have you indeed? I hope she is quite well--and the babies?” - -“Oh, the babies; they are always well. But poor Katie, she has been a -great sufferer. I told you she had a touch of fever, by last mail. Now -it is her liver. You are never safe from your liver in India. She had -been up to the hills, and there she met Douglas, who had gone to settle -his wife and children. His wife is a poor little creature, always -ailing; and their second boy---- But, dear me, I have not told you my -great news! Frances--George is coming home! He is coming by Brindisi and -Venice, and will be here directly. I told him I was sure all my kind -neighbours would be so glad to see him; and it will be so nice for -him--don’t you think?--to see Italy on his way.” - -“Oh, very nice,” said Frances. “And you must be very happy, both the -General and you.” - -“The General does not say much, but he is just as happy as I am. Fancy! -by next mail! in another week!” The poor lady dried her eyes, and added, -laughing, sobbing, “Only think--in a week--my youngest boy!” - -“Do you mean to say,” said Constance, when Mrs Gaunt was gone, “that -you have made them believe you care? Oh, that is exactly like mamma. She -makes people think she is quite happy and quite miserable about their -affairs, when she does not care one little bit! What is this woman’s -youngest son to you?” - -“But she is---- I have been here all my life. I am glad that she should -be happy,” cried Frances, suddenly placed upon her defence. - -When she thought of it, Mrs Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing at all to -her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in the hotels on -the Marina went to church. But Mrs Gaunt was interested in the one, and -the Durants in the other. And was it true what Constance said, that she -was a humbug, that she was a deceiver, because she pretended to care? -Frances was much confused by this question. There was something in it: -perhaps it was true. She faltered as she replied, “Do you think it is -wrong to sympathise? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself. -But still it is not false, for I do feel it for them--in a sort of a -way.” - -“And that is all the society you have here? the clergywoman and the old -soldier. And will they expect me, too, to feel for them--in a sort of a -way?” - -“Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could never be -quite the same, you know; because you are a stranger, and I have known -them ever since I was quite a little thing. They have all been very kind -to me. They used to have me to tea; and Tasie would play with me; and -Mrs Gaunt brought down all her Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you -don’t know how kind they are! I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the -carved ivory things, and remember how they were taken out from under the -glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and how -dear Mrs Gaunt could trust me with them! And then Tasie----” - -“Tasie! What a ridiculous name! But it suits her well enough. She must -be forty, I should think.” - -“Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess of -Denrara, who is her godmother,” said Frances, with great gravity. She -had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs Durant, and -unconsciously repeated it in something of the same tone. Constance -received this with a sudden laugh, and clapped her hands. - -“I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie now. I am -sure you can; and then we shall have got a laugh out of them at least.” - -“What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “Do you think I would -laugh at them? When you know how really good they are----” - -“Oh yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, opening her mouth -in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been dreadful in any one -else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty in her. Everything was -rather pretty in her, even her little rudenesses and impertinences. “If -I stay here, of course I shall have to be intimate with them, as you -have been. And must I take a tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us -see! He will be a young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one, -and as he is coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is -bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.” - -“Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation raising her voice. - -“Well,” said her sister, “is there anything wonderful in that? We are -very different types, and till we see the hero, we shall not be able to -tell which he is likely to prefer. I see my way to a little diversion, -if you will not be too puritanical, Fan. That never does a man any harm. -It will rouse him up; it will give him something to think of. A place -like this can’t have much amusement, even for a youngest boy. We shall -make him enjoy himself. His mother will bless us. You know, everybody -says it is part of education for a man.” - -Frances looked at her sister with eyes bewildered, somewhat horrified, -full of disapproval; while Constance, roused still more by her sister’s -horror than by the first mischievous suggestion which had awakened her -from her indifference, laughed, and woke up into full animation. “We -will go and return their visits,” she said, “and I will be sympathetic -too. But you shall see, when I take up a part, I make much more of it -than you do. I know who these people were who did not go to church. -They were my people--the people I travelled with; and they shall go next -Sunday, and Tasie’s heart shall rejoice. When we call, I will let them -know that England, even at Bordighera, expects every man--and every -woman, which is more to the purpose--and that their absence was -remarked. They will never be absent again, Fan. And as for the other -interest, I shall inquire all about Katie’s illnesses, and secure the -very last intelligence about the youngest boy. She will show me his -photograph. She will tell me stories of how he cut his first tooth. I -wonder,” said Constance, suddenly pausing and falling back into the old -languid tone, “whether you will take up my old ways, when you are with -mamma.” - -“I shall never have it in my power to try,” said Frances. “Mamma will -never want me.” She was a little shy of using that name. - -“Don’t you know the condition, then? I think you don’t half know our -story. Papa behaved rather absurdly, but honestly too. When they -separated, he settled that one of us should always be with her, and one -of us with him. He had the right to have taken us both. Men have more -rights than women. We belong to him, but we don’t belong to her. I don’t -see the reason of it, but still that is law. He allowed her to have one -of us always. I daresay he thought two little things like what we were -then would have been a bore to him. At all events, that is how it was -settled. Now it does not need much cleverness to see, that as I have -left her, she will probably claim you. She will not let papa off -anything he has promised. She likes a girl in the house. She will say, -‘Send me Frances.’ I should like to hide behind a door or under a table, -and see how you get on.” - -“I am sure you must be mistaken,” said Frances, much disturbed; “there -was never any question about me.” - -“No; because I was there. Oh yes; there was often question of you. Mamma -has a little picture of you as you were when you were taken away. It -always hangs in her room; and when I had to be scolded, she used to -apostrophise you. She used to say, ‘That little angel would never have -done so-and-so.’ I did, for I was a little demon; so I rather hated -you. She will send for you now; and I wonder if you will be a little -angel still. I should like to see how you get on. But I shall be fully -occupied here driving people to church, and making things pleasant for -the old soldier’s youngest son.” - -“I wish you would not talk so wildly,” said Frances. “You are laughing -at me all the time. You think I am such a simpleton, I will believe all -you say. And indeed I am not clever enough to understand when you are -laughing at me. All this is impossible. That I should take your place, -and that you should take mine--oh, impossible!” cried Frances, with a -sharper certainty than ever, as that last astounding idea made itself -apparent: that Constance should order papa’s dinners and see after the -mayonnaise, and guide Mariuccia--“oh, impossible!” she cried. - -“Nothing is impossible. You think I am not good enough to do the -housekeeping for papa. I only hope you will _s’en tirer_ of the -difficulties of my place, as I shall of yours. Be a kind girl, and write -to me, and tell me how things go. I know what will happen. You will -think everything charming at first; and then---- But don’t let Markham -get hold of you. Markham is very nice. He is capital for getting you out -of a scrape; but still, I should not advise you to be guided by him, -especially as you are papa’s child, and he is not fond of papa.” - -“Please don’t say any more,” cried Frances. “I am not going--anywhere. I -shall live as I have always done; but only more pleasantly from -having--you.” - -“That is very pretty of you,” said Constance, turning round to look at -her; “if you are sure you mean it, and that it is not only true--in a -sort of a way. I am afraid I have been nothing but a bore, breaking in -upon you like this. It would be nice if we could be together,” she -added, very calmly, as if, however, no great amount of philosophy would -be necessary to reconcile her to the absence of her sister. “It would be -nice; but it will not be allowed. You needn’t be afraid, though, for I -can give you a number of hints which will make it much easier. Mamma is -a little--she is just a little--but I should think you would get on -with her. You look so young, for one thing. She will begin your -education over again, and she likes that; and then you are like her, -which will give you a great pull. It is very funny to think of it; it is -like a transformation scene; but I daresay we shall both get on a great -deal better than you think. For my part, I never was the least afraid.” - -With this, Constance sank into her chair again, and resumed the book she -had been reading, with that perfect composure and indifference which -filled Frances with admiration and dismay. - -It was with difficulty that Frances herself kept her seat or her -self-command at all. She had been drawing, making one of those -innumerable sketches which could be made from the loggia: now of a peak -among the mountains; now of the edge of foam on the blue, blue margin of -the sea; now of an olive, now of a palm. Frances had a consistent -conscientious way of besieging Nature, forcing her day by day to render -up the secret of another tint, another shadow. It was thus she had come -to the insight which had made her father acknowledge that she was -“growing up.” But to-day her hand had no cunning. Her pulses beat so -tumultuously that her pencil shared the agitation, and fluttered too. -She kept still as long as she could, and spoiled a piece of paper, which -to Frances, with very little money to lose, was something to be thought -of. And when she had accomplished this, and added to her excitement the -disagreeable and confusing effect of failure in what she was doing, -Frances got up abruptly and took refuge in the household concerns, in -directions about the dinner, and consultations with Mariuccia, who was -beginning to be a little jealous of the signorina’s absorption in her -new companion. “If the young lady is indeed your sister, it is natural -she should have a great deal of your attention; but not even for that -does one desert one’s old friends,” Mariuccia said, with a little -offended dignity. - -Frances felt, with a sinking of the heart, that her sister’s arrival had -been to her perhaps less an unmixed pleasure than to any of the -household. But she did not say so. She made no exhibition of the -trouble in her bosom, which even the consultations over the mayonnaise -did not allay. That familiar duty indeed soothed her for the moment. The -question was whether it should be made with chicken or fish--a very -important matter. But though this did something to relieve her, the -culinary effort did not last. To think of being sent away into that new -world in which Constance had been brought up--to leave everything she -knew--to meet “mamma,” whose name she whispered to herself almost -trembling, feeling as if she took a liberty with a stranger,--all this -was bewildering, wonderful, and made her heart beat and her head ache. -It was not altogether that the anticipation was painful. There was a -flutter of excitement in it which was almost delight; but it was an -alarmed delight, which shook her nerves as much as if it had been -unmixed terror. She could not compose herself into indifference as -Constance did, or sit quietly down to think, or resume her usual -occupation, in the face of this sudden opening out before her of the -unforeseen and unknown. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The days ran on for about a week with a suppressed and agitating -expectation in them, which seemed to Frances to blur and muddle all the -outlines, so that she could not recollect which was Wednesday or which -was Friday, but felt it all one uncomfortable long feverish sort of day. -She could not take the advantage of any pleasure there might be in -them--and it was a pleasure to watch Constance, to hear her talk, to -catch the many glimpses of so different a life, which came from the -careless, easy monologue which was her style of conversation--for the -exciting sense that she did not know what might happen at any moment, or -what was going to become of her. Even the change from her familiar place -at table, which Constance took without any thought, just as she took -her father’s favourite chair on the loggia, and the difference in her -room, helped to confuse her mind, and add to the feverish sensation of a -life altogether out of joint. - -Constance had not observed any of those signs of individual habitation -about the room which Frances had fancied would lead to a discovery of -the transfer she had made. She took it quite calmly, not perceiving -anything beyond the ordinary in the chamber which Frances had adorned -with her sketches, with the little curiosities she had picked up, with -all the little collections of her short life. It was wanting still in -many things which to Constance seemed simple necessities. How was she to -know how many were in it which were luxuries to that primitive locality? -She remained altogether unconscious, accordingly, of the sacrifice her -sister had made for her, and spoke lightly of poor Frances’ pet -decorations, and of the sketches, the authorship of which she did not -take the trouble to suspect. “What funny little pictures!” she had said. -“Where did you get so many odd little things? They look as if the -frames were homemade, as well as the drawings.” - -Fortunately she was not in the habit of waiting for an answer to such a -question, and she did not remark the colour that rose to her sister’s -cheeks. But all this added to the disturbing influence, and made these -long days look unlike any other days in Frances’ life. She took the -other side of the table meekly with a half-smile at her father, warning -him not to say anything; and she lived in the blue room without thinking -of adding to its comforts--for what was the use, so long as this -possible banishment hung over her head? Life seemed to be arrested -during these half-dozen days. They had the mingled colours and huddled -outlines of a spoiled drawing; they were not like anything else in her -life, neither the established calm and certainty that went before, nor -the strange novelty that followed after. - -There were no confidences between her father and herself during this -period. Since their conversation on the night of Constance’s arrival, -not a word had been said between them on the subject. They mutually -avoided all occasion for further talk. At least Mr Waring avoided it, -not knowing how to meet his child, or to explain to her the hazard to -which her life was exposed. He did not take into consideration the -attraction of the novelty, the charm of the unknown mother and the -unknown life, at which Frances permitted herself to take tremulous and -stealthy glimpses as the days went on. He contemplated her fate from his -own point of view as something like that of the princess who was doomed -to the dragon’s maw but for the never-to-be-forgotten interposition of -St George, that emblem of chivalry. There was no St George visible on -the horizon, and Waring thought the dragon no bad emblem of his wife. -And he was ashamed to think that he was helpless to deliver her; and -that, by his fault, this poor little Una, this hapless Andromeda, was to -be delivered over to the waiting monster. - -He avoided Frances, because he did not know how to break to her this -possibility, or how, since Constance probably had made her aware of it, -to console her in the terrible crisis at which she had arrived. It was -a painful crisis for himself as well as for her. The first evening on -which, coming into the loggia to smoke his cigarette after dinner, he -had found Constance extended in his favourite chair, had brought this -fully home to him. He strolled out upon the open-air room with all the -ease of custom, and for the first moment he did not quite understand -what it was that was changed in it, that put him out, and made him feel -as if he had come, not into his own familiar domestic centre, but -somebody else’s place. He hung about for a minute or two, confused, -before he saw what it was; and then, with a half-laugh in his throat, -and a mingled sense that he was annoyed, and that it was ridiculous to -be annoyed, strolled across the loggia, and half seated himself on the -outer wall, leaning against a pillar. He was astonished to think how -much disconcerted he was, and with what a comical sense of injury he saw -his daughter lying back so entirely at her ease in his chair. She was -his daughter, but she was a stranger, and it was impossible to tell her -that her place was not there. Next evening he was almost angry, for he -thought that Frances might have told her though he could not. And indeed -Frances had done what she could to warn her sister of the usurpation. -But Constance had no idea of vested rights of this description, and had -paid no attention. She took very little notice, indeed, of what was said -to her, unless it arrested her attention in some special way; and she -had never been trained to understand that the master of a house has -sacred privileges. She had not so much as known what it is to have a -master to a house. - -This and other trifles of the same kind gave to Waring something of the -same confused and feverish feeling which was in the mind of Frances. And -there hung over him a cloud as of something further to come, which was -not so clear as her anticipations, yet was full of discomfort and -apprehension. He thought of many things, not of one thing, as she did. -It seemed to him not impossible that his wife herself might arrive some -day as suddenly as Constance had done, to reclaim her child, or to take -away his, for that was how they were distinguished in his mind. The -idea of seeing again the woman from whom he had been separated so long, -filled him with dread; and that she should come here and see the limited -and recluse life he led, and his bare rooms, and his homely servants, -filled him with a kind of horror. Rather anything than that. He did not -like to contemplate even the idea that it might be necessary to give up -the girl, who had flattered him by taking refuge with him and seeking -his protection; but neither was the thought of being left with her and -having Frances taken from him endurable. In short, his mind was in a -state of mortal confusion and tumult. He was like the commander of a -besieged city, not knowing on what day he might be summoned to -surrender; not able to come to any conclusion whether it would be most -wise to yield, or if the state of his resources afforded any feasible -hopes of holding out. - -Constance had been a week at the Palazzo before the trumpets sounded: -The letters were delivered just before the twelve-o’clock breakfast; and -Frances had received so much warning as this, that Mariuccia informed -her there had been a large delivery that morning. The signor padrone had -a great packet; and there were also some letters for the other young -lady, Signorina Constanza. “But never any for thee, _carina_,” Mariuccia -had said. The poor girl thus addressed had a momentary sense that she -was indeed to be pitied on this account, before the excitement of the -certainty that now something definite must be known as to what was to -become of her, swelled her veins to bursting; and she felt herself grow -giddy with the thought that what had been so vague and visionary, might -now be coming near, and that in an hour or less she would know! Waring -was as usual shut up in his bookroom; but she could see Constance on the -loggia with her lap full of letters, lying back in the long chair as -usual, reading them as if they were the most ordinary things in the -world. Frances, for her part, had to wait in silence until she should -learn from others what her fate was to be. It seemed very strange that -one girl should be free to do so much, while another of the same age -could do nothing at all. - -Waring came into breakfast with the letters in his hand. “I have heard -from your mother,” he said, looking straight before him, without turning -to the right or the left. Frances tried to appropriate this to herself, -to make some reply, but her voice died in her throat; and Constance, -with the easiest certainty that it was she who was addressed, answered -before she could recover herself. - -“Yes--so have I. Mamma is rather fond of writing letters. She says she -has told you what she wishes, and then she tells me to tell you. I don’t -suppose that is of much use?” - -“Of no use at all,” said he. “She is pretty explicit. She says----” - -Constance leant over the table a little, holding up her finger. “Don’t -you think, papa,” she said, “as it is business, that it would be better -not to enter upon it just now? Wait till we have had our breakfast.” - -He looked at her with an air of surprise. “I don’t see----” he said; -then, after a moment’s reflection, “Perhaps you are right, after all. It -may be better not to say anything just now.” - -Frances had recovered her voice. She looked from one to another as they -spoke, with a cruel consciousness that it was she, not they, who was -most concerned. At this point she burst forth with feelings not to be -controlled. “If it is on my account, I would rather know at once what it -is,” she cried. - -And then she had to bear the looks of both--her father’s astonished -half-remorseful gaze, and the eyes of Constance, which conveyed a -warning. Why should Constance, who had told her of the danger, warn her -now not to betray her knowledge of it? Frances had got beyond her own -control. She was vexed by the looks which were fixed upon her, and by -the supposed consideration for her comfort which lay in their delay. “I -know,” she said quickly, “that it is something about me. If you think I -care for breakfast, you are mistaken; but I think I have a right to know -what it is, if it is about me. O papa, I don’t mean to -be--disagreeable,” she cried suddenly, sinking into her own natural tone -as she caught his eye. - -“That is not very much like you, certainly,” he said, in a confused -voice. - -“Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “I have done her -harm already.” - -Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her -mood. “I am not like myself,” she said, “because I know something is -going to happen to me, and I don’t know what it is. Papa, I don’t want -to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me know what it is.” - -“It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, lightly; “that -is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now do let us have our breakfast -in peace.” - -“Is that true, papa?” Frances said. - -“My dear little girl--I had meant to explain it all--to tell you--and I -have been so silly as to put off. Your sister does not understand how we -have lived together, Frances, you and I.” - -“Am I to go, papa?” - -He made a gesture of despair. “I don’t know what to do. I have given my -promise. It is as bad for me as for you, Frances. But what am I to do?” - -“I suppose,” said Constance, who had helped herself very tranquilly from -the dish which Domenico had been holding unobserved at his master’s -elbow, “that there is no law that could make you part with her, if you -don’t wish to. Promises are all very well with strangers; but they are -never kept--are they?--between husband and wife. The father has all the -right on his side, and you are not obliged to give either of us up. What -a blessing,” she cried suddenly, “to have servants who don’t understand! -That was why I said, don’t talk of it till after breakfast. But it does -not at all matter. It is as good as if he were deaf and dumb. Papa, you -need not give her up unless you like.” - -Waring looked at his daughter with mingled attention and anger. The -suggestion was detestable, but yet---- - -“And then,” she went on, “there is another thing. It might have been all -very well when we were children; but now we are of an age to judge for -ourselves. At eighteen, you can choose which you will stay with. Oh, -younger than that. There have been several trials in the papers--no one -can force Frances to go anywhere she does not like, at her age.” - -“I wish,” he said, with a little irritation, restrained by politeness, -for Constance was still a young-lady visitor to her father, “that you -would leave this question to be discussed afterwards. Your sister was -right, Frances--after breakfast--after I have had a little time to think -of it. I cannot come to any decision all at once.” - -“That is a great deal better,” said Constance, approvingly. “One can’t -tell all in a moment. Frances is like mamma in that too. She requires -you to know your own mind--to say Yes or No at once. You and I are very -like each other, papa. I shall never hurry your decision, or ask you to -settle a thing in a moment. But these cutlets are getting quite cold. Do -have some before they are spoiled.” - -Waring had no mind for the cutlets, to which he helped himself -mechanically. He did not like to look at Frances, who sat silent, with -her hands clasped on the table, pale but with a light in her eyes. The -voice of Constance running on, forming a kind of veil for the trouble -and confusion in his own mind, and doubtless in that of her sister, was -half a relief and half an aggravation; he was grateful for it, yet -irritated by it. He felt himself to play a very poor figure in the -transaction altogether, as he had felt ever since she arrived. Frances, -whom he had regarded as a child, had sprung up into a judge, into all -the dignity of an injured person, whose right to complain of the usage -to which she had been subjected no one could deny. And when he stole a -furtive glance at her pale face, her head held high, the new light that -burned in her eyes, he felt that she was fully aware of the wrong he had -done her, and that it would not be so easy to dictate what she was to -do, as everybody up to this moment had supposed. He saw, or thought he -saw, resistance, indignation, in the gleam that had been awakened in -Frances’ dove’s eyes. And his heart fell--yet rose also; for how could -he constrain her, if she refused to go? He had no right to constrain -her. Her mother might complain, but it would not be his doing. On the -other side, it would be shameful, pitiful on his part to go back from -his word--to acknowledge to his wife that he could not do what he had -pledged himself to do. - -In every way it was an uncomfortable breakfast, all the forms of which -he followed, partly for the sake of Constance, partly for that of -Domenico. But Frances ate nothing, he could see. He prolonged the meal, -through a sort of fear of the interview afterwards, of what he must say -to her, and of what she should reply. He felt ashamed of his reluctance -to encounter this young creature, whom a few days ago he had smiled at -as a child; and ashamed to look her in the face, to explain and argue -with, and entreat, where he had been always used to tell her to do this -and that, without the faintest fear that she would disobey him. If even -he had been left to tell her himself of all the circumstances, to make -her aware gradually of all that he had kept from her (for her good), to -show her now how his word was pledged! But even this had been taken out -of his hands. - -All this time no one talked but Constance, who went on with an -occasional remark and with her meal, for which she had a good appetite. -“I wish you would eat something, Frances,” she said. “You need not begin -to punish yourself at once. I feel it dreadfully, for it is all my -fault. It is I who ought to lose my breakfast, not you. If you will -take a few hints from me, I don’t think you will find it so bad. Or -perhaps, if we all lay our heads together, we may see some way out of -it. Papa knows the law, and I know the English side, and you know what -you think yourself. Let us talk it all over, and perhaps we may see our -way.” - -To this Frances made no reply save a little inclination of her head, and -sat with her eyes shining, with a certain proud air of self-control and -self-support, which was something quite new to her. When the -uncomfortable repast could be prolonged no longer, she was the first to -get up. “If you do not mind,” she said, “I want to speak to papa by -himself.” - -Constance had risen too. She looked with an air of surprise at her -little sister. “Oh, if you like,” she said; “but I think you will find -that I can be of use.” - -“If you are going to the bookroom, I will come with you, papa,” said -Frances, but she did not wait for any reply; she opened the door and -walked before him into that place of refuge, where he had been -sheltering himself all these days. Constance gave him an inquiring -look, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. - -“She is on her high horse, and she is more like mamma than ever; but I -suppose I may come all the same.” - -He wavered a moment: he would have been glad of her interposition, even -though it irritated him; but he had a whimsical sense of alarm in his -mind, which he could not get over. He was afraid of Frances--which was -one of the most comical things in the world. He shook his head, and -followed humbly into the bookroom, and himself closed the door upon the -intruder. Frances had seated herself already at his table, in the seat -which she always occupied when she came to consult him about the dinner, -or about something out of the usual round which Mariuccia had asked for. -To see her seated there, and to feel that the door was closed against -all intrusion, made Waring feel as if all this disturbance was a dream. -How good the quiet had been; the calm days, which nothing interfered -with; the little housekeeper, whose childlike prudence and wisdom were -so quaint, whose simple obedience was so ready, who never, save in -respect to the _spese_, set up her own will or way! His heart grew very -soft as he sat down and looked at her. No, he said to himself, he would -not break that old bond; he would not compel his little girl to leave -him, send her out as a sacrifice. He would rather stand against all the -wives in the world. - -“Papa,” said Frances, “a great deal of harm has been done by keeping me -ignorant. I want you to show me mamma’s letter. Unless I see it, how can -I know?” - -This pulled him up abruptly and checked the softening mood. “Your -mother’s letter,” he said, “goes over a great deal of old ground. I -don’t see that it could do you any good. It appears I promised--what -Constance told you, with her usual coolness--that one of you should be -always left with her. Perhaps that was foolish.” - -“Surely, papa, it was just.” - -“Well, I thought so at the time. I wanted to do what was right. But -there was no right in the matter. I had a perfect right to take you both -away, to bring you up as I pleased. It would have been better, perhaps, -had I done what the law authorised me to do. However, that need not be -gone into now. What your sister said was quite true. You are at an age -when you are supposed to be able to judge for yourself, and nobody in -the world can force you to go where you don’t want to go.” - -“But if you promised, and if--my mother trusted to your promise?” There -was something more solemn in that title than to say “mamma.” It seemed -easier to apply it to the unknown. - -“I won’t have you made a sacrifice of on my account,” he said, hastily. - -He was surprised by her composure, by that unwonted light in her eyes. -She answered him with great gravity, slowly, as if conscious of the -importance of her conclusion. “It would be no sacrifice,” she said. - -Waring, there could be no doubt, was very much startled. He could not -believe his ears. “No sacrifice? Do you mean to say that you want to -leave me?” he cried. - -“No, papa: that is, I did not. I knew nothing. But now that I know, if -my mother wants me, I will go to her. It is my duty. And I should like -it,” she added, after a pause. - -Waring was dumb with surprise and dismay. He stared at her, scarcely -able to believe that she could understand what she was saying--he, who -had been afraid to suggest anything of the kind, who had thought of -Andromeda and the virgins who were sacrificed to the dragon. He gazed -aghast at this new aspect of the face with which he was so familiar, the -uplifted head and shining eyes. He could not believe that this was -Frances, his always docile, submissive, unemancipated girl. - -“Papa,” she said, “everything seems changed, and I too. I want to know -my mother; I want to see--how other people live.” - -“Other people!” He was glad of an outlet for his irritation. “What have -we to do with other people? If it had not been for this unlucky arrival, -you would never have known.” - -“I must have known some time,” she said. “And do you think it right that -a girl should not know her mother--when she has a mother? I want to go -to her, papa.” - -He flung out of his chair with an angry movement, and took up the keys -which lay on his table and opened a small cabinet which stood in the -corner of the room, Frances watching him all the time with the greatest -attention. Out of this he brought a small packet of letters, and threw -them to her with a movement which, for so gentle a man, was almost -violent. “I kept these back for your good, not to disturb your mind. You -may as well have them, since they belong to you--now,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“Come out for a walk, papa,” said Constance. - -“What! in the heat of the day? You think you are in England.” - -“No, indeed. I wish I did--at least, that is not what I mean. But I wish -you did not think it necessary to stay in a place like this. Why should -you shut yourself out from the world? You are very clever, papa.” - -“Who told you so? You cannot have found that out by your own unassisted -judgment.” - -“A great many people have told me. I have always known. You seem to have -made a mystery about us, but we never made any mystery about you: for -one thing, of course we couldn’t, for everybody knew. But if you chose -to go back to England----” - -“I shall never go back to England.” - -“Oh,” said Constance, with a laugh, “never is a long day.” - -“So long a day, that it is a pity you should link your fortunes to mine, -my dear. Frances has been brought up to it; but your case is quite -different: and you see even she catches at the first opportunity of -getting away.” - -“You are scarcely just to Frances,” said Constance, with her usual calm. -“You might have said the same thing of me. I took the first opportunity -also. To know that one has a father, whom one never remembers to have -seen, is very exciting to the imagination; and just in so much as one -has been disappointed in the parent one knows, one expects to find -perfection in the parent one has never seen. Anything that you don’t -know is better than everything you do know,” she added, with the air of -a philosopher. - -“I am afraid, in that case, acquaintance has been fatal to your ideal.” - -“Not exactly,” she said. “Of course you are quite different from what I -supposed. But I think we might get on well enough, if you please. Do -come out. If we keep in the shade, it is not really very hot. It is -often hotter in London, where nobody thinks of staying indoors. If we -are to live together, don’t you think you must begin by giving in to me -a little, papa?” - -“Not to the extent of getting a sunstroke.” - -“In March!” she cried, with a tone of mild derision. “Let me come into -the bookroom, then. You think if Frances goes that you will never be -able to get on with me.” - -“My thoughts have not gone so far as that. I may have believed that a -young lady fresh from all the gaieties of London----” - -“But so tired of them, and very glad of a little novelty, however it -presents itself.” - -“Yes, so long as it continues novel. But the novelty of making the -_spese_ in a village, and looking sharply after every centesimo that is -asked for an artichoke----” - -“The _spese_ means the daily expenses? I should not mind that. And -Mariuccia is far more entertaining than an ordinary English cook. And -the neighbours--well, the neighbours afford some opportunities for fun. -Mrs Gaunt--is it?--expects her youngest boy. And then there is Tasie.” - -The name of Tasie brought a certain relaxation to the muscles of -Waring’s face. He gave a glance round him, to see that all the doors -were closed. “I must confide in you, Constance; though, mind, Frances -must not share it. I sitting here, simple as you see me, have been -supposed dangerous to Tasie’s peace of mind. Is not that an excellent -joke?” - -“I don’t see that it is a joke at all,” said Constance, without even a -smile. “Why, Tasie is antediluvian. She must be nearly as old as you -are. Any old gentleman might be dangerous to Tasie. Tell me something -more wonderful than that.” - -“Oh, that is how it appears to you!” said Waring. His laugh came to a -sudden end, broken off, so to speak, in half, and an air of portentous -gravity came over his face. He turned over the papers on the table -before him, as with a sudden thought. “By the way, I forgot I had -something to do this afternoon,” he said. “Before dinner, perhaps, we -may take a stroll, if the sun is not so hot. But this is my -working-time,” he added, with a stiff smile. - -Constance could not disregard so plain a hint. She rose up quickly. She -had taken Frances’ chair, which he had forgiven her at first; but it -made another note against her now. - -“What have I done?” she said to herself, raising her eyebrows, angry and -yet half amused by her dismissal. Frances had gone to her room too, and -was not to be disturbed, as her sister had seen by the look of her face. -She felt herself, as she would have said, very much “out of it,” as she -wandered round the deserted _salone_, looking at everything in it with a -care suggested by her solitude rather than any real interest. She looked -at the big high-coloured water-pots, turned into decorations, one could -imagine against their will, which stood in the corners of the room, and -which were Mrs Durant’s present to Frances; and at the blue Savona -vases, with the names of medicines, real or imaginary, betraying their -original intention; and all the other decorative scraps--the little old -pictures, the pieces of needlework and brocade. They were pretty when -she looked at them, though she had not perceived their beauty at the -first glance. There were more decorations of the same description in -the ante-room, which gave her a little additional occupation; and then -she strolled into the loggia and threw herself into the long chair. She -had a book, one of the novels she had bought on the journey. But -Constance was not accustomed to much reading. She got through a chapter -or two; and then she looked round upon the view and mused a little, and -then returned to her novel. The second time she threw it down and went -back to the drawing-room, and had another look at the Savona pots. She -had thought how well they would look on a certain shelf at “home.” And -then she stopped and took herself to task. What did she mean by home? -This was home. She was going to live here; it was to be her place in the -world. What she had to do was to think of the decorations here, and -whether she could add to them, not of vacant corners in another place. -Finally, she returned again to the loggia, and sat down once more rather -drearily. - -There had never occurred a day in her experience in which she had been -so long without “something to do.” Something to do meant something that -was amusing, something to pass the time, somebody to entertain, or -perhaps, if nothing else was possible, to quarrel with. To sit alone and -look round her at “the view,” to have not a creature to say a word to, -and nothing to engage herself with but a book--and nothing to look -forward to but this same thing repeated three hundred and sixty-five -days in the year! The prospect, the thought, made Constance shiver. It -could not be. She must do something to break the spell. But what was -there to do? The _spese_ were all made for to-day, the dinner was -ordered; and she knew very little either about the _spese_ or the -dinner. She would have to learn, to think of new dishes, and write them -down in a little book, as Frances did. Her dinners, she said to herself, -must be better than those of Frances. But when was she to begin, and how -was she to do it? In the meantime she went and fetched a shawl, and -while the sun blazed straight on the loggia from the south, to which it -was open in front, and left only one scrap of shade in a corner scarcely -enough to shelter the long chair, fell asleep there, finding that she -had nothing else to do. - -Frances had gone to her room with her packet of letters. She had not -thought what they were, nor what had been the meaning of what her father -said when he gave them to her. She took them--no, not to her own room, -but to the blue room, in which there was so little comfort. Her little -easy-chair, her writing-table, all the things with which she was at -home, belonged to Constance now. She sat down, or rather up, in a stiff -upright chair, and opened her little packet upon her bed. To her -astonishment, she found that it contained letters addressed to herself, -unopened. The first of them was printed in large letters, as for the -eyes of a child. They were very simple, not very long, concluding -invariably with one phrase: “Dear, write to me”--“Write to me, my -darling.” Frances read them with her eyes full of tears, with a rising -wave of passion and resentment which seemed to suffocate her. He had -kept them all back. What harm could they have done? Why should she have -been kept in ignorance, and made to appear like a heartless child, like -a creature without sense or feeling? Half for her mother, half for -herself, the girl’s heart swelled with a kind of fury. She had not been -ready to judge her father even after she had been aware of his sin -against her. She had still accepted what he did as part of him, bidding -her own mind be silent, hushing all criticism. But when she read these -little letters, her passion overflowed. How dared he to ignore all her -rights, to allow herself to be misrepresented, to give a false idea of -her? This was the most poignant pang of all. Without being selfish, it -is still impossible to feel a wrong of this kind to another so acutely -as to yourself. He had deprived her of the comfort of knowing that she -had a mother, of communicating with her, of retaining some hold upon -that closest of natural friends. That injury she had condoned and -forgiven; but when Frances saw how her father’s action must have shaped -the idea of herself in the mind of her mother, there was a moment in -which she felt that she could not forgive him. If she had received year -by year these tender letters, yet never had been moved to answer one of -them, what a creature must she have been, devoid of heart or common -feeling, or even good taste, that superficial grace by which the want -of better things is concealed! She was more horrified by this thought -than by any other discovery she could have made. She seemed to see the -Frances whom her mother knew--a little ill-conditioned child; a small, -petty, ungracious, unloving girl. Was this what had been thought of her? -And it was all his fault--all her father’s fault! - -At first she could see no excuse for him. She would not allow to herself -that any love for her, or desire to retain her affection, was at the -bottom of the concealment. She got a sheet of paper, and began to write -with passionate vehemence, pouring forth all her heart. “Imagine that I -have never seen your dear letters till to-day--never till to-day! and -what must you think of me?” she wrote. But when she had put her whole -heart into it, working a miracle, and making the dull paper to glow and -weep, there came a change over her thoughts. She had kept his secret -till now. She had not betrayed even to Constance the ignorance in which -she had been kept; and should she change her course, and betray him -now? - -As she came to think it over, she felt that she herself blamed her -father bitterly, that he had fallen from the pedestal on which to her he -had stood all her life. Yet the thought that others should be conscious -of this degradation was terrible to her. When Constance spoke lightly of -him, it was intolerable to Frances; and the mother of whom she knew -nothing, of whom she knew only that she was her mother, a woman who had -grievances of her own against him, who would be perhaps pleased, almost -pleased, to have proof that he had done this wrong! Frances paused, with -the fervour of indignation still in her heart, to consider how she -should bear it if this were so. It was all selfish, she said to herself, -growing more miserable as she fought with the conviction that whether in -condemning him or covering what he had done, herself was her first -thought. She had to choose now between vindicating herself at his cost, -or suffering continued misconception to screen him. Which should she do? -Slowly she folded up the letter she had written and put it away, not -destroying but saving it, as leaving it still possible to carry out her -first intention. Then she wrote another shorter, half-fictitious letter, -in which the bitterness in her heart seemed to take the form of -reproach, and her consent to obey her mother’s call was forced and -sullen. But this letter was no sooner written than it was torn to -pieces. What was she to do? She ended, after much thought, by destroying -also her first letter, and writing as follows:-- - - - “DEAR MOTHER,--To see my sister and to hear that you want me, is - very bewildering and astonishing to me. I am very ready to come, - if, indeed, you will forgive me all that you must think so bad in - me, and let me try as well as I can to please you. Indeed I desire - to do so with all my heart. I have understood very little, and I - have been thoughtless, and, you will think, without any natural - affection; but this is because I was so ignorant, and had nobody to - tell me. Forgive me, dear mamma. I do not feel as if I dare write - to you now and call you by that name. As soon as we can consider - and see how it is best for me to travel, I will come. I am not - clever and beautiful, like Constance; but indeed I do wish to - please you with all my heart. - “FRANCES.” - - -This was all she could say. She put it up in an envelope, feeling -confused with her long thinking, and with all the elements of change -that were about her, and took it back to the bookroom to ask for the -address. She had felt that she could not approach her father with -composure or speak to him of ordinary matters; but it made a little -formal bridge, as it were, from one kind of intercourse to another, to -ask him for that address. - -“Will you please tell me where mamma lives?” she said. - -Waring turned round quickly to look at her. “So you have written -already?” - -“O papa, can you say ‘already’? What kind of creature must she think I -am, never to have sent a word all these years?” - -He paused a moment and then said, “You have told her, I suppose?” - -“I have told her nothing except that I am ready to come whenever we can -arrange how I am to travel. Papa,” she said, with one of those sudden -relentings which come in the way of our sternest displeasure with those -we love--“O papa,” laying her hand on his arm, “why did you do it? I am -obliged to let her think that I have been without a heart all my -life--for I cannot bear it when any one blames you.” - -“Frances,” he said, with a response equally sudden, putting his arm -round her, “what will my life be without you? I have always trusted in -you, depended on you without knowing it. Let Constance go back to her, -and stay you with me.” - -Frances had not been accustomed to many demonstrations of affection, and -this moved her almost beyond her power of self-control. She put down her -head upon her father’s shoulder and cried, “Oh, if we could only go back -a week! but we can’t; no, nor even half a day. Things that might have -been this morning, can’t be now, papa! I was very, very angry--oh, in a -rage--when I read these letters. Why did you keep them from me? Why did -you keep my mother from me? I wrote and told her everything, and then I -tore up my letter and told her nothing. But I can never be the same -again,” said the girl, shaking her head with that conviction of the -unchangeableness of a first trouble which is so strong in youth. “Now I -know what it is to be one thing and appear another, and to bear blame -and suffer for what you have not deserved.” - -Waring repented his appeal to his child. He repented even the sudden -impulse which had induced him to make it. He withdrew his arm from her -with a sudden revulsion of feeling, and a recollection that Constance -was not emotional, but a young woman of the world, who would understand -many things which Frances did not understand. He withdrew his arm, and -said somewhat coldly, “Show me what address you have put upon your -mother’s letter. You must not make any mistake in that.” - -Frances dried her eyes hastily, and felt the check. She put her letter -before him without a word. It was addressed to Mrs Waring, no more. - -“I thought so,” he said, with a laugh which sounded harsh to the -excited girl; “and, to be sure, you had no means of knowing. I told you -your mother was a much more important person than I. You will see the -difference between wealth and poverty, as well as between a father’s -sway and a mother’s, when you go to Eaton Square. This is your mother’s -address.” He wrote it hastily on a piece of paper and pushed it towards -her. Frances had received many shocks and surprises in the course of -these days, but scarcely one which was more startling to her simple mind -than this. The paper which her father gave her did not bear his name. It -was addressed to Lady Markham, Eaton Square, London. Frances turned to -him an astonished gaze. “That is where--mamma is living?” she said. - -“That is--your mother’s name and address,” he answered, coldly. “I told -you she was a greater personage than I.” - -“But, papa----” - -“You are not aware,” he said, “that, according to the beautiful -arrangements of society, a woman who makes a second marriage below her -is allowed to keep her first husband’s name. It is so, however. Lady -Markham chose to avail herself of that privilege. That is all, I -suppose? You can send your letter without any further reference to me.” - -Frances went away without a word, treading softly, with a sort of -suspense of life and thought. She could not tell how she felt or what it -meant. She knew nothing about the arrangements of society. Did it mean -something wrong, something that was impossible? Frances could not tell -how that could be--that your father and mother should not only live -apart, but have different names. A vague horror took possession of her -mind. She went back to her room again, and stared at that strange piece -of paper without knowing what to make of it. Lady Markham! It was not to -that personage she had written her poor little simple letter. How could -she say mother to a great lady, one who was not even of the same name? -She was far too ignorant to know how little importance was to be -attached to this. To Frances, a name was so much. She had never been -taught anything but the primitive symbols, the innocently conventional -alphabet of life. This new discovery filled her with a chill horror. She -took her letter out of its envelope with the intention of destroying -that too, and letting silence--that silence which had reigned over her -life so long--fall again and for ever between her and the mother whose -very name was not hers. But as this impulse swept over her, her eye -caught one of the first of the little letters which had revealed this -unknown woman to her. It was written in very large letters, such as a -child might read, and in little words. “My darling, write to me; I long -so for you.--Your loving Mother.” Her simple mind was swept by -contending impulses, like strong winds carrying her now one way, now -another. And unless it should be that unknown mother herself, there was -nobody in the world to whom she could turn for counsel. Her heart -revolted against Constance, and her father had been vexed, she could not -tell how. She was incapable of betraying the secrets of the family to -any one beyond its range. What was she to do? - -And all this because the mother, the source of so much disturbance in -her little life, was Lady Markham and not Mrs Waring! But this, to the -ignorance and simplicity of Frances, was the most incomprehensible -mystery of all. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Waring went out with Constance when the sun got low in the skies. He -took a much longer walk than was at all usual to him, and pointed out to -her many points of view. The paths that ran among the olive woods, the -little terraces which cut up the sides of the hills, the cool grey -foliage and gnarled trunks, the clumps of flowers--garden flowers in -England, but here as wild, and rather more common than blades of -grass--delighted her; and her talk delighted him. He had not gone so far -for months; nor had he, he thought, for years found the time go so fast. -It was very different from Frances’ mild attempts at conversation. “Do -you think, papa?” “Do you remember, papa?”--so many references to events -so trifling, and her little talk about Tasie’s plans and Mrs Gaunt’s -news. Constance took him boldly into her life and told him what was -going on in _the world_. Ah, the world! That was the only world. He had -said in his bitterness, again and again, that Society was as limited as -any village, and duchesses curiously like washerwomen; but when he found -himself once more on the edge of that great tumult of existence, he was -like the old war-horse that neighs at the sound of the battle. He began -to ask her questions about the people he had known. He had always been a -shy, proud man, and had never thrown himself into the stream; but still -there had been people who had known him and liked him, or whom he had -liked: and gradually he awakened into animation and pleasure. - -When they met the old General taking his stroll too, before dinner, that -leathern old Indian was dazzled by the bright creature, who walked along -between them, almost as tall as the two men, with her graceful careless -step and independent ways, not deferring to them as the other ladies -did, but leading the conversation. Even General Gaunt began to think -whether there was any one whom he could speak of, any one he had known, -whom perhaps this young exponent of Society might know. She knew -everybody. Even princes and princesses had no mystery for her. She told -them what everybody said, with an air of knowing better, which in her -meant no conceit or presumption, as in other young persons. Constance -was quite unconscious of the possibility of being thus judged. She was -not self-conscious at all. She was pleased to bring out her news for the -advantage of the seniors. Frances was none the wiser when her sister -told her the change that had come over the Grandmaisons, or how Lord -Sunbury’s marriage had been brought about, and why people now had -altered their hours for the Row. Frances listened; but she had never -heard about Lord Sunbury’s marriage, nor why it should shock the elegant -public. But the gentleman remembered his father, or they knew how young -men commit themselves without intending it. It is not to be supposed -that there was anything at all _risqué_ in Constance’s talk. She -touched, indeed, upon the edge of scandals which had been in the -newspapers, and therefore were known even to people in the Riviera; but -she did it with the most absolute innocence, either not knowing or not -understanding the evil. “I believe there was something wrong, but I -don’t know what--mamma would never tell me,” she said. Her conversation -was like a very light graceful edition of a Society paper--not then -begun to be--with all the nastiness and almost all the malice left out. -But not quite all; there was enough to be piquant. “I am afraid I am a -little ill-natured; but I don’t like that man,” she would say now and -then. When she said, “I don’t like that woman,” the gentlemen laughed. -She was conscious of having a little success, and she was pleased too. -Frances perhaps might be a better housekeeper, but Constance could not -but think that in the equally important work of amusing papa she would -be more successful than Frances. It was not much of a triumph, perhaps, -for a girl who had known so many; but yet it was the only one as yet -possible in the position in which she now was. - -“I suppose it is settled that Frances is to go?” she said, as General -Gaunt took the way to his bungalow, and she and her father turned -towards home. - -“She seems to have settled it for herself,” he said. - -“I am always repeating she is so like mamma--that is exactly what mamma -would have done. They are very positive. You and I, papa, are not -positive at all.” - -“I think, my dear, that coming off as you did by yourself, was very -positive indeed--and the first step in the universal turning upside-down -which has ensued.” - -“I hope you are not sorry I came?” - -“No, Constance; I am very glad to have you;” and this was quite true, -although he had said to Frances something that sounded very different. -Both things were true--both that he wished she had never left her -mother; that he wished she might return to her mother, and leave Frances -with him as of old; and that he was very glad to have her here. - -“If I were to go back, would not everything settle down just as it was -before?” - -Then he thought of what Frances, taught by the keenness of a personal -experience, had said to him a few hours ago. “No,” he said; “nothing can -ever be as it was before. We never can go back to what has been, whether -the event that has changed it has been happy or sad.” - -“Oh, surely sometimes,” said Constance. “That is a dreadful way to talk -of anything so trifling as my visit. It could not make any real -difference, because all the facts are just the same as they were -before.” - -To this he made no reply. She had no way, thanks to Frances, of finding -out how different the position was. And she went on, after a -pause--“Have you settled how she is to go?” - -“I have not even thought of that.” - -“But, papa, you must think of it. She cannot go unless you manage it for -her. Markham heard of those people coming, and that made it quite easy -for me. If Markham were here----” - -“Heaven forbid!” - -“I have always heard you were prejudiced about Markham. I don’t think he -is very safe myself. I have warned Frances, whatever she does, not to -let herself get into his hands.” - -“Frances in Markham’s hands! That is a thing I could not permit for a -moment. Your mother may have a right to Frances’ society, but none to -throw her into the companionship of----” - -“Her brother, papa.” - -“Her brother! Her step-brother, if you please--which I think scarcely a -relationship at all.” - -Waring’s prejudices, when they were roused, were strong. His daughter -looked up in amazement at his sudden passion, the frown on his face, and -the fire in his eye. - -“You forget that I have been brought up with Markham,” she said. “He is -_my_ brother; and he is a very good brother. There is nothing he will -not do for me. I only warned Frances because--because she is different; -because----” - -“Because--she is a girl who ought not to breathe the same air with a -young reprobate--a young----” - -“Papa! you are mistaken. I don’t know what Markham may have been; but he -is not a reprobate. It was because Frances does not understand chaff, -you know. She would think he was in earnest, and he is never in earnest. -She would take him seriously, and nobody takes him seriously. But if you -think he is bad, there is nobody who thinks that. He is not bad; he only -has ways of thinking----” - -“Which I hope my daughters will never share,” said Waring, with a little -formality. - -Constance raised her head as if to speak, but then stopped, giving him a -look which said more than words, and added no more. - -In the meantime, Frances had been left alone. She had directed her -letter, and left it to be posted. That step was taken, and could no more -be thought over. She was glad to have a little of her time to herself, -which once had been all to herself. She did not like as yet to broach -the subject of her departure to Mariuccia; but she thought it all over -very anxiously, trying to find some way which would take the burden of -the household off the shoulders of Constance, who was not used to it. -She thought the best thing to do would be to write out a series of -_menus_, which Mariuccia might suggest to Constance, or carry out upon -her own responsibility, whichever was most practicable; and she resolved -that various little offices, which she had herself fulfilled, might be -transferred to Domenico without interfering with her father’s comfort. -All these arrangements, though she turned them over very soberly in her -mind, had a bewildering, dizzying effect upon her. She thought that it -was as if she were going to die. When she went away out of the narrow -enclosure of this world, which she knew, it would be to something so -entirely strange to her that it would feel like another life. It would -be as if she had died. She would not know anything; the surroundings, -the companions, the habits, all would be strange. She would have to -leave utterly behind her everything she had ever known. The thought was -not melancholy, as is in almost all cases the thought of leaving “the -warm precincts of the cheerful day”; it made her heart swell and rise -with an anticipation which was full of excitement and pleasure, but -which at the same time had the effect of making her brain swim. - -She could not make to herself any picture of the world to which she was -going. It would be softer, finer, more luxurious than anything she knew; -but that was all. Of her mother, she did try to form some idea. She was -acquainted only with mothers who were old. Mrs Durant, who wore a cap, -encircling her face, and tied under her chin; and Mrs Gaunt, who had -grandchildren who were as old as Frances. Her own mother could not be -like either of these; but still she would be old, more or less--would -wrap herself up when she went out, would have grey, or even perhaps -white hair (which Frances liked in an old lady: Mrs Durant wore a front, -and Mrs Gaunt was suspected of dyeing her hair), and would not care to -move about more than she could help. She would go out “into Society” -beautifully dressed with lace and jewels; and Frances grew more dizzy -than ever, trying to imagine herself standing behind this magnificent -old figure, like a maid of honour behind a queen. But it was difficult -to imagine the details of a picture so completely vague. There was a -general sense of splendour and novelty, a vague expectation of something -delightful, which it was beyond her power to realise, but no more. - -She had roused herself from the vague excitement of these dreams, which -were very absorbing, though there was so little solidity in them, with a -sudden fear that she was losing all the afternoon, and that it was time -to prepare for dinner. She went to the corner of the loggia which -commanded the road, to look out for Constance and her father. The road -swept along below the Punto, leading to the town; and a smaller path -traversing the little height, climbed upward to the platform on which -the Palazzo stood. Frances did not at first remark, as in general every -villager does, an unfamiliar figure making its way up this path. Her -father and sister were not visible, and it was for them she was looking. -Presently, however, her eye was caught by the stranger, no doubt an -English tourist, with a glass in his eye--a little man, with a soft grey -felt hat, which, when he lifted his head to inspect the irregular -structure of the old town, gave him something the air of a moving -mushroom. His movements were somewhat irregular, as his eyes were fixed -upon the walls, and did not serve to guide his feet, which stumbled -continually on the inequalities of the path. His progress began to amuse -her, as he came nearer, his head raised, his eyes fixed upon the -buildings before him, his person executing a series of undulations like -a ship in a storm. He climbed up at last to the height, and coming up to -some women who were seated on the stone bench opposite to Frances on the -loggia, began to ask them for instructions as to how he was to go. - -The little scene amused Frances. The women were knitting, with a little -cluster of children about them, scrambling upon the bench or on the -dusty pathway at their feet. The stranger took off his big hat and -addressed them with few words and many gestures. She heard _casa_ and -_Inglese_, but nothing else that was comprehensible. The women did their -best to understand, and replied volubly. But here the little tourist -evidently could not follow. He was like so many tourist visitors, -capable of asking his question, but incapable of understanding the -answer given him. Then there arose a shrill little tempest of laughter, -in which he joined, and of which Frances herself could not resist the -contagion. Perhaps a faint echo from the loggia caught the ear of one of -the women, who knew her well, and who immediately pointed her out to the -stranger. The little man turned round and made a few steps towards the -Palazzo. He took off the mushroom-top of grey felt, and presented to her -an ugly, little, vivacious countenance. “I beg you ten thousand -pardons,” he said; “but if you speak English, as I understand them to -say, will you be so very kind as to direct me to the house of Mr Waring? -Ah, I am sure you are both English and kind! They tell me he lives near -here.” - -Frances looked down from her height demurely, suppressing the too ready -laugh, to listen to this queer little man; but his question took her -very much by surprise. Another stranger asking for Mr Waring! But oh, so -very different a one from Constance--an odd, little, ugly man, looking -up at her in a curious one-sided attitude, with his glass in his eye. -“He lives here,” she said. - -“What? Where?” He had replaced his mushroom on his head, and he cocked -up towards her one ear, the ear upon the opposite side to the eye which -wore the glass. - -“Here!” cried Frances, pointing to the house, with a laugh which she -could not restrain. - -The stranger raised his eyebrows so much and so suddenly that his glass -fell. “Oh!” he cried--but the biggest O, round as the O of Giotto, as -the Italians say. He paused there some time, looking at her, his mouth -retaining the shape of that exclamation; and then he cast an -investigating glance along the wall, and asked, “How am I to get in?” - -“Nunziata, show the gentleman the door,” cried Frances to one of the -women on the bench. She lingered a moment, to look again down the road -for her father. It was true that nothing could be so wonderful as what -had already happened; but it seemed that surprises were not yet over. -Would this be some one else who had known him, who was arriving full of -the tale that had been told, and was a mystery no longer--some “old -friend” like Mr Mannering, who would not be satisfied without betraying -the harmless hermit, whom some chance had led him to discover? There was -some bitterness in Frances’ thoughts. She had not remembered the -Mannerings before, in the rush of other things to think of. The fat -ruddy couple, so commonplace and so comfortable! Was it all their doing? -Were they to blame for everything? for the conclusion of one existence, -and the beginning of another? She went in to the drawing-room and sat -down there, to be ready to receive the visitor. He could not be so -important--that was impossible; there could be no new mystery to record. - -When the door opened and Domenico solemnly ushered in the stranger, -Frances, although her thoughts were not gay, could scarcely help -laughing again. He carried his big grey mushroom-top now in his hand; -and the little round head which had been covered with it seemed -incomplete without that thatch. Frances felt herself looking from the -head to the hat with a ludicrous sense of this incompleteness. He had a -small head, thinly covered with light hair, which seemed to grow in -tufts like grass. His eyes twinkled keen, two very bright grey eyes, -from the puckers of eyelids which looked old, as if he had got them -second-hand. There was a worn and wrinkled look about him altogether, -carried out in his dress, and even in his boots, which suggested the -same idea. An old man who looked young, or a young man who looked old. -She could not make out which he was. He did not bow and hesitate, and -announce himself as a friend of her father’s, as she expected him to do, -but came up to her briskly with a quick step, but a shuffle in his gait. - -“I suppose I must introduce myself,” he said; “though it is odd that we -should need an introduction to each other, you and I. After the first -moment, I should have known you anywhere. You are quite like my mother. -Frances, isn’t it? And I’m Markham, of course, you know.” - -“Markham!” cried Frances. She had thought she could never be surprised -again, after all that had happened. But she felt herself more -astonished than ever now. - -“Yes, Markham. You think I am not much to look at, I can see. I am not -generally admired at the first glance. Shake hands, Frances. You don’t -quite feel like giving me a kiss, I suppose, at the first offset? Never -mind. We shall be very good friends, after a while.” - -He sat down, drawing a chair close to her. “I am very glad to find you -by yourself. I like the looks of you. Where is Con? Taken possession of -the governor, and left you alone to keep house, I should suppose?” - -“Constance has gone out to walk with papa. I had several things to do.” - -“I have not the least doubt of it. That would be the usual distribution -of labour, if you remained together. Fan, my mother has sent me to fetch -you home.” - -Frances drew a little farther away. She gave him a look of vague alarm. -The familiarity of the address troubled her. But when she looked at him -again, her gravity gave way. He was such a queer, such a very queer -little man. - -“You may laugh if you like, my dear,” he said. “I am used to it. -Providence--always the best judge, no doubt--has not given me an -awe-inspiring countenance. It is hard upon my mother, who is a pretty -woman. But I accept the position, for my part. This is a charming place. -You have got a number of nice things. And those little sketches are very -tolerable. Who did them? You? Waring, so far as I remember, used to draw -very well himself. I am glad you draw; it will give you a little -occupation. I like the looks of you, though I don’t think you admire -me.” - -“Indeed,” said Frances, troubled, “it is because I am so much surprised. -Are you really--are you sure you are----” - -He gave a little chuckle, which made her start--an odd, comical, single -note of laughter, very cordial and very droll, like the little man -himself. - -“I’ve got a servant with me,” he said, “down at the hotel, who knows -that I go by the name of Markham when I’m at home. I don’t know if that -will satisfy you. But Con, to be sure, knows me, which will be better. -You don’t hear any voice of nature saying within your breast, ‘This is -my long-lost brother?’ That’s a pity. But by-and-by, you’ll see, we’ll -be very good friends.” - -“Oh, I didn’t mean that I had any doubt. It is so great a surprise--one -thing after another.” - -“Now, answer me one question: Did you know anything about your family -before Con came? Ah,” he said, catching her alarmed and wondering -glance, “I thought not. I have always said so:--he never told you. And -it has all burst upon you in a moment, you poor little thing. But you -needn’t be afraid of us. My mother has her faults; but she is a nice -woman. You will like her. And I am very queer to look at, and many -people think I have a screw loose. But I’m not bad to live with. Have -you settled it with the governor? Has he made many objections? He and I -never drew well together. Perhaps you know?” - -“He does not speak as if--he liked you. But I don’t know anything. I -have not been told--much. Please don’t ask me things,” Frances cried. - -“No, I will not. On the contrary, I’ll tell you everything. Con -probably would put a spoke in my wheel too. My dear little Fan, don’t -mind any of them. Give me your little hand. I am neither bad nor good. I -am very much what people make me. I am nasty with the nasty -sometimes--more shame to me: and disagreeable with the disagreeable. But -I am innocent with the innocent,” he said with some earnestness; “and -that is what you are, unless my eyes deceive me. You need not be afraid -of me.” - -“I am not afraid,” said Frances, looking at him. Then she added, after a -pause, “Not of you, nor of any one. I have never met any bad people. I -don’t believe any one would do me harm.” - -“Nor I,” he said with a little fervour, patting her hand with his own. -“All the same,” he added, after a moment, “it is perhaps wise not to -give them the chance. So I’ve come to fetch you home.” - -Frances, as she became accustomed to this remarkable new member of her -family, began immediately, after her fashion, to think of the material -necessities of the case. She could not start with him at once on the -journey; and in the meantime where should she put him? The most natural -thing seemed to be to withdraw again from the blue room, and take the -little one behind, which looked out on the court. That would do, and no -one need be any the wiser. She said, with a little hesitation, “I must -go now and see about your room.” - -“Room!” he cried. “Oh no; there’s no occasion for a room. I wouldn’t -trouble you for the world. I have got rooms at the hotel. I’ll not stay -even, since daddy’s out, to meet him. You can tell him I’m here, and -what I came for. If he wants to see me, he can look me up. I am very -glad I have seen _you_. I’ll write to the mother to-night to say you’re -quite satisfactory, and a credit to all your belongings; and I’ll come -to-morrow to see Con; and in the meantime, Fan, you must settle when you -are to come; for it is an awkward time for a man to be loafing about -here.” - -He got up as he spoke, and stooping, gave her a serious brotherly kiss -upon her forehead. “I hope you and I will be very great friends,” he -said. - -And then he was gone! Was he a dream only, an imagination? But he was -not the sort of figure that imagination produces. No dream-man could -ever be so comical to behold, could ever wear a coat so curiously -wrinkled, or those boots, in the curves of which the dust lay as in the -inequalities of the dry and much-frequented road. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -The walk with Constance, though he had set out upon it reluctantly, had -done Waring great good. He was comparatively rehabilitated in his own -eyes. Between her and him there was no embarrassment, no uneasy -consciousness. She had paid him the highest compliment by taking refuge -with him, flying to his protection from the tyranny of her mother, and -giving him thus a victory as sweet as unexpected over that nearest yet -furthest of all connections, that inalienable antagonist in life. He had -been painfully put out of _son assiette_, as the French say. Instead of -the easy superiority which he had held not only in his own house, but in -the limited society about, he had been made to stand at the bar, first -by his own child, afterwards by the old clergyman, for whom he -entertained a kindly contempt. Both of these simple wits had called upon -him to account for his conduct. It was the most extraordinary turning of -the tables that ever had occurred to a man like himself. And though he -had spoken the truth when in that moment of melting he had taken his -little girl into his arms and bidden her stay with him, he was yet glad -now to get away from Frances, to feel himself occupying his proper place -with her sister, and to return thus to a more natural state of affairs. -The intercourse between him and his child-companion had been closer than -ever could, he believed, exist between him and any other human being -whatsoever; but it had been rent in twain by all the concealments which -he was conscious of, by all the discoveries which circumstances had -forced upon her. He could no longer be at his ease with her, or she -regard him as of old. The attachment was too deep, the interruption too -hard, to be reconcilable with that calm which is necessary to ordinary -existence. Constance had restored him to herself by her pleasant -indifference, her easy talk, her unconsciousness of everything that was -not usual and natural. He began to think that if Frances were but -away--since she wished to go--a new life might begin--a life in which -there would be nothing below the surface, no mystery, which is a mistake -in ordinary life. It would be difficult, no doubt, for a brilliant -creature like Constance to content herself with the humdrum life which -suited Frances; and whether she would condescend to look after his -comforts, he did not know. But so long as Mariuccia was there, he could -not suffer much materially; and she was a very amusing companion, far -more so than her sister. As he came back to the Palazzo, he was -reconciled to himself. - -This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. Frances met -them at the door with her face full of excitement. “Did you meet him?” -she said. “You must have met him. He has not been gone ten minutes.” - -“Meet whom? We met no one but the General.” - -“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting him every -day--Markham.” - -“He says he has come to fetch me, papa.” - -“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a moment. It is not -easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished it for a dozen years; -and after a very bad moment, he thought he was about to shuffle it off -again; but it was evident that in this he was premature. “I will not -allow you to go with Markham,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Your -mother ought to have known better. He is not an escort I choose for my -daughter.” - -“Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, in her -easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never mind till after -dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are ready, Fan? Oh, then I -must fly. We have had a delightful walk. I never knew anything about -fathers before; they are the most charming companions,” she said, -kissing her hand to him as she went away. But this did not mollify the -angry man. There rose up before him the recollection of a hundred -contests in which Markham’s voice had come in to make everything worse, -or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause. - -“I will not see him,” he said; “I will not sanction his presence here. -You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out of the -way.” - -“I think, papa, you must see him.” - -“Must--there is no _must_. I have not been in the habit of acknowledging -compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. You seem to -expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole life!” - -“I suppose,” said Frances, “my affairs are small; but then they are my -life too.” - -She ought to have been subdued into silence by his first objection; but, -on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look which was -deprecating, but not abject, holding her little own. It was a long time -since Waring had encountered anything which he could not subdue and put -aside out of his path. But, he said to himself--all that long restrained -and silent temper which had once reigned and raged within him, springing -up again unsubdued--he might have known! The moment long deferred, yet -inevitable, which brought him in contact once more with his wife, could -bring nothing with it but pain. Strife breathed from her wherever she -appeared. He had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his -best; and now that he had forgotten the ways of battle--now that his -strength was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his -hand--she had a pull over him now which she had not possessed before. He -could have done without both the children a dozen years ago. He was -conscious that it was more from self-assertion than from love that he -had carried off the little one, who was rather an embarrassment than a -pleasure in those days--because he would not let her have everything her -own way. But now, Frances was no longer a creature without identity, not -a thing to be handed from one to another. He could not free himself of -interest in her, of responsibility for her, of feeling his honour and -credit implicated in all that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She -had a hold upon him that she never had before; and the first use she -made of it was to insult him--to send her son, whom he hated, for his -daughter, to force him into unwilling intercourse with her family once -more. - -Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father gloomily -pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tranquillity which -nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there was some new thing -that stirred up once more the original pain. There was no end to it. The -mother’s letters at one moment, the brother’s arrival at another, and no -more quiet whatever could be done, no more peace. - -Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory decorum which surrounds that -great daily event, had its usual tranquillising effect. Waring could not -shut out from his mind the consciousness that to refuse to see his -wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was against all the -decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not acknowledge -social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out that -determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had begun to -perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, in the -conversation, lightly maintained, by Constance, about her brother, made -short replies even when he was directly addressed, and kept up more or -less the lowering aspect with which he had meant to crush Frances. But -Frances was not crushed, and Constance was excited and gay. “Let us send -for him after dinner,” she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing -Markham does not know. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt -a hundred things have happened. Do send for Markham, Frances. Oh, you -must not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. Dear! if you -think one can be fond of everybody one meets--especially one’s -connections. Everybody knows that you hate half of them. That makes it -piquant. There is nobody you can say such spiteful things to as people -whom you belong to, whom you call by their Christian names.” - -“That is a charming Christian sentiment--entirely suited to the -surroundings you have been used to, Con; but not to your sister’s.” - -“Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of that good -little Tasie, who is her chief friend. Frances would not say them -herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings are not so ignorant. -You are not called upon to assume so much virtue, papa.” - -“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said Waring, -with quick anger. - -“Papa!” cried Constance, with an astonished look, “I think it is you who -forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed to remember that. I -hope you have not forgotten too, or I shall be sorry I came here.” - -He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That temper -which had fallen into disuse was no more overcome than when all this -trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force upon himself, -though he could not quite conceal the struggle. At last he burst into an -angry laugh: “You will train me, perhaps, in time to the subjection -which is required from the nineteenth-century parent,” he said. - -“You are charming,” said his daughter, with a bow and smile across the -table. “There is only this lingering trace of medievalism in respect to -Markham. But you know, papa, really a feud can’t exist in these days. -Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would subject us all to ridicule. My -experience is that people as a rule are _not_ fond of each other; but to -show it is quite a different thing. Oh no, papa; no one can do that.” - -She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation of her -dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. And when -Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico should not be sent to the -hotel to call Markham, he avoided the inquiring look which Frances cast -at him. “If papa has no objection,” she said with hesitation and alarm. -“Oh, papa can have no objection,” Constance cried; and the message was -sent; and Markham came. Frances, frightened, made many attempts to -excuse herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts -she made. He retired to the bookroom, while the girls entertained their -visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. Waring -heard the voices mingled with laughter, as we all hear the happier -intercourse of others when we are ourselves in gloomy opposition, -nursing our wrath. He thought they were all the more lively, all the -more gay, because he was displeased. Even Frances. He forgot that he had -made up his mind that Frances had better go (as she wished to go), and -felt that she was a little monster to take so cordially to the stranger -whom she knew he disliked and disapproved. Nevertheless, in spite of -this irritation and misery, the little lecture of Constance on what was -conventionally necessary had so much effect upon him, that he appeared -on the loggia before Markham went away, and conquered himself -sufficiently to receive, if not to make much response to the salutations -which his wife’s son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the -greatest cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft -darkness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all -these years. I hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me -before--at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their -seniors, as the sage says.” - -“What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second-hand.” - -“Not like yours, sir,” said Markham. And then there was a slight pause, -and Constance struck in. - -“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the ‘Morning -Post.’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, when one is not -on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of things happen. In town -one gets used to having one’s gossip hot and hot every day.” - -“The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite for -your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother gave me many -messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not object to trust little -Frances to my care.” - -“I object--to trust my child to any one’s care,” said Waring, quickly. - -“I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to England -yourself,” the stranger said. - -It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the girls -looking on saw a momentary swaying of the tall figure towards the -smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances had nearly -sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand and restrained -her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in Waring’s mind. He could, -had inclination prevailed, have seized the little man by the coat, and -pitched him out into the road below. But bonds were upon him more potent -than if they had been made of iron. - -“I have no such intention,” he said. “I should not have sent her at all. -But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere with her -arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.” - -“As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham, cheerfully. “A few days more -out of the east wind will be delightful to me.” - -And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the loggia with -his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to provide a new chair as -easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, and had not yet -settled into a new place; and when he joined them in the evening, he -walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of lounging in indolent -comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this evening he stood at the -corner, looking down upon the lights of the Marina in the distance, and -the grey twinkle of the olives in the clear air of the night. The poor -neighbours of the little town were still on the Punto, enjoying the -coolness of the evening hours; and the murmur of their talk rose on one -side, a little softened by distance; while the group on the loggia -renewed its conversation close at hand. Waring stood and listened with a -contempt which he partially knew to be unjust. But he was sore and -bitter, and the ease and gaiety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of -many insults which he was of opinion he had received from his wife’s -son. “Confounded little fool,” he said to himself. - -But Constance was right in her worldly wisdom. It would make them all -ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he showed openly his -distaste to him. The world was but a small world at Bordighera; but yet -it was not without its power. The interrupted conversation went on with -great vigour. He remarked with a certain satisfaction that Frances -talked very little; but Constance and her brother--as he called himself, -the puppy!--never paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst -of ordinary conversation. Waring stood looking out blankly upon the -bewildering lines of the hills towards the west, with the fresh breeze -in his face, and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff now -and then, listening to the lively chatter. How vacant it was--about this -one and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities; about things not even -made clear, which each understood at half a word, which made them laugh. -Good heavens! at what? Not at the wit of it, for there was no wit--at -some ludicrous image involved, which to the listener was dull, dull as -the village chatter on the other side; but more dull, more vapid in its -artificial ring. How they echoed each other, chiming in; how they -remembered anecdotes to the discredit of their friends; how they ran on -in the same circle endlessly, with jests that were without point even to -Frances, who sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could -not keep up to the height of the talk, which was all about people she -did not know--and still more without point to Waring, who had known, but -knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified and bitter, feeling his -supremacy taken from him in his own house, and all his habits shattered: -yet knew very well that he could not resist, that to show his dislike -would only make him ridiculous; that he was once more subject to -Society, and dare not show his contempt for its bonds. - -After a while, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, and -stalked away, with a brief, “Excuse me, but I must say good-night.” -Markham sprang up from his chair; but his step-father only waved his -hand to the little party sitting in the evening darkness, and went away, -his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor through the _salone_ and -the ante-room, closing the doors behind him. There was a little silence -as he disappeared. - -“Well,” said Markham, with a long-drawn breath, “that’s over, Con; and -better than might have been expected.” - -“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad as could -be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?” - -“My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “I remember times -when I stood up to him, as you say, with that idiotcy of youth in which -you are so strong, Con; but I think I generally came off second-best. -Our respected papa has a great gift of language when he likes.” - -“He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of -thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious fathers.” - -“If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the gloom, with -a little quiver in it, “I wish you would not speak about papa so, before -me. It is perhaps quite right of you, who have no feeling for him, or -don’t know him very well; but with me it is quite different. Whether you -are right or wrong, I cannot have it, please.” - -“The little thing is quite right, Con,” said Markham. “I beg your -pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he has none -for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much more estimable -member of society. He is not old enough--that is the worst of it--for -you and me.” - -“I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense,” said Constance, “as -if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if they were not just -human beings like ourselves. But apart from that, as I have told -Frances, I think very well of papa.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -There was no more said for a day or two about the journey. But that it -was to take place, that Markham was waiting till his step-sister was -ready, and that Frances was making her preparations to go, nobody any -longer attempted to ignore. Waring himself had gone so far in his -recognition of the inevitable as to give Frances money to provide for -the necessities of the journey. “You will want things,” he said. “I -don’t wish it to be thought that I kept you like a little beggar.” - -“I am not like a little beggar, papa,” cried Frances, with an -indignation which scarcely any of the more serious grievances of her -life had called forth. She had always supposed him to be pleased with -the British neatness, the modest, girlish costumes which she had -procured for herself by instinct, and which made this girl, who knew -nothing of England, so characteristically an English girl. This proof of -the man’s ignorance--which Frances ignorantly supposed to mean entire -indifference to her appearance--went to her heart. “And it is impossible -to get things here,” she added, with her usual anxious penitence for her -impatience. - -“You can do it in Paris, then,” he said. “I suppose you have enough of -the instincts of your sex to buy clothes in Paris.” - -Girls are not fond of hearing of the instincts of their sex. She turned -away with a speechless vexation and distress which it pleased him to -think rudeness. - -“But she keeps the money all the same,” he said to himself. - -Thus it became very apparent that the departure of Frances was -desirable, and that she could not go too soon. But there were still -inevitable delays. Strange! that when love embittered made her stay -intolerable, the washerwoman should have compelled it. But to Frances, -for the moment, everything in life was strange. - -And not the least strange was the way in which Markham, whom she liked, -but did not understand--the odd, little, shabby, unlovely personage, who -looked like anything in the world but an individual of importance--was -received by the little world of Bordighera. At the little church on -Sunday, there was a faint stir when he came in, and one lady pointed him -out to another as the small audience filed out. The English landlady at -the hotel spoke of him continually. Lord Markham was now the authority -whom she quoted on all subjects. Even Domenico said “meelord” with a -relish. And as for the Durants, their enthusiasm was boundless. Tasie, -not yet quite recovered from the excitement of Constance’s arrival, lost -her self-control altogether when Markham appeared. It was so good of him -to come to church, she said; such an example for the people at the -hotels! And so nice to lose so little time in coming to call upon papa. -Of course, papa, as the clergyman, would have called upon him as soon as -it was known where he was staying. But it was so pretty of Lord Markham -to conform to foreign ways and make the first visit. “We knew it must -be your doing, Frances,” she said, with grateful delight. - -“But, indeed, it was not my doing. It is Constance who makes him come,” -Frances cried. - -Constance, indeed, insisted upon his company everywhere. She took him -not only to the Durants, but to the bungalow up among the olive woods, -which they found in great excitement, and where the appearance of Lord -Markham partially failed of its effect, a greater hero and stranger -being there. George Gaunt, the General’s youngest son, the chief subject -of his mother’s talk, the one of her children about whom she always had -something to say, had arrived the day before, and in his presence even a -living lord sank into a secondary place. Mrs Gaunt had been the first to -see the little party coming along by the terraces of the olive woods. -She had, long, long ago, formed plans in her imagination of what might -ensue when George came home. She ran out to meet them with her hands -extended. “Oh Frances, I am so glad to see you! Only fancy what has -happened. George has come!” - -“I am so glad,” said Frances, who was the first. She was more used to -the winding of those terraces, and then she had not so much to talk of -as Constance and Markham. Her face lighted up with pleasure. “How happy -you must be!” she said, kissing the old lady affectionately. “Is he -well?” - -“Oh, wonderfully well; so much better than I could have hoped. George, -George, where are you? Oh, my dear, I am so anxious that you should -meet! I want you to like him,” Mrs Gaunt said. - -Almost for the first time there came a sting of pain to Frances’ heart. -She had heard a great deal of George Gaunt. She had thought of him more -than of any other stranger. She had wondered what he would be like, and -smiled to herself at his mother’s too evident anxiety to bring them -together, with a slight, not disagreeable flutter of interest in her own -consciousness. And now here he was, and she was going away! It seemed a -sort of spite of fortune, a tantalising of circumstances; though, to be -sure, she did not know whether she should like him, or if Mrs Gaunt’s -hopes might bear any fruit. Still, it was the only outlet her -imagination had ever had, and it had amused and given her a pleasant -fantastic glimpse now and then into something that might be more -exciting than the calm round of every day. - -She stood on the little grassy terrace which surrounded the house, -looking towards the open door, but not taking any step towards it, -waiting for the hero to appear. The house was low and broad, with a -veranda round it, planted in the midst of the olive groves, where there -was a little clearing, and looking down upon the sea. Frances paused -there, with her face towards the house, and saw coming out from under -the shadow of the veranda, with a certain awkward celerity, the straight -slim figure of the young Indian officer, his mother’s hero, and, in a -visionary sense, her own. She did not advance--she could not tell -why--but waited till he should come up, while his mother turned round, -beckoning to him. This was how it was that Constance and Markham arrived -upon the scene before the introduction was fully accomplished. Frances -held out her hand, and he took it, coming forward; but already his eyes -had travelled over her head to the other pair arriving, with a look of -inquiry and surprise. He let Frances’ hand drop as soon as he had -touched it, and turned towards the other, who was much more attractive -than Frances. Constance, who missed nothing, gave him a glance, and then -turned to his mother. “We brought our brother to see you,” she said (as -Frances had not had presence of mind to do). “Lord Markham, Mrs Gaunt. -But we have come at an inappropriate moment, when you are occupied.” - -“Oh no! It is so kind of you to come. This is my son George, Miss -Waring. He arrived last night. I have so wanted him to meet----” She did -not say Frances; but she looked at the little girl, who was quite -eclipsed and in the background, and then hurriedly added, “your--family: -whose name he knows, as such friends! And how kind of Lord Markham to -come all this way!” - -She was not accustomed to lords, and the mother’s mind jumped at once to -the vain, but so usual idea, that this lord, who had himself sought the -acquaintance, might be of use to her son. She brought forward George, -who was a little dazzled too; and it was not till the party had been -swept into the veranda, where the family sat in the evening, that Mrs -Gaunt became aware that Frances had followed, the last of the train, and -had seated herself on the outskirts of the group, no one paying any heed -to her. Even then, she was too much under the influence of the less -known visitors to do anything to put this right. - -“I am delighted that you think me kind,” said Markham, in answer to the -assurances which Mrs Gaunt kept repeating, not knowing what to say. “My -step-father is not of that opinion at all. Neither will you be, I fear, -when you know my mission. I have come for Frances.” - -“For Frances!” she cried, with a little suppressed scream of dismay. - -“Ah, I said you would not be of that opinion long,” Markham said. - -“Is Frances going away?” said the old General. “I don’t think we can -stand that. Eh, George? that is not what your mother promised you. -Frances is all we have got to remind us that we were young once. Waring -must hear reason. He must not let her go away.” - -“Frances is going; but Constance stays,” interposed that young lady. -“General, I hope you will adopt me in her stead.” - -“That I will,” said the old soldier; “that is, I will adopt you in -addition, for we cannot give up Frances. Though, if it is only for a -short visit, if you pledge yourself to bring her back again, I suppose -we will have to give our consent.” - -“Not I,” said Mrs Gaunt under her breath. She whispered to her son, “Go -and talk to her. This is not Frances; _that_ is Frances,” leaning over -his shoulder. - -George did not mean to shake off her hand; but he made a little -impatient movement, and turned the other way to Constance, to whom he -made some confused remark. - -All the conversation was about Frances; but she took no part in it, nor -did any one turn to her to ask her own opinion. She sat on the edge of -the veranda, half hidden by the luxuriant growth of a rose which -covered one of the pillars, and looked out rather wistfully, it must be -allowed, over the grey clouds of olives in the foreground, to the blue -of the sea beyond. It was twilight under the shade of the veranda; but -outside, a subdued daylight, on the turn towards night. The little talk -about her was very flattering, but somehow it did not have the effect it -might have had; for though they all spoke of her as of so much -importance, they left her out with one consent. Not exactly with one -consent. Mrs Gaunt, standing up, looking from one to another, -hurt--though causelessly--beyond expression by the careless movement of -her newly returned boy, would have gone to Frances, had she not been -held by some magnetic attraction which emanated from the others--the -lord who might be of use--the young lady, whose careless ease and -self-confidence were dazzling to simple people. - -Neither the General nor his wife could realise that she was merely -Frances’ sister, Waring’s daughter. She was the sister of Lord Markham. -She was on another level altogether from the little girl who had been so -pleasant to them all, and so sweet. They were very sorry that Frances -was going away; but the other one required attention, had to be thought -of, and put in the chief place. As for Frances, who knew them all so -well, she would not mind. And thus even Mrs Gaunt directed her attention -to the new-comer. - -Frances thought it was all very natural, and exactly what she wished. -She was glad, very glad that they should take to Constance; that she -should make friends with all the old friends who to herself had been so -tender and kind. But there was one thing in which she could not help but -feel a little disappointed, disconcerted, cast down. She had looked -forward to George. She had thought of this new element in the quiet -village life with a pleasant flutter of her heart. It had been natural -to think of him as falling more or less to her own share, partly because -it would be so in the fitness of things, she being the youngest of all -the society--the girl, as he would be the boy; and partly because of his -mother’s fond talk, which was full of innocent hints of her hopes. That -George should come when she was just going away, was bad enough; but -that they should have met like this, that he should have touched her -hand almost without looking at her, that he should not have had the most -momentary desire to make acquaintance with Frances, whose name he must -have heard so often, that gave her a real pang. To be sure, it was only -a pang of the imagination. She had not fallen in love with his -photograph, which did not represent an Adonis; and it was something, -half a brother, half a comrade, not (consciously) a lover, for which -Frances had looked in him. But yet it gave her a very strange, painful, -deserted sensation when she saw him look over her head at Constance, and -felt her hand dropped as soon as taken. She smiled a little at herself, -when she came to think of it, saying to herself that she knew very well -Constance was far more charming, far more pretty than she, and that it -was only natural she should take the first place. Frances was ever -anxious to yield to her the first place. But she could not help that -quiver of involuntary feeling. She was hurt, though it was all so -natural. It was natural, too, that she should be hurt, and that nobody -should take any notice--all the most everyday things in the world. - -George Gaunt came to the Palazzo next day. He came in the afternoon with -his father, to be introduced to Waring; and he came again after -dinner--for these neighbours did not entertain each other at the -working-day meals, so to speak, but only in light ornamental ways, with -cups of tea or black coffee--with both his parents to spend the evening. -He was thin and of a slightly greenish tinge in his brownness, by reason -of India and the illnesses he had gone through; but his slim figure had -a look of power; and he had kind eyes, like his mother’s, under the -hollows of his brows: not a handsome young man, yet not at all common or -ordinary, with a soldier’s neatness and upright bearing. To see Markham -beside him with his insignificant figure, his little round head tufted -with sandy hair, his one-sided look with his glass in his eye, or his -ear tilted up on the opposite side, was as good as a sermon upon race -and its advantages. For Markham was the fifteenth lord; and the Gaunts -were, it was understood, of as good as no family at all. Captain George -from that first evening had neither ear nor eye for any one but -Constance. He followed her about shyly wherever she moved; he stood over -her when she sat down. He said little, for he was shy, poor fellow; yet -he did sometimes hazard a remark, which was always subsidiary or -responsive to something she had said. - -Mrs Gaunt’s distress at this subversion of all she had intended was -great. She got Frances into a corner of the loggia while the others -talked, and thrust upon her a pretty sandalwood box inlaid with ivory, -one of those that George had brought from India. “It was always intended -for you, dear,” she said. “Of course he could not venture to offer it -himself.” - -“But, dear Mrs Gaunt,” said Frances, with a low laugh, in which all her -little bitterness evaporated, “I don’t think he has so much as seen my -face. I am sure he would not know me if we met in the road.” - -“Oh, my dear child,” cried poor Mrs Gaunt, “it has been such a -disappointment to me. I have just cried my eyes out over it. To think -you should not have taken to each other after all my dreams and hopes.” - -Frances laughed again; but she did not say that there had been no -failure of interest on her side. She said, “I hope he will soon be quite -strong and well. You will write and tell me about everybody.” - -“Indeed I will. Oh Frances, is it possible that you are going so soon? -It does not seem natural that you should be going, and that your sister -should stay.” - -“Not very natural,” said Frances, with a composure which was less -natural still. “But since it is to be, I hope you will see as much of -her as you can, dear Mrs Gaunt, and be as kind to her as you have been -to me.” - -“Oh, my dear, there is little doubt that I shall see a great deal of -her,” said the mother, with a glance towards the other group, of which -Constance was the central figure. She was lying back in the big -wicker-work chair; with the white hands and arms, which showed out of -sleeves shorter than were usual in Bordighera, very visible in the dusk, -accompanying her talk by lively gestures. The young captain stood like -a sentinel a little behind her. His mother’s glance was half vexation -and half pleasure. She thought it was a great thing for a girl to have -secured the attentions of her boy, and a very sad thing for the girl who -had not secured them. Any doubt that Constance might not be grateful, -had not yet entered her thoughts. Frances, though she was so much less -experienced, saw the matter in another light. - -“You must remember,” she said, “that she has been brought up very -differently. She has been used to a great deal of admiration, Markham -says.” - -“And now you will come in for that, and she must take what she can get -here.” Mrs Gaunt’s tone when she said this showed that she felt, whoever -was the loser, it would not be Constance. Frances shook her head. - -“It will be very different with me. And dear Mrs Gaunt, if Constance -should not--do as you wish----” - -“My dear, I will not interfere. It never does any good when a mother -interferes,” Mrs Gaunt said hurriedly. Her mind was incapable of -pursuing the idea which Frances so timidly had endeavoured to suggest. -And what could the girl do more? - -Next day she went away. Her father, pale and stern, took leave of her in -the bookroom with an air of offence and displeasure which went to -Frances’ heart. “I will not come to the station. You will have, no -doubt, everybody at the station. I don’t like greetings in the -market-places,” he said. - -“Papa,” said Frances, “Mariuccia knows everything. I am sure she will be -careful. She says she will not trouble Constance more than is necessary. -And I hope----” - -“Oh, we shall do very well, I don’t doubt.” - -“I hope you will forgive me, papa, for all I may have done wrong. I hope -you will not miss me; that is, I hope--oh, I hope you will miss me a -little, for it breaks my heart when you look at me like that.” - -“We shall do very well,” said Waring, not looking at her at all, “both -you and I.” - -“And you have nothing to say to me, papa?” - -“Nothing--except that I hope you will like your new life and find -everything pleasant. Good-bye, my dear; it is time you were going.” - -And that was all. Everybody was at the station, it was true, which made -it no place for leave-takings; and Frances did not know that he watched -the train from the loggia till the white plume of steam disappeared with -a roar in the next of those many tunnels that spoil the beautiful -Cornice road. Constance walked back in the midst of the Gaunts and -Durants, looking, as she always did, the mistress of the situation. But -neither did Frances, blotted out in the corner of the carriage, crying -behind her veil and her handkerchief, leaving all she knew behind her, -understand with what a tug at her heart Constance saw the familiar -little ugly face of her brother for the last time at the -carriage-window, and turned back to the deadly monotony of the shelter -she had sought for herself, with a sense that everything was over, and -she herself completely deserted, like a wreck upon a desolate shore. - -END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 1 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61442-0.txt or 61442-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61442/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61442] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" title="" /> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:2px solid gray;padding:.5em; -margin:auto auto;max-width:50%;"> - -<tr class="c"><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Chapter: I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h1>A HOUSE<br /> -DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF</h1> - -<p class="c">BY -MRS OLIPHANT<br /><br /><br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES<br /><br /> -VOL. I.<br /><br /><br /> -WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -MDCCCLXXXVI</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> day was warm, and there was no shade; out of the olive woods which -they had left behind, and where all was soft coolness and freshness, -they had emerged into a piece of road widened and perfected by recent -improvements till it was as shelterless as a broad street. High walls on -one side clothed with the green clinging trails of the mesembryanthemum, -with palm-trees towering above, but throwing no shadow below; on the -other a low house or two, and more garden walls, leading in a broad -curve to the little old walled town, its campanile rising up over the -clustered roofs, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> which was their home. They had fifteen minutes or -more of dazzling sunshine before them ere they could reach any point of -shelter.</p> - -<p>Ten minutes, or even five, would have been enough for Frances. She could -have run along, had she been alone, as like a bird as any human creature -could be, being so light and swift and young. But it was very different -with her father. He walked but slowly at the best of times; and in the -face of the sun at noon, what was to be expected of him? It was part of -the strange contrariety of fate, which was against him in whatever he -attempted, small or great, that it should be just here, in this broad, -open, unavoidable path, that he encountered one of those parties which -always made him wroth, and which usually he managed to keep clear of -with such dexterity—an English family from one of the hotels.</p> - -<p>Tourists from the hotels are always objectionable to residents in a -place. Even when the residents are themselves strangers—perhaps, -indeed, all the more from that fact—the chance visitors who come to -stare and gape at those scenes which the others have appropriated and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> -taken possession of, are insufferable. Mr Waring had lived in the old -town of Bordighera for a great number of years. He had seen the Marina -and the line of hotels on the beach created, and he had watched the -travellers arriving to take possession of them—the sick people, and the -people who were not sick. He had denounced the invasion unceasingly, and -with vehemence; he had never consented to it. The Italians about might -be complacent, thinking of the enrichment of the neighbourhood, and of -what was good for trade, as these prosaic people do; but the English -colonist on the Punto could not put up with it. And to be met here, on -his return from his walk, by an unblushing band about whom there could -be no mistake, was very hard to bear. He had to walk along exposed to -the fire of all their unabashed and curious glances, to walk slowly, to -miss none, from that of the stout mother to that of the slim governess. -In the rear of the party came the papa, a portly Saxon, of the class -which, if comparisons could be thought of in so broad and general a -sentiment, Mr Waring disliked worst of all—a big<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> man, a rosy man, a -fat man, in large easy morning clothes, with a big white umbrella over -his head. This last member of the family came at some distance behind -the rest. He did not like the sun, though he had been persuaded to leave -England in search of it. He was very warm, moist, and in a state of -general relaxation, his tidy necktie coming loose, his gloves only half -on, his waistcoat partially unbuttoned. It was March, when no doubt a -good genuine east wind was blowing at home. At that moment this -traveller almost regretted the east wind.</p> - -<p>The Warings were going up-hill towards their abode: the slope was gentle -enough, yet it added to the slowness of Mr Waring’s pace. All the -English party had stared at him, as is the habit of English parties; and -indeed he and his daughter were not unworthy of a stare. But all these -gazes came with a cumulation of curiosity to widen the stare of the last -comer, who had, besides, twenty or thirty yards of vacancy in which the -indignant resident was fully exposed to his view. Little Frances, who -was English enough to stare too, though in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> gentlewomanly way, saw a -change gradually come, as he gazed, over the face of the stranger. His -eyebrows rose up bushy and arched with surprise; his eyelids puckered -with the intentness of his stare; his lips dropped apart. Then he came -suddenly to a stand-still, and gasped forth the word “<span class="smcap">Waring!</span>” in tones -of surprise to which capital letters can give but faint expression.</p> - -<p>Mr Waring, struck by this exclamation as by a bullet, paused too, as -with something of that inclination to turn round which is said to be -produced by a sudden hit. He put up his hand momentarily, as if to pull -down his broad-brimmed hat over his brows. But in the end he did -neither. He stood and faced the stranger with angry energy. “Well?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Dear me! who could have thought of seeing you here? Let me call my -wife. She will be delighted. Mary! Why, I thought you had gone to the -East. I thought you had disappeared altogether. And so did everybody. -And what a long time it is, to be sure! You look as if you had forgotten -me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I have,” said the other, with a supercilious gaze, perusing the large -figure from top to toe.</p> - -<p>“Oh come, Waring! Why—Mannering; you can’t have forgotten Mannering, a -fellow that stuck by you all through. Dear, how it brings up everything, -seeing you again! Why, it must be a dozen years ago. And what have you -been doing all this time? Wandering over the face of the earth, I -suppose, in all sorts of out-of-the-way places, since nobody has ever -fallen in with you before.”</p> - -<p>“I am something of an invalid,” said Waring. “I fear I cannot stand in -the sun to answer so many questions. And my movements are of no -importance to any one but myself.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be so misanthropical,” said the stranger in his large round -voice. “You always had a turn that way. And I don’t wonder if you are -soured—any fellow would be soured. Won’t you say a word to Mary? She’s -looking back, wondering with all her might what new acquaintance I’ve -found out here, never thinking it’s an old friend. Hillo, Mary! What’s -the matter? Don’t you want to see her? Why, man alive, don’t be so -bitter! She and I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> always stuck up for you; through thick and thin, -we’ve stuck up for you. Eh! can’t stand any longer? Well, it is hot, -isn’t it? There’s no variety in this confounded climate. Come to the -hotel, then—the Victoria, down there.”</p> - -<p>Waring had passed his interrogator, and was already at some distance, -while the other, breathless, called after him. He ended, affronted, by -another discharge of musketry, which hit the fugitive in the rear. “I -suppose,” the indiscreet inquirer demanded, breathlessly, “that’s the -little girl?”</p> - -<p>Frances had followed with great but silent curiosity this strange -conversation. She had not interposed in any way, but she had stood close -by her father’s side, drinking in every word with keen ears and eyes. -She had heard and seen many strange things, but never an encounter like -this; and her eagerness to know what it meant was great; but she dared -not linger a moment after her father’s rapid movement of the hand, and -the longer stride than usual, which was all the increase of speed he was -capable of. As she had stood still by his side without a question, she -now went on, very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> much as if she had been a delicate little piece of -machinery of which he had touched the spring. That was not at all the -character of Frances Waring; but to judge by her movements while at her -father’s side, an outside observer might have thought so. She had never -offered any resistance to any impulse from him in her whole life; indeed -it would have seemed to her an impossibility to do so. But these -impulses concerned the outside of her life only. She went along by his -side with the movement of a swift creature restrained to the pace of a -very slow one, but making neither protest nor remark. And neither did -she ask any explanation, though she cast many a stolen glance at him as -they pursued their way. And for his part, he said nothing. The heat of -the sun, the annoyance of being thus interrupted, were enough to account -for that.</p> - -<p>This broad bit of sunny road which lay between them and the shelter of -their home had been made by one of those too progressive municipalities, -thirsting for English visitors and tourists in general, who fill with -hatred and horror the old residents in Italy; and after it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> followed a -succession of stony stairs more congenial to the locality, by which, -under old archways and through narrow alleys, you got at last to the -wider centre of the town, a broad stony piazza, under the shadow of the -Bell Tower, the characteristic campanile which was the landmark of the -place. Except on one side of the piazza, all here was in grateful shade. -Waring’s stern face softened a little when he came into these cool and -almost deserted streets: here and there was a woman at a doorway, an old -man in the deep shadow of an open shop or booth unguarded by any window, -two or three girls filling their pitchers at the well, but no intrusive -tourists or passengers of any kind to break the noonday stillness. The -pair went slowly through the little town, and emerged by another old -gateway, on the farther side, where the blue Mediterranean, with all its -wonderful shades of colour, and line after line of headland cutting down -into those ethereal tints, stretched out before them, ending in the haze -of the Ligurian mountains. The scene was enough to take away the breath -of one unaccustomed to that blaze of wonderful light, and all the -de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span>lightful accidents of those purple hills. But this pair were too -familiarly acquainted with every line to make any pause. They turned -round the sunny height from the gateway, and entered by a deep small -door sunk in the wall, which stood high like a great rampart rising from -the Punto. This was the outer wall of the palace of the lord of the -town, still called <i>the</i> Palazzo at Bordighera. Every large house is a -palace in Italy; but the pretensions of this were well founded. The -little door by which they entered had been an opening of modern and -peaceful times, the state entrance being through a great doorway and -court on the inner side. The deep outer wall was pierced by windows, -only at the height of the second storey on the sea side, so that the -great marble stair up which Waring toiled slowly was very long and -fatiguing, as if it led to a mountaintop. He reached his rooms -breathless, and going in through antechamber and corridor, threw himself -into the depths of a large but upright chair. There were no signs of -luxury about. It was not one of those hermitages of culture and ease -which English recluses make for themselves in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> the most unlikely places. -It was more like a real hermitage; or, to speak more simply, it was -like, what it really was, an apartment in an old Italian house, in a -rustic castle, furnished and provided as such a place, in the possession -of its natural inhabitants, would be.</p> - -<p>The Palazzo was subdivided into a number of habitations, of which the -apartment of the Englishman was the most important. It was composed of a -suite of rooms facing to the sea, and commanding the entire circuit of -the sun; for the windows on one side were to the east, and at the other -the apartment ended in a large loggia, commanding the west and all the -glorious sunsets accomplished there. We Northerners, who have but a -limited enjoyment of the sun, show often a strange indifference to him -in the sites and situations of our houses; but in Italy it is well known -that where the sun does not go the doctor goes, and much more regard is -shown to the aspect of the house.</p> - -<p>The Warings at the worst of that genial climate had little occasion for -fire; they had but to follow the centre of light when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> glided out of -one room to fling himself more abundantly into another. The Punto is -always full in the cheerful rays. It commands everything—air and sea, -and the mountains and all their thousand effects of light and shade; and -the Palazzo stands boldly out upon this the most prominent point in the -landscape, with the houses of the little town withdrawing on a dozen -different levels behind. In the warlike days when no point of vantage -which a pirate could seize upon was left undefended or assailable, it is -probable that there was no loggia from which to watch the western -illuminations. But peace has been so long on the Riviera that the loggia -too was antique, the parapet crumbling and grey. It opened from a large -room, very lofty, and with much faded decoration on the upper walls and -roof, which was the salone or drawing-room, beyond which was an -ante-room, then a sort of library, a dining-room, a succession of -bed-chambers; much space, little furniture, sunshine and air unlimited, -and a view from every window which it was worth living to be able to -look out upon night and day. This, however, at the moment of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> we -write, was shut out all along the line, the green <i>persiani</i> being -closed, and nothing open but the loggia, which was still cool and in the -shade. The rooms lay in a soft green twilight, cool and fresh; the doors -were open from one to another, affording a long vista of picturesque -glimpses.</p> - -<p>From where Waring had thrown himself down to rest, he looked straight -through the apartment, over the faded formality of the ante-room with -its large old chairs, which were never moved from their place, across -his own library, in which there was a glimmer of vellum binding and old -gilding, to the table with its white tablecloth, laid out for breakfast -in the eating-room. The quiet soothed him after a while, and perhaps the -evident preparations for his meal, the large and rotund flask of Chianti -which Domenico was placing on the table, the vision of another figure -behind Domenico with a delicate dish of mayonnaise in her hands. He -could distinguish that it was a mayonnaise, and his angry spirit calmed -down. Noon began to chime from the campanile, and Frances came in -without her hat and with the eagerness subdued in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> eyes. “Breakfast -is ready, papa,” she said. She had that look of knowing nothing and -guessing nothing beyond what lies on the surface, which so many women -have.</p> - -<p>She was scarcely to be called a woman, not only because of being so -young, but of being so small, so slim, so light, with such a tiny -figure, that a stronger breeze than usual would, one could not help -thinking, blow her away. Her father was very tall, which made her tiny -size the more remarkable. She was not beautiful—few people are to the -positive degree; but she had the prettiness of youth, of round soft -contour, and peach-like skin, and clear eyes. Her hair was light brown, -her eyes dark brown, neither very remarkable; her features small and -clearly cut, as was her figure, no slovenliness or want of finish about -any line. All this pleasing exterior was very simple and easily -comprehended, and had but little to do with her, the real Frances, who -was not so easy to understand. She had two faces, although there was in -her no guile. She had the countenance she now wore, as it were for daily -use—a countenance without expression, like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> sunny cheerful morning in -which there is neither care nor fear—the countenance of a girl calling -papa to breakfast, very punctual, determined that nobody should reproach -her as being half of a minute late, or having a hair or a ribbon a -hair’s-breadth out of place. That such a girl should have ever suspected -anything, feared anything—except perhaps gently that the mayonnaise was -not to papa’s taste—was beyond the range of possibilities; or that she -should be acquainted with anything in life beyond the simple routine of -regular hours and habits, the sweet and gentle bond of the ordinary, -which is the best rule of young lives.</p> - -<p>Frances Waring had sometimes another face. That profile of hers was not -so clearly cut for nothing; nor were her eyes so lucid only to perceive -the outside of existence. In her room, during the few minutes she spent -there, she had looked at herself in her old-fashioned dim glass, and -seen a different creature. But what that was, or how it was, must show -itself farther on. She led the way into the dining-room, the trimmest -composed little figure, all England embodied—though she scarcely -remembered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> England—in the self-restrained and modest toilet of a -little girl accustomed to be cared for by women well instructed in the -niceties of feminine costume; and yet she had never had any one to take -counsel with except an Italian maid-of-all-work, who loved the brightest -primitive colours, as became her race. Frances knew so few English -people that she had not even the admiration of surprise at her success. -Those she did know took it for granted that she got her pretty sober -suits, her simple unelaborate dresses, from some very excellent -dressmaker at “home,” not knowing that she did not know what home was.</p> - -<p>Her father followed her, as different a figure as imagination could -suggest. He was very tall, very thin, with long legs and stooping -shoulders, his hair in limp locks, his shirt-collar open, a velvet -coat—looking as entirely adapted to the locality, the conventional -right man in the right place, as she was not the conventional woman. A -gloomy look, which was habitual to him, a fretful longitudinal pucker in -his forehead, the hollow lines of ill health in his cheeks, disguised -the fact that he was, or had been, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> handsome man; just as his extreme -spareness and thinness made it difficult to believe that he had also -been a very powerful one. Nor was he at all old, save in the very young -eyes of his daughter, to whom forty-five was venerable. He might have -been an artist or a poet of a misanthropical turn of mind; though, when -a man has chronic asthma, misanthropy is unnecessary to explain his look -of pain, and fatigue, and disgust with the outside world. He walked -languidly, his shoulders up to his ears, and followed Frances to the -table, and sat down with that air of dissatisfaction which takes the -comfort out of everything. Frances either was inaccessible to this kind -of discomfort, or so accustomed to it that she did not feel it. She sat -serenely opposite to him, and talked of indifferent things.</p> - -<p>“Don’t take the mayonnaise, if you don’t like it, papa; there is -something else coming that will perhaps be better. Mariuccia does not at -all pride herself upon her mayonnaise.”</p> - -<p>“Mariuccia knows very little about it; she has not even the sense to -know what she can do best.” He took a little more of the dish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> partly -out of contradiction, which was the result which Frances hoped.</p> - -<p>“The lettuce is so crisp and young, that makes it a little better,” she -said, with the air of a connoisseur.</p> - -<p>“A little better is not the word; it is very good,” he said, fretfully; -then added with a slight sigh, “Everything is better for being young.”</p> - -<p>“Except people, I know. Why does young mean good with vegetables and -everything else, and silly only when it is applied to people?—though it -can’t be helped, I know.”</p> - -<p>“That is one of your metaphysical questions,” he said, with a slight -softening of his tone. “Perhaps because of human jealousy. We all like -to discredit what we haven’t got, and most people you see are no longer -young.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do you think so, papa? I think there are more young people than old -people.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are right, Fan; but they don’t count for so much, in the -way of opinion at least. What has called forth these sage remarks?”</p> - -<p>“Only the lettuce,” she said, with a laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> Then, after a pause, “For -instance, there were six or seven children in the party we met to-day, -and only two parents.”</p> - -<p>“There are seldom more than two parents, my dear.”</p> - -<p>She had not looked up when she made this careless little speech, and yet -there was a purpose in it, and a good deal of keen observation through -her drooped eyelashes. She received his reply with a little laugh. “I -did not mean that, papa; but that six or seven are a great deal more -than two, which of course you will laugh at me for saying. I suppose -they were all English?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. The father—if he was the father—certainly was English.”</p> - -<p>“And you knew him, papa?’</p> - -<p>“He knew me, which is a different thing.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a little pause. The conversation between the father and -daughter was apt to run in broken periods. He very seldom originated -anything. When she found a subject upon which she could interest him, he -would reply, to a certain limit, and then the talk would drop. He was -himself a very silent man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> requiring no outlet of conversation; and -when he refused to be interested, it was a task too hard for Frances to -lead him into speech. She on her side was full of a thousand unsatisfied -curiosities, which for the most part were buried in her own bosom. In -the meantime Domenico made the circle of the table with the new dish, -and his step and a question or two from his master were all the remarks -that accompanied the meal. Mr Waring was something of a <i>gourmet</i>, but -at the same time he was very temperate—a conjunction which is -favourable to fine eating. His table was delicately furnished with -dishes almost infinitesimal in quantity, but superlative in quality; and -he ate his dainty light repast with gravity and slowly, as a man -performs what he feels to be one of the most important functions of his -life.</p> - -<p>“Tell Mariuccia that a few drops from a fresh lemon would have improved -this <i>ragoût</i>—but a very fresh lemon.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Excellency, <i>freschissimo</i>,” said Domenico, with solemnity.</p> - -<p>In the household generally, nothing was so important as the second -breakfast, except, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span>deed, the dinner, which was the climax of the day. -The gravity of all concerned, the little solemn movement round the -white-covered table in the still soft shade of the atmosphere, with -those green <i>persiani</i> shutting out all the sunshine, and the brown old -walls, bare of any decoration, throwing up the group, made a curious -picture. The walls were quite bare, the floor brown and polished, with -only a square of carpet round the table; but the roof and cornices were -gilt and painted with tarnished gilding and half-obliterated pictures. -Opposite to Frances was a blurred figure of a cherub with a finger on -his lip. She looked up at this faint image as she had done a hundred -times, and was silent. He seemed to command the group, hovering over it -like a little tutelary god.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Warings had been settled at Bordighera almost as long as Frances -could remember. She had known no other way of living than that which -could be carried on under the painted roofs in the Palazzo, nor any -other domestic management than that of Domenico and Mariuccia. She -herself had been brought up by the latter, who had taught her to knit -stockings and to make lace of a coarse kind, and also how to spare and -save, and watch every detail of the spese—the weekly or daily -accounts—with an anxious eye. Beyond this, Frances had received very -little education: her father had taught her fitfully to read and write -after a sort; and he had taught her to draw, for which she had a little -faculty—that is to say, she had made little sketches of all the points -of view round about,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> which, if they were not very great in art, amused -her, and made her feel that there was something she could do. Indeed, so -far as doing went, she had a good deal of knowledge. She could mend very -neatly—so neatly, that her darn or her patch was almost an ornament. -She was indeed neat in everything, by instinct, without being taught. -The consequence was, that her life was very full of occupation, and her -time never hung heavy on her hands. At eighteen, indeed, it may be -doubted whether time ever does hang heavy on a girl’s hands. It is when -ten years or so of additional life have passed over her head, bringing -her no more important occupations than those which are pleasant and -appropriate to early youth, that she begins to feel her disabilities; -but fortunately, that is a period of existence with which at the present -moment we have nothing to do.</p> - -<p>Her father, who was not fifty yet, had been a young man when he came to -this strange seclusion. Why he should have chosen Bordighera, no one had -taken the trouble to inquire. He came when it was a little town on the -spur of the hill, without either hotels or tourists, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> at least very -few of these articles—like many other little towns which are perched on -little platforms among the olive woods all over that lovely country. The -place had commended itself to him because it was so completely out of -the way. And then it was very cheap, simple, and primitive. He was not, -however, by any means a primitive-minded man; and when he took Domenico -and Mariuccia into his service, it was for a year or two an interest in -his life to train them to everything that was the reverse of their own -natural primitive ways. Mariuccia had a little native instinct for -cookery such as is not unusual among the Latin races, and which her -master trained into all the sophistications of a cordon bleu. And -Domenico had that lively desire to serve his padrone “hand and foot,” as -English servants say, and do everything for him, which comes natural to -an amiable Italian eager to please. Both of them had been encouraged and -trained to carry out these inclinations. Mr Waring was difficult to -please. He wanted attendance continually. He would not tolerate a speck -of dust anywhere, or any carelessness of service; but otherwise he was -not a bad master.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> He left them many independences, which suited them, -and never objected to that appropriation to themselves of his house as -theirs, and assertion of themselves as an important part of the family, -which is the natural result of a long service. Frances grew up -accordingly in franker intimacy with the honest couple than is usual in -English households. There was nothing they would not have done for the -Signorina—starve for her, scrape and pinch for her, die for her if need -had been; and in the meantime, while there was no need for service more -heroic, correct her, and improve her mind, and set her faults before her -with simplicity. Her faults were small, it is true, but zealous Love did -not omit to find many out.</p> - -<p>Mr Waring painted a little, and was disposed to call himself an artist; -and he read a great deal, or was supposed to do so, in the library, -which formed one of the set of rooms, among the old books in vellum, -which took a great deal of reading. A little old public library existing -in another little town farther up among the hills, gave him an excuse, -if it was not anything more, for a great deal of what he called work.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> -There were some manuscripts and a number of old editions laid up in this -curious little hermitage of learning, from which the few people who knew -him believed he was going some day to compile or collect something of -importance. The people who knew him were very few. An old clergyman, who -had been a colonial chaplain all his life, and now “took the service” in -the bare little room which served as an English church, was the chief of -his acquaintances. This gentleman had an old wife and a middle-aged -daughter, who furnished something like society for Frances. Another -associate was an old Indian officer, much battered by wounds, liver, and -disappointment, who, systematically neglected by the authorities (as he -thought), and finding himself a nobody in the home to which he had -looked forward for so many years, had retired in disgust, and built -himself a little house, surrounded with palms, which reminded him of -India, and full in the rays of the sun, which kept off his neuralgia. -He, too, had a wife, whose constant correspondence with her numerous -children occupied her mind and thoughts, and who liked Frances because -she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> never tired of hearing stories of those absent sons and daughters. -They saw a good deal of each other, these three resident families, and -reminded each other from time to time that there was such a thing as -society.</p> - -<p>In summer they disappeared—sometimes to places higher up among the -hills, sometimes to Switzerland or the Tyrol, sometimes “home.” They all -said home, though neither the Durants nor the Gaunts knew much of -England, and though they could never say enough in disparagement of its -grey skies and cold winds. But the Warings never went “home.” Frances, -who was entirely without knowledge or associations with her native -country, used the word from time to time because she heard Tasie Durant -or Mrs Gaunt do so; but her father never spoke of England, nor of any -possible return, nor of any district in England as that to which he -belonged. It escaped him at times that he had seen something of society -a dozen or fifteen years before this date; but otherwise, nothing was -known about his past life. It was not a thing that was much discussed, -for the intercourse in which he lived with his neigh<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span>bours was not -intimate, nor was there any particular reason why he should enter upon -his own history; but now and then it would be remarked by one or another -that nobody knew anything of his antecedents. “What’s your county, -Waring?” General Gaunt had once asked; and the other had answered with a -languid smile, “I have no county,” without the least attempt to explain. -The old general, in spite of himself, had apologised, he did not know -why; but still no information was given. And Waring did not look like a -man who had no county. His thin long figure had an aristocratic air. He -knew about horses, and dogs, and country-gentleman sort of subjects. It -was impossible that he should turn out to be a shopkeeper’s son, or a -<i>bourgeois</i> of any kind. However, as has been said, the English -residents did not give themselves much trouble about the matter. There -was not enough of them to get up a little parochial society, like that -which flourishes in so many English colonies, gossiping with the best, -and forging anew for themselves those chains of a small community which -everybody pretends to hate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span></p> - -<p>In the afternoon of the day on which the encounter recorded in the -previous chapter had taken place, Frances sat in the loggia alone at her -work. She was busy with her drawing—a very elaborate study of -palm-trees, which she was making from a cluster of those trees which -were visible from where she sat. A loggia is something more than a -balcony; it is like a room with the outer wall or walls taken away. This -one was as large as the big <i>salone</i> out of which it opened, and had -therefore room for changes of position as the sun changed. Though it -faced the west, there was always a shady corner at one end or the other. -It was the favourite place in which Frances carried on all her -occupations—where her father came to watch the sunset—where she had -tea, with that instinct of English habit and tradition which she -possessed without knowing how. Mr Waring did not much care for her tea, -except now and then in a fitful way; and Mariuccia thought it medicine. -But it pleased Frances to have the little table set out with two or -three old china cups which did not match, and a small silver teapot, -which was one of the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> few articles of value in the house. Very -rarely, not once in a month, had she any occasion for these cups; but -yet, such a chance did occur at long intervals; and in the meantime, -with a pleasure not much less infantine, but much more wistful than that -with which she had played at having a tea-party seven or eight years -before, she set out her little table now.</p> - -<p>She was seated with her drawing materials on one table and the tea on -another, in the stillness of the afternoon, looking out upon the -mountains and the sea. No; she was doing nothing of the sort. She was -looking with all her might at the clump of palm-trees within the garden -of the villa, which lay low down at her feet between her and the sunset. -She was not indifferent to the sunset. She had an admiration, which even -the humblest art-training quickens, for the long range of coast, with -its innumerable ridges running down from the sky to the sea, in every -variety of gnarled edge, and gentle slope, and precipice; and for the -amazing blue of the water, with its ribbon-edge of paler colours, and -the deep royal purple of the broad surface, and the white sails thrown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> -up against it, and the white foam that turned up the edges of every -little wave. But in the meantime she was not thinking of them, nor of -the infinitely varied lines of the mountains, or the specks of towns, -each with its campanile shining in the sun, which gave character to the -scene; but of the palms on which her attention was fixed, and which, -however beautiful they sound, or even look, are apt to get very spiky in -a drawing, and so often will not “come” at all. She was full of fervour -in her work, which had got to such a pitch of impossibility that her -lips were dry and wide apart from the strain of excitement with which -she struggled with her subject, when the bell tinkled where it hung -outside upon the stairs, sending a little jar through all the Palazzo, -where bells were very uncommon; and presently Tasie Durant, pushing open -the door of the <i>salone</i>, with a breathless little “Permesso?” came out -upon the loggia in her usual state of haste, and with half-a-dozen small -books tumbling out of her hand.</p> - -<p>“Never mind, dear; they are only books for the Sunday-school. Don’t you -know we had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> twelve last Sunday? Twelve!—think!—when I have thought it -quite large and extensive to have five. I never was more pleased. I am -getting up a little library for them like they have at home. It is so -nice to have everything like they have at home.”</p> - -<p>“Like what?” said Frances, though she had no education.</p> - -<p>“Like they have—well, if you are so particular, the same as they have -at home. There were three of one family—think! Not little nobodies, but -ladies and gentlemen. It is so nice of people not just poor people, -people of education, to send their children to the Sunday-school.”</p> - -<p>“New people?” said Frances.</p> - -<p>“Yes; tourists, I suppose. You all scoff at the tourists; but I think it -is very good for the place, and so pleasant for us to see a new face -from time to time. Why should they all go to Mentone? Mentone is so -towny, quite a big place. And papa says that in his time Nice was -everything, and that nobody had ever heard of Mentone.”</p> - -<p>“Who are the new people, Tasie?” Frances asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<p>“They are a large family—that is all I know; not likely to settle, -more’s the pity. Oh no. Quite <i>well</i> people, not even a delicate child,” -said Miss Durant, regretfully; “and such a nice domestic family, always -walking about together. Father and mother, and governess and six -children. They must be very well off, too, or they could not travel like -that, such a lot of them, and nurses—and I think I heard, a courier -too.” This, Miss Durant said in a tone of some emotion; for the place, -as has been said, was just beginning to be known, and the people who -came as yet were but pioneers.</p> - -<p>“I have seen them. I wonder who they are. My father——” said Frances; -and then stopped, and held her head on one side, to contemplate the -effect of the last touches on her drawing; but this was in reality -because it suddenly occurred to her that to publish her father’s -acquaintance with the stranger might be unwise.</p> - -<p>“Your father?” said Tasie. “Did he take any notice of them? I thought he -never took any notice of tourists. Haven’t you done those palms yet? -What a long time you are taking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> over them! Do you think you have got -the colour quite right on those stems? Nothing is so difficult to do as -palms, though they look so easy—except olives: olives are impossible. -But what were you going to say about your father? Papa says he has not -seen Mr Waring for ages. When will you come up to see us?”</p> - -<p>“It was only last Saturday, Tasie.”</p> - -<p>“——Week,” said Tasie. “Oh yes, I assure you; for I put it down in my -diary: Saturday week. You can’t quite tell how time goes, when you don’t -come to church. Without Sunday, all the days are alike. I wondered that -you were not at church last Sunday, Frances, and so did mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Why was it? I forget. I had a headache, I think. I never like to stay -away. But I went to church here in the village instead.”</p> - -<p>“O Frances, I wonder your papa lets you do that! It is much better when -you have a headache to stay at home. I am sure I don’t want to be -intolerant, but what good can it do you going there? You can’t -understand a word.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed I do—many words. Mariuccia has shown me all the places; -and it is good to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> see the people all saying their prayers. They are a -great deal more in earnest than the people down at the Marina, where it -would be just as natural to dance as to pray.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, dance!” said Tasie, with a little sigh. “You know there is never -anything of that kind here. I suppose you never was at a dance in your -life—unless it is in summer, when you go away?”</p> - -<p>“I have never been at a dance in my life. I have seen a ballet, that is -all.”</p> - -<p>“O Frances, please don’t talk of anything so wicked! A ballet! that is -very different from nice people dancing—from dancing one’s own self -with a nice partner. However, as we never do dance here, I can’t see why -you should say that about our church. It is a pity, to be sure, that we -have no right church; but it is a lovely room, and quite suitable. If -you would only practise the harmonium a little, so as to take the music -when I am away. I never can afford to have a headache on Sunday,” Miss -Durant added, in an injured tone.</p> - -<p>“But, Tasie, how could I take the harmonium, when I don’t even know how -to play?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I have offered to teach you, till I am tired, Frances. I wonder what -your papa thinks, if he calls it reasonable to leave you without any -accomplishments? You can draw a little, it is true; but you can’t bring -out your sketches in the drawing-room of an evening, to amuse people; -and you can always play——”</p> - -<p>“When you <i>can</i> play.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course that is what I mean—when you can play. It has quite -vexed me often to think how little trouble is taken about you; for you -can’t always be young, so young as you are now. And suppose some time -you should have to go home—to your friends, you know?”</p> - -<p>Frances raised her head from her drawing and looked her companion in the -face. “I don’t think we have any—friends,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, that must be nonsense!” cried Tasie. “I confess I have -never heard your papa talk of any. He never says ‘my brother,’ or ‘my -sister,’ or ‘my brother-in-law,’ as other people do—but then he is such -a very quiet man; and you must have somebody—cousins at least—you must -have cousins; nobody is without somebody,” Miss Durant said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose we must have cousins,” said Frances. “I had not thought -of it. But I don’t see that it matters much; for if my cousins are -surprised that I can’t play, it will not hurt them—they can’t be -considered responsible for me, you know.”</p> - -<p>Tasie looked at her with the look of one who would say much if she -could—wistfully and kindly, yet with something of the air of mingled -importance and reluctance with which the bearer of ill news hesitates -before opening his budget. She had indeed no actual ill news to tell, -only the burden of that fact of which everybody felt Frances should be -warned—that her father was looking more delicate than ever, and that -his “friends” ought to know. She would have liked to speak, and yet she -had not courage to do so. The girl’s calm consent that probably she must -have cousins was too much for any one’s patience. She never seemed to -think that one day she might have to be dependent on these cousins; she -never seemed to think—— But after all, it was Mr Waring’s fault. It -was not poor Frances that was to blame.</p> - -<p>“You know how often I have said to you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> that you ought to play, you -ought to be able to play. Supposing you have not any gift for it, still -you might be able to do a little. You could so easily get an old piano, -and I should like to teach you. It would not be a task at all. I should -like it. I do so wish you would begin. Drawing and languages depend a -great deal upon your own taste and upon your opportunities; but every -lady ought to play.”</p> - -<p>Tasie (or Anastasia, but that name was too long for anybody’s patience) -was a great deal older than Frances—so much older as to justify the -hyperbole that she might be her mother; but of this fact she herself was -not aware. It may seem absurd to say so, but yet it was true. She knew, -of course, how old she was, and how young Frances was; but her faculties -were of the kind which do not perceive differences. Tasie herself was -just as she had been at Frances’ age—the girl at home, the young lady -of the house. She had the same sort of occupations: to arrange the -flowers; to play the harmonium in the little colonial chapel; to look -after the little exotic Sunday-school; to take care of papa’s surplice; -to play a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> in the evenings when they “had people with them”; to -do fancy-work, and look out for such amusements as were going. It would -be cruel to say how long this condition of young-ladyhood had lasted, -especially as Tasie was a very good girl, kind, and friendly, and -simple-hearted, and thinking no evil.</p> - -<p>Some women chafe at the condition which keeps them still girls when they -are no longer girls; but Miss Durant had never taken it into her -consideration. She had a little more of the housekeeping to do, since -mamma had become so delicate; and she had a great deal to fill up her -time, and no leisure to think or inquire into her own position. It was -her position, and therefore the best position which any girl could have. -She had the satisfaction of being of the greatest use to her parents, -which is the thing of all others which a good child would naturally -desire. She talked to Frances without any notion of an immeasurable -distance between them, from the same level, though with a feeling that -the girl, by reason of having had no mother, poor thing, was lamentably -backward in many ways, and sadly blind,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> though that was natural, to the -hazard of her own position. What would become of her if Mr Waring died? -Tasie would sometimes grow quite anxious about this, declaring that she -could not sleep for thinking of it. If there were relations—as of -course there must be—she felt that they would think Frances sadly -deficient. To teach her to play was the only practical way in which she -could show her desire to benefit the girl, who, she thought, might -accept the suggestion from a girl like herself, when she might not have -done so from a more authoritative voice.</p> - -<p>Frances on her part accepted the suggestion with placidity, and replied -that she would think of it, and ask her father; and perhaps if she had -time—— But she did not really at all intend to learn music of Tasie. -She had no desire to know just as much as Tasie did, whose -accomplishments, as well as her age and her condition altogether, were -quite evident and clear to the young creature, whose eyes possessed the -unbiassed and distinct vision of youth. She appraised Miss Durant -exactly at her real value, as the young so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> constantly do, even when -they are quite submissive to the little conventional fables of life, and -never think of asserting their superior knowledge; but the conversation -was suggestive, and beguiled her mind into many new channels of thought. -The cousins unknown—should she ever be brought into intercourse with -them, and enter perhaps a kind of other world through their means—would -they think it strange that she knew so little, and could not play the -piano? Who were they? These thoughts circled vaguely in her mind through -all Tasie’s talk, and kept flitting out and in of her brain, even when -she removed to the tea-table and poured out some tea. Tasie always -admired the cups. She cried, “This is a new one, Frances. Oh, how lucky -you are! What pretty bits you have picked up!” with all the ardour of a -collector. And then she began to talk of the old Savona pots, which were -to be had so cheap, quite cheap, but which, she heard at home, were so -much thought of.</p> - -<p>Frances did not pay much attention to the discourse about the Savona -pots; she went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> on with her thoughts about the cousins, and when Miss -Durant went away, gave herself up entirely to those speculations. What -sort of people would they be? Where would they live? And then there -recurred to her mind the meeting of the morning, and what the stranger -said who knew her father. It was almost the first time she had ever seen -him meet any one whom he knew, except the acquaintances of recent times, -with whom she had made acquaintance, as he did. But the stranger of the -morning evidently knew about him in a period unknown to Frances. She had -made a slight and cautious attempt to find out something about him at -breakfast, but it had not been successful. She wondered whether she -would have courage to ask her father now in so many words who he was and -what he meant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">As</span> it turned out, Frances had not the courage. Mr Waring strolled into -the loggia shortly after Miss Durant had left her. He smiled when he -heard of her visit, and asked what news she had brought. Tasie was the -recognised channel for news, and seldom appeared without leaving some -little story behind her.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she had any news to-day, except that there had been a -great many at the Sunday-school last Sunday. Fancy, papa, twelve -children! She is quite excited about it.”</p> - -<p>“That is a triumph,” said Mr Waring, with a laugh. He stretched out his -long limbs from the low basket-chair in which he had placed himself. He -had relaxed a little altogether from the tension of the morning, feeling -himself secure and at his ease in his own house, where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> no one could -intrude upon him or call up ghosts of the past. The air was beyond -expression sweet and tranquillising, the sun going down in a mist of -glory behind the endless peaks and ridges that stretched away towards -the west, the sea lapping the shore with a soft cadence that was more -imagined than heard on the heights of the Punto, but yet added another -harmony to the scene. Near at hand a faint wind rustled the long leaves -of the palm-trees, and the pale olive woods lent a softness to the -landscape, tempering its radiance. Such a scene fills up the weary mind, -and has the blessed quality of arresting thought. It was good for the -breathing too—or at least so this invalid thought—and he was more -amiable than usual, with no harshness in voice or temper to introduce a -discord. “I am glad she was pleased,” he said. “Tasie is a good girl, -though not perhaps so much of a girl as she thinks. Why she goes in for -a Sunday-school where none is wanted, I can’t tell; but anyhow, I am -glad she is pleased. Where did they come from, the twelve children? Poor -little beggars, how sick of it they must have been!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A number of them belonged to that English family, papa——”</p> - -<p>“I suppose they must all belong to English families,” he said, calmly; -“the natives are not such fools.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa, I mean—the people we met—the people you knew.”</p> - -<p>He made no reply for a few minutes, and then he said calmly, “What an -ass the man must be, not only to travel with children, but to send them -to poor Tasie’s Sunday-school! You must do me the justice, Fan, to -acknowledge that I never attempted to treat you in that way.”</p> - -<p>“No; but, papa—perhaps the gentleman is a very religious man.”</p> - -<p>“And you don’t think I am? Well, perhaps I laid myself open to such a -retort.”</p> - -<p>“O papa!” Frances cried, with tears starting to her eyes, “you know I -could not mean that.”</p> - -<p>“If you take religion as meaning a life by rule, which is its true -meaning, you were right enough, my dear. That is what I never could do. -It might have been better for me if I had been more capable of it. It is -always better to put one’s self in harmony with received notions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> and -the prejudices of society. Tasie would not have her Sunday-school but -for that. It is the right thing. I think you have a leaning towards the -right thing, my little girl, yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like to be particular, papa, if that is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“Always keep to that,” her father said, with a smile. And then he opened -the book which he had been holding all this time in his hand. Such a -thing had happened, when Frances was in high spirits and very -courageous, as that she had pursued him even into his book; but it was a -very rare exercise of valour, and to-day she shrank from it. If she only -had the courage! But she had not the courage. She had given up her -drawing, for the sun no longer shone on the group of palms. She had no -book, and indeed at any time was not much given to reading, except when -a happy chance threw a novel into her hands. She watched the sun go down -by imperceptible degrees, yet not slowly, behind the mountains. When he -had quite disappeared, the landscape changed too; the air, as the -Italians say, grew brown; a little momentary chill breathed out of the -sky. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> is always depressing to a solitary watcher when this change -takes place.</p> - -<p>Frances was not apt to be depressed, but for the moment she felt lonely -and dull, and a great sense of monotony took hold upon her. It was like -this every night; it would be like this, so far as she knew, every night -to come, until perhaps she grew old, like Tasie, without becoming aware -that she had ceased to be a girl. It was not a cheering prospect. And -when there is any darkness or mystery surrounding one’s life, these are -just the circumstances to quicken curiosity, and turn it into something -graver, into an anxious desire to know. Frances did not know positively -that there was a mystery. She had no reason to think there was, she said -to herself. Her father preferred to live easily on the Riviera, instead -of living in a way that would trouble him at home. Perhaps the gentleman -they had met was a bore, and that was why Mr Waring avoided all mention -of him. He frequently thought people were bores, with whom Frances was -very well satisfied. Why should she think any more of it? Oh, how she -wished she had the courage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> to ask plainly and boldly, Who are we? Where -do we come from? Have we any friends? But she had not the courage. She -looked towards him, and trembled, imagining within herself what would be -the consequence if she interrupted his reading, plucked him out of the -quietude of the hour and of his book, and demanded an explanation—when -very likely there was no explanation! when, in all probability, -everything was quite simple, if she only knew.</p> - -<p>The evening passed as evenings generally did pass in the Palazzo. Mr -Waring talked a little at dinner quite pleasantly, and smoked a -cigarette in the loggia afterwards in great good-humour, telling Frances -various little stories of people he had known. This was a sign of high -satisfaction on his part, and very agreeable to her, and no doubt he was -entirely unaware of the perplexity in her mind and the questions she was -so desirous of asking. The air was peculiarly soft that evening, and he -sat in the loggia till the young moon set, with an overcoat on his -shoulders and a rug on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes -silent—in either way<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> a very agreeable companion. Frances had never -been cooped up in streets, or exposed to the chill of an English spring; -so she had not that keen sense of contrast which doubles the enjoyment -of a heavenly evening in such a heavenly locality. It was all quite -natural, common, and everyday to her; but no one could be indifferent to -the sheen of the young moon, to the soft circling of the darkness, and -the reflections on the sea. It was all very lovely, and yet there was -something wanting. What was wanting? She thought it was knowledge, -acquaintance with her own position, and relief from this strange -bewildering sensation of being cut off from the race altogether, which -had risen within her mind so quickly and with so little cause.</p> - -<p>But many beside Frances have felt the wistful call for happiness more -complete, which comes in the soft darkening of a summer night; and -probably it was not explanation, but something else, more common to -human nature, that she wanted. The voices of the peaceful people -outside, the old men and women who came out to sit on the benches upon -the Punto, or on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> stone seat under the wall of the Palazzo, and -compare their experiences, and enjoy the cool of the evening, sounded -pleasantly from below. There was a softened din of children playing, and -now and then a sudden rush of voices, when the young men who were -strolling about got excited in conversation, and stopped short in their -walk for the delivery of some sentence more emphatic than the rest; and -the mothers chattered over their babies, cooing and laughing. The babies -should have been in bed, Frances said to herself, half laughing, half -crying, in a sort of tender anger with them all for being so familiar -and so much at home. They were entirely at home where they were; they -knew everybody, and were known from father to son, and from mother to -daughter, all about them. They did not call a distant and unknown -country by that sweet name, nor was there one among them who had any -doubt as to where he or she was born. This thought made Frances sigh, -and then made her smile. After all, if that was all! And then she saw -that Domenico had brought the lamp into the <i>salone</i>, and that it was -time to go indoors.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span></p> - -<p>Next morning she went out between the early coffee and the mid-day -breakfast to do some little household business, on which, in -consideration that she was English and not bound by the laws that are so -hard and fast with Italian girls, Mariuccia consented to let her go -alone. It was very seldom that Mr Waring went out or indeed was visible -at that hour, the expedition of the former day being very exceptional. -Frances went down to the shops to do her little commissions for -Mariuccia. She even investigated the Savona pots of which Tasie had -spoken. In her circumstances, it was scarcely possible not to be more or -less of a collector. There is nobody in these regions who does not go -about with eyes open to anything there may be to “pick up.” And after -this she walked back through the olive woods, by those distracting -little terraces which lead the stranger so constantly out of his way, -but are quite simple to those who are to the manner born—until she -reached once more the broad piece of unshadowed road which leads up to -the old town. At the spot at which she and her father had met the -English family yesterday,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> she made a momentary pause, recalling all the -circumstances of the meeting, and what the stranger had said—“A fellow -that stuck by you all through.” All through what? she asked herself. As -she paused to make this little question, to which there was no response, -she heard a sound of voices coming from the upper side of the wood, -where the slopes rose high into more and more olive gardens. “Don’t -hurry along so; I’m coming,” some one said. Frances looked up, and her -heart jumped into her mouth as she perceived that it was once more the -English family whom she was about to meet on the same spot.</p> - -<p>The father was in advance this time, and he was hurrying down, she -thought, with the intention of addressing her. What should she do? She -knew very well what her father would have wished her to do; but probably -for that very reason a contradictory impulse arose in her. Without -doubt, she wanted to know what this man knew and could tell her. Not -that she would ask him anything; she was too proud for that. To betray -that she was not acquainted with her father’s affairs, that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> had to -go to a stranger for information, was a thing of which she was -incapable. But if he wished to speak to her—to send, perhaps, some -message to her father? Frances quieted her conscience in this way. She -was very anxious, excited by the sense that there was something to find -out; and if it was anything her father would not approve, why, then she -could shut it up in her own breast and never let him know it to trouble -him. And it was right at her age that she should know. All these -sophistries hurried through her mind more rapidly than lightning during -the moment in which she paused hesitating, and gave the large -Englishman, overwhelmed with the heat, and hurrying down the steep path -with his white umbrella over his head, time to make up to her. He was -rather out of breath, for though he had been coming down hill, and not -going up, the way was steep.</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring, Miss Waring!” he cried as he approached, “how is your -father? I want to ask for your father,” taking off his straw hat and -exposing his flushed countenance under the shadow of the green-lined -umbrella, which en<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span>hanced all its ruddy tints. Then, as he came within -reach of her, he added hastily, “I am so glad I have met you. How is he? -for he did not give me any address.”</p> - -<p>“Papa is quite well, thank you,” said Frances, with the habitual -response of a child.</p> - -<p>“Quite well? Oh, that is a great deal more than I expected to hear. He -was not quite well yesterday, I am sure. He is dreadfully changed. It -was a sort of guesswork my recognising him at all. He used to be such a -powerful-made man. Is it pulmonary? I suspect it must be something of -the kind, he has so wasted away.”</p> - -<p>“Pulmonary? Indeed I don’t know. He has a little asthma sometimes. And -of course he is very thin,” said Frances; “but that does not mean -anything; he is quite well.”</p> - -<p>The stranger shook his head. He had taken the opportunity to wipe it -with a large white handkerchief, and had made his bald forehead look -redder than ever. “I shouldn’t like to alarm you,” he said—“I wouldn’t, -for all the world; but I hope you have trustworthy advice? These Italian -doctors, they are not much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> to be trusted. You should get a real good -English doctor to come and have a look at him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed, it is only asthma; he is well enough, quite well, not -anything the matter with him,” Frances protested. The large stranger -stood and smiled compassionately upon her, still shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“Mary,” he said—“here, my dear! This is Miss Waring. She says her -father is quite well, poor thing. I am telling her I am so very glad we -have met her, for Waring did not leave me any address.”</p> - -<p>“How do you do, my dear?” said the stout lady—not much less red than -her husband—who had also hurried down the steep path to meet Frances. -“And your father is quite well? I am so glad. We thought him looking -rather—thin; not so strong as he used to look.”</p> - -<p>“But then,” added her husband, “it is such a long time since we have -seen him, and he never was very stout. I hope, if you will pardon me for -asking, that things have been smoothed down between him and the rest of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> -the family? When I say ‘smoothed down,’ I mean set on a better -footing—more friendly, more harmonious. I am very glad I have seen you, -to inquire privately; for one never knows how far to go with a man of -his—well—peculiar temper.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that, George. You must not think, my dear, that Mr Mannering -means anything that is not quite nice, and friendly, and respectful to -your papa. It is only out of kindness that he asks. Your poor papa has -been much tried. I am sure he has always had my sympathy, and my -husband’s too. Mr Mannering only means that he hopes things are more -comfortable between your father and—— Which is so much to be desired -for everybody’s sake.”</p> - -<p>The poor girl stood and stared at them with large, round, widely opening -eyes, with the wondering stare of a child. There had been a little -half-mischievous, half-anxious longing in her mind to find out what -these strangers knew; but now she came to herself suddenly, and felt as -a traveller feels who all at once pulls himself up on the edge of a -precipice. What<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> was this pitfall which she had nearly stumbled into, -this rent from the past which was so great and so complete that she had -never heard of it, never guessed it? Fright seized upon her, and dismay, -and, what probably stood her in more stead for the moment, a stinging -sensation of wounded pride, which brought the colour burning to her -cheeks. Must she let these people find out that she knew nothing, at her -age—that her father had never confided in her at all—that she could -not even form an idea what they were talking about? She had pleased -herself with the possibility of some little easy discovery—of finding -out, perhaps, something about the cousins whom it seemed certain, -according to Tasie, every one must possess, whether they were aware of -it or not—some little revelation of origin and connections such as -could do nobody any harm. But when she woke up suddenly to find herself -as it were upon the edge of a chasm which had split her father’s life in -two, the young creature trembled. She was frightened beyond measure by -this unexpected contingency; she dared not listen to another word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, “I am afraid I have no time -to stop and talk. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast. I will tell -him you—asked for him.”</p> - -<p>“Give him our love,” said the lady. “Indeed, George, she is quite right; -we must hurry too, or we shall be too late for the <i>table d’hôte</i>.”</p> - -<p>“But I have not got the address,” said the husband. Frances made a -little curtsey, as she had been taught, and waved her hand as she -hurried away. He thought that she had not understood him. “Where do you -live?” he called after her as she hastened along. She pointed towards -the height of the little town, and alarmed for she knew not what, lest -he should follow her, lest he should call something after her which she -ought not to hear, fled along towards the steep ascent. She could hear -the voices behind her slightly elevated talking to each other, and then -the sound of the children rattling down the stony course of the higher -road, and the quick question and answer as they rejoined their parents. -Then gradually everything relapsed into silence as the party -disappeared. When she heard the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> voices no longer, Frances began to -regret that she had been so hasty. She paused for a moment, and looked -back; but already the family were almost out of sight, the solid figures -which led the procession indistinguishable from the little ones who -straggled behind. Whether it might have been well or ill to take -advantage of the chance, it was now over. She arrived at the Palazzo out -of breath, and found Domenico at the door, looking out anxiously for -her. “The signorina is late,” he said, very gravely; “the padrone has -almost had to wait for his breakfast.” Domenico was quite original, and -did not know that such a terrible possibility had threatened any -illustrious personage before.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was natural that this occurrence should take a great hold of the -girl’s mind. It was not the first time that she had speculated -concerning their life. A life which one has always lived, indeed, the -conditions of which have been familiar and inevitable since childhood, -is not a matter which awakens questions in the mind. However -extraordinary its conditions may be, they are natural—they are life to -the young soul which has had no choice in the matter. Still there are -curiosities which will arise. General Gaunt foamed at the mouth when he -talked of the way in which he had been treated by the people “at home”; -but still he went “home” in the summer as a matter of course. And as for -the Durants, it was a subject of the fondest consideration with them -when they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> could afford themselves that greatest of delights. They all -talked about the cold, the fogs, the pleasure of getting back to the -sunshine when they returned; but this made no difference in the fact -that to go home was their thought all the year, and the most salient -point in their lives. “Why do we never go home?” Frances had often asked -herself. And both these families, and all the people to whom she had -ever talked, the strangers who went and came, and those whom they met in -the rambles which the Warings, too, were forced to take in the hot -weather, when the mistral was blowing—talked continually of their -county, of their parish, of their village, of where they lived, and -where they had been born. But on these points Mr Waring never said a -word. And whereas Mrs Gaunt could talk of nothing but her family, who -were scattered all over the world, and the Durants met people they knew -at every turn, the Warings knew nobody, had no relations, no house at -home, and apparently had been born nowhere in particular, as Frances -sometimes said to herself with more annoyance than humour. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span>times -she wondered whether she had ever had a mother.</p> - -<p>These thoughts, indeed, occurred but fitfully now and then, when some -incident brought more forcibly than usual under her notice the -difference between herself and others. She did not brood over them, her -life being quite pleasant and comfortable to herself, and no necessity -laid upon her to elucidate its dimnesses. But yet they came across her -mind from time to time. She had not been brought face to face with any -old friend of her father’s, that she could remember, until now. She had -never heard any question raised about his past life. And yet no doubt he -had a past life, like every other man, and there was something in -it—something, she could not guess what, which had made him unlike other -men.</p> - -<p>Frances had a great deal of self-command. She did not betray her -agitation to her father; she did not ask him any questions; she told him -about the greengrocer and the fisherman, these two important agents in -the life of the Riviera, and of what she had seen in the Marina, even -the Savona pots; but she did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> not disturb his meal and his digestion by -any reference to the English strangers. She postponed until she had time -to think of it, all reference to this second meeting. She had by -instinct made no reply to the question about where she lived; but she -knew that there would be no difficulty in discovering that, and that her -father might be subject at any moment to invasion by this old -acquaintance, whom he had evidently no desire to see. What should she -do? The whole matter wanted thought. Whether she should ask him what to -do; whether she should take it upon herself; whether she should disclose -to him her newborn curiosity and anxiety, or conceal them in her own -bosom; whether she should tell him frankly what she felt—that she was -worthy to be trusted, and that it was the right of his only child to be -prepared for all emergencies, and to be acquainted with her family and -her antecedents, if not with his,—all these were things to be thought -over. Surely she had a right, if any one had a right. But she would not -stand upon that.</p> - -<p>She sat by herself all day and thought, put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span>ting forward all the -arguments on either side. If there was, as there might be, something -wrong in that past—something guilty, which might make her look on her -father with different eyes, he had a right to be silent, and she no -right, none whatever, to insist upon such a revelation. And what end -would it serve? If she had relations or a family from whom she had been -separated, would not the revelation fill her with eager desire to know -them, and open a fountain of dissatisfaction and discontent in her life -if she were not permitted to do so? Would she not chafe at the -banishment if she found out that somewhere there was a home, that she -had “belongings” like all the rest of the world? These were little -feeble barriers which she set up against the strong tide of -consciousness in her that she was to be trusted, that she ought to know. -Whatever it was, and however she might bear it, was it not true that she -ought to know? She was not a fool or a child. Frances knew that her -eighteen years had brought more experience, more sense to her, than -Tasie’s forty; that she was capable of understanding, capable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> of -keeping a secret—and was it not her own secret, the explanation of the -enigma of her life as well as of his?</p> - -<p>This course of reflection went on in her mind until the evening, and it -was somewhat quickened by a little conversation which she had in the -afternoon with the servants. Domenico was going out. It was early in the -afternoon, the moment of leisure, when one meal with all its -responsibilities was over, and the second great event of the day, the -dinner, not yet imminent. It was the hour when Mariuccia sat in the -ante-room and did her sewing, her mending, her knitting—whatever was -wanted. This was a large and lofty room—not very light, with a great -window looking out only into the court of the Palazzo—in which stood a -long table and a few tall chairs. The smaller ante-room, from which the -long suite of rooms opened on either side, communicated with this, as -did also the corridor, which ran all the length of the house, and the -kitchen and its appendages on the other side. There is always abundance -of space of this kind in every old Italian house. Here Mariuccia -established her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span>self whenever she was free to leave her cooking and her -kitchen-work. She was a comely middle-aged woman, with a dark gown, a -white apron, a little shawl on her shoulders, large earrings, and a gold -cross at her neck, which was a little more visible than is common with -Englishwomen of her class. Her hair was crisp and curly, and never had -been covered with anything, save, when she went to church, a shawl or -veil; and Mariuccia’s olive complexion and ruddy tint feared no -encounter of the sun. Domenico was tall, and spare, and brown, a grave -man with little jest in him; but his wife was always ready to laugh. He -came out hat in hand while Frances stood by the table inspecting -Mariuccia’s work. “I am going out,” he said; “and this is the hour when -the English gentlefolks pay visits. See that thou remember what the -padrone said.”</p> - -<p>“What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her ears.</p> - -<p>“Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico.</p> - -<p>“That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa expecting a -visit? What did he say?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, “all that -is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, some for the -family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife, calmly. “Why shouldn’t the -dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, my soul—only that -the padrone does not receive, and again that he does not receive, and -that he never receives. I must repeat this till the Ave Maria, if -necessary, till the strangers accept it and go away.”</p> - -<p>“Are these special orders?” said Frances, “or has it always been so? I -don’t think that it has always been so.”</p> - -<p>Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a -half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not -involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken upon -her.</p> - -<p>“<i>Carina</i>, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the -spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself -Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to -disturb the signor pa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span>drone! That would be impossible. It appears, -however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the -padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no -secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is -not very wise. <i>Che!</i> you know that as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention—if -he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means -when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone -out; he is not at home.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Che! che! che!</i>” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be -a lie.”</p> - -<p>Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said, with a troubled -look; “but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come in all the -same.”</p> - -<p>“He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a cheerful -laugh, standing square and solid against the door.</p> - -<p>This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not go on -with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> in her hand, and -the colour growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. It was very -certain, then, that her father would not expose himself to another -meeting with the strangers who called themselves his friends—innocent -people who would not harm any one, Frances was sure. They were -tourists—that was evident; and they might be vulgar—that was possible. -But she was sure that there was no harm in them. It could only be that -her father was resolute to shut out his past, and let no one know what -had been. This gave her an additional impulse, instead of -discouragement. If it was so serious, and he so determined, then surely -there must be something that she, his only child, ought to know. She -waited till the evening with a gradually growing excitement; but not -until after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so -slowly and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the -day was over. It could not put him out, or spoil his appetite, or risk -his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but after -consideration, Frances did not think that a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> serious matter, -probably because she had never known what it was to pass a wakeful -night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and care.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something Tasie was -saying.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.”</p> - -<p>“Not serious, perhaps; but—— she wants to teach me to play.”</p> - -<p>“To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always heard she was -excellent at both.”</p> - -<p>“These are games, papa,” said Frances, with a touch of severity. “She -means the piano, which is very different.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Mr Waring, taking the cigarette from his lips and sending a -larger puff of smoke into the dim air; “very different indeed, Frances. -It is anything but a game to hear Miss Tasie play.”</p> - -<p>“She says,” continued Frances, with a certain constriction in her -throat, “that every lady is expected to play—to play a little at least, -even if she has not much taste for it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> She thinks when we go home—that -all our relations will be so surprised——”</p> - -<p>She stopped, having no breath to go further, and watched as well as she -could, through the dimness and through the mist of agitation in her own -eyes, her father’s face. He made no sign; he did not disturb even the -easy balance of his foot, stretched out along the pavement. After -another pause, he said in the same indifferent tone, “As we are not -going home, and as you have no relations in particular, I don’t think -your friend’s argument is very strong. Do you?”</p> - -<p>“O papa, I don’t want indeed to be inquisitive or trouble you, but I -should like to know!”</p> - -<p>“What?” he said, with the same composure. “If I think that a lady, -whether she has any musical taste or not, ought to play? Well, that is a -very simple question. I don’t, whatever Miss Tasie may say.”</p> - -<p>“It is not that,” Frances said, regaining a little control of herself. -“I said I did not know of any relations we had. But Tasie said there -must be cousins; we must have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> cousins—everybody has cousins. That is -true, is it not?”</p> - -<p>“In most cases, certainly,” Mr Waring said; “and a great nuisance too.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think it would be a nuisance to have people about one’s own -age, belonging to one—not strangers—people who were interested in you, -to whom you could say anything. Brothers and sisters, that would be the -best; but cousins—I think, papa, cousins would be very nice.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you, if you like, of one cousin you have,” her father said.</p> - -<p>The heart of Frances swelled as if it would leap out of her breast. She -put her hands together, turning full round upon him in an attitude of -supplication and delight. “O papa!” she cried with enthusiasm, -breathless for his next word.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, if you wish it, Frances. He is in reality your first-cousin. -He is fifty. He is a great sufferer from gout. He has lived so well in -the early part of his life, that he is condemned to slops now, and -spends most of his time in an easy-chair. He has the temper of a demon, -and swears at everybody that comes near him. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> is very red in the -face, very bleared about the eyes, very——”</p> - -<p>“O papa!” she cried, in a very different tone. She was so much -disappointed, that the sudden downfall had almost a physical effect upon -her, as if she had fallen from a height. Her father laughed softly while -she gathered all her strength together to regain command of herself, and -the laugh had a jarring effect upon her nerves, of which she had never -been conscious till now.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose that he would care much whether you played the piano or -not; or that you would care much, my dear, what he thought.”</p> - -<p>“For all that, papa,” said Frances, recovering herself, “it is a little -interesting to know there is somebody, even if he is not at all what one -thought. Where does he live, and what is his name? That will give me one -little landmark in England, where there is none now.”</p> - -<p>“Not a very reasonable satisfaction,” said her father lazily, but -without any other reply. “In my life, I have always found relations a -nuisance. Happy are they who have none; and next best is to cast them -off and do without them. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> a matter of fact, it is every one for -himself in this world.”</p> - -<p>Frances was silenced, though not convinced. She looked with some anxiety -at the outline of her father’s spare and lengthy figure laid out in the -basket-chair, one foot moving slightly, which was a habit he had, the -whole extended in perfect rest and calm. He was not angry, he was not -disturbed. The questions which she had put with so much mental -perturbation had not affected him at all. She felt that she might dare -further without fear.</p> - -<p>“When I was out to-day,” she said, faltering a little, “I met—that -gentleman again.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Mr Waring—no more; but he ceased to shake his foot, and -turned towards her the merest hair’s-breadth, so little that it was -impossible to say he had moved, and yet there was a change.</p> - -<p>“And the lady,” said Frances, breathless. “I am sure they wanted to be -kind. They asked me a great many questions.”</p> - -<p>He gave a faint laugh, but it was not without a little quiver in it. -“What a good thing that you could not answer them!” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do you think so, papa? I was rather unhappy. It looked as if you could -not trust me. I should have been ashamed to say I did not know; which is -the truth—for I know nothing, not so much as where I was born!” cried -the girl. “It is very humiliating, when you are asked about your own -father, to say you don’t know. So I said it was time for breakfast, and -you would be waiting; and ran away.”</p> - -<p>“The best thing you could have done, my dear. Discretion in a woman, or -a girl, is always the better part of valour. I think you got out of it -very cleverly,” Mr Waring said.</p> - -<p>And that was all. He did not seem to think another word was needed. He -did not even rise and go away, as Frances had known him to do when the -conversation was not to his mind. She could not see his face, but his -attitude was unchanged. He had recovered his calm, if there had ever -been any disturbance of it. But as for Frances, her heart was thumping -against her breast, her pulses beating in her ears, her lips parched and -dry. “I wish,” she cried, “oh, I wish you would tell me something, papa! -Do you think I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> talk of things you don’t want talked about? I am -not a child any longer; and I am not silly, as perhaps you think.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, my dear,” said Mr Waring, “I think you are often very -sensible.”</p> - -<p>“Papa! oh, how can you say that, how can you say such things—and then -leave me as if I were a baby, knowing nothing!”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” he said (with the sound of a smile in his voice, she thought -to herself), “you are very hard to please. Must not I say that you are -sensible? I think it is the highest compliment I can pay you.”</p> - -<p>“O papa!” Disappointment, and mortification, and the keen sense of being -fooled, which is so miserable to the young, took her very breath away. -The exasperation with which we discover that not only is no explanation, -no confidence to be given us, but the very occasion for it ignored, and -our anxiety baffled by a smile—a mortification to which women are so -often subject—flooded her being. She had hard ado not to burst into -angry tears, not to betray the sense of cruelty and injustice which -overwhelmed her; but who could have seen any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> injustice or cruelty in -the gentleness of his tone, his soft reply? Frances subdued herself as -best she could in her dark corner of the loggia, glad at least that he -could not see the spasm that passed over her, the acute misery and -irritation of her spirit. It would be strange if he did not divine -something of what was going on within her: but he took no notice. He -began in the same tone, as if one theme was quite as important as the -other, to remark upon the unusual heaviness of the clouds which hid the -moon. “If we were in England, I should say there was a storm brewing,” -he said. “Even here, I think we shall have some rain. Don’t you feel -that little creep in the air, something sinister, as if there was a bad -angel about? And Domenico, I see, has brought the lamp. I vote we go -in.”</p> - -<p>“Are there any bad angels?” she cried, to give her impatience vent.</p> - -<p>He had risen up, and stood swaying indolently from one foot to the -other. “Bad angels? Oh yes,” he said; “abundance; very different from -devils, who are honest—like the fiends in the pictures, unmistakable. -The others, you know, deceive. Don’t you remember?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span>—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘How there looked him in the face<br /></span> -<span class="i3">An angel beautiful and bright;<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And how he knew it was a fiend,<br /></span> -<span class="i3">That miserable knight.’<span class="lftspc">”</span><br /></span> -</div></div></div> - -<p class="nind">He turned and went into the <i>salone</i>, repeating these words in an -undertone to himself. But there was in his face none of the bitterness -or horror with which they must have been said by one who had ever in his -own person made that discovery. He was quite calm, meditative, marking -with a slight intonation and movement of his head the cadence of the -poetry.</p> - -<p>Frances stayed behind in the darkness. She had not the practice which we -acquire in later life; she could not hide the excitement which was still -coursing through her veins. She went to the corner of the loggia which -was nearest the sea, and caught in her face the rush of the rising -breeze, which flung at her the first drops of the coming rain. A storm -on that soft coast is a welcome break in the monotony of the clear skies -and unchanging calm. After a while her father called to her that the -rain was coming in, that the windows must be shut; and she hurried in, -brushing by Domenico, who had come to close everything up, and who -looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> at her reproachfully as she rushed past him. She came behind her -father’s chair and leaned over to kiss him. “I have got a little wet, -and I think I had better go to bed,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, surely, if you wish it, my dear,” said Mr Waring. Something moist -had touched his forehead, which was too warm to be rain. He waited -politely till she had gone before he wiped it off. It was the edge of a -tear, hot, miserable, full of anger as well as pain, which had made that -mark upon his high white forehead. It made him pause for a minute or two -in his reading. “Poor little girl!” he said, with a sigh. Perhaps he was -not so insensible as he seemed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is a common impression that happiness and unhappiness are permanent -states of mind, and that for long tracts of our lives we are under the -continuous sway of one or other of these conditions. But this is almost -always a mistake, save in the case of grief, which is perhaps the only -emotion which is beyond the reach of the momentary lightenings and -alleviations and perpetual vicissitudes of life. Death, and the pangs of -separation from those we love, are permanent, at least for their time; -but in everything else there is an ebb and flow which keeps the heart -alive. When Frances Waring told the story of this period of her life, -she represented herself unconsciously as having been oppressed by the -mystery that over-shadowed her, and as having lost all the ease<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> of her -young life prematurely in a sudden encounter with shadows unsuspected -before. But as a matter of fact, this was not the case. She had a bad -night—that is, she cried herself asleep; but once over the boundary -which divides our waking thoughts from the visions of the night, she -knew no more till the sun came in and woke her to a very cheerful -morning. It is true that care made several partially successful assaults -upon her that day and for several days after. But as everything went on -quite calmly and peacefully, the impression wore off. The English family -found out, as was inevitable, where Mr Waring lived, without any -difficulty; and first the father came, then the mother, and finally the -pair together, to call. Frances, to whom a breach of decorum or civility -was pain unspeakable, sat trembling and ashamed in the deepest corner of -the loggia, while these kind strangers encountered Mariuccia at the -door. The scene, as a matter of fact, was rather comic than tragic, for -neither the visitors nor the guardian of the house possessed any -language but their own; and Mr and Mrs Mannering had as little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> -understanding of the statement that Mr Waring did not “receive” as -Frances had expected.</p> - -<p>“But he is in—<i>è in casa</i>—<i>è</i> <small>IN</small>?” said the worthy Englishman. “Then, -my dear, of course it is only a mistake. When he knows who we are—when -he has our names——”</p> - -<p>“<i>Non riceve oggi</i>,” said Mariuccia, setting her sturdy breadth in the -doorway; “<i>oggi non riceve il signore</i>” (The master does not receive -to-day).</p> - -<p>“But he is in?” repeated the bewildered good people. They could have -understood “Not at home,” which to Mariuccia would have been simply a -lie—with which indeed, had need been, or could it have done the padrone -any good, she would have burdened her conscience as lightly as any one. -But why, when it was not in the least necessary?</p> - -<p>Thus they played their little game at cross-purposes, while Frances sat, -hot and red with shame, in her corner, sensible to the bottom of her -heart of the discourtesy, the unkindness, of turning them from the door. -They were her father’s friends; they claimed to have “stuck by him -through thick and thin;” they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> were people who knew about him, and all -that he belonged to, and the conditions of his former life; and yet they -were turned from his door!</p> - -<p>She did not venture to go out again for some days, except in the -evening, when she knew that all the strangers were at the inevitable -<i>table d’hôte</i>; and it was with a sigh of relief, yet disappointment, -that she heard they had gone away. Yes, at last they did go away, angry, -no doubt, thinking her father a churl, and she herself an ignorant -rustic, who knew nothing about good manners. Of course this was what -they must think. Frances heard those words, “<i>Non riceve oggi</i>,” even in -her dreams. She saw in imagination the astonished faces of the visitors. -“But he will receive us, if you will only take in our names;” and then -Mariuccia’s steady voice repeating the well-known phrase. What must they -have thought? That it was an insult—that their old friend scorned and -defied them. What else could they suppose?</p> - -<p>They departed, however, and Frances got over it: and everything went on -as before;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> her father was just as usual—a sphinx indeed, more and more -hopelessly wrapped up in silence and mystery, but so natural and easy -and kind in his uncommunicativeness, with so little appearance of -repression or concealment about him, that it was almost impossible to -retain any feeling of injury or displeasure. Love is cheated every day -in this way by offenders much more serious, who can make their -dependants happy even while they are ruining them, and beguile the -bitterest anxiety into forgetfulness and smiles. It was easy to make -Frances forget the sudden access of wonderment and wounded feeling which -had seized her, even without any special exertion; time alone and the -calm succession of the days were enough for that. She resumed her little -picture of the palms, and was very successful—more than usually so. Mr -Waring, who had hitherto praised her little works as he might have -praised the sampler of a child, was silenced by this, and took it away -with him into his room, and when he brought it back, looked at her with -more attention than he had been used to show. “I think,” he said, -“little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> Fan, that you must be growing up,” laying his hand upon her -head with a smile.</p> - -<p>“I am grown up, papa; I am eighteen,” she said.</p> - -<p>At which he laughed softly. “I don’t think much of your eighteen; but -this shows. I should not wonder, with time and work, if—you mightn’t be -good enough to exhibit at Mentone—after a while.”</p> - -<p>Frances had been looking at him with an expression of almost rapturous -expectation. The poor little countenance fell at this, and a quick sting -of mortification brought tears to her eyes. The exhibition at Mentone -was an exhibition of amateurs. Tasie was in it, and even Mrs Gaunt, and -all the people about who ever spoilt a piece of harmless paper. “O -papa!” she said. Since the failure of her late appeal to him, this was -the only formula of reproach which she used.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “are you more ambitious than that, you little thing? -Perhaps, by-and-by, you may be fit even for better things.”</p> - -<p>“It is beautiful,” said Mariuccia. “You see where the light goes, and -where it is in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> shade. But, <i>carina</i>, if you were to copy the face -of Domenico, or even mine, that would be more interesting. The palms we -can see if we look out of the window; but imagine to yourself that -’Menico might go away, or even might die; and we should not miss him so -much if we had his face hung up upon the wall.”</p> - -<p>“It is easier to do the trees than to do Domenico,” said Frances; “they -stand still.”</p> - -<p>“And so would ’Menico stand still, if it was to please the signorina—he -is not very well educated, but he knows enough for that; or I myself, -though you will think, perhaps, I am too old to make a pretty picture. -But if I had my veil on, and my best earrings, and the coral my mother -left me——”</p> - -<p>“You look very nice, Mariuccia—I like you as you are; but I am not -clever enough to make a portrait.”</p> - -<p>Mariuccia cried out with scorn. “You are clever enough to do whatever -you wish to do,” she said. “The padrone thinks so too, though he will -not say it. Not clever enough! <i>Magari!</i> too clever is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>Frances set up her palms on a little stand of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> carved wood, and was very -well pleased with herself; but that sentiment palls perhaps sooner than -any other. It was very agreeable to be praised, and also it was pleasant -to feel that she had finished her work successfully. But after a short -time it began to be a great subject of regret that the work was done. -She did not know what to do next. To make a portrait of Domenico was -above her powers. She idled about for the day, and found it -uncomfortable. That is the moment in which it is most desirable to have -a friend on whom to bestow one’s tediousness. She bethought herself that -she had not seen Tasie for a week. It was now more than a fortnight -since the events detailed in the beginning of this history. Her father, -when asked if he would not like a walk, declined. It was too warm, or -too cold, or perhaps too dusty, which was very true; and accordingly she -set out alone.</p> - -<p>Walking down through the Marina, the little tourist town which was -rising upon the shore, she saw some parties of travellers arriving, -which always had been a little pleasure to her. It was mingled now with -a certain excitement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> Perhaps some of them, like those who had just -gone away, might know all about her, more than she knew herself—what a -strange thought it was!—some of those unknown people in their -travelling cloaks, which looked so much too warm—people whom she had -never seen before, who had not a notion that she was Frances Waring! One -of the parties was composed of ladies, surrounded and enveloped, so to -speak, by a venerable courier, who swept them and their possessions -before him into the hotel. Another was led by a father and mother, not -at all unlike the pair who had “stuck by” Mr Waring. How strange to -imagine that they might not be strangers at all, but people who knew all -about her!</p> - -<p>In the first group was a girl, who hung back a little from the rest, and -looked curiously up at all the houses, as if looking for some one—a -tall, fair-haired girl, with a blue veil tied over her hat. She looked -tired, but eager, with more interest in her face than any of the others -showed. Frances smiled to herself with the half-superiority which a -resident is apt to feel: a girl must be very simple indeed, if she -thought the houses<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> on the Marina worth looking at, Frances thought. But -she did not pause in her quick walk. The Durants lived at the other end -of the Marina, in a little villa built upon a terrace over an olive -garden—a low house with no particular beauty, but possessing also a -loggia turned to the west, the luxury of building on the Riviera. Here -the whole family were seated, the old clergyman with a large English -newspaper, which he was reading deliberately from end to end; his wife -with a work-basket full of articles to mend; and Tasie at the little -tea-table, pouring out the tea. Frances was received with a little -clamour of satisfaction, for she was a favourite.</p> - -<p>“Sit here, my dear.” “Come this way, close to me, for you know I am -getting a little hard of hearing.”</p> - -<p>They had always been kind to her, but never, she thought, had she been -received with so much cordiality as now.</p> - -<p>“Have you come by yourself, Frances? and along the Marina? I think you -should make Domenico or his wife walk with you, when you go through the -Marina, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Why, Mrs Durant? I have always done it. Even Mariuccia says it does -not matter, as I am an English girl.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that may be true; but English girls are not like American girls. I -assure you they are taken a great deal more care of. If you ever go -home——”</p> - -<p>“And how is your poor father to-day, Frances?” said Mrs Durant.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa is very well. He is not such a poor father. There is nothing -the matter with him. At least, there is nothing <i>new</i> the matter with -him,” said Frances, with a little impatience.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the clergyman, looking up over the top of his spectacles and -shaking his head. “Nothing <i>new</i> the matter with him. I believe that.”</p> - -<p>“——If you ever go home,” resumed Mrs Durant; “and of course some time -you will go home——”</p> - -<p>“I think very likely I never shall,” said the girl. “Papa never talks of -going home. He says home is here.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well for the present moment, my dear; but I feel sure, -for my part, that one time or other it will happen as I say;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> and then -you must not let them suppose you have been a little savage, going about -as you liked here.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think any one would care much, Mrs Durant; and I am not going; -so you need not be afraid.”</p> - -<p>“Your poor father,” Mr Durant went on in his turn, “has a great deal of -self-command, Frances; he has a great deal of self-control. In some -ways, that is an excellent quality, but it may be carried too far. I -wish very much he would allow me to come and have a talk with him—not -as a clergyman, but just in a friendly way.”</p> - -<p>“I am quite sure you may come and talk with him as much as you like,” -said Frances, astonished; “or if you want very much to see him, he will -come to you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I should not take it upon me to ask that—in the meantime,” Mr -Durant said.</p> - -<p>The girl stared a little, but asked no further questions. There was -something among them which she did not understand—a look of curiosity, -an air of meaning more than their words said. The Durants were always a -little apt to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> didactic, as became a clergyman’s family; but Tasie -was generally a safe refuge. Frances turned to her with a little sigh of -perplexity, hoping to escape further question. “Was the Sunday-school as -large last Sunday, Tasie?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Frances, no! Such a disappointment! There were only four! Isn’t it -a pity? But you see the little Mannerings have all gone away. Such sweet -children! and the little one of all has such a voice. They are perhaps -coming back for Easter, if they don’t stay at Rome; and if so, I think -we must put little Herbert in a white surplice—he will look like an -angel—and have a real anthem with a soprano solo, for once.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt if they will all come back,” said Mr Durant. “Mr Mannering -himself indeed, I don’t doubt, <i>on business</i>; but as for the family, you -must not flatter yourself, Tasie.”</p> - -<p>“<i>She</i> liked the place,” said his wife; “and very likely she would think -it her duty, if anything is to come of it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Be careful,” said the clergyman, with a glance aside, which Frances -would have been dull indeed not to have perceived was directed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> at -herself. “Don’t say anything that may be premature.”</p> - -<p>Frances was brave in her way. She felt, with a little rising excitement, -that her friends were bursting with some piece of knowledge which they -were longing to communicate. It roused in her an impatience and -reluctance mingled with keen curiosity. She would not hear it, and yet -was breathless with impatience to know what it was.</p> - -<p>“Mr Mannering?” she said, deliberately—“that was the gentleman that -knew papa.”</p> - -<p>“You saw him, then?” cried Mrs Durant. There was something like a faint -disappointment in her tone.</p> - -<p>“He was one of papa’s early friends,” said Frances, with a little -emphasis. “I saw him twice. He and his wife both; they seemed kind -people.”</p> - -<p>Mr Durant and his wife looked at each other, and even Tasie stared over -her teacups. “Oh, very kind people, my dear; I don’t think you could do -better than have full confidence in them,” Mrs Durant said.</p> - -<p>“And your poor father could not have a truer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> friend,” said the old -clergyman. “You must tell him I am coming to have a talk with him about -it. It was a great revelation, but I hope that everything will turn out -for the best.”</p> - -<p>Frances grew redder and redder as she sat a mark for all their arrows. -What was it that was a “revelation”? But she would not ask. She began to -be angry, and to say to herself that she would put her hands to her -ears, that she would listen to nothing.</p> - -<p>“Henry!” said Mrs Durant, “who is it that is premature now?”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I can’t stay,” said Frances, rising quickly from her chair. -“I have something to do for Mariuccia. I only came in because—because I -was passing. Never mind, Tasie; I know my way so well; and Mr Durant -wants some more tea.”</p> - -<p>“Oh but, Frances, my dear, you really must let me send some one with -you. You must not move about in that independent way.”</p> - -<p>“And we had a great many things to say to you,” said the old clergyman, -keeping her hand in his. “Are you really in such a hurry? It will be -better for yourself to wait a little,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> and hear something that will be -for your good.”</p> - -<p>“It cannot be any worse for me to run about to-day than any other day,” -said Frances, almost sternly; “and whatever there is to hear, won’t -to-morrow do just as well? I think it is a little funny of you all to -speak to me so; but now I must go.”</p> - -<p>She was so rapid in her movements that she was gone before Tasie could -extricate herself from the somewhat crazy little table. And then they -all three looked at each other and shook their heads. “Do you think she -can know?” “Can she have known it all the time?” “Has Waring told her, -or was it Mannering?” they said to each other.</p> - -<p>Frances could not hear their mutual questions, but something very like -the purport of them got into her agitated brain. She felt sure they were -wondering whether she knew—what? this revelation, this something which -they had found out. Nothing would make her submit to hear it from them, -she said to herself. But the moment was come when she could not be put -off any longer. She would go to her father,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> and she would not rest -until she was informed what it was.</p> - -<p>She hastened along, avoiding the Marina, which had amused her on her -way, hurrying from terrace to terrace of the olive groves. Her heart was -beating fast, and her rapid pace made it faster. But as she thought of -her father’s unperturbed looks, the calm with which he had received her -eager questions, and the very small likelihood that anything she could -say about the hints of the Durants would move him, her pace and her -excitement both decreased. She went more slowly, less hopefully, back to -the Palazzo. It was all very well to say that she must know. But what if -he would not tell her? What if he received her questions as he had -received them before? The circumstances were not changed, nor was he -changed because the Durants knew something, she did not know what. Oh, -what a poor piece of friendship was that, that betrayed a friend’s -secret to his neighbours! She did not know, she could not so much as -form a guess, what the secret was. But little or great, his friend -should have kept it. She said this to herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> bitterly, when the chill -probabilities of the case began to make themselves felt. It was harder -to think that the Durants knew, than to be kept in darkness herself.</p> - -<p>She went in at last very soberly, with the intention of telling her -father all that had passed, if perhaps that of itself might be an -inducement to him to have confidence in her. It was not a pleasant -mission. Her steps had become very sober as she went up the long marble -stair. Mariuccia met her with a little cry. Had she not met the padrone? -He had gone out down through the olive woods to meet her and fetch her -home. It was a brief reprieve. In the evening after dinner was the time -when he was most accessible. Frances, with a thrill of mingled relief -and disappointment, retired to her room to make her little toilet. She -had an hour or two at least before her ere it would be necessary to -speak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> one has made up one’s mind to reopen a painful subject after -dinner, the preliminary meal is not usually a very pleasant one; nor, -with the tremor of preparation in one’s mind, is one likely to make a -satisfactory dinner. Frances could not talk about anything. She could -not eat; her mind was absorbed in what was coming. It seemed to her that -she must speak: and yet how gladly would she have escaped from or -postponed the explanation! Explanation! Possibly he would only smile, -and baffle her as he had done before; or perhaps be angry, which would -be better. Anything would be better than that indifference.</p> - -<p>She went out to the loggia when dinner was over, trembling with the -sensation of suspense. It was still not dark, and the night was clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> -with the young moon already shining, so that between the retiring day -and the light of the night it was almost as clear as it had been two -hours before. Frances sat down, shivering a little, though not with -cold. Usually her father accompanied or immediately followed her, but by -some perversity he did not do so to-night. She seated herself in her -usual place, and waited, listening for every sound—that is, for sounds -of one kind—his slow step coming along the polished floor, here soft -and muffled over a piece of carpet, there loud upon the <i>parquet</i>. But -for some time, during which she rose into a state of feverish -expectation, there was no such sound.</p> - -<p>It was nearly half an hour, according to her calculation, probably not -half so much by common computation of time, when one or two doors were -opened and shut quickly and a sound of voices met her ear—not sounds, -however, which had any but a partial interest for her, for they did not -indicate his approach. After a while there followed the sound of a -footstep but it was not Mr Waring’s; it was not Domenico’s subdued -tread, nor the measured<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> march of Mariuccia. It was light, quick, and -somewhat uncertain. Frances was half disappointed, half relieved. Some -one was coming, but not her father. It would be impossible to speak to -him to-night. The relief was uppermost; she felt it through her whole -being. Not to-night; and no one can ever tell what to-morrow may bring -forth. She looked up no longer with anxiety, but curiosity, as the door -opened. It opened quickly; some one looked out, as if to see what was -beyond, then, with a slight exclamation of satisfaction, stepped out -upon the loggia into the partial light.</p> - -<p>Frances rose up quickly, with the curious sensation of acting over -something which she had rehearsed before, she did not know where or how. -It was the girl whom she had remarked on the Marina as having just -arrived who now stood looking about her curiously, with her -travelling-cloak fastened only at the throat, her gauze veil thrown up -about her hat. This new-comer came in quickly, not with the timidity of -a stranger. She came out into the centre of the loggia, where the light -fell fully around her, and showed her tall slight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> figure, the fair hair -clustering in her neck, a certain languid grace of movement, which her -energetic entrance curiously belied. Frances waited for some form of -apology or self-introduction, prepared to be very civil, and feeling in -reality pleased and almost grateful for the interruption.</p> - -<p>But the young lady made no explanation. She put her hands up to her -throat and loosed her cloak with a little sigh of relief. She undid the -veil from her hat. “Thank heaven, I have got here at last, free of those -people!” she said, putting herself <i>sans façon</i> into Mr Waring’s chair, -and laying her hat upon the little table. Then she looked up at the -astonished girl, who stood looking on.</p> - -<p>“Are you Frances?” she said; but the question was put in an almost -indifferent tone.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I am Frances. But I don’t know——” Frances was civil to the -bottom of her soul, polite, incapable of hurting any one’s feelings. She -could not say anything disagreeable; she could not demand brutally, Who -are you? and what do you want here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I thought so,” said the stranger; “and, oddly enough, I saw you this -afternoon, and wondered if it could be you. You are a little like -mamma.—I am Constance, of course,” she added, looking up with a -half-smile. “We ought to kiss each other, I suppose, though we can’t -care much about each other, can we?—Where is papa?”</p> - -<p>Frances had no breath to speak; she could not say a word. She looked at -the new-comer with a gasp. Who was she? And who was papa? Was it some -strange mistake which had brought her here? But then the question, “Are -you Frances?” showed that it could not be a mistake.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” she said; “I don’t understand. This is—Mr -Waring’s. You are looking for—your father?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently; “I know. You can’t imagine I -should have come here and taken possession if I had not made sure first! -You are well enough known in this little place. There was no trouble -about it.—And the house looks nice, and this must be a fine view when -there is light to see it by.—But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> where is papa? They told me he was -always to be found at this hour.”</p> - -<p>Frances felt the blood ebb to her very finger-points, and then rush back -like a great flood upon her heart. She scarcely knew where she was -standing or what she was saying in her great bewilderment. “Do you -mean—<i>my</i> father?” she said.</p> - -<p>The other girl answered with a laugh: “You are very particular. I mean -our father, if you prefer it. Your father—my father. What does it -matter?—Where is he? Why isn’t he here? It seems he must introduce us -to each other. I did not think of any such formality. I thought you -would have taken me for granted,” she said.</p> - -<p>Frances stood thunderstruck, gazing, listening, as if eyes and ears -alike fooled her. She did not seem to know the meaning of the words. -They could not, she said to herself, mean what they seemed to mean—it -was impossible. There must be some wonderful, altogether unspeakable -blunder. “I don’t understand,” she said again, in a piteous tone. “It -must be some mistake.”</p> - -<p>The other girl fixed her eyes upon her in the waning light. She had not -paid so much atten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span>tion to Frances at first as to the new place and -scene. She looked at her now with the air of weighing her in some unseen -balance and finding her wanting, with impatience and half contempt. “I -thought you would have been glad to see me,” she said; “but the world -seems just the same in one place as another. Because I am in distress at -home you don’t want me here.”</p> - -<p>Then Frances felt herself goaded, galled into the matter-of-fact -question, “Who are you?” though she felt that she would not believe the -answer she received.</p> - -<p>“Who am I? Don’t you know who I am? Who should I be but Con? Constance -Waring, your sister?—Where,” she cried, springing to her feet and -stamping one of them upon the ground—“where, <i>where</i> is papa?”</p> - -<p>The door opened again behind her softly, and Mr Waring with his slow -step came out. “Did I hear some one calling for me?” he said.—“Frances, -it is not you, surely, that are quarrelling with your visitor?—I beg -the lady’s pardon; I cannot see who it is.”</p> - -<p>The stranger turned upon him with impa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>tience in her tone. “It was I who -called,” she said. “I thought you were sure to be here. Papa, I have -always heard that you were kind—a kind man, they all said; that was why -I came, thinking—— I am Constance!” she added after a pause, drawing -herself up and facing him with something of his own gesture and -attitude. She was tall, not much less than he was; very unlike little -Frances. Her slight figure seemed to draw out as she raised her head and -looked at him. She was not a suppliant. Her whole air was one of -indignation that she should be subjected to a moment’s doubt.</p> - -<p>“Constance!” said Mr Waring. The daylight was gone outside; the moon had -got behind a fleecy white cloud; behind those two figures there was a -gleam of light from within, Domenico having brought in the lamp into the -drawing-room. He stepped backward, opening the glass door. “Come in,” he -said, “to the light.”</p> - -<p>Frances came last, with a great commotion in her heart, but very still -externally. She felt herself to have sunk into quite a subordinate -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>place. The other two, they were the chief figures. She had now no -explanation to ask, no questions to put, though she had a thousand; but -everything else was thrown into the background, everything was inferior -to this. The chief interest was with the others now.</p> - -<p>Constance stepped in after him with a proud freedom of step, the air of -one who was mistress of herself and her fate. She went up to the table -on which the tall lamp stood, her face on a level with it, fully lighted -up by it. She held her hat in her hand, and played with it with a -careless yet half-nervous gesture. Her fair hair was short, and -clustered in her neck and about her forehead almost like a child’s, -though she was not like a child. Mr Waring, looking at her, was more -agitated than she. He trembled a little; his eyelids were lifted high -over his eyes. Her air was a little defiant; but there was no suspicion, -only a little uncertainty in his. He put out his hand to her after a -minute’s inspection. “If you are Constance, you are welcome,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t suppose that you have any doubt I am Constance,” said the girl, -flinging her hat on the table and herself into a chair. “It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> a very -curious way to receive one, though, after such a long journey—such a -tiresome long journey,” she repeated, with a voice into which a -querulous tone of exhaustion had come.</p> - -<p>Mr Waring sat down too in the immediate centre of the light. He had not -kissed her nor approached her, save by the momentary touch of their -hands. It was a curious way to receive a stranger, a daughter. She lay -back in her chair as if wearied out, and tears came to her eyes. “I -should not have come, if I had known,” she said, with her lip quivering. -“I am very tired. I put up with everything on the journey, thinking, -when I came here—— And I am more a stranger here than anywhere!” She -paused, choking with the half-hysterical fit of crying which she would -not allow to overcome her. “She—knows nothing about me!” she cried, -with a sharp accent of pain, as if this was the last blow.</p> - -<p>Frances, in her bewilderment, did not know what to do or say. She looked -at her father, but his face was dumb, and gave her no suggestion; and -then she looked at the new-comer, who lay back with her head against the -back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> of the chair, her eyes closed, tears forcing their way through her -eyelashes, her slender white throat convulsively struggling with a sob. -The mind of Frances had been shaken by a sudden storm of feelings -unaccustomed; a throb of something which she did not understand, which -was jealousy, though she neither knew nor intended it, had gone through -her being. She seemed to see herself cast forth from her easy supremacy, -her sway over her father’s house, deposed from her principal place. And -she was only human. Already she was conscious of a downfall. Constance -had drawn the interest towards herself—it was she to whom every eye -would turn. The girl stood apart for a moment, with that inevitable -movement which has been in the bosom of so many since the well-behaved -brother of the Prodigal put it in words, “Now that this thy son has -come.” Constance, so far as Frances knew, was no prodigal; but she was -what was almost worse—a stranger, and yet the honours of the house were -to be hers. She stood thus, looking on, until the sight of the -suppressed sob, of the closed eyes, of the weary, hopeless atti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span>tude, -were too much for her. Then it came suddenly into her mind, if she is -Constance! Frances had not known half an hour before that there was any -Constance who had a right to her sympathy in the world. She gave her -father another questioning look, but got no reply from his eyes. -Whatever had to be done must be done by herself. She went up to the -chair in which her sister lay and touched her on the shoulder. “If we -had known you were coming,” she said, “it would have been different. It -is a little your fault not to let us know. I should have gone to meet -you; I should have made your room ready. We have nothing ready, because -we did not know.”</p> - -<p>Constance sat suddenly up in her chair and shook her head, as if to -shake off the emotion that had been too much for her. “How sensible you -are!” she said. “Is that your character?—She is quite right, isn’t she? -But I did not think of that. I suppose I am impetuous, as people say. I -was unhappy, and I thought you would—receive me with open arms. It is -evident <i>I</i> am not the sensible one.” She said this with still a quiver -in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> lip, but also a smile, pushing back her chair, and resuming the -unconcerned air which she had worn at first.</p> - -<p>“Frances is quite right. You ought to have written and warned us,” said -Mr Waring.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; there are so many things that one ought to do.”</p> - -<p>“But we will do the best we can for you, now you are here. Mariuccia -will easily make a room ready. Where is your baggage? Domenico can go to -the railway, to the hotel, wherever you have come from.”</p> - -<p>“My box is outside the door. I made them bring it. The woman—is that -Mariuccia?—would not take it in. But she let me come in. She was not -suspicious. She did not say, ‘If you are Constance.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> And here she -laughed, with a sound that grated upon Mr Waring’s nerves. He jumped up -suddenly from his chair.</p> - -<p>“I had no proof that you were Constance,” he said, “though I believed -it. But only your mother’s daughter could reproduce that laugh.”</p> - -<p>“Has Frances got it?” the girl cried, with an instant lighting up of -opposition in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> eyes; “for I am like you, but she is the image of -mamma.”</p> - -<p>He turned round and looked at Frances, who, feeling that an entire -circle of new emotions, unknown to her, had come into being at a bound, -stood with a passive, frightened look, spectator of everything, not -knowing how to adapt herself to the new turn of affairs.</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” her father said, with an air of exasperation she had never -seen in him before, “that is true! But I had never noticed it. Even -Frances. You’ve come to set us all by the ears.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no! I’ll tell you, if you like, why I came. Mamma—has been more -aggravating than usual. I said to myself you would be sure to understand -what that meant. And something arose—I will tell you about it after—a -complication, something that mamma insisted I should do, though I had -made up my mind not to do it.”</p> - -<p>“You had better,” said her father, with a smile, “take care what ideas -on that subject you put into your sister’s head.”</p> - -<p>Constance paused, and looked at Frances with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> a look which was half -scrutinising, half contemptuous. “Oh, she is not like me,” she said. -“Mamma was very aggravating, as you know she can be. She wanted me—— -But I’ll tell you after.” And then she began: “I hope, because you live -in Italy, papa, you don’t think you ought to be a medieval parent; but -that sort of thing in Belgravia, you know, is too ridiculous. It was so -out of the question that it was some time before I understood. It was -not exactly a case of being locked up in my room and kept on bread and -water; but something of the sort. I was so much astonished at first, I -did not know what to do; and then it became intolerable. I had nobody I -could appeal to, for everybody agreed with her. Markham is generally a -safe person; but even Markham took her side. So I immediately thought of -you. I said to myself, One’s father is the right person to protect one. -And I knew, of course, that if anybody in the world could understand how -impossible it is to live with mamma when she has taken a thing into her -head, it would be you.”</p> - -<p>Waring kept his eye upon Frances while this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> was being said, with an -almost comic embarrassment. It was half laughable; but it was painful, -as so many laughable things are; and there was something like alarm, or -rather timidity, in the look. The man looked afraid of the little -girl—whom all her life he had treated as a child—and her clear -sensible eyes.</p> - -<p>“One thinks these things, perhaps, but one does not put them into -words,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is no worse to say them than to think them,” said Constance. “I -always say what I mean. And you must know that things went very far—so -far that I couldn’t put up with it any longer; so I made up my mind all -at once that I would come off to you.”</p> - -<p>“And I tell you, you are welcome, my dear. It is so long since I saw you -that I could not have recognised you. That is natural enough. But now -that you are here—I cannot decide upon the wisdom of the step till I -know all the circumstances——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, wisdom! I don’t suppose there is any wisdom about it. No one -expects wisdom from me. But what could I do? There was nothing else that -I could do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“At all events,” said Waring, with a little inclination of his head and -a smile, as if he were talking to a visitor, Frances said to -herself—“Frances and I will forgive any lack of wisdom which has given -us—this pleasure.” He laughed at himself as he spoke. “You must expect -for a time to feel like a fine lady paying a visit to her poor -relations,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know you will approve of me when you hear everything. Mamma says -I am a Waring all over, your own child.”</p> - -<p>The sensations with which Frances stood and listened, it would be -impossible to describe. Mamma! who was this, of whom the other girl -spoke so lightly, whom she had never heard of before? Was it possible -that a mother as well as a sister existed for her, as for others, in the -unknown world out of which Constance had come? A hundred questions were -on her lips, but she controlled herself, and asked none of them. -Reflection, which comes so often slowly, almost painfully, to her came -now like the flash of lightning. She would not betray to any one, not -even to Constance, that she had never known she had a mother. Papa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> -might be wrong—oh, how wrong he had been!—but she would not betray -him. She checked the exclamation on her lips; she subdued her soul -altogether, forcing it into silence. This was the secret she had been so -anxious to penetrate, which he had kept so closely from her. Why should -he have kept it from her? It was evident it had not been kept on the -other side. Whatever had happened, had Frances been in trouble, she knew -of no one with whom she could have taken refuge; but her sister had -known. Her brain was made dizzy by these thoughts. It was open to her -now to ask whatever she pleased. The mystery had been made plain; but at -the same time her mouth was stopped. She would not confuse her father, -nor betray him. It was chiefly from this bewildering sensation, and not, -as her father, suddenly grown acute in respect to Frances, thought, from -a mortifying consciousness that Constance would speak with more freedom -if she were not there, that Frances now spoke. “I think,” she said, -“that I had better go and see about the rooms. Mariuccia will not know -what to do till I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> come; and you will take care of Constance, papa.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, hearing in her tone a wounded feeling, a touch of -forlorn pride, which perhaps was there, but not so much as he thought; -but it was Constance who replied: “Oh yes, we will take care of each -other. I have so much to tell him,” with a laugh. Frances was aware that -there was relief in it, in the prospect of her own absence, but she did -not feel it so strongly as her father did. She gave them both a smile, -and went away.</p> - -<p>“So that is Frances,” said the new-found sister, looking after her. “I -find her very like mamma. But everybody says I am your child, -disposition and all.” She rose, and came up to Waring, who had never -lessened the distance between himself and her. She put her hand within -his arm and held up her face to him. “I am like you. I shall be much -happier with you. Do you think you will like having me instead of -Frances, father?” She clasped his arm against her in a caressing way, -and leant her cheek upon the sleeve of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> velvet coat. “Don’t you -think you would like to have <i>me</i>, father, instead of her?” she said.</p> - -<p>A whole panorama of the situation, like a landscape, suddenly flashed -before Waring’s mind. The spell of this caress, and the confidence she -showed of being loved, which is so great a charm, and the impulse of -nature, so much as that is worth, drew him towards this handsome -stranger, who took possession of him and his affections without a doubt, -and pushed away the other from his heart and his side with an impulse -which his philosophy said was common to all men—or at least, if that -was too sweeping, to all women. But in the same moment came that sense -of championship and proprietorship, the one inextricably mingled with -the other, which makes us all defend our own whenever assailed. Frances -was his own; she was his creation; he had taught her almost everything. -Poor little Frances! Not like this girl, who could speak for herself, -who could go everywhere, half commanding, half taking with guile every -heart that she encountered. Frances would never do that. But she would -be true, true as the heavens themselves, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> never falter. By a sudden -gleam of perception he saw that, though he had never told her anything -of this, though it must have been a revelation of wonder to her, yet -that she had not burst forth into any outcries of astonishment, or asked -any compromising questions, or done anything to betray him.</p> - -<p>His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He had not -been a doting father to her; he had even—being himself what the world -calls a clever man, much above her mental level—felt himself to -condescend a little, and almost upbraided Heaven for giving him so -ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to see, was a -brilliant creature, accustomed to take her place in the world, fit to be -any man’s companion. But the first result of this revelation was to -reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the modest and true -little soul which had developed by his side without much notice from -him, whom he had treated with such cruel want of confidence, to whom the -shock of this evening’s disclosures must have been so great, but who, -even in the moment of discovery, shielded him. All this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> went through -his mind with the utmost rapidity. He did not put his new-found child -away from him; but there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in -the kiss he gave her. “I am very glad to have you here, my dear,” he -said more coldly than pleased her. “But why instead of Frances? You will -be happier both of you for being together.”</p> - -<p>Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of -disappointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so -triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished her -father’s arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned to her -chair. “I shall like it, as long as it is possible,” she said. “It will -be very nice for me having a father and sister instead of a mother and -brother. But you will find that mamma will not let you off. She likes to -have a girl in the house. She will have her pound of flesh.” She threw -herself back into her chair with a laugh. “How quaint it all is; and how -beautiful the view must be, and the mountains and the sea! I shall be -very happy here—the world forgetting, by the world forgot—and with -you, papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">She</span> has come to stay,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“What?” cried Mariuccia, making the small monosyllable sound as if it -were the biggest word in her vocabulary.</p> - -<p>“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as much as I -am. She has come—home.” Frances was a little uncertain about the word, -and it was only “<i>a casa</i>” that she said—“to the house,” which means -the same.</p> - -<p>Mariuccia threw up her arms in astonishment. “Then there has been -another signorina all the time!” she cried. “Figure to yourself that I -have been with the padrone a dozen years, and I never heard of her -before.”</p> - -<p>“Papa does not talk very much about his concerns,” said Frances in her -faithfulness. “And what we have got to do is to make her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> very -comfortable. She is very pretty, don’t you think? Such beautiful blond -hair—and tall. I never shall be tall, I fear. They say she is like -papa; but, as is natural, she is much more beautiful than papa.”</p> - -<p>“Beauty is as you find it,” said Mariuccia. “<i>Carina</i>, no one will ever -be so pretty as our own signorina to Domenico and me.—What is the child -doing? She is pulling the things off her own bed.—My angel, you have -lost your good sense. You are fluttered and upset by this new arrival. -The blue room will be very good for the new young lady. Perhaps she will -not stay very long?”</p> - -<p>The wish was father to the thought. But Frances took no notice of the -suggestion. She said briskly, going on with what she was doing, “She -must have my room, Mariuccia. The blue room is <i>quite</i> nice; it will do -very well for me; but I should like her to feel at home, not to think -our house was bare and cold. The blue room would be rather naked, if we -were to put her there to-night. It will not be naked for me, for, of -course, I am used to it all, and know everything. But when Constance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> -wakes to-morrow morning and looks round her, and wonders where she -is—oh, how strange it all seems!—I wish her to open her eyes upon -things that are pretty, and to say to herself, ‘What a delightful house -papa has! What a nice room! I feel as if I had been here all my life.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Constanza—is that her name? It is rather a common name—not -distinguished, like our signorina’s. But it is very good for her, I have -no doubt. And so you will give her your own room, that she may be fond -of the house, and stay and supplant you? That is what will happen. The -good one, the one of gold, gets pushed out of the way. I would not give -her my room to make her love the house.”</p> - -<p>“I think you would, Mariuccia.”</p> - -<p>“No; I do not think so,” said Mariuccia, squaring herself with one arm -akimbo. “No; I do not deny that I would probably take some new things -into the blue room, and put up curtains. But I am older than you are, -and I have more sense. I would not do it. If she gets your room, she -will get your place; and she will please everybody, and be admired, and -my angel will be put out of the way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am such a horrid little wretch,” said Frances, “that I thought of -that too. It was mean, oh, so mean of me. She is prettier than I am, and -taller; and—yes, of course, she must be older too, so you see it is her -right.”</p> - -<p>“Is she the eldest?” asked Mariuccia.</p> - -<p>Frances made a puzzled pause; but she would not let the woman divine -that she did not know. “Oh yes; she must be the eldest.—Come quick, -Mariuccia; take all these things to the blue room; and now for your -clean linen and everything that is nice and sweet.”</p> - -<p>Mariuccia did what she was told, but with many objections. She carried -on a running murmur of protest all the time. “When there are changes in -a family; when it is by the visitation of God, that is another matter. A -son or a daughter who is in trouble, who has no other refuge; that is -natural; there is nothing to say. But to remain away during a dozen -years, and then to come back at a moment’s notice—nay, without even a -moment’s notice—in the evening, when all the beds are made up, and -demand everything that is comfortable.—I have always thought that there -was a great deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> to be said for the poor young signorino of whom the -priest speaks, he who had always stayed at home when his brother was -amusing himself. <i>Carina</i>, you know what I mean.”</p> - -<p>“I have thought of that too,” said Frances. “But my sister is not a -prodigal; and papa has never done anything for her. It is all quite -different. When we know each other better, it will be delightful always -to have a companion, Mariuccia—think how pleasant it will be always to -have a companion. I wonder if she will like my pictures?—Now, don’t you -think the room looks very pretty? I always thought it was a pretty room. -Leave the <i>persiani</i> open that she may see the sea; and in the morning -don’t forget to come in and close them before the sun gets hot.—I think -that will do now.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I hope it will do—after all the trouble you have taken. And I -hope the young lady is worthy of it.—But, my angel, what shall I do -when I come in to wake her? Does she expect that I can talk her language -to her? No, no. And she will know nothing; she will not even be able to -say ‘Good morning.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“I hope so. But if not, you must call me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> first, that is all,” said -Frances cheerfully.—“Now, don’t go to bed just yet; perhaps she will -like something—some tea; or perhaps a little supper; or—— I never -asked if she had dined.”</p> - -<p>Mariuccia regarded this possibility with equanimity. She was not afraid -of a girl’s appetite. But she made a grimace at the mention of the tea. -“It is good when one has a cold; oh yes,” she said; “but to drink it at -all times, as you do! If she wants anything it will be a great deal -better to give her a sirop, or a little red wine.”</p> - -<p>Frances detained Mariuccia as long as she could, and lingered herself -still longer after all was ready in the room. She did not know how to go -back to the drawing-room, where she had left these two together, to say -to each other, no doubt, many things that could be better said in her -absence. There was no jealousy, only delicacy, in this; and she had -given up her pretty room to her sister, and carried her indispensable -belongings to the bare one, with the purest pleasure in making Constance -comfortable. Constance! whom an hour ago she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> never heard of, and -who now was one of them, nearer to her than anybody, except her father. -But all this being done, she had the strangest difficulty in going back, -in thrusting herself, as imagination said, between them, and -interrupting their talk. To think that it should be such a tremendous -matter to return to that familiar room in which the greater part of her -life had been passed! It felt like another world into which she was -about to enter, full of unknown elements and conditions which she did -not understand. She had not known what it was to be shy in the very -limited society she had ever known; but she was shy now, feeling as if -she had not courage to put her hand upon the handle of the door. The -familiar creak and jar of it as it opened seemed to her like noisy -instruments announcing her approach, which stopped the conversation, as -she had divined, and made her father and her sister look up with a -little start. Frances could have wished to sink through the floor, to -get rid of her own being altogether, as she saw them both give this -slight start. Constance was leaning upon the table, the light of the -lamp shining full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> upon her face, with the air of being in the midst of -an animated narrative, which she stopped when Frances entered; and Mr -Waring had been listening with a smile. He turned half round and held -out his hand to the timid girl behind him. “Come, Frances,” he said, -“you have been a long time making your preparations. Have you been -bringing out the fairest robe for your sister?” It was odd how the -parable—which had no signification in their circumstances—haunted them -all.</p> - -<p>“Your room is quite ready whenever you please. And would you like tea or -anything? I ought to have asked if you had dined,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“Is she the housekeeper?—How odd!—Do you look after everything?—Dear -me! I am afraid, in that case, I shall make a very poor substitute for -Frances, papa.”</p> - -<p>“It is not necessary to think of that,” he said hastily, giving her a -quick glance.</p> - -<p>Frances saw it, with another involuntary, quickly suppressed pang. Of -course there would be things that Constance must be warned not to say. -And yet it felt as if papa had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> deserted her and gone over to the other -side. She had not the remotest conception what the warning referred to, -or what Constance meant.</p> - -<p>“I dined at the hotel,” Constance went on, “with those people whom I -travelled with. I suppose you will have to call and be civil. They were -quite delighted to think that they would know somebody at -Bordighera—some of the inhabitants.— Yes, tea, if you please. And then -I think I shall go to bed; for twenty-four hours in the train is very -fatiguing, besides the excitement. Don’t you think Frances is very much -like mamma? There is a little way she has of setting her chin.—Look -there! That is mamma all over. I think they would get on together very -well: indeed I feel sure of it.” And again there was a significant look -exchanged, which once more went like a sting to Frances’ heart.</p> - -<p>“Your sister has been telling me,” said Mr Waring, with a little -hesitation, “of a great many people I used to know. You must be very -much surprised, my dear; but I will take an opportunity——” He was -confused before her, as if he had been before a judge. He gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> her a -look which was half shame and half gratitude, sentiments both entirely -out of place between him and Frances. She could not bear that he should -look at her so.</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” she said as easily as she could; “I know you must have a -great deal to talk of. If Constance will give me her keys I will unpack -her things for her.” Both the girls instinctively, oddly, addressed each -other through their father, the only link between them, hesitating a -little at the familiarity which nature made necessary, but which had no -other warrant.</p> - -<p>“Oh, isn’t there a maid who can do it?” Constance cried, opening her -eyes.</p> - -<p>The evening seemed long to Frances, though it was not long. Constance -trifled over the tea—which Mariuccia made with much reluctance—for -half an hour. But she talked all the time; and as her talk was of people -Frances had never heard of, and was mingled with little allusions to -what had passed before,—“I told you about him;” “You remember, we were -talking of them;” with a constant recurrence of names which to Frances -meant nothing at all,—it seemed long to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span></p> - -<p>She sat down at the table, and took her knitting, and listened, and -tried to look as if she took an interest. She did indeed take a great -interest; no one could have been more eager to enter without -<i>arrière-pensée</i> into the new life thus unfolded before her; and -sometimes she was amused and could laugh at the stories Constance was -telling; but her chief feeling was that sense of being entirely “out of -it”—having nothing to do with it—which makes people who do not -understand society feel like so many ghosts standing on the margin, -knowing nothing. The feeling was strange and very forlorn. It is an -unpleasant experience even for those who are strangers, to whom it is a -passing incident; but as the speaker was her sister and the listener her -father, Frances felt this more deeply still. Generally in the evening -conversation flagged between them. He would have his book, and Frances -sometimes had a book too, or a drawing upon which she could work, or at -least her knitting. She had felt that the silence which reigned in the -room on such occasions was not what ought to be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> It was not like the -talk which was supposed to go on in all the novels she had ever read -where the people were <i>nice</i>. And sometimes she attempted to entertain -her father with little incidents in the life of their poor neighbours, -or things which Mariuccia had told her; but he listened benevolently, -with his finger between the leaves of his book, or even without closing -his book, looking up at her over the leaves—only out of kindness to -her, not because he was interested; and then silence would fall on them, -a silence which was very sweet to Frances, in the midst of which her own -little stream of thoughts flowed on continuously, but which now and then -she was struck to the heart to think must be very dull for papa.</p> - -<p>But to-night it was not dull for him. She listened, and said to herself -this was the way to make conversation; and laughed whenever she could, -and followed every little gesture of her sister’s with admiring eyes. -But at the end, Frances, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, -felt that she had not been amused. She thought the people in the village -were just<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> as interesting. But then she was not so clever as Constance, -and could not do them justice in the same way.</p> - -<p>“And now I am going to bed,” Constance said. She rose up in an instant -with a rapid movement, as if the thought had only just struck her and -she obeyed the impulse at once. There was a freedom about all her -movements which troubled and captivated Frances. She had been leaning -half over the table, her sleeves, which were a little wide, falling back -from her arms, now leaning her chin in the hollow of one hand, now -supporting it with both, putting her elbows wherever she pleased. -Frances herself had been trained by Mariuccia to very great decorum in -respect to attitudes. If she did furtively now and then lean an elbow -upon the table, she was aware that it was wrong all the time; and as for -legs, she knew it was only men who were permitted to cross them, or to -do anything save sit with two feet equal to each other upon the floor. -But Constance cared for none of these rules. She rose up abruptly -(Mariuccia would have said, as if something had stung her),<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> almost -before she had finished what she was saying. “Show me my room, please,” -she said, and yawned. She yawned quite freely, naturally, without any -attempt to conceal or to apologise for it as if it had been an accident. -Frances could not help being shocked, yet neither could she help -laughing with a sort of pleasure in this breach of all rules. But -Constance only stared, and did not in the least understand why she -should laugh.</p> - -<p>“Where have you put your sister?” Mr Waring asked.</p> - -<p>“I have put her—in the room next to yours, papa; between your room and -mine, you know: for I am in the blue room now. There she will not feel -strange; she will have people on each side.”</p> - -<p>“That is to say, you have given her——”</p> - -<p>It was Frances’ turn now to give a warning glance. “The room I thought -she would like best,” she said, with a soft but decisive tone. She too -had a little imperious way of her own. It was so soft, that a stranger -would not have found it out; but in the Palazzo they were all acquainted -with it, and no one—not even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> Mariuccia—found it possible to say a -word after this small trumpet had sounded. Mr Waring accordingly was -silenced, and made no further remark. He went with his daughters to the -door, and kissed the cheek which Constance held lightly to him. “I shall -see you again, papa,” Frances said, in that same little determined -voice.</p> - -<p>Mr Waring did not make any reply, but shrank a little aside, to let her -pass. He looked like a man who was afraid. She had spared him; she had -not betrayed the ignorance in which he had brought her up; but now the -moment of reckoning was near, and he was afraid of Frances. He went back -into the <i>salone</i>, and walked up and down with a restlessness which was -natural enough, considering how all the embers of his life had been -raked up by this unexpected event. He had lived in absolute quiet for -fourteen long years: a strange life—a life which might have been -supposed to be impossible for a man still in the heyday of his strength; -but yet, as it appeared, a life which suited him, which he preferred to -others more natural. To settle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> down in an Italian village with a little -girl of six for his sole companion—when he came to think of it, nothing -could be more unnatural, more extraordinary; and yet he had liked it -well enough, as well as he could have liked anything at that crisis of -his fate. He was the kind of man who, in other circumstances, in another -age, would have made himself a monk, and spent his existence very -placidly in illuminating manuscripts. He had done something as near this -as is possible to an Englishman not a Roman Catholic, of the nineteenth -century. Unfortunately, Waring had no ecclesiastical tendencies, or even -in the nineteenth century he might have found out for himself some -pseudo-monkery in which he could have been happy. As it was, he had -retired with his little girl, and on the whole had been comfortable -enough. But now the little girl had grown up, and required to have -various things accounted for; and the other individuals who had claims -upon him, whom he thought he had shaken off altogether, had turned up -again, and had to be dealt with. The monk had an easy time of it in -com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span>parison. He who has but himself to think of may manage himself, if -he has good luck; but the responsibility of others on your shoulders is -a terrible drawback to tranquillity. A little girl! That seemed the -simplest of all things. It had never occurred to him that she would form -a link by which all his former burdens might be drawn back; or that she, -more wonderful still, should ever arise and demand to know why. But both -of these impossible things had happened.</p> - -<p>Waring walked about the <i>salone</i>. He opened the glass door and stepped -out into the loggia, into the tranquil shining of the moon, which lit up -all the blues of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps all over the -quivering palms. How quiet it was! and yet that tranquil nature lying -unmoved, taking whatever came of good or evil, did harm in a far more -colossal way than any man could do. The sea, then looking so mild, would -suddenly rise up and bring havoc and destruction worse than an army; yet -next day smile again, and throw its spray into the faces of the -children, and lie like a harmless thing under the light. But a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> -could not do this. A man had to give an account of all that he had done, -whether it was good or whether it was evil,—if not to God—which on the -whole was the easiest, for God knew all about it, how little harm had -been intended, how little anything had been intended, how one mistake -involved another,—if not to God—why, to some one harder to face; -perhaps to one’s little girl.</p> - -<p>He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, which, all of -them, were so indifferent to what was happening to him, with a feeling -that the imperfect human lamp which so easily got out of gear—as easily -as a man—was a more appropriate light for his disturbed soul; and met -Frances with her brown eyes waiting for him at the door.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">It</span> is not because of this only, papa—I wanted before to speak to you. -I was waiting in the loggia for you, when Constance came.”</p> - -<p>“What did you want, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that you have a -right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared to-night; I am -rather exhausted—to-night.”</p> - -<p>Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. “It shall be -exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal—oh, a great -deal more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am the same person; and -I thought it might save us all trouble if you would tell me—as much as -you think I ought to know.”</p> - -<p>She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest pose, -a little stiff, a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> prim—the training of Mariuccia. After -Constance, there was something in the attitude of Frances which made her -father smile, though he was in no mood for smiling; and it was clear -that he could not, that he ought not to escape. He would not sit down, -however, and meet her eye. He stood by the table for a few minutes, with -his eyes upon the books, turning them over, as if he were looking for -something. At last he said, but without looking up, “There is nothing -very dreadful to tell; no guilty secret, though you may suppose so. Your -mother and I——”</p> - -<p>“Then I have really a mother, and she is living?” the girl cried.</p> - -<p>He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your age -that means a great deal—I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you knew—— -Yes; you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose that seems a -very wonderful piece of news?”</p> - -<p>Frances did not say anything. The water came into her eyes. Her heart -beat loudly, yet softly, against her young bosom. She had <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span>known it, so -that she was not surprised. The surprise had been broken by Constance’s -careless talk, by the wonder, the doubt, the sense of impossibility, -which had gradually yielded to a conviction that it must be so. Her -feeling was that she would like to go now, without delay, without asking -any more questions, to her mother. Her mother! and he hadn’t thought -before how much that meant to a girl—of her age!</p> - -<p>Mr Waring was a little disconcerted by having no answer. Of course it -meant a great deal to a girl; but still, not so much as to make her -incapable of reply. He felt a little annoyed, disturbed, perhaps -jealous, as Frances herself had been. It was with difficulty that he -resumed again; but it had to be done.</p> - -<p>“Your mother and I,” he said, taking up the books again, opening and -shutting them, looking at the title-page now of one, now of another, -“did not get on very well. I don’t know who was in fault—probably both. -She had been married before. She had a son whom you hear Constance speak -of as Markham. Markham has been at the bottom of all the trouble. He -drove me out of my senses when he was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> boy. Now he is a man: so far as -I can make out it is he that has disturbed our peace again—hunted us -up, and sent Constance here. If you ever meet Markham—and of course now -you are sure to meet him—beware of him.” Here he made a pause again, -and looked with great seriousness at the book in his hand, turning the -leaf to finish a sentence which was continued on the next page.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Frances; “I am afraid I am very stupid. -What relation is Markham to me?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her for a moment, then threw down the book with some -violence on the table, as if it were the offender. “He is your -step-brother,” he said.</p> - -<p>“My—brother? Then I have a brother too?” After a little pause she -added, “It is very wonderful, papa, to come into a new world like this -all at once. I want—to draw my breath.”</p> - -<p>“It is my fault that it comes upon you all at once. I never thought—— -You were a very small child when I brought you away. <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>You forgot them -all, as was natural. I did not at first know how entirely a child -forgets; and then—then it seemed a pity to disturb your mind, and -perhaps set you longing for—what it was impossible for you to obtain.”</p> - -<p>It surprised him a little that Frances did not breathe a syllable of -reproach. She said nothing. In her imagination she was looking back over -these years, wondering how it would have been had she known. Would life -ever be the same, now that she did know? The world seemed to open up -round her, so much greater, wider, more full than she had thought. She -had not thought much on the subject. Life in Bordighera was more limited -even than life in an English village. The fact that she did not belong -to the people among whom she had spent all these years, made a -difference; and her father’s recluse habits, the few people he cared to -know, the stagnation of his life, made a greater difference still. -Frances had scarcely felt it until that meeting with the Mannerings, -which put so many vague ideas into her mind. A child does not naturally -inquire into the circumstances which have surrounded it all its life. It -was natural to her to live in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> retired place, to see nobody, to -make amusements and occupations for herself—to know no one more like -herself than Tasie Durant. Had she even possessed any girl-friends -living the natural life of youth, that might have inspired a question or -two. But she knew no girls—except Tasie, whose girlhood was a sort of -fossil, and who might almost have been the mother of Frances. She saw -indeed the village girls, but it did not occur to her to compare herself -with them. Familiar as she was with all their ways, she was still a -<i>forestière</i>—one of the barbarous people, English, a word which -explains every difference. Frances did not quite know in what the -peculiarity and eccentricity of the English consisted; but she, too, -recognised with all simplicity that, being English, she was different. -Now it came suddenly to her mind that the difference was not anything -generic and general, but that it was her own special circumstances that -had been unlike all the rest. There had been a mother all the time; -another girl, a sister, like herself. It made her brain whirl.</p> - -<p>She sat quite silent, thinking it all over, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> perceiving her father’s -embarrassment—thinking less of him, indeed, than of all the wonderful -new things that seemed to crowd about her. She did not blame him. She -was not thinking enough of him to blame him; her mind was quite -sufficiently occupied by her discoveries. As she had taken him all her -life without examination, she continued to take him. He was her father; -that was enough. It did not occur to her to ask herself whether what he -had done was right or wrong. Only, it was all very strange. The old -solid earth had gone from under her feet, and the old order of things -had been overthrown. She was looking out upon a world not realised—a -spectator of something like the throes of creation, seeing the new -landscape tremble and roll into place, the heights and hollows all -changing; there was a great deal of excitement in it, both pain and -pleasure. It occupied her so fully, that he fell back into a secondary -place.</p> - -<p>But this did not occur to Waring. He had not realised that it could be -possible. He felt himself the centre of the system in which his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> little -daughter lived, and did not understand how she could ignore him. He -thought her silence—the silence of amazement, and excitement, and of -that curious spectatorship—was the silence of reproach, and that her -mind was full of a sense of wrong, which only duty kept in check. He -felt himself on his trial before her. Having said all that he had to -say, he remained silent, expecting her response. If she had given vent -to an indignant exclamation, he would have been relieved; he would have -allowed that she had a right to be indignant. But her silence was more -than he could bear. He searched through the recesses of his own -thoughts; but for the moment he could not find any further excuse for -himself. He had done it for the best. Probably she would not see that. -Waring was well enough acquainted with the human mind to know that every -individual sees such a question from his or her own point of view: and -he was prepared to find that his daughter would be unable to perceive -what was so plain to him. But still he was aware that he had done it for -the best. After a while the silence became so irksome to him that he -felt compelled to break it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> and resume his explanations. If she would -not say anything, there were a number of things which he might say.</p> - -<p>“It is a pity,” he said, “that it has all broken upon you so suddenly. -If I could have divined that Constance would have taken such a step—— -To tell you the truth, I have never realised Constance at all,” he -added, with an impulse towards the daughter he knew. “She was of course -a mere child: to see her so independent, and with so distinct a will of -her own, is very bewildering. I assure you, Frances, if it is wonderful -to you, it is scarcely less wonderful to me.”</p> - -<p>There was something in his tone that made her lift her eyes to him; and -to see him stand there so embarrassed, so subdued, so much unlike the -father who, though very kind and tender, had always been perhaps a -little condescending, patronising, towards the girl, whom he scarcely -recognised as an independent entity, went to her heart. She could not -tell him not to be frightened—not to look at her with that guilty, -apologetic look, which altogether reversed their ordinary relationship; -but it added a pang<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> to her bewilderment. She asked hastily, by way of -concealing this uncomfortable change, a question which she thought he -would have no difficulty in answering—“Is Constance much older than I -am, papa?”</p> - -<p>He gave a sort of furtive smile, as if he had no right to smile in the -circumstances. “I don’t wonder at your question. She has seen a great -deal more of the world. But if there is a minute or two between you, I -don’t know which has it. There is no elder or younger in the case. You -are twins, though no one would think so.”</p> - -<p>This gave Frances a further shock—though why, it would be impossible to -say. The blood rushed to her face. “She must think me—a very poor -little thing,” she said, in a hurried tone. “I never knew—I have no -friend except Tasie—to show me what girls might be.” The thought -mortified her in an extraordinary way; it brought a sudden gush of salt -tears—tears quite different from those which had welled to her eyes -when he told her of her mother. Constance, who was so different, would -despise her—Constance, who knew exactly all about it, and that Frances -was as old, perhaps a few<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> minutes older than she. It is always -difficult to divine what form pride will take. This was the manner in -which it affected Frances. The same age! and yet the one an accomplished -woman, judging for herself—and the other not much more than a child.</p> - -<p>“You do yourself injustice,” said Mr Waring, somewhat rehabilitated by -the mortification of Frances. “Nobody could think you a poor little -thing. You have not the same knowledge of the world. Constance has been -very differently brought up. I think my training a great deal better -than what she has had,” he added quickly, with a mingled desire to cheer -and restore self-confidence to Frances, and to reassert himself after -his humiliation. He felt what he said; and yet, as was natural, he said -a little more than he felt. “I must tell you,” he said, in this new -impulse, “that your mother is—a much more important person than I am. -She is a great deal richer. The marriage was supposed to be much to my -advantage.”</p> - -<p>There was a smile on his face which Frances, looking up suddenly, warned -by a certain change of tone, did not like to see. She kept her eyes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> -upon him instinctively, she could not tell why, with a look which had a -certain influence upon him, though he did not well understand it either. -It meant that the unknown woman of whom he spoke was the girl’s -mother—her mother—one of whom no unbefitting word was to be said. It -checked him in a quite curious unexpected way. When he had spoken of -her, which he had done very rarely since they parted, it had been with a -sense that he was free to characterise her as he thought she deserved. -But here he was stopped short. That very evening he had said things to -Constance of her mother which in a moment he felt that he dared not say -to Frances. The sensation was a very strange one. He made a distinct -pause, and then he said hurriedly, “You must not for a moment suppose -that there was anything wrong; there is no story that you need be afraid -of hearing—nothing, neither on her side nor mine—nothing to be ashamed -of.”</p> - -<p>All at once Frances grew very pale; her eyes opened wide; she gazed at -him with speechless horror. The idea was altogether new to her artless -mind. It flashed through his that Constance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> would not have been at all -surprised—that probably she would have thought it “nice of him” to -exonerate his wife from all moral shortcoming. The holy ignorance of the -other brought a sensation of shame to Waring, and at the same time a -sensation of pride. Nothing could more clearly have proved the -superiority of his training. She would have felt no consternation, only -relief at this assurance, if she had been all her life in her mother’s -hands.</p> - -<p>“It is a great deal to say, however, though you are too inexperienced to -know. The whole thing was incompatibility—incompatibility of temper, -and of ideas, and of tastes, and of fortune even. I could not, you may -suppose, accept advantages purchased with my predecessor’s money, or -take the good of his rank through my wife; and she would not come down -in the world to my means and to my name. It was an utter mistake -altogether. We should have understood each other beforehand. It was -impossible that we could get on. But that was all. There was probably -more talk about it than if there had been really more to talk about.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Frances rose up with a little start. “I think, perhaps,” she said, “I -don’t want you to tell me any more.”</p> - -<p>“Well—perhaps you are right.” But he was startled by her quick -movement. “I did not mean to say anything that could shock you. If you -are to hear anything at all, the truth is what you must hear. But you -must not blame me over-much, Frances. Your very impatience of what I -have been saying will explain to you why I thought that to say -nothing—as long as I could help it—was the best.”</p> - -<p>Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle, but she made no -comment. “Good night, papa. To-morrow it will all seem different. -Everything is strange to-night.”</p> - -<p>He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the little -serious face, the face that had never been so serious before. “Don’t -think any worse of me, Frances, than you can help.”</p> - -<p>Her eyes opened wider with astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Think of you, worse—— But, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,” -she said, simply; “I am thinking of <i>it</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling experiences -during the course of the evening, but this was the unkindest of all—and -it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She was not thinking of his -conduct, which was the first thing in his mind, but of <span class="smcap">It</span>, the -revelation which had been made to her. He might have perceived that, or -divined it, if he had not been occupied by this idea, which did not -occupy her at all—the thought of how he personally had come through the -business. He gave a little faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and -kissed her. “That’s all right,” he said. “Good night; but don’t let <span class="smcap">It</span> -interfere with your sleep. To-morrow everything will look different, as -you say.”</p> - -<p>Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she had -reached the door, returned again. “I think I ought to tell you, papa, -that I am sure the Durants know. They said a number of strange things to -me yesterday, which I think I understand now. If you don’t mind, I would -rather let them suppose that I knew all the time; otherwise,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> it looks -as if you thought you could not trust me.”</p> - -<p>“I could trust you,” he said, with a little fervour,—“my dear child, my -dear little girl—I would trust you with my life.”</p> - -<p>Was there a faint smile in the little girl’s limpid simple eyes? He -thought so, and it disconcerted him strangely. She made no response to -that protestation, but with a little nod of her head went away. Waring -sat down at the table again, and began to think it all over from the -beginning. He was sore and aching, like a man who has fallen from a -height. He had fallen from the pedestal on which, to Frances, he had -stood all these years. She might not be aware of it even—but he was. -And he had fallen from those Elysian fields of peace in which he had -been dwelling for so long. They had not, perhaps, seemed very Elysian -while he was secure of their possession. They had been monotonous in -their stillness, and wearied his soul. But now that he looked back upon -them, a new cycle having begun,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> they seemed to him like the very home -of peace. He had not done anything to forfeit this tranquillity; and yet -it was over, and he stood once more on the edge of an agitated and -disturbed life. He was a man who could bear monotony, who liked his own -way, yet liked that bondage of habit which is as hard as iron to some -souls. He liked to do the same things at the same time day after day, -and to be undisturbed in doing them. But now all his quiet was over. -Constance would have a thousand requirements such as Frances had never -dreamed of; and her brother no doubt would soon turn up—that -step-brother whom Waring had never been able to tolerate even when he -was a child. She might even come Herself—who could tell?</p> - -<p>When this thought crossed his mind, he got up hastily and left the -<i>salone</i>, leaving the lamp burning, as Domenico found it next morning, -to his consternation—a symbol of Chaos come again—burning in the -daylight. Mr Waring almost fled to his room and locked his door in the -horror of that suggestion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> And this was not only because the prospect -of such a visit disturbed him beyond measure, but because he had not yet -made a clean breast of it. Frances did not yet know all.</p> - -<p>Frances for her part went to the blue room, and opened the <i>persiani</i>, -and sat looking out upon the moonlight for some time before she went to -bed. The room was bare; she missed her pictures, which Constance had -taken no notice of—the Madonna that had been above her head for so many -years, and which had vaguely appeared to her as a symbol of the mother -who had never existed in her life. Now there seemed less need for the -Madonna. The bare walls had pictures all over them—pictures of a new -life. In imagination, no one is shy, or nervous, or strange. She let the -new figures move about her freely, and delighted herself with familiar -pictures of them and the changes that must accompany them. She was not -like her father, afraid of changes. She thought of the new people, the -new combinations, the quickened life: and the thought made her smile. -They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> would come, and she would make the house gay and bright to receive -them. Perhaps some time, surrounded by this new family that belonged to -her, she might even be taken “home.” The thought was delightful -notwithstanding the thrill of excitement in it. But still there was -something which Frances did not know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">What</span> is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, walking out upon -the loggia, where the Durants were sitting, on the same memorable -afternoon on which all that has been above related occurred. The General -was dressed in loosely fitting light-coloured clothes. It was one of the -recommendations of the Riviera to him that he could wear out there all -his old Indian clothes, which would have been useless to him at home. He -was a very tall old man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the -complexion, extremely spare, with a fine old white moustache, which had -an immense effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might be -adapted in his case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the General -looked; and yet he was at bottom rather a mild<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> old man, and had never -hurt anybody, except the sepoys in the Mutiny, all his life. His head -was covered with a broad light felt hat, which, soft as it was, took an -aggressive cock when he put it on. He held his gloves dangling from his -hand with the air of having been in too much haste to put them to their -proper use. And his step, as he stepped off the carpet upon the marble -of the loggia, sounded like that of an alert officer who has just heard -that the enemy has made a reconnaissance in force two miles off, and -that there is no time to lose. “What is this I hear about Waring?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs Durant.</p> - -<p>“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“But what is it?” asked the General. “I found Mrs Gaunt almost crying -when I went in. What she said was, ‘Charles, we have been nourishing a -viper in our bosoms.’ I am not addicted to metaphor, and I insisted upon -plain English; and then it all came out. She told me Waring was an -impostor, and had been taking us all in; that some old friend of his had -been here, and had told you. Is that true?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My dear!” said Mr Durant in a tone of remonstrance.</p> - -<p>“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It could not -possibly be kept a secret—so few of us here, and all so intimate.”</p> - -<p>“Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt.</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear General, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you had better -tell the General, your own way.”</p> - -<p>The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He was dying -to tell all that he knew, yet he could not but improve the occasion. -“Oh, ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is anything to be told, the -best of women is not to be trusted. But, General, our poor friend is no -impostor. He never said he was a widower.”</p> - -<p>“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls——” the General began; then with -a start, “I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl—a girl in ten -thousand,” he added, with a happy inspiration. Tasie, who was still -seated behind the teacups, give him a smile in reply.</p> - -<p>“Poor dear Mr Waring,” she said, “whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> he is a widower or has a -wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr Waring a flirt. He -might be any one’s grandfather from his manner. I cannot see that it -matters a bit.”</p> - -<p>“Not so far as we are concerned, thank heaven!” said her mother, with -the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. “But I don’t think -it is quite respectable for one of our small community to have a wife -alive and never to let any one know.”</p> - -<p>“I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person of rank,” -said Mr Durant. “It has disturbed me very much—though, happily, as my -wife says, from no private motive.” Here the good man paused, and gave -vent to a sigh of thankfulness, establishing the impression that his -ingenuous Tasie had escaped as by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and -then he continued, “I think some one should speak to him on the subject. -He ought to understand that now it is known, public opinion requires—— -Some one should tell him——”</p> - -<p>“There is no one so fit as a clergyman,” the General said.</p> - -<p>“That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> with our poor friend—— -There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.”</p> - -<p>“O Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but respect to -you.”</p> - -<p>“I should say that a man of the world, like the General——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not I,” cried the General, getting up hurriedly. “No, thank you; I -never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your business, Padre. -Besides, I have no daughter: whether he is married or not is nothing to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Nor to us, heaven be praised!” said Mrs Durant; and then she added, “It -is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a girl that has -never known a mother’s care! How much better for her to be with her -mother, and properly introduced into society, than living in that -hugger-mugger way, without education, without companions! If it were not -for Tasie, the child would never see a creature near her own age.”</p> - -<p>“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to heighten the -hardship of the situation than from any sense that this was true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-Indian. “He -ought to be made to feel that everybody at the station—— Wife all -right, do you know? Bless me! if the wife is all right, what does the -man mean? Why can’t they quarrel peaceably, and keep up appearances, as -we all do?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no—not all; <i>we</i> never quarrel.”</p> - -<p>“Not for a long time, my love.”</p> - -<p>“Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty years. We had a -little disagreement then about where we were to go for the summer. Oh, I -remember it well—the agony it cost me! Don’t say ‘as we <i>all</i> do,’ -General, for it would not be true.”</p> - -<p>“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the General. “All the more -reason why you should talk to him, Padre. Tell him he’s come among us on -false pretences, not knowing the damage he might have done. I always -thought he was a queer hand to have the education of a little girl.”</p> - -<p>“He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, taught her to -knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the time in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> such a fine -position, able to do anything for her! Oh, it is of Frances I think -most!”</p> - -<p>“It is quite evident,” said the General, “that Mr Durant must -interfere.”</p> - -<p>“I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, a man -like that——”</p> - -<p>“There is no such great harm about the man.”</p> - -<p>“And he is very good to Frances,” said Tasie, almost under her breath.</p> - -<p>“I daresay he meant no harm,” said the General, “if that is all. Only, -he should be warned; and if anything can be done for Frances—— It is a -pity she should see nobody, and never have a chance of establishing -herself in life.”</p> - -<p>“She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs Durant. “As for -establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of Providence, -General. It is not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into a -girl’s mind—unless it is put there, which is so often the case.”</p> - -<p>“The General means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would make her more -fit to be a companion for her papa. Frances is a dear girl; but it is -quite true—she is wanting in conversation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> They often sit a whole -evening together and scarcely speak.”</p> - -<p>“She is a nice little thing,” said the General, energetically—“I always -thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junketing of any -description, in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers in this -place. The Padre should interfere.”</p> - -<p>“If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr Durant.</p> - -<p>“I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “I’m not too fond of -interference myself. But when a man has concealed his antecedents, and -they have been found out. And then the little girl——”</p> - -<p>“Yes: it is Frances I think of most,” said Mr Durant.</p> - -<p>It was at last settled among them that it was clearly the clergyman’s -business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin with, but -he liked the moral support of what he called a consensus of opinion. Mr -Durant was not so reluctant as he professed to be. He had not much scope -for those social duties which, he was of opinion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> were not the least -important of a clergyman’s functions; and though there was a little -excitement in the uncertainty from Sunday to Sunday how many people -would be at church, what the collection would be, and other varying -circumstances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was -monotonous, and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies -which Mr Durant had held, he had come in contact with various romances -of real life. These were still the days of gaming, when every German -bath had its <i>tapis vert</i> and its little troup of tragedies. But the -Riviera was very tranquil, and Bordighera had just been found out by the -invalid and the pleasure-seeker. It was monotonous: there had been few -deaths, even among the visitors, which are always varieties in their way -for the clergyman, and often are the means of making acquaintances both -useful and agreeable to himself and his family. But as yet there had not -even been many deaths. This gave great additional excitement to what is -always exciting, for a small community—the cropping up under their very -noses, in their own immediate circle, of a mystery, of a dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span>covery -which afforded boundless opportunity for talk. The first thing naturally -that had affected Mr and Mrs Durant was the miraculous escape of Tasie, -to whom Mr Waring <i>might</i> have made himself agreeable, and whose peace -of mind might have been affected, for anything that could be said to the -contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-breadth escape; -although it had not occurred previously to any one that any sort of -mutual attraction between Mr Waring and Tasie was possible.</p> - -<p>And then the other aspects of the case became apparent. Mr Durant felt -now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, to allow -Waring to suppose that everything was as it had always been, was -impossible. He and his wife had decided this without the intervention of -General Gaunt; but when the General appeared—the only other permanent -pillar of society in Bordighera—then there arose that consensus which -made further steps inevitable. Mrs Gaunt looked in later, after dinner, -in the darkening; and she, too, was of opinion that some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span>thing must be -done. She was affected to tears by the thought of that mystery in their -very midst, and of what the poor (unknown) lady must have suffered, -deserted by her husband, and bereft of her child. “He might at least -have left her her child,” she said, with a sob; and she was fully of -opinion that he should be spoken to without delay, and that they should -not rest till Frances had been restored to her mother. She thought it -was “a duty” on the part of Mr Durant to interfere. The consensus was -thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the entire -community. “We will sleep upon it,” Mr Durant said. But the morning -brought no further light. They were all agreed more strongly than ever -that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it was undeniably a duty for -the clergyman to interfere.</p> - -<p>Mr Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the mid-day -breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the day, the time -for business, before social intercourse is supposed to begin. He was -very carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, and was indeed a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> -agreeable example of a neat old clerical gentleman. Ecclesiastical -costume was much more easy in those days. It was before the era of long -coats and soft hats, when a white tie was the one incontrovertible sign -of the clergyman who did not think of calling himself a priest. He was -indeed, having been for a number of years located in Catholic countries, -very particular not to call himself a priest, or to condescend to any -garb which could recall the <i>soutane</i> and three-cornered hat of the -indigenous clergy. His black clothes were spotless, but of the ordinary -cut, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned. But yet neither <i>soutane</i> nor -<i>berretta</i> could have made it more evident that Mr Durant, setting out -with an ebony stick and black gloves, was an English clergyman going -mildly but firmly to interfere. Had he been met with in the wilds of -Africa, even there mistake would have been impossible. In his serious -eye, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of -gentle determination diffused over his whole person, this was apparent. -It made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened the door. After -what had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> happened yesterday, Domenico felt that anything might happen. -“Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, foretells the nature of the -tragic volume,” he said to Mariuccia—at least if he did not use these -words, his meaning was the same. He ushered the English pastor into the -room which Mr Waring occupied as a library, with bated breath. “Master -is going to catch it,” was what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might -have said. But Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle.</p> - -<p>Waring’s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong room, -with three windows and as many doors, opening into the dining-room on -one hand, and the ante-room on the other. It had the usual -indecipherable fresco on the roof, and the walls on one side were half -clothed with bookcases. Not a very large collection of books, and yet -enough to make a pretty show, with their old gilding, and the dull white -of the vellum in which so many were bound. It was a room in which he -spent the most of his time, and it had been made comfortable according -to the notions of comfort prevailing in these regions. There was a -square of carpet under his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> writing-table. His chair was a large old -<i>fauteuil</i>, covered with faded damask; and curtains, also faded, were -festooned over all the windows and doors. The <i>persiani</i> were shut to -keep out the sun, and the cool atmosphere had a greenish tint. Waring, -however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat with his chair -pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a novel. He had -the air of a man who had taken refuge there from some embarrassment or -annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man occupied in so-called studies -needing leisure, with his note-books at hand, and pen and ink within -reach. Such a man is usually very glad to be interrupted in the midst of -his self-imposed labours, and Waring’s first movement was one of -satisfaction. He threw down the book, with an apology for having ever -taken it up in the half-ashamed, half-violent way in which he got rid of -it. Don’t suppose I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say. -But the aspect of Mr Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose -hurriedly, and gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun is down, -it is never so fresh in the evening. Especially for business, I find it -the best time.”</p> - -<p>“That means, I suppose,” said Waring, “that your visit this morning -means business, and not mere friendship, as I had supposed?”</p> - -<p>“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, smoothing his -hat with his hand; “but I don’t deny it is something more serious: -a—a—question I want to ask you, if you don’t mind——”</p> - -<p>Just at this moment, in the next room there rose a little momentary and -pleasant clamour of voices and youthful laughter; two voices -certainly—Frances and another. This made Mr Durant prick up his ears. -“You have—visitors?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring, with a -smile.</p> - -<p>Now was the time when Mr Durant realised the difficult nature of his -mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst of the -consensus of opinion, with everybody encouraging him and pressing upon -him the fact that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> it was “a duty,” the matter seemed easy enough. But -when he found himself in Waring’s house, looking a man in the face with -whose concerns he had really no right to interfere, and who had not at -all the air of a man ready to be brought to the confessional, Mr -Durant’s confidence failed him. He faltered a little; he looked at his -very unlikely penitent, and then he looked at the hat which he was -turning round in his hands, but which gave him no courage. Then he -cleared his throat. “The question is—quite a simple one,” he said. -“There can be no doubt of your ability—to answer. I am sure you will -forgive me if I say, to begin with——”</p> - -<p>“One moment. Is this question—which seems to trouble you—about my -affairs or yours?”</p> - -<p>Mr Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. “That is -just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my dear Waring, that -you have been received here—well, there is not very much in our -power—but with every friendly feeling, every desire to make you one of -us.”</p> - -<p>“All this preface shows me that it is I who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> have been found wanting. -You are quite right; you have been most hospitable and kind—to myself, -almost too much so; to my daughter, you have given all the society she -has ever known.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. My dear -friend, was it right, then, when we opened our arms to you so -unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character—under false -colours?”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “This is going a little too far. I -suppose I understand what you mean. Mannering, who calls himself my old -friend, has been here; and as he could not hold his tongue if his life -depended upon it, he has told you—— But why you should accuse me of -holding a false position, of coming under false colours—which was what -you said——”</p> - -<p>“Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “did you never -think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and—well, still a -good-looking man—did you never think that there might be some -susceptible heart—some woman’s heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “I never supposed -for a moment——”</p> - -<p>“——Some young creature,” Mr Durant continued, solemnly, “whom it -might be my duty and your duty to guard from deception; but who -naturally, taking you for a widower——”</p> - -<p>Waring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up before his -table like a little boy who was about to be caned. Exclamations of -dismay fell unconsciously from his lips. “Sir! I never thought——”</p> - -<p>Mr Durant paused to contemplate with pleasure the panic he had caused. -He put down his hat and rubbed together his little fat white hands. “By -the blessing of Providence,” he said, drawing a long breath, “that -danger has been averted. I say it with thankfulness. We have been -preserved from any such terrible result. But had things been differently -ordered—think, only think! and be grateful to Providence.”</p> - -<p>The answer which Waring made to this speech was to burst into a fit of -uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering his gravity. -As soon as he paused, exhausted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> to draw breath, he was off again. The -suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, became ludicrous beyond -description. He quavered forth “I beg your pardon” between the fits, -which Mr Durant did not at all like. He sat looking on at the hilarity -very gravely without a smile.</p> - -<p>“I did not expect so much levity,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running down his -cheeks. “Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character of a gay -Lothario is the last one in the world——”</p> - -<p>“It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergyman. -“Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should -withdraw. Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce.”</p> - -<p>“It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. But I -think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set before me, -we may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr Durant,” continued -Waring, “you have only anticipated an explanation I intended to make. -Mannering is an ass.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr Durant, -with much gravity.</p> - -<p>“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, who is very -unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more distinctly. Constance, I -want you here.”</p> - -<p>The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there suddenly -appeared in the doorway the tall figure of a girl who had never been -seen as yet in Bordighera—a girl who was very simply dressed, yet who -had an air which the old gentleman, acquainted, as he flattered himself, -with the air of fine people, could not ignore. She stood with a careless -grace, returning slightly, not without a little of that impertinence of -a fine lady which is so impressive to the crowd, his salutation. “Did -you want me, papa?” she quietly asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> revelation which thus burst upon Mr Durant was known throughout the -length and breadth of Bordighera, as that good man said, before the day -was out. The expression was not so inappropriate as might be at first -supposed, considering the limited society to which the fact that Mr -Waring had a second daughter was of any particular interest; for the -good chaplain’s own residence was almost at the extremity of the Marina, -and General Gaunt’s on the highest point of elevation among the olive -gardens; while the only other English inhabitants were in the hotels -near the beach, and consisted of a landlady, a housekeeper, and the -highly respectable person who had charge of the stables at the Bellevue. -This little inferior world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> was respectfully interested but not excited -by the new arrival.</p> - -<p>But to Mrs Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first importance; and -Mrs Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it was a revelation of -further wickedness, and that there was no telling where these -discoveries might end. “We shall be hearing that he has a son next,” she -said. They had a meeting in the afternoon to talk it over; and it really -did appear at first that the new disclosure enhanced the enormity of the -first—for, naturally, the difference between a widower and a married -man is aggravated by the discovery that the deceiver pretending to have -only one child has really “a family.” At the first glance the ladies -were all impressed by this; though afterwards, when they began to think -of it, they were obliged to admit that the conclusion perhaps was not -very well founded. And when it turned out that Frances and the new-comer -were twins, that altogether altered the question, and left them, though -they were by no means satisfied, without anything further to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span></p> - -<p>While all this went on outside the Palazzo, there was much going on -within it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrassment. -Mr Waring, with a consciousness that he was acting a somewhat cowardly -part, ran away from it altogether, and shut himself up in his library, -and left his daughters to make acquaintance with each other as they best -could. He was, as has been said, by no means sufficiently at his ease to -return to what he called his studies, the ordinary occupations of his -life. He had run away, and he knew it. He went so far as to turn the key -in one door, so that, whatever happened, he could only be invaded from -one side, and sat down uneasily in the full conviction that from moment -to moment he might be called upon to act as interpreter or peacemaker, -or to explain away difficulties. He did not understand women, but only -his wife, from whom he had taken various prejudices on the subject; -neither did he understand girls, but only Frances, whom, indeed, he -ought to have known better than to suppose, either that she was likely -to squabble with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> sister, or call him in to mediate or explain. -Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; and he knew -that, yet lived in a vague dread, and did not even sit comfortably on -his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel—which was the -condition in which he was found by Mr Durant. The clergyman’s visit did -him a little good, giving him at once a grievance and an object of -ridicule. During the rest of the day he was so far distracted from his -real difficulties as to fall from time to time into fits of secret -laughter over the idea of having been in all unconsciousness a source of -danger for Tasie. He had never been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to -have run the risk of destroying Tasie’s peace of mind was beyond his -wildest imagination. He longed to confide it to somebody, but there was -no one with whom he could share the fun. Constance perhaps might have -understood; but Frances! He relapsed into gravity when he thought of -Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous suggestion which would amuse -her.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the girls, who were such strangers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> to each other, yet so -closely bound by nature, were endeavouring to come to a knowledge of -each other by means which were much more subtle than any explanation -their father could have supplied; so that he might, if he had understood -them better, have been entirely at his ease on this point. As a matter -of fact, though Constance was the cleverer of the two, it was Frances -who advanced most quickly in her investigations, for the excellent -reason that it was Constance who talked, while Frances, for the most -part having nothing at all interesting to say of herself, held her -peace. Frances had been awakened at an unusually late hour in the -morning—for the agitation of the night had abridged her sleep at the -other end—by the sounds of mirth which accompanied the first dialogue -between her new sister and Mariuccia. The Italian which Constance knew -was limited, but it was of a finer quality than any with which Mariuccia -was acquainted; yet still they came to some sort of understanding, and -both repudiated the efforts of Frances to explain. And from that moment -Constance had kept<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> the conversation in her hands. She did not chatter, -nor was there any appearance of loquacity in her; but Frances had lived -much alone, and had been taught not to disturb her father when she was -with him, so that it was more her habit to be talked to than to talk. -She did not even ask many questions—they were scarcely necessary; for -Constance, as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives for -the step she had taken. These revelations gave Frances new lights almost -at every word.</p> - -<p>“You always knew, then, about—us?” Frances said. She had intended to -say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled modesty and pride.</p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, if not -oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham who found out -that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in the world. Papa does -not much like him. I daresay you have never heard anything very -favourable of him; but that is a mistake. We knew pretty well about you. -Mamma used to ask that you should write, since there was no reason why, -at your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> age, you should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I -suppose he thought it better not.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so.”</p> - -<p>“I should not myself have been restrained by that,” said Constance. “I -think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience of that sort at our -age is too much. I should not have obeyed him. I should have told him -that in such a matter I must judge for myself. However, if one learns -anything as one grows up,” said this young philosopher, “it is that no -two people are alike. I suppose that was not how the subject presented -itself to you?”</p> - -<p>Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said had she -been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do so now? The -idea was a very strange one to her mind, and yet what could be more -natural? It was with a sense of precipitate avoidance of a subject which -must be contemplated fully at an after-period, that she said hurriedly, -“I have never written letters. It did not come into my head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial scrutiny. -Then she added, with a sequence of thoughts which it was not difficult -to follow, “Don’t you think it is very odd that you and I should be the -same age?”</p> - -<p>Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. She -looked wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced than she -felt herself to be. “I suppose—we ought to have been like each other,” -she said.</p> - -<p>“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t know whether -you are like her in mind—but on the outside. And I am like <i>him</i>. It is -very funny. It shows that one has these peculiarities from one’s birth; -it couldn’t be habit or association, as people say, for I have never -been with him—neither have you with mamma. I suppose he is very -independent-minded, and does what he likes without thinking? So do I. -And you consider what other people will say, and how it will look, and a -thousand things.”</p> - -<p>It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not at -all in the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> she -consider very much what other people would say? Perhaps it was true. She -had been obliged, she reflected, to consider what Mariuccia would say; -so that probably Constance was right.</p> - -<p>“It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. He is -invaluable; he never forgets; and if you want to find anything out, he -will take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell you why I left home. -If we are going to live together as sisters, we ought to make confidants -of each other; and if you have to go, you can take my part. Well, then! -You must know there is a man in it. They say you should always ask, ‘Who -is She?’ when there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as -natural to ask, ‘Who is He?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.”</p> - -<p>The language, the tone, the meaning, were all new to Frances. She did -not know anything about it. When there is a row between men; when a girl -gets into a scrape: the one and the other were equally far from her -experience. She felt herself blush, though she scarcely knew why. She -shook her head when Constance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> added, though rather as a remark than as -a question, “Don’t you know? Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any -personal experience, but as a general principle? The man in this case -was well enough. Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; -that I had better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he -would have advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that -this is a point upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma pressed me -more than a mother has any right to do—to a person of my age.”</p> - -<p>“But, Constance, eighteen is not so very old.”</p> - -<p>“Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl, somewhat imperiously; -then she paused and added—“in most cases, when one has been much in the -world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle ages when your mother -thinks she can make you do what she pleases and marry as she likes. That -must be one’s own affair. I must say that I thought papa would take my -part more strongly, for they have always been so much opposed. But after -all, though he is not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is -his side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Did you not like—the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing could be more -modest than this question, and yet it brought the blood to her face. She -had never heard the ordinary <i>badinage</i> on this subject, or thought of -love with anything but awe and reverence, as a mystery altogether beyond -her and out of discussion. She did not look at her sister as she put the -question. Constance lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined -with cushions, which was her father’s favourite seat, with her hands -clasped behind her head, in one of those attitudes of complete <i>abandon</i> -which Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl.</p> - -<p>“Did I like—the gentleman? I did not think that question could ever -again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the good of a -sister. Mamma and Markham and all my people had such a different way of -looking at it. You must know that <i>that</i> is not the first question, -whether you like the man. As for that, I liked him—well enough. There -was nothing to—dislike in him.”</p> - -<p>Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like -reproach. “I may not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> have used the right word. I have never spoken on -such subjects before.”</p> - -<p>“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said Constance. -“I suppose papa has brought you up to think that such things must never -be spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original about it. I have been asked -if he was not rich enough, if he was not handsome enough, if it was -because he had no title: and I have been asked if I loved him, which was -nonsense. I could answer all that; but you I can’t answer. Don’t I like -him? I was not going to be persecuted about him. It was Markham who put -this into my head. ‘Why don’t you go to your father,’ he said, ‘if you -won’t hear reason? He is just the sort of person to understand you, if -we don’t.’ So, then, I took them at their word. I came off—to papa.”</p> - -<p>“Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think——”</p> - -<p>“I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good sense. They -think him romantic, and all that. I have always been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> accustomed to -think so too. But the curious thing is that he isn’t,” said Constance, -with an injured air. “I suppose, however foolish one’s father may be for -himself, he still feels that he must stand on the parents’ side.”</p> - -<p>“You speak,” said Frances, with a little indignation, “as if papa was -likely to be against—his children; as if he were an enemy.”</p> - -<p>“Taking sides is not exactly being enemies,” said Constance. “We are -each of our own faction, you know. It is like Whigs and Tories. The -fathers and mothers side with each other, even though they may be quite -different and not get on together. There is a kind of reason in it. -Only, I have always heard so much of papa as unreasonable and unlike -other people, that I never thought of him in that light. He would be -just the same, though, except that for the present I am a stranger, and -he feels bound to be civil to me. If it were not for his politeness, he -is capable of being medieval too.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what medieval means,” said Frances, with much heat, -indignant to hear her father thus spoken of as a subject for criticism.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> -Perhaps she had criticised him in her time, as children use—but -silently, not putting it into words, which makes a great difference. And -besides, what one does one’s self in this way is quite another matter. -As she looked at this girl, who was a stranger, though in some -extraordinary way not a stranger, a momentary pang and impotent sudden -rage against the web of strange circumstances in which she felt herself -caught and bewildered, flamed up in her mild eyes and mind, unaccustomed -to complications. Constance took no notice of this sudden passion.</p> - -<p>“It means bread and water,” she said, with a laugh, “and shutting up in -one’s own room, and cutting off of all communication from without. -Mamma, if she were driven to it, is quite capable of that. They all -are—rather than give in; but as we are not living in the middle ages, -they have to give in at last. Perhaps, if I had thought that what you -may call his official character would be too strong for papa, I should -have fought it out at home. But I thought he at least would be himself, -and not a conventional parent. I am sure he has been a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> queer sort -of parent hitherto; but the moment a fight comes, he puts himself on his -own side.”</p> - -<p>She gave forth these opinions very calmly, lying back in the long chair, -with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes following -abstractedly the lines of the French coast. The voice which uttered -sentiments so strange to Frances was of the most refined and harmonious -tones, low, soft, and clear. And the lines of her slim elastic figure, -and of her perfectly appropriate dress, which combined simplicity and -costliness, carelessness and consummate care, as only high art can, -added to the effect of a beauty which was not beauty in any -demonstrative sense, but rather harmony, ease, grace, fine health, fine -training, and what, for want of a better word, we call blood. Not that -the bluest blood in the world inevitably carries with it this perfection -of tone; but Constance had the effect which a thoroughbred horse has -upon the connoisseur. It would have detracted from the impression she -made had there been any special point upon which the attention -lingered—had her eyes, or her complexion, her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> hands, or her hair, or -any individual trait, called for particular notice. But hers was not -beauty of that description.</p> - -<p>Her sister, who was, so to speak, only a little rustic, sat and gazed at -her in a kind of rapture. Her heart did not, as yet at least, go out -towards this intruder into her life; her affections were as yet -untouched; and her temper was a little excited, disturbed by the -critical tone which her sister assumed, and the calm frankness with -which she spoke. But though all these dissatisfied, almost hostile -sentiments were in Frances’ mind, her eyes and attention were -fascinated. She could not resist the influence which this external -perfection of being produced upon her. It was only perhaps now in the -full morning light, in the <i>abandon</i> of this confidence and candour, -which had none of the usual tenderness of confidential revelations, but -rather a certain half-disdainful self-discovery which necessity -demanded, that Frances fully perceived her sister’s gifts. Her own -impatience, her little impulses of irritation and contradiction, died -away in the wondering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> admiration with which she gazed. Constance showed -no sign even of remarking the effect she produced. She said -meditatively, dropping the words into the calm air without any apparent -conception of novelty or wonder in them, “I wonder how you will like it -when you have to go.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Within</span> the first few days, a great many of these conversations took -place, and Frances gradually formed an idea to herself—not, perhaps, -very like reality, but yet an idea—of the other life from which her -sister had come. The chief figure in it was “mamma,” the mother with -whom Constance was so carelessly familiar, and of whom she herself knew -nothing at all. Frances did not learn from her sister’s revelations to -love her mother. The effect was very different from that which, in such -circumstances, might have been looked for. She came to look upon this -unknown representative of “the parents’ side,” as Constance said, as -upon a sort of natural opponent, one who understood but little and -sympathised not at all with the younger, the other faction, the -generation which was to succeed and replace her. Of this fact the other -girl never concealed her easy con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span>viction. The elders for the moment had -the power in their hands, but by-and-by their day would be over. There -was nothing unkind or cruel in this certainty; it was simply the course -of nature: by-and-by their sway would be upset by the natural progress -of events, and in the meantime it was modified by the other certainty, -that if the young stood firm, the elders had no alternative but to give -in. Altogether, it was evident the parents’ side was not the winning -side; but all the same it had the power of annoying the other to a very -great extent, and exercised this power with a selfishness which was -sometimes brutal. Mamma, it was evident, had not considered Constance at -all. She had taken her about into society for her own ends, not for her -daughter’s pleasure: and, finally, she had formed a plan by which -Constance was to be handed over to another proprietor without any -consultation of her own wishes.</p> - -<p>The heart of Frances sank as she slowly identified this maternal image, -so different from that which fancy and nature suggest. She tried to -compare it with the image which she herself might in her turn have -communicated of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> father, had it been she who was the expositor. It -frightened her to find, as she tried this experiment in her own mind, -that the representation of papa would not have been much more -satisfactory. She would have shown him as passing his time chiefly in -his library, taking very little notice of her tastes and wishes, -settling what was to be done, where to go, everything that was of any -importance in their life, without at all taking into account what she -wished. This she had always felt to be perfectly natural, and she had no -feeling of a grievance in the matter; but supposing it to be necessary -to tell the story to an ignorant person, what would that ignorant -person’s opinion be? It gave her a great shock to perceive that the -impression produced would also be one of harsh authority, indifferent, -taking no note of the inclinations of those who were subject to it. That -was how Constance would understand papa. It was not the case, and yet it -would look so to one who did not know. Perceiving this, Frances came to -feel that it might be natural to represent the world as consisting of -two factions, parents and children. There was a certain truth in it. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> -there should happen to occur any question—which was impossible—between -papa and herself, she felt sure that it would be very difficult for him -to realise that she had a will of her own; and yet Frances was very -conscious of having a will of her own.</p> - -<p>In this way she learned a great many things vaguely through the talk of -her sister. She learned that balls and other entertainments, such as, to -her inexperienced fancy, had seemed nothing but pleasure, were not in -reality intended, at least as their first object, for pleasure at all. -Constance spoke of them as things to which one must go. “We looked in -for an hour,” she would say. “Mamma thinks she ought to have -half-a-dozen places to go to every evening,” with a tone in which there -was more sense of injury than pleasure. Then there was the mysterious -question of love, which was at once so simple and so awful a matter, on -which there could be no doubt or question: that, it appeared, was quite -a complicated affair, in which the lover, the hero, was transferred into -“the man,” whose qualities had to be discovered and considered, as if he -were a candidate for a pub<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>lic office. All this bewildered Frances more -than can be imagined or described. Her sister’s arrival, and the -disclosures involved in it, had broken up to her all the known lines of -heaven and earth; and now that everything had settled down again, and -these lines were beginning once more to be apparent, Frances felt that -though they were wider, they were narrower too. She knew a great deal -more; but knowledge only made that appear hard and unyielding which had -been elastic and infinite. The vague and imaginary were a great deal -more lovely than this, which, according to her sister’s revelation, was -the real and true.</p> - -<p>Another very curious experience for Frances occurred when Mrs Durant and -Mrs Gaunt, as in duty bound, and moved with lively curiosity, came to -call and make acquaintance with Mr Waring’s new daughter. Constance -regarded these visitors with languid curiosity, only half rising from -her chair to acknowledge her introduction to them, and leaving Frances -to answer the questions which they thought it only civil to put. Did she -like Bordighera?</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; well enough,” Constance replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span></p> - -<p>“My sister thinks the people not so picturesque as she expected,” said -Frances.</p> - -<p>“But of course she felt the delightful difference in the climate?” -People, Mrs Durant understood, were suffering dreadfully from east wind -in London.</p> - -<p>“Ah! one doesn’t notice in town,” said Constance.</p> - -<p>“My sister is not accustomed to living without comforts and with so -little furniture. You know that makes a great difference,” said her -anxious expositor and apologist.</p> - -<p>And then there would ensue a long pause, which the new-comer did nothing -at all to break: and then the conversation fell into the ordinary -discussion of who was at church on Sunday, how many new people from the -hotels, and how disgraceful it was that some who were evidently English -should either poke into the Roman Catholic places or never go to church -at all.</p> - -<p>“It comes to the same thing, indeed,” Mrs Durant said, indignantly; “for -when they go to the native place of worship, they don’t understand. Even -I, that have been so long on the Continent, I can’t follow the -service.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But papa can,” said Tasie.</p> - -<p>“Ah, papa—papa is much more highly educated than I could ever pretend -to be; and besides, he is a theologian, and knows. There were quite -half-a-dozen people, evidently English, whom I saw with my own eyes -coming out of the chapel on the Marina. Oh, don’t say anything, Tasie! I -think, in a foreign place, where the English have a character to keep -up, it is quite a sin.”</p> - -<p>“You know, mamma, they think nobody knows them,” Tasie said.</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt did not care so much who attended church; but when she found -that Constance had, as she told the General, “really nothing to say for -herself,” she too dropped into her habitual mode of talk. She did her -best in the first place to elicit the opinions of Constance about -Bordighera and the climate, about how she thought Mr Waring looking, and -if dear Frances was not far stronger than she used to be. But when these -judicious inquiries failed of a response, Mrs Gaunt almost turned her -back upon Constance. “I have had a letter from Katie, my dear,” she -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Have you indeed? I hope she is quite well—and the babies?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, the babies; they are always well. But poor Katie, she has been a -great sufferer. I told you she had a touch of fever, by last mail. Now -it is her liver. You are never safe from your liver in India. She had -been up to the hills, and there she met Douglas, who had gone to settle -his wife and children. His wife is a poor little creature, always -ailing; and their second boy—— But, dear me, I have not told you my -great news! Frances—George is coming home! He is coming by Brindisi and -Venice, and will be here directly. I told him I was sure all my kind -neighbours would be so glad to see him; and it will be so nice for -him—don’t you think?—to see Italy on his way.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very nice,” said Frances. “And you must be very happy, both the -General and you.”</p> - -<p>“The General does not say much, but he is just as happy as I am. Fancy! -by next mail! in another week!” The poor lady dried her eyes, and added, -laughing, sobbing, “Only think—in a week—my youngest boy!”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say,” said Constance, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> Mrs Gaunt was gone, “that -you have made them believe you care? Oh, that is exactly like mamma. She -makes people think she is quite happy and quite miserable about their -affairs, when she does not care one little bit! What is this woman’s -youngest son to you?”</p> - -<p>“But she is—— I have been here all my life. I am glad that she should -be happy,” cried Frances, suddenly placed upon her defence.</p> - -<p>When she thought of it, Mrs Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing at all to -her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in the hotels on -the Marina went to church. But Mrs Gaunt was interested in the one, and -the Durants in the other. And was it true what Constance said, that she -was a humbug, that she was a deceiver, because she pretended to care? -Frances was much confused by this question. There was something in it: -perhaps it was true. She faltered as she replied, “Do you think it is -wrong to sympathise? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself. -But still it is not false, for I do feel it for them—in a sort of a -way.”</p> - -<p>“And that is all the society you have here? the clergywoman and the old -soldier. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> will they expect me, too, to feel for them—in a sort of a -way?”</p> - -<p>“Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could never be -quite the same, you know; because you are a stranger, and I have known -them ever since I was quite a little thing. They have all been very kind -to me. They used to have me to tea; and Tasie would play with me; and -Mrs Gaunt brought down all her Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you -don’t know how kind they are! I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the -carved ivory things, and remember how they were taken out from under the -glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and how -dear Mrs Gaunt could trust me with them! And then Tasie——”</p> - -<p>“Tasie! What a ridiculous name! But it suits her well enough. She must -be forty, I should think.”</p> - -<p>“Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess of -Denrara, who is her godmother,” said Frances, with great gravity. She -had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs Durant, and -unconsciously repeated it in something of the same tone. Constance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> -received this with a sudden laugh, and clapped her hands.</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie now. I am -sure you can; and then we shall have got a laugh out of them at least.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “Do you think I would -laugh at them? When you know how really good they are——”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, opening her mouth -in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been dreadful in any one -else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty in her. Everything was -rather pretty in her, even her little rudenesses and impertinences. “If -I stay here, of course I shall have to be intimate with them, as you -have been. And must I take a tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us -see! He will be a young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one, -and as he is coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is -bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation raising her voice.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said her sister, “is there anything wonderful in that? We are -very different types, and till we see the hero, we shall not be able to -tell which he is likely to prefer. I see my way to a little diversion, -if you will not be too puritanical, Fan. That never does a man any harm. -It will rouse him up; it will give him something to think of. A place -like this can’t have much amusement, even for a youngest boy. We shall -make him enjoy himself. His mother will bless us. You know, everybody -says it is part of education for a man.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked at her sister with eyes bewildered, somewhat horrified, -full of disapproval; while Constance, roused still more by her sister’s -horror than by the first mischievous suggestion which had awakened her -from her indifference, laughed, and woke up into full animation. “We -will go and return their visits,” she said, “and I will be sympathetic -too. But you shall see, when I take up a part, I make much more of it -than you do. I know who these people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> were who did not go to church. -They were my people—the people I travelled with; and they shall go next -Sunday, and Tasie’s heart shall rejoice. When we call, I will let them -know that England, even at Bordighera, expects every man—and every -woman, which is more to the purpose—and that their absence was -remarked. They will never be absent again, Fan. And as for the other -interest, I shall inquire all about Katie’s illnesses, and secure the -very last intelligence about the youngest boy. She will show me his -photograph. She will tell me stories of how he cut his first tooth. I -wonder,” said Constance, suddenly pausing and falling back into the old -languid tone, “whether you will take up my old ways, when you are with -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never have it in my power to try,” said Frances. “Mamma will -never want me.” She was a little shy of using that name.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you know the condition, then? I think you don’t half know our -story. Papa behaved rather absurdly, but honestly too. When they -separated, he settled that one of us should always be with her, and one -of us<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> with him. He had the right to have taken us both. Men have more -rights than women. We belong to him, but we don’t belong to her. I don’t -see the reason of it, but still that is law. He allowed her to have one -of us always. I daresay he thought two little things like what we were -then would have been a bore to him. At all events, that is how it was -settled. Now it does not need much cleverness to see, that as I have -left her, she will probably claim you. She will not let papa off -anything he has promised. She likes a girl in the house. She will say, -‘Send me Frances.’ I should like to hide behind a door or under a table, -and see how you get on.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you must be mistaken,” said Frances, much disturbed; “there -was never any question about me.”</p> - -<p>“No; because I was there. Oh yes; there was often question of you. Mamma -has a little picture of you as you were when you were taken away. It -always hangs in her room; and when I had to be scolded, she used to -apostrophise you. She used to say, ‘That little angel would never have -done so-and-so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span>’ I did, for I was a little demon; so I rather hated -you. She will send for you now; and I wonder if you will be a little -angel still. I should like to see how you get on. But I shall be fully -occupied here driving people to church, and making things pleasant for -the old soldier’s youngest son.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you would not talk so wildly,” said Frances. “You are laughing -at me all the time. You think I am such a simpleton, I will believe all -you say. And indeed I am not clever enough to understand when you are -laughing at me. All this is impossible. That I should take your place, -and that you should take mine—oh, impossible!” cried Frances, with a -sharper certainty than ever, as that last astounding idea made itself -apparent: that Constance should order papa’s dinners and see after the -mayonnaise, and guide Mariuccia—“oh, impossible!” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Nothing is impossible. You think I am not good enough to do the -housekeeping for papa. I only hope you will <i>s’en tirer</i> of the -difficulties of my place, as I shall of yours. Be a kind girl, and write -to me, and tell me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> how things go. I know what will happen. You will -think everything charming at first; and then—— But don’t let Markham -get hold of you. Markham is very nice. He is capital for getting you out -of a scrape; but still, I should not advise you to be guided by him, -especially as you are papa’s child, and he is not fond of papa.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t say any more,” cried Frances. “I am not going—anywhere. I -shall live as I have always done; but only more pleasantly from -having—you.”</p> - -<p>“That is very pretty of you,” said Constance, turning round to look at -her; “if you are sure you mean it, and that it is not only true—in a -sort of a way. I am afraid I have been nothing but a bore, breaking in -upon you like this. It would be nice if we could be together,” she -added, very calmly, as if, however, no great amount of philosophy would -be necessary to reconcile her to the absence of her sister. “It would be -nice; but it will not be allowed. You needn’t be afraid, though, for I -can give you a number of hints which will make it much easier. Mamma is -a little—she is just a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span>—but I should think you would get on -with her. You look so young, for one thing. She will begin your -education over again, and she likes that; and then you are like her, -which will give you a great pull. It is very funny to think of it; it is -like a transformation scene; but I daresay we shall both get on a great -deal better than you think. For my part, I never was the least afraid.”</p> - -<p>With this, Constance sank into her chair again, and resumed the book she -had been reading, with that perfect composure and indifference which -filled Frances with admiration and dismay.</p> - -<p>It was with difficulty that Frances herself kept her seat or her -self-command at all. She had been drawing, making one of those -innumerable sketches which could be made from the loggia: now of a peak -among the mountains; now of the edge of foam on the blue, blue margin of -the sea; now of an olive, now of a palm. Frances had a consistent -conscientious way of besieging Nature, forcing her day by day to render -up the secret of another tint, another shadow. It was thus she had come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> -to the insight which had made her father acknowledge that she was -“growing up.” But to-day her hand had no cunning. Her pulses beat so -tumultuously that her pencil shared the agitation, and fluttered too. -She kept still as long as she could, and spoiled a piece of paper, which -to Frances, with very little money to lose, was something to be thought -of. And when she had accomplished this, and added to her excitement the -disagreeable and confusing effect of failure in what she was doing, -Frances got up abruptly and took refuge in the household concerns, in -directions about the dinner, and consultations with Mariuccia, who was -beginning to be a little jealous of the signorina’s absorption in her -new companion. “If the young lady is indeed your sister, it is natural -she should have a great deal of your attention; but not even for that -does one desert one’s old friends,” Mariuccia said, with a little -offended dignity.</p> - -<p>Frances felt, with a sinking of the heart, that her sister’s arrival had -been to her perhaps less an unmixed pleasure than to any of the -household. But she did not say so. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> made no exhibition of the -trouble in her bosom, which even the consultations over the mayonnaise -did not allay. That familiar duty indeed soothed her for the moment. The -question was whether it should be made with chicken or fish—a very -important matter. But though this did something to relieve her, the -culinary effort did not last. To think of being sent away into that new -world in which Constance had been brought up—to leave everything she -knew—to meet “mamma,” whose name she whispered to herself almost -trembling, feeling as if she took a liberty with a stranger,—all this -was bewildering, wonderful, and made her heart beat and her head ache. -It was not altogether that the anticipation was painful. There was a -flutter of excitement in it which was almost delight; but it was an -alarmed delight, which shook her nerves as much as if it had been -unmixed terror. She could not compose herself into indifference as -Constance did, or sit quietly down to think, or resume her usual -occupation, in the face of this sudden opening out before her of the -unforeseen and unknown.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> days ran on for about a week with a suppressed and agitating -expectation in them, which seemed to Frances to blur and muddle all the -outlines, so that she could not recollect which was Wednesday or which -was Friday, but felt it all one uncomfortable long feverish sort of day. -She could not take the advantage of any pleasure there might be in -them—and it was a pleasure to watch Constance, to hear her talk, to -catch the many glimpses of so different a life, which came from the -careless, easy monologue which was her style of conversation—for the -exciting sense that she did not know what might happen at any moment, or -what was going to become of her. Even the change from her familiar place -at table, which Constance took without any thought, just as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> she took -her father’s favourite chair on the loggia, and the difference in her -room, helped to confuse her mind, and add to the feverish sensation of a -life altogether out of joint.</p> - -<p>Constance had not observed any of those signs of individual habitation -about the room which Frances had fancied would lead to a discovery of -the transfer she had made. She took it quite calmly, not perceiving -anything beyond the ordinary in the chamber which Frances had adorned -with her sketches, with the little curiosities she had picked up, with -all the little collections of her short life. It was wanting still in -many things which to Constance seemed simple necessities. How was she to -know how many were in it which were luxuries to that primitive locality? -She remained altogether unconscious, accordingly, of the sacrifice her -sister had made for her, and spoke lightly of poor Frances’ pet -decorations, and of the sketches, the authorship of which she did not -take the trouble to suspect. “What funny little pictures!” she had said. -“Where did you get so many odd little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> things? They look as if the -frames were homemade, as well as the drawings.”</p> - -<p>Fortunately she was not in the habit of waiting for an answer to such a -question, and she did not remark the colour that rose to her sister’s -cheeks. But all this added to the disturbing influence, and made these -long days look unlike any other days in Frances’ life. She took the -other side of the table meekly with a half-smile at her father, warning -him not to say anything; and she lived in the blue room without thinking -of adding to its comforts—for what was the use, so long as this -possible banishment hung over her head? Life seemed to be arrested -during these half-dozen days. They had the mingled colours and huddled -outlines of a spoiled drawing; they were not like anything else in her -life, neither the established calm and certainty that went before, nor -the strange novelty that followed after.</p> - -<p>There were no confidences between her father and herself during this -period. Since their conversation on the night of Constance’s arrival, -not a word had been said between them on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> subject. They mutually -avoided all occasion for further talk. At least Mr Waring avoided it, -not knowing how to meet his child, or to explain to her the hazard to -which her life was exposed. He did not take into consideration the -attraction of the novelty, the charm of the unknown mother and the -unknown life, at which Frances permitted herself to take tremulous and -stealthy glimpses as the days went on. He contemplated her fate from his -own point of view as something like that of the princess who was doomed -to the dragon’s maw but for the never-to-be-forgotten interposition of -St George, that emblem of chivalry. There was no St George visible on -the horizon, and Waring thought the dragon no bad emblem of his wife. -And he was ashamed to think that he was helpless to deliver her; and -that, by his fault, this poor little Una, this hapless Andromeda, was to -be delivered over to the waiting monster.</p> - -<p>He avoided Frances, because he did not know how to break to her this -possibility, or how, since Constance probably had made her aware of it, -to console her in the terrible crisis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> at which she had arrived. It was -a painful crisis for himself as well as for her. The first evening on -which, coming into the loggia to smoke his cigarette after dinner, he -had found Constance extended in his favourite chair, had brought this -fully home to him. He strolled out upon the open-air room with all the -ease of custom, and for the first moment he did not quite understand -what it was that was changed in it, that put him out, and made him feel -as if he had come, not into his own familiar domestic centre, but -somebody else’s place. He hung about for a minute or two, confused, -before he saw what it was; and then, with a half-laugh in his throat, -and a mingled sense that he was annoyed, and that it was ridiculous to -be annoyed, strolled across the loggia, and half seated himself on the -outer wall, leaning against a pillar. He was astonished to think how -much disconcerted he was, and with what a comical sense of injury he saw -his daughter lying back so entirely at her ease in his chair. She was -his daughter, but she was a stranger, and it was impossible to tell her -that her place was not there. Next evening<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> he was almost angry, for he -thought that Frances might have told her though he could not. And indeed -Frances had done what she could to warn her sister of the usurpation. -But Constance had no idea of vested rights of this description, and had -paid no attention. She took very little notice, indeed, of what was said -to her, unless it arrested her attention in some special way; and she -had never been trained to understand that the master of a house has -sacred privileges. She had not so much as known what it is to have a -master to a house.</p> - -<p>This and other trifles of the same kind gave to Waring something of the -same confused and feverish feeling which was in the mind of Frances. And -there hung over him a cloud as of something further to come, which was -not so clear as her anticipations, yet was full of discomfort and -apprehension. He thought of many things, not of one thing, as she did. -It seemed to him not impossible that his wife herself might arrive some -day as suddenly as Constance had done, to reclaim her child, or to take -away his, for that was how they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> distinguished in his mind. The -idea of seeing again the woman from whom he had been separated so long, -filled him with dread; and that she should come here and see the limited -and recluse life he led, and his bare rooms, and his homely servants, -filled him with a kind of horror. Rather anything than that. He did not -like to contemplate even the idea that it might be necessary to give up -the girl, who had flattered him by taking refuge with him and seeking -his protection; but neither was the thought of being left with her and -having Frances taken from him endurable. In short, his mind was in a -state of mortal confusion and tumult. He was like the commander of a -besieged city, not knowing on what day he might be summoned to -surrender; not able to come to any conclusion whether it would be most -wise to yield, or if the state of his resources afforded any feasible -hopes of holding out.</p> - -<p>Constance had been a week at the Palazzo before the trumpets sounded: -The letters were delivered just before the twelve-o’clock breakfast; and -Frances had received so much warning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> as this, that Mariuccia informed -her there had been a large delivery that morning. The signor padrone had -a great packet; and there were also some letters for the other young -lady, Signorina Constanza. “But never any for thee, <i>carina</i>,” Mariuccia -had said. The poor girl thus addressed had a momentary sense that she -was indeed to be pitied on this account, before the excitement of the -certainty that now something definite must be known as to what was to -become of her, swelled her veins to bursting; and she felt herself grow -giddy with the thought that what had been so vague and visionary, might -now be coming near, and that in an hour or less she would know! Waring -was as usual shut up in his bookroom; but she could see Constance on the -loggia with her lap full of letters, lying back in the long chair as -usual, reading them as if they were the most ordinary things in the -world. Frances, for her part, had to wait in silence until she should -learn from others what her fate was to be. It seemed very strange that -one girl should be free to do so much, while another of the same age -could do nothing at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span></p> - -<p>Waring came into breakfast with the letters in his hand. “I have heard -from your mother,” he said, looking straight before him, without turning -to the right or the left. Frances tried to appropriate this to herself, -to make some reply, but her voice died in her throat; and Constance, -with the easiest certainty that it was she who was addressed, answered -before she could recover herself.</p> - -<p>“Yes—so have I. Mamma is rather fond of writing letters. She says she -has told you what she wishes, and then she tells me to tell you. I don’t -suppose that is of much use?”</p> - -<p>“Of no use at all,” said he. “She is pretty explicit. She says——”</p> - -<p>Constance leant over the table a little, holding up her finger. “Don’t -you think, papa,” she said, “as it is business, that it would be better -not to enter upon it just now? Wait till we have had our breakfast.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with an air of surprise. “I don’t see——” he said; -then, after a moment’s reflection, “Perhaps you are right, after all. It -may be better not to say anything just now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Frances had recovered her voice. She looked from one to another as they -spoke, with a cruel consciousness that it was she, not they, who was -most concerned. At this point she burst forth with feelings not to be -controlled. “If it is on my account, I would rather know at once what it -is,” she cried.</p> - -<p>And then she had to bear the looks of both—her father’s astonished -half-remorseful gaze, and the eyes of Constance, which conveyed a -warning. Why should Constance, who had told her of the danger, warn her -now not to betray her knowledge of it? Frances had got beyond her own -control. She was vexed by the looks which were fixed upon her, and by -the supposed consideration for her comfort which lay in their delay. “I -know,” she said quickly, “that it is something about me. If you think I -care for breakfast, you are mistaken; but I think I have a right to know -what it is, if it is about me. O papa, I don’t mean to -be—disagreeable,” she cried suddenly, sinking into her own natural tone -as she caught his eye.</p> - -<p>“That is not very much like you, certainly,” he said, in a confused -voice.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “I have done her -harm already.”</p> - -<p>Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her -mood. “I am not like myself,” she said, “because I know something is -going to happen to me, and I don’t know what it is. Papa, I don’t want -to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me know what it is.”</p> - -<p>“It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, lightly; “that -is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now do let us have our breakfast -in peace.”</p> - -<p>“Is that true, papa?” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“My dear little girl—I had meant to explain it all—to tell you—and I -have been so silly as to put off. Your sister does not understand how we -have lived together, Frances, you and I.”</p> - -<p>“Am I to go, papa?”</p> - -<p>He made a gesture of despair. “I don’t know what to do. I have given my -promise. It is as bad for me as for you, Frances. But what am I to do?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Constance, who had helped herself very tranquilly from -the dish which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> Domenico had been holding unobserved at his master’s -elbow, “that there is no law that could make you part with her, if you -don’t wish to. Promises are all very well with strangers; but they are -never kept—are they?—between husband and wife. The father has all the -right on his side, and you are not obliged to give either of us up. What -a blessing,” she cried suddenly, “to have servants who don’t understand! -That was why I said, don’t talk of it till after breakfast. But it does -not at all matter. It is as good as if he were deaf and dumb. Papa, you -need not give her up unless you like.”</p> - -<p>Waring looked at his daughter with mingled attention and anger. The -suggestion was detestable, but yet——</p> - -<p>“And then,” she went on, “there is another thing. It might have been all -very well when we were children; but now we are of an age to judge for -ourselves. At eighteen, you can choose which you will stay with. Oh, -younger than that. There have been several trials in the papers—no one -can force Frances to go anywhere she does not like, at her age.”</p> - -<p>“I wish,” he said, with a little irritation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> restrained by politeness, -for Constance was still a young-lady visitor to her father, “that you -would leave this question to be discussed afterwards. Your sister was -right, Frances—after breakfast—after I have had a little time to think -of it. I cannot come to any decision all at once.”</p> - -<p>“That is a great deal better,” said Constance, approvingly. “One can’t -tell all in a moment. Frances is like mamma in that too. She requires -you to know your own mind—to say Yes or No at once. You and I are very -like each other, papa. I shall never hurry your decision, or ask you to -settle a thing in a moment. But these cutlets are getting quite cold. Do -have some before they are spoiled.”</p> - -<p>Waring had no mind for the cutlets, to which he helped himself -mechanically. He did not like to look at Frances, who sat silent, with -her hands clasped on the table, pale but with a light in her eyes. The -voice of Constance running on, forming a kind of veil for the trouble -and confusion in his own mind, and doubtless in that of her sister, was -half a relief and half an aggravation; he was grateful for it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> yet -irritated by it. He felt himself to play a very poor figure in the -transaction altogether, as he had felt ever since she arrived. Frances, -whom he had regarded as a child, had sprung up into a judge, into all -the dignity of an injured person, whose right to complain of the usage -to which she had been subjected no one could deny. And when he stole a -furtive glance at her pale face, her head held high, the new light that -burned in her eyes, he felt that she was fully aware of the wrong he had -done her, and that it would not be so easy to dictate what she was to -do, as everybody up to this moment had supposed. He saw, or thought he -saw, resistance, indignation, in the gleam that had been awakened in -Frances’ dove’s eyes. And his heart fell—yet rose also; for how could -he constrain her, if she refused to go? He had no right to constrain -her. Her mother might complain, but it would not be his doing. On the -other side, it would be shameful, pitiful on his part to go back from -his word—to acknowledge to his wife that he could not do what he had -pledged himself to do.</p> - -<p>In every way it was an uncomfortable break<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span>fast, all the forms of which -he followed, partly for the sake of Constance, partly for that of -Domenico. But Frances ate nothing, he could see. He prolonged the meal, -through a sort of fear of the interview afterwards, of what he must say -to her, and of what she should reply. He felt ashamed of his reluctance -to encounter this young creature, whom a few days ago he had smiled at -as a child; and ashamed to look her in the face, to explain and argue -with, and entreat, where he had been always used to tell her to do this -and that, without the faintest fear that she would disobey him. If even -he had been left to tell her himself of all the circumstances, to make -her aware gradually of all that he had kept from her (for her good), to -show her now how his word was pledged! But even this had been taken out -of his hands.</p> - -<p>All this time no one talked but Constance, who went on with an -occasional remark and with her meal, for which she had a good appetite. -“I wish you would eat something, Frances,” she said. “You need not begin -to punish yourself at once. I feel it dreadfully, for it is all my -fault. It is I who ought to lose<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> my breakfast, not you. If you will -take a few hints from me, I don’t think you will find it so bad. Or -perhaps, if we all lay our heads together, we may see some way out of -it. Papa knows the law, and I know the English side, and you know what -you think yourself. Let us talk it all over, and perhaps we may see our -way.”</p> - -<p>To this Frances made no reply save a little inclination of her head, and -sat with her eyes shining, with a certain proud air of self-control and -self-support, which was something quite new to her. When the -uncomfortable repast could be prolonged no longer, she was the first to -get up. “If you do not mind,” she said, “I want to speak to papa by -himself.”</p> - -<p>Constance had risen too. She looked with an air of surprise at her -little sister. “Oh, if you like,” she said; “but I think you will find -that I can be of use.”</p> - -<p>“If you are going to the bookroom, I will come with you, papa,” said -Frances, but she did not wait for any reply; she opened the door and -walked before him into that place of refuge, where he had been -sheltering himself all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> these days. Constance gave him an inquiring -look, with a slight shrug of her shoulders.</p> - -<p>“She is on her high horse, and she is more like mamma than ever; but I -suppose I may come all the same.”</p> - -<p>He wavered a moment: he would have been glad of her interposition, even -though it irritated him; but he had a whimsical sense of alarm in his -mind, which he could not get over. He was afraid of Frances—which was -one of the most comical things in the world. He shook his head, and -followed humbly into the bookroom, and himself closed the door upon the -intruder. Frances had seated herself already at his table, in the seat -which she always occupied when she came to consult him about the dinner, -or about something out of the usual round which Mariuccia had asked for. -To see her seated there, and to feel that the door was closed against -all intrusion, made Waring feel as if all this disturbance was a dream. -How good the quiet had been; the calm days, which nothing interfered -with; the little housekeeper, whose childlike prudence and wisdom were -so quaint, whose simple obedience was so ready, who never, save<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> in -respect to the <i>spese</i>, set up her own will or way! His heart grew very -soft as he sat down and looked at her. No, he said to himself, he would -not break that old bond; he would not compel his little girl to leave -him, send her out as a sacrifice. He would rather stand against all the -wives in the world.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Frances, “a great deal of harm has been done by keeping me -ignorant. I want you to show me mamma’s letter. Unless I see it, how can -I know?”</p> - -<p>This pulled him up abruptly and checked the softening mood. “Your -mother’s letter,” he said, “goes over a great deal of old ground. I -don’t see that it could do you any good. It appears I promised—what -Constance told you, with her usual coolness—that one of you should be -always left with her. Perhaps that was foolish.”</p> - -<p>“Surely, papa, it was just.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I thought so at the time. I wanted to do what was right. But -there was no right in the matter. I had a perfect right to take you both -away, to bring you up as I pleased. It would have been better, perhaps, -had I done what the law authorised me to do. However,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> that need not be -gone into now. What your sister said was quite true. You are at an age -when you are supposed to be able to judge for yourself, and nobody in -the world can force you to go where you don’t want to go.”</p> - -<p>“But if you promised, and if—my mother trusted to your promise?” There -was something more solemn in that title than to say “mamma.” It seemed -easier to apply it to the unknown.</p> - -<p>“I won’t have you made a sacrifice of on my account,” he said, hastily.</p> - -<p>He was surprised by her composure, by that unwonted light in her eyes. -She answered him with great gravity, slowly, as if conscious of the -importance of her conclusion. “It would be no sacrifice,” she said.</p> - -<p>Waring, there could be no doubt, was very much startled. He could not -believe his ears. “No sacrifice? Do you mean to say that you want to -leave me?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“No, papa: that is, I did not. I knew nothing. But now that I know, if -my mother wants me, I will go to her. It is my duty. And I should like -it,” she added, after a pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span></p> - -<p>Waring was dumb with surprise and dismay. He stared at her, scarcely -able to believe that she could understand what she was saying—he, who -had been afraid to suggest anything of the kind, who had thought of -Andromeda and the virgins who were sacrificed to the dragon. He gazed -aghast at this new aspect of the face with which he was so familiar, the -uplifted head and shining eyes. He could not believe that this was -Frances, his always docile, submissive, unemancipated girl.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she said, “everything seems changed, and I too. I want to know -my mother; I want to see—how other people live.”</p> - -<p>“Other people!” He was glad of an outlet for his irritation. “What have -we to do with other people? If it had not been for this unlucky arrival, -you would never have known.”</p> - -<p>“I must have known some time,” she said. “And do you think it right that -a girl should not know her mother—when she has a mother? I want to go -to her, papa.”</p> - -<p>He flung out of his chair with an angry movement, and took up the keys -which lay on his table and opened a small cabinet which stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> in the -corner of the room, Frances watching him all the time with the greatest -attention. Out of this he brought a small packet of letters, and threw -them to her with a movement which, for so gentle a man, was almost -violent. “I kept these back for your good, not to disturb your mind. You -may as well have them, since they belong to you—now,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Come</span> out for a walk, papa,” said Constance.</p> - -<p>“What! in the heat of the day? You think you are in England.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed. I wish I did—at least, that is not what I mean. But I wish -you did not think it necessary to stay in a place like this. Why should -you shut yourself out from the world? You are very clever, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Who told you so? You cannot have found that out by your own unassisted -judgment.”</p> - -<p>“A great many people have told me. I have always known. You seem to have -made a mystery about us, but we never made any mystery about you: for -one thing, of course we couldn’t, for everybody knew. But if you chose -to go back to England——”</p> - -<p>“I shall never go back to England.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Constance, with a laugh, “never is a long day.”</p> - -<p>“So long a day, that it is a pity you should link your fortunes to mine, -my dear. Frances has been brought up to it; but your case is quite -different: and you see even she catches at the first opportunity of -getting away.”</p> - -<p>“You are scarcely just to Frances,” said Constance, with her usual calm. -“You might have said the same thing of me. I took the first opportunity -also. To know that one has a father, whom one never remembers to have -seen, is very exciting to the imagination; and just in so much as one -has been disappointed in the parent one knows, one expects to find -perfection in the parent one has never seen. Anything that you don’t -know is better than everything you do know,” she added, with the air of -a philosopher.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid, in that case, acquaintance has been fatal to your ideal.”</p> - -<p>“Not exactly,” she said. “Of course you are quite different from what I -supposed. But I think we might get on well enough, if you please. Do -come out. If we keep in the shade,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> it is not really very hot. It is -often hotter in London, where nobody thinks of staying indoors. If we -are to live together, don’t you think you must begin by giving in to me -a little, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Not to the extent of getting a sunstroke.”</p> - -<p>“In March!” she cried, with a tone of mild derision. “Let me come into -the bookroom, then. You think if Frances goes that you will never be -able to get on with me.”</p> - -<p>“My thoughts have not gone so far as that. I may have believed that a -young lady fresh from all the gaieties of London——”</p> - -<p>“But so tired of them, and very glad of a little novelty, however it -presents itself.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, so long as it continues novel. But the novelty of making the -<i>spese</i> in a village, and looking sharply after every centesimo that is -asked for an artichoke——”</p> - -<p>“The <i>spese</i> means the daily expenses? I should not mind that. And -Mariuccia is far more entertaining than an ordinary English cook. And -the neighbours—well, the neighbours afford some opportunities for fun. -Mrs Gaunt—is it?—expects her youngest boy. And then there is Tasie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The name of Tasie brought a certain relaxation to the muscles of -Waring’s face. He gave a glance round him, to see that all the doors -were closed. “I must confide in you, Constance; though, mind, Frances -must not share it. I sitting here, simple as you see me, have been -supposed dangerous to Tasie’s peace of mind. Is not that an excellent -joke?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that it is a joke at all,” said Constance, without even a -smile. “Why, Tasie is antediluvian. She must be nearly as old as you -are. Any old gentleman might be dangerous to Tasie. Tell me something -more wonderful than that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is how it appears to you!” said Waring. His laugh came to a -sudden end, broken off, so to speak, in half, and an air of portentous -gravity came over his face. He turned over the papers on the table -before him, as with a sudden thought. “By the way, I forgot I had -something to do this afternoon,” he said. “Before dinner, perhaps, we -may take a stroll, if the sun is not so hot. But this is my -working-time,” he added, with a stiff smile.</p> - -<p>Constance could not disregard so plain a hint.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> She rose up quickly. She -had taken Frances’ chair, which he had forgiven her at first; but it -made another note against her now.</p> - -<p>“What have I done?” she said to herself, raising her eyebrows, angry and -yet half amused by her dismissal. Frances had gone to her room too, and -was not to be disturbed, as her sister had seen by the look of her face. -She felt herself, as she would have said, very much “out of it,” as she -wandered round the deserted <i>salone</i>, looking at everything in it with a -care suggested by her solitude rather than any real interest. She looked -at the big high-coloured water-pots, turned into decorations, one could -imagine against their will, which stood in the corners of the room, and -which were Mrs Durant’s present to Frances; and at the blue Savona -vases, with the names of medicines, real or imaginary, betraying their -original intention; and all the other decorative scraps—the little old -pictures, the pieces of needlework and brocade. They were pretty when -she looked at them, though she had not perceived their beauty at the -first glance. There were more decorations of the same de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span>scription in -the ante-room, which gave her a little additional occupation; and then -she strolled into the loggia and threw herself into the long chair. She -had a book, one of the novels she had bought on the journey. But -Constance was not accustomed to much reading. She got through a chapter -or two; and then she looked round upon the view and mused a little, and -then returned to her novel. The second time she threw it down and went -back to the drawing-room, and had another look at the Savona pots. She -had thought how well they would look on a certain shelf at “home.” And -then she stopped and took herself to task. What did she mean by home? -This was home. She was going to live here; it was to be her place in the -world. What she had to do was to think of the decorations here, and -whether she could add to them, not of vacant corners in another place. -Finally, she returned again to the loggia, and sat down once more rather -drearily.</p> - -<p>There had never occurred a day in her experience in which she had been -so long without “something to do.” Something to do meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> something that -was amusing, something to pass the time, somebody to entertain, or -perhaps, if nothing else was possible, to quarrel with. To sit alone and -look round her at “the view,” to have not a creature to say a word to, -and nothing to engage herself with but a book—and nothing to look -forward to but this same thing repeated three hundred and sixty-five -days in the year! The prospect, the thought, made Constance shiver. It -could not be. She must do something to break the spell. But what was -there to do? The <i>spese</i> were all made for to-day, the dinner was -ordered; and she knew very little either about the <i>spese</i> or the -dinner. She would have to learn, to think of new dishes, and write them -down in a little book, as Frances did. Her dinners, she said to herself, -must be better than those of Frances. But when was she to begin, and how -was she to do it? In the meantime she went and fetched a shawl, and -while the sun blazed straight on the loggia from the south, to which it -was open in front, and left only one scrap of shade in a corner scarcely -enough to shelter the long chair, fell asleep there, finding that she -had nothing else to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span></p> - -<p>Frances had gone to her room with her packet of letters. She had not -thought what they were, nor what had been the meaning of what her father -said when he gave them to her. She took them—no, not to her own room, -but to the blue room, in which there was so little comfort. Her little -easy-chair, her writing-table, all the things with which she was at -home, belonged to Constance now. She sat down, or rather up, in a stiff -upright chair, and opened her little packet upon her bed. To her -astonishment, she found that it contained letters addressed to herself, -unopened. The first of them was printed in large letters, as for the -eyes of a child. They were very simple, not very long, concluding -invariably with one phrase: “Dear, write to me”—“Write to me, my -darling.” Frances read them with her eyes full of tears, with a rising -wave of passion and resentment which seemed to suffocate her. He had -kept them all back. What harm could they have done? Why should she have -been kept in ignorance, and made to appear like a heartless child, like -a creature <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span>without sense or feeling? Half for her mother, half for -herself, the girl’s heart swelled with a kind of fury. She had not been -ready to judge her father even after she had been aware of his sin -against her. She had still accepted what he did as part of him, bidding -her own mind be silent, hushing all criticism. But when she read these -little letters, her passion overflowed. How dared he to ignore all her -rights, to allow herself to be misrepresented, to give a false idea of -her? This was the most poignant pang of all. Without being selfish, it -is still impossible to feel a wrong of this kind to another so acutely -as to yourself. He had deprived her of the comfort of knowing that she -had a mother, of communicating with her, of retaining some hold upon -that closest of natural friends. That injury she had condoned and -forgiven; but when Frances saw how her father’s action must have shaped -the idea of herself in the mind of her mother, there was a moment in -which she felt that she could not forgive him. If she had received year -by year these tender letters, yet never had been moved to answer one of -them, what a creature must she have been, devoid of heart or common -feeling, or even good taste,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> that superficial grace by which the want -of better things is concealed! She was more horrified by this thought -than by any other discovery she could have made. She seemed to see the -Frances whom her mother knew—a little ill-conditioned child; a small, -petty, ungracious, unloving girl. Was this what had been thought of her? -And it was all his fault—all her father’s fault!</p> - -<p>At first she could see no excuse for him. She would not allow to herself -that any love for her, or desire to retain her affection, was at the -bottom of the concealment. She got a sheet of paper, and began to write -with passionate vehemence, pouring forth all her heart. “Imagine that I -have never seen your dear letters till to-day—never till to-day! and -what must you think of me?” she wrote. But when she had put her whole -heart into it, working a miracle, and making the dull paper to glow and -weep, there came a change over her thoughts. She had kept his secret -till now. She had not betrayed even to Constance the ignorance in which -she had been kept; and should she change her course, and betray him -now?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>As she came to think it over, she felt that she herself blamed her -father bitterly, that he had fallen from the pedestal on which to her he -had stood all her life. Yet the thought that others should be conscious -of this degradation was terrible to her. When Constance spoke lightly of -him, it was intolerable to Frances; and the mother of whom she knew -nothing, of whom she knew only that she was her mother, a woman who had -grievances of her own against him, who would be perhaps pleased, almost -pleased, to have proof that he had done this wrong! Frances paused, with -the fervour of indignation still in her heart, to consider how she -should bear it if this were so. It was all selfish, she said to herself, -growing more miserable as she fought with the conviction that whether in -condemning him or covering what he had done, herself was her first -thought. She had to choose now between vindicating herself at his cost, -or suffering continued misconception to screen him. Which should she do? -Slowly she folded up the letter she had written and put it away, not -destroying but saving it, as leaving it still possible to carry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> out her -first intention. Then she wrote another shorter, half-fictitious letter, -in which the bitterness in her heart seemed to take the form of -reproach, and her consent to obey her mother’s call was forced and -sullen. But this letter was no sooner written than it was torn to -pieces. What was she to do? She ended, after much thought, by destroying -also her first letter, and writing as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mother</span>,—To see my sister and to hear that you want me, is -very bewildering and astonishing to me. I am very ready to come, -if, indeed, you will forgive me all that you must think so bad in -me, and let me try as well as I can to please you. Indeed I desire -to do so with all my heart. I have understood very little, and I -have been thoughtless, and, you will think, without any natural -affection; but this is because I was so ignorant, and had nobody to -tell me. Forgive me, dear mamma. I do not feel as if I dare write -to you now and call you by that name. As soon as we can consider -and see how it is best for me to travel, I will come. I am not -clever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> and beautiful, like Constance; but indeed I do wish to -please you with all my heart.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Frances.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This was all she could say. She put it up in an envelope, feeling -confused with her long thinking, and with all the elements of change -that were about her, and took it back to the bookroom to ask for the -address. She had felt that she could not approach her father with -composure or speak to him of ordinary matters; but it made a little -formal bridge, as it were, from one kind of intercourse to another, to -ask him for that address.</p> - -<p>“Will you please tell me where mamma lives?” she said.</p> - -<p>Waring turned round quickly to look at her. “So you have written -already?”</p> - -<p>“O papa, can you say ‘already’? What kind of creature must she think I -am, never to have sent a word all these years?”</p> - -<p>He paused a moment and then said, “You have told her, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“I have told her nothing except that I am ready to come whenever we can -arrange how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> I am to travel. Papa,” she said, with one of those sudden -relentings which come in the way of our sternest displeasure with those -we love—“O papa,” laying her hand on his arm, “why did you do it? I am -obliged to let her think that I have been without a heart all my -life—for I cannot bear it when any one blames you.”</p> - -<p>“Frances,” he said, with a response equally sudden, putting his arm -round her, “what will my life be without you? I have always trusted in -you, depended on you without knowing it. Let Constance go back to her, -and stay you with me.”</p> - -<p>Frances had not been accustomed to many demonstrations of affection, and -this moved her almost beyond her power of self-control. She put down her -head upon her father’s shoulder and cried, “Oh, if we could only go back -a week! but we can’t; no, nor even half a day. Things that might have -been this morning, can’t be now, papa! I was very, very angry—oh, in a -rage—when I read these letters. Why did you keep them from me? Why did -you keep my mother from me? I wrote and told her everything, and then I -tore up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> my letter and told her nothing. But I can never be the same -again,” said the girl, shaking her head with that conviction of the -unchangeableness of a first trouble which is so strong in youth. “Now I -know what it is to be one thing and appear another, and to bear blame -and suffer for what you have not deserved.”</p> - -<p>Waring repented his appeal to his child. He repented even the sudden -impulse which had induced him to make it. He withdrew his arm from her -with a sudden revulsion of feeling, and a recollection that Constance -was not emotional, but a young woman of the world, who would understand -many things which Frances did not understand. He withdrew his arm, and -said somewhat coldly, “Show me what address you have put upon your -mother’s letter. You must not make any mistake in that.”</p> - -<p>Frances dried her eyes hastily, and felt the check. She put her letter -before him without a word. It was addressed to Mrs Waring, no more.</p> - -<p>“I thought so,” he said, with a laugh which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> sounded harsh to the -excited girl; “and, to be sure, you had no means of knowing. I told you -your mother was a much more important person than I. You will see the -difference between wealth and poverty, as well as between a father’s -sway and a mother’s, when you go to Eaton Square. This is your mother’s -address.” He wrote it hastily on a piece of paper and pushed it towards -her. Frances had received many shocks and surprises in the course of -these days, but scarcely one which was more startling to her simple mind -than this. The paper which her father gave her did not bear his name. It -was addressed to Lady Markham, Eaton Square, London. Frances turned to -him an astonished gaze. “That is where—mamma is living?” she said.</p> - -<p>“That is—your mother’s name and address,” he answered, coldly. “I told -you she was a greater personage than I.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa——”</p> - -<p>“You are not aware,” he said, “that, according to the beautiful -arrangements of society, a woman who makes a second marriage below<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> her -is allowed to keep her first husband’s name. It is so, however. Lady -Markham chose to avail herself of that privilege. That is all, I -suppose? You can send your letter without any further reference to me.”</p> - -<p>Frances went away without a word, treading softly, with a sort of -suspense of life and thought. She could not tell how she felt or what it -meant. She knew nothing about the arrangements of society. Did it mean -something wrong, something that was impossible? Frances could not tell -how that could be—that your father and mother should not only live -apart, but have different names. A vague horror took possession of her -mind. She went back to her room again, and stared at that strange piece -of paper without knowing what to make of it. Lady Markham! It was not to -that personage she had written her poor little simple letter. How could -she say mother to a great lady, one who was not even of the same name? -She was far too ignorant to know how little importance was to be -attached to this. To Frances, a name was so much. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> had never been -taught anything but the primitive symbols, the innocently conventional -alphabet of life. This new discovery filled her with a chill horror. She -took her letter out of its envelope with the intention of destroying -that too, and letting silence—that silence which had reigned over her -life so long—fall again and for ever between her and the mother whose -very name was not hers. But as this impulse swept over her, her eye -caught one of the first of the little letters which had revealed this -unknown woman to her. It was written in very large letters, such as a -child might read, and in little words. “My darling, write to me; I long -so for you.—Your loving Mother.” Her simple mind was swept by -contending impulses, like strong winds carrying her now one way, now -another. And unless it should be that unknown mother herself, there was -nobody in the world to whom she could turn for counsel. Her heart -revolted against Constance, and her father had been vexed, she could not -tell how. She was incapable of betraying the secrets of the family<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> to -any one beyond its range. What was she to do?</p> - -<p>And all this because the mother, the source of so much disturbance in -her little life, was Lady Markham and not Mrs Waring! But this, to the -ignorance and simplicity of Frances, was the most incomprehensible -mystery of all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Waring</span> went out with Constance when the sun got low in the skies. He -took a much longer walk than was at all usual to him, and pointed out to -her many points of view. The paths that ran among the olive woods, the -little terraces which cut up the sides of the hills, the cool grey -foliage and gnarled trunks, the clumps of flowers—garden flowers in -England, but here as wild, and rather more common than blades of -grass—delighted her; and her talk delighted him. He had not gone so far -for months; nor had he, he thought, for years found the time go so fast. -It was very different from Frances’ mild attempts at conversation. “Do -you think, papa?” “Do you remember, papa?”—so many references to events -so trifling, and her little talk about Tasi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span>e’s plans and Mrs Gaunt’s -news. Constance took him boldly into her life and told him what was -going on in <i>the world</i>. Ah, the world! That was the only world. He had -said in his bitterness, again and again, that Society was as limited as -any village, and duchesses curiously like washerwomen; but when he found -himself once more on the edge of that great tumult of existence, he was -like the old war-horse that neighs at the sound of the battle. He began -to ask her questions about the people he had known. He had always been a -shy, proud man, and had never thrown himself into the stream; but still -there had been people who had known him and liked him, or whom he had -liked: and gradually he awakened into animation and pleasure.</p> - -<p>When they met the old General taking his stroll too, before dinner, that -leathern old Indian was dazzled by the bright creature, who walked along -between them, almost as tall as the two men, with her graceful careless -step and independent ways, not deferring to them as the other ladies -did, but leading the conversation. Even General Gaunt began<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> to think -whether there was any one whom he could speak of, any one he had known, -whom perhaps this young exponent of Society might know. She knew -everybody. Even princes and princesses had no mystery for her. She told -them what everybody said, with an air of knowing better, which in her -meant no conceit or presumption, as in other young persons. Constance -was quite unconscious of the possibility of being thus judged. She was -not self-conscious at all. She was pleased to bring out her news for the -advantage of the seniors. Frances was none the wiser when her sister -told her the change that had come over the Grandmaisons, or how Lord -Sunbury’s marriage had been brought about, and why people now had -altered their hours for the Row. Frances listened; but she had never -heard about Lord Sunbury’s marriage, nor why it should shock the elegant -public. But the gentleman remembered his father, or they knew how young -men commit themselves without intending it. It is not to be supposed -that there was anything at all <i>risqué</i> in Constanc<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span>e’s talk. She -touched, indeed, upon the edge of scandals which had been in the -newspapers, and therefore were known even to people in the Riviera; but -she did it with the most absolute innocence, either not knowing or not -understanding the evil. “I believe there was something wrong, but I -don’t know what—mamma would never tell me,” she said. Her conversation -was like a very light graceful edition of a Society paper—not then -begun to be—with all the nastiness and almost all the malice left out. -But not quite all; there was enough to be piquant. “I am afraid I am a -little ill-natured; but I don’t like that man,” she would say now and -then. When she said, “I don’t like that woman,” the gentlemen laughed. -She was conscious of having a little success, and she was pleased too. -Frances perhaps might be a better housekeeper, but Constance could not -but think that in the equally important work of amusing papa she would -be more successful than Frances. It was not much of a triumph, perhaps, -for a girl who had known so many; but yet it was the only one as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> yet -possible in the position in which she now was.</p> - -<p>“I suppose it is settled that Frances is to go?” she said, as General -Gaunt took the way to his bungalow, and she and her father turned -towards home.</p> - -<p>“She seems to have settled it for herself,” he said.</p> - -<p>“I am always repeating she is so like mamma—that is exactly what mamma -would have done. They are very positive. You and I, papa, are not -positive at all.”</p> - -<p>“I think, my dear, that coming off as you did by yourself, was very -positive indeed—and the first step in the universal turning upside-down -which has ensued.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you are not sorry I came?”</p> - -<p>“No, Constance; I am very glad to have you;” and this was quite true, -although he had said to Frances something that sounded very different. -Both things were true—both that he wished she had never left her -mother; that he wished she might return to her mother, and leave Frances -with him as of old; and that he was very glad to have her here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span></p> - -<p>“If I were to go back, would not everything settle down just as it was -before?”</p> - -<p>Then he thought of what Frances, taught by the keenness of a personal -experience, had said to him a few hours ago. “No,” he said; “nothing can -ever be as it was before. We never can go back to what has been, whether -the event that has changed it has been happy or sad.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, surely sometimes,” said Constance. “That is a dreadful way to talk -of anything so trifling as my visit. It could not make any real -difference, because all the facts are just the same as they were -before.”</p> - -<p>To this he made no reply. She had no way, thanks to Frances, of finding -out how different the position was. And she went on, after a -pause—“Have you settled how she is to go?”</p> - -<p>“I have not even thought of that.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa, you must think of it. She cannot go unless you manage it for -her. Markham heard of those people coming, and that made it quite easy -for me. If Markham were here<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Heaven forbid!”</p> - -<p>“I have always heard you were prejudiced about Markham. I don’t think he -is very safe myself. I have warned Frances, whatever she does, not to -let herself get into his hands.”</p> - -<p>“Frances in Markham’s hands! That is a thing I could not permit for a -moment. Your mother may have a right to Frances’ society, but none to -throw her into the companionship of——”</p> - -<p>“Her brother, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Her brother! Her step-brother, if you please—which I think scarcely a -relationship at all.”</p> - -<p>Waring’s prejudices, when they were roused, were strong. His daughter -looked up in amazement at his sudden passion, the frown on his face, and -the fire in his eye.</p> - -<p>“You forget that I have been brought up with Markham,” she said. “He is -<i>my</i> brother; and he is a very good brother. There is nothing he will -not do for me. I only warned Frances because—because she is different; -because——”</p> - -<p>“Because—she is a girl who ought not to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> breathe the same air with a -young reprobate—a young——”</p> - -<p>“Papa! you are mistaken. I don’t know what Markham may have been; but he -is not a reprobate. It was because Frances does not understand chaff, -you know. She would think he was in earnest, and he is never in earnest. -She would take him seriously, and nobody takes him seriously. But if you -think he is bad, there is nobody who thinks that. He is not bad; he only -has ways of thinking——”</p> - -<p>“Which I hope my daughters will never share,” said Waring, with a little -formality.</p> - -<p>Constance raised her head as if to speak, but then stopped, giving him a -look which said more than words, and added no more.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Frances had been left alone. She had directed her -letter, and left it to be posted. That step was taken, and could no more -be thought over. She was glad to have a little of her time to herself, -which once had been all to herself. She did not like as yet to broach -the subject of her departure to Mariuccia; but she thought it all over -very anxiously, trying to find some way which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> would take the burden of -the household off the shoulders of Constance, who was not used to it. -She thought the best thing to do would be to write out a series of -<i>menus</i>, which Mariuccia might suggest to Constance, or carry out upon -her own responsibility, whichever was most practicable; and she resolved -that various little offices, which she had herself fulfilled, might be -transferred to Domenico without interfering with her father’s comfort. -All these arrangements, though she turned them over very soberly in her -mind, had a bewildering, dizzying effect upon her. She thought that it -was as if she were going to die. When she went away out of the narrow -enclosure of this world, which she knew, it would be to something so -entirely strange to her that it would feel like another life. It would -be as if she had died. She would not know anything; the surroundings, -the companions, the habits, all would be strange. She would have to -leave utterly behind her everything she had ever known. The thought was -not melancholy, as is in almost all cases the thought of leaving “the -warm precincts of the cheerful day”; it made her heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> swell and rise -with an anticipation which was full of excitement and pleasure, but -which at the same time had the effect of making her brain swim.</p> - -<p>She could not make to herself any picture of the world to which she was -going. It would be softer, finer, more luxurious than anything she knew; -but that was all. Of her mother, she did try to form some idea. She was -acquainted only with mothers who were old. Mrs Durant, who wore a cap, -encircling her face, and tied under her chin; and Mrs Gaunt, who had -grandchildren who were as old as Frances. Her own mother could not be -like either of these; but still she would be old, more or less—would -wrap herself up when she went out, would have grey, or even perhaps -white hair (which Frances liked in an old lady: Mrs Durant wore a front, -and Mrs Gaunt was suspected of dyeing her hair), and would not care to -move about more than she could help. She would go out “into Society” -beautifully dressed with lace and jewels; and Frances grew more dizzy -than ever, trying to imagine herself standing behind this magnificent -old figure, like a maid of hon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span>our behind a queen. But it was difficult -to imagine the details of a picture so completely vague. There was a -general sense of splendour and novelty, a vague expectation of something -delightful, which it was beyond her power to realise, but no more.</p> - -<p>She had roused herself from the vague excitement of these dreams, which -were very absorbing, though there was so little solidity in them, with a -sudden fear that she was losing all the afternoon, and that it was time -to prepare for dinner. She went to the corner of the loggia which -commanded the road, to look out for Constance and her father. The road -swept along below the Punto, leading to the town; and a smaller path -traversing the little height, climbed upward to the platform on which -the Palazzo stood. Frances did not at first remark, as in general every -villager does, an unfamiliar figure making its way up this path. Her -father and sister were not visible, and it was for them she was looking. -Presently, however, her eye was caught by the stranger, no doubt an -English tourist, with a glass in his eye—a little man, with a soft grey -felt hat, which, when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> lifted his head to inspect the irregular -structure of the old town, gave him something the air of a moving -mushroom. His movements were somewhat irregular, as his eyes were fixed -upon the walls, and did not serve to guide his feet, which stumbled -continually on the inequalities of the path. His progress began to amuse -her, as he came nearer, his head raised, his eyes fixed upon the -buildings before him, his person executing a series of undulations like -a ship in a storm. He climbed up at last to the height, and coming up to -some women who were seated on the stone bench opposite to Frances on the -loggia, began to ask them for instructions as to how he was to go.</p> - -<p>The little scene amused Frances. The women were knitting, with a little -cluster of children about them, scrambling upon the bench or on the -dusty pathway at their feet. The stranger took off his big hat and -addressed them with few words and many gestures. She heard <i>casa</i> and -<i>Inglese</i>, but nothing else that was comprehensible. The women did their -best to understand, and replied volubly. But here the little tourist -evidently could not follow. He was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> like so many tourist visitors, -capable of asking his question, but incapable of understanding the -answer given him. Then there arose a shrill little tempest of laughter, -in which he joined, and of which Frances herself could not resist the -contagion. Perhaps a faint echo from the loggia caught the ear of one of -the women, who knew her well, and who immediately pointed her out to the -stranger. The little man turned round and made a few steps towards the -Palazzo. He took off the mushroom-top of grey felt, and presented to her -an ugly, little, vivacious countenance. “I beg you ten thousand -pardons,” he said; “but if you speak English, as I understand them to -say, will you be so very kind as to direct me to the house of Mr Waring? -Ah, I am sure you are both English and kind! They tell me he lives near -here.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked down from her height demurely, suppressing the too ready -laugh, to listen to this queer little man; but his question took her -very much by surprise. Another stranger asking for Mr Waring! But oh, so -very different a one from Constance—an odd,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> little, ugly man, looking -up at her in a curious one-sided attitude, with his glass in his eye. -“He lives here,” she said.</p> - -<p>“What? Where?” He had replaced his mushroom on his head, and he cocked -up towards her one ear, the ear upon the opposite side to the eye which -wore the glass.</p> - -<p>“Here!” cried Frances, pointing to the house, with a laugh which she -could not restrain.</p> - -<p>The stranger raised his eyebrows so much and so suddenly that his glass -fell. “Oh!” he cried—but the biggest O, round as the O of Giotto, as -the Italians say. He paused there some time, looking at her, his mouth -retaining the shape of that exclamation; and then he cast an -investigating glance along the wall, and asked, “How am I to get in?”</p> - -<p>“Nunziata, show the gentleman the door,” cried Frances to one of the -women on the bench. She lingered a moment, to look again down the road -for her father. It was true that nothing could be so wonderful as what -had already happened; but it seemed that surprises were not yet over. -Would this be some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> one else who had known him, who was arriving full of -the tale that had been told, and was a mystery no longer—some “old -friend” like Mr Mannering, who would not be satisfied without betraying -the harmless hermit, whom some chance had led him to discover? There was -some bitterness in Frances’ thoughts. She had not remembered the -Mannerings before, in the rush of other things to think of. The fat -ruddy couple, so commonplace and so comfortable! Was it all their doing? -Were they to blame for everything? for the conclusion of one existence, -and the beginning of another? She went in to the drawing-room and sat -down there, to be ready to receive the visitor. He could not be so -important—that was impossible; there could be no new mystery to record.</p> - -<p>When the door opened and Domenico solemnly ushered in the stranger, -Frances, although her thoughts were not gay, could scarcely help -laughing again. He carried his big grey mushroom-top now in his hand; -and the little round head which had been covered with it seemed -incomplete without that thatch. Frances felt herself looking from the -head to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> the hat with a ludicrous sense of this incompleteness. He had a -small head, thinly covered with light hair, which seemed to grow in -tufts like grass. His eyes twinkled keen, two very bright grey eyes, -from the puckers of eyelids which looked old, as if he had got them -second-hand. There was a worn and wrinkled look about him altogether, -carried out in his dress, and even in his boots, which suggested the -same idea. An old man who looked young, or a young man who looked old. -She could not make out which he was. He did not bow and hesitate, and -announce himself as a friend of her father’s, as she expected him to do, -but came up to her briskly with a quick step, but a shuffle in his gait.</p> - -<p>“I suppose I must introduce myself,” he said; “though it is odd that we -should need an introduction to each other, you and I. After the first -moment, I should have known you anywhere. You are quite like my mother. -Frances, isn’t it? And I’m Markham, of course, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” cried Frances. She had thought she could never be surprised -again, after all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> that had happened. But she felt herself more -astonished than ever now.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Markham. You think I am not much to look at, I can see. I am not -generally admired at the first glance. Shake hands, Frances. You don’t -quite feel like giving me a kiss, I suppose, at the first offset? Never -mind. We shall be very good friends, after a while.”</p> - -<p>He sat down, drawing a chair close to her. “I am very glad to find you -by yourself. I like the looks of you. Where is Con? Taken possession of -the governor, and left you alone to keep house, I should suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Constance has gone out to walk with papa. I had several things to do.”</p> - -<p>“I have not the least doubt of it. That would be the usual distribution -of labour, if you remained together. Fan, my mother has sent me to fetch -you home.”</p> - -<p>Frances drew a little farther away. She gave him a look of vague alarm. -The familiarity of the address troubled her. But when she looked at him -again, her gravity gave way. He was such a queer, such a very queer -little man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You may laugh if you like, my dear,” he said. “I am used to it. -Providence—always the best judge, no doubt—has not given me an -awe-inspiring countenance. It is hard upon my mother, who is a pretty -woman. But I accept the position, for my part. This is a charming place. -You have got a number of nice things. And those little sketches are very -tolerable. Who did them? You? Waring, so far as I remember, used to draw -very well himself. I am glad you draw; it will give you a little -occupation. I like the looks of you, though I don’t think you admire -me.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said Frances, troubled, “it is because I am so much surprised. -Are you really—are you sure you are——”</p> - -<p>He gave a little chuckle, which made her start—an odd, comical, single -note of laughter, very cordial and very droll, like the little man -himself.</p> - -<p>“I’ve got a servant with me,” he said, “down at the hotel, who knows -that I go by the name of Markham when I’m at home. I don’t know if that -will satisfy you. But Con, to be sure, knows me, which will be better.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> -You don’t hear any voice of nature saying within your breast, ‘This is -my long-lost brother?’ That’s a pity. But by-and-by, you’ll see, we’ll -be very good friends.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I didn’t mean that I had any doubt. It is so great a surprise—one -thing after another.”</p> - -<p>“Now, answer me one question: Did you know anything about your family -before Con came? Ah,” he said, catching her alarmed and wondering -glance, “I thought not. I have always said so:—he never told you. And -it has all burst upon you in a moment, you poor little thing. But you -needn’t be afraid of us. My mother has her faults; but she is a nice -woman. You will like her. And I am very queer to look at, and many -people think I have a screw loose. But I’m not bad to live with. Have -you settled it with the governor? Has he made many objections? He and I -never drew well together. Perhaps you know?”</p> - -<p>“He does not speak as if—he liked you. But I don’t know anything. I -have not been told—much. Please don’t ask me things,” Frances cried.</p> - -<p>“No, I will not. On the contrary, I’ll tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> you everything. Con -probably would put a spoke in my wheel too. My dear little Fan, don’t -mind any of them. Give me your little hand. I am neither bad nor good. I -am very much what people make me. I am nasty with the nasty -sometimes—more shame to me: and disagreeable with the disagreeable. But -I am innocent with the innocent,” he said with some earnestness; “and -that is what you are, unless my eyes deceive me. You need not be afraid -of me.”</p> - -<p>“I am not afraid,” said Frances, looking at him. Then she added, after a -pause, “Not of you, nor of any one. I have never met any bad people. I -don’t believe any one would do me harm.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I,” he said with a little fervour, patting her hand with his own. -“All the same,” he added, after a moment, “it is perhaps wise not to -give them the chance. So I’ve come to fetch you home.”</p> - -<p>Frances, as she became accustomed to this remarkable new member of her -family, began immediately, after her fashion, to think of the material -necessities of the case. She could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> start with him at once on the -journey; and in the meantime where should she put him? The most natural -thing seemed to be to withdraw again from the blue room, and take the -little one behind, which looked out on the court. That would do, and no -one need be any the wiser. She said, with a little hesitation, “I must -go now and see about your room.”</p> - -<p>“Room!” he cried. “Oh no; there’s no occasion for a room. I wouldn’t -trouble you for the world. I have got rooms at the hotel. I’ll not stay -even, since daddy’s out, to meet him. You can tell him I’m here, and -what I came for. If he wants to see me, he can look me up. I am very -glad I have seen <i>you</i>. I’ll write to the mother to-night to say you’re -quite satisfactory, and a credit to all your belongings; and I’ll come -to-morrow to see Con; and in the meantime, Fan, you must settle when you -are to come; for it is an awkward time for a man to be loafing about -here.”</p> - -<p>He got up as he spoke, and stooping, gave her a serious brotherly kiss -upon her forehead. “I hope you and I will be very great friends,” he -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span></p> - -<p>And then he was gone! Was he a dream only, an imagination? But he was -not the sort of figure that imagination produces. No dream-man could -ever be so comical to behold, could ever wear a coat so curiously -wrinkled, or those boots, in the curves of which the dust lay as in the -inequalities of the dry and much-frequented road.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> walk with Constance, though he had set out upon it reluctantly, had -done Waring great good. He was comparatively rehabilitated in his own -eyes. Between her and him there was no embarrassment, no uneasy -consciousness. She had paid him the highest compliment by taking refuge -with him, flying to his protection from the tyranny of her mother, and -giving him thus a victory as sweet as unexpected over that nearest yet -furthest of all connections, that inalienable antagonist in life. He had -been painfully put out of <i>son assiette</i>, as the French say. Instead of -the easy superiority which he had held not only in his own house, but in -the limited society about, he had been made to stand at the bar, first -by his own child, after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span>wards by the old clergyman, for whom he -entertained a kindly contempt. Both of these simple wits had called upon -him to account for his conduct. It was the most extraordinary turning of -the tables that ever had occurred to a man like himself. And though he -had spoken the truth when in that moment of melting he had taken his -little girl into his arms and bidden her stay with him, he was yet glad -now to get away from Frances, to feel himself occupying his proper place -with her sister, and to return thus to a more natural state of affairs. -The intercourse between him and his child-companion had been closer than -ever could, he believed, exist between him and any other human being -whatsoever; but it had been rent in twain by all the concealments which -he was conscious of, by all the discoveries which circumstances had -forced upon her. He could no longer be at his ease with her, or she -regard him as of old. The attachment was too deep, the interruption too -hard, to be reconcilable with that calm which is necessary to ordinary -existence. Constance had restored him to herself by her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> pleasant -indifference, her easy talk, her unconsciousness of everything that was -not usual and natural. He began to think that if Frances were but -away—since she wished to go—a new life might begin—a life in which -there would be nothing below the surface, no mystery, which is a mistake -in ordinary life. It would be difficult, no doubt, for a brilliant -creature like Constance to content herself with the humdrum life which -suited Frances; and whether she would condescend to look after his -comforts, he did not know. But so long as Mariuccia was there, he could -not suffer much materially; and she was a very amusing companion, far -more so than her sister. As he came back to the Palazzo, he was -reconciled to himself.</p> - -<p>This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. Frances met -them at the door with her face full of excitement. “Did you meet him?” -she said. “You must have met him. He has not been gone ten minutes.”</p> - -<p>“Meet whom? We met no one but the General.”</p> - -<p>“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting him every -day—Markham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“He says he has come to fetch me, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a moment. It is not -easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished it for a dozen years; -and after a very bad moment, he thought he was about to shuffle it off -again; but it was evident that in this he was premature. “I will not -allow you to go with Markham,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Your -mother ought to have known better. He is not an escort I choose for my -daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, in her -easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never mind till after -dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are ready, Fan? Oh, then I -must fly. We have had a delightful walk. I never knew anything about -fathers before; they are the most charming companions,” she said, -kissing her hand to him as she went away. But this did not mollify the -angry man. There rose up before him the recollection of a hundred -contests in which Markham’s voice had come in to make everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> worse, -or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause.</p> - -<p>“I will not see him,” he said; “I will not sanction his presence here. -You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out of the -way.”</p> - -<p>“I think, papa, you must see him.”</p> - -<p>“Must—there is no <i>must</i>. I have not been in the habit of acknowledging -compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. You seem to -expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole life!”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Frances, “my affairs are small; but then they are my -life too.”</p> - -<p>She ought to have been subdued into silence by his first objection; but, -on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look which was -deprecating, but not abject, holding her little own. It was a long time -since Waring had encountered anything which he could not subdue and put -aside out of his path. But, he said to himself—all that long restrained -and silent temper which had once reigned and raged within him, springing -up again unsubdued—he might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> known! The moment long deferred, yet -inevitable, which brought him in contact once more with his wife, could -bring nothing with it but pain. Strife breathed from her wherever she -appeared. He had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his -best; and now that he had forgotten the ways of battle—now that his -strength was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his -hand—she had a pull over him now which she had not possessed before. He -could have done without both the children a dozen years ago. He was -conscious that it was more from self-assertion than from love that he -had carried off the little one, who was rather an embarrassment than a -pleasure in those days—because he would not let her have everything her -own way. But now, Frances was no longer a creature without identity, not -a thing to be handed from one to another. He could not free himself of -interest in her, of responsibility for her, of feeling his honour and -credit implicated in all that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She -had a hold upon him that she never had before; and the first use she -made of it was to insult<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> him—to send her son, whom he hated, for his -daughter, to force him into unwilling intercourse with her family once -more.</p> - -<p>Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father gloomily -pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tranquillity which -nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there was some new thing -that stirred up once more the original pain. There was no end to it. The -mother’s letters at one moment, the brother’s arrival at another, and no -more quiet whatever could be done, no more peace.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory decorum which surrounds that -great daily event, had its usual tranquillising effect. Waring could not -shut out from his mind the consciousness that to refuse to see his -wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was against all the -decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not acknowledge -social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out that -determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had begun to -perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> -conversation, lightly maintained, by Constance, about her brother, made -short replies even when he was directly addressed, and kept up more or -less the lowering aspect with which he had meant to crush Frances. But -Frances was not crushed, and Constance was excited and gay. “Let us send -for him after dinner,” she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing -Markham does not know. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt -a hundred things have happened. Do send for Markham, Frances. Oh, you -must not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. Dear! if you -think one can be fond of everybody one meets—especially one’s -connections. Everybody knows that you hate half of them. That makes it -piquant. There is nobody you can say such spiteful things to as people -whom you belong to, whom you call by their Christian names.”</p> - -<p>“That is a charming Christian sentiment—entirely suited to the -surroundings you have been used to, Con; but not to your sister’s.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of that good -little Tasie, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> is her chief friend. Frances would not say them -herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings are not so ignorant. -You are not called upon to assume so much virtue, papa.”</p> - -<p>“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said Waring, -with quick anger.</p> - -<p>“Papa!” cried Constance, with an astonished look, “I think it is you who -forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed to remember that. I -hope you have not forgotten too, or I shall be sorry I came here.”</p> - -<p>He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That temper -which had fallen into disuse was no more overcome than when all this -trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force upon himself, -though he could not quite conceal the struggle. At last he burst into an -angry laugh: “You will train me, perhaps, in time to the subjection -which is required from the nineteenth-century parent,” he said.</p> - -<p>“You are charming,” said his daughter, with a bow and smile across the -table. “There is only this lingering trace of medievalism in respect to -Markham. But you know, papa, really a feud<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> can’t exist in these days. -Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would subject us all to ridicule. My -experience is that people as a rule are <i>not</i> fond of each other; but to -show it is quite a different thing. Oh no, papa; no one can do that.”</p> - -<p>She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation of her -dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. And when -Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico should not be sent to the -hotel to call Markham, he avoided the inquiring look which Frances cast -at him. “If papa has no objection,” she said with hesitation and alarm. -“Oh, papa can have no objection,” Constance cried; and the message was -sent; and Markham came. Frances, frightened, made many attempts to -excuse herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts -she made. He retired to the bookroom, while the girls entertained their -visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. Waring -heard the voices mingled with laughter, as we all hear the happier -intercourse of others when we are ourselves in gloomy opposition, -nursing our wrath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> He thought they were all the more lively, all the -more gay, because he was displeased. Even Frances. He forgot that he had -made up his mind that Frances had better go (as she wished to go), and -felt that she was a little monster to take so cordially to the stranger -whom she knew he disliked and disapproved. Nevertheless, in spite of -this irritation and misery, the little lecture of Constance on what was -conventionally necessary had so much effect upon him, that he appeared -on the loggia before Markham went away, and conquered himself -sufficiently to receive, if not to make much response to the salutations -which his wife’s son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the -greatest cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft -darkness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all -these years. I hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me -before—at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their -seniors, as the sage says.”</p> - -<p>“What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second-hand.”</p> - -<p>“Not like yours, sir,” said Markham. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> then there was a slight pause, -and Constance struck in.</p> - -<p>“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the ‘Morning -Post.’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, when one is not -on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of things happen. In town -one gets used to having one’s gossip hot and hot every day.”</p> - -<p>“The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite for -your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother gave me many -messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not object to trust little -Frances to my care.”</p> - -<p>“I object—to trust my child to any one’s care,” said Waring, quickly.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to England -yourself,” the stranger said.</p> - -<p>It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the girls -looking on saw a momentary swaying of the tall figure towards the -smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances had nearly -sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span> restrained -her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in Waring’s mind. He could, -had inclination prevailed, have seized the little man by the coat, and -pitched him out into the road below. But bonds were upon him more potent -than if they had been made of iron.</p> - -<p>“I have no such intention,” he said. “I should not have sent her at all. -But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere with her -arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.”</p> - -<p>“As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham, cheerfully. “A few days more -out of the east wind will be delightful to me.”</p> - -<p>And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the loggia with -his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to provide a new chair as -easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, and had not yet -settled into a new place; and when he joined them in the evening, he -walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of lounging in indolent -comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this evening he stood at the -corner, looking down upon the lights of the Marina in the distance, and -the grey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> twinkle of the olives in the clear air of the night. The poor -neighbours of the little town were still on the Punto, enjoying the -coolness of the evening hours; and the murmur of their talk rose on one -side, a little softened by distance; while the group on the loggia -renewed its conversation close at hand. Waring stood and listened with a -contempt which he partially knew to be unjust. But he was sore and -bitter, and the ease and gaiety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of -many insults which he was of opinion he had received from his wife’s -son. “Confounded little fool,” he said to himself.</p> - -<p>But Constance was right in her worldly wisdom. It would make them all -ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he showed openly his -distaste to him. The world was but a small world at Bordighera; but yet -it was not without its power. The interrupted conversation went on with -great vigour. He remarked with a certain satisfaction that Frances -talked very little; but Constance and her brother—as he called himself, -the puppy!—never paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> ordinary conversation. Waring stood looking out blankly upon the -bewildering lines of the hills towards the west, with the fresh breeze -in his face, and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff now -and then, listening to the lively chatter. How vacant it was—about this -one and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities; about things not even -made clear, which each understood at half a word, which made them laugh. -Good heavens! at what? Not at the wit of it, for there was no wit—at -some ludicrous image involved, which to the listener was dull, dull as -the village chatter on the other side; but more dull, more vapid in its -artificial ring. How they echoed each other, chiming in; how they -remembered anecdotes to the discredit of their friends; how they ran on -in the same circle endlessly, with jests that were without point even to -Frances, who sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could -not keep up to the height of the talk, which was all about people she -did not know—and still more without point to Waring, who had known, but -knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> bitter, feeling his -supremacy taken from him in his own house, and all his habits shattered: -yet knew very well that he could not resist, that to show his dislike -would only make him ridiculous; that he was once more subject to -Society, and dare not show his contempt for its bonds.</p> - -<p>After a while, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, and -stalked away, with a brief, “Excuse me, but I must say good-night.” -Markham sprang up from his chair; but his step-father only waved his -hand to the little party sitting in the evening darkness, and went away, -his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor through the <i>salone</i> and -the ante-room, closing the doors behind him. There was a little silence -as he disappeared.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Markham, with a long-drawn breath, “that’s over, Con; and -better than might have been expected.”</p> - -<p>“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad as could -be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “I remember times -when I stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> up to him, as you say, with that idiotcy of youth in which -you are so strong, Con; but I think I generally came off second-best. -Our respected papa has a great gift of language when he likes.”</p> - -<p>“He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of -thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious fathers.”</p> - -<p>“If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the gloom, with -a little quiver in it, “I wish you would not speak about papa so, before -me. It is perhaps quite right of you, who have no feeling for him, or -don’t know him very well; but with me it is quite different. Whether you -are right or wrong, I cannot have it, please.”</p> - -<p>“The little thing is quite right, Con,” said Markham. “I beg your -pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he has none -for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much more estimable -member of society. He is not old enough—that is the worst of it—for -you and me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense,” said Constance, “as -if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if they were not just -human beings like ourselves. But apart from that, as I have told -Frances, I think very well of papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was no more said for a day or two about the journey. But that it -was to take place, that Markham was waiting till his step-sister was -ready, and that Frances was making her preparations to go, nobody any -longer attempted to ignore. Waring himself had gone so far in his -recognition of the inevitable as to give Frances money to provide for -the necessities of the journey. “You will want things,” he said. “I -don’t wish it to be thought that I kept you like a little beggar.”</p> - -<p>“I am not like a little beggar, papa,” cried Frances, with an -indignation which scarcely any of the more serious grievances of her -life had called forth. She had always supposed him to be pleased with -the British neatness, the modest, girlish costumes which she had -pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span>cured for herself by instinct, and which made this girl, who knew -nothing of England, so characteristically an English girl. This proof of -the man’s ignorance—which Frances ignorantly supposed to mean entire -indifference to her appearance—went to her heart. “And it is impossible -to get things here,” she added, with her usual anxious penitence for her -impatience.</p> - -<p>“You can do it in Paris, then,” he said. “I suppose you have enough of -the instincts of your sex to buy clothes in Paris.”</p> - -<p>Girls are not fond of hearing of the instincts of their sex. She turned -away with a speechless vexation and distress which it pleased him to -think rudeness.</p> - -<p>“But she keeps the money all the same,” he said to himself.</p> - -<p>Thus it became very apparent that the departure of Frances was -desirable, and that she could not go too soon. But there were still -inevitable delays. Strange! that when love embittered made her stay -intolerable, the washerwoman should have compelled it. But to Frances, -for the moment, everything in life was strange.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span></p> - -<p>And not the least strange was the way in which Markham, whom she liked, -but did not understand—the odd, little, shabby, unlovely personage, who -looked like anything in the world but an individual of importance—was -received by the little world of Bordighera. At the little church on -Sunday, there was a faint stir when he came in, and one lady pointed him -out to another as the small audience filed out. The English landlady at -the hotel spoke of him continually. Lord Markham was now the authority -whom she quoted on all subjects. Even Domenico said “meelord” with a -relish. And as for the Durants, their enthusiasm was boundless. Tasie, -not yet quite recovered from the excitement of Constance’s arrival, lost -her self-control altogether when Markham appeared. It was so good of him -to come to church, she said; such an example for the people at the -hotels! And so nice to lose so little time in coming to call upon papa. -Of course, papa, as the clergyman, would have called upon him as soon as -it was known where he was staying. But it was so pretty of Lord Markham -to conform to foreign ways and make the first visit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> “We knew it must -be your doing, Frances,” she said, with grateful delight.</p> - -<p>“But, indeed, it was not my doing. It is Constance who makes him come,” -Frances cried.</p> - -<p>Constance, indeed, insisted upon his company everywhere. She took him -not only to the Durants, but to the bungalow up among the olive woods, -which they found in great excitement, and where the appearance of Lord -Markham partially failed of its effect, a greater hero and stranger -being there. George Gaunt, the General’s youngest son, the chief subject -of his mother’s talk, the one of her children about whom she always had -something to say, had arrived the day before, and in his presence even a -living lord sank into a secondary place. Mrs Gaunt had been the first to -see the little party coming along by the terraces of the olive woods. -She had, long, long ago, formed plans in her imagination of what might -ensue when George came home. She ran out to meet them with her hands -extended. “Oh Frances, I am so glad to see you! Only fancy what has -happened. George has come!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am so glad,” said Frances, who was the first. She was more used to -the winding of those terraces, and then she had not so much to talk of -as Constance and Markham. Her face lighted up with pleasure. “How happy -you must be!” she said, kissing the old lady affectionately. “Is he -well?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, wonderfully well; so much better than I could have hoped. George, -George, where are you? Oh, my dear, I am so anxious that you should -meet! I want you to like him,” Mrs Gaunt said.</p> - -<p>Almost for the first time there came a sting of pain to Frances’ heart. -She had heard a great deal of George Gaunt. She had thought of him more -than of any other stranger. She had wondered what he would be like, and -smiled to herself at his mother’s too evident anxiety to bring them -together, with a slight, not disagreeable flutter of interest in her own -consciousness. And now here he was, and she was going away! It seemed a -sort of spite of fortune, a tantalising of circumstances; though, to be -sure, she did not know whether she should like him, or if Mrs Gaunt’s -hopes might<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> bear any fruit. Still, it was the only outlet her -imagination had ever had, and it had amused and given her a pleasant -fantastic glimpse now and then into something that might be more -exciting than the calm round of every day.</p> - -<p>She stood on the little grassy terrace which surrounded the house, -looking towards the open door, but not taking any step towards it, -waiting for the hero to appear. The house was low and broad, with a -veranda round it, planted in the midst of the olive groves, where there -was a little clearing, and looking down upon the sea. Frances paused -there, with her face towards the house, and saw coming out from under -the shadow of the veranda, with a certain awkward celerity, the straight -slim figure of the young Indian officer, his mother’s hero, and, in a -visionary sense, her own. She did not advance—she could not tell -why—but waited till he should come up, while his mother turned round, -beckoning to him. This was how it was that Constance and Markham arrived -upon the scene before the introduction was fully accomplished. Frances -held out her hand, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> he took it, coming forward; but already his eyes -had travelled over her head to the other pair arriving, with a look of -inquiry and surprise. He let Frances’ hand drop as soon as he had -touched it, and turned towards the other, who was much more attractive -than Frances. Constance, who missed nothing, gave him a glance, and then -turned to his mother. “We brought our brother to see you,” she said (as -Frances had not had presence of mind to do). “Lord Markham, Mrs Gaunt. -But we have come at an inappropriate moment, when you are occupied.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no! It is so kind of you to come. This is my son George, Miss -Waring. He arrived last night. I have so wanted him to meet——” She did -not say Frances; but she looked at the little girl, who was quite -eclipsed and in the background, and then hurriedly added, “your—family: -whose name he knows, as such friends! And how kind of Lord Markham to -come all this way!”</p> - -<p>She was not accustomed to lords, and the mother’s mind jumped at once to -the vain, but so usual idea, that this lord, who had himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> sought the -acquaintance, might be of use to her son. She brought forward George, -who was a little dazzled too; and it was not till the party had been -swept into the veranda, where the family sat in the evening, that Mrs -Gaunt became aware that Frances had followed, the last of the train, and -had seated herself on the outskirts of the group, no one paying any heed -to her. Even then, she was too much under the influence of the less -known visitors to do anything to put this right.</p> - -<p>“I am delighted that you think me kind,” said Markham, in answer to the -assurances which Mrs Gaunt kept repeating, not knowing what to say. “My -step-father is not of that opinion at all. Neither will you be, I fear, -when you know my mission. I have come for Frances.”</p> - -<p>“For Frances!” she cried, with a little suppressed scream of dismay.</p> - -<p>“Ah, I said you would not be of that opinion long,” Markham said.</p> - -<p>“Is Frances going away?” said the old General. “I don’t think we can -stand that. Eh, George? that is not what your mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> promised you. -Frances is all we have got to remind us that we were young once. Waring -must hear reason. He must not let her go away.”</p> - -<p>“Frances is going; but Constance stays,” interposed that young lady. -“General, I hope you will adopt me in her stead.”</p> - -<p>“That I will,” said the old soldier; “that is, I will adopt you in -addition, for we cannot give up Frances. Though, if it is only for a -short visit, if you pledge yourself to bring her back again, I suppose -we will have to give our consent.”</p> - -<p>“Not I,” said Mrs Gaunt under her breath. She whispered to her son, “Go -and talk to her. This is not Frances; <i>that</i> is Frances,” leaning over -his shoulder.</p> - -<p>George did not mean to shake off her hand; but he made a little -impatient movement, and turned the other way to Constance, to whom he -made some confused remark.</p> - -<p>All the conversation was about Frances; but she took no part in it, nor -did any one turn to her to ask her own opinion. She sat on the edge of -the veranda, half hidden by the luxuri<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span>ant growth of a rose which -covered one of the pillars, and looked out rather wistfully, it must be -allowed, over the grey clouds of olives in the foreground, to the blue -of the sea beyond. It was twilight under the shade of the veranda; but -outside, a subdued daylight, on the turn towards night. The little talk -about her was very flattering, but somehow it did not have the effect it -might have had; for though they all spoke of her as of so much -importance, they left her out with one consent. Not exactly with one -consent. Mrs Gaunt, standing up, looking from one to another, -hurt—though causelessly—beyond expression by the careless movement of -her newly returned boy, would have gone to Frances, had she not been -held by some magnetic attraction which emanated from the others—the -lord who might be of use—the young lady, whose careless ease and -self-confidence were dazzling to simple people.</p> - -<p>Neither the General nor his wife could realise that she was merely -Frances’ sister, Waring’s daughter. She was the sister of Lord Markham. -She was on another level altogether from the little girl who had been so -pleasant to them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> all, and so sweet. They were very sorry that Frances -was going away; but the other one required attention, had to be thought -of, and put in the chief place. As for Frances, who knew them all so -well, she would not mind. And thus even Mrs Gaunt directed her attention -to the new-comer.</p> - -<p>Frances thought it was all very natural, and exactly what she wished. -She was glad, very glad that they should take to Constance; that she -should make friends with all the old friends who to herself had been so -tender and kind. But there was one thing in which she could not help but -feel a little disappointed, disconcerted, cast down. She had looked -forward to George. She had thought of this new element in the quiet -village life with a pleasant flutter of her heart. It had been natural -to think of him as falling more or less to her own share, partly because -it would be so in the fitness of things, she being the youngest of all -the society—the girl, as he would be the boy; and partly because of his -mother’s fond talk, which was full of innocent hints of her hopes. That -George should come when she was just going away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> was bad enough; but -that they should have met like this, that he should have touched her -hand almost without looking at her, that he should not have had the most -momentary desire to make acquaintance with Frances, whose name he must -have heard so often, that gave her a real pang. To be sure, it was only -a pang of the imagination. She had not fallen in love with his -photograph, which did not represent an Adonis; and it was something, -half a brother, half a comrade, not (consciously) a lover, for which -Frances had looked in him. But yet it gave her a very strange, painful, -deserted sensation when she saw him look over her head at Constance, and -felt her hand dropped as soon as taken. She smiled a little at herself, -when she came to think of it, saying to herself that she knew very well -Constance was far more charming, far more pretty than she, and that it -was only natural she should take the first place. Frances was ever -anxious to yield to her the first place. But she could not help that -quiver of involuntary feeling. She was hurt, though it was all so -natural. It was natural, too, that she should be hurt, and that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> nobody -should take any notice—all the most everyday things in the world.</p> - -<p>George Gaunt came to the Palazzo next day. He came in the afternoon with -his father, to be introduced to Waring; and he came again after -dinner—for these neighbours did not entertain each other at the -working-day meals, so to speak, but only in light ornamental ways, with -cups of tea or black coffee—with both his parents to spend the evening. -He was thin and of a slightly greenish tinge in his brownness, by reason -of India and the illnesses he had gone through; but his slim figure had -a look of power; and he had kind eyes, like his mother’s, under the -hollows of his brows: not a handsome young man, yet not at all common or -ordinary, with a soldier’s neatness and upright bearing. To see Markham -beside him with his insignificant figure, his little round head tufted -with sandy hair, his one-sided look with his glass in his eye, or his -ear tilted up on the opposite side, was as good as a sermon upon race -and its advantages. For Markham was the fifteenth lord; and the Gaunts -were, it was understood, of as good as no family<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> at all. Captain George -from that first evening had neither ear nor eye for any one but -Constance. He followed her about shyly wherever she moved; he stood over -her when she sat down. He said little, for he was shy, poor fellow; yet -he did sometimes hazard a remark, which was always subsidiary or -responsive to something she had said.</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt’s distress at this subversion of all she had intended was -great. She got Frances into a corner of the loggia while the others -talked, and thrust upon her a pretty sandalwood box inlaid with ivory, -one of those that George had brought from India. “It was always intended -for you, dear,” she said. “Of course he could not venture to offer it -himself.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear Mrs Gaunt,” said Frances, with a low laugh, in which all her -little bitterness evaporated, “I don’t think he has so much as seen my -face. I am sure he would not know me if we met in the road.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear child,” cried poor Mrs Gaunt, “it has been such a -disappointment to me. I have just cried my eyes out over it. To think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> -you should not have taken to each other after all my dreams and hopes.”</p> - -<p>Frances laughed again; but she did not say that there had been no -failure of interest on her side. She said, “I hope he will soon be quite -strong and well. You will write and tell me about everybody.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I will. Oh Frances, is it possible that you are going so soon? -It does not seem natural that you should be going, and that your sister -should stay.”</p> - -<p>“Not very natural,” said Frances, with a composure which was less -natural still. “But since it is to be, I hope you will see as much of -her as you can, dear Mrs Gaunt, and be as kind to her as you have been -to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear, there is little doubt that I shall see a great deal of -her,” said the mother, with a glance towards the other group, of which -Constance was the central figure. She was lying back in the big -wicker-work chair; with the white hands and arms, which showed out of -sleeves shorter than were usual in Bordighera, very visible in the dusk, -accompanying her talk by lively gestures. The young captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> stood like -a sentinel a little behind her. His mother’s glance was half vexation -and half pleasure. She thought it was a great thing for a girl to have -secured the attentions of her boy, and a very sad thing for the girl who -had not secured them. Any doubt that Constance might not be grateful, -had not yet entered her thoughts. Frances, though she was so much less -experienced, saw the matter in another light.</p> - -<p>“You must remember,” she said, “that she has been brought up very -differently. She has been used to a great deal of admiration, Markham -says.”</p> - -<p>“And now you will come in for that, and she must take what she can get -here.” Mrs Gaunt’s tone when she said this showed that she felt, whoever -was the loser, it would not be Constance. Frances shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It will be very different with me. And dear Mrs Gaunt, if Constance -should not—do as you wish——”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I will not interfere. It never does any good when a mother -interferes,” Mrs Gaunt said hurriedly. Her mind was incapable of -pursuing the idea which Frances so timidly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> had endeavoured to suggest. -And what could the girl do more?</p> - -<p>Next day she went away. Her father, pale and stern, took leave of her in -the bookroom with an air of offence and displeasure which went to -Frances’ heart. “I will not come to the station. You will have, no -doubt, everybody at the station. I don’t like greetings in the -market-places,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Frances, “Mariuccia knows everything. I am sure she will be -careful. She says she will not trouble Constance more than is necessary. -And I hope——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we shall do very well, I don’t doubt.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you will forgive me, papa, for all I may have done wrong. I hope -you will not miss me; that is, I hope—oh, I hope you will miss me a -little, for it breaks my heart when you look at me like that.”</p> - -<p>“We shall do very well,” said Waring, not looking at her at all, “both -you and I.”</p> - -<p>“And you have nothing to say to me, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing—except that I hope you will like your new life and find -everything pleasant. Good-bye, my dear; it is time you were going.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>And that was all. Everybody was at the station, it was true, which made -it no place for leave-takings; and Frances did not know that he watched -the train from the loggia till the white plume of steam disappeared with -a roar in the next of those many tunnels that spoil the beautiful -Cornice road. Constance walked back in the midst of the Gaunts and -Durants, looking, as she always did, the mistress of the situation. But -neither did Frances, blotted out in the corner of the carriage, crying -behind her veil and her handkerchief, leaving all she knew behind her, -understand with what a tug at her heart Constance saw the familiar -little ugly face of her brother for the last time at the -carriage-window, and turned back to the deadly monotony of the shelter -she had sought for herself, with a sense that everything was over, and -she herself completely deserted, like a wreck upon a desolate shore.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.<br /><br /> -<small>PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 1 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61442-h.htm or 61442-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61442/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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