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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..68cba33 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61443 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61443) diff --git a/old/61443-0.txt b/old/61443-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d738bf1..0000000 --- a/old/61443-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6117 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 2 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. 2 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61443] - -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. II. - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - MDCCCLXXXVI - - - - - A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -“Yes, I hope you will come and see me often. Oh yes, I shall miss my -sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa. Good night. Good -night, Captain Gaunt. No; I don’t sketch; that was Frances. I don’t know -the country either. It was my sister who knew it. I am quite ignorant -and useless. Good night.” - -Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of his only -remaining companion. He heard her come in afterwards with a step more -distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried farther. He said to -himself that everything was more distinct about this girl, and he was -glad that she was coming, glad of some relief from the depression which -overcame him against his will. She came across one room after another, -and out upon the loggia, throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped -chair. It did not occur to him that she was unaware of his presence, and -he was surprised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, there -could be no doubt why it was that Constance did not speak. There was no -loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, which it was -impossible to mistake. She said, after a moment, to herself, “What a -fool I am!” But even this reflection did not stem the tide. A sensation -of utter solitude had seized upon her. She was abandoned, among -strangers; and though she had so much experience of the world, it was -not of this world that Constance had any knowledge. Had she been left -alone among a new tribe of people unknown to her, she would not have -been afraid! Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the -solitude, broken only by the occasional appearance of these rustic -companions; the simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart -upon her, an entirely undesired gift; the anxious mother, who was about -to mount guard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in the -background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had altogether -receded from Constance, and left her with such companions alone? She was -not thinking of her father, neither of himself nor of his possible -presence, which was of little importance to her. After a while she sat -upright and passed her handkerchief quickly over her face. “It is my own -fault,” she said, still to herself; “I might have known.” - -“You don’t see, Constance, that I am here.” - -She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. “Oh, are you there, -papa? No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t think of any one being here. Well, -they are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, as you divined. She -bore up very well; but, of course, it was a little sad for her, leaving -everything she knows.” - -“You were crying a minute ago, Constance.” - -“Was I? Oh, well, that was nothing. Girls cry, and it doesn’t mean -much. You know women well enough to know that.” - -“Yes, I know women--enough to say the ordinary things about them,” said -Waring; “but perhaps I don’t know you, which is of far more consequence -just now.” - -“There is not much in me to know,” said the girl in a light voice. “I am -just like other girls. I am apt to cry when I see people crying. Frances -sobbed--like a little foolish thing; for why should she cry? She is -going to see the world. Did you ever feel, when you came here first, a -sort of horror seize upon you, as if--as if--as if you were lost in a -savage wilderness, and would never see a human face again?” - -“No; I cannot say I ever felt that.” - -“No, to be sure,” cried Constance. “What ridiculous nonsense I am -talking! A savage wilderness! with all these houses about, and the -hotels on the beach. I mean--didn’t you feel as if you would like to run -violently down a steep place into the sea?” Then she stopped, and -laughed. “It was the swine that did that.” - -“It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling matters; and -yet I understand you,” he said gravely. “You have made a mistake. You -thought you were philosopher enough to give up the world; and it turns -out that you are not. But you need not cry, for it is not too late. You -can change your mind.” - -“I--change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I would give -them the triumph of supposing that I could not do without them, that I -was obliged to go back? Not for the world.” - -“I understand the sentiment,” he said. “Still, between these two -conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I do not -see any middle course.” - -“Oh yes, there is a middle course. I can make myself very comfortable -here; and that is what I mean to do. Papa, if you had not found it out, -I should not have told you. I hope you are not offended?” - -“Oh no, I am not offended,” he said, with a short laugh. “It is perhaps -a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for what gives you -so little satisfaction. That is the worst of it; these mistakes affect -so many others besides one’s self.” - -Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this reproof; -but she made no immediate reply. After a while: “Frances will be a -little strange at first; but she will like it by-and-by; and it is only -right she should have her share,” she said softly. “I have been -wondering,” she went on, with a laugh that was somewhat forced, “whether -mamma will respect her individuality at all; or if she will put her -altogether into my place? I wonder if--that man I told you of, papa----” - -“Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply. - -“I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll. -Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it; -and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so -docile--and so obedient----” - -“You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or -anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as that.” - -“I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her -feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose -to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.” - -Waring’s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “I hope,” he said, “that I -am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a -lady.” - -“You mean me!” she cried, breathless. “Oh, I can----” But here she -stopped. “Papa,” she resumed, “what good will it do us to quarrel? I -don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I -am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love---- Oh, I think you might be -good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know -what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.” - -She went to him quickly, and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried. -Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but -after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm -round her, and said a few soothing words. “You may be good for a great -deal, if you choose,” he said; “and if you will believe me, my dear, you -will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities -than Frances; you are much better educated than she is--at least I -suppose so, for she was not educated at all.” - -“How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t expect to be -amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous tone. - -He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether -he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. “You -are not complimentary,” he said. “What I mean is, that if you sit still -and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable; -whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the -situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of -it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.” - -“Ah,” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and -went back to her chair. “I thought, perhaps, you meant something more -positive. There are perhaps possibilities: Frances would have thought it -wrong to look out for amusement--that must have been because you trained -her so.” - -“Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. -It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more -delight than others.” - -“Yes, yes,” she cried; “that is like me. Some people are more alive than -others; that is what you mean, papa.” - -“I am not sure that it is what I mean; but if you like to take it so, I -have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to live, Constance. -You will find it a great deal more amusing than to mope; and it will be -much pleasanter to me.” - -“Yes,” she said, “I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the -same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances’ way; but still I -will take your advice, papa. I am sure you are right in what you say.” - -“I am glad you think so, my dear. If you cannot have everything you -want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy.” - -“Then I will be a true philosopher,” she said, with a laugh. The laugh -was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a -little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. “But I must -not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you -like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her -_menu_, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I -knew all about it. By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should -like to have a piano, if I might.” - -“That will not be very difficult,” he said. “Can you play?” - -At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored. -“You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, papa; you have quite -restored me to myself. I can’t knit you socks, like Frances; and I am -not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether -devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other. Good -night.” - -“This is sudden,” he said. “Good night, if you think it is time for that -ceremony.” - -“It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations -to make in my room, now that--now that--at present when I am quite -settled and see my way.” - -He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of -very little consequence. Indeed it was perhaps well that she should go -and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the -day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there -was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had -ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which -Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost -grateful to Constance for taking herself away. He thought a little of -Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had -ever taken--and such a journey, away from everything and everybody she -knew. Poor little Fan! he thought a little about her; but he thought a -great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that -peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear capable of -disturbance? The circumstances were all very different now. Frances, who -would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her -mother’s companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to -escape from the companionship of which he had given up the world and -(almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be -his companion, would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and -everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, -would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that -dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which -makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was -impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant -witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner, -the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this -thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn -Frances that her father was not to be discussed with my lady. But what -was the use of saying anything, when letters would come and go -continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled -to put up with it, though nothing could be more unpleasant. If these -girls had been boys, this would not have happened. It was perhaps the -first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys -were far more objectionable to his fine taste than girls, gave more -trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present -circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less -embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that unprofitable -exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all -cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him -perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would -think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would -require that he should reply. But this, except once or twice, perhaps, -to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him -to do. - -Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She -had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being high-bred and -courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she -had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have -touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an -irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with -that intention of self-martyrdom with which so many good people -exasperate their neighbours. She would have been quite as comfortable in -the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was -safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had -set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no -longer the impress of Frances’ mind, but of her own. She took down a -number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly -pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have -supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The -depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was -over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any -longer possible, did not return at first. Her father’s words, which she -understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of -amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the -fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them -to him to justify herself. “Frances does not require so much amusement -as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight -than another.” She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much -glee, laughing to herself under her breath: “If you cannot get what you -want, you must take what you can get.” How astounded he would be if it -should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas--which were -so true! Her father’s arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did -not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind -when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this -desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw -that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word, -that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one -would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way -for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a -strong unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham’s face -disappear, and realised that he was gone, actually gone, and had left -her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her -young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest. - -After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her -father, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated -herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole -matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten -o’clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a -succession of entertainments under her mother’s wing; but she had -nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old -chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to -bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still -audible without--people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone -benches on the Punto, just those same delights of society which happy -people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But -Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were -foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise -under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to -go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky -spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances -rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, -hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that -little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance -regretting her village. Oh, if they could but have changed places! To -think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night air blowing in -her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the -morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep -along, then Paris, London, at last! She shut the _persiani_ almost -violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls -which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She felt -like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts -and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prison, -and never more to go free. - -But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable -sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang -up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her -father had said: “If you cannot get what you want, you must take what -you can get.” There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this -arid place. She had her father’s sanction for making use of her -opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a -necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as -she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her -sister’s bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken -her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the -corners of her mouth; although, after all, the thought of the travellers -came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying -herself to sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Captain Gaunt called next day to bring, he said, a message from his -mother. She sent Mr Waring a newspaper which she thought he might like -to see, an English weekly newspaper, which some of her correspondents -had sent her, in which there was an article---- He did not give a very -clear account of this, nor make it distinctly apparent why Waring should -be specially interested; and as a matter of fact, the newspaper found -its way to the waste-paper basket, and interested nobody. But, no doubt, -Mrs Gaunt’s intentions had been excellent. When the young soldier -arrived, there was a carriage at the door, and Constance had her hat on. -“We are going,” she said, “to San Remo, to see about a piano. Do you -know San Remo? Oh, I forgot you are as much a stranger as I am; you -don’t know anything. What a good thing that there are two ignorant -persons! We will keep each other in countenance, and they will be -compelled to make all kinds of expeditions to show us everything.” - -“That will be a wonderful chance for me,” said the young man, “for -nobody would take so much trouble for me alone.” - -“How can you tell that? Miss Tasie, I should think, would be an -excellent cicerone,” said Constance. She said it with a light laugh of -suggestion, meaning to imply, though, of course, she had _said_ nothing, -that Tasie would be too happy to put herself at Captain Gaunt’s -disposition; a suggestion which he, too, received with a laugh--for this -is one of the points upon which both boys and girls are always -ungenerous. - -“And failing Miss Tasie,” said Constance, “suppose you come with papa -and me? They say it is a pretty drive. They say, of course, that -everything here is lovely, and that the Riviera is paradise. Do you find -it so?” - -“I can fancy circumstances in which I should find it so,” said the young -soldier. - -“Ah, yes; every one can do that. I can fancy circumstances in which Bond -Street would be paradise--oh, very easily! It is not far from paradise -at any time.” - -“That is a heaven of which I know very little, Miss Waring.” - -“Ah, then, you must learn. The true Elysian fields are in London in May. -If you don’t know that, you can form no idea of happiness. An exile from -all delights gives you the information, and you may be sure it is true.” - -“Why, then, Miss Waring, if you think so----” - -“Am I here? Oh, that is easily explained. I have a sister.” - -“Yes, I know.” - -“Ah, I understand you have heard a great deal about my sister. I suffer -here from being compared with her. I am not nearly so good, so wise, as -Frances. But is that my fault, Captain Gaunt? You are impartial; you are -a new-comer. If I could, I would, be as nice as Frances, don’t you -believe?” - -The young man gave Constance a look, which, indeed, she expected, and -said with confusion, “I don’t see--any need for improvement,” and -blushed as near crimson as was possible over the greenish brown of his -Indian colour. - -Constance for her part did not blush. She laughed, and made him an -almost imperceptible curtsey. The ways of flirtation are not original, -and all the parallels of the early encounters might be stereotyped, as -everybody knows. - -“You are very amiable,” she said; “but then you don’t know Frances, and -your opinion, accordingly, is less valuable. I did not ask you, however, -to believe me to be equal to my sister, but only to believe that I would -be as nice if I could. However, all that is no explanation. We have a -mother, you know, in England. We are, unfortunately, that sad thing, a -household divided against itself.” - -Captain Gaunt was not prepared for such confidences. He grew still a -little browner with embarrassment, and muttered something about being -very sorry, not knowing what to say. - -“Oh, there is not very much to be sorry about. Papa enjoys himself in -his way here, and mamma is very happy at home. The only thing is that we -must each have our turn, you know--that is only fair. So Frances has -gone to mamma, and here am I in Bordighera. We are each dreadfully out -of our element. Her friends condemn me, to begin with, as if it were my -fault that I am not like her; and my friends, perhaps---- But no; I -don’t think so. Frances is so good, so nice, so everything a girl ought -to be.” - -At this she laughed softly again; and young Gaunt’s consciousness that -his mother’s much vaunted Frances was the sort of girl to please old -ladies rather than young men, a prim, little, smooth, correct maiden, -with not the least “go” in her, took additional force and certainty. -Whereas---- But he had no words in which to express his sense of the -advantages on the other side. - -“You must find it,” he said, knowing nothing more original to say, -“dreadfully dull living here.” - -“I have not found anything as yet; I have only just come. I am no more -than a few days older than you are. We can compare notes as time goes -on. But perhaps you don’t mean to stay very long in these abodes of the -blest?” - -“I don’t know that I did intend it. But I shall stay now as long as ever -I can,” said the young man. Then--for he was shy--he added hastily, “It -is a long time since I have seen my people, and they like to have me.” - -“Naturally. But you need not have spoiled what looked like a very pretty -compliment by adding that. Perhaps you didn’t mean it for a compliment? -Oh, I don’t mind at all. It is much more original, if you didn’t mean -it. Compliments are such common coin. But I don’t pretend to despise -them, as some girls do; and I don’t like to see them spoiled,” Constance -said seriously. - -The young man looked at her with consternation. After a while, his -moustache expanded into a laugh, but it was a confused laugh, and he did -not understand. Still less did he know how to reply. Constance had been -used to sharper wits, who took her at half a word; and she was half -angry to be thus obliged to explain. - -“We are going to San Remo, as I told you,” she said. “I am waiting for -my father. We are going to look for a piano. Frances is not musical, so -there is no piano in the house. You must come too, and give your advice. -Oh, are you ready, papa? Captain Gaunt, who does not know San Remo, and -who does know music, is coming with us to give us his advice.” - -The young soldier stammered forth that to go to San Remo was the thing -he most desired in the world. “But I don’t think my advice will be good -for much,” he said, conscientiously. “I do a little on the violin; but -as for pretending to be a judge of a piano----” - -“Come; we are all ready,” said Constance, leading the way. - -Waring had to let the young fellow precede him, to see him get into the -carriage without any articulate murmur. As a matter of fact, a sort of -stupor seized the father, altogether unaccustomed to be the victim of -accidents. Frances might have lived by his side till she was fifty -before she would have thought of inviting a stranger to be of their -party--a stranger, a young man, which was a class of being with which -Waring had little patience, a young soldier, proverbially frivolous, and -occupied with foolish matters. Young Gaunt respectfully left to his -senior the place beside Constance; but he placed himself opposite to -her, and kept his eyes upon her with a devout attention, which Waring -would have thought ridiculous had he not been irritated by it. The young -fellow was a great deal too much absorbed to contribute much to the -amusement of the party; and it irritated Waring beyond measure to see -his eyes gleam from under his eyebrows, opening wider with delight, half -closing with laughter, the ends of his moustache going up to his ears. -Waring, an impartial spectator, was not so much impressed by his -daughter’s wit. He thought he had heard a great deal of the same before, -or even better, surely better, for he could recollect that he had in his -day been charmed by a similar treatment, which must have been much -lighter in touch, much less commonplace in subject, because--he was -charmed. Thus we argue in our generations. In the meantime, young Gaunt, -though he had not been without some experience, looked at Constance -from under his brows, and listened as if to the utterances of the gods. -If only they could have had it all to themselves; if only the old father -had been out of the way! - -The sunshine, the sea, the beautiful colour, the unexpected vision round -every corner of another and another picturesque cluster of towns and -roofs; all that charm and variety which give to Italy above every -country on earth the admixture of human interest, the endless chain of -association which adds a grace to natural beauty, made very little -impression upon this young pair. She would have been amused and -delighted by the exercise of her own power, and he would have been -enthralled by her beauty, and what he considered her wit and high -spirits, had their progress been along the dullest streets. It was only -Waring’s eyes, disgusted by the prospect before him of his daughter’s -little artifices, and young Gaunt’s imbecile subjection, which turned -with any special consciousness to the varying blues of the sea, to the -endless developments of the landscape. Flirtation is one of the last -things in the world to brook a spectator. Its little absurdities, which -are so delightful to the actors in the drama, and which at a distance -the severest critic may smile at and forgive, excite the wrath of a too -close looker-on, in a way quite disproportioned to their real -offensiveness. The interchange of chatter which prevents, as that -observer would say, all rational conversation, the attempts to charm, -which are so transparent, the response of silly admiration, which is -only another form of vanity--how profoundly sensible we all are of their -folly! Had Constance taken as much pains to please her father, he would, -in all probability, have yielded altogether to the spell; but he was -angry, ashamed, furious, that she should address those wiles to the -young stranger, and saw through him with a clearsightedness which was -exasperating. It was all the more exasperating that he could not tell -what she meant by it. Was it possible that she had already formed an -inclination towards this tawny young stranger? Had his bilious hues -affected her imagination? Love at first sight is a very respectable -emotion, and commands in many cases both sympathy and admiration. But no -man likes to see the working of this sentiment in a woman who belongs to -him. Had Constance fallen in love? He grew angry at the very suggestion, -though breathed only in the recesses of his own mind. A girl who had -been brought up in the world, who had seen all kinds of people, was it -possible that she should fall a victim in a moment to the attractions of -a young nobody--a young fellow who knew nothing but India? That he -should be subjected, was simple enough; but Constance! Waring’s brow -clouded more and more. He kept silent, taking no part in the talk, and -the young fools did not so much as remark it, but went on with their own -absurdity more and more. - -The transformation of a series of little Italian municipalities, -although in their nature more towns than villages, rendered less rustic -by the traditions of an exposed coast, and many a crisis of -self-defence, into little modern towns full of hotels and tourists, is -neither a pleasant nor a lovely process. San Remo in the old days, -before Dr Antonio made it known to the world, lay among its -olive-gardens on the edge of the sea, which grew bluer and bluer as it -crept to the feet of the human master of the soil, a delight to behold, -a little picture which memory cherished. Wide promenades flanked with -big hotels, with conventional gardens full of green bushes, and a kiosk -for the band, make a very different prospect now. But then, in the old -days, there could have been no music-sellers with pianos to let or sell; -no famous English chemist with coloured bottles; no big shops in which -travellers could be tempted. Constance forgot Captain Gaunt when she -found herself in this atmosphere of the world. She began to remember -things she wanted. “Papa, if you don’t despise it too much, you must let -me do a little shopping,” she said. She wanted a hat for the sun. She -wanted some eau-de-Cologne. She wanted just to run into the jeweller’s -to see if the coral was good, to see if there were any peasant-ornaments -which would be characteristic. At all this her father smiled somewhat -grimly, taking it as a part of the campaign into which his daughter had -chosen to enter for the overthrow of the young soldier. But Constance -was perfectly sincere, and had forgotten her campaign in the new and -warmer interest. - -“So long as you do not ask me to attend you from shop to shop,” he said. - -“Oh no; Captain Gaunt will come,” said Constance. - -Captain Gaunt was not a victim who required many wiles. He was less -amusing than she had hoped, in so far that he had given in, in an -incredibly short space of time. He was now in a condition to be trampled -on at her pleasure, and this was unexciting. A longer resistance would -have been much more to Constance’s mind. Captain Gaunt accompanied her -to all the shops. He helped her with his advice about the piano, bending -his head over her as she ran through a little air or two, and struck a -few chords on one after the other of the music-seller’s stock. They were -not very admirable instruments, but one was found that would do. - -“You can bring your violin,” Constance said; “we must try to amuse -ourselves a little.” This was before her father left them, and he heard -it with a groan. - -Waring took a silent walk round the bay while the purchases went on. He -thought of past experiences, of the attraction which a shop has for -women. Frances, no doubt, after a little of her mother’s training, would -be the same. She would find out the charms of shopping. He had not even -her return to look forward to, for she would not be the same Frances who -had left him, when she came back. _When_ she came back?--if she ever -came back. The same Frances, never; perhaps not even a changed Frances. -Her mother would quickly see what an advantage she had in getting the -daughter whom her husband had brought up. She would not give her back; -she would turn her into a second Constance. There had been a time when -Waring had concluded that Constance was amusing and Frances dull; but it -must be remembered that he was under provocation now. If she had been -amusing, it had not been for him. She had exerted herself to please a -commonplace, undistinguished boy, with an air of being indifferent to -everything else, which was beyond measure irritating to her father. And -now she had got scent of shops, and would never be happy save when she -was rushing from one place to another--to Mentone, to Nice perhaps, -wherever her fancied wants might lead her. Waring discussed all this -with himself as he rambled along, his nerves all set on edge, his taste -revolted. Flirtations and shops--was he to be brought to this? he who -had been free from domestic encumbrance, who had known nothing for so -many years but a little ministrant, who never troubled him, who was -ready when he wanted her, but never put forth herself as a restraint or -an annoyance. He had advised Constance to take what good she could find -in her life; but he had never imagined that this was the line she would -take. - -The drive home was scarcely more satisfactory. Young Gaunt had got a -little courage by the episode of the shops. He ventured to tell her of -the trifles he had brought with him from India, and to ask if Miss -Waring would care to see them; and he described to her the progress he -had made with his violin, and what his attainments were in music. -Constance told him that the best thing he could do was to bring the said -violin and all his music, so that they might see what they could do -together. “If you are not too far advanced for me,” she said with a -laugh. “Come in the morning, when we shall not be interrupted.” - -Her father listened, but said nothing. His imagination immediately set -before him the tuning and scraping, the clang of the piano, the shriek -of the fiddle, and he himself only two rooms off, endeavouring in vain -to collect his thoughts and do his work! Mr Waring’s work was not of the -first importance, but still it was his work, and momentous to him. He -bore, however, a countenance unmoved, if very grave, and even endured -without a word the young man’s entrance with them, the consultation -about where the piano was to stand, and tea afterwards in the loggia. He -did not himself want any tea; he left the young people to enjoy this -refreshment together while he retired to his bookroom. But with only -two rooms between, and with his senses quickened by displeasure, he -heard their voices, the laughter, the continual flow of talk, even the -little tinkle of the teacups--every sound. He had never been disturbed -by Frances’ tea; but then, except Tasie Durant, there had been nobody to -share it, no son from the bungalow, no privileged messenger sent by his -mother. Mrs Gaunt’s children, of whom she talked continually, had always -been a nuisance, except to the sympathetic soul of Frances. But who -could have imagined the prominence which they had assumed now? - -Young Gaunt did not go away until shortly before dinner; and Constance, -after accompanying him to the anteroom, went along the corridor singing, -to her own room, to change her dress. Though her room (Frances’ room -that was) was at the extremity of the suite, her father heard her light -voice running on in a little operatic air all the time she made her -toilet. Had it been described in a book, he thought to himself it would -have had a pretty sound. The girl’s voice, sweet and gay, sounding -through the house, the voice of happy youth brightening the dull life -there, the voice of innocent content betraying its own satisfaction with -existence--satisfaction in having a young fool to flirt with, and some -trumpery shops to buy unnecessary appendages in! At dinner, however, she -made fun of young Gaunt, and the morose father was a little mollified. -“It is rather dreadful for other people when there is an adoring mother -in the background to think everything you do perfection,” Constance -said. “I don’t think we shall make much of the violin.” - -“These are subjects on which you can speak with more authority than -I--both the violin and the mother,” said Waring. - -“Oh,” she cried, “you don’t think mamma was one of the adoring kind, I -hope! There may be things in her which might be mended; but she is not -like that. She kept one in one’s proper place. And as for the violin, I -suspect he plays it like an old fiddler in the streets.” - -“You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said Waring; but on -the whole he was pleased. “You seemed much interested both in the hero -and the music, a little while ago.” - -“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candour. “And he took it -all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, they are very -ingenuous. It seems wicked to take advantage of them, does it not?” - -“More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I intended to -speak to you very seriously as soon as he was gone--to ask you----” - -“What were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst of the -gayest laughter. “Oh, what a pity I began! How sorry I am to have missed -that! Do you think his mother will ask me, papa? It is generally the -man, isn’t it, who is questioned? and he says his intentions are -honourable. Mine, I frankly allow, are not honourable.” - -“No; very much the reverse, I should think. But it had better be clearly -defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of you is true--the girl -who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who made love to -Captain Gaunt this morning----” - -“No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely too.” - -“These delicacies of expression are too fine for me.---- Who made the -poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, was much -interested, counted upon him and his violin as her greatest pleasures.” - -“You are going too far,” she said. “I think the fiddle will be fun. When -you play very badly and are a little conceited about it, you are always -amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt--so long as he does not complain----” - -“It is I who am complaining, Constance.” - -“Well, papa--but why? You told me last night to take what I had, since I -could not have what I want.” - -“And you have acted upon my advice? With great promptitude, I must -allow.” - -“Yes,” she said with composure. “What is the use of losing time? It is -not my fault if there is somebody here quite ready. It amuses him too. -And what harm am I doing? A girl can’t be asked--except for fun--those -disagreeable questions.” - -“And therefore you think a girl can do--what would be dishonourable in a -man.” - -“Oh, you are so much too serious,” cried Constance. “Are you always as -serious as this? You laughed when I told you about Fanny Gervoise. Is it -only because it is me that you find fault? And don’t you think it is a -little too soon for parental interference? The Gaunts would be much -surprised. They would think you were afraid for my peace of mind, -papa--as her parents were afraid for Miss Tasie.” - -This moved the stern father to a smile. He had thought that Constance -did not appreciate that joke; but the girl had more humour than he -supposed. “I see,” he said, “you will have your own way; but remember, -Constance, I cannot allow it to go too far.” - -How could he prevent it going as far as she pleased? she said to herself -with a little scorn, when she was alone. Parents may be medieval if they -will; but the means have never yet been invented of preventing a woman, -when she is so minded and has the power in her hands, from achieving her -little triumph over a young man’s heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -“Where is George? I scarcely ever see him,” said the General, in -querulous tones. “He is always after that girl of Waring’s. Why don’t -you try to keep him at home?” - -Mrs Gaunt did not say that she had done her best to keep him at home, -but found her efforts unsuccessful. She said apologetically, “He has so -very little to amuse him here; and the music, you know, is a great -bond.” - -“He plays like a beginner; and she, like a--like a--as well as a -professional, I don’t understand what kind of bond that can be.” - -“So much the greater a compliment is it to George that she likes his -playing,” responded the mother promptly. - -“She likes to make a fool of him, I think,” the General said; “and you -help her on. I don’t understand your tactics. Women generally like to -keep their sons free from such entanglements; and after getting him -safely out of India, where every man is bound to fall into mischief----” - -“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs Gaunt, “if it ever should come to that--think, -what an excellent connection. I wish it had been Frances; I do wish it -had been Frances. I had always set my heart on that. But the connection -would be the same.” - -“You knew nothing about the connection when you set your heart on -Frances. And I can’t help thinking there is something odd about the -connection. Why should that girl have come here, and why should the -other one be spirited away like a transformation scene?” - -“Well, my dear, it is in the peerage,” said Mrs Gaunt. “Great families, -we all know, are often very queer in their arrangements. But there can -be no doubt it is all right, for it is in the peerage. If it had been -Frances, I should have been too happy. With such a connection, he could -not fail to get on.” - -“He had much better get on by his own merits,” retorted the General with -a grumble. “Frances! Frances was not to be compared with this girl. But -I don’t believe she means anything more than amusing herself,” he added. -“This is not the sort of girl to marry a poor soldier without a -penny--not she. She will take her fun out of him, and then----” - -The General kissed the end of his fingers and tossed them into the air. -He was, perhaps, a little annoyed that his son had stepped in and -monopolised the most amusing member of the society. And perhaps he did -not think so badly of George’s chances as he said. - -“You may be sure,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly, “she will do nothing of -the kind. It is not every day that a girl gets a fine fellow like our -George at her feet. He is just a little too much at her feet, which is -always a mistake, I think. But still, General, you cannot but allow that -Lord Markham’s sister----” - -“I have never seen much good come of great connections,” said the -General; but though his tone was that of a sceptic, his mind was softer -than his speech. He, too, felt a certain elation in the thought that -the youngest, who was not the clever one of the family, and who had not -been quite so steady as might have been desired, was thus in the way of -putting himself above the reach of fate. For of course, to be -brother-in-law to a viscount was a good thing. It might not be of the -same use as in the days when patronage ruled supreme; but still it would -be folly to suppose that it was not an advantage. It would admit George -to circles with which otherwise he could have formed no acquaintance, -and make him known to people who could push him in his profession. -George was the one about whom they had been most anxious. All the others -were doing well in their way, though it was not a way which threw them -into contact with viscounts or fine society. George would be over all -their heads in that respect, and he was the one that wanted it most,--he -was the one who was most dependent on outside aid. - -“I don’t quite understand,” said Mrs Gaunt, “what Constance’ position -is. She ought to be the Honourable, don’t you think? The Honourable -Constance sounds very pretty. It would come in very nicely with Gaunt, -which is an aristocratic-sounding name. People may say what they like -about titles, but they are very nice, there is such individuality in -them. Mrs George might be anybody; it might be me, as your name is -George too. But the Honourable would distinguish it at once. When she -called here, there was only Miss Constance Waring written on her -father’s card; but then you don’t put Honourable on your card; and as -Lady Markham’s daughter----” - -“Women don’t count,” said the General, “as I’ve often told you. She’s -Waring’s daughter.” - -“Mr Waring may be a very clever man,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly; “but -I should like to know how Constance can be the daughter of a viscountess -in her own right without----” - -“Is she a viscountess in her own right?” - -This question brought Mrs Gaunt to a sudden pause. She looked at him -with a startled air. “It is not through Mr Waring, that is clear,” she -said. - -“But it is not in her own right--at least I don’t think so; it is -through her first husband, the father of that funny little creature” -(meaning Lord Markham). - -“General!” said Mrs Gaunt, shocked. Then she added, “I must make some -excuse to look at the Peerage this afternoon. The Durants have always -got their Peerage on the table. We shall have to send for one too, -if----” - -“If what? If your boy gets a wife who has titled connections, for that -is all. A wife! and what is he to keep her on, in the name of heaven?” - -“Mothers and brothers are tolerably close connections,” said Mrs Gaunt -with dignity. “He has got his pay, General; and you always intended, if -he married to your satisfaction---- Of course,” she added, speaking very -quickly, to forestall an outburst, “Lady Markham will not leave her -daughter dependent upon a captain’s pay. And even Mr Waring--Mr Waring -must have a fortune of his own, or--or a person like that would never -have married him; and he would not be able to live as he does, very -comfortably, even luxuriously----” - -“Oh, I suppose he has enough to live on. But as for pinching himself in -order to enable his girl to marry your boy, I don’t believe a word of -it,” exclaimed the General. Fortunately, being carried away by this wave -of criticism, he had forgotten his wife’s allusion to his own intentions -in George’s favour; and this was a subject on which she had no desire to -be premature. - -“Well, General,” she said, “perhaps we are going a little too fast. We -don’t know yet whether anything will come of it. George is rather a -lady’s man. It may be only a flirtation; it may end in nothing. We need -not begin to count our chickens----” - -“Why, it was you!” cried the astonished General. “I never should have -remarked anything about it, or wasted a moment’s thought on the -subject!” - -Mrs Gaunt was not a clever woman, skilled in the art of leaving -conversational responsibilities on the shoulders of her interlocutor; -but if a woman is not inspired on behalf of her youngest boy, when is -she to be inspired? She gave her shoulders the slightest possible shrug -and left him to his newspaper. They had a newspaper from England every -morning--the ‘Standard,’ whose reasonable Conservatism suited the old -General. Except in military matters, such questions as the advance of -Russia towards Afghanistan, or the defences of our own coasts, the -General was not a bigot, and preferred his politics mild, with as little -froth and foam as possible. His newspaper afforded him occupation for -the entire morning, and he enjoyed it in very pleasant wise, seated -under his veranda with a faint suspicion of lemon-blossom in the air -which ruffled the young olive-trees all around, and the blue breadths of -the sea stretching far away at his feet. The garden behind was fenced in -with lemon and orange trees, the fruit in several stages, and just a -little point of blossom here and there, not enough to load the air. Mrs -Gaunt had preserved the wild flowers that were natural to the place, and -accordingly had a scarlet field of anemones which wanted no cultivation, -and innumerable clusters of the sweet white narcissus filling her little -enclosure. These cost no trouble, and left Toni, the man-of-all-work, at -leisure for the more profitable culture of the olives. From where the -General sat, there was nothing visible, however, but the terraces -descending in steps towards the distant glimpse of the road, and the -light-blue margin, edged with spray, of the sea--under a soft and -cheering sun, that warmed to the heart, but did not scorch or blaze, and -with a soft air playing about his old temples, breathing freshness and -that lemon-bloom. Sometimes there would come a faint sound of voices -from some group of workers among the olives. The little clump of -palm-trees at the end of the garden--for nothing here is perfect without -a palm or two--cast a fantastic shadow, that waved over the newspaper -now and then. When a man is old and has done his work, what can he want -more than this sweet retirement and stillness? But naturally, it was not -all that was necessary to young Captain George. - -Mrs Gaunt went over to the Durants in the afternoon, as she so often -did, and found that family, as usual, on their loggia. It cost her a -little trouble and diplomacy to get a private inspection of the Peerage, -and even when she did so, it threw but little light upon her question. -Geoffrey Viscount Markham, tenth lord, was a name which she read with a -little flutter of her heart, feeling that he was already almost a -relation; and she read over the names of Markham Priory and Dunmorra, -his lodge in the Highlands, and the town address in Eaton Square, all -with a sense that by-and-by she might herself be directing letters from -one or other of these places. But the Peerage said nothing about the -Dowager Lady Markham subsequent to the conclusion of the first marriage, -except that she had married again, E. Waring, Esq.; and thus Mrs Gaunt’s -studies came to no satisfactory end. She introduced the subject, -however, in the course of tea. She had asked whether any one had heard -from Frances, and had received a satisfactory reply. - -“Oh yes; I have had two letters; but she does not say very much. They -had gone down to the Priory for Easter; and she was to be presented at -the first drawing-room. Fancy Frances in a Court train and feathers, at -a drawing-room! It does seem so very strange,” Tasie said. She said it -with a slight sigh, for it was she, in old times, who had expounded -Society to little Frances, and taught her what in an emergency it would -be right to do and say; and now little Frances had taken a stride in -advance. “I asked her to write and tell us all about it, and what she -wore.” - -“It would be white, of course.” - -“Oh yes, it would be white--a _débutante_. When _I_ went to -drawing-rooms,” said Mrs Durant, who had once, in the character of -chaplainess to an Embassy, made her courtesy to her Majesty, “young -ladies’ toilets were simpler than now. Frances will probably be in white -satin, which, except for a wedding dress, is quite unsuitable, I think, -for a girl.” - -“I wonder if we shall see it in the papers? Sometimes my sister-in-law -sends me a ‘Queen,’” said Mrs Gaunt, “when she thinks there is something -in it which will interest me; but she does not know anything about -Frances. Dear little thing, I can’t think of her in white satin. Her -sister, now----” - -“Constance would wear velvet, if she could--or cloth-of-gold,” cried -Tasie, with a little irritation. Her mother gave her a reproving glance. - -“There is a tone in your voice, Tasie, which is not kind.” - -“Oh yes; I know, mamma. But Constance is rather a trial. I know one -ought not to show it. She looks as if one was not good enough to tie her -shoes. And after all, she is no better than Frances; she is not half so -nice as Frances; but I mean there can be no difference of position -between sisters--one is just as good as the other; and Frances was so -fond of coming here.” - -“Do you think Constance gives herself airs? Oh no, dear Tasie,” said Mrs -Gaunt, “she is really not at all--when you come to know her. I am most -fond of Frances myself. Frances has grown up among us, and we know all -about her; that is what makes the difference. And Constance--is a little -shy.” - -At this there was a cry from the family. “I don’t think she is shy,” -said the old clergyman, whom Constance had insulted by walking out of -church before the sermon. - -“Shy!” exclaimed Mrs Durant, “about as shy as----” But no simile -occurred to her which was bold enough to meet the case. - -“It is better she should not be shy,” said Tasie. “You remember how she -drove those people from the hotel to church. They have come ever since. -They are quite afraid of her. Oh, there are some good things in her, -some _very_ good things.” - -“We are the more hard to please, after knowing Frances,” repeated Mrs -Gaunt. “But when a girl has been like that, used to the best society---- -By the way, Mr Durant, you who know everything, are sure to know--Is she -the Honourable? For my part I can’t quite make it out.” - -Mr Durant put on his spectacles to look at her, as if such a question -passed the bounds of the permissible. He was very imposing when he -looked at any one through those spectacles with an air of mingled -astonishment and superiority. “Why should she be an Honourable?” he -said. - -Mrs Gaunt felt as if she would like to sink into the abysses of the -earth--that is, through the floor of the loggia, whatever might be the -dreadful depths underneath. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I--I -only thought--her mother being a--a titled person, a--a viscountess in -her own right----” - -“But my _dear_ lady,” said Mr Durant, with a satisfaction in his -superior knowledge which was almost unspeakable, “Lady Markham is _not_ -a viscountess in her own right. Dear, no! She is not a viscountess at -all. She is plain Mrs Waring, and nothing else, if right was right. -Society only winks good-naturedly at her retaining the title, which she -certainly, if there is any meaning in the peerage at all, forfeits by -marrying a commoner.” - -Mrs Durant and Tasie both looked with great admiration at their head and -instructor as he thus spoke. “You may be sure Mr Durant says nothing -that he is not quite sure of,” said the wife, crushing any possible -scepticism on the part of the inquirer; and “Papa knows such a lot,” -added Tasie, awed, yet smiling, on her side. - -“Oh, is that all?” said Mrs Gaunt, greatly subdued. “But then, Lord -Markham--calls her his sister, you know.” - -“The nobility,” said Mr Durant, “are always very scrupulous about -relationships; and she _is_ his step-sister. He couldn’t qualify the -relationship by calling her so. A common person might do so, but not a -man of high breeding, like Lord Markham--that is all.” - -“I suppose you must be right,” said Mrs Gaunt. “The General said so too. -But it does seem very strange to me that of the same woman’s children, -and she a lady of title, one should be a lord, and the other have no -sort of distinction at all.” They all smiled upon her blandly, every one -ready with a new piece of information, and much sympathy for her -ignorance, which Mrs Gaunt, seeing that it was she that was likely to be -related to Lord Markham, and not any of the Durants, felt that she could -not bear; so she jumped up hastily and declared that she must be going, -that the General would be waiting for her. “I hope you will come over -some evening, and I will ask the Warings, and Tasie must bring her -music. I am sure you would like to hear George’s violin. He is getting -on so well, with Constance to play his accompaniments;” and before any -one could reply to her, Mrs Gaunt had hurried away. - -It is painful not to have time to get out your retort; and these -excellent people turned instinctively upon each other to discharge the -unflown arrows. “It is so very easy, with a little trouble, to -understand the titles, complimentary and otherwise, of our own -nobility,” said Mr Durant, shaking his head. - -“And such a sign of want of breeding not to understand them,” said his -wife. - -“The Honourable Constance would sound very pretty,” cried Tasie; “it is -such a pity.” - -“Especially, our friend thinks, if it was the Honourable Constance -Gaunt.” - -“That she could never be, my dear,” said the old clergyman mildly. “She -might be the Honourable Mrs Gaunt; but Constance, no--not in any case.” - -“I should like to know why,” Mrs Durant said. - -Perhaps here the excellent chaplain’s knowledge failed him; or he had -become weary of the subject; for he rose and said, “I have really no -more time for a matter which does not concern us,” and trotted away. - -The mother and daughter left alone together, naturally turned to a point -more interesting than the claims of Constance to rank. “Do you really -think, mamma,” said Tasie--“do you really, really think,--it is silly -to be always discussing these sort of questions--but do you believe that -Constance Waring actually--means anything?” - -“You should say does George Gaunt mean anything? The girl never comes -first in such a question,” said Mrs Durant, with that ingrained contempt -for girls which often appears in elderly women. Tasie was so -(traditionally) young, besides having a heart of sixteen in her bosom, -that her sympathies were all with the girl. - -“I don’t think in this case, mamma,” she said. “Constance is so much -more a person of the world than any of us. I don’t mean to say she is -worldly. Oh no! but having been in society, and so much _out_.” - -“I should like to know in what kind of society she has been,” said Mrs -Durant, who took gloomy views. “I don’t want to say a word against Lady -Markham; but society, Tasie, the kind of society to which your father -and I have been accustomed, looks rather coldly upon a wife living apart -from her husband. Oh, I don’t mean to say Lady Markham was to blame. -Probably she is a most excellent person; but the presumption is that at -least, you know, there were--faults on both sides.” - -“I am sure I can’t give an opinion,” cried Tasie, “for, of course, I -don’t know anything about it. But George Gaunt has nothing but his pay; -and Constance couldn’t be in love with him, could she? Oh no! I don’t -know anything about it; but I can’t think a girl like Constance----” - -“A girl in a false position,” said the chaplain’s wife, “is often glad -to marry any one, just for a settled place in the world.” - -“Oh, but not Constance, mamma! I am sure she is just amusing herself.” - -“Tasie! you speak as if she were the man,” exclaimed Mrs Durant, in a -tone of reproof. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -The subjects of these consultations were at the moment in the full -course of a sonata, and oblivious of everything else in the world but -themselves, their music, and their concerns generally. A fortnight had -passed of continual intercourse, of much music, of that propinquity -which is said to originate more matches than any higher influence. -Nothing can be more curious than the pleasure which young persons, and -even persons who are no longer young, find perennially in this condition -of suppressed love-making, this preoccupation of all thoughts and plans -in the series of continually recurring meetings, the confidences, the -divinations, the endless talk which is never exhausted, and in which the -most artificial beings in the world probably reveal more of themselves -than they themselves know--when the edge of emotion is always being -touched, and very often, by one of the pair at least overpassed, in -either a comic or a tragic way. It is not necessary that there should be -any real charm in either party, and what is still more extraordinary, it -is possible enough that one may be a person of genius, and the other not -far removed from a fool; that one may be simple as a rustic, and the -other a man or woman of the world. No rule, in short, holds in those -extraordinary yet most common and everyday conjunctions. There is an -amount of amusement, excitement, variety, to be found in them which is -in no other kind of diversion. This is the great reason, no doubt, why -flirtation never fails. It is dangerous, which helps the effect. For -those sinners who go into it voluntarily for the sake of amusement, it -has all the attractions of romance and the drama combined. If they are -intellectual, it is a study of human character; in all cases, it is an -interest which quickens the colour and the current of life: who can tell -why or how? It is not the disastrous love-makings that end in misery and -sin, of which we speak. It is those which are practised in society -every day, which sometimes end in a heart-break indeed, but often in -nothing at all. - -Constance was not unacquainted with the amusement, though she was so -young; and it is to be feared that she resorted to it deliberately for -the amusement of her otherwise dull life at the Palazzo, in the first -shock of her loneliness, when she felt herself abandoned. It was, of -course, the victim himself who had first put the suggestion and the -means of carrying it out into her hands. And she did not take it up in -pure wantonness, but actually gave a thought to him, and the effect it -might produce upon him, even in the very act of entering upon her -diversion. She said to herself that Captain Gaunt, too, was very dull; -that he would want something more than the society of his father and -mother; that it would be a kindness to the old people to make his life -amusing to him, since in that case he would stay, and in the other, not. -And as for himself, if the worst came to the worst, and he fell -seriously in love--as, indeed, seemed rather likely, judging from the -fervour of the beginning--even that, Constance calculated, would do him -no permanent harm. “Men have died,” she said to herself, “but not for -love.” And then there is that famous phrase about a liberal education. -What was it? To love her was a liberal education? Something of that -sort. Then it could only be an advantage to him; for Constance was aware -that she herself was cleverer, more cultivated, and generally far more -“up to” everything than young Gaunt. If he had to pay for it by a -disappointment, really everybody had to pay for their education in one -way or another; and if he were disappointed, it would be his own fault; -for he must know very well, everybody must know, that it was quite out -of the question she should marry him in any circumstances--entirely out -of the question; unless he was an absolute simpleton, or the most -presumptuous young coxcomb in the world, he _must_ see that; and if he -were one or the other, the discovery would do him all the good in the -world. Thus Constance made it out fully, and to her own satisfaction, -that in any case the experience could do him nothing but good. - -Things had gone very far during this fortnight--so far, that she -sometimes had a doubt whether they had not gone far enough. For one -thing, it had cost her a great deal in the way of music. She was a very -accomplished musician for her age, and poor George Gaunt was one of the -greatest bunglers that ever began to study the violin. It may be -supposed what an amusement this intercourse was to Constance, when it is -said that she bore with his violin like an angel, laughed and scolded -and encouraged and pulled him along till he believed that he could play -the waltzes of Chopin and many other things which were as far above him -as the empyrean is above earth. When he paused, bewildered, imploring -her to go on, assuring her that he could catch her up, Constance -betrayed no horror, but only laughed till the tears came. She would turn -round upon her music-stool sometimes and rally him with a free use of a -superior kind of slang, which was unutterably solemn, and quite unknown -to the young soldier, who laboured conscientiously with his fiddle in -the evenings and mornings, till General Gaunt’s life became a burden to -him--in a vain effort to elevate himself to a standard with which she -might be satisfied. He went to practise in the morning; he went in the -afternoon to ask if she thought of making any expedition? to suggest -that his mother wished very much to take him to see this or that, and -had sent him to ask would Miss Waring come? Constance was generally -quite willing to come, and not at all afraid to walk to the bungalow -with him, where, perhaps, old Luca’s carriage would be standing to drive -them along the dusty road to the opening of some valley, where Mrs -Gaunt, not a good climber, she allowed, would sit and wait for them till -they had explored the dell, or inspected the little town seated at its -head. Captain Gaunt was more punctilious about his mother’s presence as -_chaperon_ than Constance was, who felt quite at her ease roaming with -him among the terraces of the olive woods. It was altogether so idyllic, -so innocent, that there was no occasion for any conventional safeguards: -and there was nobody to see them or remark upon the prolonged -_tête-à-tête_. Constance came to know the young fellow far better than -his mother did, better than he himself did, in these walks and talks. - -“Miss Waring, don’t laugh at a fellow. I know I deserve it.--Oh yes, do, -if you like. I had rather you laughed than closed the piano. I had a -good long grind at it this morning; but somehow these triplets are more -than I can fathom. Let us have that movement again, will you? Oh, not if -you are tired. As long as you’ll let me sit and talk. I love music with -all my heart, but I love----” - -“Chatter,” said Constance. “I know you do. It is not a dignified word to -apply to a gentleman; but you know, Captain Gaunt, you do love to -chatter.” - -“Anything to please you,” said the young man. “That wasn’t how I -intended to end my sentence. I love to--chatter, if you like, as long as -you will listen--or play, or do anything; as long as----” - -“You must allow,” said Constance, “that I listen admirably. I am -thoroughly well up in all your subjects. I know the station as well as -if I lived there.” - -“Don’t say that,” he cried; “it makes a man beside himself. Oh, if -there was any chance that you might ever----! I think--I’m almost -sure--you would like the society in India--it’s so easy; everybody’s so -kind. A--a young couple, you know, as long as the lady is--delightful.” - -“But I am not a young couple,” said Constance, with a smile. “You -sometimes confuse your plurals in the funniest way. Is that Indian too? -Now come, Captain Gaunt, let us get on. Begin at the andante. One, -two--three! Now, let’s get on.” - -And then a few bars would be played, and then she would turn sharp round -upon the music-stool and take the violin out of his astonished hands. - -“Oh, what a shriek! It goes through and through one’s head. Don’t you -think an instrument has feelings? That was a cry of the poor ill-used -fiddle, that could bear no more. Give it to me.” She took the bow in her -hands, and leaned the instrument tenderly against her shoulder. “It -should be played like this,” she said. - -“Miss Waring, you can play the violin too?” - -“A little,” she said, leaning down her soft cheek against it, as if she -loved it, and drawing a charmingly sympathetic harmony from the ill-used -strings. - -“I will never play again,” cried the young man. “Yes, I will--to touch -it where you have touched it. Oh, I think you can do everything, and -make everything perfect you look at.” - -“No,” said Constance, shaking her head as she ran the bow softly, so -softly over the strings; “for you are not perfect at all, though I have -looked at you a great deal. Look! this is the way to do it. I am not -going to accompany you any more. I am going to give you lessons. Take it -now, and let me see you play that passage. Louder, softer--louder. Come, -that was better. I think I shall make something of you after all.” - -“You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, with his -lips on the place her cheek had touched--“whatever you please.” - -“A first-rate violin-player, then,” said Constance. “But I don’t think -my power goes so high as that. Poor General, what does he say when you -grind, as you call it, all the morning?” - -“Oh, mother smooths him down--that is the use of a mother.” - -“Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial inquiry. “I didn’t -know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing our time.” - -And then _tant bien que mal_, the sonata was got through. - -“I am glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance, as she closed the piano. -“He is safe from that at least: he can never hear us play. When you go -home, Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings in some quite -out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Islington, or somewhere, -and grind, as you call it, till you are had up as a nuisance; or -else----” - -“Or else--what, Miss Waring? Anything to please you.” - -“Or else--give it up altogether,” Constance said. - -His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “If you think -it is so hopeless as that--if you wish me to give it up altogether----” - -“Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear you break down. It would be -quite a pity if you were to give up, you take my scolding so -delightfully. Don’t give it up as long as you are here, Captain Gaunt. -After that, it doesn’t matter what happens--to me.” - -“No,” he said, almost with a groan, “it doesn’t matter what happens -after that--to me. It’s the Deluge, you know,” said the poor young -fellow. “I wish the world would come to an end first”--thus -unconsciously echoing the poet. “But, Miss Waring,” he added anxiously, -coming a little closer, “I may come back? Though I must go to London, it -is not necessary I should stay there. I may come back?” - -“Oh, I hope so, Captain Gaunt. What would your mother do, if you did not -come back? But I suppose she will be going away for the summer. -Everybody leaves Bordighera in the summer, I hear.” - -“I had not thought of that,” cried the young soldier. “And you will be -going too?’ - -“I suppose so,” said Constance. “Papa, I hope, is not so lost to every -sense of duty as to let me spoil my complexion for ever by staying -here.” - -“That would be impossible,” he said, with eyes full of admiration. - -“You intend that for a compliment, Captain Gaunt; but it is no -compliment. It means either that I have no complexion to lose, or that I -am one of those thick-skinned people who take no harm--neither of which -is complimentary, nor true. I shall have to teach you how to pay -compliments as well as how to play the violin.” - -“Ah, if you only would!” he cried. “Teach me how to make myself what you -like--how to speak, how to look, how----” - -“Oh, that is a great deal too much,” she said. “I cannot undertake all -your education. Do you know it is close upon noon? Unless you are going -to stay to breakfast----” - -“Oh, thanks, Miss Waring. They will expect me at home. But you will give -me a message to take back to my mother. I may come to fetch you to drive -with her to-day?” - -“It must be dreadfully dull work for her sitting waiting while we -explore.” - -“Oh, not at all. She is never dull when she knows I am enjoying -myself--that’s the mother’s way.” - -“Is it?” said Constance, with once more that air of acquiring -information. “I am not acquainted with that kind of mother. But do you -think, Captain Gaunt, it is right to enjoy yourself, as you call it, at -your mother’s cost?” - -He gave her a look of great doubt and trouble. “Oh, Miss Waring, I don’t -think you should put it so. My mother finds her pleasure in that--indeed -she does. Ask herself. Of course I would not impose upon her, not for -the world; but she likes it, I assure you she likes it.” - -“It is very extraordinary that any one should like sitting in that -carriage for hours with nothing to do. I will come with pleasure, -Captain Gaunt. I will sit with your mother while you go and take your -walk. That will be more cheerful for all parties,” Constance said. - -Young Gaunt’s face grew half a mile long. He began to expostulate and -explain; but Waring’s step was heard stirring in the next room, -approaching the door, and the young man had no desire to see the master -of the house with his watch in his hand, demanding to know why Domenico -was so late. Captain Gaunt knew very well why Domenico was so late. He -knew a way of conciliating the servants, though he had not yet succeeded -with the young mistress. He said hurriedly, “I will come for you at -three,” and rushed away. Waring came in at one door as Gaunt disappeared -at the other. The delay of the breakfast was a practical matter, of -which, without any reproach of medievalism, he had a right to complain. - -“If you must have this young fellow every morning, he may at least go -away in proper time,” he said, with his watch in his hand, as young -Gaunt had divined. - -“Oh, papa, twelve is striking loud enough. You need not produce your -watch at the same time.” - -“Then why have I to wait?” he said. There was something awful in his -tone. But Domenico was equal to the occasion, worthy at once of the -lover’s and of the father’s trust. At that moment, Captain Gaunt having -been got away while the great bell of Bordighera was still sounding, -the faithful Domenico threw open, perhaps with a little more sound than -was necessary, an ostentation of readiness, the dining-room door. - -The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was pondering the -looks which she had not been able to ignore, the words which she had -managed to quench like so many fiery arrows before they could set fire -to anything, of her eager lover, and was pale and a little preoccupied -in spite of herself, feeling that things were going further than she -intended; and perhaps her father, feeling the situation too serious, and -remonstrance inevitable, was silenced by the thought of what he had to -say. It is so difficult in such circumstances for two people, with no -relief from any third party, without even that wholesome regard for the -servant in attendance, which keeps the peace during many a family -crisis--for with Domenico, who knew no English, they were as safe as -when they were alone--it is very difficult to find subjects for -conversation, that will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter -which is being postponed. Constance could not talk of her music, for -Gaunt was associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he -was her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the -neighbourhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the -neighbourhood that all those expeditions were being made? The great -bouquet of anemones which blazed in the centre of the table came from -Mrs Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was buying her amusement -too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was not so full of these references, -but he was occupied by the thought of what he had to say to this -headstrong girl, and by a strong sense that he was an ill-used man, in -having such responsibilities thrust upon him against his will. Frances -would not have led him into such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt -would have been no more interesting than his father; or so at least this -man, whose experience had taught him so little, was ready to believe. - -“I want to say something to you, Constance,” he began at length, after -Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop my mouth by remarks -about middle-age parents. I am a middle-age parent, so there is an end -of it. Are you going to marry George Gaunt?” - -“I--going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!” - -“You had better, I think,” said her father. “It will save us all a great -deal of embarrassment. I should not have recommended it, had I been -consulted at the beginning. But you like to be independent and have your -own way; and the best thing you can do is to marry. I don’t know how -your mother will take it; but so far as I am concerned, I think it would -save everybody a great deal of trouble. You will be able to turn him -round your finger; that will suit you, though the want of money may be -in your way.” - -“I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, who had -grown crimson. - -“That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting what seems the best -thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.” - -“To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried. - -“I have not taken any steps to get rid of you. I did not invite you, in -the first place, you will remember; you came of your own will. But I -was very willing to make the best of it. I let Frances go, who suited -me--whom I had brought up--for your sake. All the rest has been your -doing. Young Gaunt was never invited by me. I have had no hand in those -rambles of yours. But since you find so much pleasure in his -society----” - -“Papa, you know I don’t find pleasure in his society; you know----” - -“Then why do you seek it?” said Waring, with that logic which is so -cruel. - -Constance, on the other side of the table, was as red as the anemones, -and far more brilliant in the glow of passion. “I have not sought it,” -she cried. “I have let him come--that is all. I have gone when Mrs Gaunt -asked me. Must a girl marry every man that chooses to be silly? Can I -help it, if he is so vain? It is only vanity,” she said, springing up -from her chair, “that makes men think a girl is always ready to marry. -What should I marry for? If I had wanted to marry---- Papa, I don’t wish -to be disagreeable, but it is _vulgar_, if you force me to say it--it is -common to talk to me so.” - -“I might retort,” said Waring. - -“Oh yes, I know you might retort. It is common to amuse one’s self. So -is it common to breathe and move about, and like a little fun when you -are young. I have no fun here. There is nobody to talk to, not a thing -to do. How do you suppose I am to get on? How can I live without -something to fill up my time?” - -“Then you must take the consequences,” he said. - -In spite of herself, Constance felt a shiver of alarm. She began to -speak, then stopped suddenly, looked at him with a look of mingled -defiance and terror, and--what was so unlike her, so common, so weak, as -she felt--began to cry, notwithstanding all she could do to restrain -herself. To hide this unaccountable weakness, she hastened off and hid -herself in her room, making as if she had gone off in resentment. Better -that, than that he should see her crying like any silly girl. All this -had got on her nerves, she explained to herself afterwards. The -consequences! Constance held her breath as they became dimly apparent to -her in an atmosphere of horror. George Gaunt no longer an eager lover, -whom it was amusing, even exciting to draw on, to see just on the eve of -a self-committal, which it was the greatest fun in the world to stop, -before it went too far--but the master of her destinies, her constant -and inseparable companion, from whom she could never get free, by whom -she must not even say that she was bored to death--gracious powers! and -with so many other attendant horrors. To go to India with him, to fall -into the life of the station, to march with the regiment. Constance’s -lively imagination pictured a baggage-waggon, with herself on the top, -which made her laugh. But the reality was not laughable; it was -horrible. The consequences! No; she would not take the consequences. She -would sit with Mrs Gaunt in the carriage, and let him take his walk by -himself. She would begin to show him the extent of his mistake from that -very day. To take any stronger step, to refuse to go out with him at -all, she thought, on consideration, not necessary. The gentler measures -first, which perhaps he might be wise enough to accept. - -But if he did not accept them, what was Constance to do? She had run -away from an impending catastrophe, to take refuge with her father. But -with whom could she take refuge, if he continued to hold his present -strain of argument? And unless he would go away of himself, how was she -to shake off this young soldier? She did not want to shake him off; he -was all the amusement she had. What was she to do? - -There glanced across her mind for a moment a sort of desperate gleam of -reflection from her father’s words: “You like to be independent; the -best thing you can do is to marry.” There was a kind of truth in it, a -sort of distorted truth, such as was likely enough to come through the -medium of a mind so wholly at variance with all established forms. -Independent--there was something in that; and India was full of novelty, -amusing, a sort of world she had no experience of. A tremor of -excitement got into her nerves as she heard the bell ring, and knew that -he had come for her. He! the only individual who was at all interesting -for the moment, whom she held in her hands, to do what she pleased with. -She could turn him round her little finger, as her father said: and -independence! Was it a Mephistopheles that was tempting her, or a good -angel leading her the right way? - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Frances remembered little of the journey after it was over, though she -was keenly conscious of everything at the time, if there can be any keen -consciousness of a thing which is all vague, which conveys no clear -idea. Through the darkness of the night, which came on before she had -left the coast she knew, with all those familiar towns gleaming out as -she passed--Mentone, Monaco on its headland, the sheltering bays which -keep so warm and bright those cities of sickness, of idleness, and -pleasure--the palms, the olives, the oranges, the aloe hedges, the roses -and heliotropes--there was a confused and breathless sweep of distance, -half in the dark, half in the light, the monotonous plains, the lines of -poplars, the straight highroads of France. Paris, where they stayed for -a night, was only like a bigger, noisier, vast railway station, to -Frances. She had no time, in the hurry of her journey, in the still -greater hurry of her thoughts, to realise that here was the scene of -that dread Revolution of which she had read with shuddering -excitement--that she was driven past the spot where the guillotine was -first set up, and through the streets where the tumbrels had rolled, -carrying to that dread death the many tender victims, who were all she -knew of that great convulsion of history. Markham, who was so good to -her, put his head out of the carriage and pointed to a series of great -windows flashing with light. “What a pity there’s no time!” he said. She -asked “For what?” with the most complete want of comprehension. “For -shopping, of course,” he said, with a laugh. For shopping! She seemed to -be unacquainted with the meaning of the words. In the midst of this -strange wave of the unknown which was carrying her away, carrying her to -a world more unknown still, to suppose that she could pause and think of -shopping! The inappropriateness of the suggestion bewildered Frances. -Markham, indeed, altogether bewildered her. He was very good to her, -attending to her comfort, watchful over her needs in a way which she -could not have imagined possible. Her father had never been unkind; but -it did not occur to him to take care of her. It was she who took care of -him. If there was anything forgotten, it was she who got the blame; and -when he wanted a book, or his writing-desk, or a rug to put over his -knees, he called to his little girl to hand it to him, without the -faintest conception that there was anything incongruous in it. And there -was nothing incongruous in it. If there is any one in the world whom it -is natural to send on your errands, to get you what you want, surely -your child is that person. Waring did not think on the subject, but -simply did so by instinct, by nature; and equally by instinct Frances -obeyed, without a doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had -said, “Get me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag--hand me -so-and-so,” she would have considered it the most natural thing in the -world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped in and out of -his seat at her smallest suggestion. He pulled up and down the window -at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it mattered whether _he_ -liked it or not. He took her out carefully on his arm, and made her -dine, not asking what she would have, as her father might perhaps have -done, but bringing her the best that was to be had, choosing what she -should eat, serving her as if she had been the Queen! It contributed to -the dizzying effect of the rapid journey that she should thus have been -placed in a position so different from any that she had ever known. - -And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-grey stormy sea, -which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up just so far--no -farther, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to understand what is -said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she -saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that -meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera, -when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep -purple, solemn enough for a king’s pall, as it has been the pall of so -many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening -lash of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised -their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of -green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart -of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations. She had thought -there would be something triumphant, grand, about the aspect of -England--something proud, like a monarch of the sea; and it was only a -damp, greyish-white line, rising not very far out of those sullen waves. -An east wind was blowing with that blighting greyness which here, in the -uttermost parts of the earth, we are so well used to: and it was cold. A -gleam of pale sun indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but -there was no real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was -depressing. The green fields and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it -was all damp, and the sky was grey. And then came London, with a roar -and noise as if they had fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs, -multitudes of people at every little station which the quick train -flashed past, and on the platform, where at last she arrived dizzy and -faint with fatigue and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind than -words could say. He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn looks at -everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what she thought of her -native country. When they arrived at last, he found out miraculously, -among the crowd of carriages, a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham, -and put her into it. “We’ll trundle off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan, -and let John look after the things; you are so tired you can scarcely -speak.” - -“Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could not say -any more. - -“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing -touch. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. There’s nothing to be -frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps it was silly of me to -say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. I am the -foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do. -Don’t make a fool of your old brother, my dear. There, look out and see -what a beastly place old London is, Fan.” - -“Don’t call me Fan,” she cried, this slight irritation affording her an -excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in -her. “Call me Frances, Markham.” - -“Life’s too short for a name in two syllables. I’ve got two syllables -myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome -to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to -it. Did you ever see such murky heavy air? It isn’t air at all--it’s -smoke, and animalculæ, and everything that’s dreadful. It’s not like -that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?” - -“Oh no!” cried Frances, with fervour. “But I suppose London is better -for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice. - -“Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the earth; it’s -the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, child, it is -paradise,”--he paused a moment, and then added, “with pandemonium next -door.” - -“Markham!” the girl cried. - -“I was wrong to mention such a place in your hearing. I know I was. -Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about -the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.” - -The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out a -flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out. -She had got her veil entangled about her head, her arms in the cloak -which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt -arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until -she found herself suddenly in some one’s arms; then the light seemed to -go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the -warmth, the softness, the faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which -she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more. - -“Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate--I hope she is not -given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before -she felt able to open her eyes. - -“Not a bit,” said Markham’s familiar tones. “She’s overdone, and awfully -anxious about meeting you.” - -“My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?” said the -other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive tone in it; and -then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the -voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half -because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a -faint little tentative utterance, “Mother!” wondering vaguely whether -the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she -was to know. - -“My poor little baby, my little girl! open your eyes. Markham, I want to -see the colour of her eyes.” - -“As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a strange -outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant -crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He -seemed to walk away, and then came back again. “Come, Fan, that’s -enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I told you there was nothing to -be frightened for.” - -And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she was -lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her -stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like -hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself -a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance -had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed -in soft black satin, that did not rustle--that was far, far too harsh a -word--but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and -round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother -to her for ever and ever,--an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch -in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with -disdain--something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious -ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement -of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt. - -“Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl, -Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never grown up, like -the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances? -Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain -awake in the night and cried for you.” - -“Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into -her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known -anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense, -was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have -always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and -laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion and -melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich -softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new -personality by which her own was surrounded on every side. - -“Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this -child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us--isn’t it, my -darling?--as if we had always been together--all the same in a moment. -Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one. Do you think, Markham, -she is able to walk up-stairs?” - -“Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I -was--frightened, I think.” - -“But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Markham, drawing -the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy -still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to -be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs. -She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian -palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the -warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could -scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly -furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the -tea-table, like, and yet how unlike, that anxious copy of English ways -which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a -momentary gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better, -though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like these; but, alas, -in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs, -through--as she thought--the sumptuous arrangements of her mother’s -room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and in which there was -the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables, -in addition to the necessary details of a sleeping-room. Frances looked -round it admiringly. She knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though -something, a very little, about old art. The painted ceilings and old -gilding of the Palazzo--which she began secretly and obstinately to call -_home_ from this moment forth--were intelligible to her; but she was -quite unacquainted with Mr Morris’s papers and the art fabrics from -Liberty’s. She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. She thought -the walls “killed” the pictures that were hung round, which were not -like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little -pang to her sister. “Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly, -called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the -transfer was to be complete. - -“No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said Lady Markham. “It has always -been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always -hoped that; but I never thought that Con would desert me.” Her voice -faltered a little, which instantly touched Frances’ heart. - -“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, when she -came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have -very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you -know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her -mine.” - -Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very -faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was, “You have -not many visitors, I suppose?” - -“Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are--rather poor. We are -not--like this.” - -“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do -you mean, dear, by _we_? You must learn to mean something else by _we_. -Your father, if he had chosen, might have had--all that you see, and -more. And Constance---- But we will say nothing more to-night on that -subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was -always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each -side.” - -Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great -interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to -herself--more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which -shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and -it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of -Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and -decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor -Constance!” she said under her breath. - -“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp -and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con! -You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has -chosen. Was it--dreary for you, my poor child?” - -Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of -tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “It is the only life I -know--it was--everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the -sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she -wavered, hesitated, changed the tense--it was. She did not quite know -herself what the change meant. - -Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “It was--everything -you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be -disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows -something else---- Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for -her experience, like all the rest.” - -Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She -did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the -relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the -sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it -that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown -mother, whom it had been a rapture to see and touch? Or was it only -that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves -and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My -dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do -just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send -Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left -alone and quiet.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do -not think me disagreeable to say so.” - -“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,” said -her mother, kissing her--but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a -burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone--alone, -quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered -to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable and altogether fantastic -disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely -it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised -level of feeling. - -“No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She -was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, looking into it with -her head bent and a serious expression on her face. “Perhaps I was too -much delighted for a moment; but she, poor child, now that she has -looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed -in me. That’s rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t -know.” - -“I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s very natural. -The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had -been an angel from heaven----” - -“Which I am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the fire. - -“Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “In that case, you would not have -suited me--which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.” - -She gave a half glance at him, a half smile, but did not disturb the -chain of her reflections. “That’s something, Markham,” she said. - -“Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go too fast -with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let -her settle down her own way.” - -“I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw -something like it in her eyes.” - -“That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her -father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about -her. My dear mother, Con’s like Waring, if you like. This one is of our -side of the house.” - -“Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand -affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. “But, my dear boy, you -are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there -is nobody at all, unless, as you say----” - -“Frances,” said the little man. “I told you--the best of the lot. I took -to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go too fast with -her, mother. She has her own notions. She is as stanch as a -little--Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he -met his mother’s eye, he retired a little, with the air of a man who -does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated curiosity in -her mind. - -“How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?” - -“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered, carelessly. “And she will stick -to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.” - -Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, before the -fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs. - -“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “to be making -acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter--and -to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?” - -“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “it might have been worse. Let us make the -best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has -never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to -go to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we’ve -got the other one too.” - -Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her -handkerchief to her eyes. “For all that, it is very hard, both on her -and me,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Lady Markham’s story was one which was very well known to Society--to -which everything is known--though it had remained so long a secret, and -was still a mystery to one of her children. Waring had been able to lose -himself in distance, and keep his position concealed from every one; but -it was clear that his wife could not do so, remaining as she did in the -world which was fully acquainted with her, and which required an -explanation of everything that happened. Perhaps it is more essential to -a woman than to a man that her position should be fully explained, -though it is one of the drawbacks of an established place and sphere, -which is seldom spoken of, yet is very real, and one of the greatest -embarrassments of life. So long as existence is without complications, -this matters little; but when these arise, those difficulties which so -often distract the career of a family, the inevitable explanations that -have to be made to the little interested ring of spectators, is often -the worst part of domestic trouble. Waring, whose temperament was what -is called sensitive--that is, impatient, self-willed, and -unenduring--would not submit to such a necessity. But a woman cannot -fly; she must stand in her place, if she has any regard for that place, -and for the reputation which it is common to say is more delicate and -easily injured than is that of a man--and make her excuse to the world. -Perhaps, as, sooner or later, excuses and explanations must be afforded, -it is the wiser plan to get over them publicly and at once; for even -Waring, as has been seen, though he escaped, and had a dozen years of -tranquillity, had at the last to submit himself to the questions of Mr -Durant. All that was over for these dozen years with Lady Markham. -Everybody knew exactly what her position was. Scandal had never -breathed upon her, either at the moment of the separation or afterwards. -It had been a foolish, romantic love-marriage between a woman of Society -and a man who was half rustic, half scholar. They had found after a time -that they could not endure each other--as anybody with a head on his -shoulders could have told them from the beginning, Society said. And -then he had taken the really sensible though wild and romantic step of -banishing himself and leaving her free. There were some who had supposed -this a piece of _bizarre_ generosity, peculiar to the man, and some who -thought it only a natural return to the kind of life that suited him -best. - -Lady Markham had, of course, been censured for this, her second -marriage; and equally, of course, was censured for the breach of it--for -the separation, which, indeed, was none of her doing; for retaining her -own place when her husband left her; and, in short, for every step she -had taken in the matter from first to last. But that was twelve years -ago, which is a long time in all circumstances, and which counts for -about a century in Society: and nobody thought of blaming her any -longer, or of remarking at all upon the matter. The present lords and -ladies of fashionable life had always known her as she was, and there -was no further question about her history. When, in the previous season, -Miss Waring had made her _début_ in Society, and achieved the success -which had been so remarkable, there was indeed a little languid question -as to who was her father among those who remembered that Waring was not -the name of the Markham family; but this was not interesting enough to -cause any excitement. And Frances, still thrilling with the discovery of -the other life, of which she had never suspected the existence, and -ignorant even now of everything except the mere fact of it, suddenly -found herself embraced and swallowed up in a perfectly understood and -arranged routine in which there was no mystery at all. - -“The first thing you must do is to make acquaintance with your -relations,” said Lady Markham next morning at breakfast. “Fortunately, -we have this quiet time before Easter to get over all these -preliminaries. Your aunt Clarendon will expect to see you at once.” - -Frances was greatly disturbed by this new discovery. She gave a covert -glance at Markham, who, though it was not his habit to appear so early, -had actually produced himself at breakfast to see how the little one was -getting on. Markham looked back again, elevating his eyebrows, and not -understanding at first what the question meant. - -“And there are all the cousins,” said the mother, with that plaintive -tone in her voice. “My dear, I hope you are not in the way of forming -friendships, for there are so many of them! I think the best thing will -be to get over all these duty introductions at once. I must ask the -Clarendons--don’t you think, Markham?--to dinner, and perhaps the -Peytons,--quite a family party.” - -“Certainly, by all means,” said Markham; “but first of all, don’t you -think she wants to be dressed?” - -Lady Markham looked at Frances critically from her smooth little head to -her neat little shoes. The girl was standing by the fire, with her head -reclined against the mantelpiece of carved oak, which, as a -“reproduction,” was very much thought of in Eaton Square. Frances felt -that the blush with which she met her mother’s look must be seen, though -she turned her head away, through the criticised clothes. - -“Her dress is very simple; but there is nothing in bad taste. Don’t you -think I might take her anywhere as she is? I did not notice her hat,” -said Lady Markham, with gravity; “but if that is right---- Simplicity is -quite the right thing at eighteen----” - -“And in Lent,” said Markham. - -“It is quite true; in Lent, it is better than the right thing--it is the -best thing. My dear, you must have had a very good maid. Foreign women -have certainly better taste than the class we get our servants from. -What a pity you did not bring her with you! One can always find room for -a clever maid.” - -“I don’t believe she had any maid; it is all out of her own little -head,” said Markham. “I told you not to let yourself be taken in. She -has a deal in her, that little thing.” - -Lady Markham smiled, and gave Frances a kiss, enfolding her once more in -that soft atmosphere which had been such a revelation to her last -night. “I am sure she is a dear little girl, and is going to be a great -comfort to me. You will want to write your letters this morning, my -love, which you must do before lunch. And after lunch, we will go and -see your aunt. You know that is a matter of--what shall we call it, -Markham?--conscience with me.” - -“Pride,” Markham said, coming and standing by them in front of the fire. - -“Perhaps a little,” she answered with a smile; “but conscience too. I -would not have her say that I had kept the child from her for a single -day.” - -“That is how conscience speaks, Fan,” said Markham. “You will know next -time you hear it. And after the Clarendons?” - -“Well--of course, there must be a hundred things the child wants. We -must look at your evening dresses together, darling. Tell Josephine to -lay them out and let me see them. We are going to have some people at -the Priory for Easter; and when we come back, there will be no time. -Yes, I think on our way home from Portland Place we must just look -into--a shop or two.” - -“Now my mind is relieved,” Markham said. “I thought you were going to -change the course of nature, Fan.” - -“The child is quite bewildered by your nonsense, Markham,” the mother -said. - -And this was quite true. Frances had never been on such terms with her -father as would have entitled her to venture to laugh at him. She was -confused with this new phase, as well as with her many other -discoveries: and it appeared to her that Markham looked just as old as -his mother. Lady Markham was fresh and fair, her complexion as clear as -a girl’s, and her hair still brown and glossy. If art in any way added -to this perfection, Frances had no suspicion of such a possibility. And -when she looked from her mother’s round and soft contour to the wrinkles -of Markham, and his no-colour and indefinite age, and heard him address -her with that half-caressing, half-bantering equality, the girl’s mind -grew more and more hopelessly confused. She withdrew, as was expected of -her, to write her letters, though without knowing how to fulfil that -duty. She could write (of course) to her father. It was of course, and -so was what she told him. “We arrived about six o’clock. I was -dreadfully confused with the noise and the crowds of people. Mamma was -very kind. She bids me send you her love. The house is very fine, and -full of furniture, and fires in all the rooms; but one wants that, for -it is much colder here. We are going out after luncheon to call on my -aunt Clarendon. I wish very much I knew who she was, or who my other -relations are; but I suppose I shall find out in time.” This was the -scope of Frances’ letter. And she did not feel warranted, somehow, in -writing to Constance. She knew so little of Constance: and was she not -in some respects a supplanter, taking Constance’s place? When she had -finished her short letter to her father, which was all fact, with very -few reflections, Frances paused and looked round her, and felt no -further inspiration. Should she write to Mariuccia? But that would -require time--there was so much to be said to Mariuccia. Facts were not -what _she_ would want--at least, the facts would have to be of a -different kind; and Frances felt that daylight and all the arrangements -of the new life, the necessity to be ready for luncheon and to go out -after, were not conditions under which she could begin to pour out her -heart to her old nurse, the attendant of her childhood. She must put off -till the evening, when she should be alone and undisturbed, with time -and leisure to collect all her thoughts and first impressions. She put -down her pen, which was not, indeed, an instrument she was much -accustomed to wield, and began to think instead; but all her thinking -would not tell her who the relatives were to whom she was about to be -presented; and she reflected with horror that her ignorance must betray -the secret which she had so carefully kept, and expose her father to -further and further criticism. - -There was only one way of avoiding this danger, and that was through -Markham, who alone could help her, who was the only individual in whom -she could feel a confidence that he would give her what information he -could, and understand why she asked. If she could but find Markham! She -went down-stairs, timidly flitting along the wide staircase through the -great drawing-room, which was vacant, and found no trace of him. She -lingered, peeping out from between the curtains of the windows upon the -leafless gardens outside in the spring sunshine, the passing carriages -which she could see through their bare boughs, the broad pavement close -at hand with so few passengers, the clatter now and then of a hansom, -which amused her even in the midst of her perplexity, or the drawing up -of a brougham at some neighbouring door. After a minute’s distraction -thus, she returned again to make further investigations from the -drawing-room door, and peep over the balusters to watch for her brother. -At last she had the good luck to perceive him coming out of one of the -rooms on the lower floor. She darted down as swift as a bird, and -touched him on the sleeve. He had his hat in his hand, as if preparing -to go out. “Oh,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I want to speak to -you; I want to ask you something,”--holding up her hand with a warning -hush. - -“What is it?” returned Markham, chiefly with his eyebrows, with a comic -affectation of silence and secrecy which tempted her to laugh in spite -of herself. Then he nodded his head, took her hand in his, and led her -up-stairs to the drawing-room again. “What is it you want to ask me? Is -it a state secret? The palace is full of spies, and the walls of ears,” -said Markham with mock solemnity, “and I may risk my head by following -you. Fair conspirator, what do you want to ask?” - -“Oh, Markham, don’t laugh at me--it is serious. Please, who is my aunt -Clarendon?” - -“You little Spartan!” he said; “you are a plucky little girl, Fan. You -won’t betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, my dear; but -he ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, though I approve of -you.” - -“Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances steadily; “that is -not what I asked you, please.” - -He stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “I wonder if -you will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due? Who is -your aunt Clarendon? She is your father’s sister, Fan; I think the only -one who is left.” - -“Papa’s sister! I thought it must be--on the other side.” - -“My mother,” said Markham, “has few relations--which is a misfortune -that I bear with equanimity. Mrs Clarendon married a lawyer a great many -years ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now he is very rich, and they will -make him a judge one of these days.” - -“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and wise. And my -aunt----” - -“My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. She is -very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her to the Bench. -You must remember when you go there, Fan, that they are _the other -side_.” - -“What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” inquired Frances anxiously, -fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant personage, who yet -was so important in this house. - -Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was his special -note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for yourself,” he -replied; “but the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is that all? for I’m -running off; I have an engagement.” - -“Oh, not all--not half. I want you to tell me--I want to know--I--I -don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on the sleeve of -his coat. - -“Nor I,” he retorted with a laugh. “Let me go now; we’ll find an -opportunity. Keep your eyes, or rather your ears, open; but don’t take -all you hear for gospel. Good-bye till to-night. I’m coming to dinner -to-night.” - -“Don’t you live here?” said Frances, accompanying him to the door. - -“Not such a fool, thank you,” replied Markham, stopping her gently, and -closing the door of the room with care after him as he went away. - -Frances was much discouraged by finding nothing but that closed door in -front of her where she had been gazing into his ugly but expressive -face. It made a sort of dead stop, an emphatic punctuation, marking the -end. Why should he say he was not such a fool as to live at home with -his mother? Why should he be so _nice_ and yet so odd? Why had -Constance warned her not to put herself in Markham’s hands? All this -confused the mind of Frances whenever she began to think. And she did -not know what to do with herself. She stole to the window and watched -through the white curtains, and saw him go away in the hansom which -stood waiting at the door. She felt a vacancy in the house after his -departure, the loss of a support, an additional silence and sense of -solitude; even something like a panic took possession of her soul. Her -impulse was to rush up-stairs again and shut herself up in her room. She -had never yet been alone with her mother except for a moment. She -dreaded the (quite unnecessary, to her thinking) meal which was coming, -at which she must sit down opposite to Lady Markham, with that solemn -old gentleman, dressed like Mr Durant, and that gorgeous theatrical -figure of a footman, serving the two ladies. Ah, how different from -Domenico--poor Domenico, who had called her _carina_ from her childhood, -and who wept over her hand as he kissed it, when she was coming away. -Oh, when should she see these faithful friends again? - -“I want you to be quite at your ease with your aunt Clarendon,” said -Lady Markham at luncheon, when the servants had left the room. “She will -naturally want to know all about your father and your way of living. We -have not talked very much on that subject, my dear, because, for one -thing, we have not had much time; and because---- But she will want to -know all the little details. And, my darling, I want just to tell you, -to warn you. Poor Caroline is not very fond of me. Perhaps it is -natural. She may say things to you about your mother----” - -“Oh no, mamma,” said Frances, looking up in her mother’s face. - -“You don’t know, my dear. Some people have a great deal of prejudice. -Your aunt Caroline, as is quite natural, takes a different view. I -wonder if I can make you understand what I mean without using words -which I don’t want to use?” - -“Yes,” said Frances; “you may trust me, mamma; I think I understand.” - -Lady Markham rose and came to where her child sat, and kissed her -tenderly. “My dear, I think you will be a great comfort to me,” she -said. “Constance was always hot-headed. She would not make friends, when -I wished her to make friends. The Clarendons are very rich; they have no -children, Frances. Naturally, I wish you to stand well with them. -Besides, I would not allow her to suppose for a moment that I would keep -you from her--that is what I call conscience, and Markham pride.” - -Frances did not know what to reply. She did not understand what the -wealth of the Clarendons had to do with it; everything else she could -understand. She was very willing, nay, eager to see her father’s sister, -yet very determined that no one should say a word to her to the -detriment of her mother. So far as that went, in her own mind all was -clear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Mrs Clarendon lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which -fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and -decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated -house, also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not -exist. Frances followed her mother with a beating heart through the long -wide hall and large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet -made no sound. She thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some -silent place in which mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but -the room they were ushered into was only a very large, very still -drawing-room, in painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, -which made a little sound and flicker that preserved it from utter -death. The blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains -hung down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the modern -æstheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furniture -impeding progress, in which Lady Markham delighted. The furniture was -all solid, durable--what upholsterers call very handsome--huge mirrors -over the mantelpieces, a few large portraits in chalk on the walls, -solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brilliantly painted china -flower-pot enclosing a large plant of the palm kind, dark-green and -solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It was very -warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same -time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the common -occupations of life were never brought. - -“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a -morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when -Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes -up at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes -to bed. That is about all the intercourse they have, and all the time -the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is -why it has such a depressing look.” - -“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly -question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it. - -“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a -question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be -happy? She has everything she has ever wished for--plenty of money--for -they are very rich--her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and -in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky -woman, as women go.” - -“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking -round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would -probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, -and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, -with a sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on -the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had never given -her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all -at once the door opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young -visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so -entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to -the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was -startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the -footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay -aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father’s -approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the -midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances’ face. She -was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and an air which -was like that of her rooms--the air of being unused, of being put -against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to -Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both -hands. - -“I am so glad to see you, Caroline. I feared you might be out, as it was -such a beautiful day.” - -“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I am not very -energetic, you know--not like you. Have I seen this young lady before?” - -“You have not seen her for a long time--not since she was a child; nor I -either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Caroline, I told you I -expected----” - -“My brother’s child!” Mrs Clarendon said, fixing her eyes upon the girl, -who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as -Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by -saying, “But she is like you,” with a certain tone of reproach. - -“That is not my fault,” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she -added: “For the matter of that, they are both your brother’s -children--though, unfortunately, mine too.” - -“You know my opinion on that matter,” said Mrs Clarendon; and then, and -not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping kissed her on the -cheek. “Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word -from you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in you. It must -be very sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, -to be suddenly sent here without any will of your own.” - -“Oh no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see mamma.” - -“That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with a cold -smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to -arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an -answer, even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt -went on, without looking at her again: “I suppose you have heard from -Constance? It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with -the different kind of life. My brother’s quiet ways are not likely to -suit a young lady about town.” - -“Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Markham, who -kept her temper with astonishing self-control. “She only arrived last -night. I would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you -will like to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion -that on the whole the change will do Constance good.” - -“I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother -would do any one good--who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a -great change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be -infected with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his -life. I suppose, Lady Markham, that is what you intend?” - -“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Markham, “that -it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con’s -going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what -were my views for her?” - -“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your -plans,” Mrs Clarendon said. - -“It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward’s only near -relation----” - -“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your consideration,” the -other cried quickly. “Constance was never influenced by me; though I -don’t wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had -prepared for her.” - -“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished glance. Then she -added with a smile: “I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any -plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con did not like the gentleman whom I -approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can’t nowadays, -if one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of -the times. But if you will allow me to say so, Caroline, Con is too like -her father to bear anything, to put up with anything that----” - -“Thank heaven!” cried Mrs Clarendon. “She is indeed a little like her -dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And this one, I -suppose--this one you find like you?” - -“I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said Lady -Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “But Edward has brought her -up, Caroline; that should be a passport to your affections at least.” - -Upon this, Mrs Clarendon came down as from a pedestal, and addressed -herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue -had gone. “I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and -disagreeable,” she said. “I will not tell you why, though I think I -could make out a case. How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and -seldomer--sometimes not even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have -little sense of family duties, which is a pity at your age.” - -Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was -confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. -“Papa,” she said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he could not -write letters--our life was so quiet: there was nothing to say.” - -“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care -more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that -anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your quiet -life that I like to hear about. Society has little attraction for me. I -suppose you are half an Italian, are you? and know nothing about English -life.” - -“She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort of -parenthesis. - -“The only people I know are English,” said Frances. “Papa is not fond of -society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have -always tried to be like my own country-people, as well as I could.” - -“And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smiling look. - -Mrs Clarendon said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. -Then she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she said, “I should like -to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my -dear brother; but that can’t be done in a morning call. Will you leave -her with me for the day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? -Any time will suit me.” - -“She only arrived last night, Caroline. I suppose even you will allow -that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with -you, if that suits you?” - -“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs Clarendon, ostentatiously counting -on her fingers--“during which interval you will have full time---- Oh -yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother, of course, conventionally, has, -as you say, the first right.” - -“Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady Markham replied; and then -there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who -felt her innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over -which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused -and indignant, not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house -did nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of the moment: she seemed to -have no wish to set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during -which the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional -fall of ashes from the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, -loud and distinct, to fill up the interval, was half painful, half -ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly -introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain -irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life. - -At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady Markham -rose and spread her wings--or at least shook out her silken draperies, -which comes to the same thing. “As that is settled, we need not detain -you any longer,” she said. - -Mrs Clarendon rose too, slowly. “I cannot expect,” she replied, “that -you can give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much -occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock on Thursday. I -lunch at one; and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I -shall be glad to take you wherever you like. I suppose I may keep her to -dinner? Mr Clarendon will like to make acquaintance with his niece.” - -“Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Markham with a -smile. “I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.” - -“Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and ran away to -her father,” quoth the implacable antagonist. - -Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. “I don’t think -Constance has abandoned me,” she cried hastily; “and if she has, the -fault is---- But there is no discussion possible between people so -hopelessly of different opinions as you and I,” she added, recovering -her composure. “Mr Clarendon is well, I hope?” - -“Very well. Good morning, since you will go,” said the mistress of the -house. She dropped another cold kiss upon Frances’ cheek. It seemed to -the girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, that it was her aunt’s -nose, which was a long one and very chilly, which touched her. She made -no response to this nasal salutation. She felt, indeed, that to give a -slap to that other cheek would be much more expressive of her sentiments -than a kiss, and followed her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. -Lady Markham, too, was moved. When she got into the brougham, she leant -back in her corner and put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of -each eye. Then she laughed, and laid her hand upon Frances’ arm. - -“You are not to think I am grieving,” she said; “it is only rage. Did -you ever know such a----? But, my dear, we must recollect that it is -natural--that she is on _the other side_.” - -“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. “Then, -mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought everything was good.” - -“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I fear, above -all, is far from being perfect,--not that your poor dear aunt Caroline -can be said to be in Society,” Lady Markham added, recovering her -spirits. “I don’t think they see anybody but a few lawyers like -themselves.” - -“But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure it? You -promised for me, or I should never go back, neither on Thursday nor any -other time.” - -“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear! I hope you have not got those -headstrong Waring ways. Because she hates me, that is no reason why she -should hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. You are of her own blood, -and her near relation: and I never heard that _he_ took very much to any -of the young people on his side. And they are very rich. A man like -that, at the head of his profession, must be coining money. It would be -wicked of me, for any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a -fortune for my children. And you know I have very little more than my -jointure, and your father is not rich.” - -This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. She -gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kindness, -with a sense that Lady Markham was under the sway of motives and -influences which had been left out in her own simple education. Was it -supreme and self-denying generosity, or was it--something else? The girl -was too inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the contrast between -Lady Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance and the harsh and -ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart out of the region of -reason. “If you put up with all that for us, I cannot see any reason why -we should put up with it for you!” she cried indignantly. “She cannot -have any right to speak to my mother so--and before me.” - -“Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we were -alone, I should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is because of -you that she can make me feel--a little. But you must take no notice; -you must leave me to fight my own battles.” - -“Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about a foot -taller than her mother. “I will never endure it, mamma; you may say what -you like. What is her fortune to me?” - -“My love!” she exclaimed; “why, you little savage, her fortune is -everything to you! It may make all the difference.” Then she laughed -rather tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her -stranger-child’s half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet of you to -make a stand for your mother,” she said, “and when you know so little of -me. The horrid people in Society would say that was the reason; but I -think you would defend your mother anyhow, my Frances, my child that I -have always missed! But look here, dear: you must not do it. I am old -enough to take care of myself. And your poor aunt Clarendon is not so -bad as you think. She believes she has reason for it. She is very fond -of your father, and she has not seen him for a dozen years; and there is -no telling whether she may ever see him again; and she thinks it is my -fault. So you must not take up arms on my behalf till you know better. -And it would be so much to your advantage if she should take a fancy to -you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile myself, for any -_amour-propre_ of mine, to stand in my child’s way?” - -Once more, Frances was unable to make any reply. All the lines of -sentiment and sense to which she had been accustomed seemed to be -getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family stood together, -shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, and even revenged each -other; and though the law might disapprove, public opinion stood by -them. A child who looked on careless while its parents were assailed -would have been to Mariuccia an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on -such a subject, Frances had never known: but as for fortune, he would -have smiled that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she -should pay court to any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having few -wants, she had heard him say a thousand times. It might even have been -supposed from his conversation that he scorned rich people for being -rich, which of course was an exaggeration. But he could never, never -have wished her to endeavour to please an unkind, disagreeable person -because of her money. That was impossible. So that she made no reply, -and scarcely even, in her confusion, responded to the caress with which -her mother thanked her for the partisanship, which it appeared was so -out of place. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Frances had not succeeded in resolving this question in her mind when -Thursday came. The two intervening days had been very quiet. She had -gone with her mother to several shops, and had stood by almost passive -and much astonished while a multitude of little luxuries which she had -never been sufficiently enlightened even to wish for, were bought for -her. She was so little accustomed to lavish expenditure, that it was -almost with a sense of wrong-doing that she contemplated all these -costly trifles, which were for the use not of some typical fine lady, -but of herself, Frances, who had never thought it possible she could -ever be classed under that title. To Lady Markham these delicacies were -evidently necessaries of life. And then it was for the first time that -Frances learned what an evening dress meant--not only the garment -itself, but the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the ribbons, the fan, -a hundred little accessories which she had never so much as thought of. -When you have nothing but a set of coral or amber beads to wear with -your white frock, it is astonishing how much that matter is simplified. -Lady Markham opened her jewel-boxes to provide for the same endless roll -of necessities. “This will go with the white dress, and this with the -pink,” she said, thus revealing to Frances another delicacy of accord -unsuspected by her simplicity. - -“But, mamma, you are giving me so many things!” - -“Not your share yet,” said Lady Markham. And she added: “But don’t say -anything of this to your aunt Clarendon. She will probably give you -something out of her hoards, if she thinks you are not provided.” - -This speech checked the pleasure and gratitude of Frances. She stopped -with a little gasp in her eager thanks. She wanted nothing from her aunt -Clarendon, she said to herself with indignation, nor from her mother -either. If they would but let her keep her ignorance, her pleasure in -any simple gift, and not represent her, even to herself, as a little -schemer, trying how much she could get! Frances cried rather than smiled -over her turquoises and the set of old gold ornaments, which but for -that little speech would have made her happy. The suggestion put gall -into everything, and made the timid question in her mind as to Lady -Markham’s generous forbearance with her sister-in-law more difficult -than ever. Why did she bear it? She ought not to have borne it--not for -a day. - -On the Wednesday evening before the visit to Portland Place, to which -she looked with so much alarm, two gentlemen came to dinner at the -invitation of Markham. The idea of two gentlemen to dinner produced no -exciting effect upon Frances so as to withdraw her mind from the trial -that was coming. Gentlemen were the only portion of the creation with -which she was more or less acquainted. Even in the old Palazzo, a guest -of this description had been occasionally received, and had sat -discussing some point of antiquarian lore, or something about the old -books at Colla, with her father without taking any notice, beyond what -civility demanded, of the little girl who sat at the head of the table. -She did not doubt it would be the same thing to-night; and though -Markham was always _nice_, never leaving her out, never letting the -conversation drop altogether into that stream of personality or allusion -which makes Society so intolerable to a stranger, she yet prepared for -the evening with the feeling that dulness awaited her, and not pleasure. -One of the guests, however, was of a kind which Frances did not expect. -He was young, very young in appearance, rather small and delicate, but -at the same time refined, with a look of gentle melancholy upon a -countenance which was almost beautiful, with child-like limpid eyes, and -features of extreme delicacy and purity. This was something quite unlike -the elderly antiquarians who talked so glibly to her father about Roman -remains or Etruscan art. He sat between Lady Markham and herself, and -spoke in gentle tones, with a soft affectionate manner, to her mother, -who replied with the kindness and easy affectionateness which were -habitual to her. To see the sweet looks which this young gentleman -received, and to hear the tender questions about his health and his -occupations which Lady Markham put to him, awoke in the mind of Frances -another doubt of the same character as those others from which she had -not been able to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, this air of tender -interest, put on at will for the benefit of everybody with whom Lady -Markham spoke? Frances hated herself for the instinctive question which -rose in her, and for the suspicions which crept into her mind on every -side and undermined all her pleasure. The other stranger opposite to her -was old--to her youthful eyes--and called forth no interest at all. But -the gentleness and melancholy, the low voice, the delicate features, -something plaintive and appealing about the youth by her side, attracted -her interest in spite of herself. He said little to her, but from time -to time she caught him looking at her with a sort of questioning glance. -When the ladies left the table, and Frances and her mother were alone -in the drawing-room, Lady Markham, who had said nothing for some -minutes, suddenly turned and asked: “What did you think of him, -Frances?” as if it were the most natural question in the world. - -“Of whom?” said Frances in her astonishment. - -“Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? Sir Thomas could be of no particular -interest either to you or me.” - -“I did not know their names, mamma; I scarcely heard them. Claude is the -young gentleman who sat next to you?” - -“And to you also, Frances. But not only that. He is the man of whom, I -suppose, Constance has told you--to avoid whom she left home, and ran -away from me. Oh, the words come quite appropriate, though I could not -bear them from the mouth of Caroline Clarendon. She abandoned me, and -threw herself upon your father’s protection, because of----” - -Frances had listened with a sort of consternation. When her mother -paused for breath, she filled up the interval: “That little, gentle, -small, young man!” - -Lady Markham looked for a moment as if she would be angry; then she took -the better way, and laughed. “He is little and young,” she said; “but -neither so young nor even so small as you think. He is most wonderfully, -portentously rich, my dear; and he is very nice and good and intelligent -and generous. You must not take up a prejudice against him because he is -not an athlete or a giant. There are plenty of athletes in Society, my -love, but very, very few with a hundred thousand a-year.” - -“It is so strange to me to hear about money,” said Frances. “I hope you -will pardon me, mamma. I don’t understand. I thought he was perhaps some -one who was delicate, whose mother, perhaps, you knew, whom you wanted -to be kind to.” - -“Quite true,” said Lady Markham, patting her daughter’s cheek with a -soft finger; “and well judged: but something more besides. I thought, I -allow, that it would be an excellent match for Constance; not only -because he was rich, but _also_ because he was rich. Do you see the -difference?” - -“I--suppose so,” Frances said; but there was not any warmth in the -admission. “I thought the right way,” she added after a moment, with a -blush that stole over her from head to foot, “was that people fell in -love with each other.” - -“So it is,” said her mother, smiling upon her. “But it often happens, -you know, that they fall in love respectively with the wrong people.” - -“It is dreadful to me to talk to you, who know so much better,” cried -Frances. “All that _I_ know is from stories. But I thought that even a -wrong person, whom you chose yourself, was better than----” - -“The right person chosen by your mother? These are awful doctrines, -Frances. You are a little revolutionary. Who taught you such terrible -things?” Lady Markham laughed as she spoke, and patted the girl’s cheek -more affectionately than ever, and looked at her with unclouded smiles, -so that Frances took courage. “But,” the mother went on, “there was no -question of choice on my part. Constance has known Claude Ramsay all her -life. She liked him, so far as I knew. I supposed she had accepted him. -It was not formally announced, I am happy to say; but I made sure of it, -and so did everybody else--including himself, poor fellow--when, -suddenly, without any warning, your sister disappeared. It was unkind to -me, Frances,--oh, it was unkind to me!” - -And suddenly, while she was speaking, two tears appeared all at once in -Lady Markham’s eyes. - -Frances was deeply touched by this sight. She ventured upon a caress, -which as yet, except in timid return, to those bestowed upon her, she -had not been bold enough to do. “I do not think Constance can have meant -to be unkind,” she said. - -“Few people mean to be unkind,” said this social philosopher, who knew -so much more than Frances. “Your aunt Clarendon does, and that makes her -harmless, because one understands. Most of those who wound one, do it -because it pleases themselves, without meaning anything--or caring -anything--don’t you see?--whether it hurts or not.” - -This was too profound a saying to be understood at the first moment, and -Frances had no reply to make to it. She said only by way of apology, -“But Markham approved?” - -“My love,” said her mother, “Markham is an excellent son to me. He -rarely wounds me himself--which is perhaps because he rarely does -anything particular himself--but he is not always a safe guide. It makes -me very happy to see that you take to him, though you must have heard -many things against him; but he is not a safe guide. Hush! here are the -men coming up-stairs. If Claude talks to you, be as gentle with him as -you can--and sympathetic, if you can,” she said quickly, rising from her -chair, and moving in her noiseless easy way to the other side. Frances -felt as if there was a meaning even in this movement, which left herself -alone with a vacant seat beside her; but she was confused as usual by -all the novelty, and did not understand what the meaning was. - -It was balked, however, if it had anything to do with Mr Ramsay, for it -was the other gentleman--the old gentleman, as Frances called him in -her thoughts--who came up and took the vacant place. The old gentleman -was a man about forty-five, with a few grey hairs among the brown, and a -well-knit manly figure, which showed very well between the delicate -youth on the one hand and Markham’s insignificance on the other. He was -Sir Thomas, whom Lady Markham had declared to be of no particular -interest to any one; but he evidently had sense enough to see the charm -of simplicity and youth. The attention of Frances was sadly distracted -by the movements of Claude, who fidgeted about from one table to -another, looking at the books and the nick-nacks upon them, and staring -at the pictures on the walls, then finally came and stood by Markham’s -side in front of the fire. He did well to contrast himself with Markham. -He was taller, and the beauty of his countenance showed still more -strikingly in contrast with Markham’s odd little wrinkled face. Frances -was distracted by the look which he kept fixed upon herself, and which -diverted her attention in spite of herself away from the talk of Sir -Thomas, who was, however, very _nice_, and, she felt sure, most -interesting and instructive, as became his advanced age, if only she -could attend to what he was saying. But what with the lively talk which -her mother carried on with Markham, and to which she could not help -listening all through the conversation of Sir Thomas, and the movements -and glances of the melancholy young lover, she could not fix her mind -upon the remarks that were addressed to her own ear. When Claude began -to join languidly in the other talk, it was more difficult still. “You -have got a new picture, Lady Markham,” she heard him say; and a sudden -quickening of her attention and another wave of colour and heat passing -over her, arrested even Sir Thomas in the much more interesting -observation which presumably he was about to make. He paused, as if he, -too, waited to hear Lady Markham’s reply. - -“Shall we call it a picture? It is my little girl’s sketch from her -window where she has been living--her present to her mother; and I think -it is delightful, though in the circumstances I don’t pretend to be a -judge.” - -Where she has been living! Frances grew redder and hotter in the flush -of indignation that went over her. But she could not stand up and -proclaim that it was from her home, her dear loggia, the place she loved -best in the world, that the sketch was made. Already the bonds of -another life were upon her, and she dared not do that. And then there -was a little chorus of praise, which silenced her still more -effectually. It was the group of palms which she had been so simply -proud of, which--as she had never forgotten--had made her father say -that she had grown up. Lady Markham had placed it on a small easel on -her table; but Frances could not help feeling that this was less for any -pleasure it gave her mother, than in order to make a little exhibition -of her own powers. It was, to be sure, in her own honour that this was -done--and what so natural as that the mother should seek to do her -daughter honour? but Frances was deeply sensitive, and painfully -conscious of the strange tangled web of motives, which she had never in -her life known anything about before. Had the little picture been hung -in her mother’s bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her own, the girl would -have found the most perfect pleasure in it; but here, exhibited as in a -public gallery, examined by admiring eyes, calling forth all the incense -of praise, it was with a mixture of shame and resentment that Frances -found it out. It produced this result, however, that Sir Thomas rose, as -in duty bound, to examine the performance of the daughter of the house; -and presently young Ramsay, who had been watching his opportunity, took -the place by her side. - -“I have been waiting for this,” he said, with his air of pathos. “I have -so many things to ask you, if you will let me, Miss Waring.” - -“Surely,” Frances said. - -“Your sketch is very sweet--it is full of feeling--there is no colour -like that of the Riviera. It is the Riviera, is it not?” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances, eager to seize the opportunity of making it -apparent that it was not only where she had been living, as her mother -said. “It is from Bordighera, from our loggia, where I have lived all my -life.” - -“You will find no colour and no vegetation like that near London,” the -young man said. - -To this Frances replied politely that London was full of much more -wonderful things, as she had always heard; but felt somewhat -disappointed, supposing that his communications to her were to be more -interesting than this. - -“And the climate is so very different,” he continued. “I am very often -sent out of England for the winter, though this year they have let me -stay. I have been at Nice two seasons. I suppose you know Nice? It is a -very pretty place; but the wind is just as cold sometimes as at home. -You have to keep in the sun; and if you always keep in the sun, it is -warm even here.” - -“But there is not always sun here,” said Frances. - -“That is very true; that is a very clever remark. There is not always -sun here. San Remo was beginning to be known when I was there; but I -never heard of Bordighera as a place where people went to stay. Some -Italian wrote a book about it, I have heard--to push it, no doubt. -Could you recommend it as a winter-place, Miss Waring? I suppose it is -very dull, nothing going on?” - -“Oh, nothing at all,” cried Frances eagerly. “All the tourists complain -that there is nothing to do.” - -“I thought so,” he said; “a regular little Italian dead-alive place.” -Then he added after a moment’s pause: “But of course there are -inducements which might make one put up with that, if the air happened -to suit one. Are there villas to be had, can you tell me? They say, as a -matter of fact, that you get more advantage of the air when you are in a -dull place.” - -“There are hotels,” said Frances more and more disappointed, though the -beginning of this speech had given her a little hope. - -“Good hotels?” he said with interest. “Sometimes they are really better -than a place of one’s own, where the drainage is often bad, and the -exposure not all that could be desired. And then you get any amusement -that may be going. Perhaps you will tell me the names of one or two? for -if this east wind continues, my doctors may send me off even now.” - -Frances looked into his limpid eyes and expressive countenance with -dismay. He must look, she felt sure, as if he were making the most -touching confidences to her. His soft pathetic voice gave a _faux air_ -of something sentimental to those questions, which even she could not -persuade herself meant nothing. Was it to show that he was bent upon -following Constance wherever she might go? That must be the true -meaning, she supposed. He must be endeavouring by this mock-anxiety to -find out how much she knew of his real motives, and whether he might -trust to her or not. But Frances resented a little the unnecessary -precaution. - -“I don’t know anything about the hotels,” she said. “I have never -thought of the air. It is my home--that is all.” - -“You look so well, that I am the more convinced it would be a good place -for me,” said the young man. “You look in such thorough good health, if -you will allow me to say so. Some ladies don’t like to be told that; but -I think it the most delightful thing in existence. Tell me, had you any -trouble with drainage, when you went to settle there? And is the water -good? and how long does the season last? I am afraid I am teasing you -with my questions; but all these details are so important--and one is so -pleased to hear of a new place.” - -“We live up in the old town,” said Frances with a sudden flash of -malice. “I don’t know what drainage is, and neither does any one else -there. We have our fountain in the court--our own well. And I don’t -think there is any season. We go up among the mountains, when it gets -too hot.” - -“Your well in the court!” said the sentimental Claude, with the look of -a poet who has just been told that his dearest friend is killed by an -accident,--“with everything percolating into it! That is terrible -indeed. But,” he said, after a pause, an ethereal sense of consolation -stealing over his fine features--“there are exceptions, they say, to -every rule; and sometimes, with fine health such as you have, bad -sanitary conditions do not seem to tell--_when there has been no -stirring-up_. I believe that is at the root of the whole question. -People can go on, on the old system, so long as there is no stirring-up; -but when once a beginning has been made, it must be complete, or it is -fatal.” - -He said this with animation much greater than he had shown as yet; then -dropping into his habitual pathos: “If I come in for tea to-morrow--Lady -Markham allows me to do it, when I can, when the weather is fit for -going out--will you be so very kind as to give me half an hour, Miss -Waring, for a few particulars? I will take them down from your lips--it -is so much the most satisfactory way; and perhaps you would add to your -kindness by just thinking it over beforehand--if there is anything I -ought to know.” - -“But I am going out to-morrow, Mr Ramsay.” - -“Then after to-morrow,” he said; and rising with a bow full of tender -deference, went up to Lady Markham to bid her good-night. “I have been -having a most interesting conversation with Miss Waring. She has given -me so many _renseignements_,” he said. “She permits me to come after -to-morrow for further particulars. Dear Lady Markham, good-night and _à -revoir_.” - -“What was Claude saying to you, Frances?” Lady Markham asked with a -little anxiety, when everybody save Markham was gone, and they were -alone. - -“He asked me about Bordighera, mamma.” - -“Poor dear boy! About Con, and what she had said of him? He has a -faithful heart, though people think him a little too much taken up with -himself.” - -“He did not say anything about Constance. He asked about the climate and -the drains--what are drains?--and if the water was good, and what hotel -I could recommend.” - -Lady Markham laughed and coloured slightly, and tapped Frances on the -cheek. “You are a little satirical----! Dear Claude! he is very anxious -about his health. But don’t you see,” she added, “that was all a covert -way of finding out about Con? He wants to go after her; but he does not -want to let everybody in the world see that he has gone after a girl who -would not have him. I have a great deal of sympathy with him, for my -part.” - -Frances had no sympathy with him. She felt, on the other hand, more -sympathy for Constance than had moved her yet. To escape from such a -lover, Frances thought a girl might be justified in flying to the end of -the world. But it never entered into her mind that any like danger to -herself was to be thought of. She dismissed Claude Ramsay from her -thoughts with half resentment, half amusement, wondering that Constance -had not told her more; but feeling, as no such image had ever risen on -her horizon before, that she would not have believed Constance. However, -her sister had happily escaped, and to herself, Claude Ramsay was -nothing. Far more important was it to think of the ordeal of to-morrow. -She shivered a little even in her warm room as she anticipated it. -England seemed to be colder, greyer, more devoid of brightness in -Portland Place than in Eaton Square. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Frances went to Portland Place next day. She went with great reluctance, -feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of the other side -was intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there was absolute right -on either side, it would not have been so difficult for her. But she -knew so little of the facts of the case, and her natural prepossessions -were so curiously double and variable, that every encounter was painful. -To be swept into the faction of the other side, when the first -impassioned sentiment with which she had felt her mother’s arms around -her had begun to sink inevitably into that silent judgment of another -individual’s ways and utterances which is the hindrance of reason to -every enthusiasm--was doubly hard. She was resolute indeed that not a -word or insinuation against her mother should be permitted in her -presence. But she herself had a hundred little doubts and questions in -her mind, traitors whose very existence no one must suspect but herself. -Her natural revulsion from the thought of being forced into partisanship -gave her a feeling of strong opposition and resistance against -everything that might be said to her, when she stepped into the solemn -house in Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and -still, so different from her mother’s warm and cheerful abode. The -manner in which her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their -previous meeting, in Lady Markham’s presence, the greeting given her by -Mrs Clarendon had chilled her through and through. She was ushered in -now to the same still room, with its unused look, with all the chairs in -their right places, and no litter of habitation about; but her aunt came -to her with a different aspect from that which she had borne before. She -came quickly, almost with a rush, and took the shrinking girl into her -arms. “My dear little Frances, my dear child, my brother’s own little -girl!” she cried, kissing her again and again. Her ascetic countenance -was transfigured, her grey eyes warmed and shone. - -Frances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She did her -best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to have felt, -and to return her aunt’s caresses with due fervour; but in her heart -there was a chill of which she felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity -which was very foreign to her nature. All through these strange -experiences, Frances felt herself insincere. She had not known how to -respond even to her mother, and a cold sense that she was among -strangers had crept in even in the midst of the bewildering certainty -that she was with her nearest relations and in her mother’s house. In -present circumstances, “How do you do, aunt Caroline?” was the only -commonplace phrase she could find to say, in answer to the effusion of -affection with which she was received. - -“Now we can talk,” said Mrs Clarendon, leading her with both hands in -hers to a sofa near the fire. “While my lady was here it was impossible. -You must have thought me cold, when my heart was just running over to -my dear brother’s favourite child. But I could not open my heart before -her,--I never could do it. And there is so much to ask you. For though I -would not let her know I had never heard, you know very well, my dear, I -can’t deceive you. O Frances, why doesn’t he write? Surely, surely, he -must have known I would never betray him--to _her_, or any of her race.” - -“Aunt Caroline, please remember you are speaking of----” - -“Oh, I can’t stand on ceremony with you! I can’t do it. Constance, that -had been always with her, that was another thing. But you, my dear, dear -child! And you must not stand on ceremony with me. I can understand you, -if no one else can. And as for expecting you to love her and honour her -and so forth, a woman whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled -your dear father’s life----” - -Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With eyes -that flashed with excitement, the quiet still grey woman was strangely -transformed. A vivacious and animated person, when moved by passion, is -not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. There was a force of fury -and hatred in her tone and looks which appalled the girl. She -interrupted almost rudely, insisting upon being heard, as soon as Mrs -Clarendon paused for breath. - -“You must not speak to me so; you must not--you shall not! I will not -hear it.” - -Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of a -tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds. - -Mrs Clarendon stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly changed -her tone. “Your father might have written to me,” she said--“he might -have written to _me_. He is my only brother, and I am all that remains -of the family, now that Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much mixed up -with it all, is gone. It was natural enough that he should go away. I -always understood him, if nobody else did; but he might have trusted his -own family, who would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that -I should owe my knowledge of him now to that ill-grown, -ill-conditioned---- O Frances, it was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge -of my brother and of you and everything about you to Markham--I shall -never be able to forget how bitter it was.” - -“You forget that Markham is my brother, aunt Caroline.” - -“He is nothing of the sort. He is your half-brother, if you care to keep -up the connection at all. But some people don’t think much of it. It is -the father’s side that counts. But don’t let us argue about that. Tell -me how is your father? Tell me all about him. I love you dearly, for his -sake; but above everything, I want to hear about him. I never had any -other brother. How is he, Frances? To think that I should never have -seen or heard of him for twelve long years!” - -“My father is--very well,” said Frances, with a sort of strangulation -both in heart and voice, not knowing what to say. - -“‘Very well!’ Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so long! -Where is he--and how is he living--and have you been a very good child -to him, Frances? He deserves a good child, for he was a good son. Oh, -tell me a little about him. Did he tell you everything about us? Did he -say how fond and how proud we were of him? and how happy we used to be -at home all together? He must have told you. If you knew how I go back -to those old days! We were such a happy united family. Life is always -disappointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not -everybody that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their youth. -He must have told you of our happy life at home.” - -Frances had kept the secret of her father’s silence from every one who -had a right to blame him for it. But here she felt herself to be bound -by no such precaution. His sister was on his side. It was in his defence -and in passionate partisanship for him that she had assailed the mother -to the child. Frances had even a momentary angry pleasure in telling the -truth without mitigation or softening. “I don’t know whether you will -believe me,” she said, “but my father told me nothing. He never said a -word to me about his past life or any one connected with him; neither -you nor--any one.” Though she had the kindest heart in the world, and -never had harmed a living creature, it gave Frances almost a little pang -of pleasure to deliver this blow. - -Mrs Clarendon received it, so to speak, full in the face, as she leaned -forward, eagerly waiting for what Frances had to say. She looked at the -girl aghast, the colour changing in her face, a sudden exclamation dying -away in her throat. But after the first keen sensation, she drew herself -together and regained her self-control. “Yes, yes,” she cried; “I -understand. He could not enter into anything about us without telling -you of--others. He was always full of good feeling--and so just! No -doubt, he thought if you heard our side, you should hear the other. But -when you were coming away--when he knew you must hear everything, what -message did he give you for me?” - -In sight of the anxiety which shone in her aunt’s eyes, and the eager -bend towards her of the rigid straight figure not used to any yielding, -Frances began to feel as if she were the culprit. “Indeed,” she said, -hesitating, “he never said anything. I came here in ignorance. I never -knew I had a mother till Constance came--nor any relations. I heard of -my aunt for the first time from--mamma; and then to conceal my -ignorance, I asked Markham; I wanted no one to know.” - -It was some minutes before Mrs Clarendon spoke. Her eyes slowly filled -with tears, as she kept them fixed upon Frances. The blow went very -deep; it struck at illusions which were perhaps more dear than anything -in her actual existence. “You heard of me for the first time from---- -Oh, that was cruel, that was cruel of Edward,” she cried, clasping her -hands together--“of me for the first time--and you had to ask Markham! -And I, that was his favourite sister, and that never forgot him, never -for a day!” - -Frances put her own soft young hands upon those which her aunt wrung -convulsively together in the face of this sudden pang. “I think he had -tried to forget his old life altogether,” she said; “or perhaps it was -because he thought so much of it that he could not tell me--I was so -ignorant! He would have been obliged to tell me so much, if he had told -me anything. Aunt Caroline, I don’t think he meant to be unkind.” - -Mrs Clarendon shook her head; then she turned upon her comforter with a -sort of indignation. “And you,” she said, “did you never want to know? -Did you never wonder how it was that he was there, vegetating in a -little foreign place, a man of his gifts? Did you never ask whom you -belonged to, what friends you had at home? I am afraid,” she cried -suddenly, rising to her feet, throwing off the girl’s hand, which had -still held hers, “that you are like your mother in your heart as well as -your face--a self-contained, self-satisfying creature. You cannot have -been such a child to him as he had a right to, or you would have known -all--all there was to know.” - -She went to the fire as she spoke and took up the poker and struck the -smouldering coals into a blaze with agitated vehemence, shivering -nervously, with excitement rather than cold. “Of course that is how it -is,” she said. “You must have been thinking of your own little affairs, -and not of his. He must have thought he would have his child to confide -in and rely upon--and then have found out that she was not of his nature -at all, nor thinking of him; and then he would shut his heart close--oh, -I know him so well! that is so like Edward--and say nothing, nothing! -That was always easier to him than saying a little. It was everything or -nothing with him always. And when he found you took no interest, he -would shut himself up. But there’s Constance,” she cried after a -pause--“Constance is like our side. He will be able to pour out his -heart, poor Edward, to her; and she will understand him. There is some -comfort in that, at least.” - -If Frances had felt a momentary pleasure in giving pain, it was now -repaid to her doubly. She sat where her aunt had left her, following -with a quiver of consciousness everything she said. Ah, yes; she had -been full of her own little affairs. She had thought of the mayonnaises, -but not of any spiritual needs to which she could minister. She had not -felt any wonder that a man of his gifts should live at Bordighera, or -any vehemence of curiosity as to the family she belonged to, or what -his antecedents were. She had taken it all quite calmly, accepting as -the course of nature the absence of relations and references to home. -She had known nothing else, and she had not thought of anything else. -Was it her fault all through? Had she been a disappointment to her -father, not worthy of him or his confidence? The tears gathered slowly -in her eyes. And when Mrs Clarendon suddenly introduced the name of -Constance, Frances, too, sprang to her feet with a sense of the -intolerable, which she could not master. To be told that she had failed, -might be bearable; but that Constance--Constance!--should turn out to -possess all that she wanted, to gain the confidence she had not been -able to gain, that was more than flesh and blood could bear. She sprang -up hastily, and began with trembling hands to button up to her throat -the close-fitting outdoor jacket which she had undone. Mrs Clarendon -stood, her face lit up with the ruddy blaze of the fire, shooting out -sharp arrows of words, with her back turned to her young victim; while -Frances behind her, in as great agitation, prepared to bring the -conference and controversy to a close. - -“If that is what you think,” she said, her voice tremulous with -agitation and pain, pulling on her gloves with feverish haste, “perhaps -it will be better for me to go away.” - -Mrs Clarendon turned round upon her with a start of astonishment. -Through the semi-darkness of that London day, which was not much more -than twilight through the white curtains, the elder woman looked round -upon the girl, quivering with indignation and resentment, to whom she -had supposed herself entitled to say what she pleased without fear of -calling forth any response of indignation. When she saw the tremor in -the little figure standing against the light, the agitated movement of -the hands, she was suddenly brought back to herself. It flashed across -her at once that the sudden withdrawal of Frances, whom she had welcomed -so warmly as her brother’s favourite child, would be a triumph for Lady -Markham, already no doubt very triumphant in the unveiling of her -husband’s hiding-place and the recovery of the child, and in the fact -that Frances resembled herself, and not the father. To let that enemy -understand that she, Waring’s sister, could not secure the affection of -Waring’s child, was something which Mrs Clarendon could not face. - -“Go--where?” she said. “You forget that you have come to spend the day -with me. My lady will not expect you till the evening; and I do not -suppose you can wish to expose your father’s sister to her remarks.” - -“My mother,” said Frances with an almost sob of emotion, “must be more -to me than my father’s sister. Oh, aunt Caroline,” she cried, “you have -been very, very hard upon me. I lived as a child lives at home till -Constance came, I had never known anything else. Why should I have asked -questions? I did not know I had a mother. I thought it was cruel, when I -first heard; and now you say it was my fault.” - -“It must have been more or less your fault. A girl has no right to be so -simple. You ought to have inquired; you ought to have given him no rest; -you ought----” - -“I will tell you,” said Frances, “what I was brought up to do: not to -trouble papa; that was all I knew from the time I was a baby. I don’t -know who taught me--perhaps Mariuccia, perhaps, only--everything. I was -not to trouble him, whatever I did. I was never to cry, nor even to -laugh too loud, nor to make a noise, nor to ask questions. Mariuccia and -Domenico and every one had only this thought--not to disturb papa. He -was always very kind,” she went on, softening, her eyes filling again. -“Sometimes he would be displeased about the dinner, or if his papers -were disturbed. I dusted them myself, and was very careful; but -sometimes that put him out. But he was very kind. He always came to the -loggia in the evening, except when he was busy. He used to tell me when -my perspective was wrong, and laugh at me, but not to hurt. I think you -are mistaken, aunt Caroline, about papa.” - -Mrs Clarendon had come a little nearer, and turned her face towards the -girl, who stood thus pleading her own cause. Neither of them was quick -enough in intelligence to see distinctly the difference of the two -pictures which they set before each other--the sister displaying her -ideal of a delicate soul wounded and shrinking from the world, finding -refuge in the tenderness of his child; the daughter making her simple -representation of the father she knew, a man not at all dependent on her -tenderness, concerned about the material circumstances of life, about -his dinner, and that his papers should not be disturbed--kind, indeed, -but in the easy, indifferent way of a father who is scarcely aware that -his little girl is blooming into a woman. They were not clever enough to -perceive this; and yet they felt the difference with a vague sense that -both views, yet neither, were quite true, and that there might be more -to say on either side. Frances got choked with tears as she went on, -which perhaps was the thing above all others which melted her aunt’s -heart. Mrs Clarendon gave the girl credit for a passionate regret and -longing for the father she loved; whereas Frances in reality was -thinking, not so much of her father, as of the serene childish life -which was over for ever, which never could come back again, with all its -sacred ignorances, its simple unities, the absence of all complication -or perplexity. Already she was so much older, and had acquired so much -confusing painful knowledge--that knowledge of good and evil, and sense -of another meaning lurking behind the simplest seeming fact and -utterance, which, when once it has entered into the mind, is so hard to -drive out again. - -“Perhaps it was not your fault,” said Mrs Clarendon at last. “Perhaps he -had been so used to you as a child, that he did not remember you were -grown up. We will say no more about it, Frances. We may be sure he had -his reasons. And you say he was busy sometimes. Was he writing? What was -he doing? You don’t know what hopes we used to have, and the great -things we thought he was going to do. He was so clever; at school and at -college, there was nobody like him. We were so proud of him! He might -have been Lord Chancellor. Charles even says so, and he is not partial, -like me; he might have been anything, if he had but tried. But all the -spirit was taken out of him when he married. Oh, many a man has been the -same. Women have a great deal to answer for. I am not saying anything -about your mother. You are quite right when you say that is not a -subject to be discussed with you. Come down-stairs; luncheon is ready; -and after that we will go out. We must not quarrel, Frances. We are each -other’s nearest relations, when all is said.” - -“I don’t want to quarrel, aunt Caroline. Oh no; I never quarrelled with -any one. And then you remind me of papa.” - -“That is the nicest thing you have said. You can come to me, my dear, -whenever you want to talk about him, to ease your heart. You can’t do -that with your mother; but you will never tire me. You may tell me about -him from morning to night, and I shall never be tired. Mariuccia and -Domenico are the servants, I suppose? and they adore him? He was always -adored by the servants. He never gave any trouble, never spoke crossly. -Oh, how thankful I am to be able to speak of him quite freely! I was his -favourite sister. He was just the same in outward manner to us both,--he -would not let Minnie see he had any preference; but he liked me the -best, all the same.” - -It was very grateful to Frances that this monologue should go on: it -spared her the necessity of answering many questions which would have -been very difficult to her; for she was not prepared to say that the -servants, though faithful, adored her father, or that he never gave any -trouble. Her recollection of him was that he gave a great deal of -trouble, and was “very particular.” But Mrs Clarendon had a happy way of -giving herself the information she wanted, and evidently preferred to -tell Frances a thousand things, instead of being told by her. And in -other ways she was very kind, insisting that Frances should eat at -lunch, that she should be wrapped up well when they went out in the -victoria, that she should say whether there was any shopping she wanted -to do. “I know my lady will look after your finery,” she said,--“that -will be for her own credit, and help to get you off the sooner; but I -hope you have plenty of nice underclothing and wraps. She is not so sure -to think of these.” - -Frances, to save herself from this questioning, described the numberless -unnecessaries which had been already bestowed upon her, not forgetting -the turquoises and other ornaments, which, she remembered with a quick -sensation of shame, her mother had told her not to speak of, lest her -aunt’s liberalities should be checked. The result, however, was quite -different. Mrs Clarendon grew red as she heard of all these -acquisitions, and when they returned to Portland Place, led Frances to -her own room, and opened to her admiring gaze the safe, securely fixed -into the wall, where her jewels were kept. “There are not many that can -be called family jewels,” she said; “but I’ve no daughter of my own, and -I should not like it to be said that you had got nothing from your -father’s side.” - -Thus it was a conflict of liberality, not a withholding of presents -because she was already supplied, which Frances had to fear. She was -compelled to accept with burning cheeks, and eyes weighed down with -shame and reluctance, ornaments which a few weeks ago would have seemed -to her good enough for a queen. Oh, what a flutter of pleasure there had -been in her heart when her father gave her the little necklace of -Genoese filigree, which appeared to her the most beautiful thing in the -world. She slipped into her pocket the cluster of emeralds her aunt -gave her, as if she had been a thief, and hid the pretty ring which was -forced upon her finger, under her glove. “Oh, they are much too fine for -me. They are too good for any girl to wear. I do not want them, indeed, -aunt Caroline!” - -“That may be,” Mrs Clarendon replied; “but I want to give them to you. -It shall never be said that all the good things came from her, and -nothing but trumpery from me.” - -Frances took home her spoils with a sense of humiliation which weighed -her to the ground. Before this, however, she had made the acquaintance -of Mr Charles Clarendon, the great Q.C., who came into the cold -drawing-room two minutes before dinner in irreproachable evening -costume--a well-mannered, well-looking man of middle age, or a little -more, who shook hands cordially with Frances, and told her he was very -glad to see her. “But dinner is a little late, isn’t it?” he said to his -wife. The drawing-room looked less cold by lamplight; and Mrs Clarendon -herself, in her soft velvet evening-gown with a good deal of lace--or -perhaps it was after the awakening and excitement of her quarrel with -Frances--had less the air of being like the furniture, out of use. The -dinner was very luxurious and dainty. Frances, as she sat between -husband and wife, observing both very closely without being aware of it, -decided within herself that in this particular her aunt Caroline again -reminded her of papa. Mr Clarendon was very agreeable at dinner. He gave -his wife several pieces of information indeed which Frances did not -understand, but in general talked about the things that were going on, -the great events of the time, the news, so much of it as was -interesting, with all the ease of a man of the world. And he asked -Frances a few civil and indeed kindly questions about herself. “You must -take care of our east winds,” he said; “you will find them very sharp -after the Riviera.” - -“I am not delicate,” she said; “I don’t think they will hurt me.” - -“No, you are not delicate,” he replied, with what Frances felt to be a -look of approval; “one has only to look at you to see that. But fine -elastic health like yours is a great possession, and you must take care -of it.” He added with a smile, a moment after: “We never think that when -we are young; and when we are old, thinking does little good.” - -“You have not much to complain of, Charles, in that respect,” said his -wife, who was always rather solemn. - -“Oh, nothing at all,” was his reply. And shortly after, dinner by this -time being over, he gave her a significant look, to which she responded -by rising from the table. - -“It is time for us to go up-stairs, my dear,” she said to Frances. - -And when the ladies reached the drawing-room, it had relapsed into its -morning aspect, and looked as chilly and as unused as before. - -“Your uncle is one of the busiest men in London,” said Mrs Clarendon -with a scarcely perceptible sigh. “He talked of your health; but if he -had not the finest health in the world, he could not do it; he never -takes any rest.” - -“Is he going to work now?” Frances asked with a certain awe. - -“He will take a doze for half an hour; then he will have his coffee. At -ten he will come up-stairs to bid me good-night; and then--I dare not -say how long he will sit up after that. He can do with less sleep than -any other man, I think.” She spoke in a tone that was full of pride, yet -with pathos in it too. - -“In that way, you cannot see very much of him,” Frances said. - -“I am more pleased that my husband should be the first lawyer in -England, than that he should sit in the drawing-room with me,” she -answered proudly. Then, with a faint sigh: “One has to pay for it,” she -added. - -The girl looked round upon the dim room with a shiver, which she did her -best to conceal. Was it worth the price, she wondered? the cold dim -house, the silence in it which weighed down the soul, the half-hour’s -talk (no more) round the table, followed by a long lonely evening. She -wondered if they had been in love with each other when they were young, -and perhaps moved heaven and earth for a chance hour together, and all -to come to this. And there was her own father and mother, who probably -had loved each other too. As she drove along to Eaton Square, warmly -wrapped in the rich fur cloak which aunt Caroline had insisted on adding -to her other gifts, these examples of married life gave her a curious -thrill of thought, as involuntarily she turned them over in her mind. If -the case of a man were so with his wife, it would be well not to marry, -she said to herself, as the inquirers did so many years ago. - -And then she blushed crimson, with a sensation of heat which made her -throw her cloak aside, to think that she was going back to her mother, -as if she had been sent out upon a raid, laden with spoils. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -There were voices in the drawing-room as Frances ran up-stairs, which -warned her that her own appearance in her morning dress would be -undesirable there. She went on with a sense of relief to her own room, -where she threw aside the heavy cloak, lined with fur, which her aunt -had insisted on wrapping her in. It was too grave, too ample for -Frances, just as the other presents she had received were too rich and -valuable for her wearing. She took the emerald brooch out of her pocket -in its little case, and thrust it away into her drawer, glad to be rid -of it, wondering whether it would be her duty to show it, to exhibit her -presents. She divined that Lady Markham would be pleased, that she would -congratulate her upon having made herself agreeable to her aunt, and -perhaps repeat that horrible encouragement to her to make what progress -she could in the affections of the Clarendons, because they were rich -and had no heirs. If, instead of saying this, Lady Markham had but said -that Mrs Clarendon was lonely, having no children, and little good of -her husband’s society, how different it might have been. How anxious -then would Frances have been to visit and cheer her father’s sister! The -girl, though she was very simple, had a great deal of inalienable good -sense; and she could not but wonder within herself how her mother could -make so strange a mistake. - -It was late before Lady Markham came up-stairs. She came in shading her -candle with her hand, gliding noiselessly to her child’s bedside. “Are -you not asleep, Frances? I thought you would be too tired to keep -awake.” - -“Oh no. I have done nothing to tire me. I thought you would not want me -down-stairs, as I was not dressed.” - -“I always want you,” said Lady Markham, stooping to kiss her. “But I -quite understand why you did not come. There was nobody that could have -interested you. Some old friends of mine, and a man or two whom Markham -brought to dine; but nothing young or pleasant. And did you have a -tolerable day? Was poor Caroline a little less grey and cold? But -Constance used to tell me she was only cold when I was there.” - -“I don’t think she was cold. She was--very kind; at least that is what -she meant, I am sure,” said Frances, anxious to do her aunt justice. - -Lady Markham laughed softly, with a sort of suppressed satisfaction. She -was anxious that Frances should please. She had herself, at a -considerable sacrifice of pride, kept up friendly relations, or at least -a show of friendly relations, with her husband’s sister. But -notwithstanding all this, the tone in which Frances spoke was balm to -her. The cloak was an evidence that the girl had succeeded; and yet she -had not joined herself to the other side. This unexpected triumph gave a -softness to Lady Markham’s voice. - -“We must remember,” she said, “that poor Caroline is very much alone. -When one is much alone, one’s very voice gets rusty, so to speak. It -sounds hoarse in one’s throat. You may think, perhaps, that I have not -much experience of that. Still, I can understand; and it takes some time -to get it toned into ordinary smoothness. It is either too expressive, -or else it sounds cold. A great deal of allowance is to be made for a -woman who spends so much of her life alone.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances, with a burst of tender compunction, taking her -mother’s soft white dimpled hand in her own, and kissing it with a -fervour which meant penitence as well as enthusiasm. “It is so good of -you to remind me of that.” - -“Because she has not much good to say of me? My dear, there are a great -many things that you don’t know, that it would be hard to explain to -you: we must forgive her for that.” - -And for a moment Lady Markham looked very grave, turning her face away -towards the vacancy of the dark room with something that sounded like a -sigh. Her daughter had never loved her so much as at this moment. She -laid her cheek upon her mother’s hand, and felt the full sweetness of -that contact enter into her heart. - -“But I am disturbing your beauty-sleep, my love,” she said; “and I want -you to look your best to-morrow; there are several people coming -to-morrow. Did she give you that great cloak, Frances? How like poor -Caroline! I know the cloak quite well. It is far too _old_ for you. But -that is beautiful sable it is trimmed with; it will make you something. -She is fond of giving presents.” Lady Markham was very quick--full of -the intelligence in which Mrs Clarendon failed. She felt the instinctive -loosening of her child’s hands from her own, and that the girl’s cheek -was lifted from that tender pillow. “But,” she said, “we’ll say no more -of that to-night,” and stooped and kissed her, and drew her covering -about her with all the sweetness of that care which Frances had never -received before. Nevertheless, the involuntary and horrible feeling that -it was clever of her mother to stop when she did and say no more, struck -chill to the girl’s very soul. - -Next day Mr Ramsay came in the afternoon, and immediately addressed -himself to Frances. “I hope you have not forgotten your promise, Miss -Waring, to give me all the _renseignements_. I should not like to lose -such a good chance.” - -“I don’t think I have any information to give you--if it is about -Bordighera, you mean. I am fond of it; but then I have lived there all -my life. Constance thought it dull.” - -“Ah yes, to be sure--your sister went there. But her health was perfect. -I have seen her go out in the wildest weather, in days that made me -shiver. She said that to see the sun always shining bored her. She liked -a great deal of excitement and variety--don’t you think?” he added after -a moment, in a tentative way. - -“The sun does not shine always,” said Frances, piqued for the reputation -of her home, as if this were an accusation. “We have grey days -sometimes, and sometimes storms, beautiful storms, when the sea is all -in foam.” - -He shivered a little at the idea. “I have never yet found the perfect -place in which there is nothing of all that,” he said. “Wherever I have -been, there are cold days--even in Algiers, you know. No climate is -perfect. I don’t go in much for society when I am at a health-place. It -disturbs one’s thoughts and one’s temper, and keeps you from fixing your -mind upon your cure, which you should always do. But I suppose you know -everybody there?” - -“There is--scarcely any one there,” she said, faltering, remembering at -once that her father was not a person to whom to offer introductions. - -“So much the better,” he said more cheerfully. “It is a thing I have -often heard doctors say, that society was quite undesirable. It disturbs -one’s mind. One can’t be so exact about hours. In short, it places -health in a secondary place, which is fatal. I am always extremely rigid -on that point. Health--must go before all. Now, dear Miss Waring, to -details, if you please.” He took out a little note-book, bound in -russia, and drew forth a jewelled pencil-case. “The hotels first, I beg; -and then the other particulars can be filled in. We can put them under -different heads: (1) Shelter; (2) Exposure; (3) Size and convenience of -apartments; (4) Nearness to church, beach, &c. I hope you don’t think I -am asking too much?” - -“I am so glad to see that you have not given him up because of Con,” -said one of Lady Markham’s visitors, talking very earnestly over the -tea-table, with a little nod and gesture to indicate of whom she was -speaking. “He must be very fond of you, to keep coming; or he must have -some hope.” - -“I think he is rather fond of me, poor Claude!” Lady Markham replied -without looking round. “I am one of the oldest friends he has.” - -“But Constance, you know, gave him a terrible snub. I should not have -wondered if he had never entered the house again.” - -“He enters the house almost every day, and will continue to do so, I -hope. Poor boy, he cannot afford to throw away his friends.” - -“Then that is almost the only luxury he can’t afford.” - -Lady Markham smiled upon this remark. “Claude,” she said, turning round, -“don’t you want some tea? Come and get it while it is hot.” - -“I am getting some _renseignements_ from Miss Waring. It is very good of -her. She is telling me all about Bordighera, which, so far as I can see, -will be a very nice place for the winter,” said Ramsay, coming up to the -tea-table with his little note-book in his hand. “Thanks, dear Lady -Markham. A little sugar, please. Sugar is extremely nourishing, and it -is a great pity to leave it out in diet--except, you know, when you are -inclining to fat. Banting is at the bottom of all this fashion of doing -without sugar. It is not good for little thin fellows like me.” - -“I gave it up long before I ever heard of Banting,” said the stout lady: -for it need scarcely be said that there was a stout lady; no tea-party -in England ever assembled without one. The individual in the present -case was young, and rebellious against the fate which had overtaken -her--not of the soft, smiling, and contented kind. - -“It does us real good,” said Claude, with his softly pathetic voice. “I -have seen one or two very sad instances where the fat did not go away, -you know, but got limp and flaccid, and the last state of that man was -worse than the first. Dear lady, I think you should be very cautious. To -make experiments with one’s health is really criminal. We are getting on -very nicely with the _renseignements_. Miss Waring has remembered a -great deal. She thought she could not tell me anything; but she has -remembered a great deal.” - -“Bordighera? Is that where Constance is?” the ladies said to each other -round the low tea-table where Lady Markham was so busy. She smiled upon -them all, and answered “Yes,” without any tinge of the embarrassment -which perhaps they hoped to see. - -“But of course as a resident she is not living among the people at the -hotels. You know how the people who live in a place hold themselves -apart; and the season is almost over. I don’t think that either tourists -or invalids passing that way are likely to see very much of Con.” - -In the meantime, Frances, as young Ramsay had said, had been honestly -straining her mind to “remember” what she could about the Marina and -the circumstances there. She did not know anything about the east wind, -and had no recollection of how it affected the place. She remembered -that the sun shone in at the windows all day; which of course meant, as -he informed her, a southern exposure; and that in all the hotel gardens, -as well as elsewhere, there were palms growing, and hedges of lemons and -orange trees; and that at the Angleterre--or was it the Victoria?--the -housekeeper was English; along with other details of a similar kind. -There were no balls; very few concerts or entertainments of any kind; no -afternoon tea-parties. “How could there be?” said Frances, “when there -were only ourselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants.” - -“Only themselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants,” Ramsay wrote down in his -little book. “How delightful that must be! Thank you so much, Miss -Waring. Usually one has to pay for one’s experience; but thanks to you, -I feel that I know all about it. It seems a place in which one could do -one’s self every justice. I shall speak to Dr Lull about it at once. I -have no doubt he will think it the very place for me.” - -“You will find it dull,” said Frances, looking at him curiously, -wondering was it possible that he could be sincere, or whether this was -his way of justifying to himself his intention of following Constance. -But nothing could be more steadily matter-of-fact than the young man’s -aspect. - -“Yes, no doubt I shall find it dull. I don’t so very much object to -that. At Cannes and those places there is a continual racket going on. -One might almost as well be in London. One is seduced into going out in -the evening, doing all sorts of things. I think your place is an ideal -place--plenty of sunshine and no amusements. How can I thank you enough, -Miss Waring, for your _renseignements_? I shall speak to Dr Lull without -delay.” - -“But you must recollect that it will soon be getting very hot; and even -the people who live there will be going away. Mr Durant sometimes takes -the duty at Homburg or one of those places; and the Gaunts come home to -England; and even we----” - -Here Frances paused for a moment to watch him, and she thought that the -pencil with which he was still writing down all these precious details, -paused too. He looked up at her, as if waiting for further information. -“Yes?” he said interrogatively. - -“Even we--go up among the mountains where it is cooler,” she said. - -He looked a little thoughtful at this; but presently threw her back into -perplexity by saying calmly: “That would not matter to me so much, since -I am quite sincere in thinking that when one goes to a health-place, one -should give one’s self up to one’s health. But unfortunately, or perhaps -I should say fortunately, Miss Waring, England is just as good as -anywhere else in the summer; and Dr Lull has not thought it necessary -this year to send me away. But I feel quite set up with your -_renseignements_,” he added, putting back his book into his pocket, “and -I certainly shall think of it for another year.” - -Frances had been so singled out for the purpose of giving the young -invalid information, that she found herself a little apart from the -party when he went away. They were all ladies, and all intimates, and -the unaccustomed girl was not prepared for the onslaught of this curious -and eager, though so pretty and fashionable mob. “What are those -_renseignements_ you have been giving him? Is he going off after Con? -Has he been questioning you about Con? We are all dying to know. And -what do you think she will say to him if he goes out after her?” cried -all, speaking together, those soft eager voices, to which Frances did -not know how to reply. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Frances became accustomed to the presence of young Ramsay after this. He -appeared almost every day, very often in the afternoon, eager for tea, -and always disposed to inquire for further _renseignements_, though he -was quite certain that he was not to leave England till autumn at the -earliest. She began to regard him as a younger brother, or cousin at the -least--a perfectly harmless individual, with whom she could talk when he -wanted her with a gentle complacence, without any reference to her own -pleasure. As a matter of fact, it did not give her any pleasure to talk -to Claude. She was kind to him for his sake; but she had no desire for -his presence on her own account. It surprised her that he ever could -have been thought of as a possible mate for Constance. Constance was so -much cleverer, so much more advanced in every way than herself, that to -suppose she could put up with what Frances found so little attractive, -was a constant amazement to the girl. She could not but express this on -one of the occasions, not so very frequent as she had expected, on which -her mother and she were alone together. - -“Is it really true,” she said at the end of a long silence, “that there -was a question of a--marriage between Constance and Mr Ramsay?” - -“It is really quite true,” said her mother with a smile. “And why not? -Do you disapprove?” - -“It is not that I disapprove--I have no right to disapprove; it is only -that it seems so impossible.” - -“Why? I see nothing impossible in it. He is of suitable age; he is -handsome. You cannot deny that he is handsome, however much you may -dislike him, my dear.” - -“But I don’t dislike him at all; I like him very much--in a kind of -way.” - -“You have every appearance of doing so,” said Lady Markham with -meaning. “You talk to him more, I think, than to any one else.” - -“That is because----” - -“Oh, I don’t ask any reason, Frances. If you like his society that is -reason enough--the best of reasons. And evidently he likes you. He -would, no doubt, be more suitable to you than to Constance.” - -“Mamma! I don’t know what you mean.” Frances woke up suddenly from her -musing state, and looked at her mother with wide open startled eyes. - -“I don’t mean anything. I only ask you to point out wherein his -unsuitability lies. Young, handsome, _nice_, and very rich. What could a -girl desire more? You think, perhaps, as you have been so simply brought -up, that a heroine like Con should have had a Duke or an Earl at the -least. But people think less of the importance of titles as they know -Society better. Claude is of an excellent old family--better than many -peers. She would have been a very fortunate young woman with such an -establishment; but she has taken her own way. I hope you will never be -so hot-headed as your sister, Frances. You look much more practical and -reasonable. You will not, I think, dart off at a tangent without warning -or thought.” - -Frances looked her mother doubtfully in the face. Her feelings -fluctuated strangely in respect to this central figure in the new world -round her. To make acquaintance with your parents for the first time -when you have reached the critical age, and are no longer able to accept -everything with the matter-of-fact serenity of a child, is a curious -experience. Children, indeed, are tremendous critics, at the tribunal of -whose judgment we all stand unawares, and have our just place allotted -to us, with an equity which happily leads to no practical conclusions, -but which no tribunal on earth can equal for clear sight and remorseless -decision. Eighteen is not quite so abstract as eight; yet the absence of -familiarity, and that love which is instinctive, and happily quite above -all decisions of the judgment, makes, in such an extraordinary case as -that of Frances, the sudden call upon the critical faculties, the -consciousness that accompanies their exercise, and the underlying sense, -never absent, that all this is unnatural and wrong, into a complication -full of distress and uncertainty. A vague question whether it were -possible that such a conflict as that which had ended in Constance’s -flight, should ever arise between Lady Markham and herself, passed -through the mind of Frances. If it should do so, the expedient which had -been open to Constance would be to herself impossible. All pride and -delicacy of feeling, all sense of natural justice, would prevent her -from adopting that course. The question would have to be worked out -between her mother and herself, should it ever occur. Was it possible -that it could ever occur? She looked at Lady Markham, who had returned -to her usual morning occupation of writing letters, with a questioning -gaze. There had been a pause, and Lady Markham had waited for a moment -for a reply. Then she had taken up her pen again, and with a smiling nod -had returned to her correspondence. - -Frances sat and pondered with her face turned towards the writing-table, -at which her mother spent so much of her time. The number of letters -that were written there every morning filled her with amazement. Waring -had written no letters, and received only one now and then, which -Frances understood to be about business. She had looked very -respectfully at first on the sheaves which were every day taken away, -duly stamped, from that well-worn but much decorated writing-table. When -it had been suggested to her that she too must have letters to write, -she had dutifully compiled her little bulletin for her father, putting -aside as quite a different matter the full chronicle of her proceedings, -written at a great many _reprises_, to Mariuccia, which somehow did not -seem at all to come under the same description. It had, however, begun -to become apparent to Frances, unwillingly, as she made acquaintance -with everything about her, that Lady Markham’s correspondence was really -by no means of the importance which appeared at the first glance. It -seemed to consist generally in the conveyance of little bits of news, of -little engagements, of the echoes of what people said and did; and it -was replied to by endless shoals of little notes on every variety of -tinted, gilt, and perfumed paper, with every kind of monogram, crest, -and device, and every new idea in shape and form which the genius of the -fashionable stationer could work out. “I have just heard from Lady -So-and-so the funniest story,” Lady Markham would say to her son, -repeating the anecdote--which on many occasions Frances, listening, did -not see the point of. But then both mother and son were cleverer people -than she was. “I must write and let Mary St Serle and Louisa Avenel -know--it will amuse them so;” and there was at once an addition of two -letters to the budget. Frances did not think--all under her breath, as -it were, in involuntary unexpressed comment--that the tale was worth a -pretty sheet of paper, a pretty envelope--both decorated with Lady -Markham’s cipher and coronet--and a penny stamp. But so it was; and this -was one of the principal occupations evidently of a great lady’s life. -Lady Markham considered it very grave, and “a duty.” She allowed nothing -to interfere with her correspondence. “I have my letters to write,” she -said, as who should say, “I have my day’s work to do.” By degrees -Frances lost her respect for this day’s work, and would watch the -manufactory of one note after another with eyes that were unwillingly -cynical, wondering within herself whether it would make any difference -to the world if pen and ink were forbidden in that house. Markham, too, -spoke of writing his letters as a valid reason for much consumption of -time. But then, no doubt, Markham had land agents to write to, and -lawyers, and other necessary people. In this, Frances did not do justice -to her mother, who also had business letters to write, and did a great -deal in stocks, and kept her eyes on the money market. The girl sat and -watched her with a sort of fascination as her pen ran lightly over sheet -after sheet. Sometimes Lady Markham was full of tenderness and -generosity, and had the look of understanding everybody’s feelings. She -was never unkind. She never took a bad view of any one, or suggested -evil or interested motives, as even Frances perceived, in her limited -experience, so many people to do. But, on the other hand, there would -come into her face sometimes a look--which seemed to say that she might -be inexorable, if once she had made up her mind: a look before which it -seemed to Frances that flight like that of Constance would be the -easiest way. Frances was not sufficiently instructed in human nature to -know that anomalies of this kind are common enough; and that nobody is -always and in all matters good, any more than anybody is in all things -ill. It troubled her to perceive the junction of these different -qualities in her mother; and still more it troubled her to think what, -in case of coming to some point of conflict, she should do? How would -she get out of it? Would it be only by succumbing wholly, or had she the -courage in her to fight it out? - -“Little un,” said Markham, coming up to her suddenly, “why do you look -at the mother so? Are you measuring yourself against her, to see how -things would stand if it came to a fight?” - -“Markham!” Frances started with a great blush of guilt. “I did not know -you were here. I--never heard you come in.” - -“You were so lost in thought. I have been here these five minutes, -waiting for an opportunity to put in a word. Don’t you know I’m a -thought-reader, like those fellows that find pins? Take my advice, Fan, -and never let it come to a fight.” - -“I don’t know how to fight,” she said, crimsoning more and more; “and -besides, I was not thinking--there is nothing to fight about.” - -“Fibs, these last,” he said. “Come out and take a little walk with -me,--you are looking pale; and I will tell you a thing or two. Mother, I -am going to take her out for a walk; she wants air.” - -“Do, dear,” said Lady Markham, turning half round with a smile. “After -luncheon, she is going out with me; but in the meantime, you could not -do better--get a little of the morning into her face, while I finish my -letters.” She turned again with a soft smile on her face to send off -that piece of information to Louisa Avenel and Mary St Serle, closing an -envelope as she spoke, writing the address with such a preoccupied yet -amiable air--a woman who, but for having so much to do, would have had -no thought or ambition beyond her home. Markham waited till Frances -appeared in the trim little walking-dress which the mother had paid her -the high compliment of making no change in. They turned their faces as -usual towards the Park, where already, though Easter was very near, -there was a flutter of fine company in preparation for the more serious -glories of the Row, after the season had fairly set in. - -“Little Fan, you mustn’t fight,” were the first words that Markham said. - -She felt her heart begin to beat loud. “Markham! there is nothing to -fight about--oh, nothing. What put fighting in your head?” - -“Never mind. It is my duty to instruct your youth; and I think I see -troubles brewing. Don’t be so kind to that little beggar Claude. He is a -selfish little beggar, though he looks so smooth; and since Constance -won’t have him, he will soon begin to think he may as well have you.” - -“Markham!” Frances felt herself choking with horror and shame. - -“You have got my name quite pat, my dear; but that is neither here nor -there. Markham has nothing to do with it, except to put you on your -guard. Don’t you know, you little innocent, what is the first duty of a -mother? Then I can tell you: to marry her daughters well; brilliantly, -if possible, but at all events _well_--or anyhow to marry them; or else -she is a failure, and all the birds of her set come round her and peck -her to death.” - -“I often don’t understand your jokes,” said Frances, with a little -dignity, “and I suppose this is a joke.” - -“And you think it is a joke in doubtful taste? So should I, if I meant -it that way, but I don’t. Listen, Fan; I am much of that opinion -myself.” - -“That a mother--that a lady----? You are always saying horrible things.” - -“It is true, though--if it is best that a girl should marry--mind you, I -only say if--then it _is_ her mother’s duty. You can’t look out for -yourself--at least I am very glad you are not of the kind that do, my -little Fan.” - -“Markham,” said Frances, with a dignity which seemed to raise her small -person a foot at least, “I have never heard such things talked about; -and I don’t wish to hear anything more, please. In books,” she added, -after a moment’s interval, “it is the gentlemen----” - -“Who look out? But that is all changed, my dear. Fellows fall in -love--which is quite different--and generally fall in love with the -wrong person; but you see I was not supposing that you were likely to do -anything so wild as that.” - -“I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “However,” she added, after -another pause, colouring deeply, but yet looking at him with a certain -courageous air, “if there was any question about being--married, which -of course there is not--I never heard that there was any other way.” - -“Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opinion, which is -worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who the man was, so long -as _that_ happened, eh? Let us know the premises on either side.” - -“You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances. - -“Granted, my dear--a great deal. And what then? I should be wiser, you -mean to say? But so I am, Fan.” - -“It was not _that_ I meant. I mean, it is you who ought--to marry. You -are a man. You are the eldest, the chief one of your family. I have -always read in books----” - -Markham put up his hand as a shield. He stopped to laugh, repeating over -and over again that one note of mirth with which it was his wont to -express his feelings. “Brava, Fan!” he repeated when he could speak. -“You are a little Trojan. This is something like carrying the war into -the enemy’s country.” He was so much tickled by the assault, that the -water stood in his eyes. “What a good thing we are not in the Row, where -I should have been delivered over to the talk of the town. Frances, my -little dear, you are the funniest of little philosophers.” - -“Where is the fun?” said Frances gravely. “And I am not a philosopher, -Markham; I am only--your sister.” - -At this the little man became serious all at once, and took her hand and -drew it within his arm. They were walking up Constitution Hill, where -there are not many spectators. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “and as nice a -little sister as a man could desire;” and walked on, holding her arm -close to him with an expressive clasp which spoke more than words. The -touch of nature and the little suggestive proffer of affection and -kindred which was in the girl’s words, touched his heart. He said -nothing till they were about emerging upon the noise and clamour of the -world at the great thoroughfare which they had to cross. Then “After -all,” he said, “yours is a very natural proposition, Fan. It is I who -ought to marry. Many people would say it is my duty; and perhaps I might -have been of that opinion once. But I’ve a great deal on my conscience, -dear. You think I’m rather a good little man, don’t you? fond of ladies’ -society, and of my mother and little sister, which is such a good -feature, everybody says? Well, but that’s a mistake, my dear. I don’t -know that I am at all a fit person to be walking about London streets -and into the Park with an innocent little creature, such as you are, -under my arm.” - -“Markham!” she cried, with a tone which was half astonished, half -indignant, and her arm thrilled within his--not, perhaps, with any -intention of withdrawing itself; but that was what he thought. - -“Wait,” he said, “till I have got you safely across the Corner--there is -always a crowd--and then, if you are frightened, and prefer another -chaperon, we’ll find one, you may be sure, before we have gone a dozen -steps. Come now; there is a little lull. Be plucky, and keep your head, -Fan.” - -“I want no other chaperon, Markham; I like you.” - -“Do you, my dear? Well, you can’t think what a pleasure that is to me, -Fan. You wouldn’t, probably, if you knew me better. However, you must -stick to that opinion as long as you can. Who, do you think, would marry -me if I were to try? An ugly little fellow, not very well off, with -several very bad tendencies, and--a mother.” - -“A mother, Markham!” - -“Yes, my dear; to whom he is devoted--who must always be the first to -him. That’s a beautiful sentiment, don’t you think? But wives have a way -of not liking it. I could not force her to call herself the Dowager, -could I, Fan? She is a pretty woman yet. She is really younger than I -am. She would not like it.” - -“I think you are only making fun of me, Markham. I don’t know what you -mean. What could mamma have to do with it? If she so much wanted -Constance to marry, surely she must want you still more, for you are so -much older; and then----” - -“There is no want of arguments,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. -“Conviction is what is wanted. There might have been times when I should -have much relished your advice; but nobody would have had me, -fortunately. No; I must not give up the mother, my dear. Don’t you know -I was the cause of all the mischief--at least of a great part of the -mischief--when your father went away? And now, I must make a mess of it -again, and put folly into Con’s head. The mother is an angel, Fan, or -she would not trust you with me.” - -It flashed across Frances’ memory that Constance had warned her not to -let herself fall into Markham’s hands; but this only bewildered the girl -in the softening of her heart to him, and in the general bewilderment -into which she was thus thrown back. “I do not believe you can be bad,” -she said earnestly; “you must be doing yourself injustice.” - -By this time they were in the Row in all the brightness of the crowd, -which, if less great than at a later period, was more friendly. Markham -had begun to pull off his hat to every third lady he met, to put out his -hand right and left, to distribute nods and greetings. “We’ll resume the -subject some time or other,” he said with a smile aside to Frances, -disengaging her arm from his. The girl felt as if she had suddenly lost -her anchorage, and was thrown adrift upon this sea of strange faces; and -thrown at the same time back into a moral chaos, full of new -difficulties and wonders, out of which she could not see her way. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -A day or two after, they all went to the Priory for Easter. - -The Priory was in the Isle of Wight, and it was Markham’s house. It was -not a very great house, nor was it medieval and mysterious, as an -unsophisticated imagination naturally expected. Its name came, it was -said (or hoped), from an old ecclesiastical establishment once planted -there; but the house itself was a sort of Strawberry-Hill Gothic, with a -good deal of plaster and imitated ornament of the perpendicular -kind,--that is to say, the worst of its kind, which is, unfortunately, -that which most attracts the imitator. It stood on a slope above the -beach, where the vegetation was soft and abundant, recalling more or -less to the mind of Frances the aspect of the country with which she -was best acquainted--the great bosquets of glistering green laurel and -laurestine simulating the daphnes and orange-trees, and the grey downs -above recalling in some degree the scattered hill-tops above the level -of the olives; though the great rollers of the Atlantic which thundered -in upon the beach were not like that rippling blue which edged the -Riviera in so many rims of delicate colour. The differences, however, -struck Frances less than the resemblance, for which she had scarcely -been prepared, and which gave her a great deal of surprised pleasure at -the first glance. This put temporarily out of her mind all the new and -troublesome thoughts which her conversation with Markham had called -forth, and which had renewed her curiosity about her step-brother, whom -she had begun to receive into the landscape around her with the calm of -habit and without asking any questions. Was he really bad, or rather, -not good?--which was as far as Frances could go. Had he really been the -cause, or partly the cause, of the separation between her father and -mother? She was bewildered by these little breaks in the curtain which -concealed the past from her so completely--that past which was so well -known to the others around, which an invincible delicacy prevented her -from speaking of or asking questions about. All went on so calmly around -her, as if nothing out of the ordinary routine had ever been; and yet -she was aware not only that much had been, but that it remained so -distinctly in the minds of those smiling people as to influence their -conduct and form their motives still. Though it was Markham’s house, it -was his mother who was the uncontested sovereign, not less, probably -more, than if the real owner had been her husband instead of her son. -And even Frances, little as she was acquainted with the world, was aware -that this was seldom the case. And why should not Markham at his age, -which to her seemed at least ten years more than it was, be married, -when it was already thought important that Constance should marry? These -were very bewildering questions, and the moment to resume the subject -never seemed to come. - -There was a party in the house, which included Claude Ramsay, and Sir -Thomas, the elder person in whom Lady Markham had thought there could -be nothing particularly interesting. He was a very frequent member of -the family party, all the same; and now that they were living under the -same roof, Frances did not find him without interest. There was also a -lady with two daughters, whose appearance was very interesting to the -girl. They reminded her a little of Constance, and of the difficulty she -had found in finding subjects on which to converse with her sister. The -Miss Montagues knew a great many people, and talked of them continually; -but Frances knew nobody. She listened with interest, but she could add -nothing either to their speculations or recollections. She did not know -anything about the contrivances which brought about the marriage between -Cecil Gray and Emma White. She was utterly incompetent even to hazard an -opinion as to what Lady Milbrook would do _now_; and she did not even -understand about the hospitals which they visited and “took an interest” -in. She tried very hard to get some little current with which she could -make herself acquainted in the river of their talk; but nothing could -be more difficult. Even when she brought out her sketch-book and opened -ground upon that subject--about which the poor little girl modestly -believed she knew by experience a very little--she was silenced in five -minutes by their scientific acquaintance with washes, and glazing, and -body colour, and the laws of composition. Frances did not know how to -compose a picture. She said: “Oh no; I do not make it up in my head at -all; I only do what I see.” - -“You mean you don’t formulate rules,” said Maud. “Of course you don’t -mean that you merely imitate, for that is tea-board style; and your -drawings are quite pretty. I like that little bit of the coast.” - -“How well one knows the Riviera,” said Ethel; “everybody who goes there -has something to show. But I am rather surprised you don’t keep to one -style. You seem to do a little of everything. Don’t you feel that -flower-painting rather spoils your hand for the larger effects?” - -“It wants such a very different distribution of light and shade,” said -the other sister. “You have to calculate your tones on such a different -scale. If you were working at South Kensington or any other of the good -schools----” - -“I should not advise her to do that--should you, Maud?--there is such a -long elementary course. But I suppose you did your freehand, and all -that, in the schoolroom?” - -Frances did not know how to reply. She put away her little sketch with a -sense of extreme humiliation. “Oh, I am afraid I am not fit to talk -about it at all,” she said. “I don’t even know what words to use. It has -been all imitation, as you say.” - -The two young ladies smiled upon her, and reassured her. “You must not -be discouraged. I am sure you have talent. It only wants a little hard -work to master the principles; and then you go on so much easier -afterwards,” they said. It puzzled Frances much that they did not -produce their own sketches, which she thought would have been as good as -a lesson to her; and it was not till long after that it dawned upon her -that in this particular Maud and Ethel were defective. They knew how to -do it, but could not do it; whereas she could do it without knowing how. - -“How is it, I wonder,” said one of them, changing the subject after a -little polite pause, which suggested fatigue, “that Mrs Winterbourn is -not here this year?” - -They looked at her for this information, to the consternation of -Frances, who did not know how to reply. “You know I have not been -long--here,” she said: she had intended to say at home, but the effort -was beyond her--“and I don’t even know who Mrs Winterbourn is.” - -“Oh!” they both cried; and then for a minute there was nothing more. -“You may think it strange of us to speak of it,” said Maud at length; -“only, it always seemed so well understood; and we have always met her -here.” - -“Oh, she goes everywhere,” cried Ethel. “There never was a word breathed -against---- Please don’t think _that_, from anything we have said.” - -“On the contrary, mamma always says it is so wise of Lady Markham,” said -Maud; “so much better that he should always meet her here.” - -Frances retired into herself with a confusion which she did not know how -to account for. She did not in the least know what they meant, and yet -she felt the colour rise in her cheek. She blushed for she knew not -what; so that Maud and Ethel said to each other, afterwards: “She is a -little hypocrite. She knew just as well as either you or I.” - -Frances, however, did not know; and here was another subject about which -she could not ask information. She carried away her sketch-book to her -room with a curious feeling of ignorance and foolishness. She did not -know anything at all--neither about her own surroundings, nor about the -little art which she was so fond of, in which she had taken just a -little pride, as well as so much pleasure. She put the sketches away -with a few hasty tears, feeling troubled and provoked, and as if she -could never look at them with any satisfaction, or attempt to touch a -pencil again. She had never thought they were anything great; but to be -made to feel so foolish in her own little way was hard. Nor was this -the only trial to which she was exposed. After dinner, retiring, which -she did with a sense of irritation which her conscience condemned, from -the neighbourhood of Ethel and Maud, she fell into the hands of Sir -Thomas, who also had a way of keeping very clear of these young ladies. -He came to where Frances was standing in a corner, almost out of sight. -She had drawn aside one edge of the curtain, and was looking out upon -the shrubbery and the lawn, which stood out against the clear background -of the sea--with a great deal of wistfulness, and perhaps a secret tear -or two in her eyes. Here she was startled by a sudden voice in her ear. -“You are looking out on the moonlight,” Sir Thomas said. It took her a -moment before she could swallow the sob in her throat. - -“It is very bright; it is a little like--home.” This word escaped her in -the confusion of her thoughts. - -“You mean the Riviera. Did you like it so much? I should have -thought---- But no doubt, whatever the country is which we call home, it -seems desirable to us.” - -“Oh, but you can’t know how beautiful it is,” cried Frances, roused from -her fit of despondency. “Perhaps you have never been there?” - -“Oh yes, often. Does your father like it as well as you do, Miss Waring? -I should have supposed, for a man----” - -“Yes,” said Frances, “I know what you mean. They say there is nothing to -do. But my father is not a man to want to do anything. He is fond of -books; he reads all day long, and then comes out into the loggia with -his cigarette--and talks to me.” - -“That sounds very pleasant,” said Sir Thomas with a smile, taking no -notice of the involuntary quaver that had got into the girl’s voice. -“But I wonder if perhaps he does not want a little variety, a little -excitement? Excuse me for saying so. Men, you know, are not always so -easily contented as the better half of creation; and then they are -accustomed to larger duties, to more action, to public affairs.” - -“I don’t think papa takes much interest in all that,” said Frances with -an air of authority. “He has never cared for what was going on. The -newspapers he sometimes will not open.” - -“That is a great change. He used to be a hot politician in the old -days.” - -“Did you know my father?” she cried, turning upon him with a glow of -sudden interest. - -“I knew him very well--better than most people. I was one of those who -felt the deepest regret----” - -She stood gazing at him with her face lifted to him with so profound an -interest and desire to know, that he stopped short, startled by the -intensity of her look. “Miss Waring,” he said, “it is a very delicate -subject to talk to their child upon.” - -“Oh, I know it is. I don’t like to ask--and yet it seems as if I ought -to know.” Frances was seized with one of those sudden impulses of -confidence which sometimes make the young so indiscreet. If she had -known Sir Thomas intimately, it would not have occurred to her; but as a -stranger, he seemed safe. “No one has ever told me,” she added in the -heat of this sudden overflow, “neither how it was or why it was--except -Markham, who says it was his fault.” - -“There were faults on all sides, I think,” said Sir Thomas. “There -always are in such cases. No one person is able to carry out such a -prodigious mistake. You must pardon me if I speak plainly. You are the -only person whom I can ask about my old friend.” - -“Oh, I like you to speak plainly,” cried Frances. “Talk to me about him; -ask me anything you please.” The tears came into her voice, and she put -her hands together instinctively. She had been feeling very lonely and -home-sick, and out of accord with all her surroundings. To return even -in thought to the old life and its associations brought a flood of -bitter sweetness to her heart. - -“I can see at least,” said Sir Thomas, “that he has secured a most -loving champion in his child.” - -This arrested her enthusiasm in a moment. She was too sincere to accept -such a solution of her own complicated feelings. Was she the loving -champion which she was so suddenly assumed to be? She became vaguely -aware that the things which had rushed back upon her mind and filled -her with longing were not the excellences of her father, but rather the -old peace and ease and ignorance of her youthful life, which nothing -could now restore. She could not respond to the confidence of her -father’s friend. He had kept her in ignorance; he had deceived her; he -had not made any attempt to clear the perplexities of her difficult -path, but left her to find out everything, more perhaps than she yet -knew. Sir Thomas was a little surprised that she made him no reply; but -he set it down to emotion and agitation, which might well take from so -young and innocent a girl the possibility of reply. - -“I don’t know whether I am justified in the hope I have been -entertaining ever since you came,” he said. “It is very hard that your -father should be banished from his own country and all his duties -by--what was, after all, never a very important cause. There has been no -unpardonable wrong on either side. He is terribly sensitive, you know. -And Lady Markham--she is a dear friend of mine; I have a great affection -for her----” - -“If you please,” said Frances quickly, “it is not possible for me to -listen to any discussion of mamma.” - -“My dear Miss Waring,” he cried, “this is better and better. You are -then a partisan on both sides?” - -Poor little Frances felt as if she were at least hemmed in on both -sides, and without any way of escape. She looked up in his face with an -appeal which he did not understand, for how was it possible to suppose -that she did not know all about a matter which had affected her whole -life? - -“Don’t you think,” said Sir Thomas, drawing very close to her, stooping -over her, “that if we two were to lay our heads together, we might bring -things to a better understanding? Constance, to whom I have often spoken -on the subject, knew only one side--and that not the difficult side. -Markham was mixed up in it all, and could never be impartial. But you -know both, and your father best. I am sure you are full of sense, as -Waring’s daughter ought to be. Don’t you think----” - -He had taken both Frances’ hands in his enthusiasm, and pressed so -closely upon her that she had to retreat a step, almost with alarm. And -he had his back to the light, shutting her out from all succour, as she -thought. It was all the girl could do to keep from crying out that she -knew nothing,--that she was more ignorant than any one; and when there -suddenly came from behind Sir Thomas the sound of many voices, without -agitation or special meaning, her heart gave a bound of relief, as if -she had escaped. He gave her hands a vehement pressure and let them -drop; and then Claude Ramsay’s voice of gentle pathos came in. “Are you -not afraid, Miss Waring, of the draught? There must be some door or -window open. It is enough to blow one away.” - -“You look like a couple of conspirators,” said Markham. “Fan, your -little eyes are blinking like an owl’s. Come back, my dear, into the -light.” - -“No,” said Claude; “the light here is perfect. I never can understand -why people should want so much light only to talk by. Will you sit here, -Miss Waring? Here is a corner out of the draught. I want to say -something more about Bordighera--one other little _renseignement_, and -then I shall not require to trouble you any more.” - -Frances looked at Markham for help, but he did not interfere. He looked -a little grave, she thought; but he took Sir Thomas by the arm, and -presently led him away. She was too shy to refuse on her own account -Claude’s demand, and sat down reluctantly on the sofa, where he placed -himself at her side. - -“Your sister,” he said, “never had much sympathy with me about draughts. -She used to think it ridiculous to take so much care. But my doctrine -always is, take care beforehand, and then you don’t need to trouble -yourself after. Don’t you think I am right?” - -She understood very well how Constance would receive his little -speeches. In the agitation in which she was, gleams of perception coming -through the chaos, sudden visions of Constance, who had been swept out -of her mind by the progress of events, and of her father, whom her late -companion had been talking about--as if it would be so easy to induce -him to change all his ways, and do what other people wished!--came back -to her mind. They seemed to stand before her there, both appearing out -of the mists, both so completely aware of what they wanted to do--so -little likely to be persuaded into some one else’s mode of thought. - -“I think Constance and you were not at all likely to think the same,” -she said. - -Ramsay looked at her with a glance which for him was hasty and almost -excited. “No?” he said in an interrogative tone. “What makes you think -so? Perhaps when one comes to consider, you are right. She was always so -well and strong. You and I, perhaps, do you think, are more alike?” - -“No,” said Frances, very decidedly. “I am much stronger than Constance. -She might have some patience with--with--what was fanciful; but I should -have none.” - -“With what was fanciful? Then you think I am fanciful?” said Claude, -raising himself up from his feeble attitude. He laughed a little, quite -undisturbed in temper by this reproach. “I wish other people thought -so; I wish they would let me stay comfortably at home, and do what -everybody does. But, Miss Waring, you are not so sympathetic as I -thought.” - -“I am afraid I am not sympathetic,” said Frances, feeling much ashamed -of herself. “Oh, Mr Ramsay, forgive me; I did not mean to say anything -so disagreeable.” - -“Never mind,” said Claude. “When people don’t know me, they often think -so. I am sorry, because I thought perhaps you and I might agree better. -But very likely it was a mistake. Are you feeling the draught again? It -is astonishing how a draught will creep round, when you think you are -quite out of the way of it. If you feel it, you must not run the risk of -a cold, out of consideration for me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -“She thinks I am fanciful,” he said. - -He was sitting with Lady Markham in the room which was her special -sanctuary. She did not call it her boudoir--she was not at all inclined -to _bouder_; but it answered to that retirement in common parlance. -Those who wanted to see her alone, to confide in her, as many people -did, knocked at the door of this room. It opened with a large window -upon the lawn, and looked down through a carefully kept opening upon the -sea. Amid all the little luxuries appropriate to my lady’s chamber, you -could see the biggest ships in the world pass across the gleaming -foreground, shut in between two _massifs_ of laurel, making a delightful -confusion of the great and the small, which was specially pleasant to -her. She sat, however, with her back to this pleasant prospect, holding -up a screen, to shade her delicate cheek from the bright little fire, -which, though April was far advanced, was still thought necessary so -near the sea. Claude had thrown himself into another chair in front of -the fireplace. No warmth was ever too much for him. There was the usual -pathos in his tone, but a faint consciousness of something amusing was -in his face. - -“Did she?” said Lady Markham with a laugh. “The little impertinent! But -you know, my dear boy, that is what I have always said.” - -“Yes--it is quite true. You healthy people, you are always of opinion -that one can get over it if one makes the effort; and there is no way of -proving the contrary but by dying, which is a strong step.” - -“A very strong step--one, I hope, that you will not think of taking. -They are both very sincere, my girls, though in a different way. They -mean what they say; and yet they do not mean it, Claude. That is, it is -quite true; but does not affect their regard for you, which, I am sure, -without implying any deeper feeling, is strong.” - -He shook his head a little. “Dear Lady Markham,” he said, “you know if I -am to marry, I want, above all things, to marry a daughter of yours.” - -“Dear boy!” she said, with a look full of tender meaning. - -“You have always been so good to me, since ever I can remember. But what -am I to do if they--object? Constance--has run away from me, people say: -run away--to escape _me_!” His voice took so tragically complaining a -tone, that Lady Markham bit her lip and held her screen higher to -conceal her smile. Next moment, however, she turned upon him with a -perfectly grave and troubled face. - -“Dear Claude!” she cried, “what an injustice to poor Con. I thought I -had explained all that to you. You have known all along the painful -position I am in with their father, and you know how impulsive she is. -And then, Markham---- Alas!” she continued with a sigh, “my position is -very complicated, Claude. Markham is the best son that ever was; but -you know I have to pay a great deal for it.” - -“Ah!” said Claude; “Nelly Winterbourn and all that,” with a good many -sage nods of his head. - -“Not only Nelly Winterbourn--there is no harm in her, that I know--but -he has a great influence with the girls. It was he who put it into -Constance’s head to go to her father. I am quite sure it was. He put it -before her that it was her duty.” - -“O--oh!” Claude made this very English comment with the doubtful tone -which it expresses; and added, “Her duty!” with a very unconvinced air. - -“He did so, I know. And she was so fond of adventure and change. I -agreed with him partly afterwards that it was the best thing that could -happen to her. She is finding out by experience what banishment from -Society, and from all that makes life pleasant, is. I have no doubt she -will come back--in a very different frame of mind.” - -Claude did not respond, as perhaps Lady Markham expected him to do. He -sat and dandled his leg before the fire, not looking at her. After some -time, he said in a reflective way, “Whoever I marry, she will have to -resign herself to banishment, as you call it--that has been always -understood. A warm climate in winter--and to be ready to start at any -moment.” - -“That is always understood--till you get stronger,” said Lady Markham in -the gentlest tone. “But you know I have always expected that you would -get stronger. Remember, you have been kept at home all this year--and -you are better; at all events you have not suffered.” - -“Had I been sent away, Constance would have remained at home,” he said. -“I am not speaking out of irritation, but only to understand it fully. -It is not as if I were finding fault with Constance; but you see for -yourself she could not stand me all the year round. A fellow who has -always to be thinking about the thermometer is trying.” - -“My dear boy,” said Lady Markham, “everything is trying. The thermometer -is much less offensive than most things that men care for. Girls are -brought up in that fastidious way: you all like them to be so, and to -think they have refined tastes, and so forth; and then you are surprised -when you find they have a little difficulty---- Constance was only -fanciful, that was all--impatient.” - -“Fanciful,” he repeated. “That was what the little one said. I wish she -were fanciful, and not so horribly well and strong.” - -“My dear Claude,” said Lady Markham quickly, “you would not like that at -all! A delicate wife is the most dreadful thing--one that you would -always have to be considering; who could not perhaps go to the places -that suited you; who would not be able to go out with you when you -wanted her. I don’t insist upon a daughter of mine: but not that, not -that, for your own sake, my dear boy!” - -“I believe you are right,” he said, with a look of conviction. “Then I -suppose the only thing to be done is to wait for a little and see how -things turn out. There is no hurry about it, you know.” - -“Oh, no hurry!” she said, with uneasy assent. “That is, if you are not -in a hurry,” she added after a pause. - -“No, I don’t think so. I am rather enjoying myself, I think. It always -does one good,” he said, getting up slowly, “to come and have it out -with you.” - -Lady Markham said “Dear boy!” once more, and gave him her hand, which he -kissed; and then his audience was over. He went away; and she turned -round to her writing-table to the inevitable correspondence. There was a -little cloud upon her forehead so long as she was alone; but when -another knock came at the door, it cleared by magic as she said “Come -in.” This time it was Sir Thomas who appeared. He was a tall man, with -grey hair, and had the air of being very carefully brushed and dressed. -He came in, and seated himself where Claude had been, but pushed back -the chair from the fire. - -“Don’t you think,” he said, “that you keep your room a little too warm?” - -“Claude complained that it was cold. It is difficult to please -everybody.” - -“Oh, Claude. I have come to speak to you, dear Lady Markham, on a very -different subject. I was talking to Frances last night.” - -“So I perceived. And what do you think of my little girl?” - -“You know,” he said, with some solemnity, “the hopes I have always -entertained that some time or other our dear Waring might be brought -among us once more.” - -“I have always told you,” said Lady Markham, “that no difficulties -should be raised by me.” - -“You were always everything that is good and kind,” said Sir Thomas. “I -was talking to his dear little daughter last night. She reminds me very -much of Waring, Lady Markham.” - -“That is odd; for everybody tells me--and indeed I can see it -myself--that she is like me.” - -“She is very like you; still, she reminds me of her father more than I -can say. I do think we have in her the instrument--the very instrument -that is wanted. If he is ever to be brought back again----” - -“Which I doubt,” she said, shaking her head. - -“Don’t let us doubt. With perseverance, everything is to be hoped; and -here we have in our very hands what I have always looked for--some one -devoted to him and very fond of you.” - -“Is she very fond of me?” said Lady Markham. Her face softened--a little -moisture crept into her eyes. “Ah, Sir Thomas, I wonder if that is true. -She was very much moved by the idea of her mother--a relation she had -never known. She expected I don’t know what, but more, I am sure, than -she has found in me. Oh, don’t say anything. I am scarcely surprised; I -am not at all displeased. To come with your heart full of an ideal, and -to find an ordinary woman--a woman in Society!” The moisture enlarged in -Lady Markham’s eyes--not tears, but yet a liquid mist that gave them -pathos. She shook her head, looking at him with a smile. - -“We need not argue the question,” said Sir Thomas, “for I know she is -very fond of you. You should have heard her stop me when she thought I -was going to criticise you. Of course, had she known me better she would -have known how impossible that was.” - -Lady Markham did not say “Dear Sir Thomas!” as she had said “Dear boy!” -but her look was the same as that which she had turned upon Claude. She -was in no doubt as to what his account of her would be. - -“She can persuade him, if anybody can,” he said. “I think I shall go and -see him as soon as I can get away--if you do not object. To bring our -dear Waring back, to see you two together again, who have always been -the objects of my warmest admiration----” - -“You are too kind. You have always had a higher opinion of me than I -deserve,” she said. “One can only be grateful. One cannot try to -persuade you that you are mistaken. As for my--husband”--there was the -slightest momentary pause before she said the name--“I fear you will -never get him to think so well of me as you do. It is a great -misfortune; but still it sometimes happens that other people think more -of a woman than--her very own.” - -“You must not say that. Waring adored you.” - -She shook her head again. “He had a great admiration,” she said, “for a -woman to whom he gave my name. But he discovered that it was a mistake; -and for me in my own person he had no particular feeling. Think a -little whether you are doing wisely. If you should succeed in bringing -us two together again----” - -“What then?” - -She did not say any more: her face grew pale, as by a sudden touch or -breath. When such a tie as marriage is severed, if by death or by any -other separation, it is not a light thing to renew it again. The thought -of that possibility--which yet was not a possibility--suddenly realised, -sent the blood back to Lady Markham’s heart. It was not that she was -unforgiving, or even that she had not a certain remainder of love for -her husband. But to resume those habits of close companionship after so -many years--to give up her own individuality, in part at least, and live -a dual life--this thought startled her. She had said that she would put -no difficulties in the way. But then she had not thought of all that was -involved. - -The next visitor who interrupted her retirement came in without the -preliminary of knocking. It was Markham who thus made his appearance, -presenting himself to the full daylight in his light clothes and -colourless aspect; not very well dressed, a complete contrast to the -beautiful if sickly youth of her first visitor, and to the size and -vigour of the other. Markham had neither beauty nor vigour. Even the -usual keenness and humorous look had gone out of his face. He held a -letter in his hand. He did not, like the others, put himself into the -chair where Lady Markham, herself turned from the light, could mark -every change of countenance in her interlocutor. He went up to the fire -with the ease of the master of the house, and stood in front of it as an -Englishman loves to do. But he was not quite at his ease on this -occasion. He said nothing until he had assumed his place, and even stood -for a whole minute or more silent before he found his voice. Lady -Markham had turned her chair towards him at once, and sat with her head -raised and expectant, watching him. For with Markham, never very -reticent of his words, this prolonged pause seemed to mean that there -was something important to say. But it did not appear when he spoke. He -put the forefinger of one hand on the letter he held in the other. “I -have heard from the Winterbourns,” he said. “They are coming to-morrow.” - -Lady Markham made the usual little exclamation “Oh!”--faintly breathed -with the slightest catch, as if it might have meant more. Then, after a -moment--“Very well, Markham: they can have their usual rooms,” she said. - -Again there was a little pause. Then--“He is not very well,” said -Markham. - -“Oh, that is a pity,” she replied with very little concern. - -“That’s not strong enough. I believe he is rather ill. They are leaving -the Crosslands sooner than they intended because there’s no doctor -there.” - -“Then it is a good thing,” said Lady Markham, “that there is such a good -doctor here. We are so healthy a party, he is quite thrown away on us.” - -Markham did not find that his mother divined what he wanted to say with -her usual promptitude. “I am afraid Winterbourn is in a bad way,” he -said at length, moving uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoiding -her eye. - -“Do you mean that there is anything serious--dangerous? Good heavens!” -cried Lady Markham, now fully roused, “I hope she is not going to bring -that man to die here.” - -“That’s just what I have been thinking. It would be decidedly awkward.” - -“Oh, awkward is not the word,” cried Lady Markham, with a sudden vision -of all the inconveniences: her pretty house turned upside down--though -it was not hers, but his--a stop put to everything--the flight of her -guests in every direction--herself detained and separated from all her -social duties. “You take it very coolly,” she said. “You must write and -say it is impossible in the circumstances.” - -“Can’t,” said Markham. “They must have started by this time. They are to -travel slowly--to husband his strength.” - -“To husband----! Telegraph, then! Good heavens! Markham, don’t you see -what a dreadful nuisance--how impossible in every point of view.” - -“Come,” he said, with a return of his more familiar tone. “There’s no -evidence that he means to die here. I daresay he won’t, if he can help -it, poor beggar! The telegraph is as impossible as the post. We are in -for it, mammy. Let’s hope he’ll pull through.” - -“And if he doesn’t, Markham!” - -“That will be--more awkward still,” he said. Markham was not himself: he -shuffled from one foot to another, and looked straight before him, never -glancing aside with those keen looks of understanding which made his -insignificant countenance interesting. His mother was, what mothers too -seldom are, his most intimate friend; but he did not meet her eye. His -hands were thrust into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. At -last a faint and doubtful gleam broke over his face. He burst into a -sudden chuckle--one of those hoarse brief notes of laughter which were -peculiar to him. “By Jove! it would be poetic justice,” he said. - -Lady Markham showed no inclination to laughter. “Is there nothing we can -do?” she cried. - -“Think of something else,” said Markham, with a sudden recovery. “I -always find that the best thing to do--for the moment. What was Claude -saying to you--and t’other man?” - -“Claude! I don’t know what he was saying. News like this is enough to -drive everything else out of one’s head. He is wavering between Con and -Frances.” - -“Mother, I told you. Frances will have nothing to say to him.” - -“Frances--will obey the leading of events, I hope.” - -“Poor little Fan! I don’t think she will, though. That child has a great -deal in her. She shows her parentage.” - -“Sir Thomas says she reminds him much of her--father,” Lady Markham -said, with a faint smile. - -“There is something of Waring too,” said her son, nodding his head. - -This seemed to jar upon the mother. She changed colour a little; and -then added, her smile growing more constrained: “He thinks she may be a -powerful instrument in--changing his mind--bringing him, after all these -years, back”--here she paused a little, as if seeking for a phrase; then -added, her smile growing less and less pleasant--“to his duty.” - -Then Markham for the first time looked at her. He had been paying but -partial attention up to this moment, his mind being engrossed with -difficulties of his own; but he awoke at this suggestion, and looked at -her with something of his usual keenness, but with a gravity not at all -usual. And she met his eye with an awakening in hers which was still -more remarkable. For a moment they thus contemplated each other, not -like mother and son, nor like the dear and close friends they were, but -like two antagonists suddenly perceiving, on either side, the coming -conflict. For almost the first time there woke in Lady Markham’s mind a -consciousness that it was possible her son, who had been always her -champion, her defender, her companion, might wish her out of his way. -She looked at him with a rising colour, with all her nerves thrilling, -and her whole soul on the alert for his next words. These were words -which he would have preferred not to speak; but they seemed to be forced -from his lips against his will, though even as he said them he explained -to himself that they had been in his mind to say before he knew--before -the dilemma that might occur had seemed possible. - -“Yes?” he said. “I understand what he means. I--even I--had been -thinking that something of the sort--might be a good thing.” - -She clasped her hands with a quick passionate movement. “Has it come to -this--in a moment--without warning?” she cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -The Winterbourns came next day: he to the best room in the house, a -temperature carefully kept up to sixty-five degrees, and the daily -attentions of the excellent doctor, who, Lady Markham declared, was -thrown away upon her healthy household. Mr Winterbourn was a man of -fifty, a confirmed invalid, who travelled with a whole paraphernalia of -medicaments, and a servant who was a trained nurse, and very skilful in -all the lower branches of the medical craft. Mrs Winterbourn, however, -was not like this. She was young, pretty, lively, fond of what she -called “fun,” and by no means bound to her husband’s sick-room. -Everybody said she was very kind to him. She never refused to go to him -when he wanted her. Of her own accord, as part of her usual routine, she -would go into his room three or even four times a-day to see if she -could do anything. She sat with him always while Roberts the man-nurse -had his dinner. What more could a woman do? She had indeed, it was -understood, married him against her will; but that is an accident not to -be avoided, and she had always been a model of propriety. They were -asked everywhere, which, considering how little adapted he was for -society, was nothing less than the highest proof of how much she was -thought of; and the most irreproachable matrons did not hesitate to -invite Lord Markham to meet the Winterbourns. It was a wonderful, quite -an ideal friendship, everybody said. And it was such a comfort to both -of them! For Markham, considering the devotion he had always shown to -his mother, would probably find it very inconvenient to marry, which is -the only thing which makes friendship between a man and a woman -difficult. A woman does not like her devoted friend to marry: that is -the worst of those delicate relationships, and it is the point upon -which they generally come to shipwreck in the end. As a matter of -course, any other harm of a grosser kind was not so much as thought of -by any one who knew them. There were people, however, who asked -themselves and each other, as a fine problem, one of those cases of -complication which it pleases the human intellect to resolve, what would -happen if Winterbourn died?--a thing which he was continually -threatening to do. It had been at one time quite a favourite subject of -speculation in society. Some said that it would not suit Markham at -all,--that he would get out of it somehow; some, that there would be no -escape for him; some, that with such a fine jointure as Nelly would -have, it would set the little man up, if he could give up his “ways.” -Markham had not a very good reputation, though everybody knew that he -was the best son in the world. He played, it was said, more and -otherwise than a man of his position ought to play. He was often -amusing, and always nice to women, so that society never in the least -broke with him, and he had champions everywhere. But the mere fact that -he required champions was a proof that all was not exactly as it ought -to be. He was a man with a great many “ways,” which of course it is -natural to suppose would be bad ways, though, except in the matter of -play, no one knew very well what they were. - -Winterbourn, however, had never been so bad as he was on this occasion, -when he was almost lifted out of the carriage and carried to his room, -his very host being allowed no speech of him till next morning, after he -was supposed to have got over the fatigue of the journey. The doctor, -when he was summoned, shook his head and looked very grave; and it may -be imagined what talks went on among the guests when no one of the -family was present to hear. These talks were sometimes carried on before -Frances, who was scarcely realised as the daughter of the house. Even -Claude Ramsay forgot his own pressing concerns in consideration of the -urgent question of the moment, and Sir Thomas ceased to think of Waring. -Frances gleaned from what she heard that they were all preparing for -flight. “Of course, in case anything dreadful happens, dear Lady -Markham,” they said, “will no doubt go too.” - -“What a funny thing,” said one of the Miss Montagues, “if it should -happen in this house.” - -“Funny, Laura! You mean dreadful,” cried her mother. “Do choose your -words a little better.” - -“Oh, you know what I mean, mamma!” cried the young lady. - -“You must think it dreadful indeed,” said Mrs Montague, addressing -Frances, “that we should discuss such a sad thing in this way. Of -course, we are all very sorry for poor Mr Winterbourn; and if he had -been ill and dying in his own house---- But one’s mind is occupied at -present by the great inconvenience--oh, more than that--the horror -and--and embarrassment to your dear mother.” - -“All that,” said Sir Thomas with a certain solemnity. Perhaps it was the -air of unusual gravity with which he uttered these two words which -raised the smallest momentary titter,--no, not so much as a titter--a -faintly audible smile, if such an expression may be used,--chiefly among -the young ladies, who had perhaps a clearer realisation of the kind of -embarrassment that was meant than was expected of them. But Frances had -no clue whatever to it. She replied warmly-- - -“My mother will not think of the inconvenience. It is surely those who -are in such trouble themselves who are the only people to think about. -Poor Mrs Winterbourn----” - -“Who is it that is speaking of me in such a kind voice?” said the sick -man’s wife. - -She had just come into the room; and she was very well aware that she -was being discussed by everybody about--herself and her circumstances, -and all those contingencies which were, in spite of herself, beginning -to stir her own mind, as they had already done the minds of all around. -That is one thing which in any crisis people in society may be always -sure of, that their circumstances are being fully talked over by their -friends. - -“I hope we have all kind voices when we speak of you, my dear Nelly. -This one was Frances Waring, our new little friend here.” - -“Ah, that explains,” said Mrs Winterbourn; and she went on, without -saying more, to the conservatory, which opened from the drawing-room in -which the party was seated. They were silenced, though they had not -been saying anything very bad of her. The sudden appearance of the -person discussed always does make a certain impression. The gentlemen of -the group dispersed, the ladies began to talk of something else. -Frances, very shy, yet burdened with a great desire to say or do -something towards the consolation of those who were, as she had said, in -such trouble, went after Mrs Winterbourn. She had seated herself where -the big palms and other exotic foliage were thickest, out of sight of -the drawing-room, close to the open doorway that led to the lawn and the -sea. Frances was a little surprised that the wife of a man who was -thought to be dying should leave his bedside at all; but she reflected -that to prevent breaking down, and thus being no longer of any use to -the patient, it was the duty of every nurse to take a certain amount of -rest and fresh air. She felt, however, more and more timid as she -approached. Mrs Winterbourn had not the air of a nurse. She was dressed -in her usual way, with her usual ornaments--not too much, but yet enough -to make a tinkle, had she been at the side of a sick person, and -possibly to have disturbed him. Two or three bracelets on a pretty arm -are very pretty things; but they are not very suitable for a sick-nurse. -She was sitting with a book in one hand, leaning her head upon the -other, evidently not reading, evidently very serious. Frances was -encouraged by the downcast face. - -“I hope you will not think me very bold,” she said, the other starting -and turning round at the sound of her voice. “I wanted to ask if I could -help you in any way. I am very good for keeping awake, and I could get -you what you wanted. Oh, I don’t mean that I am good enough to be -trusted as nurse; but if I might sit up with you--in the next room--to -get you what you want.” - -“What do you mean, child?” the young woman said in a quick, startled, -half-offended voice. She was not very much older than Frances, but her -experiences had been very different. She thought offence was meant. Lady -Markham had always been kind to her, which was, she felt, somewhat to -Lady Markham’s own advantage, for Nelly knew that Markham would never -marry so long as her influence lasted, and this was for his mother’s -good. But now it was very possible that Lady Markham was trembling, and -had put her little daughter forward to give a sly stroke. Her tone -softened, however, as she looked up in Frances’ face. It was perhaps -only that the girl was a little simpleton, and meant what she said. “You -think I sit up at night?” she said. “Oh no. I should be of no use. Mr -Winterbourn has his own servant, who knows exactly what to do; and the -doctor is to send a nurse to let Roberts get a little rest. It is very -good of you. Nursing is quite the sort of thing people go in for now, -isn’t it? But, unfortunately, poor Mr Winterbourn can’t bear amateurs, -and I should do no good.” - -She gave Frances a bright smile as she said this, and turned again -towards the scene outside, opening her book at the same time, which was -like a dismissal. But at that moment, to the great surprise of Frances, -Markham appeared without, strolling towards the open door. He came in -when he saw his little sister, nodding to her with a look which stopped -her as she was about to turn away. - -“I am glad you are making friends with Frances,” he said. “How is -Winterbourn now?” - -“I wish everybody would not ask me every two minutes how he is now,” -cried the young wife. “He doesn’t change from one half-hour to another. -Oh, impatient; yes, I am impatient. I am half out of my senses, what -with one thing and another; and here is your sister--your sister--asking -to help me to nurse him! That was all that was wanting, I think, to -drive me quite mad!” - -“I am sure little Fan never thought she would produce such a terrible -result. Be reasonable, Nelly.” - -“Don’t call me Nelly, sir; and don’t tell me to be reasonable. Don’t you -know how they are all talking, these horrible people? Oh, why, why did I -bring him here?” - -“Whatever was the reason, it can’t be undone now,” said Markham. “Come, -Nelly! This is nothing but nerves, you know. You can be yourself when -you please.” - -“Do you know why he talks to me like that before you?” said Mrs -Winterbourn, suddenly turning upon Frances. “It is because he thinks -things are coming to a crisis, and that I shall be compelled----” Here -the hasty creature came to a pause and stared suddenly round her. “Oh, I -don’t know what I am saying, Geoff! They are all talking, talking in -every corner about you and me.” - -“Run away, Fan,” said her brother. “Mrs Winterbourn, you see, is not -well. The best thing for her is to be left in quiet. Run away.” - -“It is you who ought to go away, Markham, and leave her to me.” - -“Oh!” said Markham, with a gleam of amusement, “you set up for that too, -Fan! But I know better how to take care of Nelly than you do. Run away.” - -The consternation with which Frances obeyed this request it would be -difficult to describe. She had not understood the talk in the -drawing-room, and she did not understand this. But it gave her ideas a -strange shock. A woman whose husband was dying, and who was away from -him--who called Markham by his Christian name, and apparently preferred -his ministrations to her own! She would not go back as she came, to -afford the ladies in the drawing-room a new subject for their comments, -but went out instead by the open door, not thinking that the only path -by which she could return indoors led past the window of her mother’s -room, which opened on the lawn round the angle of the house. Lady -Markham was standing there looking out as Frances came in sight. She -knocked upon the window to call her daughter’s attention, and opening it -hurriedly, called her in. “Have you seen Markham?” she said, almost -before Frances could hear. - -“I have left him, this moment.” - -“_You_ have left him. Is he alone, then? Who is with him? Is Nelly -Winterbourn there?” - -Frances could not tell why it was that she disliked to answer. She made -a little assenting movement of her head. - -“It ought not to be,” cried Lady Markham--“not at this moment--at any -other time, if they like, but not now. Don’t you see the difference? -Before, nothing was possible. Now--when at any moment she may be a free -woman, and Markham---- Don’t you see the difference? They should not, -they should not, be together now!” - -Frances stood before her mother, feeling that a claim was made upon her -which she did not even understand, and feeling also a helplessness which -was altogether foreign to her ordinary sensations. She did not -understand, nor wish to understand--it was odious to her to think even -what it could mean. And what could she do? Lady Markham was agitated and -excited--not able to control herself. - -“For I have just seen the doctor,” she cried, “and he says that it is a -question not even of days, but of hours. Good heavens, child! only think -of it,--that such a thing should happen here; and that -Markham--_Markham!_--should have to manage everything. Oh, it is -indecent--there is no other word for it. Go and call him to me. We must -get him to go away.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, “how can I go back? He told me to go and leave -them.” - -“He is a fool,” cried Lady Markham, stamping her foot. “He does not see -how he is committing himself; he does not mind. Oh, what does it matter -what he said to you! Run at once and bring him to me. Say I have -something urgent to tell him. Say--oh, say anything! If Constance had -been here, she would have known.” - -Frances was very sensible to the arrow thus flung at her in haste, -without thought. She was so stung by it, that she turned hastily to do -her mother’s commission at all costs. But before she had taken -half-a-dozen steps, Markham himself appeared, coming leisurely, easily, -with his usual composure, round the corner. “What’s wrong with you, -little un?” he asked. “You are not vexed at what I said to you, Fan? I -couldn’t help it, my dear.” - -“It isn’t that, Markham. It is--mamma.” - -And then Lady Markham, too much excited to wait, came out to join them. -“Do you know the state of affairs, Markham? Does she know? I want you to -go off instantly, without losing a moment, to Southampton, to fetch Dr -Howard. Quick! There is just time to get the boat.” - -“Dr Howard? What is wrong with the man here?” - -“He is afraid of the responsibility--at least I am, Markham. Think--in -your house! Oh yes, my dear, go without delay.” - -Markham paused, and looked at her with his keen little eyes. “Mother, -why don’t you say at once you want to get me out of the way?” - -“I do. I don’t deny it, Markham. But this too. We ought to have another -opinion. Do, for any favour, what I ask you, dear; oh, do it! Oh yes, I -would rather you sent him here, and did not come back with him. But come -back, if you must; only, go, go now.” - -“You think he will be--dead before I could get back? I will telegraph -for Dr Howard, mother; but I will not go away.” - -“You can do no good, Markham--except to make people talk. Oh, for -mercy’s sake, whatever you may do afterwards, go now.” - -“I will go and telegraph--with pleasure,” he said. - -Lady Markham turned and took Frances’ arm, as he left them. “I think I -must give in now altogether,” she cried. “All is going wrong with me. -First Con, and then my boy. For now I see what will happen. And you -don’t know, you can’t think what Markham has been to me. Oh, he has been -everything to me! And now--I know what will happen now.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, trembling. She wanted to say that little as she -herself was, she was one who would never forsake her mother. But she was -so conscious that Lady Markham’s thoughts went over her head and took no -note of her, that the words were stifled on her lips. “He said to me -once that he could never--leave you,” she said, faltering, though it was -not what she meant to say. - -“He said to you once----? Then he has been thinking of it; he has been -discussing the question?” Lady Markham said with bitterness. She leant -heavily upon Frances’ arm, but not with any tender appreciation of the -girl’s wistful desire to comfort her. “That means,” she said, “that I -can never desert him. I must go now and get rid of all this excitement, -and put on a composed face, and tell the people that they may go away if -they like. It will be the right thing for them to go away. But I can’t -stay here with death in the house, and take a motherly care of--of that -girl, whom I never trusted--whom Markham---- And she will marry him -within the year. I know it.” - -Frances made a little outcry of horror, being greatly disturbed--“Oh no, -no!” without any meaning, for she indeed knew nothing. - -“No! How can you say No?--when you are quite in ignorance. I can’t tell -you what Markham would wish--to be let alone, most likely, if they would -let him alone. But she will do it. She always was headstrong; and now -she will be rich. Oh, what a thing it is altogether--like a thunderbolt -out of a clear sky. Who could have imagined, when we came down here so -tranquilly, with nothing unusual---- If I thought of any change at all, -it was perhaps that Claude--whom, by the way, you must not be rude to, -Frances--that Claude might perhaps---- And now, here is everything -unsettled, and my life turned upside down.” - -What did she hope that Claude would have done? Frances’ brain was all -perplexed. She had plunged into a sudden sea of troubles, without -knowing even what the wild elements were that lashed the placid waters -into fury and made the sky dark all around. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -The crisis, however, was averted--“mercifully,” as Lady Markham said. Dr -Howard from Southampton--whom she had thought of only by chance, on the -spur of the moment, as a way of getting rid of Markham--produced some -new lights; and in reality was so successful with the invalid, that he -rallied, and it became possible to remove him by slow stages to his own -house, to die there, which he did in due course, but some time after, -and decorously, in the right way and place. Frances felt herself like a -spectator at a play during all this strange interval, looking on at the -third act of a tragedy, which somehow had got involved in a drawing-room -comedy, with scenes alternating, and throwing a kind of wretched -reflection of their poor humour upon the tableaux of the darker drama. -She thought that she never should forget the countenance of Nelly -Winterbourn as she took her seat beside her husband in the invalid -carriage in which he was conveyed away, and turned to wave a farewell to -the little group which had assembled to watch the departure. Her face -was quivering with a sort of despairing impatience, wretchedness, -self-pity, the miserable anticipations of a living creature tied to one -who was dead--nerves and temper and every part of her being wrought to a -feverish excitement, made half delirious by the prospect, the -possibility, of escape. A wretched sort of spasmodic smile was upon her -lips as she waved her hand to the spectators--those spectators all on -the watch to read her countenance, who, she knew, were as well aware of -the position as herself. Frances was learning the lesson thus set -practically before her with applications of her own. She knew now to a -great extent what it all meant, and why Markham disappeared as soon as -the carriage drove away; while her mother, with an aspect of intense -relief, returned to her guests. “I feel as if I could breathe again,” -Lady Markham said. “Not that I should have grudged anything I could do -for poor dear Nelly; but there is something so terrible in a death in -one’s house.” - -“I quite enter into your feelings, dear--oh, quite!” said Mrs Montague; -“most painful, and most embarrassing besides.” - -“Oh, as for that!” said Lady Markham. “It would have been indeed a great -annoyance and vexation to break up our pleasant party, and put out all -your plans. But one has to submit in such cases. However, I am most -thankful it has not come to that. Poor Mr Winterbourn may last yet--for -months, Dr Howard says.” - -“Dear me; do you think that is to be desired?” said the other, “for poor -Nelly’s sake.” - -“Poor Nelly!” said the young ladies. “Only fancy months! What a terrible -fate!” - -“And yet it was supposed to be a great match for her, a penniless girl!” - -“It was a great match,” said Lady Markham composedly. “And dear Nelly -has always behaved so well. She is an example to many women that have -much less to put up with than she has. Frances, will you see about the -lawn-tennis? I am sure you want to shake off the impression, you poor -girls, who have been _so_ good.” - -“Oh, dear Lady Markham, you don’t suppose we could have gone on laughing -and making a noise while there was such anxiety in the house. But we -shall like a game, now that there is no impropriety----” - -“And we are all so glad,” said the mother, “that there was no occasion -for turning out; for our visits are so dovetailed, I don’t know where we -should have gone--and our house in the hands of the workmen. I, for one, -am very thankful that poor Mr Winterbourn has a little longer to live.” - -Thus, after this singular episode, the ordinary life of the household -was resumed; and though the name of poor Nelly recurred at intervals for -a day or two, there were many things that were of more importance--a -great garden-party, for instance, for which, fortunately, Lady Markham -had not cancelled the invitations; a yachting expedition, and various -other pleasant things. The comments of the company were diverted to -Claude, who, finding Frances more easily convinced than the others that -draughts were to be carefully avoided, sought her out on most occasions, -notwithstanding her plain-speaking about his fancifulness. - -“Perhaps you were right,” he said, “that I think too much about my -health. I shouldn’t wonder if you were quite right. But I have always -been warned that I was very delicate; and perhaps that makes one rather -a bore to one’s friends.” - -“Oh, I hope you will forgive me, Mr Ramsay! I never meant----” - -“There is poor Winterbourn, you see,” said Claude, accepting the broken -apology with a benevolent nod of his head and the mild pathos of a -smile. “He was one of your rash people, never paying any attention to -what was the matter with him. He was quite a well-preserved sort of man -when he married Nelly St John; and now you see what a wreck! By Jove, -though, I shouldn’t like my wife, if I married, to treat me like Nelly. -But I promise you there should be no Markham in my case.” - -“I don’t know what Markham has to do with it,” said Frances with sudden -spirit. - -“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, “perhaps you -don’t know; and so much the better. Never mind about Markham. I should -expect my wife to be with me when I am ill; not to leave me to servants, -to give me my--everything I had to take; and to cheer me up, you know. -Do you think there is anything unreasonable in that?” - -“Oh no, indeed. Of course, if--if--she was fond of you--which of course -she would be, or you would not want to marry her.” - -“Yes,” said Claude. “Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.” - -“I mean,” said Frances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance in -this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, _of course_--there would -be no question of reasonableness. She would just do it by nature. One -never asks if it is reasonable or not.” - -“Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. There is Con, -for instance.” - -“Mr Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about my sister. -Constance, if she were in such a position, would do--what was right.” - -“For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is right--at -least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what you mean by -right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.” - -Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “Are you going to -be married, Mr Ramsay?” in a tone which was half indignant, half amused. - -At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “That is a -question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am, if I -can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving me -_renseignements_, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, as you -say, never ask whether it is reasonable----” - -“Then,” said Frances, recovering something of the sprightliness which -had distinguished her in old days, “you don’t want to marry any one in -particular, but just a wife?” - -“What else could I marry?” he asked in a peevish tone. Then, with a -change of his voice,--“I don’t want to conceal anything from you; and -there is no doubt you must have heard: I was engaged to your sister Con; -but she ran away from me,” he added with pathos. “You must have heard -that.” - -“I do not wonder that you were very fond of her,” cried Frances. “I see -no one so delightful as--she would be if she were here.” - -She had meant to make a simple statement, and say, “No one so delightful -as she;” but paused, remembering that the circumstances had not been to -Constance’s advantage, and that here she would have been in her proper -sphere. - -As for Claude, he was somewhat embarrassed. He said, “Fond is perhaps -not exactly the word. I thought she would have suited me--better than -any one I knew.” - -“If that was all,” said Frances, “you would not mind very much; and I do -not wonder that she came away, for it would be rather dreadful to be -married because a gentleman thought one suited him.” - -“Oh, I don’t mean that would be so--in every case,” cried Claude, with -sudden earnestness. - -“In any case, I think you should never tell the girl’s sister, Mr -Ramsay; it is not a very nice thing to do.” - -“Miss Waring--Frances!--I was not thinking of you as any girl’s sister; -I was thinking of you----” - -“I hope not at all; for it would be a great pity to waste any more -thoughts on our family,” said Frances. “I have sometimes been a little -vexed that Constance came, for it changed all my life, and took me away -from every one I knew. But I am glad you have told me this, for now I -understand it quite.” She did not rise from where she was seated and -leave him, as he almost hoped she would, making a little quarrel of it, -but sat still, with a composure which Claude felt was much less -complimentary. “Now that I know all about it,” she said, after a little -interval, with a laugh, “I think what you want would be very -unreasonable--and what no woman could do.” - -“You said the very reverse five minutes ago,” he said sulkily. - -“Yes--but I didn’t know what the--what the wages were,” she said with -another laugh. “It is you who are giving me _renseignements_ now.” - -Claude took his complaint next morning to Lady Markham’s room. “She -actually chaffed me--chaffed me, I assure you; though she looks as if -butter would not melt in her mouth.” - -“That is a little vulgar, Claude. If you talk like that to a girl, what -can you expect? Some, indeed, may be rather grateful to you, as showing -how little you look for; but you know I have always told you what you -ought to try to do is to inspire a _grande passion_.” - -“That is what I should like above all things to do,” said the young man; -“but----” - -“But--it would cost too much trouble?” - -“Perhaps; and I am not an impassioned sort of man. Lady Markham, was it -really from me that Constance ran away?” - -“I have told you before, Claude, that was not how it should be spoken -of. She did not run away. She took into her head a romantic idea of -making acquaintance with her father, in which Markham encouraged her. Or -perhaps it was Markham that put it into her head. It is possible--I -can’t tell you--that Markham had already something else in his own head, -and that he had begun to think it would be a good thing to try if other -changes could be made.” - -“What could Markham have in his head? and what changes----” - -“Oh,” she cried, “how can you ask me? I know how you have all been -talking. You speculate, just as I do.” - -“I don’t think so, Lady Markham,” said Claude. “I am sure Markham would -find all that sort of thing a great bore. Of course I know what you -mean. But I don’t think so. I have always told them my opinion. Whatever -may happen, Markham will stick to you.” - -“Poor Markham!” she said, with a quick revulsion of feeling. “After all, -it is a little hard, is it not, that he should have nothing brighter -than that to look to in his life?” - -“Than you?” said Claude. “If you ask my opinion, I don’t think so. I -think he’s a lucky fellow. An old mother, I don’t deny, might be a -bore. An old lady, half blind, never hearing what you say, sitting by -the fire--like the mothers in books, or the Mrs Nickleby kind. But you -are as young and handsome and bright as any of them--keeping everything -right for him, asking nothing. Upon my word, I think he is very well -off. I wish I were in his place.” - -Lady Markham was pleased. Affectionate flattery of this kind is always -sweet to a woman. She laughed, and said he was a gay deceiver. “But, my -dear boy, you will make me think a great deal more of myself than I have -any right to think.” - -“You ought to think more of yourself. And so you really do not think -that Con----? In many ways, dear Lady Markham, I feel that -Con--understood me better than any one else--except you.” - -“I think you are right, Claude,” she said, with a grave face. - -“I am beginning to feel quite sure I am right. When she writes, does she -never say anything about me?” - -“Of course, she always--asks for you.” - -“Is that all? Asking does not mean much.” - -“What more could she say? Of course she knows that she has lost her -place in your affection by her own rashness.” - -“Not lost, Lady Markham. It is not so easy to do that.” - -“It is true. Perhaps I should have said, fears that she has -forfeited--your respect.” - -“After all, she has done nothing wrong,” he said. - -“Nothing wrong; but rash, headstrong, foolish. Oh yes, she has been all -that. It is in the Waring blood!” - -“I think you are a little hard upon her, Lady Markham. By the way, don’t -you think yourself, that with two daughters to marry, and--and all that: -it would be a good thing if Mr Waring--for you must have got over all -your little tiffs long ago--don’t you think that it would be a good -thing if he could be persuaded to--come back?” - -She had watched him with eyes that gleamed from below her dropped -eyelids. She said now, as she had done to Sir Thomas, “I should put no -difficulties in the way, you may be sure.” - -“It would be more respectable,” said Claude. “If getting old is good for -anything, you know, it should make up quarrels; don’t you think so? It -would be a great deal better in every way. And then Markham----” - -“Markham,” she said, “you think, would then be free?” - -“Well--then it wouldn’t matter particularly about Markham, what he did,” -the young man said. - -Lady Markham had borne a great many such assaults in her life as if she -felt nothing: but as a matter of fact she did feel them deeply; and when -a probable new combination was thus calmly set before her, her usual -composure was put to a severe test. She smiled upon Claude, indeed, as -long as he remained with her, and allowed him no glimpse of her real -feelings; but when he was gone, felt for a moment her heart fail her. -She had, even in the misfortunes which had crossed her life, secured -always a great share of her own way. Many people do this even when they -suffer most. Whether they get it cheerfully or painfully, they yet get -it, which is always something. Waring, when, in his fastidious -impatience and irritation, because he did not get his, he had flung -forth into the unknown, and abandoned her and her life altogether, did -still, though at the cost of pain and scandal, help his wife to this -triumph, that she departed from none of her requirements, and remained -mistress of the battlefield. She had her own way, though he would not -yield to it. But as a woman grows older, and becomes less capable of -that pertinacity which is the best means of securing her own way, and -when the conflicting wills against hers are many instead of being only -one, the state of the matter changes. Constance had turned against her, -when she was on the eve of an arrangement which would have been so very -much for Con’s good. And Frances, though so submissive in some points, -would not be so, she felt instinctively, on others. And Markham--that -was the most fundamental shock of all--Markham might possibly in the -future have prospects and hopes independent altogether of his mother’s, -in antagonism with all her arrangements. This, which she had not -anticipated, went to her heart. And when she thought of what had been -suggested to her with so much composure--the alteration of her whole -life, the substitution of her husband, from whom she had been so long -parted, who did not think as she did nor live as she did for her son, -who, with all his faults, which she knew so well, was yet in sympathy -with her in all she thought and wished and knew--this suggestion made -her sick and faint. It had come, though not with any force, even from -Markham himself. It had come from Sir Thomas, who was one of the oldest -of her friends; and now Claude set it before her in all the forcible -simplicity of commonplace: it would be more respectable! She laughed -almost violently when he left her, but it was a laugh which was not far -from tears. - -“Claude has been complaining of you,” she said to Frances, recovering -herself with an instantaneous effort when her daughter came into the -room; “but I don’t object, my dear. Unless you had found that you could -like him yourself, which would have been the best thing, perhaps--you -were quite right in what you said. So far as Constance is concerned, it -is all that I could wish.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, “you don’t want Constance--you would not let -her--accept _that_?” - -“Accept what? My love, you must not be so emphatic. Accept a life full -of luxury, splendour even, if she likes--and every care forestalled. My -dear little girl, you don’t know anything about the world.” - -Frances pondered for some time before she replied. “Mamma,” she said -again, “if such a case arose--you said that the best thing for me would -have been to have liked--Mr Ramsay. There is no question of that. But if -such a case arose----” - -“Yes, my dear”--Lady Markham took her daughter’s hand in her own, and -looked at her with a smile of pleasure--“I hope it will some day. And -what then?” - -“Would you--think the same about me? Would you consider the life full of -luxury, as you said--would you desire for me the same thing as for -Constance?” - -Lady Markham held the girl’s hand clasped in both of hers; the soft -caressing atmosphere about her enveloped Frances. “My dear,” she said, -“this is a very serious question. You are not asking me for curiosity -alone?” - -“It is a very serious question,” Frances said. - -And the mother and daughter looked at each other closely, with more -meaning, perhaps, than had as yet been in the eyes of either, -notwithstanding all the excitement of interest in their first meeting. -It was some time before another word was said. Frances saw in her mother -a woman full of determination, very clear as to what she wanted, very -unlikely to be turned from it by softer impulses, although outside she -was so tender and soft; and Lady Markham saw in Frances a girl who was -entirely submissive, yet immovable, whose dove’s eyes had a steady soft -gaze, against which the kindred light of her own had no power. It was a -mutual revelation. There was no conflict, nor appearance of conflict, -between these two, so like each other--two gentle and soft-voiced women, -both full of natural courtesy and disinclination to wound or offend; -both seeing everything around them very clearly from her own, perhaps -limited, point of view; and both feeling that between them nothing but -the absolute truth would do. - -“You trouble me, Frances,” said Lady Markham at length. “When such a -case arises, it will be time enough. In the abstract, I should of course -feel for one as I feel for the other. Nay, stop a little. I should wish -to provide for you, as for Constance, a life of assured comfort,--well, -if you drive me to it--of wealth and all that wealth brings. Assuredly -that is what I should wish.” She gave Frances’ hand a pressure which was -almost painful, and then dropped it. “I hope you have no fancy for -poverty theoretically, like your patron saint,” she added lightly, -trying to escape from the gravity of the question by a laugh. - -“Mother,” said Frances, in a voice which was tremulous and yet steady, -“I want to tell you--I think neither of poverty nor of money. I am more -used, perhaps, to the one than the other. I will do what you wish in -everything--everything else; but----” - -“Not in the one thing which would probably be the only thing I asked of -you,” said Lady Markham, with a smile. She put her hands on Frances’ -shoulders and gave her a kiss upon her cheek. “My dear child, you -probably think this is quite original,” she said; “but I assure you it -is what almost every daughter one time or other says to her parents: -Anything _else_--anything, but---- Happily there is no question between -you and me. Let us wait till the occasion arises. It is always time -enough to fall out.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Nothing happened of any importance before their return to Eaton Square. -Markham, hopping about with a queer sidelong motion he had, his little -eyes screwed up with humorous meaning, seemed to Frances to recover his -spirits after the Winterbourn episode was over, which was the -subject--though that, of course, she did not know--of half the -voluminous correspondence of all the ladies and gentlemen in the house, -whose letters were so important a part of their existence. Before a week -was over, all Society was aware of the fact that Ralph Winterbourn had -been nearly dying at Markham Priory; that Lady Markham was in “a state” -which baffled description, and Markham himself so changed as to be -scarcely recognisable; but that, fortunately, the crisis had been tided -over, and everything was still problematical. But the problem was so -interesting, that one perfumed epistle after another carried it to -curious wits all over the country, and a new light upon the subject was -warmly welcomed in a hundred Easter meetings. What would Markham do? -What would Nelly do? Would their friendship end in the vulgar way, in a -marriage? Would they venture, in face of all prognostications, to keep -it up as a friendship, when there was no longer any reason why it should -not ripen into love? Or would they, frightened by all the inevitable -comments which they would have to encounter, stop short altogether, and -fly from each other? - -Such a “case” is a delightful thing to speculate upon. At the Priory, it -could only be discussed in secret conclave; and though no doubt the -experienced persons chiefly concerned were quite conscious of the -subject which occupied their friends’ thoughts, there was no further -reference made to it between them, and everything went on as it had -always done. The night before their return to town, Markham, in the -solitude of the house, from which all the guests had just departed, -called Frances outside to bear him company while he smoked his -cigarette. He was walking up and down on the lawn in the grey stillness -of a cloudy warm evening, when there was no light to speak of anywhere, -and yet a good deal to be seen through the wavering greyness of sky and -sea. A few stars, very mild and indistinct, looked out at the edges of -the clouds here and there; the great water-line widened and cleared -towards the horizon; and in the far distance, where a deeper greyness -showed the mainland, the gleam of a lighthouse surprised the dark by -slow continual revolutions. There was no moon: something softer, more -seductive than even the moon, was in this absence of light. - -“Well--now they’re gone, what do you think of them, Fan? They’re very -good specimens of the English country-house party--all kinds: the -respectable family, the sturdy old fogy, the rich young man without -health, and the muscular young man without money.” There had been, it is -needless to say, various other members of the party, who, being quite -unimportant to this history, need not be mentioned here. “What do you -think of them, little un? You have your own way of seeing things.” - -“I--like them all well enough, Markham,” without enthusiasm Frances -replied. - -“That is comprehensive at least. So do I, my dear. It would not have -occurred to me to say it; but it is just the right thing to say. They -pull you to pieces almost before your face; but they are not -ill-natured. They tell all sorts of stories about each other----” - -“No, Markham; I don’t think that is just.” - -“----Without meaning any harm,” he went on. “Fan, in countries where -conversation is cultivated, perhaps people don’t talk scandal--I only -say perhaps--but here we are forced to take to it for want of anything -else to say. What did your Giovannis and Giacomos talk of in your -village out yonder?” Markham pointed towards the clear blue-grey line of -the horizon, beyond which lay America, if anything; but he meant -distance, and that was enough. - -“They talked--about the olives, how they were looking, and if it was -going to be a bad or an indifferent year.” - -“And then?” - -“About the _forestieri_, if many were coming, and whether it would be a -good season for the hotels; and about tying up the palms, to make them -ready for Easter,” said Frances, resuming, with a smile about her lips. -“And about how old Pietro’s son had got such a good appointment in the -post-office, and had bought little Nina a pair of earrings as long as -your finger; for he was to marry Nina, you know.” - -“Oh, was he? Go on. I am very much interested. Didn’t they say Mr -Whatever-his-name-is wanted to get out of it, and that there never would -have been any engagement, had not Miss Nina’s mother----?” - -“Oh Markham,” cried Frances in surprise, “how could you possibly know?” - -“I was reasoning from analogy, Fan. Yes, I suppose they do it all the -world over. And it is odd--isn’t it?--that, knowing what they are sure -to say, we ask them to our houses, and put the keys of all our skeleton -cupboards into their hands.” - -“Do you think that is true, that dreadful idea about the skeleton? I am -sure----” - -“What are you sure of, my little dear?” - -“I was going to say, oh Markham, that I was sure, _at home_, we had no -skeleton; and then I remembered----” - -“I understand,” he said kindly. “It was not a skeleton to speak of, Fan. -There is nothing particularly bad about it. If you had met it out -walking, you would not have known it for a skeleton. Let us say a -mystery, which is not such a mouth-filling word.” - -“Sir Thomas told me,” said Frances, with some timidity; “but I am not -sure that I understood. Markham! what was it really about?” - -Her voice was low and diffident, and at first he only shook his head. -“About nothing,” he said; “about--me. Yes, more than anything else, -about me. That is how---- No, it isn’t,” he added, correcting himself. -“I always must have cared for my mother more than for any woman. She has -always been my greatest friend, ever since I can remember anything. We -seem to have been children together, and to have grown up together. I -was everything to her for a dozen years, and then--your father came -between us. He hated me--and I tormented him.” - -“He could not hate you, Markham. Oh no, no!” - -“My little Fan, how can a child like you understand? Neither did I -understand, when I was doing all the mischief. Between twelve and -eighteen I was an imp of mischief, a little demon. It was fun to me to -bait that thin-skinned man, that jumped at everything. The explosion was -fun to me too. I was a little beast. And then I got the mother to myself -again. Don’t kill me, my dear. I am scarcely sorry now. We have had very -good times since, I with my parent, you with yours--till that day,” he -added, flinging away the end of his cigarette, “when mischief again -prompted me to let Con know where he was, which started us all again.” - -“Did you always know where we were?” she asked. Strangely enough, this -story did not give her any angry feeling towards Markham. It was so far -off, and the previous relations of her long-separated father and mother -were as a fairy tale to her, confusing and almost incredible, which she -did not take into account as matter of fact at all. Markham had -delivered these confessions slowly, as they turned and re-turned up and -down the lawn. There was not light enough for either to see the -expression in the other’s face, and the veil of the darkness added to -the softening effect. The words came out in short sentences, interrupted -by that little business of puffing at the cigarette, letting it go out, -stopping to strike a fusee and relight it, which so often forms the -byplay of an important conversation, and sometimes breaks the force of -painful revelations. Frances followed everything with an absorbed but -yet half-dreamy attention, as if the red glow of the light, the -exclamation of impatience when the cigarette was found to have gone out, -the very perfume of the fusee in the air, were part and parcel of it. -And the question she asked was almost mechanical, a part of the business -too, striking naturally from the last thing he had said as sparks flew -from the perfumed light. - -“Not where,” he said. “But I might have known, had I made any attempt to -know. The mother sent her letters through the lawyer, and of course we -could have found out. It was thrust upon me at last by one of those -meddling fools that go everywhere. And then my old demon got possession -of me, and I told Con.” Here he gave a low chuckle, which seemed to -escape him in spite of himself. “I am laughing,” he said--“pay -attention, Fan--at myself. Of course I have learned to be sorry -for--some things--the imp has put me up to; but I can’t get the better -of that little demon--or of this little beggar, if you like it better. -It’s queer phraseology, I suppose; but I prefer the other form.” - -“And what,” said Frances in the same dreamy way, drawn on, she was not -conscious how, by something in the air, by some current of thought which -she was not aware of--“what do you mean to do now?” - -He started from her side as if she had given him a blow. “Do now?” he -cried, with something in his voice that shook off the spell of the -situation, and aroused the girl at once to the reality of things. She -had no guidance of his looks, for, as has been said, she could not see -them; but there was a curious thrill in his voice of present alarm and -consciousness, as if her innocent question struck sharply against some -fact of very different solidity and force from those far-off shadowy -facts which he had been telling her. “Do now? What makes you think I am -going to do anything at all?” - -His voice fell away in a sort of quaver at the end of these words. - -“I do not think it; I--I--don’t think anything, Markham; I--don’t--know -anything.” - -“You ask very pat questions all the same, my little Fan. And you have -got a pair of very good eyes of your own in that little head. And if you -have got any light to throw upon the subject, my dear, produce it; for -I’ll be bothered if I know.” - -Just then, a window opened in the gloom. “Children,” said Lady Markham’s -voice, “are you there? I think I see something like you, though it is so -dark. Bring your little sister in, Markham. She must not catch cold on -the eve of going back to town.” - -“Here is the little thing, mammy. Shall I hand her in to you by the -window? It makes me feel very frisky to hear myself addressed as -children,” he cried, with his chuckle of easy laughter. “Here, Fan; run -in, my little dear, and be put to bed.” - -But he did not go in with her. He kept outside in the quiet cool and -freshness of the night, illuminating the dim atmosphere now and then -with the momentary glow of another fusee. Frances from her room, to -which she had shortly retired, heard the sound, and saw from her windows -the sudden ruddy light a great many times before she went to sleep. -Markham let his cigar go out oftener than she could reckon. He was too -full of thought to remember his cigar. - -They arrived in town when everybody was arriving, when even to Frances, -in her inexperience, the rising tide was visible in the streets, and the -air of a new world beginning, which always marks the commencement of the -season. No doubt it is a new world to many virgin souls, though so stale -and weary to most of those who tread its endless round. To Frances -everything was new; and a sense of the many wonderful things that -awaited her got into the girl’s head like ethereal wine, in spite of -all the grave matters of which she was conscious, which lay under the -surface, and were, if not skeletons in the closet, at least very serious -drawbacks to anything bright that life could bring. Her knowledge of -these drawbacks had been acquired so suddenly, and was so little dulled -by habit, that it dwelt upon her mind much more than family mysteries -usually dwell upon a mind of eighteen. But yet in the rush and -exhilaration of new thoughts and anticipations, always so much more -delicately bright than any reality, she forgot that all was not as -natural, as pleasant, as happy as it seemed. If Lady Markham had any -consuming cares, she kept them shut away under that smiling countenance, -which was as bright and peaceful as the morning. If Markham, on his -side, was perplexed and doubtful, he came out and in with the same -little chuckle of fun, the same humorous twinkle in his eyes. When these -signs of tranquillity are so apparent, the young and ignorant can easily -make up their minds that all is well. And Frances was to be -“presented”--a thought which made her heart beat. She was to be put into -a court-train and feathers,--she who as yet had never worn anything but -the simple frock which she had so pleased herself to think was purely -English in its unobtrusiveness and modesty. She was not quite sure that -she liked the prospect; but it excited her all the same. - -It was early in May, and the train and the court plumes were ready, -when, going out one morning upon some small errand of her own, Frances -met some one whom she recognised, walking slowly along the long line of -Eaton Square. She started at the sight of him, though he did not see -her. He was going along with a strange air of reluctance, yet anxiety, -glancing up at the houses, no doubt looking for Lady Markham’s house, so -absorbed that he neither saw Frances nor was disturbed by the startled -movement she made, which must have caught a less preoccupied eye. She -smiled to herself, after the first start, to see how entirely bent he -was upon finding the house, and how little attention he had to spare for -anything else. He was even more worn and pale, or rather grey, than he -had been when he returned from India, she thought; and there was in him -a slackness, a letting-go of himself, a weary look in his step and -carriage, which proved, Frances thought, that the Riviera had done -George Gaunt little good. - -For it was certainly George Gaunt, still in his loose grey Indian -clothes, looking like a man dropped from another hemisphere, -investigating the numbers on the doors as if he but vaguely comprehended -the meaning of them. But that there was in him that unmistakable air of -soldier which no mufti can quite disguise, he might have been the -Ancient Mariner in person, looking for the man whose fate it is to leave -all the wedding-feasts of the world in order to hear that tale. What -tale could young Gaunt have to tell? For a moment it flashed across the -mind of Frances that he might be bringing bad news, that “something -might have happened,”--that rapid conclusion to which the imagination is -so ready to jump. An accident to her father or Constance? so bad, so -terrible, that it could not be trusted to a letter, that he had been -sent to break the news to them? - -She had passed him by this time, being shy, in her surprise, of -addressing the stranger all at once; but now she paused, and turned with -a momentary intention of running after him and entreating him to tell -her the worst. But then Frances recollected that this was impossible; -that with the telegraph in active operation, no one would employ such a -lingering way of conveying news; and went on again, with her heart -beating quicker, with a heightened colour, and a restrained impatience -and eagerness of which she was half ashamed. No, she would not turn back -before she had done her little business. She did not want either the -stranger himself or any one else to divine the flutter of pleasant -emotion, the desire she had to see and speak with the son of her old -friends. Yes, she said to herself, the son of her old friends--he who -was the youngest, whom Mrs Gaunt used to talk of for hours, whose -praises she was never weary of singing. - -Frances smiled and blushed to herself as she hurried--perceptibly -hurried--about her little affairs. Kind Mrs Gaunt had always had a -secret longing to bring these two together. Frances would not turn -back; but she quickened her pace, almost running--as near running as was -decorous in London--to the lace-shop, to give the instructions which she -had been charged with. No doubt, she said to herself, she would find him -there when she got back. She had forgotten, perhaps, the fact that -George Gaunt had given very little of his regard to her when he met her, -though she was his mother’s favourite, and had no eyes but for -Constance. This was not a thing to dwell in the mind of a girl who had -no jealousy in her, and who never supposed herself to be half as worthy -of anybody’s attention as Constance was. But, anyhow, she forgot it -altogether, forgot to ask herself what in this respect might have -happened in the meantime; and with her heart beating full of innocent -eagerness, pleasure, and excitement, full of the hope of hearing about -everybody, of seeing again through his eyes the dear little well-known -world, which seemed to lie so far behind her, hastened through her -errands, and turned quickly home. - -To her great surprise, as she came back, turning round the corner into -the long line of pavement, she saw young Gaunt once more approaching -her. He looked even more listless and languid now, like a man who had -tried to do some duty and failed, and was escaping, glad to be out of -the way of it. This was a great deal to read in a man’s face; but -Frances was highly sympathetic, and divined it, knowing in herself many -of those devices of shy people, which shy persons divine. Fortunately -she saw him some way off, and had time to overcome her own shyness and -take the initiative. She went up to him fresh as the May morning, -blushing and smiling, and put out her hand. “Captain Gaunt?” she said. -“I knew I could not be mistaken. Oh, have you just come from Bordighera? -I am so glad to see any one from home!” - -“Do you call it home, Miss Waring? Yes, I have just come. I--I--have a -number of messages, and some parcels, and---- But I thought you might -perhaps be out of town, or busy, and that it would be best to send -them.” - -“Is that why you are turning your back on my mother’s house? or did you -not know the number? I saw you before, looking--but I did not like to -speak.” - -“I--thought you might be out of town,” he repeated, taking no notice of -her question; “and that perhaps the post----” - -“Oh no,” cried Frances, whose shyness was of the cordial kind. “Now you -must come back and see mamma. She will want to hear all about Constance. -Are they all well, Captain Gaunt? Of course you must have seen them -constantly--and Constance. Mamma will want to hear everything.” - -“Miss Waring is very well,” he said with a blank countenance, from which -he had done his best to dismiss all expression. - -“And papa? and dear Mrs Gaunt, and the colonel, and everybody? Oh, there -is so much that letters can’t tell. Come back now with me. My mother -will be so glad to see you, and Markham; you know Markham already.” - -Young Gaunt made a feeble momentary resistance. He murmured something -about an engagement, about his time being very short; but as he did so, -turned round languidly and went with her, obeying, as it seemed, the -eager impulse of Frances rather than any will of his own. - -END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 2 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61443-0.txt or 61443-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61443/ - -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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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/61443-0.zip b/old/61443-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9a02211..0000000 --- a/old/61443-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61443-h.zip b/old/61443-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d2bb31b..0000000 --- a/old/61443-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/61443-h/61443-h.htm b/old/61443-h/61443-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index a61af96..0000000 --- a/old/61443-h/61443-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6152 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" -"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> - <head> <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> -<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> -<title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of A House Divided -Against Itself; vol. 2 of 3, by Mrs Oliphant. -</title> -<style type="text/css"> - p {margin-top:.2em;text-align:justify;margin-bottom:.2em;text-indent:4%;} - -.c {text-align:center;text-indent:0%;} - -small {font-size: 70%;} - -.fint {text-align:center;text-indent:0%; -margin-top:2em;} - -.lftspc {margin-left:.25em;} - -.nind {text-indent:0%;} - - h1 {margin-top:5%;text-align:center;clear:both; -font-weight:normal;word-spacing:.1em;} - - h2 {margin-top:4%;margin-bottom:2%;text-align:center;clear:both; - font-size:100%;font-weight:normal;} - - hr.full {width: 60%;margin:2% auto 2% auto;border-top:1px solid black; -padding:.1em;border-bottom:1px solid black;border-left:none;border-right:none;} - - table {margin-top:2%;margin-bottom:2%;margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;border:none;} - - body{margin-left:4%;margin-right:6%;background:#ffffff;color:black;font-family:"Times New Roman", serif;font-size:medium;} - -a:link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - - link {background-color:#ffffff;color:blue;text-decoration:none;} - -a:visited {background-color:#ffffff;color:purple;text-decoration:none;} - -a:hover {background-color:#ffffff;color:#FF0000;text-decoration:underline;} - -.smcap {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:100%;} - - img {border:none;} - -.pagenum {font-style:normal;position:absolute; -left:95%;font-size:55%;text-align:right;color:gray; -background-color:#ffffff;font-variant:normal;font-style:normal;font-weight:normal;text-decoration:none;text-indent:0em;} -@media print, handheld -{.pagenum - {display: none;} - } -</style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 2 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. 2 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61443] - -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_XVII">Chapter: XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"> XXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"> XXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"> XXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"> XXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"> XXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"> XXX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"> XXXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"> XXXII.</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. II.<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_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Yes</span>, I hope you will come and see me often. Oh yes, I shall miss my -sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa. Good night. Good -night, Captain Gaunt. No; I don’t sketch; that was Frances. I don’t know -the country either. It was my sister who knew it. I am quite ignorant -and useless. Good night.”</p> - -<p>Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of his only -remaining companion. He heard her come in afterwards with a step more -distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried farther. He said to -himself that everything was more distinct about this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> girl, and he was -glad that she was coming, glad of some relief from the depression which -overcame him against his will. She came across one room after another, -and out upon the loggia, throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped -chair. It did not occur to him that she was unaware of his presence, and -he was surprised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, there -could be no doubt why it was that Constance did not speak. There was no -loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, which it was -impossible to mistake. She said, after a moment, to herself, “What a -fool I am!” But even this reflection did not stem the tide. A sensation -of utter solitude had seized upon her. She was abandoned, among -strangers; and though she had so much experience of the world, it was -not of this world that Constance had any knowledge. Had she been left -alone among a new tribe of people unknown to her, she would not have -been afraid! Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the -solitude, broken only by the occasional appearance of these rustic -companions; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart -upon her, an entirely undesired gift; the anxious mother, who was about -to mount guard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in the -background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had altogether -receded from Constance, and left her with such companions alone? She was -not thinking of her father, neither of himself nor of his possible -presence, which was of little importance to her. After a while she sat -upright and passed her handkerchief quickly over her face. “It is my own -fault,” she said, still to herself; “I might have known.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t see, Constance, that I am here.”</p> - -<p>She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. “Oh, are you there, -papa? No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t think of any one being here. Well, -they are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, as you divined. She -bore up very well; but, of course, it was a little sad for her, leaving -everything she knows.”</p> - -<p>“You were crying a minute ago, Constance.”</p> - -<p>“Was I? Oh, well, that was nothing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> Girls cry, and it doesn’t mean -much. You know women well enough to know that.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know women—enough to say the ordinary things about them,” said -Waring; “but perhaps I don’t know you, which is of far more consequence -just now.”</p> - -<p>“There is not much in me to know,” said the girl in a light voice. “I am -just like other girls. I am apt to cry when I see people crying. Frances -sobbed—like a little foolish thing; for why should she cry? She is -going to see the world. Did you ever feel, when you came here first, a -sort of horror seize upon you, as if—as if—as if you were lost in a -savage wilderness, and would never see a human face again?”</p> - -<p>“No; I cannot say I ever felt that.”</p> - -<p>“No, to be sure,” cried Constance. “What ridiculous nonsense I am -talking! A savage wilderness! with all these houses about, and the -hotels on the beach. I mean—didn’t you feel as if you would like to run -violently down a steep place into the sea?” Then she stopped, and -laughed. “It was the swine that did that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling matters; and -yet I understand you,” he said gravely. “You have made a mistake. You -thought you were philosopher enough to give up the world; and it turns -out that you are not. But you need not cry, for it is not too late. You -can change your mind.”</p> - -<p>“I—change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I would give -them the triumph of supposing that I could not do without them, that I -was obliged to go back? Not for the world.”</p> - -<p>“I understand the sentiment,” he said. “Still, between these two -conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I do not -see any middle course.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, there is a middle course. I can make myself very comfortable -here; and that is what I mean to do. Papa, if you had not found it out, -I should not have told you. I hope you are not offended?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, I am not offended,” he said, with a short laugh. “It is perhaps -a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for what gives you -so little satisfaction. That is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> worst of it; these mistakes affect -so many others besides one’s self.”</p> - -<p>Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this reproof; -but she made no immediate reply. After a while: “Frances will be a -little strange at first; but she will like it by-and-by; and it is only -right she should have her share,” she said softly. “I have been -wondering,” she went on, with a laugh that was somewhat forced, “whether -mamma will respect her individuality at all; or if she will put her -altogether into my place? I wonder if—that man I told you of, papa——”</p> - -<p>“Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll. -Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it; -and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so -docile—and so obedient——”</p> - -<p>“You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or -anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her -feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose -to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.”</p> - -<p>Waring’s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “I hope,” he said, “that I -am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a -lady.”</p> - -<p>“You mean me!” she cried, breathless. “Oh, I can——” But here she -stopped. “Papa,” she resumed, “what good will it do us to quarrel? I -don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I -am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love—— Oh, I think you might be -good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know -what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.”</p> - -<p>She went to him quickly, and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried. -Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but -after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm -round her, and said a few soothing words.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> “You may be good for a great -deal, if you choose,” he said; “and if you will believe me, my dear, you -will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities -than Frances; you are much better educated than she is—at least I -suppose so, for she was not educated at all.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t expect to be -amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous tone.</p> - -<p>He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether -he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. “You -are not complimentary,” he said. “What I mean is, that if you sit still -and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable; -whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the -situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of -it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and -went back to her chair. “I thought, perhaps, you meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> something more -positive. There are perhaps possibilities: Frances would have thought it -wrong to look out for amusement—that must have been because you trained -her so.”</p> - -<p>“Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. -It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more -delight than others.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes,” she cried; “that is like me. Some people are more alive than -others; that is what you mean, papa.”</p> - -<p>“I am not sure that it is what I mean; but if you like to take it so, I -have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to live, Constance. -You will find it a great deal more amusing than to mope; and it will be -much pleasanter to me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the -same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances’ way; but still I -will take your advice, papa. I am sure you are right in what you say.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think so, my dear. If you cannot have everything you -want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Then I will be a true philosopher,” she said, with a laugh. The laugh -was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a -little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. “But I must -not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you -like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her -<i>menu</i>, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I -knew all about it. By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should -like to have a piano, if I might.”</p> - -<p>“That will not be very difficult,” he said. “Can you play?”</p> - -<p>At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored. -“You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, papa; you have quite -restored me to myself. I can’t knit you socks, like Frances; and I am -not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether -devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other. Good -night.”</p> - -<p>“This is sudden,” he said. “Good night, if you think it is time for that -ceremony.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations -to make in my room, now that—now that—at present when I am quite -settled and see my way.”</p> - -<p>He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of -very little consequence. Indeed it was perhaps well that she should go -and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the -day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there -was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had -ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which -Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost -grateful to Constance for taking herself away. He thought a little of -Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had -ever taken—and such a journey, away from everything and everybody she -knew. Poor little Fan! he thought a little about her; but he thought a -great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that -peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> capable of -disturbance? The circumstances were all very different now. Frances, who -would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her -mother’s companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to -escape from the companionship of which he had given up the world and -(almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be -his companion, would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and -everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, -would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that -dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which -makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was -impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant -witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner, -the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this -thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn -Frances that her father was not to be discussed with my lady. But what -was the use of saying anything, when letters would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> come and go -continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled -to put up with it, though nothing could be more unpleasant. If these -girls had been boys, this would not have happened. It was perhaps the -first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys -were far more objectionable to his fine taste than girls, gave more -trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present -circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less -embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that unprofitable -exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all -cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him -perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would -think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would -require that he should reply. But this, except once or twice, perhaps, -to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him -to do.</p> - -<p>Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She -had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being high-bred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> and -courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she -had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have -touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an -irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with -that intention of self-martyrdom with which so many good people -exasperate their neighbours. She would have been quite as comfortable in -the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was -safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had -set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no -longer the impress of Frances’ mind, but of her own. She took down a -number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly -pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have -supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The -depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was -over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any -longer possible, did not return at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> first. Her father’s words, which she -understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of -amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the -fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them -to him to justify herself. “Frances does not require so much amusement -as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight -than another.” She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much -glee, laughing to herself under her breath: “If you cannot get what you -want, you must take what you can get.” How astounded he would be if it -should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas—which were -so true! Her father’s arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did -not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind -when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this -desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw -that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word, -that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one -would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way -for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a -strong unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham’s face -disappear, and realised that he was gone, actually gone, and had left -her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her -young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest.</p> - -<p>After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her -father, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated -herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole -matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten -o’clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a -succession of entertainments under her mother’s wing; but she had -nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old -chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to -bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still -audible without—people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone -benches on the Punto, just those same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> delights of society which happy -people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But -Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were -foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise -under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to -go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky -spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances -rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, -hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that -little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance -regretting her village. Oh, if they could but have changed places! To -think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night air blowing in -her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the -morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep -along, then Paris, London, at last! She shut the <i>persiani</i> almost -violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls -which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> felt -like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts -and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prison, -and never more to go free.</p> - -<p>But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable -sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang -up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her -father had said: “If you cannot get what you want, you must take what -you can get.” There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this -arid place. She had her father’s sanction for making use of her -opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a -necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as -she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her -sister’s bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken -her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the -corners of her mouth; although, after all, the thought of the travellers -came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying -herself to sleep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Captain Gaunt</span> called next day to bring, he said, a message from his -mother. She sent Mr Waring a newspaper which she thought he might like -to see, an English weekly newspaper, which some of her correspondents -had sent her, in which there was an article—— He did not give a very -clear account of this, nor make it distinctly apparent why Waring should -be specially interested; and as a matter of fact, the newspaper found -its way to the waste-paper basket, and interested nobody. But, no doubt, -Mrs Gaunt’s intentions had been excellent. When the young soldier -arrived, there was a carriage at the door, and Constance had her hat on. -“We are going,” she said, “to San Remo, to see about a piano. Do you -know San Remo? Oh, I forgot you are as much a stranger as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> am; you -don’t know anything. What a good thing that there are two ignorant -persons! We will keep each other in countenance, and they will be -compelled to make all kinds of expeditions to show us everything.”</p> - -<p>“That will be a wonderful chance for me,” said the young man, “for -nobody would take so much trouble for me alone.”</p> - -<p>“How can you tell that? Miss Tasie, I should think, would be an -excellent cicerone,” said Constance. She said it with a light laugh of -suggestion, meaning to imply, though, of course, she had <i>said</i> nothing, -that Tasie would be too happy to put herself at Captain Gaunt’s -disposition; a suggestion which he, too, received with a laugh—for this -is one of the points upon which both boys and girls are always -ungenerous.</p> - -<p>“And failing Miss Tasie,” said Constance, “suppose you come with papa -and me? They say it is a pretty drive. They say, of course, that -everything here is lovely, and that the Riviera is paradise. Do you find -it so?”</p> - -<p>“I can fancy circumstances in which I should find it so,” said the young -soldier.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; every one can do that. I can fancy circumstances in which Bond -Street would be paradise—oh, very easily! It is not far from paradise -at any time.”</p> - -<p>“That is a heaven of which I know very little, Miss Waring.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, then, you must learn. The true Elysian fields are in London in May. -If you don’t know that, you can form no idea of happiness. An exile from -all delights gives you the information, and you may be sure it is true.”</p> - -<p>“Why, then, Miss Waring, if you think so——”</p> - -<p>“Am I here? Oh, that is easily explained. I have a sister.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I understand you have heard a great deal about my sister. I suffer -here from being compared with her. I am not nearly so good, so wise, as -Frances. But is that my fault, Captain Gaunt? You are impartial; you are -a new-comer. If I could, I would, be as nice as Frances, don’t you -believe?”</p> - -<p>The young man gave Constance a look, which, indeed, she expected, and -said with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> confusion, “I don’t see—any need for improvement,” and -blushed as near crimson as was possible over the greenish brown of his -Indian colour.</p> - -<p>Constance for her part did not blush. She laughed, and made him an -almost imperceptible curtsey. The ways of flirtation are not original, -and all the parallels of the early encounters might be stereotyped, as -everybody knows.</p> - -<p>“You are very amiable,” she said; “but then you don’t know Frances, and -your opinion, accordingly, is less valuable. I did not ask you, however, -to believe me to be equal to my sister, but only to believe that I would -be as nice if I could. However, all that is no explanation. We have a -mother, you know, in England. We are, unfortunately, that sad thing, a -household divided against itself.”</p> - -<p>Captain Gaunt was not prepared for such confidences. He grew still a -little browner with embarrassment, and muttered something about being -very sorry, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is not very much to be sorry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> about. Papa enjoys himself in -his way here, and mamma is very happy at home. The only thing is that we -must each have our turn, you know—that is only fair. So Frances has -gone to mamma, and here am I in Bordighera. We are each dreadfully out -of our element. Her friends condemn me, to begin with, as if it were my -fault that I am not like her; and my friends, perhaps—— But no; I -don’t think so. Frances is so good, so nice, so everything a girl ought -to be.”</p> - -<p>At this she laughed softly again; and young Gaunt’s consciousness that -his mother’s much vaunted Frances was the sort of girl to please old -ladies rather than young men, a prim, little, smooth, correct maiden, -with not the least “go” in her, took additional force and certainty. -Whereas—— But he had no words in which to express his sense of the -advantages on the other side.</p> - -<p>“You must find it,” he said, knowing nothing more original to say, -“dreadfully dull living here.”</p> - -<p>“I have not found anything as yet; I have only just come. I am no more -than a few days<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> older than you are. We can compare notes as time goes -on. But perhaps you don’t mean to stay very long in these abodes of the -blest?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that I did intend it. But I shall stay now as long as ever -I can,” said the young man. Then—for he was shy—he added hastily, “It -is a long time since I have seen my people, and they like to have me.”</p> - -<p>“Naturally. But you need not have spoiled what looked like a very pretty -compliment by adding that. Perhaps you didn’t mean it for a compliment? -Oh, I don’t mind at all. It is much more original, if you didn’t mean -it. Compliments are such common coin. But I don’t pretend to despise -them, as some girls do; and I don’t like to see them spoiled,” Constance -said seriously.</p> - -<p>The young man looked at her with consternation. After a while, his -moustache expanded into a laugh, but it was a confused laugh, and he did -not understand. Still less did he know how to reply. Constance had been -used to sharper wits, who took her at half a word; and she was half -angry to be thus obliged to explain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We are going to San Remo, as I told you,” she said. “I am waiting for -my father. We are going to look for a piano. Frances is not musical, so -there is no piano in the house. You must come too, and give your advice. -Oh, are you ready, papa? Captain Gaunt, who does not know San Remo, and -who does know music, is coming with us to give us his advice.”</p> - -<p>The young soldier stammered forth that to go to San Remo was the thing -he most desired in the world. “But I don’t think my advice will be good -for much,” he said, conscientiously. “I do a little on the violin; but -as for pretending to be a judge of a piano——”</p> - -<p>“Come; we are all ready,” said Constance, leading the way.</p> - -<p>Waring had to let the young fellow precede him, to see him get into the -carriage without any articulate murmur. As a matter of fact, a sort of -stupor seized the father, altogether unaccustomed to be the victim of -accidents. Frances might have lived by his side till she was fifty -before she would have thought of inviting a stranger to be of their -party—a stranger, a young man, which was a class of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> being with which -Waring had little patience, a young soldier, proverbially frivolous, and -occupied with foolish matters. Young Gaunt respectfully left to his -senior the place beside Constance; but he placed himself opposite to -her, and kept his eyes upon her with a devout attention, which Waring -would have thought ridiculous had he not been irritated by it. The young -fellow was a great deal too much absorbed to contribute much to the -amusement of the party; and it irritated Waring beyond measure to see -his eyes gleam from under his eyebrows, opening wider with delight, half -closing with laughter, the ends of his moustache going up to his ears. -Waring, an impartial spectator, was not so much impressed by his -daughter’s wit. He thought he had heard a great deal of the same before, -or even better, surely better, for he could recollect that he had in his -day been charmed by a similar treatment, which must have been much -lighter in touch, much less commonplace in subject, because—he was -charmed. Thus we argue in our generations. In the meantime, young Gaunt, -though he had not been without some experi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span>ence, looked at Constance -from under his brows, and listened as if to the utterances of the gods. -If only they could have had it all to themselves; if only the old father -had been out of the way!</p> - -<p>The sunshine, the sea, the beautiful colour, the unexpected vision round -every corner of another and another picturesque cluster of towns and -roofs; all that charm and variety which give to Italy above every -country on earth the admixture of human interest, the endless chain of -association which adds a grace to natural beauty, made very little -impression upon this young pair. She would have been amused and -delighted by the exercise of her own power, and he would have been -enthralled by her beauty, and what he considered her wit and high -spirits, had their progress been along the dullest streets. It was only -Waring’s eyes, disgusted by the prospect before him of his daughter’s -little artifices, and young Gaunt’s imbecile subjection, which turned -with any special consciousness to the varying blues of the sea, to the -endless developments of the landscape.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> Flirtation is one of the last -things in the world to brook a spectator. Its little absurdities, which -are so delightful to the actors in the drama, and which at a distance -the severest critic may smile at and forgive, excite the wrath of a too -close looker-on, in a way quite disproportioned to their real -offensiveness. The interchange of chatter which prevents, as that -observer would say, all rational conversation, the attempts to charm, -which are so transparent, the response of silly admiration, which is -only another form of vanity—how profoundly sensible we all are of their -folly! Had Constance taken as much pains to please her father, he would, -in all probability, have yielded altogether to the spell; but he was -angry, ashamed, furious, that she should address those wiles to the -young stranger, and saw through him with a clearsightedness which was -exasperating. It was all the more exasperating that he could not tell -what she meant by it. Was it possible that she had already formed an -inclination towards this tawny young stranger? Had his bilious hues -affected her imagination? Love<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> at first sight is a very respectable -emotion, and commands in many cases both sympathy and admiration. But no -man likes to see the working of this sentiment in a woman who belongs to -him. Had Constance fallen in love? He grew angry at the very suggestion, -though breathed only in the recesses of his own mind. A girl who had -been brought up in the world, who had seen all kinds of people, was it -possible that she should fall a victim in a moment to the attractions of -a young nobody—a young fellow who knew nothing but India? That he -should be subjected, was simple enough; but Constance! Waring’s brow -clouded more and more. He kept silent, taking no part in the talk, and -the young fools did not so much as remark it, but went on with their own -absurdity more and more.</p> - -<p>The transformation of a series of little Italian municipalities, -although in their nature more towns than villages, rendered less rustic -by the traditions of an exposed coast, and many a crisis of -self-defence, into little modern towns full of hotels and tourists, is -neither a pleas<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span>ant nor a lovely process. San Remo in the old days, -before Dr Antonio made it known to the world, lay among its -olive-gardens on the edge of the sea, which grew bluer and bluer as it -crept to the feet of the human master of the soil, a delight to behold, -a little picture which memory cherished. Wide promenades flanked with -big hotels, with conventional gardens full of green bushes, and a kiosk -for the band, make a very different prospect now. But then, in the old -days, there could have been no music-sellers with pianos to let or sell; -no famous English chemist with coloured bottles; no big shops in which -travellers could be tempted. Constance forgot Captain Gaunt when she -found herself in this atmosphere of the world. She began to remember -things she wanted. “Papa, if you don’t despise it too much, you must let -me do a little shopping,” she said. She wanted a hat for the sun. She -wanted some eau-de-Cologne. She wanted just to run into the jeweller’s -to see if the coral was good, to see if there were any peasant-ornaments -which would be characteristic. At all this her father smiled some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span>what -grimly, taking it as a part of the campaign into which his daughter had -chosen to enter for the overthrow of the young soldier. But Constance -was perfectly sincere, and had forgotten her campaign in the new and -warmer interest.</p> - -<p>“So long as you do not ask me to attend you from shop to shop,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh no; Captain Gaunt will come,” said Constance.</p> - -<p>Captain Gaunt was not a victim who required many wiles. He was less -amusing than she had hoped, in so far that he had given in, in an -incredibly short space of time. He was now in a condition to be trampled -on at her pleasure, and this was unexciting. A longer resistance would -have been much more to Constance’s mind. Captain Gaunt accompanied her -to all the shops. He helped her with his advice about the piano, bending -his head over her as she ran through a little air or two, and struck a -few chords on one after the other of the music-seller’s stock. They were -not very admirable instruments, but one was found that would do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You can bring your violin,” Constance said; “we must try to amuse -ourselves a little.” This was before her father left them, and he heard -it with a groan.</p> - -<p>Waring took a silent walk round the bay while the purchases went on. He -thought of past experiences, of the attraction which a shop has for -women. Frances, no doubt, after a little of her mother’s training, would -be the same. She would find out the charms of shopping. He had not even -her return to look forward to, for she would not be the same Frances who -had left him, when she came back. <i>When</i> she came back?—if she ever -came back. The same Frances, never; perhaps not even a changed Frances. -Her mother would quickly see what an advantage she had in getting the -daughter whom her husband had brought up. She would not give her back; -she would turn her into a second Constance. There had been a time when -Waring had concluded that Constance was amusing and Frances dull; but it -must be remembered that he was under provocation now. If she had been -amusing, it had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> been for him. She had exerted herself to please a -commonplace, undistinguished boy, with an air of being indifferent to -everything else, which was beyond measure irritating to her father. And -now she had got scent of shops, and would never be happy save when she -was rushing from one place to another—to Mentone, to Nice perhaps, -wherever her fancied wants might lead her. Waring discussed all this -with himself as he rambled along, his nerves all set on edge, his taste -revolted. Flirtations and shops—was he to be brought to this? he who -had been free from domestic encumbrance, who had known nothing for so -many years but a little ministrant, who never troubled him, who was -ready when he wanted her, but never put forth herself as a restraint or -an annoyance. He had advised Constance to take what good she could find -in her life; but he had never imagined that this was the line she would -take.</p> - -<p>The drive home was scarcely more satisfactory. Young Gaunt had got a -little courage by the episode of the shops. He ventured to tell her of -the trifles he had brought with him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> from India, and to ask if Miss -Waring would care to see them; and he described to her the progress he -had made with his violin, and what his attainments were in music. -Constance told him that the best thing he could do was to bring the said -violin and all his music, so that they might see what they could do -together. “If you are not too far advanced for me,” she said with a -laugh. “Come in the morning, when we shall not be interrupted.”</p> - -<p>Her father listened, but said nothing. His imagination immediately set -before him the tuning and scraping, the clang of the piano, the shriek -of the fiddle, and he himself only two rooms off, endeavouring in vain -to collect his thoughts and do his work! Mr Waring’s work was not of the -first importance, but still it was his work, and momentous to him. He -bore, however, a countenance unmoved, if very grave, and even endured -without a word the young man’s entrance with them, the consultation -about where the piano was to stand, and tea afterwards in the loggia. He -did not himself want any tea; he left the young people to enjoy this -refreshment together while he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> retired to his bookroom. But with only -two rooms between, and with his senses quickened by displeasure, he -heard their voices, the laughter, the continual flow of talk, even the -little tinkle of the teacups—every sound. He had never been disturbed -by Frances’ tea; but then, except Tasie Durant, there had been nobody to -share it, no son from the bungalow, no privileged messenger sent by his -mother. Mrs Gaunt’s children, of whom she talked continually, had always -been a nuisance, except to the sympathetic soul of Frances. But who -could have imagined the prominence which they had assumed now?</p> - -<p>Young Gaunt did not go away until shortly before dinner; and Constance, -after accompanying him to the anteroom, went along the corridor singing, -to her own room, to change her dress. Though her room (Frances’ room -that was) was at the extremity of the suite, her father heard her light -voice running on in a little operatic air all the time she made her -toilet. Had it been described in a book, he thought to himself it would -have had a pretty sound. The girl’s voice, sweet and gay,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> sounding -through the house, the voice of happy youth brightening the dull life -there, the voice of innocent content betraying its own satisfaction with -existence—satisfaction in having a young fool to flirt with, and some -trumpery shops to buy unnecessary appendages in! At dinner, however, she -made fun of young Gaunt, and the morose father was a little mollified. -“It is rather dreadful for other people when there is an adoring mother -in the background to think everything you do perfection,” Constance -said. “I don’t think we shall make much of the violin.”</p> - -<p>“These are subjects on which you can speak with more authority than -I—both the violin and the mother,” said Waring.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, “you don’t think mamma was one of the adoring kind, I -hope! There may be things in her which might be mended; but she is not -like that. She kept one in one’s proper place. And as for the violin, I -suspect he plays it like an old fiddler in the streets.”</p> - -<p>“You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said Waring; but on -the whole he <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span>was pleased. “You seemed much interested both in the hero -and the music, a little while ago.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candour. “And he took it -all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, they are very -ingenuous. It seems wicked to take advantage of them, does it not?”</p> - -<p>“More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I intended to -speak to you very seriously as soon as he was gone—to ask you——”</p> - -<p>“What were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst of the -gayest laughter. “Oh, what a pity I began! How sorry I am to have missed -that! Do you think his mother will ask me, papa? It is generally the -man, isn’t it, who is questioned? and he says his intentions are -honourable. Mine, I frankly allow, are not honourable.”</p> - -<p>“No; very much the reverse, I should think. But it had better be clearly -defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of you is true—the girl -who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who made love to -Captain Gaunt this morning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely too.”</p> - -<p>“These delicacies of expression are too fine for me.—— Who made the -poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, was much -interested, counted upon him and his violin as her greatest pleasures.”</p> - -<p>“You are going too far,” she said. “I think the fiddle will be fun. When -you play very badly and are a little conceited about it, you are always -amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt—so long as he does not complain——”</p> - -<p>“It is I who am complaining, Constance.”</p> - -<p>“Well, papa—but why? You told me last night to take what I had, since I -could not have what I want.”</p> - -<p>“And you have acted upon my advice? With great promptitude, I must -allow.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said with composure. “What is the use of losing time? It is -not my fault if there is somebody here quite ready. It amuses him too. -And what harm am I doing? A girl can’t be asked—except for fun—those -disagreeable questions.”</p> - -<p>“And therefore you think a girl can do—what would be dishonourable in a -man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are so much too serious,” cried Constance. “Are you always as -serious as this? You laughed when I told you about Fanny Gervoise. Is it -only because it is me that you find fault? And don’t you think it is a -little too soon for parental interference? The Gaunts would be much -surprised. They would think you were afraid for my peace of mind, -papa—as her parents were afraid for Miss Tasie.”</p> - -<p>This moved the stern father to a smile. He had thought that Constance -did not appreciate that joke; but the girl had more humour than he -supposed. “I see,” he said, “you will have your own way; but remember, -Constance, I cannot allow it to go too far.”</p> - -<p>How could he prevent it going as far as she pleased? she said to herself -with a little scorn, when she was alone. Parents may be medieval if they -will; but the means have never yet been invented of preventing a woman, -when she is so minded and has the power in her hands, from achieving her -little triumph over a young man’s heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Where</span> is George? I scarcely ever see him,” said the General, in -querulous tones. “He is always after that girl of Waring’s. Why don’t -you try to keep him at home?”</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt did not say that she had done her best to keep him at home, -but found her efforts unsuccessful. She said apologetically, “He has so -very little to amuse him here; and the music, you know, is a great -bond.”</p> - -<p>“He plays like a beginner; and she, like a—like a—as well as a -professional, I don’t understand what kind of bond that can be.”</p> - -<p>“So much the greater a compliment is it to George that she likes his -playing,” responded the mother promptly.</p> - -<p>“She likes to make a fool of him, I think,” the General said; “and you -help her on. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> don’t understand your tactics. Women generally like to -keep their sons free from such entanglements; and after getting him -safely out of India, where every man is bound to fall into mischief——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs Gaunt, “if it ever should come to that—think, -what an excellent connection. I wish it had been Frances; I do wish it -had been Frances. I had always set my heart on that. But the connection -would be the same.”</p> - -<p>“You knew nothing about the connection when you set your heart on -Frances. And I can’t help thinking there is something odd about the -connection. Why should that girl have come here, and why should the -other one be spirited away like a transformation scene?”</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, it is in the peerage,” said Mrs Gaunt. “Great families, -we all know, are often very queer in their arrangements. But there can -be no doubt it is all right, for it is in the peerage. If it had been -Frances, I should have been too happy. With such a connection, he could -not fail to get on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“He had much better get on by his own merits,” retorted the General with -a grumble. “Frances! Frances was not to be compared with this girl. But -I don’t believe she means anything more than amusing herself,” he added. -“This is not the sort of girl to marry a poor soldier without a -penny—not she. She will take her fun out of him, and then——”</p> - -<p>The General kissed the end of his fingers and tossed them into the air. -He was, perhaps, a little annoyed that his son had stepped in and -monopolised the most amusing member of the society. And perhaps he did -not think so badly of George’s chances as he said.</p> - -<p>“You may be sure,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly, “she will do nothing of -the kind. It is not every day that a girl gets a fine fellow like our -George at her feet. He is just a little too much at her feet, which is -always a mistake, I think. But still, General, you cannot but allow that -Lord Markham’s sister——”</p> - -<p>“I have never seen much good come of great connections,” said the -General; but though his tone was that of a sceptic, his mind was softer -than his speech. He, too, felt a certain elation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> in the thought that -the youngest, who was not the clever one of the family, and who had not -been quite so steady as might have been desired, was thus in the way of -putting himself above the reach of fate. For of course, to be -brother-in-law to a viscount was a good thing. It might not be of the -same use as in the days when patronage ruled supreme; but still it would -be folly to suppose that it was not an advantage. It would admit George -to circles with which otherwise he could have formed no acquaintance, -and make him known to people who could push him in his profession. -George was the one about whom they had been most anxious. All the others -were doing well in their way, though it was not a way which threw them -into contact with viscounts or fine society. George would be over all -their heads in that respect, and he was the one that wanted it most,—he -was the one who was most dependent on outside aid.</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite understand,” said Mrs Gaunt, “what Constance’ position -is. She ought to be the Honourable, don’t you think? The Honourable -Constance sounds very pretty. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> would come in very nicely with Gaunt, -which is an aristocratic-sounding name. People may say what they like -about titles, but they are very nice, there is such individuality in -them. Mrs George might be anybody; it might be me, as your name is -George too. But the Honourable would distinguish it at once. When she -called here, there was only Miss Constance Waring written on her -father’s card; but then you don’t put Honourable on your card; and as -Lady Markham’s daughter——”</p> - -<p>“Women don’t count,” said the General, “as I’ve often told you. She’s -Waring’s daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Mr Waring may be a very clever man,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly; “but -I should like to know how Constance can be the daughter of a viscountess -in her own right without——”</p> - -<p>“Is she a viscountess in her own right?”</p> - -<p>This question brought Mrs Gaunt to a sudden pause. She looked at him -with a startled air. “It is not through Mr Waring, that is clear,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“But it is not in her own right—at least I don’t think so; it is -through her first husband,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> the father of that funny little creature” -(meaning Lord Markham).</p> - -<p>“General!” said Mrs Gaunt, shocked. Then she added, “I must make some -excuse to look at the Peerage this afternoon. The Durants have always -got their Peerage on the table. We shall have to send for one too, -if——”</p> - -<p>“If what? If your boy gets a wife who has titled connections, for that -is all. A wife! and what is he to keep her on, in the name of heaven?”</p> - -<p>“Mothers and brothers are tolerably close connections,” said Mrs Gaunt -with dignity. “He has got his pay, General; and you always intended, if -he married to your satisfaction—— Of course,” she added, speaking very -quickly, to forestall an outburst, “Lady Markham will not leave her -daughter dependent upon a captain’s pay. And even Mr Waring—Mr Waring -must have a fortune of his own, or—or a person like that would never -have married him; and he would not be able to live as he does, very -comfortably, even luxuriously——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I suppose he has enough to live on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> But as for pinching himself in -order to enable his girl to marry your boy, I don’t believe a word of -it,” exclaimed the General. Fortunately, being carried away by this wave -of criticism, he had forgotten his wife’s allusion to his own intentions -in George’s favour; and this was a subject on which she had no desire to -be premature.</p> - -<p>“Well, General,” she said, “perhaps we are going a little too fast. We -don’t know yet whether anything will come of it. George is rather a -lady’s man. It may be only a flirtation; it may end in nothing. We need -not begin to count our chickens——”</p> - -<p>“Why, it was you!” cried the astonished General. “I never should have -remarked anything about it, or wasted a moment’s thought on the -subject!”</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt was not a clever woman, skilled in the art of leaving -conversational responsibilities on the shoulders of her interlocutor; -but if a woman is not inspired on behalf of her youngest boy, when is -she to be inspired? She gave her shoulders the slightest possible shrug -and left him to his newspaper. They had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> newspaper from England every -morning—the ‘Standard,’ whose reasonable Conservatism suited the old -General. Except in military matters, such questions as the advance of -Russia towards Afghanistan, or the defences of our own coasts, the -General was not a bigot, and preferred his politics mild, with as little -froth and foam as possible. His newspaper afforded him occupation for -the entire morning, and he enjoyed it in very pleasant wise, seated -under his veranda with a faint suspicion of lemon-blossom in the air -which ruffled the young olive-trees all around, and the blue breadths of -the sea stretching far away at his feet. The garden behind was fenced in -with lemon and orange trees, the fruit in several stages, and just a -little point of blossom here and there, not enough to load the air. Mrs -Gaunt had preserved the wild flowers that were natural to the place, and -accordingly had a scarlet field of anemones which wanted no cultivation, -and innumerable clusters of the sweet white narcissus filling her little -enclosure. These cost no trouble, and left Toni, the man-of-all-work, at -leisure for the more profitable culture of the olives. From where the -General<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> sat, there was nothing visible, however, but the terraces -descending in steps towards the distant glimpse of the road, and the -light-blue margin, edged with spray, of the sea—under a soft and -cheering sun, that warmed to the heart, but did not scorch or blaze, and -with a soft air playing about his old temples, breathing freshness and -that lemon-bloom. Sometimes there would come a faint sound of voices -from some group of workers among the olives. The little clump of -palm-trees at the end of the garden—for nothing here is perfect without -a palm or two—cast a fantastic shadow, that waved over the newspaper -now and then. When a man is old and has done his work, what can he want -more than this sweet retirement and stillness? But naturally, it was not -all that was necessary to young Captain George.</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt went over to the Durants in the afternoon, as she so often -did, and found that family, as usual, on their loggia. It cost her a -little trouble and diplomacy to get a private inspection of the Peerage, -and even when she did so, it threw but little light upon her question. -Geoffrey Viscount Markham, tenth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> lord, was a name which she read with a -little flutter of her heart, feeling that he was already almost a -relation; and she read over the names of Markham Priory and Dunmorra, -his lodge in the Highlands, and the town address in Eaton Square, all -with a sense that by-and-by she might herself be directing letters from -one or other of these places. But the Peerage said nothing about the -Dowager Lady Markham subsequent to the conclusion of the first marriage, -except that she had married again, E. Waring, Esq.; and thus Mrs Gaunt’s -studies came to no satisfactory end. She introduced the subject, -however, in the course of tea. She had asked whether any one had heard -from Frances, and had received a satisfactory reply.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; I have had two letters; but she does not say very much. They -had gone down to the Priory for Easter; and she was to be presented at -the first drawing-room. Fancy Frances in a Court train and feathers, at -a drawing-room! It does seem so very strange,” Tasie said. She said it -with a slight sigh, for it was she, in old times, who had expounded -Society to little Frances, and taught her what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> in an emergency it would -be right to do and say; and now little Frances had taken a stride in -advance. “I asked her to write and tell us all about it, and what she -wore.”</p> - -<p>“It would be white, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, it would be white—a <i>débutante</i>. When <i>I</i> went to -drawing-rooms,” said Mrs Durant, who had once, in the character of -chaplainess to an Embassy, made her courtesy to her Majesty, “young -ladies’ toilets were simpler than now. Frances will probably be in white -satin, which, except for a wedding dress, is quite unsuitable, I think, -for a girl.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder if we shall see it in the papers? Sometimes my sister-in-law -sends me a ‘Queen,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> said Mrs Gaunt, “when she thinks there is something -in it which will interest me; but she does not know anything about -Frances. Dear little thing, I can’t think of her in white satin. Her -sister, now——”</p> - -<p>“Constance would wear velvet, if she could—or cloth-of-gold,” cried -Tasie, with a little irritation. Her mother gave her a reproving glance.</p> - -<p>“There is a tone in your voice, Tasie, which is not kind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; I know, mamma. But Constance is rather a trial. I know one -ought not to show it. She looks as if one was not good enough to tie her -shoes. And after all, she is no better than Frances; she is not half so -nice as Frances; but I mean there can be no difference of position -between sisters—one is just as good as the other; and Frances was so -fond of coming here.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think Constance gives herself airs? Oh no, dear Tasie,” said Mrs -Gaunt, “she is really not at all—when you come to know her. I am most -fond of Frances myself. Frances has grown up among us, and we know all -about her; that is what makes the difference. And Constance—is a little -shy.”</p> - -<p>At this there was a cry from the family. “I don’t think she is shy,” -said the old clergyman, whom Constance had insulted by walking out of -church before the sermon.</p> - -<p>“Shy!” exclaimed Mrs Durant, “about as shy as——” But no simile -occurred to her which was bold enough to meet the case.</p> - -<p>“It is better she should not be shy,” said Tasie. “You remember how she -drove those<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> people from the hotel to church. They have come ever since. -They are quite afraid of her. Oh, there are some good things in her, -some <i>very</i> good things.”</p> - -<p>“We are the more hard to please, after knowing Frances,” repeated Mrs -Gaunt. “But when a girl has been like that, used to the best society—— -By the way, Mr Durant, you who know everything, are sure to know—Is she -the Honourable? For my part I can’t quite make it out.”</p> - -<p>Mr Durant put on his spectacles to look at her, as if such a question -passed the bounds of the permissible. He was very imposing when he -looked at any one through those spectacles with an air of mingled -astonishment and superiority. “Why should she be an Honourable?” he -said.</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt felt as if she would like to sink into the abysses of the -earth—that is, through the floor of the loggia, whatever might be the -dreadful depths underneath. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I—I -only thought—her mother being a—a titled person, a—a viscountess in -her own right<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“But my <i>dear</i> lady,” said Mr Durant, with a satisfaction in his -superior knowledge which was almost unspeakable, “Lady Markham is <i>not</i> -a viscountess in her own right. Dear, no! She is not a viscountess at -all. She is plain Mrs Waring, and nothing else, if right was right. -Society only winks good-naturedly at her retaining the title, which she -certainly, if there is any meaning in the peerage at all, forfeits by -marrying a commoner.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Durant and Tasie both looked with great admiration at their head and -instructor as he thus spoke. “You may be sure Mr Durant says nothing -that he is not quite sure of,” said the wife, crushing any possible -scepticism on the part of the inquirer; and “Papa knows such a lot,” -added Tasie, awed, yet smiling, on her side.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is that all?” said Mrs Gaunt, greatly subdued. “But then, Lord -Markham—calls her his sister, you know.”</p> - -<p>“The nobility,” said Mr Durant, “are always very scrupulous about -relationships; and she <i>is</i> his step-sister. He couldn’t qualify the -relationship by calling her so. A common person<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> might do so, but not a -man of high breeding, like Lord Markham—that is all.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you must be right,” said Mrs Gaunt. “The General said so too. -But it does seem very strange to me that of the same woman’s children, -and she a lady of title, one should be a lord, and the other have no -sort of distinction at all.” They all smiled upon her blandly, every one -ready with a new piece of information, and much sympathy for her -ignorance, which Mrs Gaunt, seeing that it was she that was likely to be -related to Lord Markham, and not any of the Durants, felt that she could -not bear; so she jumped up hastily and declared that she must be going, -that the General would be waiting for her. “I hope you will come over -some evening, and I will ask the Warings, and Tasie must bring her -music. I am sure you would like to hear George’s violin. He is getting -on so well, with Constance to play his accompaniments;” and before any -one could reply to her, Mrs Gaunt had hurried away.</p> - -<p>It is painful not to have time to get out your retort; and these -excellent people turned instinctively upon each other to discharge the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> -unflown arrows. “It is so very easy, with a little trouble, to -understand the titles, complimentary and otherwise, of our own -nobility,” said Mr Durant, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“And such a sign of want of breeding not to understand them,” said his -wife.</p> - -<p>“The Honourable Constance would sound very pretty,” cried Tasie; “it is -such a pity.”</p> - -<p>“Especially, our friend thinks, if it was the Honourable Constance -Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“That she could never be, my dear,” said the old clergyman mildly. “She -might be the Honourable Mrs Gaunt; but Constance, no—not in any case.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to know why,” Mrs Durant said.</p> - -<p>Perhaps here the excellent chaplain’s knowledge failed him; or he had -become weary of the subject; for he rose and said, “I have really no -more time for a matter which does not concern us,” and trotted away.</p> - -<p>The mother and daughter left alone together, naturally turned to a point -more interesting than the claims of Constance to rank. “Do you really -think, mamma,” said Tasie—“do you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> really, really think,—it is silly -to be always discussing these sort of questions—but do you believe that -Constance Waring actually—means anything?”</p> - -<p>“You should say does George Gaunt mean anything? The girl never comes -first in such a question,” said Mrs Durant, with that ingrained contempt -for girls which often appears in elderly women. Tasie was so -(traditionally) young, besides having a heart of sixteen in her bosom, -that her sympathies were all with the girl.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think in this case, mamma,” she said. “Constance is so much -more a person of the world than any of us. I don’t mean to say she is -worldly. Oh no! but having been in society, and so much <i>out</i>.”</p> - -<p>“I should like to know in what kind of society she has been,” said Mrs -Durant, who took gloomy views. “I don’t want to say a word against Lady -Markham; but society, Tasie, the kind of society to which your father -and I have been accustomed, looks rather coldly upon a wife living apart -from her husband. Oh, I don’t mean to say Lady Markham was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> to blame. -Probably she is a most excellent person; but the presumption is that at -least, you know, there were—faults on both sides.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure I can’t give an opinion,” cried Tasie, “for, of course, I -don’t know anything about it. But George Gaunt has nothing but his pay; -and Constance couldn’t be in love with him, could she? Oh no! I don’t -know anything about it; but I can’t think a girl like Constance——”</p> - -<p>“A girl in a false position,” said the chaplain’s wife, “is often glad -to marry any one, just for a settled place in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but not Constance, mamma! I am sure she is just amusing herself.”</p> - -<p>“Tasie! you speak as if she were the man,” exclaimed Mrs Durant, in a -tone of reproof.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> subjects of these consultations were at the moment in the full -course of a sonata, and oblivious of everything else in the world but -themselves, their music, and their concerns generally. A fortnight had -passed of continual intercourse, of much music, of that propinquity -which is said to originate more matches than any higher influence. -Nothing can be more curious than the pleasure which young persons, and -even persons who are no longer young, find perennially in this condition -of suppressed love-making, this preoccupation of all thoughts and plans -in the series of continually recurring meetings, the confidences, the -divinations, the endless talk which is never exhausted, and in which the -most artificial beings in the world probably reveal more of themselves -than they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> themselves know—when the edge of emotion is always being -touched, and very often, by one of the pair at least overpassed, in -either a comic or a tragic way. It is not necessary that there should be -any real charm in either party, and what is still more extraordinary, it -is possible enough that one may be a person of genius, and the other not -far removed from a fool; that one may be simple as a rustic, and the -other a man or woman of the world. No rule, in short, holds in those -extraordinary yet most common and everyday conjunctions. There is an -amount of amusement, excitement, variety, to be found in them which is -in no other kind of diversion. This is the great reason, no doubt, why -flirtation never fails. It is dangerous, which helps the effect. For -those sinners who go into it voluntarily for the sake of amusement, it -has all the attractions of romance and the drama combined. If they are -intellectual, it is a study of human character; in all cases, it is an -interest which quickens the colour and the current of life: who can tell -why or how? It is not the disastrous love-makings that end in misery and -sin, of which we speak. It is those which are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> practised in society -every day, which sometimes end in a heart-break indeed, but often in -nothing at all.</p> - -<p>Constance was not unacquainted with the amusement, though she was so -young; and it is to be feared that she resorted to it deliberately for -the amusement of her otherwise dull life at the Palazzo, in the first -shock of her loneliness, when she felt herself abandoned. It was, of -course, the victim himself who had first put the suggestion and the -means of carrying it out into her hands. And she did not take it up in -pure wantonness, but actually gave a thought to him, and the effect it -might produce upon him, even in the very act of entering upon her -diversion. She said to herself that Captain Gaunt, too, was very dull; -that he would want something more than the society of his father and -mother; that it would be a kindness to the old people to make his life -amusing to him, since in that case he would stay, and in the other, not. -And as for himself, if the worst came to the worst, and he fell -seriously in love—as, indeed, seemed rather likely, judging from the -fervour of the begin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span>ning—even that, Constance calculated, would do him -no permanent harm. “Men have died,” she said to herself, “but not for -love.” And then there is that famous phrase about a liberal education. -What was it? To love her was a liberal education? Something of that -sort. Then it could only be an advantage to him; for Constance was aware -that she herself was cleverer, more cultivated, and generally far more -“up to” everything than young Gaunt. If he had to pay for it by a -disappointment, really everybody had to pay for their education in one -way or another; and if he were disappointed, it would be his own fault; -for he must know very well, everybody must know, that it was quite out -of the question she should marry him in any circumstances—entirely out -of the question; unless he was an absolute simpleton, or the most -presumptuous young coxcomb in the world, he <i>must</i> see that; and if he -were one or the other, the discovery would do him all the good in the -world. Thus Constance made it out fully, and to her own satisfaction, -that in any case the experience could do him nothing but good.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span></p> - -<p>Things had gone very far during this fortnight—so far, that she -sometimes had a doubt whether they had not gone far enough. For one -thing, it had cost her a great deal in the way of music. She was a very -accomplished musician for her age, and poor George Gaunt was one of the -greatest bunglers that ever began to study the violin. It may be -supposed what an amusement this intercourse was to Constance, when it is -said that she bore with his violin like an angel, laughed and scolded -and encouraged and pulled him along till he believed that he could play -the waltzes of Chopin and many other things which were as far above him -as the empyrean is above earth. When he paused, bewildered, imploring -her to go on, assuring her that he could catch her up, Constance -betrayed no horror, but only laughed till the tears came. She would turn -round upon her music-stool sometimes and rally him with a free use of a -superior kind of slang, which was unutterably solemn, and quite unknown -to the young soldier, who laboured conscientiously with his fiddle in -the evenings and mornings, till General Gaunt’s life became a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> burden to -him—in a vain effort to elevate himself to a standard with which she -might be satisfied. He went to practise in the morning; he went in the -afternoon to ask if she thought of making any expedition? to suggest -that his mother wished very much to take him to see this or that, and -had sent him to ask would Miss Waring come? Constance was generally -quite willing to come, and not at all afraid to walk to the bungalow -with him, where, perhaps, old Luca’s carriage would be standing to drive -them along the dusty road to the opening of some valley, where Mrs -Gaunt, not a good climber, she allowed, would sit and wait for them till -they had explored the dell, or inspected the little town seated at its -head. Captain Gaunt was more punctilious about his mother’s presence as -<i>chaperon</i> than Constance was, who felt quite at her ease roaming with -him among the terraces of the olive woods. It was altogether so idyllic, -so innocent, that there was no occasion for any conventional safeguards: -and there was nobody to see them or remark upon the prolonged -<i>tête-à-tête</i>. Constance came to know the young fellow far better than -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> mother did, better than he himself did, in these walks and talks.</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring, don’t laugh at a fellow. I know I deserve it.—Oh yes, do, -if you like. I had rather you laughed than closed the piano. I had a -good long grind at it this morning; but somehow these triplets are more -than I can fathom. Let us have that movement again, will you? Oh, not if -you are tired. As long as you’ll let me sit and talk. I love music with -all my heart, but I love——”</p> - -<p>“Chatter,” said Constance. “I know you do. It is not a dignified word to -apply to a gentleman; but you know, Captain Gaunt, you do love to -chatter.”</p> - -<p>“Anything to please you,” said the young man. “That wasn’t how I -intended to end my sentence. I love to—chatter, if you like, as long as -you will listen—or play, or do anything; as long as——”</p> - -<p>“You must allow,” said Constance, “that I listen admirably. I am -thoroughly well up in all your subjects. I know the station as well as -if I lived there.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t say that,” he cried; “it makes a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> beside himself. Oh, if -there was any chance that you might ever——! I think—I’m almost -sure—you would like the society in India—it’s so easy; everybody’s so -kind. A—a young couple, you know, as long as the lady is—delightful.”</p> - -<p>“But I am not a young couple,” said Constance, with a smile. “You -sometimes confuse your plurals in the funniest way. Is that Indian too? -Now come, Captain Gaunt, let us get on. Begin at the andante. One, -two—three! Now, let’s get on.”</p> - -<p>And then a few bars would be played, and then she would turn sharp round -upon the music-stool and take the violin out of his astonished hands.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what a shriek! It goes through and through one’s head. Don’t you -think an instrument has feelings? That was a cry of the poor ill-used -fiddle, that could bear no more. Give it to me.” She took the bow in her -hands, and leaned the instrument tenderly against her shoulder. “It -should be played like this,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring, you can play the violin too?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A little,” she said, leaning down her soft cheek against it, as if she -loved it, and drawing a charmingly sympathetic harmony from the ill-used -strings.</p> - -<p>“I will never play again,” cried the young man. “Yes, I will—to touch -it where you have touched it. Oh, I think you can do everything, and -make everything perfect you look at.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Constance, shaking her head as she ran the bow softly, so -softly over the strings; “for you are not perfect at all, though I have -looked at you a great deal. Look! this is the way to do it. I am not -going to accompany you any more. I am going to give you lessons. Take it -now, and let me see you play that passage. Louder, softer—louder. Come, -that was better. I think I shall make something of you after all.”</p> - -<p>“You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, with his -lips on the place her cheek had touched—“whatever you please.”</p> - -<p>“A first-rate violin-player, then,” said Constance. “But I don’t think -my power goes so high as that. Poor General, what does he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> say when you -grind, as you call it, all the morning?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother smooths him down—that is the use of a mother.”</p> - -<p>“Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial inquiry. “I didn’t -know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing our time.”</p> - -<p>And then <i>tant bien que mal</i>, the sonata was got through.</p> - -<p>“I am glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance, as she closed the piano. -“He is safe from that at least: he can never hear us play. When you go -home, Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings in some quite -out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Islington, or somewhere, -and grind, as you call it, till you are had up as a nuisance; or -else——”</p> - -<p>“Or else—what, Miss Waring? Anything to please you.”</p> - -<p>“Or else—give it up altogether,” Constance said.</p> - -<p>His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “If you think -it is so hopeless as that—if you wish me to give it up altogether——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> you break down. It would be -quite a pity if you were to give up, you take my scolding so -delightfully. Don’t give it up as long as you are here, Captain Gaunt. -After that, it doesn’t matter what happens—to me.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, almost with a groan, “it doesn’t matter what happens -after that—to me. It’s the Deluge, you know,” said the poor young -fellow. “I wish the world would come to an end first”—thus -unconsciously echoing the poet. “But, Miss Waring,” he added anxiously, -coming a little closer, “I may come back? Though I must go to London, it -is not necessary I should stay there. I may come back?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope so, Captain Gaunt. What would your mother do, if you did not -come back? But I suppose she will be going away for the summer. -Everybody leaves Bordighera in the summer, I hear.”</p> - -<p>“I had not thought of that,” cried the young soldier. “And you will be -going too?’</p> - -<p>“I suppose so,” said Constance. “Papa, I hope, is not so lost to every -sense of duty as to let me spoil my complexion for ever by staying -here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That would be impossible,” he said, with eyes full of admiration.</p> - -<p>“You intend that for a compliment, Captain Gaunt; but it is no -compliment. It means either that I have no complexion to lose, or that I -am one of those thick-skinned people who take no harm—neither of which -is complimentary, nor true. I shall have to teach you how to pay -compliments as well as how to play the violin.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, if you only would!” he cried. “Teach me how to make myself what you -like—how to speak, how to look, how——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is a great deal too much,” she said. “I cannot undertake all -your education. Do you know it is close upon noon? Unless you are going -to stay to breakfast——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, thanks, Miss Waring. They will expect me at home. But you will give -me a message to take back to my mother. I may come to fetch you to drive -with her to-day?”</p> - -<p>“It must be dreadfully dull work for her sitting waiting while we -explore.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not at all. She is never dull when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> she knows I am enjoying -myself—that’s the mother’s way.”</p> - -<p>“Is it?” said Constance, with once more that air of acquiring -information. “I am not acquainted with that kind of mother. But do you -think, Captain Gaunt, it is right to enjoy yourself, as you call it, at -your mother’s cost?”</p> - -<p>He gave her a look of great doubt and trouble. “Oh, Miss Waring, I don’t -think you should put it so. My mother finds her pleasure in that—indeed -she does. Ask herself. Of course I would not impose upon her, not for -the world; but she likes it, I assure you she likes it.”</p> - -<p>“It is very extraordinary that any one should like sitting in that -carriage for hours with nothing to do. I will come with pleasure, -Captain Gaunt. I will sit with your mother while you go and take your -walk. That will be more cheerful for all parties,” Constance said.</p> - -<p>Young Gaunt’s face grew half a mile long. He began to expostulate and -explain; but Waring’s step was heard stirring in the next room, -approaching the door, and the young man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> had no desire to see the master -of the house with his watch in his hand, demanding to know why Domenico -was so late. Captain Gaunt knew very well why Domenico was so late. He -knew a way of conciliating the servants, though he had not yet succeeded -with the young mistress. He said hurriedly, “I will come for you at -three,” and rushed away. Waring came in at one door as Gaunt disappeared -at the other. The delay of the breakfast was a practical matter, of -which, without any reproach of medievalism, he had a right to complain.</p> - -<p>“If you must have this young fellow every morning, he may at least go -away in proper time,” he said, with his watch in his hand, as young -Gaunt had divined.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, twelve is striking loud enough. You need not produce your -watch at the same time.”</p> - -<p>“Then why have I to wait?” he said. There was something awful in his -tone. But Domenico was equal to the occasion, worthy at once of the -lover’s and of the father’s trust. At that moment, Captain Gaunt having -been got away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> while the great bell of Bordighera was still sounding, -the faithful Domenico threw open, perhaps with a little more sound than -was necessary, an ostentation of readiness, the dining-room door.</p> - -<p>The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was pondering the -looks which she had not been able to ignore, the words which she had -managed to quench like so many fiery arrows before they could set fire -to anything, of her eager lover, and was pale and a little preoccupied -in spite of herself, feeling that things were going further than she -intended; and perhaps her father, feeling the situation too serious, and -remonstrance inevitable, was silenced by the thought of what he had to -say. It is so difficult in such circumstances for two people, with no -relief from any third party, without even that wholesome regard for the -servant in attendance, which keeps the peace during many a family -crisis—for with Domenico, who knew no English, they were as safe as -when they were alone—it is very difficult to find subjects for -conversation, that will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> -which is being postponed. Constance could not talk of her music, for -Gaunt was associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he -was her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the -neighbourhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the -neighbourhood that all those expeditions were being made? The great -bouquet of anemones which blazed in the centre of the table came from -Mrs Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was buying her amusement -too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was not so full of these references, -but he was occupied by the thought of what he had to say to this -headstrong girl, and by a strong sense that he was an ill-used man, in -having such responsibilities thrust upon him against his will. Frances -would not have led him into such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt -would have been no more interesting than his father; or so at least this -man, whose experience had taught him so little, was ready to believe.</p> - -<p>“I want to say something to you, Constance,” he began at length, after -Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop my mouth by re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span>marks -about middle-age parents. I am a middle-age parent, so there is an end -of it. Are you going to marry George Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>“I—going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!”</p> - -<p>“You had better, I think,” said her father. “It will save us all a great -deal of embarrassment. I should not have recommended it, had I been -consulted at the beginning. But you like to be independent and have your -own way; and the best thing you can do is to marry. I don’t know how -your mother will take it; but so far as I am concerned, I think it would -save everybody a great deal of trouble. You will be able to turn him -round your finger; that will suit you, though the want of money may be -in your way.”</p> - -<p>“I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, who had -grown crimson.</p> - -<p>“That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting what seems the best -thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.”</p> - -<p>“To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“I have not taken any steps to get rid of you. I did not invite you, in -the first place, you will remember; you came of your own will.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> But I -was very willing to make the best of it. I let Frances go, who suited -me—whom I had brought up—for your sake. All the rest has been your -doing. Young Gaunt was never invited by me. I have had no hand in those -rambles of yours. But since you find so much pleasure in his -society——”</p> - -<p>“Papa, you know I don’t find pleasure in his society; you know——”</p> - -<p>“Then why do you seek it?” said Waring, with that logic which is so -cruel.</p> - -<p>Constance, on the other side of the table, was as red as the anemones, -and far more brilliant in the glow of passion. “I have not sought it,” -she cried. “I have let him come—that is all. I have gone when Mrs Gaunt -asked me. Must a girl marry every man that chooses to be silly? Can I -help it, if he is so vain? It is only vanity,” she said, springing up -from her chair, “that makes men think a girl is always ready to marry. -What should I marry for? If I had wanted to marry—— Papa, I don’t wish -to be disagreeable, but it is <i>vulgar</i>, if you force me to say it—it is -common to talk to me so.”</p> - -<p>“I might retort,” said Waring.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I know you might retort. It is common to amuse one’s self. So -is it common to breathe and move about, and like a little fun when you -are young. I have no fun here. There is nobody to talk to, not a thing -to do. How do you suppose I am to get on? How can I live without -something to fill up my time?”</p> - -<p>“Then you must take the consequences,” he said.</p> - -<p>In spite of herself, Constance felt a shiver of alarm. She began to -speak, then stopped suddenly, looked at him with a look of mingled -defiance and terror, and—what was so unlike her, so common, so weak, as -she felt—began to cry, notwithstanding all she could do to restrain -herself. To hide this unaccountable weakness, she hastened off and hid -herself in her room, making as if she had gone off in resentment. Better -that, than that he should see her crying like any silly girl. All this -had got on her nerves, she explained to herself afterwards. The -consequences! Constance held her breath as they became dimly apparent to -her in an atmosphere of horror. George Gaunt no longer an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> eager lover, -whom it was amusing, even exciting to draw on, to see just on the eve of -a self-committal, which it was the greatest fun in the world to stop, -before it went too far—but the master of her destinies, her constant -and inseparable companion, from whom she could never get free, by whom -she must not even say that she was bored to death—gracious powers! and -with so many other attendant horrors. To go to India with him, to fall -into the life of the station, to march with the regiment. Constance’s -lively imagination pictured a baggage-waggon, with herself on the top, -which made her laugh. But the reality was not laughable; it was -horrible. The consequences! No; she would not take the consequences. She -would sit with Mrs Gaunt in the carriage, and let him take his walk by -himself. She would begin to show him the extent of his mistake from that -very day. To take any stronger step, to refuse to go out with him at -all, she thought, on consideration, not necessary. The gentler measures -first, which perhaps he might be wise enough to accept.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span></p> - -<p>But if he did not accept them, what was Constance to do? She had run -away from an impending catastrophe, to take refuge with her father. But -with whom could she take refuge, if he continued to hold his present -strain of argument? And unless he would go away of himself, how was she -to shake off this young soldier? She did not want to shake him off; he -was all the amusement she had. What was she to do?</p> - -<p>There glanced across her mind for a moment a sort of desperate gleam of -reflection from her father’s words: “You like to be independent; the -best thing you can do is to marry.” There was a kind of truth in it, a -sort of distorted truth, such as was likely enough to come through the -medium of a mind so wholly at variance with all established forms. -Independent—there was something in that; and India was full of novelty, -amusing, a sort of world she had no experience of. A tremor of -excitement got into her nerves as she heard the bell ring, and knew that -he had come for her. He! the only individual who was at all inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span>esting -for the moment, whom she held in her hands, to do what she pleased with. -She could turn him round her little finger, as her father said: and -independence! Was it a Mephistopheles that was tempting her, or a good -angel leading her the right way?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> remembered little of the journey after it was over, though she -was keenly conscious of everything at the time, if there can be any keen -consciousness of a thing which is all vague, which conveys no clear -idea. Through the darkness of the night, which came on before she had -left the coast she knew, with all those familiar towns gleaming out as -she passed—Mentone, Monaco on its headland, the sheltering bays which -keep so warm and bright those cities of sickness, of idleness, and -pleasure—the palms, the olives, the oranges, the aloe hedges, the roses -and heliotropes—there was a confused and breathless sweep of distance, -half in the dark, half in the light, the monotonous plains, the lines of -poplars, the straight highroads of France. Paris, where they stayed for -a night, was only like a bigger,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> noisier, vast railway station, to -Frances. She had no time, in the hurry of her journey, in the still -greater hurry of her thoughts, to realise that here was the scene of -that dread Revolution of which she had read with shuddering -excitement—that she was driven past the spot where the guillotine was -first set up, and through the streets where the tumbrels had rolled, -carrying to that dread death the many tender victims, who were all she -knew of that great convulsion of history. Markham, who was so good to -her, put his head out of the carriage and pointed to a series of great -windows flashing with light. “What a pity there’s no time!” he said. She -asked “For what?” with the most complete want of comprehension. “For -shopping, of course,” he said, with a laugh. For shopping! She seemed to -be unacquainted with the meaning of the words. In the midst of this -strange wave of the unknown which was carrying her away, carrying her to -a world more unknown still, to suppose that she could pause and think of -shopping! The inappropriateness of the suggestion bewildered Frances. -Markham, indeed, alto<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>gether bewildered her. He was very good to her, -attending to her comfort, watchful over her needs in a way which she -could not have imagined possible. Her father had never been unkind; but -it did not occur to him to take care of her. It was she who took care of -him. If there was anything forgotten, it was she who got the blame; and -when he wanted a book, or his writing-desk, or a rug to put over his -knees, he called to his little girl to hand it to him, without the -faintest conception that there was anything incongruous in it. And there -was nothing incongruous in it. If there is any one in the world whom it -is natural to send on your errands, to get you what you want, surely -your child is that person. Waring did not think on the subject, but -simply did so by instinct, by nature; and equally by instinct Frances -obeyed, without a doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had -said, “Get me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag—hand me -so-and-so,” she would have considered it the most natural thing in the -world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped in and out of -his seat at her smallest suggestion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> He pulled up and down the window -at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it mattered whether <i>he</i> -liked it or not. He took her out carefully on his arm, and made her -dine, not asking what she would have, as her father might perhaps have -done, but bringing her the best that was to be had, choosing what she -should eat, serving her as if she had been the Queen! It contributed to -the dizzying effect of the rapid journey that she should thus have been -placed in a position so different from any that she had ever known.</p> - -<p>And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-grey stormy sea, -which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up just so far—no -farther, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to understand what is -said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she -saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that -meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera, -when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep -purple, solemn enough for a king’s pall, as it has been the pall of so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> -many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening -lash of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised -their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of -green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart -of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations. She had thought -there would be something triumphant, grand, about the aspect of -England—something proud, like a monarch of the sea; and it was only a -damp, greyish-white line, rising not very far out of those sullen waves. -An east wind was blowing with that blighting greyness which here, in the -uttermost parts of the earth, we are so well used to: and it was cold. A -gleam of pale sun indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but -there was no real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was -depressing. The green fields and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it -was all damp, and the sky was grey. And then came London, with a roar -and noise as if they had fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs, -multitudes of people at every little station<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> which the quick train -flashed past, and on the platform, where at last she arrived dizzy and -faint with fatigue and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind than -words could say. He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn looks at -everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what she thought of her -native country. When they arrived at last, he found out miraculously, -among the crowd of carriages, a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham, -and put her into it. “We’ll trundle off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan, -and let John look after the things; you are so tired you can scarcely -speak.”</p> - -<p>“Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could not say -any more.</p> - -<p>“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing -touch. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. There’s nothing to be -frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps it was silly of me to -say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. I am the -foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do. -Don’t make a fool of your old brother, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> There, look out and see -what a beastly place old London is, Fan.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call me Fan,” she cried, this slight irritation affording her an -excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in -her. “Call me Frances, Markham.”</p> - -<p>“Life’s too short for a name in two syllables. I’ve got two syllables -myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome -to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to -it. Did you ever see such murky heavy air? It isn’t air at all—it’s -smoke, and animalculæ, and everything that’s dreadful. It’s not like -that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no!” cried Frances, with fervour. “But I suppose London is better -for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice.</p> - -<p>“Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the earth; it’s -the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, child, it is -paradise,”—he paused a moment, and then added, “with pandemonium next -door.”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” the girl cried.</p> - -<p>“I was wrong to mention such a place in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> your hearing. I know I was. -Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about -the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.”</p> - -<p>The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out a -flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out. -She had got her veil entangled about her head, her arms in the cloak -which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt -arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until -she found herself suddenly in some one’s arms; then the light seemed to -go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the -warmth, the softness, the faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which -she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more.</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate—I hope she is not -given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before -she felt able to open her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Not a bit,” said Markham’s familiar tones. “She’s overdone, and awfully -anxious about meeting you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?” said the -other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive tone in it; and -then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the -voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half -because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a -faint little tentative utterance, “Mother!” wondering vaguely whether -the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she -was to know.</p> - -<p>“My poor little baby, my little girl! open your eyes. Markham, I want to -see the colour of her eyes.”</p> - -<p>“As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a strange -outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant -crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He -seemed to walk away, and then came back again. “Come, Fan, that’s -enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I told you there was nothing to -be frightened for.”</p> - -<p>And then Frances raised herself; for, to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> astonishment, she was -lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her -stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like -hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself -a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance -had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed -in soft black satin, that did not rustle—that was far, far too harsh a -word—but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and -round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother -to her for ever and ever,—an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch -in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with -disdain—something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious -ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement -of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt.</p> - -<p>“Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl, -Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> grown up, like -the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances? -Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain -awake in the night and cried for you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into -her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known -anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense, -was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have -always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and -laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion and -melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich -softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new -personality by which her own was surrounded on every side.</p> - -<p>“Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this -child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us—isn’t it, my -darling?—as if we had always been together—all the same in a moment. -Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> Do you think, Markham, -she is able to walk up-stairs?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I -was—frightened, I think.”</p> - -<p>“But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Markham, drawing -the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy -still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to -be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs. -She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian -palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the -warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could -scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly -furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the -tea-table, like, and yet how unlike, that anxious copy of English ways -which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a -momentary gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better, -though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> these; but, alas, -in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs, -through—as she thought—the sumptuous arrangements of her mother’s -room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and in which there was -the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables, -in addition to the necessary details of a sleeping-room. Frances looked -round it admiringly. She knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though -something, a very little, about old art. The painted ceilings and old -gilding of the Palazzo—which she began secretly and obstinately to call -<i>home</i> from this moment forth—were intelligible to her; but she was -quite unacquainted with Mr Morris’s papers and the art fabrics from -Liberty’s. She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. She thought -the walls “killed” the pictures that were hung round, which were not -like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little -pang to her sister. “Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly, -called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the -transfer was to be complete.</p> - -<p>“No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> Lady Markham. “It has always -been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always -hoped that; but I never thought that Con would desert me.” Her voice -faltered a little, which instantly touched Frances’ heart.</p> - -<p>“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, when she -came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have -very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you -know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her -mine.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very -faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was, “You have -not many visitors, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are—rather poor. We are -not—like this.”</p> - -<p>“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do -you mean, dear, by <i>we</i>? You must learn to mean something else by <i>we</i>. -Your father, if he had chosen, might have had—all that you see, <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span>and -more. And Constance—— But we will say nothing more to-night on that -subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was -always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each -side.”</p> - -<p>Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great -interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to -herself—more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which -shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and -it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of -Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and -decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor -Constance!” she said under her breath.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp -and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con! -You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has -chosen. Was it—dreary for you, my poor child?”</p> - -<p>Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> Frances a kind of -tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “It is the only life I -know—it was—everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the -sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she -wavered, hesitated, changed the tense—it was. She did not quite know -herself what the change meant.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “It was—everything -you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be -disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows -something else—— Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for -her experience, like all the rest.”</p> - -<p>Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She -did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the -relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the -sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it -that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown -mother, whom it had been a rapture to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> and touch? Or was it only -that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves -and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My -dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do -just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send -Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left -alone and quiet.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do -not think me disagreeable to say so.”</p> - -<p>“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,” said -her mother, kissing her—but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a -burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone—alone, -quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered -to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable and altogether fantastic -disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely -it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised -level of feeling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span></p> - -<p>“No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She -was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, looking into it with -her head bent and a serious expression on her face. “Perhaps I was too -much delighted for a moment; but she, poor child, now that she has -looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed -in me. That’s rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t -know.”</p> - -<p>“I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s very natural. -The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had -been an angel from heaven——”</p> - -<p>“Which I am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the fire.</p> - -<p>“Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “In that case, you would not have -suited me—which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.”</p> - -<p>She gave a half glance at him, a half smile, but did not disturb the -chain of her reflections. “That’s something, Markham,” she said.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span></p> -<p>“Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go too fast -with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let -her settle down her own way.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw -something like it in her eyes.”</p> - -<p>“That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her -father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about -her. My dear mother, Con’s like Waring, if you like. This one is of our -side of the house.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand -affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. “But, my dear boy, you -are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there -is nobody at all, unless, as you say——”</p> - -<p>“Frances,” said the little man. “I told you—the best of the lot. I took -to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go too fast with -her, mother. She has her own <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span>notions. She is as stanch as a -little—Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he -met his mother’s eye, he retired a little, with the air of a man who -does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated curiosity in -her mind.</p> - -<p>“How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered, carelessly. “And she will stick -to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.”</p> - -<p>Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, before the -fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs.</p> - -<p>“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “to be making -acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter—and -to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?”</p> - -<p>“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “it might have been worse. Let us make the -best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has -never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to -go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we’ve -got the other one too.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her -handkerchief to her eyes. “For all that, it is very hard, both on her -and me,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Markham’s</span> story was one which was very well known to Society—to -which everything is known—though it had remained so long a secret, and -was still a mystery to one of her children. Waring had been able to lose -himself in distance, and keep his position concealed from every one; but -it was clear that his wife could not do so, remaining as she did in the -world which was fully acquainted with her, and which required an -explanation of everything that happened. Perhaps it is more essential to -a woman than to a man that her position should be fully explained, -though it is one of the drawbacks of an established place and sphere, -which is seldom spoken of, yet is very real, and one of the greatest -embarrassments of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> life. So long as existence is without complications, -this matters little; but when these arise, those difficulties which so -often distract the career of a family, the inevitable explanations that -have to be made to the little interested ring of spectators, is often -the worst part of domestic trouble. Waring, whose temperament was what -is called sensitive—that is, impatient, self-willed, and -unenduring—would not submit to such a necessity. But a woman cannot -fly; she must stand in her place, if she has any regard for that place, -and for the reputation which it is common to say is more delicate and -easily injured than is that of a man—and make her excuse to the world. -Perhaps, as, sooner or later, excuses and explanations must be afforded, -it is the wiser plan to get over them publicly and at once; for even -Waring, as has been seen, though he escaped, and had a dozen years of -tranquillity, had at the last to submit himself to the questions of Mr -Durant. All that was over for these dozen years with Lady Markham. -Everybody knew exactly what her <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>position was. Scandal had never -breathed upon her, either at the moment of the separation or afterwards. -It had been a foolish, romantic love-marriage between a woman of Society -and a man who was half rustic, half scholar. They had found after a time -that they could not endure each other—as anybody with a head on his -shoulders could have told them from the beginning, Society said. And -then he had taken the really sensible though wild and romantic step of -banishing himself and leaving her free. There were some who had supposed -this a piece of <i>bizarre</i> generosity, peculiar to the man, and some who -thought it only a natural return to the kind of life that suited him -best.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had, of course, been censured for this, her second -marriage; and equally, of course, was censured for the breach of it—for -the separation, which, indeed, was none of her doing; for retaining her -own place when her husband left her; and, in short, for every step she -had taken in the matter from first to last. But that was twelve years -ago, which is a long time in all circumstances, and which counts for -about a century in Society: and nobody thought of blaming her any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> -longer, or of remarking at all upon the matter. The present lords and -ladies of fashionable life had always known her as she was, and there -was no further question about her history. When, in the previous season, -Miss Waring had made her <i>début</i> in Society, and achieved the success -which had been so remarkable, there was indeed a little languid question -as to who was her father among those who remembered that Waring was not -the name of the Markham family; but this was not interesting enough to -cause any excitement. And Frances, still thrilling with the discovery of -the other life, of which she had never suspected the existence, and -ignorant even now of everything except the mere fact of it, suddenly -found herself embraced and swallowed up in a perfectly understood and -arranged routine in which there was no mystery at all.</p> - -<p>“The first thing you must do is to make acquaintance with your -relations,” said Lady Markham next morning at breakfast. “Fortunately, -we have this quiet time before Easter to get over all these -preliminaries. Your aunt Clarendon will expect to see you at once.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Frances was greatly disturbed by this new discovery. She gave a covert -glance at Markham, who, though it was not his habit to appear so early, -had actually produced himself at breakfast to see how the little one was -getting on. Markham looked back again, elevating his eyebrows, and not -understanding at first what the question meant.</p> - -<p>“And there are all the cousins,” said the mother, with that plaintive -tone in her voice. “My dear, I hope you are not in the way of forming -friendships, for there are so many of them! I think the best thing will -be to get over all these duty introductions at once. I must ask the -Clarendons—don’t you think, Markham?—to dinner, and perhaps the -Peytons,—quite a family party.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, by all means,” said Markham; “but first of all, don’t you -think she wants to be dressed?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at Frances critically from her smooth little head to -her neat little shoes. The girl was standing by the fire, with her head -reclined against the mantelpiece of carved oak, which, as a -“reproduction,” was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> very much thought of in Eaton Square. Frances felt -that the blush with which she met her mother’s look must be seen, though -she turned her head away, through the criticised clothes.</p> - -<p>“Her dress is very simple; but there is nothing in bad taste. Don’t you -think I might take her anywhere as she is? I did not notice her hat,” -said Lady Markham, with gravity; “but if that is right—— Simplicity is -quite the right thing at eighteen——”</p> - -<p>“And in Lent,” said Markham.</p> - -<p>“It is quite true; in Lent, it is better than the right thing—it is the -best thing. My dear, you must have had a very good maid. Foreign women -have certainly better taste than the class we get our servants from. -What a pity you did not bring her with you! One can always find room for -a clever maid.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe she had any maid; it is all out of her own little -head,” said Markham. “I told you not to let yourself be taken in. She -has a deal in her, that little thing.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled, and gave Frances a kiss, enfolding her once more in -that soft<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> atmosphere which had been such a revelation to her last -night. “I am sure she is a dear little girl, and is going to be a great -comfort to me. You will want to write your letters this morning, my -love, which you must do before lunch. And after lunch, we will go and -see your aunt. You know that is a matter of—what shall we call it, -Markham?—conscience with me.”</p> - -<p>“Pride,” Markham said, coming and standing by them in front of the fire.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps a little,” she answered with a smile; “but conscience too. I -would not have her say that I had kept the child from her for a single -day.”</p> - -<p>“That is how conscience speaks, Fan,” said Markham. “You will know next -time you hear it. And after the Clarendons?”</p> - -<p>“Well—of course, there must be a hundred things the child wants. We -must look at your evening dresses together, darling. Tell Josephine to -lay them out and let me see them. We are going to have some people at -the Priory for Easter; and when we come back, there will <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>be no time. -Yes, I think on our way home from Portland Place we must just look -into—a shop or two.”</p> - -<p>“Now my mind is relieved,” Markham said. “I thought you were going to -change the course of nature, Fan.”</p> - -<p>“The child is quite bewildered by your nonsense, Markham,” the mother -said.</p> - -<p>And this was quite true. Frances had never been on such terms with her -father as would have entitled her to venture to laugh at him. She was -confused with this new phase, as well as with her many other -discoveries: and it appeared to her that Markham looked just as old as -his mother. Lady Markham was fresh and fair, her complexion as clear as -a girl’s, and her hair still brown and glossy. If art in any way added -to this perfection, Frances had no suspicion of such a possibility. And -when she looked from her mother’s round and soft contour to the wrinkles -of Markham, and his no-colour and indefinite age, and heard him address -her with that half-caressing, half-bantering equality, the girl’s mind -grew more and more hopelessly confused. She withdrew, as was expected of -her, to write her letters,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> though without knowing how to fulfil that -duty. She could write (of course) to her father. It was of course, and -so was what she told him. “We arrived about six o’clock. I was -dreadfully confused with the noise and the crowds of people. Mamma was -very kind. She bids me send you her love. The house is very fine, and -full of furniture, and fires in all the rooms; but one wants that, for -it is much colder here. We are going out after luncheon to call on my -aunt Clarendon. I wish very much I knew who she was, or who my other -relations are; but I suppose I shall find out in time.” This was the -scope of Frances’ letter. And she did not feel warranted, somehow, in -writing to Constance. She knew so little of Constance: and was she not -in some respects a supplanter, taking Constance’s place? When she had -finished her short letter to her father, which was all fact, with very -few reflections, Frances paused and looked round her, and felt no -further inspiration. Should she write to Mariuccia? But that would -require time—there was so much to be said to Mariuccia. Facts were not -what <i>she</i> would want—at least,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> the facts would have to be of a -different kind; and Frances felt that daylight and all the arrangements -of the new life, the necessity to be ready for luncheon and to go out -after, were not conditions under which she could begin to pour out her -heart to her old nurse, the attendant of her childhood. She must put off -till the evening, when she should be alone and undisturbed, with time -and leisure to collect all her thoughts and first impressions. She put -down her pen, which was not, indeed, an instrument she was much -accustomed to wield, and began to think instead; but all her thinking -would not tell her who the relatives were to whom she was about to be -presented; and she reflected with horror that her ignorance must betray -the secret which she had so carefully kept, and expose her father to -further and further criticism.</p> - -<p>There was only one way of avoiding this danger, and that was through -Markham, who alone could help her, who was the only individual in whom -she could feel a confidence that he would give her what information he -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span>could, and understand why she asked. If she could but find Markham! She -went down-stairs, timidly flitting along the wide staircase through the -great drawing-room, which was vacant, and found no trace of him. She -lingered, peeping out from between the curtains of the windows upon the -leafless gardens outside in the spring sunshine, the passing carriages -which she could see through their bare boughs, the broad pavement close -at hand with so few passengers, the clatter now and then of a hansom, -which amused her even in the midst of her perplexity, or the drawing up -of a brougham at some neighbouring door. After a minute’s distraction -thus, she returned again to make further investigations from the -drawing-room door, and peep over the balusters to watch for her brother. -At last she had the good luck to perceive him coming out of one of the -rooms on the lower floor. She darted down as swift as a bird, and -touched him on the sleeve. He had his hat in his hand, as if preparing -to go out. “Oh,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I want to speak to -you; I want to ask you something,”—holding up her hand with a warning -hush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What is it?” returned Markham, chiefly with his eyebrows, with a comic -affectation of silence and secrecy which tempted her to laugh in spite -of herself. Then he nodded his head, took her hand in his, and led her -up-stairs to the drawing-room again. “What is it you want to ask me? Is -it a state secret? The palace is full of spies, and the walls of ears,” -said Markham with mock solemnity, “and I may risk my head by following -you. Fair conspirator, what do you want to ask?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Markham, don’t laugh at me—it is serious. Please, who is my aunt -Clarendon?”</p> - -<p>“You little Spartan!” he said; “you are a plucky little girl, Fan. You -won’t betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, my dear; but -he ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, though I approve of -you.”</p> - -<p>“Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances steadily; “that is -not what I asked you, please.”</p> - -<p>He stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “I wonder if -you will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> Who is -your aunt Clarendon? She is your father’s sister, Fan; I think the only -one who is left.”</p> - -<p>“Papa’s sister! I thought it must be—on the other side.”</p> - -<p>“My mother,” said Markham, “has few relations—which is a misfortune -that I bear with equanimity. Mrs Clarendon married a lawyer a great many -years ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now he is very rich, and they will -make him a judge one of these days.”</p> - -<p>“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and wise. And my -aunt——”</p> - -<p>“My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. She is -very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her to the Bench. -You must remember when you go there, Fan, that they are <i>the other -side</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” inquired Frances anxiously, -fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant personage, who yet -was so important in this house.</p> - -<p>Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was his special -note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for yourself,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> -replied; “but the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is that all? for I’m -running off; I have an engagement.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not all—not half. I want you to tell me—I want to know—I—I -don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on the sleeve of -his coat.</p> - -<p>“Nor I,” he retorted with a laugh. “Let me go now; we’ll find an -opportunity. Keep your eyes, or rather your ears, open; but don’t take -all you hear for gospel. Good-bye till to-night. I’m coming to dinner -to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you live here?” said Frances, accompanying him to the door.</p> - -<p>“Not such a fool, thank you,” replied Markham, stopping her gently, and -closing the door of the room with care after him as he went away.</p> - -<p>Frances was much discouraged by finding nothing but that closed door in -front of her where she had been gazing into his ugly but expressive -face. It made a sort of dead stop, an emphatic punctuation, marking the -end. Why should he say he was not such a fool as to live at home with -his mother? Why should <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span>he be so <i>nice</i> and yet so odd? Why had -Constance warned her not to put herself in Markham’s hands? All this -confused the mind of Frances whenever she began to think. And she did -not know what to do with herself. She stole to the window and watched -through the white curtains, and saw him go away in the hansom which -stood waiting at the door. She felt a vacancy in the house after his -departure, the loss of a support, an additional silence and sense of -solitude; even something like a panic took possession of her soul. Her -impulse was to rush up-stairs again and shut herself up in her room. She -had never yet been alone with her mother except for a moment. She -dreaded the (quite unnecessary, to her thinking) meal which was coming, -at which she must sit down opposite to Lady Markham, with that solemn -old gentleman, dressed like Mr Durant, and that gorgeous theatrical -figure of a footman, serving the two ladies. Ah, how different from -Domenico—poor Domenico, who had called her <i>carina</i> from her childhood, -and who wept over her hand as he kissed it, when she was coming away. -Oh, when should she see these faithful friends again?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I want you to be quite at your ease with your aunt Clarendon,” said -Lady Markham at luncheon, when the servants had left the room. “She will -naturally want to know all about your father and your way of living. We -have not talked very much on that subject, my dear, because, for one -thing, we have not had much time; and because—— But she will want to -know all the little details. And, my darling, I want just to tell you, -to warn you. Poor Caroline is not very fond of me. Perhaps it is -natural. She may say things to you about your mother——”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, mamma,” said Frances, looking up in her mother’s face.</p> - -<p>“You don’t know, my dear. Some people have a great deal of prejudice. -Your aunt Caroline, as is quite natural, takes a different view. I -wonder if I can make you understand what I mean without using words -which I don’t want to use?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Frances; “you may trust me, mamma; I think I understand.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham rose and came to where her <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>child sat, and kissed her -tenderly. “My dear, I think you will be a great comfort to me,” she -said. “Constance was always hot-headed. She would not make friends, when -I wished her to make friends. The Clarendons are very rich; they have no -children, Frances. Naturally, I wish you to stand well with them. -Besides, I would not allow her to suppose for a moment that I would keep -you from her—that is what I call conscience, and Markham pride.”</p> - -<p>Frances did not know what to reply. She did not understand what the -wealth of the Clarendons had to do with it; everything else she could -understand. She was very willing, nay, eager to see her father’s sister, -yet very determined that no one should say a word to her to the -detriment of her mother. So far as that went, in her own mind all was -clear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs Clarendon</span> lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which -fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and -decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated -house, also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not -exist. Frances followed her mother with a beating heart through the long -wide hall and large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet -made no sound. She thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some -silent place in which mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but -the room they were ushered into was only a very large, very still -drawing-room, in painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, -which made a little sound and flicker <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span>that preserved it from utter -death. The blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains -hung down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the modern -æstheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furniture -impeding progress, in which Lady Markham delighted. The furniture was -all solid, durable—what upholsterers call very handsome—huge mirrors -over the mantelpieces, a few large portraits in chalk on the walls, -solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brilliantly painted china -flower-pot enclosing a large plant of the palm kind, dark-green and -solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It was very -warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same -time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the common -occupations of life were never brought.</p> - -<p>“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a -morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when -Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes -up at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes -to bed. That is about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> all the intercourse they have, and all the time -the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is -why it has such a depressing look.”</p> - -<p>“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly -question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it.</p> - -<p>“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a -question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be -happy? She has everything she has ever wished for—plenty of money—for -they are very rich—her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and -in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky -woman, as women go.”</p> - -<p>“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking -round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would -probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, -and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, -with a sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on -the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> never given -her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all -at once the door opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young -visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so -entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to -the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was -startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the -footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay -aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father’s -approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the -midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances’ face. She -was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and an air which -was like that of her rooms—the air of being unused, of being put -against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to -Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both -hands.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see you, Caroline. I feared you might be out, as it was -such a beautiful day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I am not very -energetic, you know—not like you. Have I seen this young lady before?”</p> - -<p>“You have not seen her for a long time—not since she was a child; nor I -either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Caroline, I told you I -expected——”</p> - -<p>“My brother’s child!” Mrs Clarendon said, fixing her eyes upon the girl, -who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as -Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by -saying, “But she is like you,” with a certain tone of reproach.</p> - -<p>“That is not my fault,” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she -added: “For the matter of that, they are both your brother’s -children—though, unfortunately, mine too.”</p> - -<p>“You know my opinion on that matter,” said Mrs Clarendon; and then, and -not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping kissed her on the -cheek. “Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word -from you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> you. It must -be very sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, -to be suddenly sent here without any will of your own.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see mamma.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with a cold -smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to -arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an -answer, even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt -went on, without looking at her again: “I suppose you have heard from -Constance? It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with -the different kind of life. My brother’s quiet ways are not likely to -suit a young lady about town.”</p> - -<p>“Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Markham, who -kept her temper with astonishing self-control. “She only arrived last -night. I would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you -will like to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion -that on the whole the change will do Constance good.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother -would do any one good—who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a -great change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be -infected with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his -life. I suppose, Lady Markham, that is what you intend?”</p> - -<p>“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Markham, “that -it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con’s -going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what -were my views for her?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your -plans,” Mrs Clarendon said.</p> - -<p>“It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward’s only near -relation——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your consideration,” the -other cried quickly. “Constance was never influenced by me; though I -don’t wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had -prepared for her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished glance. Then she -added with a smile: “I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any -plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con did not like the gentleman whom I -approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can’t nowadays, -if one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of -the times. But if you will allow me to say so, Caroline, Con is too like -her father to bear anything, to put up with anything that——”</p> - -<p>“Thank heaven!” cried Mrs Clarendon. “She is indeed a little like her -dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And this one, I -suppose—this one you find like you?”</p> - -<p>“I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said Lady -Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “But Edward has brought her -up, Caroline; that should be a passport to your affections at least.”</p> - -<p>Upon this, Mrs Clarendon came down as from a pedestal, and addressed -herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue -had gone. “I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and -disagreeable,” she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> said. “I will not tell you why, though I think I -could make out a case. How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and -seldomer—sometimes not even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have -little sense of family duties, which is a pity at your age.”</p> - -<p>Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was -confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. -“Papa,” she said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he could not -write letters—our life was so quiet: there was nothing to say.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care -more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that -anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your quiet -life that I like to hear about. Society has little attraction for me. I -suppose you are half an Italian, are you? and know nothing about English -life.”</p> - -<p>“She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort of -parenthesis.</p> - -<p>“The only people I know are English,” said Frances. “Papa is not fond of -society. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have -always tried to be like my own country-people, as well as I could.”</p> - -<p>“And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smiling look.</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. -Then she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she said, “I should like -to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my -dear brother; but that can’t be done in a morning call. Will you leave -her with me for the day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? -Any time will suit me.”</p> - -<p>“She only arrived last night, Caroline. I suppose even you will allow -that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with -you, if that suits you?”</p> - -<p>“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs Clarendon, ostentatiously counting -on her fingers—“during which interval you will have full time—— Oh -yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother, of course, conventionally, has, -as you say, the first right.”</p> - -<p>“Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> Markham replied; and then -there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who -felt her innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over -which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused -and indignant, not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house -did nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of the moment: she seemed to -have no wish to set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during -which the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional -fall of ashes from the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, -loud and distinct, to fill up the interval, was half painful, half -ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly -introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain -irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life.</p> - -<p>At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady Markham -rose and spread her wings—or at least shook out her silken draperies, -which comes to the same thing. “As that is settled, we need not detain -you any longer,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span></p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon rose too, slowly. “I cannot expect,” she replied, “that -you can give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much -occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock on Thursday. I -lunch at one; and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I -shall be glad to take you wherever you like. I suppose I may keep her to -dinner? Mr Clarendon will like to make acquaintance with his niece.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Markham with a -smile. “I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.”</p> - -<p>“Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and ran away to -her father,” quoth the implacable antagonist.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. “I don’t think -Constance has abandoned me,” she cried hastily; “and if she has, the -fault is—— But there is no discussion possible between people so -hopelessly of different opinions as you and I,” she added, recovering -her composure. “Mr Clarendon is well, I hope?”</p> - -<p>“Very well. Good morning, since you will go,” said the mistress of the -house. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> dropped another cold kiss upon Frances’ cheek. It seemed to -the girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, that it was her aunt’s -nose, which was a long one and very chilly, which touched her. She made -no response to this nasal salutation. She felt, indeed, that to give a -slap to that other cheek would be much more expressive of her sentiments -than a kiss, and followed her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. -Lady Markham, too, was moved. When she got into the brougham, she leant -back in her corner and put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of -each eye. Then she laughed, and laid her hand upon Frances’ arm.</p> - -<p>“You are not to think I am grieving,” she said; “it is only rage. Did -you ever know such a——? But, my dear, we must recollect that it is -natural—that she is on <i>the other side</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. “Then, -mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought everything was good.”</p> - -<p>“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I fear, above -all, is far from being perfect,—not that your poor dear aunt Caroline<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> -can be said to be in Society,” Lady Markham added, recovering her -spirits. “I don’t think they see anybody but a few lawyers like -themselves.”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure it? You -promised for me, or I should never go back, neither on Thursday nor any -other time.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear! I hope you have not got those -headstrong Waring ways. Because she hates me, that is no reason why she -should hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. You are of her own blood, -and her near relation: and I never heard that <i>he</i> took very much to any -of the young people on his side. And they are very rich. A man like -that, at the head of his profession, must be coining money. It would be -wicked of me, for any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a -fortune for my children. And you know I have very little more than my -jointure, and your father is not rich.”</p> - -<p>This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. She -gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kindness, -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> a sense that Lady Markham was under the sway of motives and -influences which had been left out in her own simple education. Was it -supreme and self-denying generosity, or was it—something else? The girl -was too inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the contrast between -Lady Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance and the harsh and -ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart out of the region of -reason. “If you put up with all that for us, I cannot see any reason why -we should put up with it for you!” she cried indignantly. “She cannot -have any right to speak to my mother so—and before me.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we were -alone, I should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is because of -you that she can make me feel—a little. But you must take no notice; -you must leave me to fight my own battles.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about a foot -taller than her mother. “I will never endure it, mamma; you may say what -you like. What is her fortune to me?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My love!” she exclaimed; “why, you little savage, her fortune is -everything to you! It may make all the difference.” Then she laughed -rather tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her -stranger-child’s half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet of you to -make a stand for your mother,” she said, “and when you know so little of -me. The horrid people in Society would say that was the reason; but I -think you would defend your mother anyhow, my Frances, my child that I -have always missed! But look here, dear: you must not do it. I am old -enough to take care of myself. And your poor aunt Clarendon is not so -bad as you think. She believes she has reason for it. She is very fond -of your father, and she has not seen him for a dozen years; and there is -no telling whether she may ever see him again; and she thinks it is my -fault. So you must not take up arms on my behalf till you know better. -And it would be so much to your advantage if she should take a fancy to -you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile myself, for any -<i>amour-propre</i> of mine, to stand in my child’s way?”</p> - -<p>Once more, Frances was unable to make any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> reply. All the lines of -sentiment and sense to which she had been accustomed seemed to be -getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family stood together, -shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, and even revenged each -other; and though the law might disapprove, public opinion stood by -them. A child who looked on careless while its parents were assailed -would have been to Mariuccia an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on -such a subject, Frances had never known: but as for fortune, he would -have smiled that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she -should pay court to any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having few -wants, she had heard him say a thousand times. It might even have been -supposed from his conversation that he scorned rich people for being -rich, which of course was an exaggeration. But he could never, never -have wished her to endeavour to please an unkind, disagreeable person -because of her money. That was impossible. So that she made no reply, -and scarcely even, in her confusion, responded to the caress with which -her mother thanked her for the partisanship, which it appeared was so -out of place.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> had not succeeded in resolving this question in her mind when -Thursday came. The two intervening days had been very quiet. She had -gone with her mother to several shops, and had stood by almost passive -and much astonished while a multitude of little luxuries which she had -never been sufficiently enlightened even to wish for, were bought for -her. She was so little accustomed to lavish expenditure, that it was -almost with a sense of wrong-doing that she contemplated all these -costly trifles, which were for the use not of some typical fine lady, -but of herself, Frances, who had never thought it possible she could -ever be classed under that title. To Lady Markham these delicacies were -evidently necessaries of life. And then it was for the first time that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> -Frances learned what an evening dress meant—not only the garment -itself, but the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the ribbons, the fan, -a hundred little accessories which she had never so much as thought of. -When you have nothing but a set of coral or amber beads to wear with -your white frock, it is astonishing how much that matter is simplified. -Lady Markham opened her jewel-boxes to provide for the same endless roll -of necessities. “This will go with the white dress, and this with the -pink,” she said, thus revealing to Frances another delicacy of accord -unsuspected by her simplicity.</p> - -<p>“But, mamma, you are giving me so many things!”</p> - -<p>“Not your share yet,” said Lady Markham. And she added: “But don’t say -anything of this to your aunt Clarendon. She will probably give you -something out of her hoards, if she thinks you are not provided.”</p> - -<p>This speech checked the pleasure and gratitude of Frances. She stopped -with a little gasp in her eager thanks. She wanted nothing from her aunt -Clarendon, she said to herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> with indignation, nor from her mother -either. If they would but let her keep her ignorance, her pleasure in -any simple gift, and not represent her, even to herself, as a little -schemer, trying how much she could get! Frances cried rather than smiled -over her turquoises and the set of old gold ornaments, which but for -that little speech would have made her happy. The suggestion put gall -into everything, and made the timid question in her mind as to Lady -Markham’s generous forbearance with her sister-in-law more difficult -than ever. Why did she bear it? She ought not to have borne it—not for -a day.</p> - -<p>On the Wednesday evening before the visit to Portland Place, to which -she looked with so much alarm, two gentlemen came to dinner at the -invitation of Markham. The idea of two gentlemen to dinner produced no -exciting effect upon Frances so as to withdraw her mind from the trial -that was coming. Gentlemen were the only portion of the creation with -which she was more or less acquainted. Even in the old Palazzo, a guest -of this description had been occasionally received, and had sat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> -discussing some point of antiquarian lore, or something about the old -books at Colla, with her father without taking any notice, beyond what -civility demanded, of the little girl who sat at the head of the table. -She did not doubt it would be the same thing to-night; and though -Markham was always <i>nice</i>, never leaving her out, never letting the -conversation drop altogether into that stream of personality or allusion -which makes Society so intolerable to a stranger, she yet prepared for -the evening with the feeling that dulness awaited her, and not pleasure. -One of the guests, however, was of a kind which Frances did not expect. -He was young, very young in appearance, rather small and delicate, but -at the same time refined, with a look of gentle melancholy upon a -countenance which was almost beautiful, with child-like limpid eyes, and -features of extreme delicacy and purity. This was something quite unlike -the elderly antiquarians who talked so glibly to her father about Roman -remains or Etruscan art. He sat between Lady Markham and herself, and -spoke in gentle tones, with a soft affectionate manner, to her mother, -who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> replied with the kindness and easy affectionateness which were -habitual to her. To see the sweet looks which this young gentleman -received, and to hear the tender questions about his health and his -occupations which Lady Markham put to him, awoke in the mind of Frances -another doubt of the same character as those others from which she had -not been able to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, this air of tender -interest, put on at will for the benefit of everybody with whom Lady -Markham spoke? Frances hated herself for the instinctive question which -rose in her, and for the suspicions which crept into her mind on every -side and undermined all her pleasure. The other stranger opposite to her -was old—to her youthful eyes—and called forth no interest at all. But -the gentleness and melancholy, the low voice, the delicate features, -something plaintive and appealing about the youth by her side, attracted -her interest in spite of herself. He said little to her, but from time -to time she caught him looking at her with a sort of questioning glance. -When the ladies left the table, and Frances and her mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> were alone -in the drawing-room, Lady Markham, who had said nothing for some -minutes, suddenly turned and asked: “What did you think of him, -Frances?” as if it were the most natural question in the world.</p> - -<p>“Of whom?” said Frances in her astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? Sir Thomas could be of no particular -interest either to you or me.”</p> - -<p>“I did not know their names, mamma; I scarcely heard them. Claude is the -young gentleman who sat next to you?”</p> - -<p>“And to you also, Frances. But not only that. He is the man of whom, I -suppose, Constance has told you—to avoid whom she left home, and ran -away from me. Oh, the words come quite appropriate, though I could not -bear them from the mouth of Caroline Clarendon. She abandoned me, and -threw herself upon your father’s protection, because of——”</p> - -<p>Frances had listened with a sort of consternation. When her mother -paused for breath, she filled up the interval: “That little, gentle, -small, young man!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked for a moment as if she would be angry; then she took -the better way, and laughed. “He is little and young,” she said; “but -neither so young nor even so small as you think. He is most wonderfully, -portentously rich, my dear; and he is very nice and good and intelligent -and generous. You must not take up a prejudice against him because he is -not an athlete or a giant. There are plenty of athletes in Society, my -love, but very, very few with a hundred thousand a-year.”</p> - -<p>“It is so strange to me to hear about money,” said Frances. “I hope you -will pardon me, mamma. I don’t understand. I thought he was perhaps some -one who was delicate, whose mother, perhaps, you knew, whom you wanted -to be kind to.”</p> - -<p>“Quite true,” said Lady Markham, patting her daughter’s cheek with a -soft finger; “and well judged: but something more besides. I thought, I -allow, that it would be an excellent match for Constance; not only -because he was rich, but <i>also</i> because he was rich. Do you see the -difference?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I—suppose so,” Frances said; but there was not any warmth in the -admission. “I thought the right way,” she added after a moment, with a -blush that stole over her from head to foot, “was that people fell in -love with each other.”</p> - -<p>“So it is,” said her mother, smiling upon her. “But it often happens, -you know, that they fall in love respectively with the wrong people.”</p> - -<p>“It is dreadful to me to talk to you, who know so much better,” cried -Frances. “All that <i>I</i> know is from stories. But I thought that even a -wrong person, whom you chose yourself, was better than——”</p> - -<p>“The right person chosen by your mother? These are awful doctrines, -Frances. You are a little revolutionary. Who taught you such terrible -things?” Lady Markham laughed as she spoke, and patted the girl’s cheek -more affectionately than ever, and looked at her with unclouded smiles, -so that Frances took courage. “But,” the mother went on, “there was no -question of choice on my part. Constance has known Claude Ramsay all her -life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> She liked him, so far as I knew. I supposed she had accepted him. -It was not formally announced, I am happy to say; but I made sure of it, -and so did everybody else—including himself, poor fellow—when, -suddenly, without any warning, your sister disappeared. It was unkind to -me, Frances,—oh, it was unkind to me!”</p> - -<p>And suddenly, while she was speaking, two tears appeared all at once in -Lady Markham’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Frances was deeply touched by this sight. She ventured upon a caress, -which as yet, except in timid return, to those bestowed upon her, she -had not been bold enough to do. “I do not think Constance can have meant -to be unkind,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Few people mean to be unkind,” said this social philosopher, who knew -so much more than Frances. “Your aunt Clarendon does, and that makes her -harmless, because one understands. Most of those who wound one, do it -because it pleases themselves, without meaning anything—or caring -anything—don’t you see?—whether it hurts or not.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>This was too profound a saying to be understood at the first moment, and -Frances had no reply to make to it. She said only by way of apology, -“But Markham approved?”</p> - -<p>“My love,” said her mother, “Markham is an excellent son to me. He -rarely wounds me himself—which is perhaps because he rarely does -anything particular himself—but he is not always a safe guide. It makes -me very happy to see that you take to him, though you must have heard -many things against him; but he is not a safe guide. Hush! here are the -men coming up-stairs. If Claude talks to you, be as gentle with him as -you can—and sympathetic, if you can,” she said quickly, rising from her -chair, and moving in her noiseless easy way to the other side. Frances -felt as if there was a meaning even in this movement, which left herself -alone with a vacant seat beside her; but she was confused as usual by -all the novelty, and did not understand what the meaning was.</p> - -<p>It was balked, however, if it had anything to do with Mr Ramsay, for it -was the other gentleman—the old gentleman, as Frances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> called him in -her thoughts—who came up and took the vacant place. The old gentleman -was a man about forty-five, with a few grey hairs among the brown, and a -well-knit manly figure, which showed very well between the delicate -youth on the one hand and Markham’s insignificance on the other. He was -Sir Thomas, whom Lady Markham had declared to be of no particular -interest to any one; but he evidently had sense enough to see the charm -of simplicity and youth. The attention of Frances was sadly distracted -by the movements of Claude, who fidgeted about from one table to -another, looking at the books and the nick-nacks upon them, and staring -at the pictures on the walls, then finally came and stood by Markham’s -side in front of the fire. He did well to contrast himself with Markham. -He was taller, and the beauty of his countenance showed still more -strikingly in contrast with Markham’s odd little wrinkled face. Frances -was distracted by the look which he kept fixed upon herself, and which -diverted her attention in spite of herself away from the talk of Sir -Thomas, who was, however, very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> <i>nice</i>, and, she felt sure, most -interesting and instructive, as became his advanced age, if only she -could attend to what he was saying. But what with the lively talk which -her mother carried on with Markham, and to which she could not help -listening all through the conversation of Sir Thomas, and the movements -and glances of the melancholy young lover, she could not fix her mind -upon the remarks that were addressed to her own ear. When Claude began -to join languidly in the other talk, it was more difficult still. “You -have got a new picture, Lady Markham,” she heard him say; and a sudden -quickening of her attention and another wave of colour and heat passing -over her, arrested even Sir Thomas in the much more interesting -observation which presumably he was about to make. He paused, as if he, -too, waited to hear Lady Markham’s reply.</p> - -<p>“Shall we call it a picture? It is my little girl’s sketch from her -window where she has been living—her present to her mother; and I think -it is delightful, though in the circumstances I don’t pretend to be a -judge.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Where she has been living! Frances grew redder and hotter in the flush -of indignation that went over her. But she could not stand up and -proclaim that it was from her home, her dear loggia, the place she loved -best in the world, that the sketch was made. Already the bonds of -another life were upon her, and she dared not do that. And then there -was a little chorus of praise, which silenced her still more -effectually. It was the group of palms which she had been so simply -proud of, which—as she had never forgotten—had made her father say -that she had grown up. Lady Markham had placed it on a small easel on -her table; but Frances could not help feeling that this was less for any -pleasure it gave her mother, than in order to make a little exhibition -of her own powers. It was, to be sure, in her own honour that this was -done—and what so natural as that the mother should seek to do her -daughter honour? but Frances was deeply sensitive, and painfully -conscious of the strange tangled web of motives, which she had never in -her life known anything about before. Had the little picture been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> hung -in her mother’s bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her own, the girl would -have found the most perfect pleasure in it; but here, exhibited as in a -public gallery, examined by admiring eyes, calling forth all the incense -of praise, it was with a mixture of shame and resentment that Frances -found it out. It produced this result, however, that Sir Thomas rose, as -in duty bound, to examine the performance of the daughter of the house; -and presently young Ramsay, who had been watching his opportunity, took -the place by her side.</p> - -<p>“I have been waiting for this,” he said, with his air of pathos. “I have -so many things to ask you, if you will let me, Miss Waring.”</p> - -<p>“Surely,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“Your sketch is very sweet—it is full of feeling—there is no colour -like that of the Riviera. It is the Riviera, is it not?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” cried Frances, eager to seize the opportunity of making it -apparent that it was not only where she had been living, as her mother -said. “It is from Bordighera, from our loggia, where I have lived all my -life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You will find no colour and no vegetation like that near London,” the -young man said.</p> - -<p>To this Frances replied politely that London was full of much more -wonderful things, as she had always heard; but felt somewhat -disappointed, supposing that his communications to her were to be more -interesting than this.</p> - -<p>“And the climate is so very different,” he continued. “I am very often -sent out of England for the winter, though this year they have let me -stay. I have been at Nice two seasons. I suppose you know Nice? It is a -very pretty place; but the wind is just as cold sometimes as at home. -You have to keep in the sun; and if you always keep in the sun, it is -warm even here.”</p> - -<p>“But there is not always sun here,” said Frances.</p> - -<p>“That is very true; that is a very clever remark. There is not always -sun here. San Remo was beginning to be known when I was there; but I -never heard of Bordighera as a place where people went to stay. Some -Italian wrote a book about it, I have heard—to push<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> it, no doubt. -Could you recommend it as a winter-place, Miss Waring? I suppose it is -very dull, nothing going on?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing at all,” cried Frances eagerly. “All the tourists complain -that there is nothing to do.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so,” he said; “a regular little Italian dead-alive place.” -Then he added after a moment’s pause: “But of course there are -inducements which might make one put up with that, if the air happened -to suit one. Are there villas to be had, can you tell me? They say, as a -matter of fact, that you get more advantage of the air when you are in a -dull place.”</p> - -<p>“There are hotels,” said Frances more and more disappointed, though the -beginning of this speech had given her a little hope.</p> - -<p>“Good hotels?” he said with interest. “Sometimes they are really better -than a place of one’s own, where the drainage is often bad, and the -exposure not all that could be desired. And then you get any amusement -that may be going. Perhaps you will tell me the names of one or two? for -if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> this east wind continues, my doctors may send me off even now.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked into his limpid eyes and expressive countenance with -dismay. He must look, she felt sure, as if he were making the most -touching confidences to her. His soft pathetic voice gave a <i>faux air</i> -of something sentimental to those questions, which even she could not -persuade herself meant nothing. Was it to show that he was bent upon -following Constance wherever she might go? That must be the true -meaning, she supposed. He must be endeavouring by this mock-anxiety to -find out how much she knew of his real motives, and whether he might -trust to her or not. But Frances resented a little the unnecessary -precaution.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know anything about the hotels,” she said. “I have never -thought of the air. It is my home—that is all.”</p> - -<p>“You look so well, that I am the more convinced it would be a good place -for me,” said the young man. “You look in such thorough good health, if -you will allow me to say so. Some ladies don’t like to be told that; but -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> think it the most delightful thing in existence. Tell me, had you any -trouble with drainage, when you went to settle there? And is the water -good? and how long does the season last? I am afraid I am teasing you -with my questions; but all these details are so important—and one is so -pleased to hear of a new place.”</p> - -<p>“We live up in the old town,” said Frances with a sudden flash of -malice. “I don’t know what drainage is, and neither does any one else -there. We have our fountain in the court—our own well. And I don’t -think there is any season. We go up among the mountains, when it gets -too hot.”</p> - -<p>“Your well in the court!” said the sentimental Claude, with the look of -a poet who has just been told that his dearest friend is killed by an -accident,—“with everything percolating into it! That is terrible -indeed. But,” he said, after a pause, an ethereal sense of consolation -stealing over his fine features—“there are exceptions, they say, to -every rule; and sometimes, with fine health such as you have, bad -sanitary conditions do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> seem to tell—<i>when there has been no -stirring-up</i>. I believe that is at the root of the whole question. -People can go on, on the old system, so long as there is no stirring-up; -but when once a beginning has been made, it must be complete, or it is -fatal.”</p> - -<p>He said this with animation much greater than he had shown as yet; then -dropping into his habitual pathos: “If I come in for tea to-morrow—Lady -Markham allows me to do it, when I can, when the weather is fit for -going out—will you be so very kind as to give me half an hour, Miss -Waring, for a few particulars? I will take them down from your lips—it -is so much the most satisfactory way; and perhaps you would add to your -kindness by just thinking it over beforehand—if there is anything I -ought to know.”</p> - -<p>“But I am going out to-morrow, Mr Ramsay.”</p> - -<p>“Then after to-morrow,” he said; and rising with a bow full of tender -deference, went up to Lady Markham to bid her good-night. “I have been -having a most interesting conversation with Miss Waring. She has given -me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> so many <i>renseignements</i>,” he said. “She permits me to come after -to-morrow for further particulars. Dear Lady Markham, good-night and <i>à -revoir</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What was Claude saying to you, Frances?” Lady Markham asked with a -little anxiety, when everybody save Markham was gone, and they were -alone.</p> - -<p>“He asked me about Bordighera, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Poor dear boy! About Con, and what she had said of him? He has a -faithful heart, though people think him a little too much taken up with -himself.”</p> - -<p>“He did not say anything about Constance. He asked about the climate and -the drains—what are drains?—and if the water was good, and what hotel -I could recommend.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham laughed and coloured slightly, and tapped Frances on the -cheek. “You are a little satirical——! Dear Claude! he is very anxious -about his health. But don’t you see,” she added, “that was all a covert -way of finding out about Con? He wants to go after her; but he does not -want to let everybody in the world see that he has gone after a girl who -would not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> have him. I have a great deal of sympathy with him, for my -part.”</p> - -<p>Frances had no sympathy with him. She felt, on the other hand, more -sympathy for Constance than had moved her yet. To escape from such a -lover, Frances thought a girl might be justified in flying to the end of -the world. But it never entered into her mind that any like danger to -herself was to be thought of. She dismissed Claude Ramsay from her -thoughts with half resentment, half amusement, wondering that Constance -had not told her more; but feeling, as no such image had ever risen on -her horizon before, that she would not have believed Constance. However, -her sister had happily escaped, and to herself, Claude Ramsay was -nothing. Far more important was it to think of the ordeal of to-morrow. -She shivered a little even in her warm room as she anticipated it. -England seemed to be colder, greyer, more devoid of brightness in -Portland Place than in Eaton Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> went to Portland Place next day. She went with great reluctance, -feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of the other side -was intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there was absolute right -on either side, it would not have been so difficult for her. But she -knew so little of the facts of the case, and her natural prepossessions -were so curiously double and variable, that every encounter was painful. -To be swept into the faction of the other side, when the first -impassioned sentiment with which she had felt her mother’s arms around -her had begun to sink inevitably into that silent judgment of another -individual’s ways and utterances which is the hindrance of reason to -every enthusiasm—was doubly hard. She was resolute indeed that not a -word or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span> insinuation against her mother should be permitted in her -presence. But she herself had a hundred little doubts and questions in -her mind, traitors whose very existence no one must suspect but herself. -Her natural revulsion from the thought of being forced into partisanship -gave her a feeling of strong opposition and resistance against -everything that might be said to her, when she stepped into the solemn -house in Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and -still, so different from her mother’s warm and cheerful abode. The -manner in which her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their -previous meeting, in Lady Markham’s presence, the greeting given her by -Mrs Clarendon had chilled her through and through. She was ushered in -now to the same still room, with its unused look, with all the chairs in -their right places, and no litter of habitation about; but her aunt came -to her with a different aspect from that which she had borne before. She -came quickly, almost with a rush, and took the shrinking girl into her -arms. “My dear little Frances, my dear child, my brothe<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span>r’s own little -girl!” she cried, kissing her again and again. Her ascetic countenance -was transfigured, her grey eyes warmed and shone.</p> - -<p>Frances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She did her -best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to have felt, -and to return her aunt’s caresses with due fervour; but in her heart -there was a chill of which she felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity -which was very foreign to her nature. All through these strange -experiences, Frances felt herself insincere. She had not known how to -respond even to her mother, and a cold sense that she was among -strangers had crept in even in the midst of the bewildering certainty -that she was with her nearest relations and in her mother’s house. In -present circumstances, “How do you do, aunt Caroline?” was the only -commonplace phrase she could find to say, in answer to the effusion of -affection with which she was received.</p> - -<p>“Now we can talk,” said Mrs Clarendon, leading her with both hands in -hers to a sofa near the fire. “While my lady was here it was impossible. -You must have thought me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> cold, when my heart was just running over to -my dear brother’s favourite child. But I could not open my heart before -her,—I never could do it. And there is so much to ask you. For though I -would not let her know I had never heard, you know very well, my dear, I -can’t deceive you. O Frances, why doesn’t he write? Surely, surely, he -must have known I would never betray him—to <i>her</i>, or any of her race.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Caroline, please remember you are speaking of——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can’t stand on ceremony with you! I can’t do it. Constance, that -had been always with her, that was another thing. But you, my dear, dear -child! And you must not stand on ceremony with me. I can understand you, -if no one else can. And as for expecting you to love her and honour her -and so forth, a woman whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled -your dear father’s life——”</p> - -<p>Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With eyes -that flashed with excitement, the quiet still grey woman was strangely -transformed. A vivacious and ani<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span>mated person, when moved by passion, is -not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. There was a force of fury -and hatred in her tone and looks which appalled the girl. She -interrupted almost rudely, insisting upon being heard, as soon as Mrs -Clarendon paused for breath.</p> - -<p>“You must not speak to me so; you must not—you shall not! I will not -hear it.”</p> - -<p>Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of a -tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds.</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly changed -her tone. “Your father might have written to me,” she said—“he might -have written to <i>me</i>. He is my only brother, and I am all that remains -of the family, now that Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much mixed up -with it all, is gone. It was natural enough that he should go away. I -always understood him, if nobody else did; but he might have trusted his -own family, who would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that -I should owe my knowledge of him now to that ill-grown,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> -ill-conditioned—— O Frances, it was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge -of my brother and of you and everything about you to Markham—I shall -never be able to forget how bitter it was.”</p> - -<p>“You forget that Markham is my brother, aunt Caroline.”</p> - -<p>“He is nothing of the sort. He is your half-brother, if you care to keep -up the connection at all. But some people don’t think much of it. It is -the father’s side that counts. But don’t let us argue about that. Tell -me how is your father? Tell me all about him. I love you dearly, for his -sake; but above everything, I want to hear about him. I never had any -other brother. How is he, Frances? To think that I should never have -seen or heard of him for twelve long years!”</p> - -<p>“My father is—very well,” said Frances, with a sort of strangulation -both in heart and voice, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Very well!’ Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so long! -Where is he—and how is he living—and have you been a very good child -to him, Frances? He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> deserves a good child, for he was a good son. Oh, -tell me a little about him. Did he tell you everything about us? Did he -say how fond and how proud we were of him? and how happy we used to be -at home all together? He must have told you. If you knew how I go back -to those old days! We were such a happy united family. Life is always -disappointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not -everybody that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their youth. -He must have told you of our happy life at home.”</p> - -<p>Frances had kept the secret of her father’s silence from every one who -had a right to blame him for it. But here she felt herself to be bound -by no such precaution. His sister was on his side. It was in his defence -and in passionate partisanship for him that she had assailed the mother -to the child. Frances had even a momentary angry pleasure in telling the -truth without mitigation or softening. “I don’t know whether you will -believe me,” she said, “but my father told me nothing. He never said a -word to me about his past life or any one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> connected with him; neither -you nor—any one.” Though she had the kindest heart in the world, and -never had harmed a living creature, it gave Frances almost a little pang -of pleasure to deliver this blow.</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon received it, so to speak, full in the face, as she leaned -forward, eagerly waiting for what Frances had to say. She looked at the -girl aghast, the colour changing in her face, a sudden exclamation dying -away in her throat. But after the first keen sensation, she drew herself -together and regained her self-control. “Yes, yes,” she cried; “I -understand. He could not enter into anything about us without telling -you of—others. He was always full of good feeling—and so just! No -doubt, he thought if you heard our side, you should hear the other. But -when you were coming away—when he knew you must hear everything, what -message did he give you for me?”</p> - -<p>In sight of the anxiety which shone in her aunt’s eyes, and the eager -bend towards her of the rigid straight figure not used to any yielding, -Frances began to feel as if she were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> the culprit. “Indeed,” she said, -hesitating, “he never said anything. I came here in ignorance. I never -knew I had a mother till Constance came—nor any relations. I heard of -my aunt for the first time from—mamma; and then to conceal my -ignorance, I asked Markham; I wanted no one to know.”</p> - -<p>It was some minutes before Mrs Clarendon spoke. Her eyes slowly filled -with tears, as she kept them fixed upon Frances. The blow went very -deep; it struck at illusions which were perhaps more dear than anything -in her actual existence. “You heard of me for the first time from—— -Oh, that was cruel, that was cruel of Edward,” she cried, clasping her -hands together—“of me for the first time—and you had to ask Markham! -And I, that was his favourite sister, and that never forgot him, never -for a day!”</p> - -<p>Frances put her own soft young hands upon those which her aunt wrung -convulsively together in the face of this sudden pang. “I think he had -tried to forget his old life altogether,” she said; “or perhaps it was -because he thought so much of it that he could not tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> me—I was so -ignorant! He would have been obliged to tell me so much, if he had told -me anything. Aunt Caroline, I don’t think he meant to be unkind.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon shook her head; then she turned upon her comforter with a -sort of indignation. “And you,” she said, “did you never want to know? -Did you never wonder how it was that he was there, vegetating in a -little foreign place, a man of his gifts? Did you never ask whom you -belonged to, what friends you had at home? I am afraid,” she cried -suddenly, rising to her feet, throwing off the girl’s hand, which had -still held hers, “that you are like your mother in your heart as well as -your face—a self-contained, self-satisfying creature. You cannot have -been such a child to him as he had a right to, or you would have known -all—all there was to know.”</p> - -<p>She went to the fire as she spoke and took up the poker and struck the -smouldering coals into a blaze with agitated vehemence, shivering -nervously, with excitement rather than cold. “Of course that is how it -is,” she said. “You must have been thinking of your own little affairs,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> -and not of his. He must have thought he would have his child to confide -in and rely upon—and then have found out that she was not of his nature -at all, nor thinking of him; and then he would shut his heart close—oh, -I know him so well! that is so like Edward—and say nothing, nothing! -That was always easier to him than saying a little. It was everything or -nothing with him always. And when he found you took no interest, he -would shut himself up. But there’s Constance,” she cried after a -pause—“Constance is like our side. He will be able to pour out his -heart, poor Edward, to her; and she will understand him. There is some -comfort in that, at least.”</p> - -<p>If Frances had felt a momentary pleasure in giving pain, it was now -repaid to her doubly. She sat where her aunt had left her, following -with a quiver of consciousness everything she said. Ah, yes; she had -been full of her own little affairs. She had thought of the mayonnaises, -but not of any spiritual needs to which she could minister. She had not -felt any wonder that a man of his gifts should live at Bordighera, or -any vehemence of curiosity as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> to the family she belonged to, or what -his antecedents were. She had taken it all quite calmly, accepting as -the course of nature the absence of relations and references to home. -She had known nothing else, and she had not thought of anything else. -Was it her fault all through? Had she been a disappointment to her -father, not worthy of him or his confidence? The tears gathered slowly -in her eyes. And when Mrs Clarendon suddenly introduced the name of -Constance, Frances, too, sprang to her feet with a sense of the -intolerable, which she could not master. To be told that she had failed, -might be bearable; but that Constance—Constance!—should turn out to -possess all that she wanted, to gain the confidence she had not been -able to gain, that was more than flesh and blood could bear. She sprang -up hastily, and began with trembling hands to button up to her throat -the close-fitting outdoor jacket which she had undone. Mrs Clarendon -stood, her face lit up with the ruddy blaze of the fire, shooting out -sharp arrows of words, with her back turned to her young victim; while -Frances behind her, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> as great agitation, prepared to bring the -conference and controversy to a close.</p> - -<p>“If that is what you think,” she said, her voice tremulous with -agitation and pain, pulling on her gloves with feverish haste, “perhaps -it will be better for me to go away.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon turned round upon her with a start of astonishment. -Through the semi-darkness of that London day, which was not much more -than twilight through the white curtains, the elder woman looked round -upon the girl, quivering with indignation and resentment, to whom she -had supposed herself entitled to say what she pleased without fear of -calling forth any response of indignation. When she saw the tremor in -the little figure standing against the light, the agitated movement of -the hands, she was suddenly brought back to herself. It flashed across -her at once that the sudden withdrawal of Frances, whom she had welcomed -so warmly as her brother’s favourite child, would be a triumph for Lady -Markham, already no doubt very triumphant in the unveiling of her -husband’s hiding-place and the recovery of the child, and in the fact -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> Frances resembled herself, and not the father. To let that enemy -understand that she, Waring’s sister, could not secure the affection of -Waring’s child, was something which Mrs Clarendon could not face.</p> - -<p>“Go—where?” she said. “You forget that you have come to spend the day -with me. My lady will not expect you till the evening; and I do not -suppose you can wish to expose your father’s sister to her remarks.”</p> - -<p>“My mother,” said Frances with an almost sob of emotion, “must be more -to me than my father’s sister. Oh, aunt Caroline,” she cried, “you have -been very, very hard upon me. I lived as a child lives at home till -Constance came, I had never known anything else. Why should I have asked -questions? I did not know I had a mother. I thought it was cruel, when I -first heard; and now you say it was my fault.”</p> - -<p>“It must have been more or less your fault. A girl has no right to be so -simple. You ought to have inquired; you ought to have given him no rest; -you ought——”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you,” said Frances, “what I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> brought up to do: not to -trouble papa; that was all I knew from the time I was a baby. I don’t -know who taught me—perhaps Mariuccia, perhaps, only—everything. I was -not to trouble him, whatever I did. I was never to cry, nor even to -laugh too loud, nor to make a noise, nor to ask questions. Mariuccia and -Domenico and every one had only this thought—not to disturb papa. He -was always very kind,” she went on, softening, her eyes filling again. -“Sometimes he would be displeased about the dinner, or if his papers -were disturbed. I dusted them myself, and was very careful; but -sometimes that put him out. But he was very kind. He always came to the -loggia in the evening, except when he was busy. He used to tell me when -my perspective was wrong, and laugh at me, but not to hurt. I think you -are mistaken, aunt Caroline, about papa.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon had come a little nearer, and turned her face towards the -girl, who stood thus pleading her own cause. Neither of them was quick -enough in intelligence to see distinctly the difference of the two -pictures which they set before each other—the sister displaying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> her -ideal of a delicate soul wounded and shrinking from the world, finding -refuge in the tenderness of his child; the daughter making her simple -representation of the father she knew, a man not at all dependent on her -tenderness, concerned about the material circumstances of life, about -his dinner, and that his papers should not be disturbed—kind, indeed, -but in the easy, indifferent way of a father who is scarcely aware that -his little girl is blooming into a woman. They were not clever enough to -perceive this; and yet they felt the difference with a vague sense that -both views, yet neither, were quite true, and that there might be more -to say on either side. Frances got choked with tears as she went on, -which perhaps was the thing above all others which melted her aunt’s -heart. Mrs Clarendon gave the girl credit for a passionate regret and -longing for the father she loved; whereas Frances in reality was -thinking, not so much of her father, as of the serene childish life -which was over for ever, which never could come back again, with all its -sacred ignorances, its simple unities, the absence of all complication -or per<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span>plexity. Already she was so much older, and had acquired so much -confusing painful knowledge—that knowledge of good and evil, and sense -of another meaning lurking behind the simplest seeming fact and -utterance, which, when once it has entered into the mind, is so hard to -drive out again.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it was not your fault,” said Mrs Clarendon at last. “Perhaps he -had been so used to you as a child, that he did not remember you were -grown up. We will say no more about it, Frances. We may be sure he had -his reasons. And you say he was busy sometimes. Was he writing? What was -he doing? You don’t know what hopes we used to have, and the great -things we thought he was going to do. He was so clever; at school and at -college, there was nobody like him. We were so proud of him! He might -have been Lord Chancellor. Charles even says so, and he is not partial, -like me; he might have been anything, if he had but tried. But all the -spirit was taken out of him when he married. Oh, many a man has been the -same. Women have a great deal to answer for. I am not saying anything -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> your mother. You are quite right when you say that is not a -subject to be discussed with you. Come down-stairs; luncheon is ready; -and after that we will go out. We must not quarrel, Frances. We are each -other’s nearest relations, when all is said.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want to quarrel, aunt Caroline. Oh no; I never quarrelled with -any one. And then you remind me of papa.”</p> - -<p>“That is the nicest thing you have said. You can come to me, my dear, -whenever you want to talk about him, to ease your heart. You can’t do -that with your mother; but you will never tire me. You may tell me about -him from morning to night, and I shall never be tired. Mariuccia and -Domenico are the servants, I suppose? and they adore him? He was always -adored by the servants. He never gave any trouble, never spoke crossly. -Oh, how thankful I am to be able to speak of him quite freely! I was his -favourite sister. He was just the same in outward manner to us both,—he -would not let Minnie see he had any preference; but he liked me the -best, all the same.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>It was very grateful to Frances that this monologue should go on: it -spared her the necessity of answering many questions which would have -been very difficult to her; for she was not prepared to say that the -servants, though faithful, adored her father, or that he never gave any -trouble. Her recollection of him was that he gave a great deal of -trouble, and was “very particular.” But Mrs Clarendon had a happy way of -giving herself the information she wanted, and evidently preferred to -tell Frances a thousand things, instead of being told by her. And in -other ways she was very kind, insisting that Frances should eat at -lunch, that she should be wrapped up well when they went out in the -victoria, that she should say whether there was any shopping she wanted -to do. “I know my lady will look after your finery,” she said,—“that -will be for her own credit, and help to get you off the sooner; but I -hope you have plenty of nice underclothing and wraps. She is not so sure -to think of these.”</p> - -<p>Frances, to save herself from this questioning, described the numberless -unnecessaries which had been already bestowed upon her, not for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span>getting -the turquoises and other ornaments, which, she remembered with a quick -sensation of shame, her mother had told her not to speak of, lest her -aunt’s liberalities should be checked. The result, however, was quite -different. Mrs Clarendon grew red as she heard of all these -acquisitions, and when they returned to Portland Place, led Frances to -her own room, and opened to her admiring gaze the safe, securely fixed -into the wall, where her jewels were kept. “There are not many that can -be called family jewels,” she said; “but I’ve no daughter of my own, and -I should not like it to be said that you had got nothing from your -father’s side.”</p> - -<p>Thus it was a conflict of liberality, not a withholding of presents -because she was already supplied, which Frances had to fear. She was -compelled to accept with burning cheeks, and eyes weighed down with -shame and reluctance, ornaments which a few weeks ago would have seemed -to her good enough for a queen. Oh, what a flutter of pleasure there had -been in her heart when her father gave her the little necklace of -Genoese filigree, which appeared to her the most beautiful thing in the -world. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> slipped into her pocket the cluster of emeralds her aunt -gave her, as if she had been a thief, and hid the pretty ring which was -forced upon her finger, under her glove. “Oh, they are much too fine for -me. They are too good for any girl to wear. I do not want them, indeed, -aunt Caroline!”</p> - -<p>“That may be,” Mrs Clarendon replied; “but I want to give them to you. -It shall never be said that all the good things came from her, and -nothing but trumpery from me.”</p> - -<p>Frances took home her spoils with a sense of humiliation which weighed -her to the ground. Before this, however, she had made the acquaintance -of Mr Charles Clarendon, the great Q.C., who came into the cold -drawing-room two minutes before dinner in irreproachable evening -costume—a well-mannered, well-looking man of middle age, or a little -more, who shook hands cordially with Frances, and told her he was very -glad to see her. “But dinner is a little late, isn’t it?” he said to his -wife. The drawing-room looked less cold by lamplight; and Mrs Clarendon -herself, in her soft velvet evening-gown with a good deal of lace—or -perhaps it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> was after the awakening and excitement of her quarrel with -Frances—had less the air of being like the furniture, out of use. The -dinner was very luxurious and dainty. Frances, as she sat between -husband and wife, observing both very closely without being aware of it, -decided within herself that in this particular her aunt Caroline again -reminded her of papa. Mr Clarendon was very agreeable at dinner. He gave -his wife several pieces of information indeed which Frances did not -understand, but in general talked about the things that were going on, -the great events of the time, the news, so much of it as was -interesting, with all the ease of a man of the world. And he asked -Frances a few civil and indeed kindly questions about herself. “You must -take care of our east winds,” he said; “you will find them very sharp -after the Riviera.”</p> - -<p>“I am not delicate,” she said; “I don’t think they will hurt me.”</p> - -<p>“No, you are not delicate,” he replied, with what Frances felt to be a -look of approval; “one has only to look at you to see that. But fine -elastic health like yours is a great possession,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> and you must take care -of it.” He added with a smile, a moment after: “We never think that when -we are young; and when we are old, thinking does little good.”</p> - -<p>“You have not much to complain of, Charles, in that respect,” said his -wife, who was always rather solemn.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing at all,” was his reply. And shortly after, dinner by this -time being over, he gave her a significant look, to which she responded -by rising from the table.</p> - -<p>“It is time for us to go up-stairs, my dear,” she said to Frances.</p> - -<p>And when the ladies reached the drawing-room, it had relapsed into its -morning aspect, and looked as chilly and as unused as before.</p> - -<p>“Your uncle is one of the busiest men in London,” said Mrs Clarendon -with a scarcely perceptible sigh. “He talked of your health; but if he -had not the finest health in the world, he could not do it; he never -takes any rest.”</p> - -<p>“Is he going to work now?” Frances asked with a certain awe.</p> - -<p>“He will take a doze for half an hour; then he will have his coffee. At -ten he will come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> up-stairs to bid me good-night; and then—I dare not -say how long he will sit up after that. He can do with less sleep than -any other man, I think.” She spoke in a tone that was full of pride, yet -with pathos in it too.</p> - -<p>“In that way, you cannot see very much of him,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“I am more pleased that my husband should be the first lawyer in -England, than that he should sit in the drawing-room with me,” she -answered proudly. Then, with a faint sigh: “One has to pay for it,” she -added.</p> - -<p>The girl looked round upon the dim room with a shiver, which she did her -best to conceal. Was it worth the price, she wondered? the cold dim -house, the silence in it which weighed down the soul, the half-hour’s -talk (no more) round the table, followed by a long lonely evening. She -wondered if they had been in love with each other when they were young, -and perhaps moved heaven and earth for a chance hour together, and all -to come to this. And there was her own father and mother, who probably -had loved each other too. As she drove along to Eaton Square, warmly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> -wrapped in the rich fur cloak which aunt Caroline had insisted on adding -to her other gifts, these examples of married life gave her a curious -thrill of thought, as involuntarily she turned them over in her mind. If -the case of a man were so with his wife, it would be well not to marry, -she said to herself, as the inquirers did so many years ago.</p> - -<p>And then she blushed crimson, with a sensation of heat which made her -throw her cloak aside, to think that she was going back to her mother, -as if she had been sent out upon a raid, laden with spoils.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> were voices in the drawing-room as Frances ran up-stairs, which -warned her that her own appearance in her morning dress would be -undesirable there. She went on with a sense of relief to her own room, -where she threw aside the heavy cloak, lined with fur, which her aunt -had insisted on wrapping her in. It was too grave, too ample for -Frances, just as the other presents she had received were too rich and -valuable for her wearing. She took the emerald brooch out of her pocket -in its little case, and thrust it away into her drawer, glad to be rid -of it, wondering whether it would be her duty to show it, to exhibit her -presents. She divined that Lady Markham would be pleased, that she would -congratulate her upon having made herself agreeable to her aunt, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> -perhaps repeat that horrible encouragement to her to make what progress -she could in the affections of the Clarendons, because they were rich -and had no heirs. If, instead of saying this, Lady Markham had but said -that Mrs Clarendon was lonely, having no children, and little good of -her husband’s society, how different it might have been. How anxious -then would Frances have been to visit and cheer her father’s sister! The -girl, though she was very simple, had a great deal of inalienable good -sense; and she could not but wonder within herself how her mother could -make so strange a mistake.</p> - -<p>It was late before Lady Markham came up-stairs. She came in shading her -candle with her hand, gliding noiselessly to her child’s bedside. “Are -you not asleep, Frances? I thought you would be too tired to keep -awake.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no. I have done nothing to tire me. I thought you would not want me -down-stairs, as I was not dressed.”</p> - -<p>“I always want you,” said Lady Markham, stooping to kiss her. “But I -quite understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> why you did not come. There was nobody that could have -interested you. Some old friends of mine, and a man or two whom Markham -brought to dine; but nothing young or pleasant. And did you have a -tolerable day? Was poor Caroline a little less grey and cold? But -Constance used to tell me she was only cold when I was there.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she was cold. She was—very kind; at least that is what -she meant, I am sure,” said Frances, anxious to do her aunt justice.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham laughed softly, with a sort of suppressed satisfaction. She -was anxious that Frances should please. She had herself, at a -considerable sacrifice of pride, kept up friendly relations, or at least -a show of friendly relations, with her husband’s sister. But -notwithstanding all this, the tone in which Frances spoke was balm to -her. The cloak was an evidence that the girl had succeeded; and yet she -had not joined herself to the other side. This unexpected triumph gave a -softness to Lady Markham’s voice.</p> - -<p>“We must remember,” she said, “that poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> Caroline is very much alone. -When one is much alone, one’s very voice gets rusty, so to speak. It -sounds hoarse in one’s throat. You may think, perhaps, that I have not -much experience of that. Still, I can understand; and it takes some time -to get it toned into ordinary smoothness. It is either too expressive, -or else it sounds cold. A great deal of allowance is to be made for a -woman who spends so much of her life alone.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” cried Frances, with a burst of tender compunction, taking her -mother’s soft white dimpled hand in her own, and kissing it with a -fervour which meant penitence as well as enthusiasm. “It is so good of -you to remind me of that.”</p> - -<p>“Because she has not much good to say of me? My dear, there are a great -many things that you don’t know, that it would be hard to explain to -you: we must forgive her for that.”</p> - -<p>And for a moment Lady Markham looked very grave, turning her face away -towards the vacancy of the dark room with something that sounded like a -sigh. Her daughter had never loved her so much as at this moment. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> -laid her cheek upon her mother’s hand, and felt the full sweetness of -that contact enter into her heart.</p> - -<p>“But I am disturbing your beauty-sleep, my love,” she said; “and I want -you to look your best to-morrow; there are several people coming -to-morrow. Did she give you that great cloak, Frances? How like poor -Caroline! I know the cloak quite well. It is far too <i>old</i> for you. But -that is beautiful sable it is trimmed with; it will make you something. -She is fond of giving presents.” Lady Markham was very quick—full of -the intelligence in which Mrs Clarendon failed. She felt the instinctive -loosening of her child’s hands from her own, and that the girl’s cheek -was lifted from that tender pillow. “But,” she said, “we’ll say no more -of that to-night,” and stooped and kissed her, and drew her covering -about her with all the sweetness of that care which Frances had never -received before. Nevertheless, the involuntary and horrible feeling that -it was clever of her mother to stop when she did and say no more, struck -chill to the girl’s very soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span></p> - -<p>Next day Mr Ramsay came in the afternoon, and immediately addressed -himself to Frances. “I hope you have not forgotten your promise, Miss -Waring, to give me all the <i>renseignements</i>. I should not like to lose -such a good chance.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I have any information to give you—if it is about -Bordighera, you mean. I am fond of it; but then I have lived there all -my life. Constance thought it dull.”</p> - -<p>“Ah yes, to be sure—your sister went there. But her health was perfect. -I have seen her go out in the wildest weather, in days that made me -shiver. She said that to see the sun always shining bored her. She liked -a great deal of excitement and variety—don’t you think?” he added after -a moment, in a tentative way.</p> - -<p>“The sun does not shine always,” said Frances, piqued for the reputation -of her home, as if this were an accusation. “We have grey days -sometimes, and sometimes storms, beautiful storms, when the sea is all -in foam.”</p> - -<p>He shivered a little at the idea. “I have never yet found the perfect -place in which there is nothing of all that,” he said. “Wher<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span>ever I have -been, there are cold days—even in Algiers, you know. No climate is -perfect. I don’t go in much for society when I am at a health-place. It -disturbs one’s thoughts and one’s temper, and keeps you from fixing your -mind upon your cure, which you should always do. But I suppose you know -everybody there?”</p> - -<p>“There is—scarcely any one there,” she said, faltering, remembering at -once that her father was not a person to whom to offer introductions.</p> - -<p>“So much the better,” he said more cheerfully. “It is a thing I have -often heard doctors say, that society was quite undesirable. It disturbs -one’s mind. One can’t be so exact about hours. In short, it places -health in a secondary place, which is fatal. I am always extremely rigid -on that point. Health—must go before all. Now, dear Miss Waring, to -details, if you please.” He took out a little note-book, bound in -russia, and drew forth a jewelled pencil-case. “The hotels first, I beg; -and then the other particulars can be filled in. We can put them under -different heads:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> (1) Shelter; (2) Exposure; (3) Size and convenience of -apartments; (4) Nearness to church, beach, &c. I hope you don’t think I -am asking too much?”</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see that you have not given him up because of Con,” -said one of Lady Markham’s visitors, talking very earnestly over the -tea-table, with a little nod and gesture to indicate of whom she was -speaking. “He must be very fond of you, to keep coming; or he must have -some hope.”</p> - -<p>“I think he is rather fond of me, poor Claude!” Lady Markham replied -without looking round. “I am one of the oldest friends he has.”</p> - -<p>“But Constance, you know, gave him a terrible snub. I should not have -wondered if he had never entered the house again.”</p> - -<p>“He enters the house almost every day, and will continue to do so, I -hope. Poor boy, he cannot afford to throw away his friends.”</p> - -<p>“Then that is almost the only luxury he can’t afford.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled upon this remark. “Claude,” she said, turning round, -“don’t you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> want some tea? Come and get it while it is hot.”</p> - -<p>“I am getting some <i>renseignements</i> from Miss Waring. It is very good of -her. She is telling me all about Bordighera, which, so far as I can see, -will be a very nice place for the winter,” said Ramsay, coming up to the -tea-table with his little note-book in his hand. “Thanks, dear Lady -Markham. A little sugar, please. Sugar is extremely nourishing, and it -is a great pity to leave it out in diet—except, you know, when you are -inclining to fat. Banting is at the bottom of all this fashion of doing -without sugar. It is not good for little thin fellows like me.”</p> - -<p>“I gave it up long before I ever heard of Banting,” said the stout lady: -for it need scarcely be said that there was a stout lady; no tea-party -in England ever assembled without one. The individual in the present -case was young, and rebellious against the fate which had overtaken -her—not of the soft, smiling, and contented kind.</p> - -<p>“It does us real good,” said Claude, with his softly pathetic voice. “I -have seen one or two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> very sad instances where the fat did not go away, -you know, but got limp and flaccid, and the last state of that man was -worse than the first. Dear lady, I think you should be very cautious. To -make experiments with one’s health is really criminal. We are getting on -very nicely with the <i>renseignements</i>. Miss Waring has remembered a -great deal. She thought she could not tell me anything; but she has -remembered a great deal.”</p> - -<p>“Bordighera? Is that where Constance is?” the ladies said to each other -round the low tea-table where Lady Markham was so busy. She smiled upon -them all, and answered “Yes,” without any tinge of the embarrassment -which perhaps they hoped to see.</p> - -<p>“But of course as a resident she is not living among the people at the -hotels. You know how the people who live in a place hold themselves -apart; and the season is almost over. I don’t think that either tourists -or invalids passing that way are likely to see very much of Con.”</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Frances, as young Ramsay had said, had been honestly -straining her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> mind to “remember” what she could about the Marina and -the circumstances there. She did not know anything about the east wind, -and had no recollection of how it affected the place. She remembered -that the sun shone in at the windows all day; which of course meant, as -he informed her, a southern exposure; and that in all the hotel gardens, -as well as elsewhere, there were palms growing, and hedges of lemons and -orange trees; and that at the Angleterre—or was it the Victoria?—the -housekeeper was English; along with other details of a similar kind. -There were no balls; very few concerts or entertainments of any kind; no -afternoon tea-parties. “How could there be?” said Frances, “when there -were only ourselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants.”</p> - -<p>“Only themselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants,” Ramsay wrote down in his -little book. “How delightful that must be! Thank you so much, Miss -Waring. Usually one has to pay for one’s experience; but thanks to you, -I feel that I know all about it. It seems a place in which one could do -one’s self every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> justice. I shall speak to Dr Lull about it at once. I -have no doubt he will think it the very place for me.”</p> - -<p>“You will find it dull,” said Frances, looking at him curiously, -wondering was it possible that he could be sincere, or whether this was -his way of justifying to himself his intention of following Constance. -But nothing could be more steadily matter-of-fact than the young man’s -aspect.</p> - -<p>“Yes, no doubt I shall find it dull. I don’t so very much object to -that. At Cannes and those places there is a continual racket going on. -One might almost as well be in London. One is seduced into going out in -the evening, doing all sorts of things. I think your place is an ideal -place—plenty of sunshine and no amusements. How can I thank you enough, -Miss Waring, for your <i>renseignements</i>? I shall speak to Dr Lull without -delay.”</p> - -<p>“But you must recollect that it will soon be getting very hot; and even -the people who live there will be going away. Mr Durant sometimes takes -the duty at Homburg or one of those places; and the Gaunts come home to -England; and even we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>Here Frances paused for a moment to watch him, and she thought that the -pencil with which he was still writing down all these precious details, -paused too. He looked up at her, as if waiting for further information. -“Yes?” he said interrogatively.</p> - -<p>“Even we—go up among the mountains where it is cooler,” she said.</p> - -<p>He looked a little thoughtful at this; but presently threw her back into -perplexity by saying calmly: “That would not matter to me so much, since -I am quite sincere in thinking that when one goes to a health-place, one -should give one’s self up to one’s health. But unfortunately, or perhaps -I should say fortunately, Miss Waring, England is just as good as -anywhere else in the summer; and Dr Lull has not thought it necessary -this year to send me away. But I feel quite set up with your -<i>renseignements</i>,” he added, putting back his book into his pocket, “and -I certainly shall think of it for another year.”</p> - -<p>Frances had been so singled out for the purpose of giving the young -invalid information, that she found herself a little apart from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> -party when he went away. They were all ladies, and all intimates, and -the unaccustomed girl was not prepared for the onslaught of this curious -and eager, though so pretty and fashionable mob. “What are those -<i>renseignements</i> you have been giving him? Is he going off after Con? -Has he been questioning you about Con? We are all dying to know. And -what do you think she will say to him if he goes out after her?” cried -all, speaking together, those soft eager voices, to which Frances did -not know how to reply.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> became accustomed to the presence of young Ramsay after this. He -appeared almost every day, very often in the afternoon, eager for tea, -and always disposed to inquire for further <i>renseignements</i>, though he -was quite certain that he was not to leave England till autumn at the -earliest. She began to regard him as a younger brother, or cousin at the -least—a perfectly harmless individual, with whom she could talk when he -wanted her with a gentle complacence, without any reference to her own -pleasure. As a matter of fact, it did not give her any pleasure to talk -to Claude. She was kind to him for his sake; but she had no desire for -his presence on her own account. It surprised her that he ever could -have been thought of as a possible mate for Constance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span> Constance was so -much cleverer, so much more advanced in every way than herself, that to -suppose she could put up with what Frances found so little attractive, -was a constant amazement to the girl. She could not but express this on -one of the occasions, not so very frequent as she had expected, on which -her mother and she were alone together.</p> - -<p>“Is it really true,” she said at the end of a long silence, “that there -was a question of a—marriage between Constance and Mr Ramsay?”</p> - -<p>“It is really quite true,” said her mother with a smile. “And why not? -Do you disapprove?”</p> - -<p>“It is not that I disapprove—I have no right to disapprove; it is only -that it seems so impossible.”</p> - -<p>“Why? I see nothing impossible in it. He is of suitable age; he is -handsome. You cannot deny that he is handsome, however much you may -dislike him, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t dislike him at all; I like him very much—in a kind of -way.”</p> - -<p>“You have every appearance of doing so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span>” said Lady Markham with -meaning. “You talk to him more, I think, than to any one else.”</p> - -<p>“That is because——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t ask any reason, Frances. If you like his society that is -reason enough—the best of reasons. And evidently he likes you. He -would, no doubt, be more suitable to you than to Constance.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma! I don’t know what you mean.” Frances woke up suddenly from her -musing state, and looked at her mother with wide open startled eyes.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean anything. I only ask you to point out wherein his -unsuitability lies. Young, handsome, <i>nice</i>, and very rich. What could a -girl desire more? You think, perhaps, as you have been so simply brought -up, that a heroine like Con should have had a Duke or an Earl at the -least. But people think less of the importance of titles as they know -Society better. Claude is of an excellent old family—better than many -peers. She would have been a very fortunate young woman with such an -establishment; but she has taken her own way. I hope you will never be -so hot-headed as your sister,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> Frances. You look much more practical and -reasonable. You will not, I think, dart off at a tangent without warning -or thought.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked her mother doubtfully in the face. Her feelings -fluctuated strangely in respect to this central figure in the new world -round her. To make acquaintance with your parents for the first time -when you have reached the critical age, and are no longer able to accept -everything with the matter-of-fact serenity of a child, is a curious -experience. Children, indeed, are tremendous critics, at the tribunal of -whose judgment we all stand unawares, and have our just place allotted -to us, with an equity which happily leads to no practical conclusions, -but which no tribunal on earth can equal for clear sight and remorseless -decision. Eighteen is not quite so abstract as eight; yet the absence of -familiarity, and that love which is instinctive, and happily quite above -all decisions of the judgment, makes, in such an extraordinary case as -that of Frances, the sudden call upon the critical faculties, the -consciousness that accompanies their exercise, and the underlying sense, -never absent, that all this is unnatural and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> wrong, into a complication -full of distress and uncertainty. A vague question whether it were -possible that such a conflict as that which had ended in Constance’s -flight, should ever arise between Lady Markham and herself, passed -through the mind of Frances. If it should do so, the expedient which had -been open to Constance would be to herself impossible. All pride and -delicacy of feeling, all sense of natural justice, would prevent her -from adopting that course. The question would have to be worked out -between her mother and herself, should it ever occur. Was it possible -that it could ever occur? She looked at Lady Markham, who had returned -to her usual morning occupation of writing letters, with a questioning -gaze. There had been a pause, and Lady Markham had waited for a moment -for a reply. Then she had taken up her pen again, and with a smiling nod -had returned to her correspondence.</p> - -<p>Frances sat and pondered with her face turned towards the writing-table, -at which her mother spent so much of her time. The number of letters -that were written there every morning filled her with amazement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> Waring -had written no letters, and received only one now and then, which -Frances understood to be about business. She had looked very -respectfully at first on the sheaves which were every day taken away, -duly stamped, from that well-worn but much decorated writing-table. When -it had been suggested to her that she too must have letters to write, -she had dutifully compiled her little bulletin for her father, putting -aside as quite a different matter the full chronicle of her proceedings, -written at a great many <i>reprises</i>, to Mariuccia, which somehow did not -seem at all to come under the same description. It had, however, begun -to become apparent to Frances, unwillingly, as she made acquaintance -with everything about her, that Lady Markham’s correspondence was really -by no means of the importance which appeared at the first glance. It -seemed to consist generally in the conveyance of little bits of news, of -little engagements, of the echoes of what people said and did; and it -was replied to by endless shoals of little notes on every variety of -tinted, gilt, and perfumed paper,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> with every kind of monogram, crest, -and device, and every new idea in shape and form which the genius of the -fashionable stationer could work out. “I have just heard from Lady -So-and-so the funniest story,” Lady Markham would say to her son, -repeating the anecdote—which on many occasions Frances, listening, did -not see the point of. But then both mother and son were cleverer people -than she was. “I must write and let Mary St Serle and Louisa Avenel -know—it will amuse them so;” and there was at once an addition of two -letters to the budget. Frances did not think—all under her breath, as -it were, in involuntary unexpressed comment—that the tale was worth a -pretty sheet of paper, a pretty envelope—both decorated with Lady -Markham’s cipher and coronet—and a penny stamp. But so it was; and this -was one of the principal occupations evidently of a great lady’s life. -Lady Markham considered it very grave, and “a duty.” She allowed nothing -to interfere with her correspondence. “I have my letters to write,” she -said, as who should say, “I have my da<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span>y’s work to do.” By degrees -Frances lost her respect for this day’s work, and would watch the -manufactory of one note after another with eyes that were unwillingly -cynical, wondering within herself whether it would make any difference -to the world if pen and ink were forbidden in that house. Markham, too, -spoke of writing his letters as a valid reason for much consumption of -time. But then, no doubt, Markham had land agents to write to, and -lawyers, and other necessary people. In this, Frances did not do justice -to her mother, who also had business letters to write, and did a great -deal in stocks, and kept her eyes on the money market. The girl sat and -watched her with a sort of fascination as her pen ran lightly over sheet -after sheet. Sometimes Lady Markham was full of tenderness and -generosity, and had the look of understanding everybody’s feelings. She -was never unkind. She never took a bad view of any one, or suggested -evil or interested motives, as even Frances perceived, in her limited -experience, so many people to do. But, on the other hand, there would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> -come into her face sometimes a look—which seemed to say that she might -be inexorable, if once she had made up her mind: a look before which it -seemed to Frances that flight like that of Constance would be the -easiest way. Frances was not sufficiently instructed in human nature to -know that anomalies of this kind are common enough; and that nobody is -always and in all matters good, any more than anybody is in all things -ill. It troubled her to perceive the junction of these different -qualities in her mother; and still more it troubled her to think what, -in case of coming to some point of conflict, she should do? How would -she get out of it? Would it be only by succumbing wholly, or had she the -courage in her to fight it out?</p> - -<p>“Little un,” said Markham, coming up to her suddenly, “why do you look -at the mother so? Are you measuring yourself against her, to see how -things would stand if it came to a fight?”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” Frances started with a great blush of guilt. “I did not know -you were here. I—never heard you come in.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You were so lost in thought. I have been here these five minutes, -waiting for an opportunity to put in a word. Don’t you know I’m a -thought-reader, like those fellows that find pins? Take my advice, Fan, -and never let it come to a fight.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know how to fight,” she said, crimsoning more and more; “and -besides, I was not thinking—there is nothing to fight about.”</p> - -<p>“Fibs, these last,” he said. “Come out and take a little walk with -me,—you are looking pale; and I will tell you a thing or two. Mother, I -am going to take her out for a walk; she wants air.”</p> - -<p>“Do, dear,” said Lady Markham, turning half round with a smile. “After -luncheon, she is going out with me; but in the meantime, you could not -do better—get a little of the morning into her face, while I finish my -letters.” She turned again with a soft smile on her face to send off -that piece of information to Louisa Avenel and Mary St Serle, closing an -envelope as she spoke, writing the address with such a preoccupied yet -amiable air—a woman who,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> but for having so much to do, would have had -no thought or ambition beyond her home. Markham waited till Frances -appeared in the trim little walking-dress which the mother had paid her -the high compliment of making no change in. They turned their faces as -usual towards the Park, where already, though Easter was very near, -there was a flutter of fine company in preparation for the more serious -glories of the Row, after the season had fairly set in.</p> - -<p>“Little Fan, you mustn’t fight,” were the first words that Markham said.</p> - -<p>She felt her heart begin to beat loud. “Markham! there is nothing to -fight about—oh, nothing. What put fighting in your head?”</p> - -<p>“Never mind. It is my duty to instruct your youth; and I think I see -troubles brewing. Don’t be so kind to that little beggar Claude. He is a -selfish little beggar, though he looks so smooth; and since Constance -won’t have him, he will soon begin to think he may as well have you.”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” Frances felt herself choking with horror and shame.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span></p> - -<p>“You have got my name quite pat, my dear; but that is neither here nor -there. Markham has nothing to do with it, except to put you on your -guard. Don’t you know, you little innocent, what is the first duty of a -mother? Then I can tell you: to marry her daughters well; brilliantly, -if possible, but at all events <i>well</i>—or anyhow to marry them; or else -she is a failure, and all the birds of her set come round her and peck -her to death.”</p> - -<p>“I often don’t understand your jokes,” said Frances, with a little -dignity, “and I suppose this is a joke.”</p> - -<p>“And you think it is a joke in doubtful taste? So should I, if I meant -it that way, but I don’t. Listen, Fan; I am much of that opinion -myself.”</p> - -<p>“That a mother—that a lady——? You are always saying horrible things.”</p> - -<p>“It is true, though—if it is best that a girl should marry—mind you, I -only say if—then it <i>is</i> her mother’s duty. You can’t look out for -yourself—at least I am very glad you are not of the kind that do, my -little Fan.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Markham,” said Frances, with a dignity which seemed to raise her small -person a foot at least, “I have never heard such things talked about; -and I don’t wish to hear anything more, please. In books,” she added, -after a moment’s interval, “it is the gentlemen——”</p> - -<p>“Who look out? But that is all changed, my dear. Fellows fall in -love—which is quite different—and generally fall in love with the -wrong person; but you see I was not supposing that you were likely to do -anything so wild as that.”</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “However,” she added, after -another pause, colouring deeply, but yet looking at him with a certain -courageous air, “if there was any question about being—married, which -of course there is not—I never heard that there was any other way.”</p> - -<p>“Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opinion, which is -worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who the man was, so long -as <i>that</i> happened, eh? Let us know the premises on either side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances.</p> - -<p>“Granted, my dear—a great deal. And what then? I should be wiser, you -mean to say? But so I am, Fan.”</p> - -<p>“It was not <i>that</i> I meant. I mean, it is you who ought—to marry. You -are a man. You are the eldest, the chief one of your family. I have -always read in books——”</p> - -<p>Markham put up his hand as a shield. He stopped to laugh, repeating over -and over again that one note of mirth with which it was his wont to -express his feelings. “Brava, Fan!” he repeated when he could speak. -“You are a little Trojan. This is something like carrying the war into -the enemy’s country.” He was so much tickled by the assault, that the -water stood in his eyes. “What a good thing we are not in the Row, where -I should have been delivered over to the talk of the town. Frances, my -little dear, you are the funniest of little philosophers.”</p> - -<p>“Where is the fun?” said Frances gravely. “And I am not a philosopher, -Markham; I am only—your sister.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>At this the little man became serious all at once, and took her hand and -drew it within his arm. They were walking up Constitution Hill, where -there are not many spectators. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “and as nice a -little sister as a man could desire;” and walked on, holding her arm -close to him with an expressive clasp which spoke more than words. The -touch of nature and the little suggestive proffer of affection and -kindred which was in the girl’s words, touched his heart. He said -nothing till they were about emerging upon the noise and clamour of the -world at the great thoroughfare which they had to cross. Then “After -all,” he said, “yours is a very natural proposition, Fan. It is I who -ought to marry. Many people would say it is my duty; and perhaps I might -have been of that opinion once. But I’ve a great deal on my conscience, -dear. You think I’m rather a good little man, don’t you? fond of ladies’ -society, and of my mother and little sister, which is such a good -feature, everybody says? Well, but that’s a mistake, my dear. I don’t -know that I am at all a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> fit person to be walking about London streets -and into the Park with an innocent little creature, such as you are, -under my arm.”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” she cried, with a tone which was half astonished, half -indignant, and her arm thrilled within his—not, perhaps, with any -intention of withdrawing itself; but that was what he thought.</p> - -<p>“Wait,” he said, “till I have got you safely across the Corner—there is -always a crowd—and then, if you are frightened, and prefer another -chaperon, we’ll find one, you may be sure, before we have gone a dozen -steps. Come now; there is a little lull. Be plucky, and keep your head, -Fan.”</p> - -<p>“I want no other chaperon, Markham; I like you.”</p> - -<p>“Do you, my dear? Well, you can’t think what a pleasure that is to me, -Fan. You wouldn’t, probably, if you knew me better. However, you must -stick to that opinion as long as you can. Who, do you think, would marry -me if I were to try? An ugly little fellow, not very well off, with -several very bad tendencies, and—a mother.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A mother, Markham!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear; to whom he is devoted—who must always be the first to -him. That’s a beautiful sentiment, don’t you think? But wives have a way -of not liking it. I could not force her to call herself the Dowager, -could I, Fan? She is a pretty woman yet. She is really younger than I -am. She would not like it.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are only making fun of me, Markham. I don’t know what you -mean. What could mamma have to do with it? If she so much wanted -Constance to marry, surely she must want you still more, for you are so -much older; and then——”</p> - -<p>“There is no want of arguments,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. -“Conviction is what is wanted. There might have been times when I should -have much relished your advice; but nobody would have had me, -fortunately. No; I must not give up the mother, my dear. Don’t you know -I was the cause of all the mischief—at least of a great part of the -mischief—when your father went away? And now, I must make a mess of it -again,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> and put folly into Con’s head. The mother is an angel, Fan, or -she would not trust you with me.”</p> - -<p>It flashed across Frances’ memory that Constance had warned her not to -let herself fall into Markham’s hands; but this only bewildered the girl -in the softening of her heart to him, and in the general bewilderment -into which she was thus thrown back. “I do not believe you can be bad,” -she said earnestly; “you must be doing yourself injustice.”</p> - -<p>By this time they were in the Row in all the brightness of the crowd, -which, if less great than at a later period, was more friendly. Markham -had begun to pull off his hat to every third lady he met, to put out his -hand right and left, to distribute nods and greetings. “We’ll resume the -subject some time or other,” he said with a smile aside to Frances, -disengaging her arm from his. The girl felt as if she had suddenly lost -her anchorage, and was thrown adrift upon this sea of strange faces; and -thrown at the same time back into a moral chaos, full of new -difficulties and wonders, out of which she could not see her way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">A day</span> or two after, they all went to the Priory for Easter.</p> - -<p>The Priory was in the Isle of Wight, and it was Markham’s house. It was -not a very great house, nor was it medieval and mysterious, as an -unsophisticated imagination naturally expected. Its name came, it was -said (or hoped), from an old ecclesiastical establishment once planted -there; but the house itself was a sort of Strawberry-Hill Gothic, with a -good deal of plaster and imitated ornament of the perpendicular -kind,—that is to say, the worst of its kind, which is, unfortunately, -that which most attracts the imitator. It stood on a slope above the -beach, where the vegetation was soft and abundant, recalling more or -less to the mind of Frances the aspect of the country with which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> she -was best acquainted—the great bosquets of glistering green laurel and -laurestine simulating the daphnes and orange-trees, and the grey downs -above recalling in some degree the scattered hill-tops above the level -of the olives; though the great rollers of the Atlantic which thundered -in upon the beach were not like that rippling blue which edged the -Riviera in so many rims of delicate colour. The differences, however, -struck Frances less than the resemblance, for which she had scarcely -been prepared, and which gave her a great deal of surprised pleasure at -the first glance. This put temporarily out of her mind all the new and -troublesome thoughts which her conversation with Markham had called -forth, and which had renewed her curiosity about her step-brother, whom -she had begun to receive into the landscape around her with the calm of -habit and without asking any questions. Was he really bad, or rather, -not good?—which was as far as Frances could go. Had he really been the -cause, or partly the cause, of the separation between her father and -mother? She was bewildered by these little breaks in the curtain which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> -concealed the past from her so completely—that past which was so well -known to the others around, which an invincible delicacy prevented her -from speaking of or asking questions about. All went on so calmly around -her, as if nothing out of the ordinary routine had ever been; and yet -she was aware not only that much had been, but that it remained so -distinctly in the minds of those smiling people as to influence their -conduct and form their motives still. Though it was Markham’s house, it -was his mother who was the uncontested sovereign, not less, probably -more, than if the real owner had been her husband instead of her son. -And even Frances, little as she was acquainted with the world, was aware -that this was seldom the case. And why should not Markham at his age, -which to her seemed at least ten years more than it was, be married, -when it was already thought important that Constance should marry? These -were very bewildering questions, and the moment to resume the subject -never seemed to come.</p> - -<p>There was a party in the house, which included Claude Ramsay, and Sir -Thomas,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> the elder person in whom Lady Markham had thought there could -be nothing particularly interesting. He was a very frequent member of -the family party, all the same; and now that they were living under the -same roof, Frances did not find him without interest. There was also a -lady with two daughters, whose appearance was very interesting to the -girl. They reminded her a little of Constance, and of the difficulty she -had found in finding subjects on which to converse with her sister. The -Miss Montagues knew a great many people, and talked of them continually; -but Frances knew nobody. She listened with interest, but she could add -nothing either to their speculations or recollections. She did not know -anything about the contrivances which brought about the marriage between -Cecil Gray and Emma White. She was utterly incompetent even to hazard an -opinion as to what Lady Milbrook would do <i>now</i>; and she did not even -understand about the hospitals which they visited and “took an interest” -in. She tried very hard to get some little current with which she could -make herself acquainted in the river of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> their talk; but nothing could -be more difficult. Even when she brought out her sketch-book and opened -ground upon that subject—about which the poor little girl modestly -believed she knew by experience a very little—she was silenced in five -minutes by their scientific acquaintance with washes, and glazing, and -body colour, and the laws of composition. Frances did not know how to -compose a picture. She said: “Oh no; I do not make it up in my head at -all; I only do what I see.”</p> - -<p>“You mean you don’t formulate rules,” said Maud. “Of course you don’t -mean that you merely imitate, for that is tea-board style; and your -drawings are quite pretty. I like that little bit of the coast.”</p> - -<p>“How well one knows the Riviera,” said Ethel; “everybody who goes there -has something to show. But I am rather surprised you don’t keep to one -style. You seem to do a little of everything. Don’t you feel that -flower-painting rather spoils your hand for the larger effects?”</p> - -<p>“It wants such a very different distribution of light and shade,” said -the other sister. “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> have to calculate your tones on such a different -scale. If you were working at South Kensington or any other of the good -schools——”</p> - -<p>“I should not advise her to do that—should you, Maud?—there is such a -long elementary course. But I suppose you did your freehand, and all -that, in the schoolroom?”</p> - -<p>Frances did not know how to reply. She put away her little sketch with a -sense of extreme humiliation. “Oh, I am afraid I am not fit to talk -about it at all,” she said. “I don’t even know what words to use. It has -been all imitation, as you say.”</p> - -<p>The two young ladies smiled upon her, and reassured her. “You must not -be discouraged. I am sure you have talent. It only wants a little hard -work to master the principles; and then you go on so much easier -afterwards,” they said. It puzzled Frances much that they did not -produce their own sketches, which she thought would have been as good as -a lesson to her; and it was not till long after that it dawned upon her -that in this particular Maud and Ethel were defective. They knew how to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> -do it, but could not do it; whereas she could do it without knowing how.</p> - -<p>“How is it, I wonder,” said one of them, changing the subject after a -little polite pause, which suggested fatigue, “that Mrs Winterbourn is -not here this year?”</p> - -<p>They looked at her for this information, to the consternation of -Frances, who did not know how to reply. “You know I have not been -long—here,” she said: she had intended to say at home, but the effort -was beyond her—“and I don’t even know who Mrs Winterbourn is.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” they both cried; and then for a minute there was nothing more. -“You may think it strange of us to speak of it,” said Maud at length; -“only, it always seemed so well understood; and we have always met her -here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, she goes everywhere,” cried Ethel. “There never was a word breathed -against—— Please don’t think <i>that</i>, from anything we have said.”</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, mamma always says it is so wise of Lady Markham,” said -Maud; “so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> much better that he should always meet her here.”</p> - -<p>Frances retired into herself with a confusion which she did not know how -to account for. She did not in the least know what they meant, and yet -she felt the colour rise in her cheek. She blushed for she knew not -what; so that Maud and Ethel said to each other, afterwards: “She is a -little hypocrite. She knew just as well as either you or I.”</p> - -<p>Frances, however, did not know; and here was another subject about which -she could not ask information. She carried away her sketch-book to her -room with a curious feeling of ignorance and foolishness. She did not -know anything at all—neither about her own surroundings, nor about the -little art which she was so fond of, in which she had taken just a -little pride, as well as so much pleasure. She put the sketches away -with a few hasty tears, feeling troubled and provoked, and as if she -could never look at them with any satisfaction, or attempt to touch a -pencil again. She had never thought they were anything great; but to be -made to feel so foolish in her own little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> way was hard. Nor was this -the only trial to which she was exposed. After dinner, retiring, which -she did with a sense of irritation which her conscience condemned, from -the neighbourhood of Ethel and Maud, she fell into the hands of Sir -Thomas, who also had a way of keeping very clear of these young ladies. -He came to where Frances was standing in a corner, almost out of sight. -She had drawn aside one edge of the curtain, and was looking out upon -the shrubbery and the lawn, which stood out against the clear background -of the sea—with a great deal of wistfulness, and perhaps a secret tear -or two in her eyes. Here she was startled by a sudden voice in her ear. -“You are looking out on the moonlight,” Sir Thomas said. It took her a -moment before she could swallow the sob in her throat.</p> - -<p>“It is very bright; it is a little like—home.” This word escaped her in -the confusion of her thoughts.</p> - -<p>“You mean the Riviera. Did you like it so much? I should have -thought—— But no doubt, whatever the country is which we call home, it -seems desirable to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you can’t know how beautiful it is,” cried Frances, roused from -her fit of despondency. “Perhaps you have never been there?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, often. Does your father like it as well as you do, Miss Waring? -I should have supposed, for a man——”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Frances, “I know what you mean. They say there is nothing to -do. But my father is not a man to want to do anything. He is fond of -books; he reads all day long, and then comes out into the loggia with -his cigarette—and talks to me.”</p> - -<p>“That sounds very pleasant,” said Sir Thomas with a smile, taking no -notice of the involuntary quaver that had got into the girl’s voice. -“But I wonder if perhaps he does not want a little variety, a little -excitement? Excuse me for saying so. Men, you know, are not always so -easily contented as the better half of creation; and then they are -accustomed to larger duties, to more action, to public affairs.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think papa takes much interest in all that,” said Frances with -an air of authority.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> “He has never cared for what was going on. The -newspapers he sometimes will not open.”</p> - -<p>“That is a great change. He used to be a hot politician in the old -days.”</p> - -<p>“Did you know my father?” she cried, turning upon him with a glow of -sudden interest.</p> - -<p>“I knew him very well—better than most people. I was one of those who -felt the deepest regret——”</p> - -<p>She stood gazing at him with her face lifted to him with so profound an -interest and desire to know, that he stopped short, startled by the -intensity of her look. “Miss Waring,” he said, “it is a very delicate -subject to talk to their child upon.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know it is. I don’t like to ask—and yet it seems as if I ought -to know.” Frances was seized with one of those sudden impulses of -confidence which sometimes make the young so indiscreet. If she had -known Sir Thomas intimately, it would not have occurred to her; but as a -stranger, he seemed safe. “No one has ever told me,” she added in the -heat of this sudden overflow, “neither<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> how it was or why it was—except -Markham, who says it was his fault.”</p> - -<p>“There were faults on all sides, I think,” said Sir Thomas. “There -always are in such cases. No one person is able to carry out such a -prodigious mistake. You must pardon me if I speak plainly. You are the -only person whom I can ask about my old friend.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I like you to speak plainly,” cried Frances. “Talk to me about him; -ask me anything you please.” The tears came into her voice, and she put -her hands together instinctively. She had been feeling very lonely and -home-sick, and out of accord with all her surroundings. To return even -in thought to the old life and its associations brought a flood of -bitter sweetness to her heart.</p> - -<p>“I can see at least,” said Sir Thomas, “that he has secured a most -loving champion in his child.”</p> - -<p>This arrested her enthusiasm in a moment. She was too sincere to accept -such a solution of her own complicated feelings. Was she the loving -champion which she was so suddenly assumed to be? She became vaguely -aware<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> that the things which had rushed back upon her mind and filled -her with longing were not the excellences of her father, but rather the -old peace and ease and ignorance of her youthful life, which nothing -could now restore. She could not respond to the confidence of her -father’s friend. He had kept her in ignorance; he had deceived her; he -had not made any attempt to clear the perplexities of her difficult -path, but left her to find out everything, more perhaps than she yet -knew. Sir Thomas was a little surprised that she made him no reply; but -he set it down to emotion and agitation, which might well take from so -young and innocent a girl the possibility of reply.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether I am justified in the hope I have been -entertaining ever since you came,” he said. “It is very hard that your -father should be banished from his own country and all his duties -by—what was, after all, never a very important cause. There has been no -unpardonable wrong on either side. He is terribly sensitive, you know. -And Lady Markham—she is a dear friend of mine; I have a great affection -for her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“If you please,” said Frances quickly, “it is not possible for me to -listen to any discussion of mamma.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Waring,” he cried, “this is better and better. You are -then a partisan on both sides?”</p> - -<p>Poor little Frances felt as if she were at least hemmed in on both -sides, and without any way of escape. She looked up in his face with an -appeal which he did not understand, for how was it possible to suppose -that she did not know all about a matter which had affected her whole -life?</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think,” said Sir Thomas, drawing very close to her, stooping -over her, “that if we two were to lay our heads together, we might bring -things to a better understanding? Constance, to whom I have often spoken -on the subject, knew only one side—and that not the difficult side. -Markham was mixed up in it all, and could never be impartial. But you -know both, and your father best. I am sure you are full of sense, as -Waring’s daughter ought to be. Don’t you think——”</p> - -<p>He had taken both Frances’ hands in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> enthusiasm, and pressed so -closely upon her that she had to retreat a step, almost with alarm. And -he had his back to the light, shutting her out from all succour, as she -thought. It was all the girl could do to keep from crying out that she -knew nothing,—that she was more ignorant than any one; and when there -suddenly came from behind Sir Thomas the sound of many voices, without -agitation or special meaning, her heart gave a bound of relief, as if -she had escaped. He gave her hands a vehement pressure and let them -drop; and then Claude Ramsay’s voice of gentle pathos came in. “Are you -not afraid, Miss Waring, of the draught? There must be some door or -window open. It is enough to blow one away.”</p> - -<p>“You look like a couple of conspirators,” said Markham. “Fan, your -little eyes are blinking like an owl’s. Come back, my dear, into the -light.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Claude; “the light here is perfect. I never can understand -why people should want so much light only to talk by. Will you sit here, -Miss Waring? Here is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> corner out of the draught. I want to say -something more about Bordighera—one other little <i>renseignement</i>, and -then I shall not require to trouble you any more.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked at Markham for help, but he did not interfere. He looked -a little grave, she thought; but he took Sir Thomas by the arm, and -presently led him away. She was too shy to refuse on her own account -Claude’s demand, and sat down reluctantly on the sofa, where he placed -himself at her side.</p> - -<p>“Your sister,” he said, “never had much sympathy with me about draughts. -She used to think it ridiculous to take so much care. But my doctrine -always is, take care beforehand, and then you don’t need to trouble -yourself after. Don’t you think I am right?”</p> - -<p>She understood very well how Constance would receive his little -speeches. In the agitation in which she was, gleams of perception coming -through the chaos, sudden visions of Constance, who had been swept out -of her mind by the progress of events, and of her father, whom her late -companion had been talking about—as if it would be so easy to induce<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> -him to change all his ways, and do what other people wished!—came back -to her mind. They seemed to stand before her there, both appearing out -of the mists, both so completely aware of what they wanted to do—so -little likely to be persuaded into some one else’s mode of thought.</p> - -<p>“I think Constance and you were not at all likely to think the same,” -she said.</p> - -<p>Ramsay looked at her with a glance which for him was hasty and almost -excited. “No?” he said in an interrogative tone. “What makes you think -so? Perhaps when one comes to consider, you are right. She was always so -well and strong. You and I, perhaps, do you think, are more alike?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Frances, very decidedly. “I am much stronger than Constance. -She might have some patience with—with—what was fanciful; but I should -have none.”</p> - -<p>“With what was fanciful? Then you think I am fanciful?” said Claude, -raising himself up from his feeble attitude. He laughed a little, quite -undisturbed in temper by this reproach. “I wish other people thought -so;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> I wish they would let me stay comfortably at home, and do what -everybody does. But, Miss Waring, you are not so sympathetic as I -thought.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I am not sympathetic,” said Frances, feeling much ashamed -of herself. “Oh, Mr Ramsay, forgive me; I did not mean to say anything -so disagreeable.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind,” said Claude. “When people don’t know me, they often think -so. I am sorry, because I thought perhaps you and I might agree better. -But very likely it was a mistake. Are you feeling the draught again? It -is astonishing how a draught will creep round, when you think you are -quite out of the way of it. If you feel it, you must not run the risk of -a cold, out of consideration for me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">She</span> thinks I am fanciful,” he said.</p> - -<p>He was sitting with Lady Markham in the room which was her special -sanctuary. She did not call it her boudoir—she was not at all inclined -to <i>bouder</i>; but it answered to that retirement in common parlance. -Those who wanted to see her alone, to confide in her, as many people -did, knocked at the door of this room. It opened with a large window -upon the lawn, and looked down through a carefully kept opening upon the -sea. Amid all the little luxuries appropriate to my lady’s chamber, you -could see the biggest ships in the world pass across the gleaming -foreground, shut in between two <i>massifs</i> of laurel, making a delightful -confusion of the great and the small, which was specially pleasant to -her. She sat, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> with her back to this pleasant prospect, holding -up a screen, to shade her delicate cheek from the bright little fire, -which, though April was far advanced, was still thought necessary so -near the sea. Claude had thrown himself into another chair in front of -the fireplace. No warmth was ever too much for him. There was the usual -pathos in his tone, but a faint consciousness of something amusing was -in his face.</p> - -<p>“Did she?” said Lady Markham with a laugh. “The little impertinent! But -you know, my dear boy, that is what I have always said.”</p> - -<p>“Yes—it is quite true. You healthy people, you are always of opinion -that one can get over it if one makes the effort; and there is no way of -proving the contrary but by dying, which is a strong step.”</p> - -<p>“A very strong step—one, I hope, that you will not think of taking. -They are both very sincere, my girls, though in a different way. They -mean what they say; and yet they do not mean it, Claude. That is, it is -quite true; but does not affect their regard for you, which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> I am sure, -without implying any deeper feeling, is strong.”</p> - -<p>He shook his head a little. “Dear Lady Markham,” he said, “you know if I -am to marry, I want, above all things, to marry a daughter of yours.”</p> - -<p>“Dear boy!” she said, with a look full of tender meaning.</p> - -<p>“You have always been so good to me, since ever I can remember. But what -am I to do if they—object? Constance—has run away from me, people say: -run away—to escape <i>me</i>!” His voice took so tragically complaining a -tone, that Lady Markham bit her lip and held her screen higher to -conceal her smile. Next moment, however, she turned upon him with a -perfectly grave and troubled face.</p> - -<p>“Dear Claude!” she cried, “what an injustice to poor Con. I thought I -had explained all that to you. You have known all along the painful -position I am in with their father, and you know how impulsive she is. -And then, Markham—— Alas!” she continued with a sigh, “my position is -very complicated, Claude. Markham is the best son that ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span> was; but -you know I have to pay a great deal for it.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Claude; “Nelly Winterbourn and all that,” with a good many -sage nods of his head.</p> - -<p>“Not only Nelly Winterbourn—there is no harm in her, that I know—but -he has a great influence with the girls. It was he who put it into -Constance’s head to go to her father. I am quite sure it was. He put it -before her that it was her duty.”</p> - -<p>“O—oh!” Claude made this very English comment with the doubtful tone -which it expresses; and added, “Her duty!” with a very unconvinced air.</p> - -<p>“He did so, I know. And she was so fond of adventure and change. I -agreed with him partly afterwards that it was the best thing that could -happen to her. She is finding out by experience what banishment from -Society, and from all that makes life pleasant, is. I have no doubt she -will come back—in a very different frame of mind.”</p> - -<p>Claude did not respond, as perhaps Lady Markham expected him to do. He -sat and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> dandled his leg before the fire, not looking at her. After some -time, he said in a reflective way, “Whoever I marry, she will have to -resign herself to banishment, as you call it—that has been always -understood. A warm climate in winter—and to be ready to start at any -moment.”</p> - -<p>“That is always understood—till you get stronger,” said Lady Markham in -the gentlest tone. “But you know I have always expected that you would -get stronger. Remember, you have been kept at home all this year—and -you are better; at all events you have not suffered.”</p> - -<p>“Had I been sent away, Constance would have remained at home,” he said. -“I am not speaking out of irritation, but only to understand it fully. -It is not as if I were finding fault with Constance; but you see for -yourself she could not stand me all the year round. A fellow who has -always to be thinking about the thermometer is trying.”</p> - -<p>“My dear boy,” said Lady Markham, “everything is trying. The thermometer -is much less offensive than most things that men care for. Girls are -brought up in that fastidious way:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> you all like them to be so, and to -think they have refined tastes, and so forth; and then you are surprised -when you find they have a little difficulty—— Constance was only -fanciful, that was all—impatient.”</p> - -<p>“Fanciful,” he repeated. “That was what the little one said. I wish she -were fanciful, and not so horribly well and strong.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Claude,” said Lady Markham quickly, “you would not like that at -all! A delicate wife is the most dreadful thing—one that you would -always have to be considering; who could not perhaps go to the places -that suited you; who would not be able to go out with you when you -wanted her. I don’t insist upon a daughter of mine: but not that, not -that, for your own sake, my dear boy!”</p> - -<p>“I believe you are right,” he said, with a look of conviction. “Then I -suppose the only thing to be done is to wait for a little and see how -things turn out. There is no hurry about it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no hurry!” she said, with uneasy assent. “That is, if you are not -in a hurry,” she added after a pause.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span></p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think so. I am rather enjoying myself, I think. It always -does one good,” he said, getting up slowly, “to come and have it out -with you.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham said “Dear boy!” once more, and gave him her hand, which he -kissed; and then his audience was over. He went away; and she turned -round to her writing-table to the inevitable correspondence. There was a -little cloud upon her forehead so long as she was alone; but when -another knock came at the door, it cleared by magic as she said “Come -in.” This time it was Sir Thomas who appeared. He was a tall man, with -grey hair, and had the air of being very carefully brushed and dressed. -He came in, and seated himself where Claude had been, but pushed back -the chair from the fire.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think,” he said, “that you keep your room a little too warm?”</p> - -<p>“Claude complained that it was cold. It is difficult to please -everybody.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Claude. I have come to speak to you, dear Lady Markham, on a very -different subject. I was talking to Frances last night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“So I perceived. And what do you think of my little girl?”</p> - -<p>“You know,” he said, with some solemnity, “the hopes I have always -entertained that some time or other our dear Waring might be brought -among us once more.”</p> - -<p>“I have always told you,” said Lady Markham, “that no difficulties -should be raised by me.”</p> - -<p>“You were always everything that is good and kind,” said Sir Thomas. “I -was talking to his dear little daughter last night. She reminds me very -much of Waring, Lady Markham.”</p> - -<p>“That is odd; for everybody tells me—and indeed I can see it -myself—that she is like me.”</p> - -<p>“She is very like you; still, she reminds me of her father more than I -can say. I do think we have in her the instrument—the very instrument -that is wanted. If he is ever to be brought back again——”</p> - -<p>“Which I doubt,” she said, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let us doubt. With perseverance, everything is to be hoped; and -here we have in our very hands what I have always looked for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span>—some one -devoted to him and very fond of you.”</p> - -<p>“Is she very fond of me?” said Lady Markham. Her face softened—a little -moisture crept into her eyes. “Ah, Sir Thomas, I wonder if that is true. -She was very much moved by the idea of her mother—a relation she had -never known. She expected I don’t know what, but more, I am sure, than -she has found in me. Oh, don’t say anything. I am scarcely surprised; I -am not at all displeased. To come with your heart full of an ideal, and -to find an ordinary woman—a woman in Society!” The moisture enlarged in -Lady Markham’s eyes—not tears, but yet a liquid mist that gave them -pathos. She shook her head, looking at him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“We need not argue the question,” said Sir Thomas, “for I know she is -very fond of you. You should have heard her stop me when she thought I -was going to criticise you. Of course, had she known me better she would -have known how impossible that was.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham did not say “Dear Sir Thomas!” as she had said “Dear boy!” -but her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> look was the same as that which she had turned upon Claude. She -was in no doubt as to what his account of her would be.</p> - -<p>“She can persuade him, if anybody can,” he said. “I think I shall go and -see him as soon as I can get away—if you do not object. To bring our -dear Waring back, to see you two together again, who have always been -the objects of my warmest admiration——”</p> - -<p>“You are too kind. You have always had a higher opinion of me than I -deserve,” she said. “One can only be grateful. One cannot try to -persuade you that you are mistaken. As for my—husband”—there was the -slightest momentary pause before she said the name—“I fear you will -never get him to think so well of me as you do. It is a great -misfortune; but still it sometimes happens that other people think more -of a woman than—her very own.”</p> - -<p>“You must not say that. Waring adored you.”</p> - -<p>She shook her head again. “He had a great admiration,” she said, “for a -woman to whom he gave my name. But he discovered that it was a mistake; -and for me in my own person<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> he had no particular feeling. Think a -little whether you are doing wisely. If you should succeed in bringing -us two together again——”</p> - -<p>“What then?”</p> - -<p>She did not say any more: her face grew pale, as by a sudden touch or -breath. When such a tie as marriage is severed, if by death or by any -other separation, it is not a light thing to renew it again. The thought -of that possibility—which yet was not a possibility—suddenly realised, -sent the blood back to Lady Markham’s heart. It was not that she was -unforgiving, or even that she had not a certain remainder of love for -her husband. But to resume those habits of close companionship after so -many years—to give up her own individuality, in part at least, and live -a dual life—this thought startled her. She had said that she would put -no difficulties in the way. But then she had not thought of all that was -involved.</p> - -<p>The next visitor who interrupted her retirement came in without the -preliminary of knocking. It was Markham who thus made his appearance, -presenting himself to the full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> daylight in his light clothes and -colourless aspect; not very well dressed, a complete contrast to the -beautiful if sickly youth of her first visitor, and to the size and -vigour of the other. Markham had neither beauty nor vigour. Even the -usual keenness and humorous look had gone out of his face. He held a -letter in his hand. He did not, like the others, put himself into the -chair where Lady Markham, herself turned from the light, could mark -every change of countenance in her interlocutor. He went up to the fire -with the ease of the master of the house, and stood in front of it as an -Englishman loves to do. But he was not quite at his ease on this -occasion. He said nothing until he had assumed his place, and even stood -for a whole minute or more silent before he found his voice. Lady -Markham had turned her chair towards him at once, and sat with her head -raised and expectant, watching him. For with Markham, never very -reticent of his words, this prolonged pause seemed to mean that there -was something important to say. But it did not appear when he spoke. He -put the forefinger of one hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> on the letter he held in the other. “I -have heard from the Winterbourns,” he said. “They are coming to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham made the usual little exclamation “Oh!”—faintly breathed -with the slightest catch, as if it might have meant more. Then, after a -moment—“Very well, Markham: they can have their usual rooms,” she said.</p> - -<p>Again there was a little pause. Then—“He is not very well,” said -Markham.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is a pity,” she replied with very little concern.</p> - -<p>“That’s not strong enough. I believe he is rather ill. They are leaving -the Crosslands sooner than they intended because there’s no doctor -there.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is a good thing,” said Lady Markham, “that there is such a good -doctor here. We are so healthy a party, he is quite thrown away on us.”</p> - -<p>Markham did not find that his mother divined what he wanted to say with -her usual promptitude. “I am afraid Winterbourn is in a bad way,” he -said at length, moving uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoiding -her eye.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do you mean that there is anything serious—dangerous? Good heavens!” -cried Lady Markham, now fully roused, “I hope she is not going to bring -that man to die here.”</p> - -<p>“That’s just what I have been thinking. It would be decidedly awkward.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, awkward is not the word,” cried Lady Markham, with a sudden vision -of all the inconveniences: her pretty house turned upside down—though -it was not hers, but his—a stop put to everything—the flight of her -guests in every direction—herself detained and separated from all her -social duties. “You take it very coolly,” she said. “You must write and -say it is impossible in the circumstances.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t,” said Markham. “They must have started by this time. They are to -travel slowly—to husband his strength.”</p> - -<p>“To husband——! Telegraph, then! Good heavens! Markham, don’t you see -what a dreadful nuisance—how impossible in every point of view.”</p> - -<p>“Come,” he said, with a return of his more familiar tone. “There’s no -evidence that he means to die here. I daresay he won’t, if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> can help -it, poor beggar! The telegraph is as impossible as the post. We are in -for it, mammy. Let’s hope he’ll pull through.”</p> - -<p>“And if he doesn’t, Markham!”</p> - -<p>“That will be—more awkward still,” he said. Markham was not himself: he -shuffled from one foot to another, and looked straight before him, never -glancing aside with those keen looks of understanding which made his -insignificant countenance interesting. His mother was, what mothers too -seldom are, his most intimate friend; but he did not meet her eye. His -hands were thrust into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. At -last a faint and doubtful gleam broke over his face. He burst into a -sudden chuckle—one of those hoarse brief notes of laughter which were -peculiar to him. “By Jove! it would be poetic justice,” he said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham showed no inclination to laughter. “Is there nothing we can -do?” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Think of something else,” said Markham, with a sudden recovery. “I -always find that the best thing to do—for the moment. What was Claude -saying to you—and t’other man?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Claude! I don’t know what he was saying. News like this is enough to -drive everything else out of one’s head. He is wavering between Con and -Frances.”</p> - -<p>“Mother, I told you. Frances will have nothing to say to him.”</p> - -<p>“Frances—will obey the leading of events, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Poor little Fan! I don’t think she will, though. That child has a great -deal in her. She shows her parentage.”</p> - -<p>“Sir Thomas says she reminds him much of her—father,” Lady Markham -said, with a faint smile.</p> - -<p>“There is something of Waring too,” said her son, nodding his head.</p> - -<p>This seemed to jar upon the mother. She changed colour a little; and -then added, her smile growing more constrained: “He thinks she may be a -powerful instrument in—changing his mind—bringing him, after all these -years, back”—here she paused a little, as if seeking for a phrase; then -added, her smile growing less and less pleasant—“to his duty.”</p> - -<p>Then Markham for the first time looked at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> her. He had been paying but -partial attention up to this moment, his mind being engrossed with -difficulties of his own; but he awoke at this suggestion, and looked at -her with something of his usual keenness, but with a gravity not at all -usual. And she met his eye with an awakening in hers which was still -more remarkable. For a moment they thus contemplated each other, not -like mother and son, nor like the dear and close friends they were, but -like two antagonists suddenly perceiving, on either side, the coming -conflict. For almost the first time there woke in Lady Markham’s mind a -consciousness that it was possible her son, who had been always her -champion, her defender, her companion, might wish her out of his way. -She looked at him with a rising colour, with all her nerves thrilling, -and her whole soul on the alert for his next words. These were words -which he would have preferred not to speak; but they seemed to be forced -from his lips against his will, though even as he said them he explained -to himself that they had been in his mind to say before he knew—before -the dilemma that might occur had seemed possible.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes?” he said. “I understand what he means. I—even I—had been -thinking that something of the sort—might be a good thing.”</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands with a quick passionate movement. “Has it come to -this—in a moment—without warning?” she cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Winterbourns came next day: he to the best room in the house, a -temperature carefully kept up to sixty-five degrees, and the daily -attentions of the excellent doctor, who, Lady Markham declared, was -thrown away upon her healthy household. Mr Winterbourn was a man of -fifty, a confirmed invalid, who travelled with a whole paraphernalia of -medicaments, and a servant who was a trained nurse, and very skilful in -all the lower branches of the medical craft. Mrs Winterbourn, however, -was not like this. She was young, pretty, lively, fond of what she -called “fun,” and by no means bound to her husband’s sick-room. -Everybody said she was very kind to him. She never refused to go to him -when he wanted her. Of her own accord, as part of her usual routine, she -would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> go into his room three or even four times a-day to see if she -could do anything. She sat with him always while Roberts the man-nurse -had his dinner. What more could a woman do? She had indeed, it was -understood, married him against her will; but that is an accident not to -be avoided, and she had always been a model of propriety. They were -asked everywhere, which, considering how little adapted he was for -society, was nothing less than the highest proof of how much she was -thought of; and the most irreproachable matrons did not hesitate to -invite Lord Markham to meet the Winterbourns. It was a wonderful, quite -an ideal friendship, everybody said. And it was such a comfort to both -of them! For Markham, considering the devotion he had always shown to -his mother, would probably find it very inconvenient to marry, which is -the only thing which makes friendship between a man and a woman -difficult. A woman does not like her devoted friend to marry: that is -the worst of those delicate relationships, and it is the point upon -which they generally come to shipwreck in the end. As a matter of -course, any other<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> harm of a grosser kind was not so much as thought of -by any one who knew them. There were people, however, who asked -themselves and each other, as a fine problem, one of those cases of -complication which it pleases the human intellect to resolve, what would -happen if Winterbourn died?—a thing which he was continually -threatening to do. It had been at one time quite a favourite subject of -speculation in society. Some said that it would not suit Markham at -all,—that he would get out of it somehow; some, that there would be no -escape for him; some, that with such a fine jointure as Nelly would -have, it would set the little man up, if he could give up his “ways.” -Markham had not a very good reputation, though everybody knew that he -was the best son in the world. He played, it was said, more and -otherwise than a man of his position ought to play. He was often -amusing, and always nice to women, so that society never in the least -broke with him, and he had champions everywhere. But the mere fact that -he required champions was a proof that all was not exactly as it ought -to be. He was a man with a great many<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> “ways,” which of course it is -natural to suppose would be bad ways, though, except in the matter of -play, no one knew very well what they were.</p> - -<p>Winterbourn, however, had never been so bad as he was on this occasion, -when he was almost lifted out of the carriage and carried to his room, -his very host being allowed no speech of him till next morning, after he -was supposed to have got over the fatigue of the journey. The doctor, -when he was summoned, shook his head and looked very grave; and it may -be imagined what talks went on among the guests when no one of the -family was present to hear. These talks were sometimes carried on before -Frances, who was scarcely realised as the daughter of the house. Even -Claude Ramsay forgot his own pressing concerns in consideration of the -urgent question of the moment, and Sir Thomas ceased to think of Waring. -Frances gleaned from what she heard that they were all preparing for -flight. “Of course, in case anything dreadful happens, dear Lady -Markham,” they said, “will no doubt go too.”</p> - -<p>“What a funny thing,” said one of the Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> Montagues, “if it should -happen in this house.”</p> - -<p>“Funny, Laura! You mean dreadful,” cried her mother. “Do choose your -words a little better.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know what I mean, mamma!” cried the young lady.</p> - -<p>“You must think it dreadful indeed,” said Mrs Montague, addressing -Frances, “that we should discuss such a sad thing in this way. Of -course, we are all very sorry for poor Mr Winterbourn; and if he had -been ill and dying in his own house—— But one’s mind is occupied at -present by the great inconvenience—oh, more than that—the horror -and—and embarrassment to your dear mother.”</p> - -<p>“All that,” said Sir Thomas with a certain solemnity. Perhaps it was the -air of unusual gravity with which he uttered these two words which -raised the smallest momentary titter,—no, not so much as a titter—a -faintly audible smile, if such an expression may be used,—chiefly among -the young ladies, who had perhaps a clearer realisation of the kind of -embarrassment that was meant than was expected of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> them. But Frances had -no clue whatever to it. She replied warmly—</p> - -<p>“My mother will not think of the inconvenience. It is surely those who -are in such trouble themselves who are the only people to think about. -Poor Mrs Winterbourn——”</p> - -<p>“Who is it that is speaking of me in such a kind voice?” said the sick -man’s wife.</p> - -<p>She had just come into the room; and she was very well aware that she -was being discussed by everybody about—herself and her circumstances, -and all those contingencies which were, in spite of herself, beginning -to stir her own mind, as they had already done the minds of all around. -That is one thing which in any crisis people in society may be always -sure of, that their circumstances are being fully talked over by their -friends.</p> - -<p>“I hope we have all kind voices when we speak of you, my dear Nelly. -This one was Frances Waring, our new little friend here.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that explains,” said Mrs Winterbourn; and she went on, without -saying more, to the conservatory, which opened from the drawing-room in -which the party was seated. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> were silenced, though they had not -been saying anything very bad of her. The sudden appearance of the -person discussed always does make a certain impression. The gentlemen of -the group dispersed, the ladies began to talk of something else. -Frances, very shy, yet burdened with a great desire to say or do -something towards the consolation of those who were, as she had said, in -such trouble, went after Mrs Winterbourn. She had seated herself where -the big palms and other exotic foliage were thickest, out of sight of -the drawing-room, close to the open doorway that led to the lawn and the -sea. Frances was a little surprised that the wife of a man who was -thought to be dying should leave his bedside at all; but she reflected -that to prevent breaking down, and thus being no longer of any use to -the patient, it was the duty of every nurse to take a certain amount of -rest and fresh air. She felt, however, more and more timid as she -approached. Mrs Winterbourn had not the air of a nurse. She was dressed -in her usual way, with her usual ornaments—not too much, but yet enough -to make a tinkle, had she been at the side of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> sick person, and -possibly to have disturbed him. Two or three bracelets on a pretty arm -are very pretty things; but they are not very suitable for a sick-nurse. -She was sitting with a book in one hand, leaning her head upon the -other, evidently not reading, evidently very serious. Frances was -encouraged by the downcast face.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will not think me very bold,” she said, the other starting -and turning round at the sound of her voice. “I wanted to ask if I could -help you in any way. I am very good for keeping awake, and I could get -you what you wanted. Oh, I don’t mean that I am good enough to be -trusted as nurse; but if I might sit up with you—in the next room—to -get you what you want.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, child?” the young woman said in a quick, startled, -half-offended voice. She was not very much older than Frances, but her -experiences had been very different. She thought offence was meant. Lady -Markham had always been kind to her, which was, she felt, somewhat to -Lady Markham’s own advantage, for Nelly knew that Markham would never -marry so long as her influence<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> lasted, and this was for his mother’s -good. But now it was very possible that Lady Markham was trembling, and -had put her little daughter forward to give a sly stroke. Her tone -softened, however, as she looked up in Frances’ face. It was perhaps -only that the girl was a little simpleton, and meant what she said. “You -think I sit up at night?” she said. “Oh no. I should be of no use. Mr -Winterbourn has his own servant, who knows exactly what to do; and the -doctor is to send a nurse to let Roberts get a little rest. It is very -good of you. Nursing is quite the sort of thing people go in for now, -isn’t it? But, unfortunately, poor Mr Winterbourn can’t bear amateurs, -and I should do no good.”</p> - -<p>She gave Frances a bright smile as she said this, and turned again -towards the scene outside, opening her book at the same time, which was -like a dismissal. But at that moment, to the great surprise of Frances, -Markham appeared without, strolling towards the open door. He came in -when he saw his little sister, nodding to her with a look which stopped -her as she was about to turn away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am glad you are making friends with Frances,” he said. “How is -Winterbourn now?”</p> - -<p>“I wish everybody would not ask me every two minutes how he is now,” -cried the young wife. “He doesn’t change from one half-hour to another. -Oh, impatient; yes, I am impatient. I am half out of my senses, what -with one thing and another; and here is your sister—your sister—asking -to help me to nurse him! That was all that was wanting, I think, to -drive me quite mad!”</p> - -<p>“I am sure little Fan never thought she would produce such a terrible -result. Be reasonable, Nelly.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call me Nelly, sir; and don’t tell me to be reasonable. Don’t you -know how they are all talking, these horrible people? Oh, why, why did I -bring him here?”</p> - -<p>“Whatever was the reason, it can’t be undone now,” said Markham. “Come, -Nelly! This is nothing but nerves, you know. You can be yourself when -you please.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know why he talks to me like that before you?” said Mrs -Winterbourn, suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> turning upon Frances. “It is because he thinks -things are coming to a crisis, and that I shall be compelled——” Here -the hasty creature came to a pause and stared suddenly round her. “Oh, I -don’t know what I am saying, Geoff! They are all talking, talking in -every corner about you and me.”</p> - -<p>“Run away, Fan,” said her brother. “Mrs Winterbourn, you see, is not -well. The best thing for her is to be left in quiet. Run away.”</p> - -<p>“It is you who ought to go away, Markham, and leave her to me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Markham, with a gleam of amusement, “you set up for that too, -Fan! But I know better how to take care of Nelly than you do. Run away.”</p> - -<p>The consternation with which Frances obeyed this request it would be -difficult to describe. She had not understood the talk in the -drawing-room, and she did not understand this. But it gave her ideas a -strange shock. A woman whose husband was dying, and who was away from -him—who called Markham by his Christian name, and apparently preferred -his ministra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span>tions to her own! She would not go back as she came, to -afford the ladies in the drawing-room a new subject for their comments, -but went out instead by the open door, not thinking that the only path -by which she could return indoors led past the window of her mother’s -room, which opened on the lawn round the angle of the house. Lady -Markham was standing there looking out as Frances came in sight. She -knocked upon the window to call her daughter’s attention, and opening it -hurriedly, called her in. “Have you seen Markham?” she said, almost -before Frances could hear.</p> - -<p>“I have left him, this moment.”</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> have left him. Is he alone, then? Who is with him? Is Nelly -Winterbourn there?”</p> - -<p>Frances could not tell why it was that she disliked to answer. She made -a little assenting movement of her head.</p> - -<p>“It ought not to be,” cried Lady Markham—“not at this moment—at any -other time, if they like, but not now. Don’t you see the difference? -Before, nothing was possible. Now—when at any moment she may be a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> free -woman, and Markham—— Don’t you see the difference? They should not, -they should not, be together now!”</p> - -<p>Frances stood before her mother, feeling that a claim was made upon her -which she did not even understand, and feeling also a helplessness which -was altogether foreign to her ordinary sensations. She did not -understand, nor wish to understand—it was odious to her to think even -what it could mean. And what could she do? Lady Markham was agitated and -excited—not able to control herself.</p> - -<p>“For I have just seen the doctor,” she cried, “and he says that it is a -question not even of days, but of hours. Good heavens, child! only think -of it,—that such a thing should happen here; and that -Markham—<i>Markham!</i>—should have to manage everything. Oh, it is -indecent—there is no other word for it. Go and call him to me. We must -get him to go away.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Frances, “how can I go back? He told me to go and leave -them.”</p> - -<p>“He is a fool,” cried Lady Markham, stamping her foot. “He does not see -how he is committing himself; he does not mind. Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> what does it matter -what he said to you! Run at once and bring him to me. Say I have -something urgent to tell him. Say—oh, say anything! If Constance had -been here, she would have known.”</p> - -<p>Frances was very sensible to the arrow thus flung at her in haste, -without thought. She was so stung by it, that she turned hastily to do -her mother’s commission at all costs. But before she had taken -half-a-dozen steps, Markham himself appeared, coming leisurely, easily, -with his usual composure, round the corner. “What’s wrong with you, -little un?” he asked. “You are not vexed at what I said to you, Fan? I -couldn’t help it, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“It isn’t that, Markham. It is—mamma.”</p> - -<p>And then Lady Markham, too much excited to wait, came out to join them. -“Do you know the state of affairs, Markham? Does she know? I want you to -go off instantly, without losing a moment, to Southampton, to fetch Dr -Howard. Quick! There is just time to get the boat.”</p> - -<p>“Dr Howard? What is wrong with the man here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“He is afraid of the responsibility—at least I am, Markham. Think—in -your house! Oh yes, my dear, go without delay.”</p> - -<p>Markham paused, and looked at her with his keen little eyes. “Mother, -why don’t you say at once you want to get me out of the way?”</p> - -<p>“I do. I don’t deny it, Markham. But this too. We ought to have another -opinion. Do, for any favour, what I ask you, dear; oh, do it! Oh yes, I -would rather you sent him here, and did not come back with him. But come -back, if you must; only, go, go now.”</p> - -<p>“You think he will be—dead before I could get back? I will telegraph -for Dr Howard, mother; but I will not go away.”</p> - -<p>“You can do no good, Markham—except to make people talk. Oh, for -mercy’s sake, whatever you may do afterwards, go now.”</p> - -<p>“I will go and telegraph—with pleasure,” he said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham turned and took Frances’ arm, as he left them. “I think I -must give in now altogether,” she cried. “All is going wrong with me. -First Con, and then my boy. For now I see what will happen. And you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> -don’t know, you can’t think what Markham has been to me. Oh, he has been -everything to me! And now—I know what will happen now.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Frances, trembling. She wanted to say that little as she -herself was, she was one who would never forsake her mother. But she was -so conscious that Lady Markham’s thoughts went over her head and took no -note of her, that the words were stifled on her lips. “He said to me -once that he could never—leave you,” she said, faltering, though it was -not what she meant to say.</p> - -<p>“He said to you once——? Then he has been thinking of it; he has been -discussing the question?” Lady Markham said with bitterness. She leant -heavily upon Frances’ arm, but not with any tender appreciation of the -girl’s wistful desire to comfort her. “That means,” she said, “that I -can never desert him. I must go now and get rid of all this excitement, -and put on a composed face, and tell the people that they may go away if -they like. It will be the right thing for them to go away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> But I can’t -stay here with death in the house, and take a motherly care of—of that -girl, whom I never trusted—whom Markham—— And she will marry him -within the year. I know it.”</p> - -<p>Frances made a little outcry of horror, being greatly disturbed—“Oh no, -no!” without any meaning, for she indeed knew nothing.</p> - -<p>“No! How can you say No?—when you are quite in ignorance. I can’t tell -you what Markham would wish—to be let alone, most likely, if they would -let him alone. But she will do it. She always was headstrong; and now -she will be rich. Oh, what a thing it is altogether—like a thunderbolt -out of a clear sky. Who could have imagined, when we came down here so -tranquilly, with nothing unusual—— If I thought of any change at all, -it was perhaps that Claude—whom, by the way, you must not be rude to, -Frances—that Claude might perhaps—— And now, here is everything -unsettled, and my life turned upside down.”</p> - -<p>What did she hope that Claude would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> done? Frances’ brain was all -perplexed. She had plunged into a sudden sea of troubles, without -knowing even what the wild elements were that lashed the placid waters -into fury and made the sky dark all around.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> crisis, however, was averted—“mercifully,” as Lady Markham said. Dr -Howard from Southampton—whom she had thought of only by chance, on the -spur of the moment, as a way of getting rid of Markham—produced some -new lights; and in reality was so successful with the invalid, that he -rallied, and it became possible to remove him by slow stages to his own -house, to die there, which he did in due course, but some time after, -and decorously, in the right way and place. Frances felt herself like a -spectator at a play during all this strange interval, looking on at the -third act of a tragedy, which somehow had got involved in a drawing-room -comedy, with scenes alternating, and throwing a kind of wretched -reflection of their poor humour upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span> the tableaux of the darker drama. -She thought that she never should forget the countenance of Nelly -Winterbourn as she took her seat beside her husband in the invalid -carriage in which he was conveyed away, and turned to wave a farewell to -the little group which had assembled to watch the departure. Her face -was quivering with a sort of despairing impatience, wretchedness, -self-pity, the miserable anticipations of a living creature tied to one -who was dead—nerves and temper and every part of her being wrought to a -feverish excitement, made half delirious by the prospect, the -possibility, of escape. A wretched sort of spasmodic smile was upon her -lips as she waved her hand to the spectators—those spectators all on -the watch to read her countenance, who, she knew, were as well aware of -the position as herself. Frances was learning the lesson thus set -practically before her with applications of her own. She knew now to a -great extent what it all meant, and why Markham disappeared as soon as -the carriage drove away; while her mother, with an aspect of intense -relief, returned to her guests. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> feel as if I could breathe again,” -Lady Markham said. “Not that I should have grudged anything I could do -for poor dear Nelly; but there is something so terrible in a death in -one’s house.”</p> - -<p>“I quite enter into your feelings, dear—oh, quite!” said Mrs Montague; -“most painful, and most embarrassing besides.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as for that!” said Lady Markham. “It would have been indeed a great -annoyance and vexation to break up our pleasant party, and put out all -your plans. But one has to submit in such cases. However, I am most -thankful it has not come to that. Poor Mr Winterbourn may last yet—for -months, Dr Howard says.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me; do you think that is to be desired?” said the other, “for poor -Nelly’s sake.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Nelly!” said the young ladies. “Only fancy months! What a terrible -fate!”</p> - -<p>“And yet it was supposed to be a great match for her, a penniless girl!”</p> - -<p>“It was a great match,” said Lady Markham composedly. “And dear Nelly -has always be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span>haved so well. She is an example to many women that have -much less to put up with than she has. Frances, will you see about the -lawn-tennis? I am sure you want to shake off the impression, you poor -girls, who have been <i>so</i> good.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear Lady Markham, you don’t suppose we could have gone on laughing -and making a noise while there was such anxiety in the house. But we -shall like a game, now that there is no impropriety——”</p> - -<p>“And we are all so glad,” said the mother, “that there was no occasion -for turning out; for our visits are so dovetailed, I don’t know where we -should have gone—and our house in the hands of the workmen. I, for one, -am very thankful that poor Mr Winterbourn has a little longer to live.”</p> - -<p>Thus, after this singular episode, the ordinary life of the household -was resumed; and though the name of poor Nelly recurred at intervals for -a day or two, there were many things that were of more importance—a -great garden-party, for instance, for which, fortunately, Lady Markham -had not cancelled the invitations; a yachting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> expedition, and various -other pleasant things. The comments of the company were diverted to -Claude, who, finding Frances more easily convinced than the others that -draughts were to be carefully avoided, sought her out on most occasions, -notwithstanding her plain-speaking about his fancifulness.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you were right,” he said, “that I think too much about my -health. I shouldn’t wonder if you were quite right. But I have always -been warned that I was very delicate; and perhaps that makes one rather -a bore to one’s friends.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope you will forgive me, Mr Ramsay! I never meant——”</p> - -<p>“There is poor Winterbourn, you see,” said Claude, accepting the broken -apology with a benevolent nod of his head and the mild pathos of a -smile. “He was one of your rash people, never paying any attention to -what was the matter with him. He was quite a well-preserved sort of man -when he married Nelly St John; and now you see what a wreck! By Jove, -though, I shouldn’t like my wife, if I married, to treat me like Nelly. -But I promise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> you there should be no Markham in my case.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what Markham has to do with it,” said Frances with sudden -spirit.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, “perhaps you -don’t know; and so much the better. Never mind about Markham. I should -expect my wife to be with me when I am ill; not to leave me to servants, -to give me my—everything I had to take; and to cheer me up, you know. -Do you think there is anything unreasonable in that?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, indeed. Of course, if—if—she was fond of you—which of course -she would be, or you would not want to marry her.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Claude. “Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.”</p> - -<p>“I mean,” said Frances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance in -this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, <i>of course</i>—there would -be no question of reasonableness. She would just do it by nature. One -never asks if it is reasonable or not.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. There is Con, -for instance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Mr Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about my sister. -Constance, if she were in such a position, would do—what was right.”</p> - -<p>“For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is right—at -least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what you mean by -right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.”</p> - -<p>Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “Are you going to -be married, Mr Ramsay?” in a tone which was half indignant, half amused.</p> - -<p>At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “That is a -question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am, if I -can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving me -<i>renseignements</i>, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, as you -say, never ask whether it is reasonable——”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Frances, recovering something of the sprightliness which -had distinguished her in old days, “you don’t want to marry any one in -particular, but just a wife?”</p> - -<p>“What else could I marry?” he asked in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> peevish tone. Then, with a -change of his voice,—“I don’t want to conceal anything from you; and -there is no doubt you must have heard: I was engaged to your sister Con; -but she ran away from me,” he added with pathos. “You must have heard -that.”</p> - -<p>“I do not wonder that you were very fond of her,” cried Frances. “I see -no one so delightful as—she would be if she were here.”</p> - -<p>She had meant to make a simple statement, and say, “No one so delightful -as she;” but paused, remembering that the circumstances had not been to -Constance’s advantage, and that here she would have been in her proper -sphere.</p> - -<p>As for Claude, he was somewhat embarrassed. He said, “Fond is perhaps -not exactly the word. I thought she would have suited me—better than -any one I knew.”</p> - -<p>“If that was all,” said Frances, “you would not mind very much; and I do -not wonder that she came away, for it would be rather dreadful to be -married because a gentleman thought one suited him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean that would be so—in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> every case,” cried Claude, with -sudden earnestness.</p> - -<p>“In any case, I think you should never tell the girl’s sister, Mr -Ramsay; it is not a very nice thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring—Frances!—I was not thinking of you as any girl’s sister; -I was thinking of you——”</p> - -<p>“I hope not at all; for it would be a great pity to waste any more -thoughts on our family,” said Frances. “I have sometimes been a little -vexed that Constance came, for it changed all my life, and took me away -from every one I knew. But I am glad you have told me this, for now I -understand it quite.” She did not rise from where she was seated and -leave him, as he almost hoped she would, making a little quarrel of it, -but sat still, with a composure which Claude felt was much less -complimentary. “Now that I know all about it,” she said, after a little -interval, with a laugh, “I think what you want would be very -unreasonable—and what no woman could do.”</p> - -<p>“You said the very reverse five minutes ago,” he said sulkily.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes—but I didn’t know what the—what the wages were,” she said with -another laugh. “It is you who are giving me <i>renseignements</i> now.”</p> - -<p>Claude took his complaint next morning to Lady Markham’s room. “She -actually chaffed me—chaffed me, I assure you; though she looks as if -butter would not melt in her mouth.”</p> - -<p>“That is a little vulgar, Claude. If you talk like that to a girl, what -can you expect? Some, indeed, may be rather grateful to you, as showing -how little you look for; but you know I have always told you what you -ought to try to do is to inspire a <i>grande passion</i>.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I should like above all things to do,” said the young man; -“but——”</p> - -<p>“But—it would cost too much trouble?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps; and I am not an impassioned sort of man. Lady Markham, was it -really from me that Constance ran away?”</p> - -<p>“I have told you before, Claude, that was not how it should be spoken -of. She did not run away. She took into her head a romantic idea of -making acquaintance with her father, in which Markham encouraged her. Or -per<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span>haps it was Markham that put it into her head. It is possible—I -can’t tell you—that Markham had already something else in his own head, -and that he had begun to think it would be a good thing to try if other -changes could be made.”</p> - -<p>“What could Markham have in his head? and what changes——”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” she cried, “how can you ask me? I know how you have all been -talking. You speculate, just as I do.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so, Lady Markham,” said Claude. “I am sure Markham would -find all that sort of thing a great bore. Of course I know what you -mean. But I don’t think so. I have always told them my opinion. Whatever -may happen, Markham will stick to you.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Markham!” she said, with a quick revulsion of feeling. “After all, -it is a little hard, is it not, that he should have nothing brighter -than that to look to in his life?”</p> - -<p>“Than you?” said Claude. “If you ask my opinion, I don’t think so. I -think he’s a lucky fellow. An old mother, I don’t deny, might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> a -bore. An old lady, half blind, never hearing what you say, sitting by -the fire—like the mothers in books, or the Mrs Nickleby kind. But you -are as young and handsome and bright as any of them—keeping everything -right for him, asking nothing. Upon my word, I think he is very well -off. I wish I were in his place.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham was pleased. Affectionate flattery of this kind is always -sweet to a woman. She laughed, and said he was a gay deceiver. “But, my -dear boy, you will make me think a great deal more of myself than I have -any right to think.”</p> - -<p>“You ought to think more of yourself. And so you really do not think -that Con——? In many ways, dear Lady Markham, I feel that -Con—understood me better than any one else—except you.”</p> - -<p>“I think you are right, Claude,” she said, with a grave face.</p> - -<p>“I am beginning to feel quite sure I am right. When she writes, does she -never say anything about me?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, she always—asks for you.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is that all? Asking does not mean much.”</p> - -<p>“What more could she say? Of course she knows that she has lost her -place in your affection by her own rashness.”</p> - -<p>“Not lost, Lady Markham. It is not so easy to do that.”</p> - -<p>“It is true. Perhaps I should have said, fears that she has -forfeited—your respect.”</p> - -<p>“After all, she has done nothing wrong,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Nothing wrong; but rash, headstrong, foolish. Oh yes, she has been all -that. It is in the Waring blood!”</p> - -<p>“I think you are a little hard upon her, Lady Markham. By the way, don’t -you think yourself, that with two daughters to marry, and—and all that: -it would be a good thing if Mr Waring—for you must have got over all -your little tiffs long ago—don’t you think that it would be a good -thing if he could be persuaded to—come back?”</p> - -<p>She had watched him with eyes that gleamed from below her dropped -eyelids. She said now, as she had done to Sir Thomas, “I should put no -difficulties in the way, you may be sure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It would be more respectable,” said Claude. “If getting old is good for -anything, you know, it should make up quarrels; don’t you think so? It -would be a great deal better in every way. And then Markham——”</p> - -<p>“Markham,” she said, “you think, would then be free?”</p> - -<p>“Well—then it wouldn’t matter particularly about Markham, what he did,” -the young man said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had borne a great many such assaults in her life as if she -felt nothing: but as a matter of fact she did feel them deeply; and when -a probable new combination was thus calmly set before her, her usual -composure was put to a severe test. She smiled upon Claude, indeed, as -long as he remained with her, and allowed him no glimpse of her real -feelings; but when he was gone, felt for a moment her heart fail her. -She had, even in the misfortunes which had crossed her life, secured -always a great share of her own way. Many people do this even when they -suffer most. Whether they get it cheerfully or painfully, they yet get -it, which is always some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span>thing. Waring, when, in his fastidious -impatience and irritation, because he did not get his, he had flung -forth into the unknown, and abandoned her and her life altogether, did -still, though at the cost of pain and scandal, help his wife to this -triumph, that she departed from none of her requirements, and remained -mistress of the battlefield. She had her own way, though he would not -yield to it. But as a woman grows older, and becomes less capable of -that pertinacity which is the best means of securing her own way, and -when the conflicting wills against hers are many instead of being only -one, the state of the matter changes. Constance had turned against her, -when she was on the eve of an arrangement which would have been so very -much for Con’s good. And Frances, though so submissive in some points, -would not be so, she felt instinctively, on others. And Markham—that -was the most fundamental shock of all—Markham might possibly in the -future have prospects and hopes independent altogether of his mother’s, -in antagonism with all her arrangements. This, which she had not -anticipated, went to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> heart. And when she thought of what had been -suggested to her with so much composure—the alteration of her whole -life, the substitution of her husband, from whom she had been so long -parted, who did not think as she did nor live as she did for her son, -who, with all his faults, which she knew so well, was yet in sympathy -with her in all she thought and wished and knew—this suggestion made -her sick and faint. It had come, though not with any force, even from -Markham himself. It had come from Sir Thomas, who was one of the oldest -of her friends; and now Claude set it before her in all the forcible -simplicity of commonplace: it would be more respectable! She laughed -almost violently when he left her, but it was a laugh which was not far -from tears.</p> - -<p>“Claude has been complaining of you,” she said to Frances, recovering -herself with an instantaneous effort when her daughter came into the -room; “but I don’t object, my dear. Unless you had found that you could -like him yourself, which would have been the best thing, perhaps—you -were quite right in what you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> said. So far as Constance is concerned, it -is all that I could wish.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Frances, “you don’t want Constance—you would not let -her—accept <i>that</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Accept what? My love, you must not be so emphatic. Accept a life full -of luxury, splendour even, if she likes—and every care forestalled. My -dear little girl, you don’t know anything about the world.”</p> - -<p>Frances pondered for some time before she replied. “Mamma,” she said -again, “if such a case arose—you said that the best thing for me would -have been to have liked—Mr Ramsay. There is no question of that. But if -such a case arose——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear”—Lady Markham took her daughter’s hand in her own, and -looked at her with a smile of pleasure—“I hope it will some day. And -what then?”</p> - -<p>“Would you—think the same about me? Would you consider the life full of -luxury, as you said—would you desire for me the same thing as for -Constance?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham held the girl’s hand clasped<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> in both of hers; the soft -caressing atmosphere about her enveloped Frances. “My dear,” she said, -“this is a very serious question. You are not asking me for curiosity -alone?”</p> - -<p>“It is a very serious question,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>And the mother and daughter looked at each other closely, with more -meaning, perhaps, than had as yet been in the eyes of either, -notwithstanding all the excitement of interest in their first meeting. -It was some time before another word was said. Frances saw in her mother -a woman full of determination, very clear as to what she wanted, very -unlikely to be turned from it by softer impulses, although outside she -was so tender and soft; and Lady Markham saw in Frances a girl who was -entirely submissive, yet immovable, whose dove’s eyes had a steady soft -gaze, against which the kindred light of her own had no power. It was a -mutual revelation. There was no conflict, nor appearance of conflict, -between these two, so like each other—two gentle and soft-voiced women, -both full of natural courtesy and disinclination to wound or offend; -both seeing everything around them very clearly from her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> own, perhaps -limited, point of view; and both feeling that between them nothing but -the absolute truth would do.</p> - -<p>“You trouble me, Frances,” said Lady Markham at length. “When such a -case arises, it will be time enough. In the abstract, I should of course -feel for one as I feel for the other. Nay, stop a little. I should wish -to provide for you, as for Constance, a life of assured comfort,—well, -if you drive me to it—of wealth and all that wealth brings. Assuredly -that is what I should wish.” She gave Frances’ hand a pressure which was -almost painful, and then dropped it. “I hope you have no fancy for -poverty theoretically, like your patron saint,” she added lightly, -trying to escape from the gravity of the question by a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” said Frances, in a voice which was tremulous and yet steady, -“I want to tell you—I think neither of poverty nor of money. I am more -used, perhaps, to the one than the other. I will do what you wish in -everything—everything else; but——”</p> - -<p>“Not in the one thing which would probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> be the only thing I asked of -you,” said Lady Markham, with a smile. She put her hands on Frances’ -shoulders and gave her a kiss upon her cheek. “My dear child, you -probably think this is quite original,” she said; “but I assure you it -is what almost every daughter one time or other says to her parents: -Anything <i>else</i>—anything, but—— Happily there is no question between -you and me. Let us wait till the occasion arises. It is always time -enough to fall out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nothing</span> happened of any importance before their return to Eaton Square. -Markham, hopping about with a queer sidelong motion he had, his little -eyes screwed up with humorous meaning, seemed to Frances to recover his -spirits after the Winterbourn episode was over, which was the -subject—though that, of course, she did not know—of half the -voluminous correspondence of all the ladies and gentlemen in the house, -whose letters were so important a part of their existence. Before a week -was over, all Society was aware of the fact that Ralph Winterbourn had -been nearly dying at Markham Priory; that Lady Markham was in “a state” -which baffled description, and Markham himself so changed as to be -scarcely recognisable; but that, fortunately, the crisis had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> tided -over, and everything was still problematical. But the problem was so -interesting, that one perfumed epistle after another carried it to -curious wits all over the country, and a new light upon the subject was -warmly welcomed in a hundred Easter meetings. What would Markham do? -What would Nelly do? Would their friendship end in the vulgar way, in a -marriage? Would they venture, in face of all prognostications, to keep -it up as a friendship, when there was no longer any reason why it should -not ripen into love? Or would they, frightened by all the inevitable -comments which they would have to encounter, stop short altogether, and -fly from each other?</p> - -<p>Such a “case” is a delightful thing to speculate upon. At the Priory, it -could only be discussed in secret conclave; and though no doubt the -experienced persons chiefly concerned were quite conscious of the -subject which occupied their friends’ thoughts, there was no further -reference made to it between them, and everything went on as it had -always done. The night before their return to town, Markham, in the -solitude of the house, from which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> all the guests had just departed, -called Frances outside to bear him company while he smoked his -cigarette. He was walking up and down on the lawn in the grey stillness -of a cloudy warm evening, when there was no light to speak of anywhere, -and yet a good deal to be seen through the wavering greyness of sky and -sea. A few stars, very mild and indistinct, looked out at the edges of -the clouds here and there; the great water-line widened and cleared -towards the horizon; and in the far distance, where a deeper greyness -showed the mainland, the gleam of a lighthouse surprised the dark by -slow continual revolutions. There was no moon: something softer, more -seductive than even the moon, was in this absence of light.</p> - -<p>“Well—now they’re gone, what do you think of them, Fan? They’re very -good specimens of the English country-house party—all kinds: the -respectable family, the sturdy old fogy, the rich young man without -health, and the muscular young man without money.” There had been, it is -needless to say, various other members of the party, who, being quite -unimportant to this history, need not be men<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span>tioned here. “What do you -think of them, little un? You have your own way of seeing things.”</p> - -<p>“I—like them all well enough, Markham,” without enthusiasm Frances -replied.</p> - -<p>“That is comprehensive at least. So do I, my dear. It would not have -occurred to me to say it; but it is just the right thing to say. They -pull you to pieces almost before your face; but they are not -ill-natured. They tell all sorts of stories about each other——”</p> - -<p>“No, Markham; I don’t think that is just.”</p> - -<p>“——Without meaning any harm,” he went on. “Fan, in countries where -conversation is cultivated, perhaps people don’t talk scandal—I only -say perhaps—but here we are forced to take to it for want of anything -else to say. What did your Giovannis and Giacomos talk of in your -village out yonder?” Markham pointed towards the clear blue-grey line of -the horizon, beyond which lay America, if anything; but he meant -distance, and that was enough.</p> - -<p>“They talked—about the olives, how they were looking, and if it was -going to be a bad or an indifferent year.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“And then?”</p> - -<p>“About the <i>forestieri</i>, if many were coming, and whether it would be a -good season for the hotels; and about tying up the palms, to make them -ready for Easter,” said Frances, resuming, with a smile about her lips. -“And about how old Pietro’s son had got such a good appointment in the -post-office, and had bought little Nina a pair of earrings as long as -your finger; for he was to marry Nina, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, was he? Go on. I am very much interested. Didn’t they say Mr -Whatever-his-name-is wanted to get out of it, and that there never would -have been any engagement, had not Miss Nina’s mother——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh Markham,” cried Frances in surprise, “how could you possibly know?”</p> - -<p>“I was reasoning from analogy, Fan. Yes, I suppose they do it all the -world over. And it is odd—isn’t it?—that, knowing what they are sure -to say, we ask them to our houses, and put the keys of all our skeleton -cupboards into their hands.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think that is true, that dreadful idea about the skeleton? I am -sure<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“What are you sure of, my little dear?”</p> - -<p>“I was going to say, oh Markham, that I was sure, <i>at home</i>, we had no -skeleton; and then I remembered——”</p> - -<p>“I understand,” he said kindly. “It was not a skeleton to speak of, Fan. -There is nothing particularly bad about it. If you had met it out -walking, you would not have known it for a skeleton. Let us say a -mystery, which is not such a mouth-filling word.”</p> - -<p>“Sir Thomas told me,” said Frances, with some timidity; “but I am not -sure that I understood. Markham! what was it really about?”</p> - -<p>Her voice was low and diffident, and at first he only shook his head. -“About nothing,” he said; “about—me. Yes, more than anything else, -about me. That is how—— No, it isn’t,” he added, correcting himself. -“I always must have cared for my mother more than for any woman. She has -always been my greatest friend, ever since I can remember anything. We -seem to have been children together, and to have grown up together. I -was everything to her for a dozen years, and then—your father<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span> came -between us. He hated me—and I tormented him.”</p> - -<p>“He could not hate you, Markham. Oh no, no!”</p> - -<p>“My little Fan, how can a child like you understand? Neither did I -understand, when I was doing all the mischief. Between twelve and -eighteen I was an imp of mischief, a little demon. It was fun to me to -bait that thin-skinned man, that jumped at everything. The explosion was -fun to me too. I was a little beast. And then I got the mother to myself -again. Don’t kill me, my dear. I am scarcely sorry now. We have had very -good times since, I with my parent, you with yours—till that day,” he -added, flinging away the end of his cigarette, “when mischief again -prompted me to let Con know where he was, which started us all again.”</p> - -<p>“Did you always know where we were?” she asked. Strangely enough, this -story did not give her any angry feeling towards Markham. It was so far -off, and the previous relations of her long-separated father and mother -were as a fairy tale to her, confusing and almost incred<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span>ible, which she -did not take into account as matter of fact at all. Markham had -delivered these confessions slowly, as they turned and re-turned up and -down the lawn. There was not light enough for either to see the -expression in the other’s face, and the veil of the darkness added to -the softening effect. The words came out in short sentences, interrupted -by that little business of puffing at the cigarette, letting it go out, -stopping to strike a fusee and relight it, which so often forms the -byplay of an important conversation, and sometimes breaks the force of -painful revelations. Frances followed everything with an absorbed but -yet half-dreamy attention, as if the red glow of the light, the -exclamation of impatience when the cigarette was found to have gone out, -the very perfume of the fusee in the air, were part and parcel of it. -And the question she asked was almost mechanical, a part of the business -too, striking naturally from the last thing he had said as sparks flew -from the perfumed light.</p> - -<p>“Not where,” he said. “But I might have known, had I made any attempt to -know. The mother sent her letters through the lawyer, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> of course we -could have found out. It was thrust upon me at last by one of those -meddling fools that go everywhere. And then my old demon got possession -of me, and I told Con.” Here he gave a low chuckle, which seemed to -escape him in spite of himself. “I am laughing,” he said—“pay -attention, Fan—at myself. Of course I have learned to be sorry -for—some things—the imp has put me up to; but I can’t get the better -of that little demon—or of this little beggar, if you like it better. -It’s queer phraseology, I suppose; but I prefer the other form.”</p> - -<p>“And what,” said Frances in the same dreamy way, drawn on, she was not -conscious how, by something in the air, by some current of thought which -she was not aware of—“what do you mean to do now?”</p> - -<p>He started from her side as if she had given him a blow. “Do now?” he -cried, with something in his voice that shook off the spell of the -situation, and aroused the girl at once to the reality of things. She -had no guidance of his looks, for, as has been said, she could not see -them; but there was a curious thrill in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> voice of present alarm and -consciousness, as if her innocent question struck sharply against some -fact of very different solidity and force from those far-off shadowy -facts which he had been telling her. “Do now? What makes you think I am -going to do anything at all?”</p> - -<p>His voice fell away in a sort of quaver at the end of these words.</p> - -<p>“I do not think it; I—I—don’t think anything, Markham; I—don’t—know -anything.”</p> - -<p>“You ask very pat questions all the same, my little Fan. And you have -got a pair of very good eyes of your own in that little head. And if you -have got any light to throw upon the subject, my dear, produce it; for -I’ll be bothered if I know.”</p> - -<p>Just then, a window opened in the gloom. “Children,” said Lady Markham’s -voice, “are you there? I think I see something like you, though it is so -dark. Bring your little sister in, Markham. She must not catch cold on -the eve of going back to town.”</p> - -<p>“Here is the little thing, mammy. Shall I hand her in to you by the -window? It makes me feel very frisky to hear myself ad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span>dressed as -children,” he cried, with his chuckle of easy laughter. “Here, Fan; run -in, my little dear, and be put to bed.”</p> - -<p>But he did not go in with her. He kept outside in the quiet cool and -freshness of the night, illuminating the dim atmosphere now and then -with the momentary glow of another fusee. Frances from her room, to -which she had shortly retired, heard the sound, and saw from her windows -the sudden ruddy light a great many times before she went to sleep. -Markham let his cigar go out oftener than she could reckon. He was too -full of thought to remember his cigar.</p> - -<p>They arrived in town when everybody was arriving, when even to Frances, -in her inexperience, the rising tide was visible in the streets, and the -air of a new world beginning, which always marks the commencement of the -season. No doubt it is a new world to many virgin souls, though so stale -and weary to most of those who tread its endless round. To Frances -everything was new; and a sense of the many wonderful things that -awaited her got into the girl’s head like ethereal wine,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> in spite of -all the grave matters of which she was conscious, which lay under the -surface, and were, if not skeletons in the closet, at least very serious -drawbacks to anything bright that life could bring. Her knowledge of -these drawbacks had been acquired so suddenly, and was so little dulled -by habit, that it dwelt upon her mind much more than family mysteries -usually dwell upon a mind of eighteen. But yet in the rush and -exhilaration of new thoughts and anticipations, always so much more -delicately bright than any reality, she forgot that all was not as -natural, as pleasant, as happy as it seemed. If Lady Markham had any -consuming cares, she kept them shut away under that smiling countenance, -which was as bright and peaceful as the morning. If Markham, on his -side, was perplexed and doubtful, he came out and in with the same -little chuckle of fun, the same humorous twinkle in his eyes. When these -signs of tranquillity are so apparent, the young and ignorant can easily -make up their minds that all is well. And Frances was to be -“presented”—a thought which made her heart beat. She was to be put into -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> court-train and feathers,—she who as yet had never worn anything but -the simple frock which she had so pleased herself to think was purely -English in its unobtrusiveness and modesty. She was not quite sure that -she liked the prospect; but it excited her all the same.</p> - -<p>It was early in May, and the train and the court plumes were ready, -when, going out one morning upon some small errand of her own, Frances -met some one whom she recognised, walking slowly along the long line of -Eaton Square. She started at the sight of him, though he did not see -her. He was going along with a strange air of reluctance, yet anxiety, -glancing up at the houses, no doubt looking for Lady Markham’s house, so -absorbed that he neither saw Frances nor was disturbed by the startled -movement she made, which must have caught a less preoccupied eye. She -smiled to herself, after the first start, to see how entirely bent he -was upon finding the house, and how little attention he had to spare for -anything else. He was even more worn and pale, or rather grey, than he -had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> when he returned from India, she thought; and there was in him -a slackness, a letting-go of himself, a weary look in his step and -carriage, which proved, Frances thought, that the Riviera had done -George Gaunt little good.</p> - -<p>For it was certainly George Gaunt, still in his loose grey Indian -clothes, looking like a man dropped from another hemisphere, -investigating the numbers on the doors as if he but vaguely comprehended -the meaning of them. But that there was in him that unmistakable air of -soldier which no mufti can quite disguise, he might have been the -Ancient Mariner in person, looking for the man whose fate it is to leave -all the wedding-feasts of the world in order to hear that tale. What -tale could young Gaunt have to tell? For a moment it flashed across the -mind of Frances that he might be bringing bad news, that “something -might have happened,”—that rapid conclusion to which the imagination is -so ready to jump. An accident to her father or Constance? so bad, so -terrible, that it could not be trusted to a letter, that he had been -sent to break the news to them?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span></p> - -<p>She had passed him by this time, being shy, in her surprise, of -addressing the stranger all at once; but now she paused, and turned with -a momentary intention of running after him and entreating him to tell -her the worst. But then Frances recollected that this was impossible; -that with the telegraph in active operation, no one would employ such a -lingering way of conveying news; and went on again, with her heart -beating quicker, with a heightened colour, and a restrained impatience -and eagerness of which she was half ashamed. No, she would not turn back -before she had done her little business. She did not want either the -stranger himself or any one else to divine the flutter of pleasant -emotion, the desire she had to see and speak with the son of her old -friends. Yes, she said to herself, the son of her old friends—he who -was the youngest, whom Mrs Gaunt used to talk of for hours, whose -praises she was never weary of singing.</p> - -<p>Frances smiled and blushed to herself as she hurried—perceptibly -hurried—about her little affairs. Kind Mrs Gaunt had always had a -secret longing to bring these two together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> Frances would not turn -back; but she quickened her pace, almost running—as near running as was -decorous in London—to the lace-shop, to give the instructions which she -had been charged with. No doubt, she said to herself, she would find him -there when she got back. She had forgotten, perhaps, the fact that -George Gaunt had given very little of his regard to her when he met her, -though she was his mother’s favourite, and had no eyes but for -Constance. This was not a thing to dwell in the mind of a girl who had -no jealousy in her, and who never supposed herself to be half as worthy -of anybody’s attention as Constance was. But, anyhow, she forgot it -altogether, forgot to ask herself what in this respect might have -happened in the meantime; and with her heart beating full of innocent -eagerness, pleasure, and excitement, full of the hope of hearing about -everybody, of seeing again through his eyes the dear little well-known -world, which seemed to lie so far behind her, hastened through her -errands, and turned quickly home.</p> - -<p>To her great surprise, as she came back,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> turning round the corner into -the long line of pavement, she saw young Gaunt once more approaching -her. He looked even more listless and languid now, like a man who had -tried to do some duty and failed, and was escaping, glad to be out of -the way of it. This was a great deal to read in a man’s face; but -Frances was highly sympathetic, and divined it, knowing in herself many -of those devices of shy people, which shy persons divine. Fortunately -she saw him some way off, and had time to overcome her own shyness and -take the initiative. She went up to him fresh as the May morning, -blushing and smiling, and put out her hand. “Captain Gaunt?” she said. -“I knew I could not be mistaken. Oh, have you just come from Bordighera? -I am so glad to see any one from home!”</p> - -<p>“Do you call it home, Miss Waring? Yes, I have just come. I—I—have a -number of messages, and some parcels, and—— But I thought you might -perhaps be out of town, or busy, and that it would be best to send -them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is that why you are turning your back on my mother’s house? or did you -not know the number? I saw you before, looking—but I did not like to -speak.”</p> - -<p>“I—thought you might be out of town,” he repeated, taking no notice of -her question; “and that perhaps the post——”</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” cried Frances, whose shyness was of the cordial kind. “Now you -must come back and see mamma. She will want to hear all about Constance. -Are they all well, Captain Gaunt? Of course you must have seen them -constantly—and Constance. Mamma will want to hear everything.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring is very well,” he said with a blank countenance, from which -he had done his best to dismiss all expression.</p> - -<p>“And papa? and dear Mrs Gaunt, and the colonel, and everybody? Oh, there -is so much that letters can’t tell. Come back now with me. My mother -will be so glad to see you, and Markham; you know Markham already.”</p> - -<p>Young Gaunt made a feeble momentary resistance. He murmured something -about an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span> engagement, about his time being very short; but as he did so, -turned round languidly and went with her, obeying, as it seemed, the -eager impulse of Frances rather than any will of his own.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF THE SECOND 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. 2 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61443-h.htm or 61443-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61443/ - -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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