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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..3b61c77 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #61444 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/61444) diff --git a/old/61444-0.txt b/old/61444-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1e9d85b..0000000 --- a/old/61444-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6176 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 3 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. 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61444] - -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. III. - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCLXXXVI - - - - - A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - - -Lady Markham received young Gaunt with the most gracious kindness: had -his mother seen him seated in the drawing-room at Eaton Square, with -Frances hovering about him full of pleasure and questions, and her -mother insisting that he should stay to luncheon, and Markham’s hansom -just drawing up at the door, she would have thought her boy on the -highway to fortune. The sweetness of the two ladies--the happy eagerness -of Frances, and Lady Markham’s grace and graciousness--had a soothing -effect upon the young man. He had been unwilling to come, as he was -unwilling to go anywhere at this crisis of his life; but it soothed him, -and filled him with a sort of painful and bitter pleasure to be thus -surrounded by all that was most familiar to Constance,--by her mother -and sister, and all their questions about her. These questions, indeed, -it was hard upon him to be obliged to answer; but yet that pain was the -best thing that now remained to him, he said to himself. To hear her -name, and all those allusions to her, to be in the rooms where she had -spent her life--all this gave food to his longing fancy, and wrung, yet -soothed, his heart. - -“My dear, you will worry Captain Gaunt with your questions; and I don’t -know those good people, Tasie and the rest: you must let me have my turn -now. Tell me about my daughter, Captain Gaunt. She is not a very good -correspondent. She gives few details of her life; and it must be so very -different from life here. Does she seem to enjoy herself? Is she happy -and bright? I have longed so much to see some one, impartial, whom I -could ask.” - -Impartial! If they only knew! “She is always bright,” he said with a -suppressed passion, the meaning of which Frances divined suddenly, -almost with a cry, with a start and thrill of sudden certainty, which -took away her breath. “But for happy, I cannot tell. It is not good -enough for her, out there.” - -“No? Thank you, Captain Gaunt, for appreciating my child. I was afraid -it was not much of a sphere for her. What company has she? Is there -anything going on----?” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, “I told you--there is never anything going on.” - -The young soldier shook his head. “There is no society--except the -Durants--and ourselves--who are not interesting,” he said, with a -somewhat ghastly smile. - -“The Durants are the clergyman’s family?--and yourselves. I think she -might have been worse off. I am sure Mrs Gaunt has been kind to my -wayward girl,” she said, looking him in the face with that charming -smile. - -“Kind!” he cried, as if the word were a profanation. “My mother is too -happy to do--anything. But Miss Waring,” he added with a feeble smile, -“has little need of--any one. She has so many resources--she is so far -above----” - -He got inarticulate here, and stumbled in his speech, growing very red. -Frances watched him under her eyelids with a curious sensation of pain. -He was very much in earnest, very sad, yet transported out of his -langour and misery by Constance’s name. Now Frances had heard of George -Gaunt for years, and had unconsciously allowed her thoughts to dwell -upon him, as has been mentioned in another part of this history. His -arrival, had it not happened in the midst of other excitements which -preoccupied her, would have been one of the greatest excitements she had -ever known. She remembered now that when it did happen, there had been a -faint, almost imperceptible, touch of disappointment in it, in the fact -that his whole attention was given to Constance, and that for herself, -Frances, he had no eyes. But in the moment of seeing him again she had -forgotten all that, and had gone back to her previous prepossession in -his favour, and his mother’s certainty that Frances and her George -would be “great friends.” Now she understood with instant divination the -whole course of affairs. He had given his heart to Constance, and she -had not prized the gift. The discovery gave her an acute, yet vague (if -that could be), impression of pain. It was she, not Constance, that had -been prepossessed in his favour. Had Constance not been there, no doubt -she would have been thrown much into the society of George -Gaunt--and--who could tell what might have happened? All this came -before her like the sudden opening of a landscape hid by fog and mists. -Her eyes swept over it, and then it was gone. And this was what never -had been, and never would be. - -“Poor Con,” said Lady Markham. “She never was thrown on her own -resources before. Has she so many of them? It must be a curiously -altered life for her, when she has to fall back upon what you call her -resources. But you think she is happy?” she asked with a sigh. - -How could he answer? The mere fact that she was Constance, seemed to -Gaunt a sort of paradise. If she could make him happy by a look or a -word, by permitting him to be near her, how was it possible that, being -herself, she could be otherwise than blessed? He was well enough aware -that there was a flaw in his logic somewhere, but his mind was not -strong enough to perceive where that flaw was. - -Markham came in in time to save him from the difficulty of an answer. -Markham did not recollect the young man, whom he had only seen once; but -he hailed him with great friendliness, and began to inquire into his -occupations and engagements. “If you have nothing better to do, you must -come and dine with me at my club,” he said in the kindest way, for which -Frances was very grateful to her brother. And young Gaunt, for his part, -began to gather himself together a little. The presence of a man roused -him. There is something, no doubt, seductive and relaxing in the fact of -being surrounded by sympathetic women, ready to divine and to console. -He had not braced himself to bear the pain of their questions; but -somehow had felt a certain luxury in letting his despondency, his -languor, and displeasure with life appear. “I have to be here,” he had -said to them, “to see people, I believe. My father thinks it necessary: -and I could not stay; that is, my people are leaving Bordighera. It -becomes too hot to hold one--they say.” - -“But you would not feel that, coming from India?” - -“I came to get braced up,” he said with a smile, as of self-ridicule, -and made a little pause. “I have not succeeded very well in that,” he -added presently. “They think England will do me more good. I go back to -India in a year; so that, if I can be braced up, I should not lose any -time.” - -“You should go to Scotland, Captain Gaunt. I don’t mean at once, but as -soon as you are tired of the season--that is the place to brace you -up--or to Switzerland, if you like that better.” - -“I do not much care,” he had said with another melancholy smile, “where -I go.” - -The ladies tried every way they could think of to console him, to give -him a warmer interest in his life. They told him that when he was -feeling stronger, his spirits would come back. “I know how one runs down -when one feels out of sorts,” Lady Markham said. “You must let us try to -amuse you a little, Captain Gaunt.” - -But when Markham appeared, this softness came to an end. George Gaunt -picked himself up, and tried to look like a man of the world. He had to -see some one at the Horse Guards, and he had some relations to call -upon; but he would be very glad, he said, to dine with Lord Markham. It -surprised Frances that her mother did not appear to look with any -pleasure on this engagement. She even interposed in a way which was -marked. “Don’t you think, Markham, it would be better if Captain Gaunt -and you dined with _me_? Frances is not half satisfied. She has not -asked half her questions. She has the first right to an old friend.” - -“Gaunt is not going away to-morrow,” said Markham. “Besides, if he’s out -of sorts, he wants amusing, don’t you see?” - -“And we are not capable of doing that! Frances, do you hear?” - -“Very capable, in your way. But for a man, when he’s low, ladies are -dangerous--that’s my opinion, and I’ve a good deal of experience.” - -“Of low spirits, Markham!” - -“No, but of ladies,” he said with a chuckle. “I shall take him somewhere -afterwards; to the play perhaps, or--somewhere amusing: whereas you -would talk to him all night, and Fan would ask him questions, and keep -him on the same level.” - -Lady Markham made a reply which to Frances sounded very strange. She -said, “To the play--perhaps?” in a doubtful tone, looking at her son. -Gaunt had been sitting looking on in the embarrassed and helpless way in -which a man naturally regards a discussion over his own body as it were, -particularly if it is a conflict of kindness, and, glad to be delivered -from this friendly duel, turned to Frances with some observation, taking -no heed of Lady Markham’s remark. But Frances heard it with a confused -premonition which she could not understand. She could not understand, -and yet---- She saw Markham shrug his shoulders in reply; there was a -slight colour upon his face, which ordinarily knew none. What did they -both mean? - -But how elated would Mrs Gaunt have been, how pleased the General, had -they seen their son at Lady Markham’s luncheon-table, in the midst, so -to speak, of the first society! Sir Thomas came in to lunch, as he had a -way of doing; and so did a gay young Guardsman, who was indeed naturally -a little contemptuous of a man in the line, yet civil to Markham’s -friend. These simple old people would have thought their George on the -way to every advancement, and believed even the heart-break which had -procured him that honour well compensated. These were far from his own -sentiments; yet, to feel himself thus warmly received by “_her_ people,” -the object of so much kindness, which his deluded heart whispered must -surely, surely, whatever she might intend, have been suggested at least -by something she had said of him, was balm and healing to his wounds. He -looked at her mother--and indeed Lady Markham was noted for her -graciousness, and for looking as if she meant to be the motherly friend -of all who approached her--with a sort of adoration. To be the mother of -Constance, and yet to speak to ordinary mortals with that smile, as if -she had no more to be proud of than they! And what could it be that made -her so kind? not anything in him--a poor soldier, a poor soldier’s son, -knowing nothing but the exotic society of India and its curious -ways--surely something which, out of some relenting of the heart, some -pity or regret, Constance had said. Frances sat next to him at table, -and there was a more subtle satisfaction still in speaking low, aside to -Frances, when he got a little confused with the general conversation, -that bewildering talk which was all made up of allusions. He told her -that he had brought a parcel from the Palazzo, and a box of flowers from -the bungalow,--that his mother was very anxious to hear from her, that -they were going to Switzerland--no, not coming home this year. “They -have found a cheap place in which my mother delights,” he said, with a -faint smile. He did not tell her that his coming home a little -circumscribed their resources, and that the month in town which they -were so anxious he should have, which in other circumstances he would -have enjoyed so much, but which now he cared nothing for, nor for -anything, was the reason why they had stopped half-way on their usual -summer journey to England. Dear old people, they had done it for -him--this was what he thought to himself, though he did not say it--for -him, for whom nobody could now do anything! He did not say much, but as -he looked in Frances’ sympathetic eyes, he felt that, without saying a -word to her, she must understand it all. - -Lady Markham made no remark about their visitor until after they had -done their usual afternoon’s “work,” as it was her habit to call -it--their round of calls, to which she went in an exact succession, -saying lightly, as she cut short each visit, that she could stay no -longer, as she had so much to do. There was always a shop or two to go -to, in addition to the calls, and almost always some benevolent -errand--some Home to visit, some hospital to call at, something about -the work of poor ladies, or the salvation of poor girls,--all these were -included along with the calls in the afternoon’s work. And it was not -till they had returned home and were seated together at tea, refreshing -themselves after their labours, that she mentioned young Gaunt. She -then said, after a minute’s silence, suddenly, as if the subject had -been long in her mind, “I wish Markham had let that young man alone; I -wish he had left him to you and me.” - -Frances started a little, and felt, with great self-indignation and -distress, that she blushed--though why, she could not tell. She looked -up, wondering, and said, “Markham! I thought it was so very kind.” - -“Yes, my dear; I believe he means to be kind.” - -“Oh, I am sure he does; for he could have no interest in George -Gaunt--not for himself. I thought it was perhaps for my sake, because he -was--because he was the son of--such a friend.” - -“Were they so good to you, Frances? And no doubt to Con too.” - -“I am sure of it, mamma.” - -“Poor people,” said Lady Markham; “and this is the reward they get. Con -has been experimenting on that poor boy. What do I mean by -experimenting? You know well enough what I mean, Frances. I suppose he -was the only man at hand, and she has been amusing herself. He has been -dangling about her constantly, I have no doubt, and she has made him -believe that she liked it as well as he did. And then he has made a -declaration, and there has been a scene. I am sorry to say I need no -evidence in this case: I know all about it. And now, Markham! Poor -people, I say: it would have been well for them if they had never seen -one of our race.” - -“Mamma!” cried Frances, with a little indignation, “I feel sure you are -misjudging Constance. Why should she do anything so cruel? Papa used to -say that one must have a motive.” - -“_He_ said so! I wonder if he could tell what motives were his -when---- Forgive me, my dear. We will not discuss your father. As for -Con, her motives are clear enough--amusement. Now, my dear, don’t! I -know you were going to ask me, with your innocent face, what amusement -it could possibly be to break that young man’s heart. The greatest in -the world, my love! We need not mince matters between ourselves. There -is nothing that diverts Con so much, and many another woman. You think -it is terrible; but it is true.” - -“I think--you must be mistaken,” said Frances, pale and troubled, with a -little gasp as for breath. “But,” she went on, “supposing even that you -were right about Con, what could Markham do?” - -Lady Markham looked at her very gravely. “He has asked this poor young -fellow--to dinner,” she said. - -Frances could scarcely restrain a laugh, which was half hysterical. -“That does not seem very tragic,” she said. - -“Oh no, it does not seem very tragic--poor people, poor people!” said -Lady Markham, shaking her head. - -And there was no more; for a visitor appeared--one of a little circle of -ladies who came in and out every day, intimates, who rushed up-stairs -and into the room without being announced, always with something to say -about the Home, or the Hospital, or the Reformatory, or the Poor Ladies, -or the endangered girls. There was always a great deal to talk over -about these institutions, which formed an important part of the “work” -which all these ladies had to do. Frances withdrew to a little distance, -so as not to embarrass her mother and her friend, who were discussing -“cases” for one of those refuges of suffering humanity, and were more -comfortable when she was out of hearing. Frances knitted and thought of -home--not this bewildering version of it, but the quiet of the idle -village life where there was no “work,” but where all were neighbours, -lending a kindly hand to each other in trouble, and where the tranquil -days flew by she knew not how. She thought of this with a momentary, -oft-recurring secret protest against this other life, of which, as was -natural, she saw the evil more clearly than the good; and then, with a -bound, her thoughts returned to the extraordinary question to which her -mother had made so extraordinary a reply. What could Markham do? “He has -asked the poor young fellow to dinner.” Even now, in the midst of the -painful confusion of her mind, she almost laughed. Asked him to dinner! -How would that harm him? At Markham’s club there would be no poisoned -dishes--nothing that would slay. What harm could it do to George Gaunt -to dine with Markham? She asked herself the question again and again, -but could find no reply. When she turned to the other side and thought -of Constance, the blood rushed to her head with a feverish angry pang. -Was that also true? But in this case, Frances, like her mother, felt -that no doubt was possible. In this respect she had been able to -understand what her mother said to her. Her heart bled for the poor -people, whom Lady Markham compassionated without knowing them, and -wondered how Mrs Gaunt would bear the sight of the girl who had been -cruel to her son. All that, with agitation and trouble she could -believe: but Markham! What could Markham do? - -She was going to the play with her mother that evening, which was to -Frances, fresh to every real enjoyment, one of the greatest of -pleasures. But she did not enjoy it that night. Lady Markham paid little -attention to the play: she studied the people as they went and came, -which was a usual weakness of hers, much wondered at and deplored by -Frances, to whom the stage was the centre of attraction. But on this -occasion Lady Markham was more _distraite_ than ever, levelling her -glass at every new group that appeared in the recesses between the -acts,--the restless crowd, which is always in motion. Her face, when she -removed the glass from it, was anxious, and almost unhappy. “Frances,” -she said, in one of these pauses, “your eyes must be sharper than mine; -try if you can see Markham anywhere.” - -“Here is Markham,” said her son, opening the door of the box. “What does -the mother want with me, Fan?” - -“Oh, you are here!” Lady Markham cried, leaning back in her chair with a -sigh of relief. “And Captain Gaunt too.” - -“Quite safe, and out of the way of mischief,” said Markham with a -chuckle, which brought the colour to his mother’s cheek. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - - -After this, for about a fortnight, Captain Gaunt was very often visible -in Eaton Square. He dined next evening with Lady Markham and -Frances--Sir Thomas, who scarcely counted, he was so often there, being -the only other guest. Sir Thomas was a man who had a great devotion for -Lady Markham, and a very distant link of cousinship, which, or something -in themselves which made that impossible, had silenced any remark of -gossip, much less scandal, upon their friendship. He came in to luncheon -whenever it pleased him; he dined there--when he was not dining anywhere -else. But as both he and Lady Markham had many engagements, this was not -too often the case, though there was rarely an evening, if the ladies -were at home, when Sir Thomas did not “look in.” His intimacy was like -that of a brother in the cheerful easy house. This cheerful company, the -friendliness, the soothing atmosphere of feminine sympathy around him, -and underneath all the foolish hope, more sweet than anything else, that -a certain relenting on the part of Constance must be underneath, took -away the gloom and dejection, in great part at least, from the young -soldier’s looks. He exerted himself to please the people who were so -kind to him, and his melancholy smile had begun to brighten into -something more natural. Frances, for her part, thought him a very -delightful addition to the party. She looked at him across the table -almost with the pride which a sister might have felt when he made a good -appearance and did himself credit. He seemed to belong to her more or -less,--to reflect upon her the credit which he gained. It showed that -her friends after all were worth thinking of, that they were not -unworthy of the admiration she had for them, that they were able to hold -their own in what the people here called Society and the world. She -raised her little animated face to young Gaunt, was the first to see -what he meant, unconsciously interpreted or explained for him when he -was hazy--and beamed with delight when Lady Markham was interested and -amused. Poor Frances was not always quite clever enough to see when it -happened that the two elders were amused by the man himself, rather than -by what he said--and her gratification was great in his success. She -herself had never aspired to success in her own person; but it was a -great pleasure to her that the little community at Bordighera should be -vindicated and put in the best light. “They will never be able to say to -me _now_ that we had no Society, that we saw nobody,” Frances said to -herself--attributing, however, a far greater brilliancy to poor George -than he ever possessed. He fell back into melancholy, however, when the -ladies left, and Sir Thomas found him dull. He had very little to say -about Waring, on whose behalf the benevolent baronet was so much -interested. - -“Do you think he shows any inclination towards home?” Sir Thomas asked. - -“I am sure,” young Gaunt answered, with a solemn face, “that there is -nothing there that can satisfy such a creature as that.” - -“He has no society, then?” asked Sir Thomas. - -“Oh, society! it is like the poem,” said the young man, with a sigh. “I -should think it would be so everywhere. ‘Ye common people of the sky, -what are ye when your queen is nigh?’” - -Sir Thomas had been much puzzled by the application to Waring, as he -supposed, of the phrase, “such a creature as that;” but now he -perceived, with a compassionate shake of his head, what the poor young -fellow meant. Con had been at her tricks again! He said, with the -pitying look which such a question warranted, “I suppose you are very -fond of poetry?” - -“No,” said the young soldier, astonished, looking at him suddenly. “Oh -no. I am afraid I am very ignorant; but sometimes it expresses what -nothing else can express. Don’t you think so?” - -“I think perhaps it is time to join the ladies,” Sir Thomas said. He was -sorry for the boy, though a little contemptuous too; but then he -himself had known Con and her tricks from her cradle, and those of many -another, and he was hardened. He thought their mothers had been far more -attractive women. - -Was it the same art which made Frances look up with that bright look of -welcome, and almost affectionate interest, when they returned to the -drawing-room? Sir Thomas liked her so much, that he hoped it was not -merely one of their tricks; then paused, and said to himself that it -would be better if it were so, and not that the girl had really taken a -fancy to this young fellow, whose heart and head were both full of -another, and who, even without that, would evidently be a very poor -thing for Lady Markham’s daughter. Sir Thomas was so far unjust to -Frances, that he concluded it must be one of her tricks, when he -recollected how complacent she had been to Claude Ramsay, finding places -for him where he could sit out of the draught. They were all like that, -he said to himself; but concluded that, as one nail drives out another, -a second “affair,” if he could be drawn into it, might cure the victim. -This rapid _résumé_ of all the circumstances, present and future, is a -thing which may well take place in an experienced mind in the moment of -entering a room in which there are materials for the development of a -new chapter in the social drama. The conclusion he came to led him to -the side of Lady Markham, who was writing the address upon one of her -many notes. “It is to Nelly Winterbourn,” she explained, “to inquire---- -You know they have dragged that poor sufferer up to town, to be near the -best advice; and he is lying more dead than alive.” - -“Perhaps it is not very benevolent, so far as he is concerned; but I -hope he’ll linger a long time,” said Sir Thomas. - -“Oh, so do I! These imbroglios may go on for a long time and do nobody -any harm. But when a horrible crisis comes, and one feels that they must -be cleared up!” It was evident that in this Lady Markham was not -specially considering the sufferings of poor Mr Winterbourn. - -“What does Markham say?” Sir Thomas asked. - -“Say! He does not say anything. He shuffles--you know the way he has. He -never could stand still upon both of his feet.” - -“And you can’t guess what he means to do?” - -“I think---- But who can tell? even with one whom I know so intimately -as Markham. I don’t say even in my son, for that does not tell for very -much.” - -“Nothing at all,” said the social philosopher. - -“Oh, a little, sometimes. I believe to a certain extent in a kind of -magnetic sympathy. You don’t, I know. I think, then, so far as I can -make out, that Markham would rather do nothing at all. He likes the -_status quo_ well enough. But then he is only one; and the other--one -cannot tell how she might feel.” - -“Nelly is the unknown quantity,” said Sir Thomas; and then Lady Markham -sent away, by the hands of the footman, her anxious affectionate little -billet “to inquire.” - -Meanwhile young Gaunt sat down by Frances. On the table near them there -was a glorious show of crimson--the great dazzling red anemones, the -last of the season, which Mrs Gaunt had sent. It had been very difficult -to find them so late on, he told her; they had hunted into the coolest -corners where the spring flowers lingered the longest, his mother quite -anxious about it, climbing into the little valleys among the hills. “For -you know what you are to my mother,” he said, with a smile, and then a -sigh. Mrs Gaunt had often made disparaging comparisons--comparisons how -utterly out of the question! He allowed to himself that this candid -countenance, so open and simple, and so full of sympathy, had a -charm--more than he could have believed; but yet to make a comparison -between this sister and the other! Nevertheless it was very consolatory, -after the effort he had made at dinner, to lay himself back in the soft -low chair, with his long limbs stretched out, and talk or be talked to, -no longer with any effort, with a softening tenderness towards the -mother who loved Frances, but with whom he had had many scenes before he -left her, in frantic defence of the woman who had broken his heart. - -“Mrs Gaunt was always so kind to me,” Frances said, gratefully, a little -moisture starting into her eyes. “At the Durants’ there seemed always a -little comparison with Tasie; but with your mother there was no -comparison.” - -“A comparison with Tasie!” He laughed in spite of himself. “Nothing can -be so foolish as these comparisons,” he added, not thinking of Tasie. - -“Yes, she was older,” said Frances. “She had a right to be more clever. -But it was always delightful at the bungalow. Does my father go there -often now?” - -“Did he ever go often?” - -“N-no,” said Frances, hesitating; “but sometimes in the evening. I hope -Constance makes him go out. I used to have to worry him, and often get -scolded. No, not scolded--that was not his way; but sent off with a -sharp word. And then he would relent, and come out.” - -“I have not seen very much of Mr Waring,” Gaunt said. - -“Then what does Constance do? Oh, it must be such a change for her! I -could not have imagined such a change. I can’t help thinking sometimes -it is a great pity that I, who was not used to it, nor adapted for it, -should have all this--and Constance, who likes it, who suits it, should -be--banished; for it must be a sort of banishment for her, don’t you -think?” - -“I--suppose so. Yes, there could be no surroundings too bright for her,” -he said, dreamily. He seemed to see her, notwithstanding, walking with -him up into the glades of the olive-gardens, with her face so bright. -Surely she had not felt her banishment then! Or was it only that the -amusement of breaking his heart made up for it, for the moment, as his -mother said? - -“Fancy,” said Frances; “I am going to court on Monday--I--in a train and -feathers. What would they all say? But all the time I am feeling like -the daw in the peacock’s plumes. They seem to belong to Constance. She -would wear them as if she were a queen herself. She would not perhaps -object to be stared at; and she would be admired.” - -“Oh yes!” - -“She was, they say, when she was presented, so much admired. She might -have been a maid of honour; but mamma would not. And I, a poor little -brown sparrow, in all the fine feathers--I feel inclined to call out, ‘I -am only Frances.’ But that is not needed, is it, when any one looks at -me?” she said, with a laugh. She had met with nobody with whom she could -be confidential among all her new acquaintances. And George Gaunt was a -new acquaintance too, if she had but remembered; but there was in him -something which she had been used to, something with which she was -familiar, a breath of her former life--and that acquaintance with his -name and all about him which makes one feel like an old friend. She had -expected for so many years to see him, that it appeared to her -imagination as if she had known him all these years--as if there was -scarcely any one with whom she was so familiar in the world. - -He looked at her attentively as she spoke, a little touched, a little -charmed by this instinctive delicate familiarity, in which he at last, -having so lately come out of the hands of a true operator, saw, whatever -Sir Thomas might think, that it was not one of their tricks. She did not -want any compliment from him, even had he been capable of giving it. She -was as sincere as the day, as little troubled about her inferiority as -she was convinced of it; the laugh with which she spoke had in it a -genuine tone of innocent youthful mirth, such as had not been heard in -that house for long. The exhilarating ring of it, so spontaneous, so -gay, reached Lady Markham and Sir Thomas in their colloquy, and roused -them. Frances herself had never laughed like that before. Her mother -gave a glance towards her, smiling. “The little thing has found her own -character in the sight of her old friend,” she said; and then rounded -her little epigram with a sigh. - -“The young fellow ought to think much of himself to have two of them -taking that trouble.” - -“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Lady Markham. “Do you think she is taking -trouble? She does not understand what it means.” - -“Do any of them not understand what it means?” asked Sir Thomas. He had -a large experience in Society, and thought he knew; but he had little -experience out of Society, and so, perhaps, did not. There are some -points in which a woman’s understanding is the best. - -The evening had not been unpleasant to any one, not even, perhaps, to -the lovelorn, when Markham appeared, coming back from his dinner-party, -a signal to the other gentlemen that it was time for them to disappear -from theirs. He gave his mother the last news of Winterbourn; and he -told Sir Thomas that a division was expected, and that he ought to be in -the House. “The poor sufferer” was sinking slowly, Markham said. It was -quite impossible now to think of the operation which might perhaps have -saved him three months since. His sister was with Nelly, who had neither -mother nor sister of her own; and the long-expected event was thus to -come off decorously, with all the proper accessories. It was a very -important matter for two at least of the speakers; but this was how they -talked of it, hiding, perhaps, the anxiety within. Then Markham turned -to the other group. - -“Have you got all the feathers and the furbelows ready?” he said. “Do -you think there will be any of you visible through them, little Fan?” - -“Don’t frighten the child, Markham. She will do very well. She can be as -steady as a little rock: and in that case it doesn’t matter that she is -not tall.” - -“Oh, tall--as if that were necessary! You are not tall yourself, our -mother; but you are a very majestic person when you are in your -war-paint.” - -“There’s the Queen herself, for that matter,” said Sir Thomas. “See her -in a procession, and she might be six feet. I feel a mouse before her.” -He had held once some post about the court, and had a right to speak. - -“Let us hope Fan will look majestic too. You should, to carry off the -effect I shall produce. In ordinary life,” said Markham, “I don’t -flatter myself that I am an Adonis; but you should see me screwed up -into a uniform. No, I’m not in the army, Fan. What is my uniform, -mother, to please her? A Deputy Lieutenant, or something of that sort. -I hope you are a great deal the wiser, Fan.” - -“People always look well in uniform,” said Frances, looking at him -somewhat doubtfully, on which Markham broke forth into his chuckle. -“Wait till you see me, my little dear. Wait till the little boys see me -on the line of route. They are the true tests of personal attraction. -Are you coming, Gaunt? Do you feel inclined to give those fellows their -revenge?” - -Markham had spoken rather low, and at some distance from his mother; but -the word caught her quick ear. - -“Revenge? What do you mean by revenge? Who is going to be revenged?” she -cried. - -“Nobody is going to fight a duel, if that is what you mean,” said -Markham, quietly turning round. “Gaunt has, for as simple as he stands -there, beaten me at billiards, and I can’t stand under the affront. -Didn’t you lick me, Gaunt?” - -“It was an accident,” said Gaunt. “If that is all, you are very welcome -to your revenge.” - -“Listen to his modesty, which, by-the-by, shows a little want of tact; -for am I the man to be beaten by an accident?” said Markham, with his -chuckle of self-ridicule. “Come along, Gaunt.” - -Lady Markham detained Sir Thomas with a look as he rose to accompany -them. She gave Captain Gaunt her hand, and a gracious, almost anxious -smile. “Markham is noted for bad hours,” she said. “You are not very -strong, and you must not let him beguile you into his evil ways.” She -rose too, and took Sir Thomas by the arm as the young man went away. -“Did you hear what he said? Do you think it was only billiards he meant? -My heart quakes for that poor boy and the poor people he belongs to. -Don’t you think you could go after them and see what they are about?” - -“I will do anything you please. But what good could I do?” said Sir -Thomas. “Markham would not put up with any interference from me--nor the -other young fellow either, for that matter.” - -“But if you were there, if they saw you about, it would restrain them: -oh, you have always been such a true friend. If you were but there.” - -“There: where?” There came before the practical mind of Sir Thomas a -vision of himself, at his sober age, dragged into he knew not what -nocturnal haunts, like an elderly spectre, jeered at by the -pleasure-makers. “I will do anything to please you,” he said, -helplessly. “But what can I do? It would be of no use. You know yourself -that interference never does any good.” - -Frances stood by aghast, listening to this conversation. What did it -mean? Of what was her mother afraid? Presently Lady Markham took her -seat again, with a return to her usual smiling calm. “You are right, and -I am wrong,” she said. “Of course we can do nothing. Perhaps, as you -say, there is no real reason for anxiety.” (Frances observed, however, -that Sir Thomas had not said this.) “It is because the boy is not well -off, and his people are not well off--old soldiers, with their pensions -and their savings. That is what makes me fear.” - -“Oh, if that is the case, you need have the less alarm. Where there’s -not much to lose, the risks are lessened,” Sir Thomas said, calmly. - -When he too was gone, Frances crept close to her mother. She knelt down -beside the chair on which Lady Markham sat, grave and pale, with -agitation in her face. “Mother,” she whispered, taking her hand and -pressing her cheek against it, “Markham is so kind--he never would do -poor George any harm.” - -“Oh, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “how can you tell? Markham is not a -man to be read off like a book. He is very kind--which does not hinder -him from being cruel too. He means no harm, perhaps; but when the harm -is done, what does it matter whether he meant it or not? And as for the -risks being lessened because your friend is poor, that only means that -he is despatched all the sooner. Markham is like a man with a fever: he -has his fits of play, and one of them is on him now.” - -“Do you mean--gambling?” said Frances, growing pale too. She did not -know very well what gambling was, but it was ruin, she had always -heard. - -“Don’t let us talk of it,” said Lady Markham. “We can do no good; and to -distress ourselves for what we cannot prevent is the worst policy in the -world, everybody says. You had better go to bed, dear child; I have some -letters to write.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - - -Gaunt did not appear again at Eaton Square for two or three days,--not, -indeed, till after the great event of Frances’ history had taken -place--the going to court, which had filled her with so many alarms. -After all, when she got there, she was not frightened at all, the sense -of humour which was latent in her nature getting the mastery at the last -moment, and the spectacle, such as it was, taking all her attention from -herself. Lady Markham’s good taste had selected for Frances as simple a -dress as was possible, and her ornaments were the pearls which her aunt -had given her, which she had never been able to look at, save uneasily, -as spoil. Mrs Clarendon, however, condescended, which was a wonderful -stretch of good-nature, to come to Eaton Square to see her dressed, -which, as everybody knows, is one of the most agreeable parts of the -ceremony. Frances had not a number of young friends to fill the house -with a chorus of admiration and criticism; but the Miss Montagues -thought it “almost a duty” to come, and a number of her mother’s -friends. These ladies filled the drawing-room, and were much more -formidable than even the eyes of Majesty, preoccupied with the sight of -many toilets, and probably very tired of them, which would have no more -than a passing glance for Frances. The spectators at Eaton Square took -her to pieces conscientiously, though they agreed, after each had made -her little observation, that the _ensemble_ was perfect, and that the -power of millinery could no further go. The intelligent reader needs not -to be informed that Frances was all white, from her feathers to her -shoes. Her pretty glow of youthfulness and expectation made the toilet -supportable, nay, pretty, even in the glare of day. Markham, who was not -afraid to confront all these fair and critical faces, in his uniform, -which misbecame, and did not even fit him, and which made his -insignificance still more apparent, walked round and round his little -sister with the most perfect satisfaction. “Are you sure you know how to -manage that train, little Fan? Do you feel quite up to your curtsey?” he -said in a whisper with his chuckle of mirth; but there was a very tender -look in the little man’s eyes. He might wrong others; but to Frances, -nobody could be more kind or considerate. Mrs Clarendon, when she saw -him, turned upon her heel and walked off into the back drawing-room, -where she stood for some minutes sternly contemplating a picture, and -ignoring everybody. Markham did not resent this insult. “She can’t abide -me, Fan,” he went on. “Poor lady, I don’t wonder. I was a little brat -when she knew me first. As soon as I go away, she will come back; and I -am going presently, my dear. I am going to snatch a morsel in the -dining-room, to sustain nature. I hope you had your sandwiches, Fan? It -will take a great deal of nourishment to keep you up to that curtsey.” -He patted her softly on her white shoulder, with kindness beaming out of -his ugly face. “I call you a most satisfactory production, my dear. Not -a beauty, but better--a real nice innocent girl. I should like any -fellow to show me a nicer,” he went on, with his short laugh. Though it -took the form of a chuckle, there was something in it that showed -Markham’s heart was touched. And this was the man whom even his own -mother was afraid to trust a young man with! It seemed to Frances that -it was impossible such a thing could be true. - -Mrs Clarendon, as Markham had predicted, came back as he retired. Her -contemplation of the dress of the _débutante_ was very critical. “Satin -is too heavy for you,” she said. “I wonder your mother did not see that -silk would have been far more in keeping; but she always liked to -overdo. As for my Lord Markham, I am glad he will have to look after -your mother, and not you, Frances; for the very look of a man like that -contaminates a young girl. Don’t say to me that he is your brother, for -he is not your brother. Considering my age and yours, I surely ought to -know best. Turn round a little. There is a perceptible crease across the -middle of your shoulder, and I don’t quite like the hang of this skirt. -But one thing looks very well, and that is your pearls. They have been -in the family I can’t tell you how long. My grandmother gave them to -me.” - -“Mamma insisted I should wear them, and nothing else, aunt Caroline.” - -“Yes, I daresay. You have nothing else good enough to go with them, most -likely. And Lady Markham knows a good thing very well, when she sees it. -Have you been put through all that you have to do, Frances? Remember to -keep your right hand quite free; and take care your train doesn’t get in -your way. Oh, why is it that your poor father is not here to see you, to -go with you! It would be a very different thing then.” - -“Nothing would make papa go, aunt Caroline. Do you think he would dress -himself up like Markham, to be laughed at?” - -“I promise you nobody would laugh at my brother,” said Mrs Clarendon. -“As for Lord Markham----” But she bit her lip, and forbore. She spoke to -none of the other ladies, who swarmed like numerous bees in the room, -keeping up a hum in the air; but she made very formal acknowledgments to -Lady Markham as she went away. “I am much obliged to you for letting me -come to see Frances dressed. She looks very well on the whole, though, -perhaps, I should have adopted a different style had it been in my -hands.” - -“My dear Caroline,” cried Lady Markham, ignoring this ungracious -conclusion, “how can you speak of letting you come? You know we are only -too glad to see you whenever you will come. And I hope you liked the -effect of your beautiful pearls. What a charming present to give the -child; I thought it so kind of you.” - -“So long as Frances understands that they are family ornaments,” said -Mrs Clarendon, stiffly, rejecting all acknowledgments. - -There was a little murmur and titter when she went away. “Is it Medusa -in person?” “It is Mrs Clarendon, the wife of the great Q.C.” “It is -Frances’ aunt, and she does not like any remark.” “It is my dear -sister-in-law,” said Lady Markham. “She does not love me; but she is -kind to Frances, which covers a multitude of sins.” “And very rich,” -said another lady, “which covers a multitude more.” This put a little -bitterness into the conversation to Frances, standing there in her fine -clothes, and not knowing how to interfere; and it was a relief to her -when Markham, though she could not blame the whispering girls who called -him a guy, came in shuffling and smiling, with a glance and nod of -encouragement to his little sister to take the mother down-stairs to her -carriage. After that, all was a moving phantasmagoria of colour and -novel life, and nothing clear. - -And it was not until after this great day that Captain Gaunt appeared -again. The ladies received him with reproaches for his absence. “I -expected to see you yesterday at least,” said Lady Markham. “You don’t -care for fine clothes, as we women do; but five o’clock tea, after a -Drawing-room, is a fine sight. You have no idea how grand we were, and -how much you have lost.” - -Captain Gaunt responded with a very grave, indeed melancholy smile. He -was even more dejected than when he made his first appearance. Then his -melancholy had been unalloyed, and not without something of that tragic -satisfaction in his own sufferings which the victims of the heart so -often enjoy. But now there were complications of some kind, not so -easily to be understood. He smiled a very serious evanescent smile. “I -shall have to lose still more,” he said, “for I think I must leave -London--sooner than I thought.” - -“Oh,” cried Frances, whom this concerned the most; “leave London! You -were to stay a month.” - -“Yes; but my month seems to have run away before it has begun,” he said, -confusedly. Then, finding Lady Markham’s eye upon him, he added, “I -mean, things are very different from what I expected. My father thought -I might do myself good by seeing people who--might push me, he supposed. -I am not good at pushing myself,” he said, with an abrupt and harsh -laugh. - -“I understand that. You are too modest. It is a defect, as well as the -reverse one of being too bold. And you have not met--the people you -hoped?” - -“It is not exactly that either. My father’s old friends have been kind -enough; but London perhaps is not the place for a poor soldier.” He -stopped, with again a little quiver of a smile. - -“That is quite true,” said Lady Markham, gravely. “I enter into your -feelings. You don’t think that the game is worth the candle? I have -heard so many people say so--even among those who were very well able to -push themselves, Captain Gaunt. I have heard them say that any little -thing they might have gained was not worth the expenditure and trouble -of a season in London--besides all the risks.” - -Captain Gaunt listened to this with his discouraged look. He made no -reply to Lady Markham, but turned to Frances with a sort of smile. “Do -you remember,” he said, “I told you my mother had found a cheap place in -Switzerland, such as she delights in? I think I shall go and join them -there.” - -“Oh, I am very sorry,” said Frances, with a countenance of unfeigned -regret. “No doubt Mrs Gaunt will be glad to have you; but she will be -sorry too. Don’t you think she would rather you stayed your full time -in London, and enjoyed yourself a little? I feel sure she would like -that best.” - -“But I don’t think I am enjoying myself,” he said, with the air of a man -who would like to be persuaded. He had perhaps been a little piqued by -Lady Markham’s way of taking him at his word. - -“There must be a great deal to enjoy,” said Frances; “every one says so. -They think there is no place like London. You cannot have exhausted -everything in a week, Captain Gaunt. You have not given it a fair trial. -Your mother and the General, they would not like you to run away.” - -“Run away! no,” he said, with a little start; “that is what I should not -do.” - -“But it would be running away,” said Frances, with all the zeal of a -partisan. “You think you are not doing any good, and you forget that -they wished you to have a little pleasure too. They think a great deal -of London. The General used to talk to me, when I thought I should never -see it. He used to tell me to wait till I had seen London; everything -was there. And it is not often you have the chance, Captain Gaunt. It -may be a long time before you come from India again; and think if you -told any one out there you had only been a week in town!” - -He listened to her very devoutly, with an air of giving great weight to -those simple arguments. They were more soothing to his pride, at least, -than the way in which her mother took him at his word. - -“Frances speaks,” said Lady Markham--and while she spoke, the sound of -Markham’s hansom was heard dashing up to the door--“Frances speaks as if -she were in the interest of all the people who prey upon visitors in -London. I think, on the whole, Captain Gaunt, though I regret your -going, that my reason is with you rather than with her. And, my dear, if -Captain Gaunt thinks this is right, it is not for his friends to -persuade him against his better judgment.” - -“What is Gaunt’s better judgment going to do?” said Markham. “It’s -always alarming to hear of a man’s better judgment. What is it all -about?” - -Lady Markham looked up in her son’s face with great seriousness and -meaning. “Captain Gaunt,” she said, “is talking of leaving London, -which--if he finds his stay unprofitable and of little advantage to -him--though I should regret it very much, I should think him wise to -do.” - -“Gaunt leaving London? Oh no! He is taking you in. A man who is a -ladies’ man likes to say that to ladies in order to be coaxed to stay. -That is at the bottom of it, I’ll be bound. And where was our hero -going, if he had his way?” - -Frances thought that there were signs in Gaunt of failing temper, so she -hastened to explain. “He was going to Switzerland, Markham, to a place -Mrs Gaunt knows of, where she is to be.” - -“To Switzerland!” Markham cried--“the dullest place on the face of the -earth. What would you do there, my gallant Captain? Climb?--or listen -all day long to those who recount their climbings, or those who plan -them--all full of insane self-complacency, as if there was the highest -morality in climbing mountains. Were you going in for the mountains, -Fan?” - -“Frances was pleading for London--a very unusual fancy for her,” said -Lady Markham. “The very young are not afraid of responsibility; but I -am, at my age. I could not venture to recommend Captain Gaunt to stay.” - -“I only meant--I only thought----” Frances stammered and hung her head a -little. Had she been indiscreet? Her abashed look caught young Gaunt’s -eye. Why should she be abashed?--and on his account? It made his heart -stir a little, that heart which had been so crushed and broken, and, he -thought, pitched away into a corner; but at that moment he found it -again stirring quite warm and vigorous in his breast. - -“I always said she was full of sense,” said Markham. “A little sister is -an admirable institution; and her wisdom is all the more delightful that -she doesn’t know what sense it is.” He patted Frances on the shoulder as -he spoke. “It wouldn’t do, would it, Fan, to have him run away?” - -“If there was any question of that,” Gaunt said, with something of a -defiant air. - -“And to Switzerland,” said Markham, with a chuckle. “Shall I tell you my -experiences, Gaunt? I was there for my sins once, with the mother here. -Among all her admirable qualities, my mamma has that of demanding few -sacrifices in this way--so that a man is bound in honour to make one now -and then.” - -“Markham, when you are going to say what you know I will disapprove, you -always put in a little flattery--which silences me.” - -He kissed his hand to her with a short laugh. “The place,” he said, “was -in possession of an athletic band, in roaring spirits and tremendous -training, men and women all the same. You could scarcely tell the -creatures one from another--all burned red in the faces of them, worn -out of all shape and colour in the clothes of them. They clamped along -the passages in their big boots from two o’clock till five every -morning. They came back, perspiring, in the afternoon--a procession of -old clothes, all complacent, as if they had done the finest action in -the world. And the rest of us surrounded them with a circle of -worshippers, till they clamped up-stairs again, fortunately very early, -to bed. Then a faint sort of life began for _nous autres_. We came out -and admired the stars and drank our coffee in peace--short-lived peace, -for, as everybody had been up at two in the morning, the poor beggars -naturally wanted to get to bed. You are an athletic chap, so you might -like it, and perhaps attain canonisation by going up Mont Blanc.” - -“My mother--is not in one of those mountain centres,” said Gaunt, with a -faint smile. - -“Worse and worse,” said Markham. “We went through that experience too. -In the non-climbing places the old ladies have it all their own way. You -will dine at two, my poor martyr; you will have tea at six, with cold -meat. The table-cloths and napkins will last a week. There will be honey -with flies in it on every table. All about the neighbourhood, mild -constitutionals will meet you at every hour in the day. There will be -gentle raptures over a new view. ‘Have you seen it, Captain Gaunt? Do -come with us to-morrow and let us show it you; _quite_ the finest -view’--of Pilatus, or Monte Rosa, or the Jungfrau, or whatever it may -happen to be. And meanwhile we shall all be playing our little game -comfortably at home. We will give you a thought now and then. Frances -will run to the window and say, ‘I thought that was Captain Gaunt’s -step;’ and the mother will explain to Sir Thomas, ‘Such a pity our poor -young friend found that London did not suit him.’” - -“Well, Markham,” said his mother, with firmness, “if Captain Gaunt found -that London did not suit him, I should think all the more highly of him -that he withdrew in time.” - -Perhaps the note was too forcibly struck. Gaunt drew himself slightly -up. “There is nothing so very serious in the matter, after all. London -may not suit me; but still I do not suppose it will do me any harm.” - -Frances looked on at this triangular duel with eyes that acquired -gradually consciousness and knowledge. She saw ere long that there was -much more in it than met the eye. At first, her appeal to young Gaunt to -remain had been made on the impulse of the moment, and without thought. -Now she remained silent, only with a faint gesture of protest when -Markham brought in her name. - -“Let us go to luncheon,” said her mother. “I am glad to hear you are not -really in earnest, Captain Gaunt; for of course we should all be very -sorry if you went away. London is a siren to whose wiles we all give in. -I am as bad myself as any one can be. I never make any secret of my -affection for town; but there are some with whose constitutions it never -agrees, who either take it too seriously or with too much passion. We -old stagers get very moderate and methodical in our dissipations, and -make a little go a long way.” - -But there was a chill at table; and Lady Markham was “not in her usual -force.” Sir Thomas, who came in as usual as they were going down-stairs, -said, “Anything the matter? Oh, Captain Gaunt going away. Dear me, so -soon! I am surprised. It takes a great deal of self-control to make a -young fellow leave town at this time of the year.” - -“It was only a project,” said poor young Gaunt. He was pleased to be -persuaded that it was more than could be expected of him. Lady Markham -gave Sir Thomas a look which made that devoted friend uncomfortable; but -he did not know what he had done to deserve it. And so Captain Gaunt -made up his mind to stay. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - - -“Yes, I wish you had not said anything, Frances: not that it matters -very much. I don’t suppose he was in earnest, or, at all events, he -would have changed his mind before evening. But, my dear, this poor -young fellow is not able to follow the same course as Markham’s friends -do. They are at it all the year round, now in town, now somewhere else. -They bet and play, and throw their money about, and at the end of the -year they are not very much the worse--or at least that is what he -always tells me. One time they lose, but another time they gain. And -then they are men who have time, and money more or less. But when a -young man with a little money comes among them, he may ruin himself -before he knows.” - -“I am very sorry,” said Frances. “It is difficult to believe that -Markham could hurt any one.” - -Her mother gave her a grateful look. “Dear Markham!” she said. “To think -that he should be so good--and yet---- It gives me great pleasure, -Frances, that you should appreciate your brother. Your father never did -so--and all of them, all the Warings---- But it is understood between -us, is it not, that we are not to touch upon that subject?” - -“Perhaps it would be painful, mamma. But how am I to understand unless I -am told?” - -“You have never been told, then--your father----? But I might have known -he would say very little; he always hated explanations. My dear,” said -Lady Markham, with evident agitation, “if I were to enter into that -story, it would inevitably take the character of a self-defence, and I -can’t do that to my own child. It is the worst of such unfortunate -circumstances as ours that you must judge your parents, and find one or -other in the wrong. Oh yes; I do not deceive myself on that subject. -And you are a partisan in your nature. Con was more or less of a cynic, -as people become who are bred up in Society, as she was. She could -believe we were both wrong, calmly, without any particular feeling. But -you,--of your nature, Frances, you would be a partisan.” - -“I hope not, mamma. I should be the partisan of both sides,” said -Frances, almost under her breath. - -Lady Markham rose and gave her a kiss. “Remain so,” she said, “my dear -child. I will say no harm of him to you, as I am sure he has said no -harm of me. Now let us think no more of Markham’s faults, nor of poor -young Gaunt’s danger, nor of----” - -“Danger?” said Frances, with an anxious look. - -“If it were less than danger, would I have said so much, do you think?” - -“But, mamma, pardon me,--if it is real danger, ought you not to say -more?” - -“What! for the sake of another woman’s son, betray and forsake my own? -How can I say to him in so many words, ‘Take care of Markham; avoid -Markham and his friends.’ I have said it in hints as much as I dare. -Yes, Frances, I would do a great deal for another woman’s son. It would -be the strongest plea. But in this case how can I do more? Never mind; -fate will work itself out quite independent of you and me. And here are -people coming--Claude, probably, to see if you have changed your mind -about him, or whether I have heard from Constance. Poor boy! he must -have one of you two.” - -“I hope not,” said Frances, seriously. - -“But I am sure of it,” cried her mother, with a smile. “We shall see -which of us is the better prophet. But this is not Claude. I hear the -sweep of a woman’s train. Hush!” she said, holding up a finger. She rose -as the door opened, and then hastened forward with an astonished -exclamation, “Nelly!” and held out both her hands. - -“You did not look for me?” said Mrs Winterbourn, with a defiant air. - -“No, indeed; I did not look for you. And so fine, and looking so well. -He must have taken an unexpected turn for the better, and you have come -to tell me.” - -“Yes, am I not smart?” said Nelly, looking down upon her beautiful dress -with a curious air, half pleasure, half scorn. “It is almost new; I have -never worn it before.” - -“Sit down here beside me, my dear, and tell me all about it. When did -this happy change occur?” - -“Happy? For whom?” she asked, with a harsh little laugh. “No, Lady -Markham, there is no change for the better: the other way--they say -there is no hope. It will not be very long, they say, before----” - -“And Nelly, Nelly! you here, in your fine new dress.” - -“Yes; it seems ridiculous, does it not?” she said, laughing again. “I -away--going out to pay visits in my best gown, and my husband--dying. -Well! I know that if I had stayed any longer in that dreary house -without any air, and with Sarah Winterbourn, I should have died. Oh, you -don’t know what it is. To be shut up there, and never hear a step except -the doctor’s, or Robert’s carrying up the beef-tea. So I burst out of -prison, to save my life. You may blame me if you like, but it was to -save my life, neither less nor more.” - -“Nelly, my dear,” said Lady Markham, taking her hand, “there is nothing -wonderful in your coming to see so old a friend as I am. It is quite -natural. To whom should you go in your trouble, if not to your old -friends?” - -Upon which Nelly laughed again in an excited hysterical way. “I have -been on quite a round,” she said. “You always did scold me, Lady -Markham; and I know you will do so again. I was determined to show -myself once more before--the waters went over my head. I can come out -now in my pretty gown. But _afterwards_, if I did such a thing everybody -would think me mad. Now you know why I have come, and you can scold me -as much as you please. But I have done it, and it can’t be undone. It is -a kind of farewell visit, you know,” she added, in her excited tone. -“After this I shall disappear into--crape and affliction. A widow! What -a horrible word. Think of me, Nelly St John; me, a widow! Isn’t it -horrible, horrible? That is what they will call me, Markham and the -other men--the widow. I know how they will speak, as well as if I heard -them. Lady Markham, they will call me _that_, and you know what they -will mean.” - -“Nelly, Nelly, my poor child!” Lady Markham held her hand and patted it -softly with her own. “Oh Nelly, you are very imprudent, very silly. You -will shock everybody, and make them talk. You ought not to have come out -now. If you had sent for me, I would have gone to you in a moment.” - -“It was not _that_ I wanted. I wanted just to be like others for -once--before--- I don’t seem to care what will happen to me--afterwards. -What do they do to a woman, Lady Markham, when her husband dies? They -would not let her bury herself with him, or burn herself, or any of -those sensible things. What do they do, Lady Markham? Brand her -somewhere in her flesh with a red-hot iron--with ‘Widow’ written upon -her flesh?” - -“My dear, you must care for poor Mr Winterbourn a great deal more than -you were aware, or you would not feel this so bitterly. Nelly----” - -“Hush!” she said, with a sort of solemnity. “Don’t say that, Lady -Markham. Don’t talk about what I feel. It is all so miserable, I don’t -know what I am doing. To think that he should be my husband, and I just -boiling with life, and longing to get free, to get free: I that was born -to be a good woman, if I could, if you would all have let me, if I had -not been made to---- Look here! I am going to speak to that little girl. -You can say the other thing afterwards. I know you will. You can make it -look so right--so right. Frances, if you are persuaded to marry Claude -Ramsay, or any other man that you don’t care for, remember you’ll just -be like me. Look at me, dressed out, paying visits, and my husband -dying. Perhaps he may be dead when I get home.” She paused a moment with -a nervous shivering, and drew her summer cloak closely around her. “He -is going to die, and I am running about the streets. It is horrible, -isn’t it? He doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him; and next week I -shall be all in crape, and branded on my shoulder or somewhere--where, -Lady Markham?--all for a man who--all for a man that----” - -“Nelly, Nelly! for heaven’s sake, at least respect the child.” - -“It is because I respect her that I say anything. Oh, it is all -horrible! And already the men and everybody are discussing, What will -Nelly do? The widow, what will she do?” - -Then the excited creature suddenly, without warning, broke out into -sobbing and tears. “Oh, don’t think it is for grief,” she said, as -Frances instinctively came towards her; “it’s only the excitement, the -horror of it, the feeling that it is coming so near. I never was in the -house with Death, never, that I can remember. And I shall be the chief -mourner, don’t you know? They will want me to do all sorts of things. -What do you do when you are a widow, Lady Markham? Have you to give -orders for the funeral, and say what sort of a--coffin there is to be, -and--all that?” - -“Nelly, Nelly! Oh, for God’s sake, don’t say those dreadful things. You -know you will not be troubled about anything, least of all---- And, my -dear, my dear, recollect your husband is still alive. It is dreadful to -talk of details such as those for a living man.” - -“Most likely,” she said, looking up with a shiver, “he will be dead when -I get home. Oh, I wish it might all be over, everything, before I go -home. Couldn’t you hide me somewhere, Lady Markham? Save me from seeing -him and all those--details, as you call them. I cannot bear it; and I -have no mother nor any one to come to me--nobody, nobody but Sarah -Winterbourn.” - -“I will go home with you, Nelly; I will take you back, my dear. Frances, -take care of her till I get my bonnet. My poor child, compose yourself. -Try and be calm. You must be calm, and bear it,” Lady Markham said. - -Frances, with alarm, found herself left alone with this strange -being--not much older than herself, and yet thrown amid such tragic -elements. She stood by her, not knowing how to approach the subject of -her thoughts, or indeed any subject--for to talk to her of common things -was impossible. Mrs Winterbourn, however, did not turn towards Frances. -Her sobbing ended suddenly, as it had begun. She sat with her head upon -her hands, gazing at the light. After a while she said, though without -looking round, “You once offered to sit up with me, thinking, or -pretending, I don’t know which, that I was sitting up with him all -night: would you have done so if you had been in my place?” - -“I think--I don’t know,” said Frances, checking herself. - -“You would--you are not straightforward enough to say it--I know you -would; and in your heart you think I am a bad creature, a woman without -a heart.” - -“I don’t think so,” said Frances. “You must have a heart, or you would -not be so unhappy.” - -“Do you know what I am unhappy about? About myself. I am not thinking of -him; he married me to please himself, not me,--and I am thinking of -myself, not him. It is all fair. You would do the same if you married -like me.” - -Frances made no reply. She looked with awe and pity at this miserable -excitement and wretchedness, which was so unlike anything her innocent -soul knew. - -“You don’t answer,” said Nelly. “You think you never would have married -like me. But how can you tell? If you had an offer as good as Mr -Winterbourn, your mother would make you marry him. I made a great match, -don’t you know? And if you ever have that in your power, Lady Markham -will make short work of your objections. You will just do as other -people have done. Claude Ramsay is not so rich as Mr Winterbourn; but I -suppose he will be your fate, unless Con comes back and takes him, -which, very likely, is what she will do. Oh, are you ready, Lady -Markham? It is a pity you should give yourself so much trouble; for, you -see, I am quite composed now, and ready to go home.” - -“Come, then, my dear Nelly. It is better you should lose no time.” Lady -Markham paused to say, “I shall probably be back quite soon; but if I -don’t come, don’t be alarmed,” in Frances’ ear. - -The girl went to the window and watched Nelly sweep out to her carriage -as if nothing could ever happen to her. The sight of the servants and of -the few passers-by had restored her in a moment to herself. Frances -stood and pondered for some time at the window. Nelly’s was an -agitating figure to burst into her quiet life. She did not need the -lesson it taught; but yet it filled her with trouble and awe. This -brilliant surface of Society, what tragedies lay underneath! She -scarcely dared to follow the young wife in imagination to her home; but -she felt with her the horror of the approaching death, the dread -interval when the event was coming, the still more dread moment after, -when, all shrinking and trembling in her youth and loneliness, she would -have to live side by side with the dead, whom she had never loved, to -whom no faithful bond had united her---- It was not till another -carriage drew up and some one got out of it that Frances retreated, with -a very different sort of alarm, from the window. It was some one coming -to call, she did not see whom, one of those wonderful people who came to -talk over with her mother other people whom Frances did not know. How -was she to find any subject on which to talk to them? Her anxiety was -partially relieved by seeing that it was Claude who came in. He -explained that Lady Someone had dropped him at the door, having picked -him up at some other place where they had both been calling. “There is a -little east in the wind,” he said, pulling up the collar of his coat: - -“Was that Nelly Winterbourn I saw driving away from the door? I thought -it was Nelly. And when he is dying, with not many hours to live----!” - -“And why should not she come to mamma?” said Frances. “She has no mother -of her own.” - -“Ah,” said Ramsay, looking at her keenly, “I see what you mean. She has -no mother of her own; and therefore she comes to Markham’s, which is -next best.” - -“I said, to my mother,” said Frances, indignantly. “I don’t see what -Markham has to do with it.” - -“All the same, I shouldn’t like my wife to be about the streets, going -to--any one’s mother, when I was dying.” - -“It would be right enough,” cried Frances, hot and indignant, “if you -had married a woman who did not care for you.” She forgot, in the heat -of her partisanship, that she was admitting too much. But Claude did -not remember, any more than she. - -“Oh, come,” he said, “Miss Waring, Frances. (May I call you Frances? It -seems unnatural to call you Miss Waring, for, though I only saw you for -the first time a little while ago, I have known you all your life.) Do -you think it’s quite fair to compare me to Winterbourn? He was fifty -when he married Nelly, a fellow quite used up. At all events, I am -young, and never was fast; and I don’t see,” he added, pathetically, -“why a woman shouldn’t be able to care for me.” - -“Oh, I did not mean that,” cried Frances, with penitence; “I only -meant----” - -“And you shouldn’t,” said Claude, shaking his head, “pay so much -attention to what Nelly says. She makes herself out a martyr now; but -she was quite willing to marry Winterbourn. She was quite pleased. It -was a great match; and now she is going to get the good of it.” - -“If being very unhappy is getting the good of it----!” - -“Oh, unhappy!” said Claude. It was evident he held Mrs Winterbourn’s -unhappiness lightly enough. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “talking of -unhappiness, I saw another friend of yours the other day who was -unhappy, if you like--that young soldier-fellow, the Indian man. What do -you call him?--Grant? No; that’s a Nile man. Gaunt. Now, if Lady Markham -had taken him in hand----” - -“Captain Gaunt!” said Frances, in alarm; “what has happened to him, Mr -Ramsay? Is he ill? Is he----” Her face flushed with anxiety, and then -grew pale. - -“I can’t say exactly,” said Claude, “for I am not in his confidence; but -I should say he had lost his money, or something of that sort. I don’t -frequent those sort of places in a general way; but sometimes, if I’ve -been out in the evening, if there’s no east in the wind, and no rain or -fog, I just look in for a moment. I rather think some of those fellows -had been punishing that poor innocent Indian man. When a stranger comes -among them, that’s a way they have. One feels dreadfully sorry for the -man; but what can you do?” - -“What can you do? Oh, anything, rather than stand by,” cried Frances, -excited by sudden fears, “and see--and see---- I don’t know what you -mean, Mr Ramsay! Is it _gambling_? Is that what you mean?” - -“You should speak to Markham,” he replied. “Markham’s deep in all that -sort of thing. If anybody could interfere, it would be Markham. But I -don’t see how even he could interfere. He is not the fellow’s keeper; -and what could he say? The other fellows are gentlemen; they don’t -cheat, or that sort of thing. Only, when a man has not much money, or -has not the heart to lose it like a man----” - -“Mr Ramsay, you don’t know anything about Captain Gaunt,” cried Frances, -with hot indignation and excitement. “I don’t understand what you mean. -He has the heart for--whatever he may have to do. He is not like you -people, who talk about everybody, who know everybody. But he has been in -action; he has distinguished himself; he is not a nobody like----” - -“You mean me,” said Claude. “So far as being in action goes, I am a -nobody of course. But I hope, if I went in for play and that sort of -thing, I would bear my losses without looking as ghastly as a skeleton. -That is where a man of the world, however little you may think of us, -has the better of people out of Society. But I have nothing to do with -his losses. I only tell you, so that, if you can do anything to get hold -of him, to keep him from going to the bad----” - -“To the--bad!” she cried. Her face grew pale; and something appalling, -an indistinct vision of horrors, dimly appeared before Frances’ eyes. -She seemed to see not only George Gaunt, but his mother weeping, his -father looking on with a startled miserable face. “Oh,” she cried, -trying to throw off the impression, “you don’t know what you are saying. -George Gaunt would never do anything that is bad. You are making some -dreadful mistake, or---- Oh, Mr Ramsay, couldn’t you tell him, if you -know it is so bad, before----?” - -“What!” cried Claude, horror-struck. “I tell--a fellow I scarcely know! -He would have a right to--kick me, or something--or at least to tell me -to mind my own business. No; but you might speak to Markham. Markham is -the only man who perhaps might interfere.” - -“Oh, Markham! always Markham! Oh, I wish any one would tell me what -Markham has to do with it,” cried Frances, with a moan. - -“That’s just one of his occupations,” said Ramsay, calmly. “They say it -doesn’t tell much on him one way or other, but Markham can’t live -without play. Don’t you think, as Lady Markham does not come in, that -you might give me a cup of tea?” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - - -Constance Waring had not been enjoying herself in Bordighera. Her -amusement indeed came to an end with the highly exciting yet -disagreeable scene which took place between herself and young Gaunt the -day before he went away. It is late to recur to this, so much having -passed in the meantime; but it really was the only thing of note that -happened to her. The blank negative with which she had met his suit, the -air of surprise, almost indignation, with which his impassioned appeal -was received, confounded poor young Gaunt. He asked her, with a -simplicity that sprang out of despair, “Did you not know then? Were you -not aware? Is it possible that you were not--prepared?” - -“For what, Captain Gaunt?” Constance asked, fixing him with a haughty -look. - -He returned that look with one that would have cowed a weaker woman. -“Did you not know that I--loved you?” he said. - -Even she quailed a little. “Oh, as for that, Captain Gaunt!--a man must -be responsible for his own follies of that kind. I did not ask you -to--care for me, as you say. I thought, indeed, that you would have the -discretion to see that anything of the kind between us was out of the -question.” - -“Why?” he asked, almost sternly; and Constance hesitated a little, -finding it perhaps not so easy to reply. - -“Because,” she said after a pause, with a faint flush, which showed that -the effort cost her something--“because--we belong to two different -worlds--because all our habits and modes of living are different.” By -this time she began to grow a little indignant that he should give her -so much trouble. “Because you are Captain Gaunt, of the Indian service, -and I am Constance Waring,” she said, with angry levity. - -He grew deadly red with fierce pride and shame. - -“Because you are of the higher class, and I of the lower,” he said. “Is -that what you mean? Yet I am a gentleman, and one cannot well be more.” - -To this she made no reply, but moved away from where she had been -standing to listen to him, and returned to her chair. They were on the -loggia, and this sudden movement left him at one end, while she returned -to the other. He stood for a time following her with his eyes; then, -having watched the angry _abandon_ with which she threw herself into her -seat, turning her head away, he came a little closer with a certain -sternness in his aspect. - -“Miss Waring,” he said, “notwithstanding the distance between us, you -have allowed me to be your--companion for some time past.” - -“Yes,” she said. “What then? There was no one else, either for me or for -you.” - -“That, then, was the sole reason?” - -“Captain Gaunt,” she cried, “what is the use of all this? We were thrown -in each other’s way. I meant nothing more; if you did, it was your own -fault. You could not surely expect that I should marry you and go to -India with you? It is absurd--it is ridiculous,” she cried, with a hot -blush, throwing back her head. He saw with suddenly quickened -perceptions that the suggestion filled her with contempt and shame. And -the young man’s veins tingled as if fire was in them; the rage of love -despised shook his very soul. - -“And why?” he cried--“and why?” his voice tremulous with passion. “What -is ridiculous in that? It may be ridiculous that I should have believed -in a girl like you. I may have been a vain weak fool to do it, not to -know that I was only a plaything for your amusement; but it never could -be ridiculous to think that a woman might love and marry an honourable -man.” - -He paused several times to command his voice, and she listened -impatient, not looking at him, clasping and unclasping her hands. - -“It would be ridiculous in me,” she cried. “You don’t know me, or you -never would have dreamt---- Captain Gaunt, this had better end. It is of -no use lashing yourself to fury, or me either. Think the worst of me you -can; it will be all the better for you--it will make you hate me. Yes, -I have been amusing myself; and so, I supposed, were you too.” - -“No,” he said, “you could not think that.” - -She turned round and gave him one look, then averted her eyes again, and -said no more. - -“You did not think that,” he cried, vehemently. “You knew it was death -to me, and you did not mind. You listened and smiled, and led me on. You -never checked me by a word, or gave me to understand---- Oh,” he cried, -with a sudden change of tone, “Constance, if it is India, if it is only -India, you have but to hold up a finger, and I will give up India -without a word.” - -He had suddenly come close to her again. A wild hope had blazed up in -him. He made as though he would throw himself at her feet. She lifted -her hand hurriedly to forbid this action. - -“Don’t!” she cried, sharply. “Men are not theatrical nowadays. It is -nothing to me whether you go to India or stay at home. I have told you -already I never thought of anything beyond friendship. Why should not we -have amused each other, and no harm? If I have done you any harm, I am -sorry; but it will only be for a very short time.” - -He had turned away, stung once more into bitterness, and had tried to -say something in reply; but his strength had not been equal to his -intention, and in the strong revulsion of feeling, the young man leant -against the wall of the loggia, hiding his face in his hands. - -There was a little pause. Then Constance turned round half stealthily to -see why there was no reply. Her heart perhaps smote her a little when -she saw that attitude of despair. She rose, and, after a moment’s -hesitation, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Captain Gaunt, don’t -vex yourself like that. I am not worth it. I never thought that any one -could be so much in earnest about me.” - -“Constance,” he cried, turning round quickly upon her, “I am all in -earnest. I care for nothing in the world but you. Oh, say that you were -hasty--say that you will give me a little hope!” - -She shook her head. “I think,” she said, “that all the time you must -have mistaken me for Frances. If I had not come, you would have fallen -in love with her, and she with you.” - -“Don’t insult me, at least!” he cried. - -“Insult you--by saying that _my_ sister----! You forget yourself, -Captain Gaunt. If my sister is not good enough for you, I wonder who you -think good enough. She is better than I am; far better--in that way.” - -“There is only one woman in the world for me; I don’t care if there was -no other,” he said. - -“That is benevolent towards the rest of the world,” said Constance, -recovering her composure. “Do you know,” she said, gravely, “I think it -will be much better for you to go away. I hope we may eventually be good -friends; but not just at present. Please go. I should like to part -friends; and I should like you to take a parcel for Frances, as you are -going to London; and to see my mother. But, for heaven’s sake, go away -now. A walk will do you good, and the fresh air. You will see things in -their proper aspect. Don’t look at me as if you could kill me. What I am -saying is quite true.” - -“A walk,” he repeated with unutterable scorn, “will do me good!” - -“Yes,” she said, calmly. “It will do you a great deal of good. And -change of air and scene will soon set you all right. Oh, I know very -well what I am saying. But pray, go now. Papa will make his appearance -in about ten minutes; and you don’t want to make a confidant of papa.” - -“It matters nothing to me who knows,” he said; but all the same he -gathered himself up and made an effort to recover his calm. - -“It does to me, then,” said Constance. “I am not at all inclined for -papa’s remarks. Captain Gaunt, good-bye. I wish you a pleasant journey; -and I hope that some time or other we may meet again, and be very good -friends.” - -She had the audacity to hold out her hand to him calmly, looking into -his eyes as she spoke. But this was more than young Gaunt could bear. He -gave her a fierce look of passion and despair, waved his hand without -touching hers, and hurried headlong away. - -Constance stood listening till she heard the door close behind him; and -then she seated herself tranquilly again in her chair. It was evening, -and she was waiting for her father for dinner. She had taken her last -ramble with the Gaunts that afternoon; and it was after their return -from this walk that the young soldier had rushed back to inform her of -the letters which called him at once to London, and had burst forth into -the love-tale which had been trembling on his lips for days past. She -had known very well that she could not escape--that the reckoning for -these innocent pleasures would have to come. But she had not expected it -at that moment, and had been temporarily taken by surprise. She seated -herself now with a sigh of relief, yet regret. “Thank goodness, that’s -over,” she said to herself; but she was not quite comfortable on the -subject. In the first place, it _was_ over, and there was an end of all -her simple fun. No more walks, no more talks skirting the edge of the -sentimental and dangerous, no more diplomatic exertions to keep the -victim within due limits--fine exercises of power, such as always carry -with them a real pleasure. And then, being no more than human, she had -a little compunction as to the sufferer. “He will get over it,” she said -to herself; change of air and scene would no doubt do everything for -him. Men have died, and worms have eaten them, &c. Still, she could not -but be sorry. He had looked very wretched, poor fellow, which was -complimentary; but she had felt something of the self-contempt of a man -who has got a cheap victory over an antagonist much less powerful than -himself. A practised swordsman (or woman) of Society should not measure -arms with a merely natural person, knowing nothing of the noble art of -self-defence. It was perhaps a little--mean, she said to herself. Had it -been one of her own species, the duel would have been as amusing -throughout, and no harm done. This vexed her a little, and made her -uneasy. She remembered, though she did not in general care much about -books or the opinion of the class of nobodies who write them, of some -very sharp things that had been said upon this subject. Lady Clara Vere -de Vere had not escaped handling; and she thought that after it Lady -Clara must have felt small, as Constance Waring did now. - -But then, on the other hand, what could be more absurd than for a man to -suppose, because a girl was glad enough to amuse herself with him for a -week or two, in absolute default of all other society, that she was -ready to marry him, and go to India with him! To India! What an idea! -And it had been quite as much for his amusement as for hers. Neither of -them had any one else: it was in self-defence--it was the only resource -against absolute dulness. It had made the time pass for him as well as -for her. He ought to have known all along that she meant nothing more. -Indeed Constance wondered how he could be so silly as to want to have a -wife and double his expenses, and bind himself for life. A man, she -reflected, must be so much better off when he has only himself to think -of. Fancy him taking _her_ bills on his shoulders as well as his own! -She wondered, with a contemptuous laugh, how he would like that, or if -he had the least idea what these bills would be. On the whole, it was -evident, in every point of view, that he was much better out of it. -Perhaps even by this time he would have been tearing his hair, had she -taken him at his word. But no. Constance could not persuade herself that -this was likely. Yet he would have torn his hair, she was certain, -before the end of the first year. Thus she worked herself round to -something like self-forgiveness; but all the same there rankled at her -heart a sense of meanness, the consciousness of having gone out in -battle-array and vanquished with beat of drum and sound of trumpet an -unprepared and undefended adversary, an antagonist with whom the -struggle was not fair. Her sense of honour was touched, and all her -arguments could not content her with herself. - -“I suppose you have been out with the Gaunts again?” Waring said, as -they sat at table, in a dissatisfied tone. - -“Yes; but you need never put the question to me again in that -uncomfortable way, for George Gaunt is going off to-morrow, papa.” - -“Oh, he is going off to-morrow? Then I suppose you have been honest, and -given him his _congé_ at last?” - -“I honest? I did not know I had ever been accused of picking and -stealing. If he had asked me for his _congé_, he should have had it -long ago. He has been sent for, it seems.” - -“Then has the _congé_ not yet been asked for? In that case we shall have -him back again, I suppose?” said her father, in a tone of resignation, -and with a shrug of his shoulders. - -“No; for his people will be away. They are going to Switzerland, and the -Durants are going to Homburg. Where do you mean to go, when it is too -hot to stay here?” - -He looked at her half angrily for a moment. “It is never too hot to stay -here,” he said; then, after a pause, “We can move higher up among the -hills.” - -“Where one will never see a soul--worse even than here!” - -“Oh, you will see plenty of country-folk,” he said--“a fine race of -people, mountaineers, yet husbandmen, which is a rare combination.” - -Constance looked up at him with a little _moue_ of mingled despair and -disdain. - -“With perhaps some romantic young Italian count for you to practise -upon,” he said. - -Though the humour on his part was grim and derisive rather than -sympathetic, her countenance cleared a little. “You know, papa,” she -said, with a faintly complaining note, “that my Italian is very limited, -and your counts and countesses speak no language but their own.” - -“Oh, who can tell? There may be some poor soldier on furlough who has -French enough to---- By the way,” he added, sharply, “you must remember -that they don’t understand flirtation with girls. If you were a married -woman, or a young widow----” - -“You might pass me off as a young widow, papa. It would be amusing--or -at least it _might_ be amusing. That is not a quality of the life here -in general. What an odd thing it is that in England we always believe -life to be so much more amusing abroad than at home.” - -“It is amusing--at Monte Carlo, perhaps.” - -Constance made another _moue_ at the name of Monte Carlo, from the sight -of which she had not derived much pleasure. “I suppose,” she said, -impartially, “what really amuses one is the kind of diversion one has -been accustomed to, and to know everybody: chiefly to know everybody,” -she added, after a pause. - -“With these views, to know nobody must be bad luck indeed!” - -“It is,” she said, with great candour; “that is why I have been so much -with the Gaunts. One can’t live absolutely alone, you know, papa.” - -“I can--with considerable success,” he replied. - -“Ah, you! There are various things to account for it with you,” she -said. - -He waited for a moment, as if to know what these various things were; -then smiled to himself a little angrily at his daughter’s calm way of -taking his disabilities for granted. It was not till some time after, -when the dinner had advanced a stage, that he spoke again. Then he said, -without any introduction, “I often wonder, Constance, when you find this -life so dull as you do----” - -“Yes, very dull,” she said frankly,--“especially now, when all the -people are going away.” - -“I wonder often,” he repeated, “my dear, why you stay; for there is -nothing to recompense you for such a sacrifice. If it is for my sake, -it is a pity, for I could really get on very well alone. We don’t see -very much of each other; and till now, if you will pardon me for saying -so, your mind has been taken up with a pursuit which--you could have -carried on much better at home.” - -“You mean what you are pleased to call flirtation, papa? No, I could not -have carried on that sort of thing at home. The conditions are -altogether different. It _is_ difficult to account for my staying, when, -clearly, you don’t consider me of any use, and don’t want me.” - -“I have never said that. Of course I am very glad to have you. It is in -the bond, and therefore my right. I was regarding the question solely -from your point of view.” - -Constance did not answer immediately. She paused to think. When she had -turned the subject over in her mind, she replied, “I need not tell you -how complicated one’s motives get. It takes a long time to make sure -which is really the fundamental one, and how it works.” - -“You are a philosopher, my dear.” - -“Not more than one must be with Society pressing upon one as it does, -papa. Nothing is straightforward nowadays. You have to dig quite deep -down before you come at the real meaning of anything you do; and very -often, when you get hold of it, you don’t quite like to acknowledge it, -even to yourself.” - -“That is rather an alarming preface, but very just too. If you don’t -like to acknowledge it to yourself, you will like still less to -acknowledge it to me?” - -“I don’t quite see that: perhaps I am harder upon myself than you would -be. No; but I prefer to think of it a little more before I tell you. I -have a kind of feeling now that it is because--but you will think that a -shabby sort of pride--it is because I am too proud to own myself beaten, -which I should do if I were to go back.” - -“It is a very natural sort of pride,” he said. - -“But it is not all that. I must go a little deeper still. Not to-night. -I have done as much thinking as I am quite able for to-night.” - -And thus the question was left for another day. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - - -Next morning, Constance, seated as usual in the loggia, which was now, -as the weather grew hot, veiled with an awning, heard--her ears being -very quick, and on the alert for every sound--a tinkle of the bell, a -sound of admittance, the step of Domenico leading some visitor to the -place in which she sat. Was it _he_, coming yet again to implore her -pardon, an extension of privileges, a hope for the future? She made out -instantaneously, however, that the footstep which followed Domenico was -not that of young Gaunt. It was softer, less decided--an indefinite -female step. She sat up in her chair and listened, letting her book -fall, and next moment saw Mrs Gaunt, old-fashioned, unassured, with a -troubled look upon her face, in her shawl and big hat, come out almost -timidly upon the loggia. Constance sprang to her feet--then in a moment -collapsed and shrank away into herself. Before the young lover she was a -queen, and to her father she preserved her dignity very well; but when -_his_ mother appeared, the girl had no longer any power to hold up her -head. Mrs Gaunt was old, very badly dressed, not very clever or wise; -but Constance felt those mild, somewhat dull eyes penetrating to the -depths of her own guilty heart. - -“How do you do, Miss Waring?” said Mrs Gaunt, stiffly. (She had called -her “my dear” yesterday, and had been so anxious to please her, doing -everything she could to ingratiate herself.) “I hope I do not disturb -you so early; but my son, Captain Gaunt, is going away----” - -“Oh yes--I heard. I am very sorry,” the guilty Constance murmured, -hanging her head. - -“I do not know that there is any cause to be sorry; we were going anyhow -in a few days. And in London my son will find many friends.” - -“I mean,” said Constance, drawing a long breath, beginning to recover a -little courage, feeling, even in her discomfiture, a faint amusement -still--“I mean, for his friends here, who will miss him so much.” - -Mrs Gaunt darted a glance at her, half wrathful, half wavering; it had -seemed so unnatural to her that any girl could play with or resist her -son. Perhaps, after all, he had misunderstood Constance. She said, -proudly, “His friends always miss George; he is so friendly. Nobody ever -asks anything from him, to take any trouble or make any sacrifice, in -vain.” - -“I am sure he is very good,” said Constance, tremulous, yet waking to -the sense of humour underneath. - -“That is why I am here to-day,” said Mrs Gaunt. “My -son--remembers--though perhaps you will allow he has not much call to do -so, Miss Waring--that you said something about a parcel for Frances. -Dear Frances; he will see her--that will always be something.” - -“Then he is not coming to say good-bye?” she said, opening her eyes with -a semblance of innocent and regretful surprise. - -“Oh, Miss Waring! oh, Constance!” cried the poor mother. “But perhaps -my boy has made a mistake. He is very wretched. I am sure he never -closed his eyes all last night. If you saw him this morning, it would go -to your heart. Ah, my dear, he thinks you will have nothing to say to -him, and his heart is broken. If you will only let me tell him that he -has made a mistake!” - -“Is it about me, Mrs Gaunt?” - -“Oh, Constance! who should it be about but you? He has never looked at -any one else since he saw you first. All that has been in his mind has -been how to see you, how to talk to you, to make himself agreeable if he -could--to try and get your favour. I will not conceal anything from you. -I never was satisfied from the first. I thought you were too grand, too -much used to fine people and their ways, ever to look at one of us. But -then, when I saw my George, the flower of my flock, with nothing in his -mind but how to please you, his eyes following you wherever you went, as -if there was not another in the world----” - -“There was not another in Bordighera, at least,” said Constance, under -her breath. - -“There was not----? What did you say--what did you say? Oh, there was -nobody that he ever wasted a thought on but you. I had my doubts all the -time. I used to say, ‘George, dear, don’t go too far; don’t throw -everything at her feet till you know how she feels.’ But I might as well -have talked to the sea. If he had been the king of all the world, he -would have poured everything into your lap. Oh, my dear, a man’s true -love is a great thing; it is more than crowns or queen’s jewels. You -might have all the world contains, and beside that it would be as -nothing--and this is what he has given you. Surely you did not -understand him when he spoke, or he did not understand you. Perhaps you -were taken by surprise--fluttered, as girls will be, and said the wrong -words. Or you were shy. Or you did not know your own mind. Oh, -Constance, say it was a mistake, and give me a word of comfort to take -to my boy!” - -The tears were running down the poor mother’s cheeks as she pleaded thus -for her son. When she had left home that morning, after surprising, -divining the secret, which he had done his best to hide from her -overnight, there had been a double purpose in Mrs Gaunt’s mind. She had -intended to pour out such vials of wrath upon the girl who had scorned -her son, such floods of righteous indignation, that never, never should -she raise her head again; and she had intended to watch her opportunity, -to plead on her knees, if need were, if there was any hope of getting -him what he wanted. It did not disturb her that these two intentions -were totally opposed to each other. And she had easily been beguiled -into thinking that there was good hope still. - -While she spoke, Constance on her side had been going through a series -of observations, running comments upon this address, which did not move -her very much. “If he had been king of all the world--ah, that would -have made a difference,” she said to herself; and it was all she could -do to refrain from bursting forth in derisive laughter at the suggestion -that she herself had perhaps been shy, or had not known her own mind. To -think that any woman could be such a simpleton, so easily deceived! The -question was, whether to be gentle with the delusion, and spare Mrs -Gaunt’s feelings; or whether to strike her down at once with indignation -and sharp scorn. There passed through the mind of Constance a rapid -calculation that in so small a community it was better not to make an -enemy, and also perhaps some softening reflections from the remorse -which really had touched her last night. So that when Mrs Gaunt ended by -that fervent prayer, her knees trembling with the half intention of -falling upon them, her voice faltering, her tears flowing, Constance -allowed herself to be touched with responsive emotion. She put out both -her hands and cried, “Oh, don’t speak like that to me; oh, don’t look at -me so! Dear, dear Mrs Gaunt, teach me what to do to make up for it! for -I never thought it would come to this. I never imagined that he, who -deserves so much better, would trouble himself about me. Oh, what a -wretched creature I am to bring trouble everywhere! for I am not free. -Don’t you know I am--engaged to some one else? Oh, I thought everybody -knew of it! I am not free.” - -“Not free!” said Mrs Gaunt, with a cry of dismay. - -“Oh, didn’t you know of it?” said Constance. “I thought everybody knew. -It has been settled for a long time--since I was quite a child.” - -“My dear,” said Mrs Gaunt, solemnly, “if your heart is not in it, you -ought not to go on with it. I did hear something of--a gentleman, whom -your mamma wished you to marry; who was very rich, and all that.” - -Constance nodded her head slowly, in a somewhat melancholy assent. - -“But I was told that you did not wish it yourself--that you had broken -it off--that you had come here to avoid---- Oh, my dear girl, don’t take -up a false sense of duty, or--or honour--or self-sacrifice! Constance, -you may have a right to sacrifice yourself, but not another--not -another, dear. And all his happiness is wrapped up in you. And if it is -a thing your heart does not go with!” cried the poor lady, losing -herself in the complication of phrases. Constance only shook her head. - -“Dear Mrs Gaunt! I _must_ think of honour and duty. What would become of -us all if we put an engagement aside, because--because----? And it would -be cruel to the other; he is not strong. I could not, oh, I could not -break off--oh no, not for worlds--it would kill him. But will you try -and persuade Captain Gaunt not to think hardly of me? I thought I might -enjoy his friendship without any harm. If I have done wrong, oh forgive -me!” Constance cried. - -Mrs Gaunt dried her eyes. She was a simple-minded woman, who knew what -she wanted, and whose instinct taught her to refuse a stone when it was -offered to her instead of bread. She said, “He will forgive you, Miss -Waring; he will not think hardly of you, you may be sure. They are too -infatuated to do that, when a girl like you takes the trouble to---- But -I think you might have thought twice before you did it, knowing what you -tell me now. A young man fresh from India, where he has been working -hard for years--coming home to get up his strength, to enjoy himself a -little, to make up for all his long time away---- And because you are a -little lonely, and want to enjoy his--friendship, as you say, you go and -spoil his holiday for him, make it all wretched, and make even his poor -mother wish that he had never come home at all. And you think it will -all be made up if you say you are sorry at the end! To him, perhaps, -poor foolish boy; but oh, not to me.” - -Constance made no reply to this. She had done her best, and for a moment -she thought she had succeeded; but she had always been aware, by -instinct, that the mother was less easy to beguile than the son; and she -was silent, attempting no further self-defence. - -“Young men are a mystery to me,” said Mrs Gaunt, standing with agitated -firmness in the middle of the loggia, taking no notice of the chair -which had been offered her. She did not even look at Constance, but -directed her remarks to the swaying palms in the foreground and the -hills behind--“they are a mystery! There may be one under their very -eyes that is as good as gold and as true as steel, and they will never -so much as look at her. And there will be another that thinks of -nothing but amusing herself, and that is the one they will adore. Oh, it -is not for the first time now that I have found it out! I had my -misgivings from the very first; but he was like all the rest--he would -not hear a word from his mother; and now I am sure I wish his furlough -was at an end; I wish he had never come home. His father and I would -rather have waited on and pined for him, or even made up our minds to -die without seeing him, rather than he should have come here to break -his heart.” - -She paused a moment and then resumed again, turning from the palms and -distant peaks to concentrate a look of fire upon Constance, who sat sunk -in her wicker chair, turning her head away. - -“And if a man were to go astray after being used like that, whose fault -would it be? If he were to go wrong--if he were to lose heart, to say -What’s the good? whose fault would it be? Oh, don’t tell me that you -didn’t know what you were doing--that you didn’t mean to break his -heart! Did you think he had no heart at all? But then, why should you -have taken the trouble? It wouldn’t have amused you, it would have been -no fun, had he had no heart.” - -“You seem,” said Constance, without turning her head, launching a stray -arrow in self-defence, “to know all about it, Mrs Gaunt.” - -“Perhaps I do know all about it,--I am a woman myself. I wasn’t always -old and faded. I know there are some things a girl may do in innocence, -and some--that no one but a wicked woman of the world---- Oh, you are -young to be called such a name. I oughtn’t, at your age, however I may -suffer by you, to call you such a name.” - -“You may call me what name you like. Fortunately I have not to look to -you as my judge. Look here,” cried Constance, springing to her feet. -“You say you are a woman yourself. I am not like Frances, a girl that -knew nothing. If your son is at my feet, I have had better men at my -feet, richer men, far better matches than Captain Gaunt. Would any one -in their senses expect me to marry a poor soldier, to go out to India, -to follow the regiment? You forget I’m Lady Markham’s daughter as well -as Mr Waring’s. Put yourself in her place for a moment, and think what -you would say if your daughter told you that was what she was going to -do. To marry a poor man, not even at home--an officer in India! What -would you say? You would lock me up in my room, and keep me on bread and -water. You would say, the girl is mad. At least that is what my mother, -if she could, would do.” - -Mrs Gaunt caught upon the point which was most salient and attackable. -“An Indian officer!” she cried. “That shows how little you know. He is -not an Indian officer--he is a Queen’s officer: not that it matters. -There were men in the Company’s service that---- The Company’s service -was---- How dare you speak so to me? General Gaunt was in the Company’s -service!” she cried, with an outburst of injured feeling and excited -pride. - -To this Constance made reply with a mocking laugh, which nearly drove -her adversary frantic, and resumed her seat, having said what she had to -say. - -Poor Mrs Gaunt sat down, too, in sheer inability to support herself. Her -limbs trembled under her. She wanted to cry, but would not, had she -died in that act of self-restraint. And as she could not have said -another word without crying, force was upon her to keep silence, though -her heart burned. After an interval, she said, tremulously, “If this is -one of our punishments for Eve’s fault, it’s far, far harder to bear -than the other; and every woman has to bear it more or less. To see a -man that ought to make one woman’s happiness turned into a jest by -another woman, and made a laughing-stock of, and all his innocent -pleasure turned into bitterness. Why did you do it? Were there not -plenty of men in the world that you should take my boy for your -plaything? Wasn’t there room for you in London, that you should come -here? Oh, what possessed you to come here, where no one wanted you, and -spoil all?” - -Constance turned round and stared at her accuser with troubled eyes. It -was a question to which it was difficult to give any answer; and she -could not deny that it was a very pertinent question. No one had wanted -her. There had been room for her in London, and a recognised place, and -everything a girl could desire. Oh, how she desired now those things -which belonged to her, which she had left so lightly, which there was -nothing here to replace! Why had she left them? If a wish could have -taken her back, out of this foreign, alien, unloved scene, away from Mrs -Gaunt, scolding her in the big hat and shawl, which would be only fit -for a charade at home, to Lady Markham’s soft and lovely presence--to -Claude, even poor Claude, with his beautiful eyes and his fear of -draughts--how swiftly would she have travelled through the air! But a -wish would not do it; and she could only stare at her assailant blankly, -and in her heart echo the question, Why, oh why? - -Notwithstanding this stormy interview, Constance had so far recovered by -the afternoon, and was so utterly destitute of anything else by way of -amusement, that she walked down to the railway station at the hour when -the train started for Marseilles and England, with a perfectly composed -and smiling countenance, and the little parcel for Frances under her -arm. Mrs Gaunt was like a woman turned to stone when she suddenly saw -this apparition, standing upon the platform, talking to her old general, -amusing and occupying him so that he almost forgot that he was here on -no joyful but a melancholy occasion. And to see George hurry forward, -his dark face lit up with a sudden glow, his hat in his hand, as if he -were about to address the Queen! These are things which are very hard -upon women, to whom it is generally given to preserve their senses even -when the most seductive siren smiles. - -“You would not come to say good-bye to me, so I had to take it into my -own hands,” Constance said, in her clear young voice, which was to be -heard quite distinctly through all the jabber of the Riviera -functionaries. “And here is the little parcel for Frances, if you will -be so very good. _Do_ go and see them, Captain Gaunt.” - -“Of course he will go and see them,” said the General--“too glad. He has -not so many people to see in town that he should forget our old friend -Waring’s near connections, and Frances, whom we were all so fond of. And -you may be sure he will be honoured by any commissions you will give -him.” - -“Oh, I have no commissions. Markham does my commissions when I have any. -He is the best of brothers in that respect. Give my love to mamma, -Captain Gaunt. She will like to see some one who has seen me. Tell her I -get on--pretty well. Tell them all to come out here.” - -“He must not do that, Miss Waring; for it will soon be too hot, and we -are all going away.” - -“Oh, I was not in earnest,” said Constance; “it was only a little jest. -I must look too sincere for anything, for people are always taking my -little jokes as if I meant them, every word.” She raised her eyes to -Captain Gaunt as she spoke, and with one steady look made an end in a -moment of all the hasty hopes that had sprung up again in less time than -Jonah’s gourd. She put the parcel in his charge, and shook hands with -him, taking no notice of his sudden change of countenance,--and not only -this, but waited a little way off till the poor young fellow had got -into the train, and had been taken farewell of by his parents. Then she -waved her hand and a little film of a pocket-handkerchief, and waited -till the old pair came out, Mrs Gaunt with very red eyes, and even the -General blowing his nose unnecessarily. - -“It seems only the other day that we came down to meet him--after not -seeing him for so many years.” - -“Oh, my poor boy! But I should not mind if I thought he had got any good -out of his holiday,” said Mrs Gaunt, launching a burning look among her -tears at the siren. - -“Oh, I think he has enjoyed himself, Mrs Gaunt. I am sure you need not -have any burden on your mind on that account,” the young deceiver said -smoothly. - -Yes, he had enjoyed himself, and now had to pay the price of it in -disappointment and ineffectual misery. This was all it had brought him, -this brief intoxicating dream, this fool’s paradise. Constance walked -with them as far as their way lay together, and “talked very nicely,” as -he said afterwards, to the General; but Mrs Gaunt, if she could have -done it with a wish, would have willingly pitched this siren, where -other sirens belong to--into the sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - - -And Constance, too, had found it amusing--she did not hesitate to -acknowledge that to herself. She had got a great deal of diversion out -of these six weeks. There had been nothing, really, when you came to -think of it, to amuse anybody: a few dull walks; a drive along the dusty -roads, which were more dusty than anything she had ever experienced in -her life; and then a ramble among the hills, a climb from terrace to -terrace of the olive-gardens, or through the stony streets of a little -mountain town. It was the contrast, the harmony, the antagonism, the -duel and the companionship continually going on, which had given -everything its zest. The scientific man with an exciting object under -the microscope, the astronomer with his new star pulsing out of the -depths of the sky, could scarcely have been more absorbed than -Constance. Not so much; for not the most cherished of star-fishes, not -the most glorious of stars, is so exciting as it is to watch the risings -and flowings of emotion under your own hand, to feel that you can cause -ecstasy or despair, and raise up another human creature to the heights -of delight, or drop him to depths beneath purgatory, at your will. When -the young and cruel possess this power--and the very young are often -cruel by ignorance, by inability to understand suffering--they are -seldom clever enough to use it to the full extent. But Constance was -clever, and had tasted blood before. It had made the time pass as -nothing else could have done. It had carried on a thread of keen -interest through all these commonplace pursuits. It had been as amusing, -nay, much more so than if she had loved him; for she got the advantage -of his follies without sharing them, and felt herself to stand high in -cool ethereal light, while the unfortunate young man turned himself -outside in for her enlightenment. She had enjoyed herself--she did not -deny it; but now there was the penalty to pay. - -He was gone, clean gone, escaped from her power; and nothing was left -but the beggarly elements of this small bare life, in which there was -nothing to amuse or interest. The roads were more intolerable than ever, -lying white in heat and dust, which rose in clouds round every -carriage--carriage! that was an euphemism--cab which passed. The sun -blazed everywhere, so that one thought regretfully of the dull skies of -England, and charitably of the fogs and rains. There was nothing to do -but to go up among the olives and sit down upon some ledge and look at -the sea. Constance did not draw, neither did she read. She did nothing -that could be of any use to her here. She regretted now that she had -allowed herself at the very beginning to fall into the snare of that -amusement, too ready to her hand, which consisted of Captain Gaunt. It -had been a mistake--if for no other reason, at least because it left the -dulness more dull than ever, now it was over. He it was who had been her -resource, his looks and ways her study, the gradual growth of his love -the romance which had kept her going. She asked herself sometimes -whether she could possibly have done as much harm to him as to herself -by this indulgence, and answered earnestly, No. How could it do him any -harm? He was vexed, of course, for the moment, because he could not have -her; but very soon he would come to. He would be a fool, more of a fool -than she thought him, if he did not soon see that it was much better for -him that she had thought only of a little amusement. Why should he -marry, a young man with very little money? There could be no doubt it -would have been a great mistake. Constance did not know what society in -India is like, but she supposed it must be something like society at -home, and in that case there was no doubt he would have found it -altogether more difficult had he gone back a married man. - -She could not think, looking at the subject dispassionately, how he -could ever have wished it. An unmarried young man (she reflected) gets -asked to a great many places, where the people could not be troubled -with a pair. And whereas some girls may be promoted by marriage, it is -_almost always_ to the disadvantage of a young man. So, why should he -make a fuss about it, this young woman of the world asked herself. He -ought to have been very glad that he had got his amusement and no -penalty to pay. But for herself, she was sorry. Now he was gone, there -was nobody to talk to, nobody to walk with, no means of amusement at -all. She did not know what to do with herself, while he was speeding to -dear London. What was she to do with herself? Filial piety and the -enjoyment of her own thoughts--without anything to do even for her -father, or any subject to employ her thoughts upon--these were all that -seemed to be left to her in her life. The tourists and invalids were all -gone, so that there was not even the chance of somebody turning up at -the hotels; and even the Gaunts--between whom and herself there was now -a gulf fixed--and the Durants, who were bores unspeakable, were going -away. What was she to do? - -Alas, that exhilarating game which had ended so sadly for George Gaunt -was not ending very cheerfully for Constance. It had made life too -tolerable--it had kept her in a pleasant self-deception as to the -reality of the lot she had chosen. Now that reality flashed upon -her,--nay, the word is far too animated--it did not flash, nothing any -longer flashed, except that invariable, intolerable sun,--it opened upon -her dully, with its long, long, endless vistas. The still rooms in the -Palazzo with the green _persiani_ closed, all blazing sunshine without, -all dead stillness and darkness within--and nothing to do, nobody to -see, nothing to give a fresh turn to her thoughts. Not a novel even! -Papa’s old books upon out-of-the-way subjects, dreary as the dusty road, -endless as the uneventful days--and papa himself, the centre of all. -When she turned this over and over in her mind, it seemed to her that -if, when she first came, instead of being seduced into flowery paths of -flirtation, she had paid a little attention to her father, it might have -been better for her now. But that chance was over, and George Gaunt was -gone, and only dulness remained behind. - -And oh, how different it must be in town, where the season was just -beginning, and Frances, that little country thing, who would care -nothing about it, was going to be presented! Constance, it is scarcely -necessary to say, had been told what her sister was to wear; indeed, -having gone through the ceremony herself, and knowing exactly what was -right, could have guessed without being told. How would Frances look -with her little demure face and her neat little figure? Constance had no -unkindly feeling towards her sister. She fully recognised the advantages -of the girl, who was like mamma; and whose youthful freshness would be -enhanced by the good looks of the little stately figure beside her, -showing the worst that Frances was likely to come to, even when she got -old. Constance knew very well that this was a great advantage to a girl, -having heard the frank remarks of Society upon those beldams who lead -their young daughters into the world, presenting in their own persons a -horrible caricature of what those girls may grow to be. But Frances -would look very well, the poor exile decided, sitting on the low wall of -one of the terraces, gazing through the grey olives over the blue sea. -She would look very well. She would be frightened, yet amused, by the -show. She would be admired--by people who liked that quiet kind. Markham -would be with them; and Claude, perhaps Claude, if it was a fine day, -and there was no east in the wind! She stopped to laugh to herself at -this suggestion, but her colour rose at the same time, and an angry -question woke in her mind. Claude! She had told Mrs Gaunt she was -engaged to him still. Was she engaged to him? Or had he thrown her off, -as she threw him off, and perhaps found consolation in Frances? At this -thought the olive-gardens in their coolness grew intolerable, and the -sea the dreariest of prospects. She jumped up, and notwithstanding the -sun and the dust, went down the broad road, the old Roman way, where -there was no shade nor shelter. It was not safe, she said to herself, to -be left there with her thoughts. She must break the spell or die. - -She went, of all places in the world, poor Constance! to the Durants’ in -search of a little variety. Their loggia also was covered with an -awning; but they did not venture into it till the sun was going down. -They had their tea-table in the drawing-room, which, till the eyes grew -accustomed to it, was quite dark, with one ray of subdued light stealing -in from the open door of the loggia, but the blinds all closed and the -windows. Here Constance was directed, by the glimmer of reflection in -the teapot and china, to the spot where the family were sitting, Mrs -Durant and Tasie languidly waving their fans. The _dolce far niente_ was -not appreciated in that clerical house. Tasie thought it her duty to be -always doing something--knitting at least for a bazaar, if it was not -light enough for other work. But the heat had overcome even Tasie; -though it could not, if it had been tropical, do away with the little -furnace of the hot tea. They all received Constance with the languid -delight of people in an atmosphere of ninety degrees, to whom no visitor -has appeared, nor any incident happened, all day. - -“Oh, Miss Waring,” said Tasie, “we have just had a great disappointment. -Some one sent us the ‘Queen’ from home, and we looked directly for the -drawing-room, to see Frances’ name and how she was dressed; but it is -not there.” - -“No,” said Constance; “the 29th is her day.” - -“Oh, that is what I said, mamma. I said we must have mistaken the date. -It couldn’t be that there was any mistake about going, when she wrote -and told us. I knew the date must be wrong.” - -“Many things may occur at the last moment to stop one, Tasie. I have -known a lady with her dress all ready laid out on the bed; and -circumstances happened so that she could not go.” - -“That is by no means a singular experience, my dear,” said Mr Durant, -who in his black coat was almost invisible. “I have known many such -cases; and in matters more important than drawing-rooms.” - -“There was the Sangazures,” said the clergyman’s wife--“don’t you -recollect? Lady Alice was just putting on her bonnet to go to her -daughter’s marriage, when----” - -“It is really unnecessary to recall so many examples,” said Constance. -“No doubt they are all quite true; but as a matter of fact, in this case -the date was the 29th.” - -“Oh, I hope,” said Tasie, “that somebody will send us another ‘Queen’; -for I should be so sorry to miss seeing about Frances. Have you heard, -Miss Waring, how she is to be dressed?” - -“It will be the usual white business,” said Constance, calmly. - -“You mean--all white? Yes, I suppose so; and the material, silk or -satin, with tulle? Oh yes, I have no doubt; but to see it all written -down, with the drapings and _bouillonnés_ and all that, makes it so much -more real. Don’t you think so? Dear Frances, she always looked so nice -in white--which is trying to many people. I really cannot wear white, -for my part.” - -Constance looked at her with a scarcely concealed smile. She was not -tolerant of the old-young lady, as Frances was. Her eyes meant mischief -as they made out the sandy complexion, the uncertain hair, which were so -unlike Frances’ clear little face and glossy brown satin locks. But, -fortunately, the eloquence of looks did not tell for much in that -closely shuttered dark room. And Constance’s nerves, already so jarred -and strained, responded with another keen vibration when Mrs Durant’s -voice suddenly came out of the gloom with a bland question: “And when -are you moving? Of course, like all the rest, you must be on the wing.” - -“Where should we be going? I don’t think we are going anywhere,” she -said. - -“My dear Miss Waring, that shows, if you will let me say so, how little -you know of our climate here. You must go: in the summer it is -intolerable. We have stayed a little longer than usual this year. My -husband takes the duty at Homburg every summer, as perhaps you are -aware.” - -“Oh, it is so much nicer there for the Sunday work,” said Tasie; “though -I love dear little Bordighera too. But the Sunday-school is a trial. To -give up one’s afternoons and take a great deal of trouble for perhaps -three children! Of course, papa, I know it is my duty.” - -“And quite as much your duty, if there were but one; for, think, if you -saved but one soul,--is that not worth living for, Tasie?” Mr Durant -said. - -“Oh yes, yes, papa. I only say it is a little hard. Of course that is -the test of duty. Tell Frances, please, when you write, Miss Waring, -there is to be a bazaar for the new church; and I daresay she could send -or do me something--two or three of her nice little sketches. People -like that sort of thing. Generally things at bazaars are so useless. -Knitted things, everybody has got such shoals of them; but a -water-colour--you know that always sells.” - -“I will tell Fan,” said Constance, “when I write--but that is not often. -We are neither of us very good correspondents.” - -“You should tell your papa,” went on Mrs Durant, “of that little place -which I always say I discovered, Miss Waring. Such a nice little place, -and quite cool and cheap. Nobody goes; there is not a tourist passing by -once in a fortnight. Mr Waring would like it, I know. Don’t you think Mr -Waring would like it, papa?” - -“That depends, my dear, upon so many circumstances over which he has no -control--such as, which way the wind is blowing, and if he has the books -he wants, and----” - -“Papa, you must not laugh at Mr Waring. He is a dear. I will not hear a -word that is not nice of Mr Waring,” cried Tasie. - -This championship of her father was more than Constance could bear. She -rose from her seat quickly, and declared that she must go. - -“So soon?” said Mrs Durant, holding the hand which Constance had held -out to her, and looking up with keen eyes and spectacles. “And we have -not said a word yet of the event, and all about it, and why it was. But -I think we can give a guess at why it was.” - -“What event?” Constance said, with chill surprise: as if she cared what -was going on in their little world! - -“Ah, how can you ask me, my dear? The last event, that took us all so -much by surprise. I am afraid, I am sadly afraid, you are not without -blame.” - -“Oh mamma! Miss Waring will think we do nothing but gossip. But you -must remember there is so little going on, that we can’t help -remarking---- And perhaps it was quite true what they said, that poor -Captain Gaunt----” - -“Oh, if it is anything about Captain Gaunt,” said Constance, hastily -withdrawing her hand; “I know so little about the people here----” - -Tasie followed her to the door. “You must not mind,” she said, “what -mamma says. She does not mean anything--it is only her way. She always -thinks there must be reasons for things. Now I,” said Tasie, “know that -very often there are no reasons for anything.” Having uttered this -oracle, she allowed the visitor to go down-stairs. “And you will not -forget to tell Frances,” she said, looking over the balustrade. In a -little house like that of the Durants the stairs in England would have -been wood, and shabby ones; but here they were marble, and of imposing -appearance. “Any little thing I should be thankful for,” said Tasie; “or -she might pick up a few trifles from one of the Japanese shops; but -water-colours are what I should prefer. Good-bye, dear Miss Waring. Oh, -it is not good-bye for good; I shall certainly come to see you before we -go away!” - -Constance had not gone half-way along the Marina when she met General -Gaunt, who looked grave, but yet greeted her kindly. “We are going -to-morrow,” he said. “My wife is so very busy, I do not know if she will -be able to find time to call to say good-bye.” - -“I hope you don’t think so badly of me as she does, General Gaunt?” - -“Badly, my dear young lady! You must know that is impossible,” said the -old soldier, shuffling a little from one foot to the other. And then he -added, “Ladies are a little unreasonable. And if they think you have -interfered with the little finger of a child of theirs---- But I hope -you will let me have the pleasure of paying my farewell visit in the -morning.” - -“Good-bye, General,” Constance said. She held her head high, and walked -proudly away past all the empty hotels and shops, not heeding the sun, -which still played down upon her, though from a lower level. She cared -nothing for these people, she said to herself vehemently: and yet the -mere feeling of the farewells in the air added a forlorn aspect to the -stagnation of the place. Everybody was going away except her father and -herself. She felt as if the preparations and partings, and all the -pleasure of Tasie in the “work” elsewhere, and her little fussiness -about the bazaar, were all offences to herself, Constance, who was not -thought good enough even to ask a contribution from. No one thought -Constance good for anything, except to blame her for ridiculous -impossibilities, such as not marrying Captain Gaunt. It seemed that this -was the only thing which she was supposed capable of doing. And while -all the other people went away, she was to stay here to be burned brown, -and perhaps to get fever, unused as she was to a blazing summer like -this. She had to stay here--she, who was so young and could enjoy -everything--while all the old people, to whom it could not matter very -much, went away. She felt angry, offended, miserable, as she went in and -got herself ready mechanically for dinner. She knew her father would -take no notice,--would probably receive the news of the departure of the -others without remark. He cared nothing, not nearly so much as about a -new book. And she, throbbing with pain, discomfiture, loneliness, and -anger, was alone to bear the burden of this stillness, and of the -uninhabited world. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - - -Waring was not so indifferent to the looks or feelings of his daughter -as appeared. After all, he was not entirely buried in his books. To -Frances, who had grown up by his side without particularly attracting -his attention, he had been kindly indifferent, not feeling any occasion -to concern himself about the child, who always had managed to amuse -herself, and never had made any call upon him. But Constance had come -upon him as a stranger, as an individual with a character and faculties -of her own, and it had not been without curiosity that he had watched -her to see how she would reconcile herself with the new circumstances. -Her absorption in the amusement provided for her by young Gaunt had -somewhat revolted her father, who set it down as one of the usual -exhibitions of love in idleness, which every one sees by times as he -makes his way through the world. He had not interfered, being thoroughly -convinced that interference is useless, in addition to that reluctance -to do anything which had grown upon him in his recluse life. But since -Gaunt had disappeared without a sign--save that of a little -irritability, a little unusual gravity on the part of Constance--her -father had been roused somewhat to ask what it meant. Had the young -fellow “behaved badly,” as people say? Had he danced attendance upon her -all this time only to leave her at the end? It did not seem possible, -when he looked at Constance with her easy air of mastery, and thought of -the shy, eager devotion of the young soldier and his impassioned looks. -But yet he was aware that in such cases all prognostics failed, that the -conqueror was sometimes conquered, and the intended victim remained -master of the field. Waring observed his daughter more closely than ever -on this evening. She was _distraite_, self-absorbed, a little impatient, -sometimes not noting what he said to her, sometimes answering in an -irritable tone. The replies she made to him when she did reply showed -that her mind was running on other matters. She said abruptly, in the -middle of a little account he was giving her, with the idea of amusing -her, of one of the neighbouring mountain castles, “Do you know, papa, -that everybody is going away?” - -Waring felt, with a certain discomfiture, which was comic, yet annoying, -like one who has been suddenly pulled up with a good deal of “way” on -him, and stops himself with difficulty--“a branch of the old Dorias,” he -went on, having these words in his very mouth; and then, after a -precipitate pause, “Eh? Oh, everybody is----? Yes, I know. They always -do at this time of the year.” - -“It will be rather miserable, don’t you think, when every one is gone?” - -“My dear Constance, ‘every one’ means the Gaunts and Durants. I could -not have supposed you cared.” - -“For the Gaunts and Durants--oh no,” said Constance. “But to think there -is not a soul--no one to speak to--not even the clergyman, not even -Tasie.” She laughed, but there was a certain look of alarm in her face, -as if the emergency was one which was unprecedented. “That frightens -one, in spite of one’s self. And what are we going to do?” - -It was Waring now who hesitated, and did not know how to reply. “We!” he -said. “To tell the truth, I had not thought of it. Frances was always -quite willing to stay at home.” - -“But I am not Frances, papa.” - -“I beg your pardon, my dear; that is quite true. Of course I never -supposed so. You understand that for myself I prefer always not to be -disturbed--to go on as I am. But you, a young lady fresh from -society---- Had I supposed that you cared for the Durants, for instance, -I should have thought of some way of making up for their absence; but I -thought, on the whole, you would prefer their absence.” - -“That has nothing to do with it,” said Constance. “I don’t care for the -individuals--they are all rather bores. Captain Gaunt,” she added, -resolutely, introducing the name with determination, “became very much -of a bore before he went away. But the thing is to have nobody--nobody! -One has to put up with bores very often; but to have nobody, actually -not a soul! The circumstances are quite unprecedented.” - -There was something in her air as she said this which amused her father. -It was the air of a social philosopher brought to a pause in the face of -an unimagined dilemma, rather than of a young lady stranded upon a -desert shore where no society was to be found. - -“No doubt,” he said, “you never knew anything of the kind before.” - -“Never,” said Constance, with warmth. “People who are a nuisance, often -enough; but _nobody_, never before.” - -“I prefer nobody,” said her father. - -She raised her eyes to him, as if he were one of the problems to which, -for the first time, her attention was seriously called. “Perhaps,” she -said; “but then you are not in a natural condition, papa--no more than a -hermit in the desert, who has forsworn society altogether.” - -“Allowing that I am abnormal, Constance, for the argument’s sake----” - -“And so was Frances, more or less--that is, she could content herself -with the peasants and fishermen, who, of course, are just as good as -anybody else, if you make up your mind to it, and understand their ways. -But I am not abnormal,” Constance said, her colour rising a little. “I -want the society of my own kind. It seems unnatural to you, probably, -just as your way of thinking seems unnatural to me.” - -“I have seen both ways,” said Waring, in his turn becoming animated; -“and so far as my opinion goes, the peasants and fishermen are a -thousand times better than what you call Society; and solitude, with -one’s own thoughts and pursuits, the best of all.” - -There was a momentary pause, and then Constance said, “That may be, -papa. What is best in the abstract is not the question. In that way, -mere nothing would be the best of all, for there could be no harm in -it.” - -“Nor any good.” - -“That is what I mean on my side--nor any good. It might be better to be -alone--then (I suppose) you would never be bored, never feel the need of -anything, the mere sound of a voice, some one going by. That may be -your way of thinking, but it is not mine. If one has no society, one had -better die at once and save trouble. That is what I should like to do.” - -A certain feminine confusion in her argument, produced by haste and the -stealing in of personal feeling, stopped Constance, who was too -clear-headed not to see when she had got involved. Her confusion had the -usual effect of touching her temper and causing a little crise of -sentiment. The tears came to her eyes. She could be heroic, and veil her -personal grievances like a social martyr so long as this was necessary -in presence of the world; but in the present case it was not necessary: -it was better, in fact, to let nature have its way. - -“That will not be necessary, I hope,” said Waring, somewhat coldly. He -thought of Frances with a sigh, who never bothered him, who was -contented with everything! and carried on her own little thoughts, -whatever they might be, her little drawings, her little life, so -tranquilly, knowing nothing better. What was he to do, with the -responsibility upon his hands of this other creature? whom all the same -he could not shake off, nor even--as a gentleman, if not as a -father--allow to perceive what an embarrassment she was. “Without going -so far,” he said, “we must consult what is best to be done, since you -feel it so keenly. My ordinary habits even of _villeggiatura_ would not -please you any better than staying at home, I fear. We used to go up to -Dolceacqua, Frances and I; or to Eza; or to Porto Fino, on the opposite -coast,--at no one of which places was there a soul--as you reckon -souls--to be seen.” - -“That is a great pity,” said Constance; “for even Frances, though she -may have been a Stoic born, must have wanted to see a human creature who -spoke English now and then.” - -“A Stoic! It never occurred to me that she was a Stoic,” said Waring, -with astonishment, and a sudden sense of offence. The idea that his -little Frances was not perfectly happy, that she had anything to put up -with, anything to forgive, was intolerable to him; and it was a new -idea. He reflected that she had consented to go away with an ease which -surprised him at the time. Was it possible? This suggestion disturbed -him much in his certainty that his was absolutely the right way. - -“If all these expedients are unsatisfactory,” he said, sharply, “perhaps -you will come to my assistance, and tell me where you would be satisfied -to go.” - -“Papa,” said Constance, “I am going to make a suggestion which is a very -bold one; perhaps you will be angry--but I don’t do it to make you -angry; and, please, don’t answer me till you have thought a moment. It -is just this--Why shouldn’t we go home?” - -“Go home!” The words flew from him in the shock and wonder. He grew pale -as he stared at her, too much thunderstruck to be angry, as she said. - -Constance put up her hand to stop him. “I said, please don’t answer till -you have thought.” - -And then they sat for a minute or more looking at each other from -opposite sides of the table--in that pause which comes when a new and -strange thought has been thrown into the midst of a turmoil which it has -power to excite or to allay. Waring went through a great many phases of -feeling while he looked at his young daughter sitting undaunted opposite -to him, not afraid of him, treating him as no one else had done for -years--as an equal, as a reasonable being, whose wishes were not to be -deferred to superstitiously, but whose reasons for what he did and said -were to be put to the test, as in the case of other men. And he knew -that he could not beat down this cool and self-possessed girl, as -fathers can usually crush the young creatures whom they have had it in -their power to reprove and correct from their cradles. Constance was an -independent intelligence. She was a gentlewoman, to whom he could not be -rude any more than to the Queen. This hushed at once the indignant -outcry on his lips. He said at last, calmly enough, with only a little -sneer piercing through his forced smile, “We must take care, like other -debaters, to define what we mean exactly by the phrases we use. Home, -for example. What do you mean by home? My home, in the ordinary sense of -the word, is here.” - -“My dear father,” said Constance, with the air, somewhat exasperated by -his folly, of a philosopher with a neophyte, “I wish you would put the -right names to things. Yes, it is quite necessary to define, as you say. -How can an Englishman, with all his duties in his own country, deriving -his income from it, with houses belonging to him, and relations, and -everything that makes up life--how can he, I ask you, say that home, in -the ordinary sense of the word, is here? What is the ordinary sense of -the word?” she said, after a pause--looking at him with the indignant -frown of good sense, and that little air of repressed exasperation, as -of the wiser towards the foolisher, which made Waring, in the midst of -his own just anger and equally just discomfiture, feel a certain -amusement too. He kept his temper with the greatest pains and care. -Domenico had left the room when the discussion began, and the lamp which -hung over the table lighted impartially the girl’s animated countenance, -pressing forward in the strength of a position which she felt to be -invulnerable, and the father’s clouded and withdrawing face,--for he -had taken his eyes from her, with unconscious cowardice, when she fixed -him with that unwavering gaze. - -“I will allow that you put the position very strongly--as well as a -little undutifully,” he said. - -“Undutifully? Is it one’s duty to one’s father to be silly--to give up -one’s power of judging what is wrong and what is right? I am sure, papa, -you are much too candid a thinker to suggest that.” - -What could he say? He was very angry; but this candid thinker took him -quite at unawares. It tickled while it defied him. And he was a very -candid thinker, as she said. Perhaps he had been treated illogically in -the great crisis of his life; for, as a matter of fact, when an argument -was set before him, when it was a good argument, even if it told against -him, he would never refuse to acknowledge it. And conscience, perhaps, -had said to him on various occasions what his daughter now said. He -could bring forward nothing against it. He could only say, I choose it -to be so; and this would bear no weight with Constance. “You are not a -bad dialectician,” he said. “Where did you learn your logic? Women are -not usually strong in that point.” - -“Women are said to be just what it pleases men to represent them,” said -Constance. “Listen, papa. Frances would not have said that to you that I -have just said. But don’t you know that she would have thought it all -the same? Because it is quite evident and certain, you know. What did -you say the other day of that Italian, that Count something or other, -who has the castle there on the hill, and never comes near it from one -year’s end to another?” - -“That is quite a different matter. There is no reason why he should not -spend a part of every year there.” - -“And what reason is there with you? Only what ought to be an additional -reason for going--that you have----” Here Constance paused a little, and -grew pale. And her father looked up at her, growing pale too, -anticipating a crisis. Another word, and he would be able to crush this -young rebel, this meddler with things which concerned her not. But -Constance was better advised; she said, hurriedly--“relations and -dependants, and ever so many things to look to--things that cannot be -settled without you.” - -“And what may these be?” He had been so fully prepared for the -introduction at this point of the mother, from whom Constance, too, had -fled--the wife, who was, as he said to himself, the cause of all that -was inharmonious in his own life--that the withdrawal of her name left -him breathless, with the force of an impulse which was not needed. “What -are the things that cannot be settled without me?” - -“Well--for one thing, papa, your daughter’s marriage,” said Constance, -still looking at him steadily, but with a sudden glow of colour covering -her face. - -“My daughter’s marriage?” he repeated, vaguely, once more taken by -surprise. “What! has Frances already, in the course of a few weeks----?” - -“It is very probable,” said Constance, calmly. “But I was not thinking -of Frances. Perhaps you forget that I am your daughter too, and that -your sanction is needed for me as well as for her.” - -Here Waring leant towards her over the table. “Is this how it has -ended?” he said. “Have you really so little perception of what is -possible for a girl of your breeding, as to think that a life in India -with young Gaunt----?” - -Constance grew crimson from her hair to the edge of her white dress. -“Captain Gaunt?” she said, for the first time avoiding her father’s eye. -Then she burst into a laugh, which she felt was weak and half hysterical -in its self-consciousness. “Oh no,” she said; “that was only -amusement--that was nothing. I hope, indeed, I have a little -more--perception, as you say. What I meant was----” Her eyes took a -softened look, almost of entreaty, as if she wanted him to help her out. - -“I did not know you had any second string to your bow,” he said. Now was -his time to avenge himself, and he took advantage of it. - -“Papa,” said Constance, drawing herself up majestically, “I have no -second string to my bow. I have made a mistake. It is a thing which may -happen to any one. But when one does so, and sees it, the thing to do is -to acknowledge and remedy it, I think. Some people, I am aware, are not -of the same opinion. But I, for one, am not going to keep it up.” - -“You refer to--a mistake which has not been acknowledged?” - -“Papa, don’t let us quarrel, you and me. I am very lonely--oh, -dreadfully lonely! I want you to stand by me. What I refer to is my -affair, not any one’s else. I find out now that Claude--of course I told -you his name--Claude--would suit me very well--better than any one else. -There are drawbacks, perhaps; but I understand him, and he understands -me. That is the great thing, isn’t it?” - -“It is a great thing--if it lasts.” - -“Oh, it would last. I know him as well as I know myself.” - -“I see,” said Waring, slowly. “You have made up your mind to return to -England, and accomplish the destiny laid out for you. A very wise -resolution, no doubt. It is only a pity that you did not think better of -it at first, instead of turning my life upside down and causing -everybody so much trouble. Never mind. It is to be hoped that your -resolution will hold now; and there need be no more trouble in that -case about finding a place in which to pass the summer. _You_ are going, -I presume--home?” - -This time the tears came very visibly to Constance’s eyes. There was -impatience and vexation in them, as well as feeling. “Where is home?” -she said. “I will have to ask you. The home I have been used to is my -sister’s now. Oh, it is hard, I see, very hard, when you have made a -mistake once, to mend it! The only home that I know of is an old house -where the master has not been for a long time--which is all overgrown -with trees, and tumbling into ruins for anything I know. But I suppose, -unless you forbid me, that I have a right to go there--and perhaps aunt -Caroline----” - -“Of what are you speaking?” he said, making an effort to keep his voice -steady. - -“I am speaking of Hilborough, papa.” - -At this he sprang up from his chair, as if touched by some intolerable -recollection; then composing himself, sat down again, putting force upon -himself, restraining the sudden impulse of excitement. After a time, he -said, “Hilborough. I had almost forgotten the name.” - -“Yes,--so I thought. You forget that you have a home, which is cooler -and quieter, as quiet as any of your villages here--where you could be -as solitary as you liked, or see people if you liked--where you are the -natural master. Oh, I thought you must have forgotten it! In summer it -is delightful. You are in the middle of a wood, and yet you are in a -nice English house. Oh, an _English_ house is very different from those -Palazzos. Papa, there is your _villeggiatura_, as you call it, just what -you want, far, far better than Mrs Durant’s cheap little place, that she -asked me to tell you of, or Mrs Gaunt’s _pension_ in Switzerland, or -Homburg. They think you are poor; but you know quite well you are not -poor. Take me to Hilborough, papa; oh, take me home! It is there I want -to go.” - -“Hilborough,” he repeated to himself--“Hilborough. I never thought of -that. I suppose she _has_ a right to it. Poor old place! Yes, I suppose, -if the girl chooses to call it home----” - -He rose up quite slowly this time, and went, as was his usual custom, -towards the door which led through the other rooms to the loggia, but -without paying any attention to the movements of Constance, which he -generally followed instead of directing. She rose too, and went to him, -and stole her hand through his arm. The awning had been put aside, and -the soft night-air blew in their faces as they stepped out upon that -terrace in which so much of their lives was spent. The sea shone beyond -the roofs of the houses on the Marina, and swept outwards in a pale -clearness towards the sky, which was soft in summer blue, with the stars -sprinkled faintly over the vast vault, too much light still remaining in -heaven and earth to show them at their best. Constance walked with her -father, close to his side, holding his arm, almost as tall as he was, -and keeping step and pace with him. She said nothing more, but stood by -him as he walked to the ledge of the loggia and looked out towards the -west, where there was still a lingering touch of gold. He was not at all -in the habit of expressing admiration of the landscape, but to-night, as -if he were making a remark called forth by the previous argument, “It is -all very lovely,” he said. - -“Yes; but not more lovely than home,” said the girl. “I have been at -Hilborough in a summer night, and everything was so sweet--the stars all -looking through the trees as if they were watching the house--and the -scent of the flowers. Don’t you remember the white rose at -Hilborough--what they call Mother’s tree?” - -He started a little, and a thrill ran through him. She could feel it in -his arm--a thrill of recollection, of things beyond the warfare and -turmoil of his life, on the other, the boyish side--recollections of -quiet and of peace. - -“I think I will go to my own room a little, Constance, and smoke my -cigarette there. You have brought a great many things to my mind.” - -She gave his arm a close pressure before she let it go. “Oh, take me to -Hilborough! Let us go to our own home, papa.” - -“I will think of it,” he replied. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - - -Frances ate a mournful little dinner alone, after the agitations to -which she had been subject. Her mother did not return; and Markham, who -had been expected up to the last moment, did not appear. It was unusual -to her now to spend so many hours alone, and her mind was oppressed not -only by the strange scene with Nelly Winterbourn, but more deeply still -by Claude’s news. George Gaunt had always been a figure of great -interest to Frances; and his appearance here in the world which was as -yet so strange, with his grave, indeed melancholy face, had awakened her -to a sense of sympathy and friendliness which no one had called forth in -her before. He was as strange as she was to that dazzling puzzle of -society, sat silent as she did, roused himself into interest like her -about matters which did not much interest anybody else. She had felt -amid so many strangers that here was one whom she could always -understand, whose thoughts she could follow, who said what she had been -about to say. It made no difference to Frances that he had not signalled -her out for special notice. She took that quietly, as a matter of -course. Her mother, Markham, the other people who appeared and -disappeared in the house, were all more interesting, she felt, than she; -but sometimes her eyes had met those of Captain Gaunt in sympathy, and -she had perceived that he could understand her, whether he wished to do -so or not. And then he was Mrs Gaunt’s youngest, of whom she had heard -so much. It seemed to Frances that his childhood and her own had got all -entangled, so that she could not be quite sure whether this and that -incident of the nursery had been told of him or of herself. She was more -familiar with him than he could be with her. And to hear that he was -unhappy, that he was in danger, a stranger among people who preyed upon -him, and yet not to be able to help him, was almost more than she could -bear. - -She went up to the empty drawing-room, with the soft illumination of -many lights, which was habitual there, which lay all decorated and -bright, sweet with spring flowers, full of pictures and ornaments, like -a deserted palace, and she felt the silence and beauty of it to be -dreary and terrible. It was like a desert to her, or rather like a -prison, in which she must stay and wait and listen, and, whatever might -come, do nothing to hinder it. What could she do? A girl could not go -out into those haunts, where Claude Ramsay, though he was so delicate, -could go; she could not put herself forward, and warn a man, who would -think he knew much better than she could do. She sat down and tried to -read, and then got up, and glided about from one table to another, from -one picture to another, looking vaguely at a score of things without -seeing them. Then she stole within the shadow of the curtain, and looked -out at the carriages which went and came, now and then drawing up at -adjacent doors. It made her heart beat to see them approaching, to think -that perhaps they were coming here--her mother perhaps; perhaps Sir -Thomas; perhaps Markham. Was it possible that this night, of all -others--this night, when her heart seemed to appeal to earth and heaven -for some one to help her--nobody would come? It was Frances’ first -experience of these vigils, which to some women fill up so much of life. -There had never been any anxiety at Bordighera, any disturbing -influence. She had always known where to find her father, who could -solve every problem and chase away every difficulty. Would he, she -wondered, be able to do so now? Would he, if he were here, go out for -her, and find George Gaunt, and deliver him from his pursuers? But -Frances could not say to herself that he would have done so. He was not -fond of disturbing himself. He would have said, “It is not my business;” -he would have refused to interfere, as Claude did. And what could she -do, a girl, by herself? Lady Markham had been very anxious to keep him -out of harm’s way; but she had said plainly that she would not forsake -her own son in order to save the son of another woman. Frances was -wandering painfully through labyrinths of such thoughts, racking her -brain with vain questions as to what it was possible to do, when -Markham’s hansom, stopping with a sudden clang at the door, drove her -thoughts away, or at least made a break in them, and replaced, by a -nervous tremor of excitement and alarm, the pangs of anxious expectation -and suspense. She would rather not have seen Markham at that moment. She -was fond of her brother. It grieved her to hear even Lady Markham speak -of him in questionable terms: all the natural prejudices of affectionate -youth were enlisted on his side; but, for the first time, she felt that -she had no confidence in Markham, and wished that it had been any one -but he. - -He came in with a light overcoat over his evening clothes,--he had been -dining out; but he did not meet Frances with the unembarrassed -countenance which she had thought would have made it so difficult to -speak to him about what she had heard. He came in hurriedly, looking -round the drawing-room with a rapid investigating glance before he took -any notice of her. “Where is the mother?” he asked, hurriedly. - -“She has not come back,” said Frances, divining from his look that it -was unnecessary to say more. - -Markham sat down abruptly on a sofa near. He did not make any reply to -her, but put up the handle of his cane to his mouth with a curious -mixture of the comic and the tragic, which struck her in spite of -herself. He did not require to put any question; he knew very well where -his mother was, and all that was happening. The sense of the great -crisis which had arrived took from him all power of speech, paralysing -him with mingled awe and dismay. But yet the odd little figure on the -sofa sucking his cane, his hat in his other hand, his features all -fallen into bewilderment and helplessness, was absurd. Out of the depths -of Frances’ trouble came a hysterical titter against her will. This -roused him also. He looked at her with a faint evanescent smile. - -“Laughing at me, Fan? Well, I don’t wonder. I am a nice fellow to have -to do with a tragedy. Screaming farce is more like my style.” - -“I did not laugh, Markham; I have not any heart for laughing,” she -said. - -“Oh, didn’t you? But it sounded like it. Fan, tell me, has the mother -been long away, and did any one see that unfortunate girl when she was -here?” - -“No, Markham--unless it were Mr Ramsay; he saw her drive away with -mamma.” - -“The worst of old gossips,” he said, desperately sucking his cane, with -a gloomy brow. “I don’t know an old woman so bad. No quarter there--that -is the word. Fan, the mother is a trump. Nothing is so bad when she is -mixed up in it. Was Nelly much cut up, or was she in one of her wild -fits? Poor girl! You must not think badly of Nelly. She has had hard -lines. She never had a chance: an old brute, used up, that no woman -could take to. But she has done her duty by him, Fan.” - -“She does not think so, Markham.” - -“Oh, by Jove, she was giving you that, was she? Fan, I sometimes think -poor Nelly’s off her head a little. Poor Nelly, poor girl! I don’t want -to set her up for an example; but she has done her duty by him. Remember -this, whatever you may hear. I--am rather a good one to know.” - -He gave a curious little chuckle as he said this--a sort of strangled -laugh, of which he was ashamed, and stifled it in its birth. - -“Markham, I want to speak to you--about something very serious.” - -He gave a keen look at her sideways from the corner of one eye. Then he -said, in a sort of whisper to himself, “Preaching;” but added in his own -voice, “Fire away, Fan,” with a look of resignation. - -“Markham--it is about Captain Gaunt.” - -“Oh!” he cried. He gave a little laugh. “You frightened me, my dear. I -thought at this time of the day you were going to give me a sermon from -the depths of your moral experience, Fan. So long as it isn’t about poor -Nelly, say what you please about Gaunt. What about Gaunt?” - -“Oh, Markham, Mr Ramsay told me--and mamma has been frightened ever -since he came. What have you done with him, Markham? Don’t you remember -the old General at Bordighera--and his mother? And he had just come from -India, for his holiday, after years and years. And they are poor--that -is to say, they are well enough off for them; but they are not like -mamma and you. They have not got horses and carriages; they don’t -live--as you do.” - -“As I do! I am the poorest little beggar living, and that is the truth, -Fan.” - -“The poorest! Markham, you may think you can laugh at me. I am not -clever; I am quite ignorant--that I know. But how can you say you are -poor? You don’t know what it is to be poor. When they go away in the -summer, they choose little quiet places; they spare everything they can. -That is one thing I know better than you do. To say you are poor!” - -He rose up and came towards her, and taking her hands in his, gave them -a squeeze which was painful, though he was unconscious of it. “Fan,” he -said, “all that is very pretty, and true for you; but if I hadn’t been -poor, do you think all this would have happened as it has done? Do you -think I’d have stood by and let Nelly marry that fellow? Do you -think----? Hush! there’s the mother, with news; no doubt she’s got news. -Fan, what d’ye think it’ll be?” - -He held her hands tight, and pressed them till she had almost cried out, -looking in her face with a sort of nervous smile which twitched at the -corners of his mouth, looking in her eyes as if into a mirror where he -could see the reflection of something, and so be spared the pain of -looking directly at it. She saw that the subject which was of so much -interest to her had passed clean out of his head. His own affairs were -uppermost in Markham’s mind, as is generally the case whenever a man can -be supposed to have any affairs at all of his own. - -And Frances, kept in this position, as a sort of mirror in which he -could see the reflection of his mother’s face, saw Lady Markham come in, -looking very pale and fatigued, with that air of having worn her outdoor -dress for hours which gives a sort of haggard aspect to weariness. She -gave a glance round, evidently without perceiving very clearly who was -there, then sank wearily upon the sofa, loosening her cloak. “It is all -over,” she said in a low tone, as if speaking to herself--“it is all -over. Of course I could not come away before----” - -Markham let go Frances’ hands without a word. He walked away to the -further window, and drew the curtain aside and looked out. Why, he could -not have told, nor with what purpose--with a vague intention of making -sure that the hansom which stood there so constantly was at the door. - -“What is Markham doing?” said his mother, in a faint querulous tone. -“Tell him not to fidget with these curtains. It worries me. I am tired, -and my nerves are all wrong. Yes, you can take my cloak, Frances. Don’t -call anybody. No one will come here to-night. Markham, did you hear what -I said? It is all over. I waited till----” - -He came towards her from the end of the room with a sort of smile upon -his grey sandy-coloured face, his mouth and eyebrows twitching, his eyes -screwed up so that nothing but two keen little glimmers of reflection -were visible. “You are not the sort,” he said, with a little tremor in -his voice, “to forsake a man when he is down.” He had his hands in his -pockets, his shoulders pushed up; nowhere could there have been seen a -less tragic figure. Yet every line of his odd face was touched and -moving with feeling, totally beyond any power of expression in words. - -“It was not a happy scene,” she said. “He sent for her at the last. -Sarah Winterbourn was there at the bedside. She was fond of him, I -believe. A woman cannot help being fond of her brother, however little -he may deserve it. Nelly----” - -Here Markham broke in with a sound that was like, yet not like, his -usual laugh. “How’s Nelly?” he said abruptly, without sequence or -reason. Lady Markham paused to look at him, and then went on-- - -“Nelly trembled so, I could scarcely keep her up. She wanted not to go; -she said, What was the good? But I got her persuaded at last. A man -dying like that is a--is a---- It is not a pleasant sight. He signed to -her to go and kiss him.” Lady Markham shuddered slightly. “He was past -speaking--I mean, he was past understanding---- I--I wish I had not seen -it. One can’t get such a scene out of one’s mind.” - -She put up her hand and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, as if the -picture was there, and she was trying to get rid of it. Markham had -turned away again, and was examining, or seeming to examine, the flowers -in a jardinière. Now and then he made a movement, as if he would have -stopped the narrative. Frances, trembling and crying with natural horror -and distress, had loosened her mother’s cloak and taken off her bonnet -while she went on speaking. Lady Markham’s hair, though always covered -with a cap, was as brown and smooth as her daughter’s. Frances put her -hand upon it timidly, and smoothed the satin braid. It was all she could -do to show the emotion, the sympathy in her heart; and she was as much -startled in mind as physically, when Lady Markham suddenly threw one arm -round her and rested her head upon her shoulder. “Thank God,” the mother -cried, “that here is one, whatever may happen, that will never, -never----! Frances, my love, don’t mind what I say. I am worn out, and -good for nothing. Go and get me a little wine, for I have no strength -left in me.” - -Markham turned to her with his chuckle more marked than ever, as Frances -left the room. “I am glad to see that you have strength to remember what -you’re about, mammy, in spite of that little break-down. It wouldn’t -do, would it?--to let Frances believe that a match like Winterbourn was -a thing she would never--never----! though it wasn’t amiss for poor -Nelly, in _her_ day.” - -“Markham, you are very hard upon me. The child did not understand either -one thing or the other. And I was not to blame about Nelly; you cannot -say I was to blame. If I had been, I think to-night might make up: that -ghastly face, and Nelly’s close to it, with her eyes staring in horror, -the poor little mouth----” - -Markham’s exclamation was short and sharp like a pistol-shot. It was a -monosyllable, but not one to be put into print. “Stop that!” he said. -“It can do no good going over it. Who’s with her now?” - -“I could not stay, Markham; besides, it would have been out of place. -She has her maid, who is very kind to her; and I made them give her a -sleeping-draught--to make her forget her trouble. Sarah Winterbourn -laughed out when I asked for it. The doctor was shocked. It was so -natural that poor little Nelly, who never saw anything so ghastly, -never was in the house with death; never saw, much less touched----” - -“I can understand Sarah,” he said, with a grim smile. - -Frances came back with the wine, and her mother paused to kiss her as -she took it from her hand. “I am sure you have had a wearing, miserable -evening. You look quite pale, my dear. I ought not to speak of such -horrid things before you at your age. But you see, Markham, she saw -Nelly, and heard her wild talk. It was all excitement and misery and -overstrain; for in reality she had nothing to reproach herself -with--nothing, Frances. He proved that by sending for her, as I tell -you. He knew, and everybody knows, that poor Nelly had done her duty by -him.” - -Frances paid little attention to this strange defence. She was, as her -mother knew, yet could scarcely believe, totally incapable of -comprehending the grounds on which Nelly was so strongly asserted to -have done her duty, or of understanding that not to have wronged her -husband in one unpardonable way, gave her a claim upon the applause of -her fellows. Fortunately, indeed, Frances was defended against all -questions on this subject by the possession of that unsuspected trouble -of her own, of which she felt that for the night at least it was futile -to say anything. Nelly was the only subject upon which her mother could -speak, or for which Markham had any ears. They did not say anything, -either after Frances left them or in her presence, of the future, of -which, no doubt, their minds were full--of which Nelly’s mind had been -so full when she burst into Lady Markham’s room in her finery, on that -very day; of what was to happen after, what “the widow”--that name -against which she so rebelled, but which was already fixed upon her in -all the clubs and drawing-rooms--was to do? that was a question which -was not openly put to each other by the two persons chiefly concerned. - -When Markham appeared in his usual haunts that night, he was aware of -being regarded with many significant looks; but these he was of course -prepared for, and met with a countenance in which it would have puzzled -the wisest to find any special expression. - -Lady Markham went to bed as soon as her son left her. She had said she -could receive no one, being much fatigued. “My lady have been with Mrs -Winterbourn,” was the answer made to Sir Thomas when he came to the door -late, after a tedious debate in the House of Commons. Sir Thomas, like -everybody, was full of speculations on this point, though he regarded it -from a point of view different from the popular one. The world was -occupied with the question whether Nelly would marry Markham, now that -she was rich and free. But what occupied Sir Thomas, who had no doubt on -this subject, was the--afterwards? What would Lady Markham do? Was it -not now at last the moment for Waring to come home? - -In Lady Markham’s mind, some similar thoughts were afloat. She had said -that she was fatigued; but fatigue does not mean sleep, at least not at -Lady Markham’s age. It means retirement, silence, and leisure for the -far more fatiguing exertion of thought. When her maid had been -dismissed, and the faint night-lamp was all that was left in her -curtained, cushioned, luxurious room, the questions that arose in her -mind were manifold. Markham’s marriage would make a wonderful difference -in his mother’s life. Her house in Eaton Square she would no doubt -retain; but the lovely little house in the Isle of Wight, which had been -always hers--and the solemn establishment in the country, would be hers -no more. These two things of themselves would make a great difference. -But what was of still more consequence was, that Markham himself would -be hers no more. He would belong to his wife. It was impossible to -believe of him that he could ever be otherwise than affectionate and -kind; but what a difference when Markham was no longer one of the -household! And then the husband, so long cut off, so far separated, much -by distance, more by the severance of all the habits and mutual claims -which bind people together--with him what would follow? What would be -the effect of the change? Questions like these, diversified by perpetual -efforts of imagination to bring before her again the tragical scene of -which she had been a witness,--the dying man, with his hoarse attempts -to be intelligible; the young, haggard, horrified countenance of Nelly, -compelled to approach the awful figure, for which she had a child’s -dread,--kept her awake long into the night. It is seldom that a woman of -her age sees herself on the eve of such changes without any will of -hers. It seemed to have overwhelmed her in a moment, although, indeed, -she had foreseen the catastrophe. What would Nelly do? was the question -all the world was asking. But Lady Markham had another which occupied -her as much on her own side. Waring, what would he do? - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - - -The question which disturbed Frances, which nobody knew or cared for, -was just as little likely to gain attention next day as it had been on -the evening of Mr Winterbourn’s death. Lady Markham returned to Nelly -before breakfast; she was with her most of the day; and Markham, though -he lent an apparent attention to what Frances said to him, was still far -too much absorbed in his own subject to be easily moved by hers. “Gaunt? -Oh, he is all right,” he said. - -“Will you speak to him, Markham? Will you warn him? Mr Ramsay says he is -losing all his money; and I know, oh Markham, I _know_ that he has not -much to lose.” - -“Claude is a little meddler. I assure you, Fan, Gaunt knows his own -affairs best.” - -“No,” cried Frances: “when I tell you, Markham, when I tell you! that -they are quite poor, _really_ poor--not like you.” - -“I have told you, my little dear, that I am the poorest beggar in -London.” - -“Oh Markham! and you drive about in hansoms, and smoke cigars, all day.” - -“Well, my dear, what would you have me do? Keep on trudging through the -mud, which would waste all my time; or get on the knife-board of an -omnibus? Well, these are the only alternatives. The omnibuses have their -recommendation--they are fun; but after a while, society in that -development palls upon the intelligent observer. What do you want me to -do, Fan? Come, I have a deal on my mind; but to please you, and to make -you hold your tongue, if there is anything I can do, I will try.” - -“You can do everything, Markham. Warn him that he is wasting his -money--that he is spending what belongs to the old people--that he is -making himself wretched. Oh, don’t laugh, Markham! Oh, if I were in your -place! I know what I should do--I would get him to go home, instead of -going to--those places.” - -“Which places, Fan?” - -“Oh,” cried the girl, exasperated to tears, “how can I tell?--the places -you know--the places you have taken him to, Markham--places where, if -the poor General knew it, or Mrs Gaunt----” - -“There you are making a mistake, little Fan. The good people would think -their son was in very fine company. If he tells them the names of the -persons he meets, they will think----” - -“Then you know they will think wrong, Markham!” she cried, almost with -violence, keeping herself with a most strenuous effort from an outburst -of indignant weeping. He did not reply at once; and she thought he was -about to consider the question on its merits, and endeavour to find out -what he could do. But she was undeceived when he spoke. - -“What day did you say, Fan, the funeral was to be?” he asked, with the -air of a man who has escaped from an unwelcome intrusion to the real -subject of his thoughts. - -Sir Thomas found her alone, flushed and miserable, drying her tears -with a feverish little angry hand. She was very much alone during these -days, when Lady Markham was so often with Nelly Winterbourn. Sir Thomas -was pleased to find her, having also an object of his own. He soothed -her, when he saw that she had been crying. “Never mind me,” he said; -“but you must not let other people see that you are feeling it so much: -for you cannot be supposed to take any particular interest in -Winterbourn: and people will immediately suppose that you and your -mother are troubled about the changes that must take place in the -house.” - -“I was not thinking at all of Mrs Winterbourn,” cried Frances, with -indignation. - -“No, my dear; I knew you could not be. Don’t let any one but me see you -crying. Lady Markham will feel the marriage dreadfully, I know. But now -is our time for our grand _coup_.” - -“What grand _coup_?” the girl said, with an astonished look. - -“Have you forgotten what I said to you at the Priory? One of the chief -objects of my life is to bring Waring back. It is intolerable to think -that a man of his abilities should be banished for ever, and lost not -only to his country but his kind. Even if he were working for the good -of the race out there---- But he is doing nothing but antiquities, so -far as I can hear, and there are plenty of antiquarians good for nothing -else. Frances, we must have him home.” - -“Home!” she said. Her heart went back with a bound to the rooms in the -Palazzo with all the green _persiani_ shut, and everything dark and -cool: it was getting warm in London, but there were no such precautions -taken. And the loggia at night, with the palm-trees waving majestically -their long drooping fans, and the soft sound of the sea coming over the -houses of the Marina--ah, and the happy want of thought, the pleasant -vacancy, in which nothing ever happened! She drew a long breath. “I -ought not to say so, perhaps; but when you say home----” - -“You think of the place where you were brought up? That is quite -natural. But it would not be the same to him. He was not brought up -there; he can have nothing to interest him there. Depend upon it, he -must very often wish that he could pocket his pride and come back. We -must try to get him back, Frances. Don’t you think, my dear, that we -could manage it, you and I?” - -Frances shook her head, and said she did not know. “But I should be very -glad--oh, very glad: if I am to stay here,” she said. - -“Of course you would be glad; and of course you are to stay here. You -could not leave your poor mother by herself. And now that Markham--now -that probably everything will be changed for Markham---- If Markham were -out of the way, it would be so much easier; for, you know, he always was -the stumbling-block. She would not let Waring manage him, and she could -not manage him herself.” - -Frances was so far instructed in what was going on around her, that she -knew how important in Markham’s history the death of Mr Winterbourn had -been; but it was not a subject on which she could speak. She said: “I am -very sorry papa did not like Markham. It does not seem possible not to -like Markham. But I suppose gentlemen---- Oh, Sir Thomas, if he were -here, I would ask papa to do something for me; but now I don’t know who -to ask to help me--if anything can be done.” - -“Is it something I can do?” - -“I think,” she said, “any one that was kind could do it; but only not a -girl. Girls are good for so little. Do you remember Captain Gaunt, who -came to town a few weeks ago? Sir Thomas, I have heard that something -has happened to Captain Gaunt. I don’t know how to tell you. Perhaps you -will think that it is not my business; but don’t you think it is your -friend’s business, when you get into trouble? Don’t you think that--that -people who know you--who care a little for you--should always be ready -to help?” - -“That is a hard question to put to me. In the abstract, yes; but in -particular cases---- Is it Captain Gaunt for whom you care a little?” - -Frances hesitated a moment, and then she answered boldly: “Yes--at least -I care for his people a great deal. And he has come home from India, -not very strong; and he knew nothing about--about what you call Society; -no more than I did. And now I hear that he is--I don’t know how to tell -you, Sir Thomas--losing all his money (and he has not any money) in the -places where Markham goes--in the places that Markham took him to. Oh, -wait till I have told you everything, Sir Thomas! they are not rich -people,--not like any of you here. Markham says he is poor----” - -“So he is, Frances.” - -“Ah,” she cried, with hasty contempt, “but you don’t understand! He may -not have much money; but they--they live in a little house with two -maids and Toni. They have no luxuries or grandeur. When they take a -drive in old Luca’s carriage, it is something to think about. All that -is quite, quite different from you people here. Don’t you see, Sir -Thomas, don’t you see? And Captain Gaunt has been--oh, I don’t know how -it is--losing his money; and he has not got any--and he is -miserable--and I cannot get any one to take an interest, to tell him--to -warn him, to get him to give up----” - -“Did he tell you all this himself?” said Sir Thomas, gravely. - -“Oh no, not a word. It was Mr Ramsay who told me; and when I begged him -to say something, to warn him----” - -“He could not do that. There he was quite right; and you were quite -wrong, if you will let me say so. It is too common a case, alas! I don’t -know what any one can do.” - -“Oh, Sir Thomas! if you will think of the old General and his mother, -who love him more than all the rest--for he is the youngest. Oh, won’t -you do something, try something, to save him?” Frances clasped her -hands, as if in prayer. She raised her eyes to his face with such an -eloquence of entreaty, that his heart was touched. Not only was her -whole soul in the petition for the sake of him who was in peril, but it -was full of boundless confidence and trust in the man to whom she -appealed. The other plea might have failed; but this last can scarcely -fail to affect the mind of any individual to whom it is addressed. - -Sir Thomas put his hand on her shoulder with fatherly tenderness. “My -dear little girl,” he said, “what do you think I can do? I don’t know -what I can do. I am afraid I should only make things worse, were I to -interfere.” - -“No, no. He is not like that. He would know you were a friend. He would -be thankful. And oh, how thankful, how thankful I should be!” - -“Frances, do you take, then, so great an interest in this young man? Do -you want me to look after him for your sake?” - -She looked at him hastily with an eager “Yes”--then paused a little, and -looked again with a dawning understanding which brought the colour to -her cheek. “You mean something more than I mean,” she said, a little -troubled. “But yet, if you will be kind to George Gaunt, and try to help -him, for my sake---- Yes, oh, yes! Why should I refuse? I would not have -asked you if I had not thought that perhaps you would do it--for me.” - -“I would do a great deal for you; for your mother’s daughter, much; and -for poor Waring’s child; and again, for yourself. But, Frances, a young -man who is so weak, who falls into temptation in this way--my dear, you -must let me say it--he is not a mate for such as you.” - -“For me? Oh no. No one thought--no one ever thought----” cried Frances -hastily. “Sir Thomas, I hear mamma coming, and I do not want to trouble -her, for she has so much to think of? Will you? Oh, promise me. Look for -him to-night; oh, look for him to-night!” - -“You are so sure that I can be of use?” The trust in her eyes was so -genuine, so enthusiastic, that he could not resist that flattery. “Yes, -I will try. I will see what it is possible to do. And you, Frances, -remember you are pledged, too; you are to do everything you can for me.” - -He was patting her on the shoulder, looking down upon her with very -friendly tender eyes, when Lady Markham came in. She was a little -startled by the group; but though she was tired and discomposed and out -of heart, she was not so preoccupied but what her quick mind caught a -new suggestion from it. Sir Thomas was very rich. He had been devoted to -herself, in all honour and kindness, for many years. What if -Frances----? A whole train of new ideas burst into her mind on the -moment, although she had thought, as she came in, that in the present -chaos and hurry of her spirits she had room for nothing more. - -“You look,” she said with a smile, “as if you were settling something. -What is it? An alliance, a league?” - -“Offensive and defensive,” said Sir Thomas. “We have given each other -mutual commissions, and we are great friends, as you see. But these are -our little secrets, which we don’t mean to tell. How is Nelly, Lady -Markham? And is it all right about the will?” - -“The will is the least of my cares. I could not inquire into that, as -you may suppose; nor is there any need, so far as I know. Nelly is quite -enough to have on one’s hands, without thinking of the will. She is very -nervous and very headstrong. She would have rushed away out of the -house, if I had not used--almost force. She cannot bear to be under the -same roof with death.” - -“It was the old way. I scarcely wonder, for my part: for it was never -pretended, I suppose, that there was any love in the matter.” - -“Oh no” (Lady Markham looked at her own elderly knight and at her young -daughter, and said to herself, What if Frances----?); “there was no -love. But she has always been very good, and done her duty by him--that, -everybody will say.” - -“Poor Nelly!--that is quite true. But still I should not like, if I were -such a fool as to marry a young wife, to have her do her duty to me in -that way.” - -“You would be very different,” said Lady Markham with a smile. “I should -not think you a fool at all; and I should think her a lucky woman.” She -said this with Nelly Winterbourn’s voice still ringing in her ears. - -“Happily, I am not going to put it to the test. Now, I must go--to look -after your affairs, Miss Frances; and remember that you are pledged to -look after mine in return.” - -Lady Markham looked after him very curiously as he went away. She -thought, as women so often think, that men were very strange, -inscrutable--“mostly fools,” at least in one way. To think that perhaps -little Frances---- It would be a great match, greater than Claude -Ramsay--as good in one point of view, and in other respects far better -than Nelly St John’s great marriage with the rich Mr Winterbourn. “I am -glad you like him so much, Frances,” she said. “He is not young--but he -has every other quality; as good as ever man was, and so considerate and -kind. You may take him into your confidence fully.” She waited a moment -to see if the child had anything to say; then, too wise to force or -precipitate matters, went on: “Poor Nelly gives me great anxiety, -Frances. I wish the funeral were over, and all well. Her nerves are in -such an excited state, one can’t feel sure what she may do or say. The -servants and people happily think it grief; but to see Sarah Winterbourn -looking at her fills me with fright, I can’t tell why. _She_ doesn’t -think it is grief. And how should it be? A dreadful, cold, always ill, -repulsive man. But I hope she may be kept quiet, not to make a scandal -until after the funeral at least. I don’t know what she said to you, my -love, that day; but you must not pay any attention to what a woman says -in such an excited state. Her marriage has been unfortunate (which is a -thing that may happen in any circumstances), not because Mr Winterbourn -was such a good match, but because he was such a disagreeable man.” - -Frances, who had no clue to her mother’s thoughts, or to any -appropriateness in this short speech, had little interest in it. She -said, somewhat stiffly, that she was sorry for poor Mrs Winterbourn--but -much more sorry for her own mother, who was having so much trouble and -anxiety. Lady Markham smiled upon her, and kissed her tenderly. It was a -relief to her mind, in the midst of all those anxious questions, to have -a new channel for her thoughts; and upon this new path she threw herself -forth in the fulness of a lively imagination, leaving fact far behind, -and even probability. She was indeed quite conscious of this, and -voluntarily permitted herself the pleasant exercise of building a new -castle in the air. Little Frances! And she said to herself there would -be no drawback in such a case. It would be the finest match of the -season; and no mother need fear to trust her daughter in Sir Thomas’s -hands. - -Sir Thomas came back next morning when Lady Markham was again absent. He -informed Frances that he had gone to several places where he was told -Captain Gaunt was likely to be found, and had seen Markham as usual -“frittering himself away;” but Gaunt had nowhere been visible. “Some one -said he had fallen ill. If that is so, it is the best thing that could -happen. One has some hope of getting hold of him so.” But where did he -live? That was the question. Markham did not know, nor any one about. -That was the first thing to be discovered, Sir Thomas said. For the -first time, Frances appreciated her mother’s business-like arrangements -for her great correspondence, which made an address-book so necessary. -She found Gaunt’s address there; and passed the rest of the day in -anxiety, which she could confide to no one, learning for the first time -those tortures of suspense which to so many women form a great part of -existence. Frances thought the day would never end. It was so much the -more dreadful to her that she had to shut it all up in her own bosom, -and endeavour to enter into other anxieties, and sympathise with her -mother’s continual panic as to what Nelly Winterbourn might do. The -house altogether was in a state of suppressed excitement; even the -servants--or perhaps the servants most keenly of any, with their quick -curiosity and curious divination of any change in the atmosphere of a -family--feeling the thrill of approaching revolution. Frances with her -private preoccupation was blunted to this; but when Sir Thomas arrived -in the evening, it was all she could do to curb herself and keep within -the limits of ordinary rule. She sprang up, indeed, when she heard his -step on the stair, and went off to the further corner of the room, where -she could read his face out of the dimness before he spoke; and where, -perhaps, he might seek her, and tell her, under some pretence. These -movements were keenly noted by her mother, as was also the alert air of -Sir Thomas, and his interest and activity, though he looked very grave. -But Frances did not require to wait for the news she looked for so -anxiously. - -“Yes, I am very serious,” Sir Thomas said, in answer to Lady Markham’s -question. “I have news to tell you which will shock you. Your poor young -friend Gaunt--Captain Gaunt--wasn’t he a friend of yours?--is lying -dangerously ill of fever in a poor little set of lodgings he has got. He -is far too ill to know me or say anything to me; but so far as I can -make out, it has something to do with losses at play.” - -Lady Markham turned pale with alarm and horror. “Oh, I have always been -afraid of this! I had a presentiment,” she cried. Then rallying a -little: “But, Sir Thomas, no one thinks now that fever is brought on by -mental causes. It must be bad water or defective drainage.” - -“It may be--anything; I can’t tell; I am no doctor. But the fact is, the -young fellow is lying delirious, raving. I heard him myself--about -stakes and chances and losses, and how he will make it up to-morrow. -There are other things too. He seems to have had hard lines, poor -fellow, if all is true.” - -Frances had rushed forward, unable to restrain herself. “Oh, his mother, -his mother--we must send for his mother,” she cried. - -“I will go and see him to-morrow,” said Lady Markham. “I had a -presentiment. He has been on my mind ever since I saw him first. I -blame myself for losing sight of him. But to-morrow----” - -“To-morrow--to-morrow; that is what the poor fellow says.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - - -Lady Markham did not forget her promise. Whatever else a great lady may -forget in these days, her sick people, her hospitals, she is sure never -to forget. She went early to the lodgings, which were not far off, -hidden in one of the quaint corners of little old lanes behind -Piccadilly, where poor Gaunt was. She did not object to the desire of -Frances to go with her, nor to the anxiety she showed. The man was ill; -he had become a “case;” it was natural and right that he should be an -object of interest. For herself, so far as Lady Markham’s thoughts were -free at all, George Gaunt was much more than a case to her. A little -while ago, she would have given him a large share in her thoughts, with -a remorseful consciousness almost of a personal part in the injury -which had been done him. But now there were so many other matters in the -foreground of her mind, that this, though it gave her one sharp twinge, -and an additional desire to do all that could be done for him, had yet -fallen into the background. Besides, things had arrived at a climax: -there was no longer any means of delivering him, no further anxiety -about his daily movements; there he lay, incapable of further action. It -was miserable, yet it was a relief. Markham and Markham’s associates had -no more power over a sick man. - -Lady Markham managed her affairs always in a business-like way. She sent -to inquire what was the usual hour of the doctor’s visit, and timed her -arrival so as to meet him, and receive all the information he could -give. Even the medical details of the case were not beyond Lady -Markham’s comprehension. She had a brief but very full consultation with -the medical man in the little parlour down-stairs, and promptly issued -her orders for nurses and all that could possibly be wanted for the -patient. Two nurses at once--one for the day, and the other for the -night; ice by the cart-load; the street to be covered with hay; any -traffic that it was possible to stop, arrested. These directions Frances -heard while she sat anxious and trembling in the brougham, and watched -the doctor--a humble and undistinguished practitioner of the -neighbourhood, stirred into excited interest by the sudden appearance of -the great lady, with her liberal ideas, upon the scene--hurrying away. -Lady Markham then disappeared again into the house,--the small, trim, -shallow, London lodging-house, with a few scrubby plants in its little -balconies on the first floor, where the windows were open, but veiled by -sun-blinds. Something that sounded like incessant talking came from -these windows--a sound to which Frances paid no attention at first, -thinking it nothing but a conversation, though curiously carried on -without break or pause. But after a while the monotony of the sound gave -her a painful sensation. The street was very quiet, even without the -hay. Now and then a cart or carriage would come round the corner, taking -a short-cut from one known locality to another. Sometimes a street cry -would echo through the sunshine. A cart full of flowering-plants, with a -hoarse-voiced proprietor, went along in stages, stopping here and there; -but through all ran the strain of talk, monologue or conversation, never -interrupted. The sound affected the girl’s nerves, she could not tell -why. She opened the door of the brougham at last, and went into the -narrow little doorway of the house, where it became more distinct,--a -persistent dull strain of speech. All was deserted on the lower floor, -the door of the sitting-room standing open, the narrow staircase leading -to the sick man’s rooms above. Frances felt her interest, her eager -curiosity, grow at every moment. She ran lightly, quickly up-stairs. The -door of the front room, the room with the balconies, was ajar; and now -it became evident that the sound was that of a single voice, hoarse, not -always articulate, talking. Oh, the weary strain of talk, monotonous, -unending--sometimes rising faintly, sometimes falling lower, never done, -without a pause. That could not be raving, Frances said to herself. Oh, -not raving! Cries of excitement and passion would have been -comprehensible. But there was something more awful in the persistency of -the dull choked voice. She said to herself it was not George Gaunt’s -voice: she did not know what it was. But as she put forth all these -arguments to herself, trembling, she drew ever nearer and nearer to the -door. - -“Red--red--and red. Stick to my colour: my colour--my coat, Markham, and -the ribbon, her ribbon. I say red. Play, play--all play--always: -amusement: her ribbon, red. No, no; not red, black, colour death--no -colour: means nothing, all nothing. Markham, play. Gain or -lose--all--all: nothing kept back. Red, I say; and red--blood--blood -colour. Mother, mother! no, it’s black, black. No blood--no blood--no -reproach. Death--makes up all--death. Black--red--black--all death -colours, all death, death.” Then there was a little change in the voice. -“Constance?--India; no, no; not India. Anywhere--give up everything. -Amusement, did you say amusement? Don’t say so, don’t say so. Sport to -you--but death, death:--colour of death, black: or red--blood: all -death colours, death. Mother! don’t put on black--red ribbons like -hers--red, heart’s blood. No bullet, no--her little hand, little white -hand--and then blood-red. Constance! Play--play--nothing left--play.” - -Frances stood outside and shuddered. Was this, then, what they called -raving? She shrank within herself; her heart failed her; a sickness -which took the light from her eyes, made her limbs tremble and her head -swim. Oh, what sport had he been to the two--the two who were nearest to -her in the world! What had they done with him, Mrs Gaunt’s boy--the -youngest, the favourite? There swept through the girl’s mind like a -bitter wind a cry against--Fate was it, or Providence? Had they but let -alone, had each stayed in her own place, it would have been Frances who -should have met, with a fresh heart, the young man’s early fancy. They -would have met sincere and faithful, and loved each other, and all would -have been well. But there was no Frances; there was only Constance, -to throw his heart away. She seemed to see it all as in a -picture--Constance with the red ribbons on her grey dress, with the -smile that said it was only amusement; with the little hand, the little -white hand, that gave the blow. And then all play, all play, red or -black, what did it matter? and the bullet; and the mother in mourning, -and Markham. Constance and Markham! murderers. This was the cry that -came from the bottom of the girl’s heart. Murderers!--of two; of him and -of herself; of the happiness that was justly hers, which at this moment -she claimed, and wildly asserted her right to have, in the clamour of -her angry heart. She seemed to see it all in a moment: how he was hers; -how she had given her heart to him before she ever saw him; how she -could have made him happy. She would not have shrunk from India or -anywhere. She would have made him happy. And Constance, for a jest, had -come between; for amusement, had broken his heart. And Markham, for -amusement--for amusement!--had destroyed his life; and hers as well. -There are moments when the gentle and simple mind becomes more terrible -than any fury. She saw it all as in a picture--with one clear sudden -revelation. And her heart rose against it with a sensation of wrong, -which was intolerable--of misery, which she could not, would not bear. - -She pushed open the door, scarcely knowing what she did. The bed was -pulled out from the wall, almost into the centre of the room; and -behind, while this strange husky monologue of confused passion was going -on unnoted, Lady Markham and the landlady stood together talking in calm -undertones of the treatment to be employed. Frances’ senses, all -stimulated to the highest point, took in, without meaning to do so, -every particular of the scene and every word that was said. - -“I can do no good by staying now,” Lady Markham was saying. “There is so -little to be done at this stage. The ice to his head, that is all till -the nurse comes. She will be here before one o’clock. And in the -meantime, you must watch him carefully, and if anything occurs, let me -know. Be very careful to tell me everything; for the slightest symptom -is important.” - -“Yes, my lady; I’ll take great care, my lady.” The woman was overawed, -yet excited, by this unexpected visitor, who had turned the dull drama -of the lodger’s illness into a great, important, and exciting conflict, -conducted by the highest officials, against disease and death. - -“As I go home, I shall call at Dr----’s”--naming the great doctor of -the moment--“who will meet the other gentleman here; and after that, if -they decide on ice-baths or any other active treatment---- But there -will be time to think of that. In the meantime, if anything important -occurs, communicate with me at once, at Eaton Square.” - -“Yes, my lady; I’ll not forget nothing. My ’usband will run in a moment -to let your ladyship know.” - -“That will be quite right. Keep him in the house, so that he may get -anything that is wanted.” Lady Markham gave her orders with the -liberality of a woman who had never known any limit to the possibilities -of command in this way. She went up to the bed and looked at the -patient, who lay all unconscious of inspection, continuing the hoarse -talk, to which she had ceased to attend, through which she had carried -on her conversation in complete calm. She touched his forehead for a -moment with the back of her ungloved hand, and shook her head. “The -temperature is very high,” she said. There was a semi-professional calm -in all she did. Now that he was under treatment, he could be considered -dispassionately as a “case.” When she turned round and saw Frances -within the door, she held up her finger. “Look at him, if you wish, for -a moment, poor fellow; but not a word,” she said. Frances, from the -passion of anguish and wrong which had seized upon her, sank altogether -into a confused hush of semi-remorseful feeling. Her mother at least was -occupied with nothing that was not for his good. - -“I told you that I mistrusted Markham,” she said, as they drove away. -“He did not mean any harm. But that is his life. And I think I told you -that I was afraid Constance---- Oh, my dear, a mother has a great many -hard offices to undertake in her life--to make up for things which her -children may have done--_en gaieté du cœur_, without thought.” - -“_Gaieté du cœur_--is that what you call it,” cried Frances, “when you -murder a man?” Her voice was choked with the passion that filled her. - -“Frances! Murder! You are the last one in the world from whom I should -have expected anything violent.” - -“Oh,” cried the girl, flushed and wild, her eyes gleaming through an -angry dew of pain, “what word is there that is violent enough? He was -happy and good, and there were--there might have been--people who could -have loved him, and--and made him happy. When one comes in, one who had -no business there, one who--and takes him from--the others, and makes a -sport of him and a toy to amuse herself, and flings him broken away. It -is worse than murder--if there is anything worse than murder,” she -cried. - -Lady Markham could not have been more astonished if some passer-by had -presented a pistol at her head. “Frances!” she cried, and took the -girl’s hot hands into her own, endeavouring to soothe her; “you speak as -if she meant to do it--as if she had some interest in doing it. Frances, -you must be just!” - -“If I were just--if I had the power to be just--is there any punishment -which could be great enough? His life? But it is more than his life. It -is misery and torture and wretchedness, to him first, and then to--to -his mother--to----” She ended as a woman, as a poor little girl, -scarcely yet woman grown, must--in an agony of tears. - -All that a tender mother and that a kind woman could do--with due regard -to the important business in her hands, and a glance aside to see that -the coachman did not mistake Sir Joseph’s much frequented door--Lady -Markham did to quench this extraordinary passion, and bring back calm to -Frances. She succeeded so far, that the girl, hurriedly drying her -tears, retiring with shame and confusion into herself, recovered -sufficient self-command to refrain from further betrayal of her -feelings. In the midst of it all, though she was not unmoved by her -mother’s tenderness, she had a kind of fierce perception of Lady -Markham’s anxiety about Sir Joseph’s door, and her eagerness not to lose -any time in conveying her message to him, which she did rapidly in her -own person, putting the footman aside, corrupting somehow by sweet words -and looks the incorruptible functionary who guarded the great doctor’s -door. It was all for poor Gaunt’s sake, and done with care for him, as -anxious and urgent as if he had been her own son; and yet it was -business too, which, had Frances been in a mood to see the humour of it, -might have lighted the tension of her feelings. But she was in no mind -for humour--a thing which passion has never any eyes for or cognisance -of. “That is all quite right. He will meet the other doctor this -afternoon; and we may be now comfortable that he is in the best hands,” -Lady Markham said, with a sigh of satisfaction. She added: “I suppose, -of course, his parents will not hesitate about the expense?” in a -faintly inquiring tone; but did not insist on any reply. Nor could -Frances have given any reply. But amid the chaos of her mind, there came -a consciousness of poor Mrs Gaunt’s dismay, could she have known. She -would have watched her son night and day; and there was not one of the -little community at Bordighera--Mrs Durant, with all her little -pretences; Tasie, with her airs of young-ladyhood--who would not have -shared the vigil. But the two expensive nurses, with every accessory -that new-fangled science could think of--this would have frightened out -of their senses the two poor parents, who would not “hesitate about the -expense,” or any expense that involved their son’s life. In this point, -too, the different classes could not understand each other. The idea -flew through the girl’s mind with a half-despairing consciousness that -this, too, had something to do with the overwhelming revolution in her -own circumstances. A man of her own species would have understood -Constance; he would have known Markham’s reputation and ways. The pot of -iron and the pot of clay could not travel together without damage to the -weakest. This went vaguely through Frances’ mind in the middle of her -excitement, and perhaps helped to calm her. It also stilled, if it did -not calm her, to see that her mother was a little afraid of her in her -new development. - -Lady Markham, when she returned to the brougham after her visit to Sir -Joseph, manifestly avoided the subject. She was careful not to say -anything of Markham or of Constance. Her manner was anxious, -deprecatory, full of conciliation. She advised Frances, with much -tenderness, to go and rest a little when they got home. “I fear you have -been doing too much, my darling,” she cried, and followed her to her -room with some potion in a glass. - -“I am quite well,” Frances said; “there is nothing the matter with me.” - -“But I am sure, my dearest, that you are overdone.” Her anxious and -conciliatory looks were of themselves a tonic to Frances, and brought -her back to herself. - -Markham, when he appeared in the evening, showed unusual feeling too. He -was at the crisis, it seemed, of his own life, and perhaps other -sentiments had therefore an easier hold upon him. He came in looking -very downcast, with none of his usual banter in him. “Yes, I know. I -have heard all about it, bless you. What else, do you think, are those -fellows talking about? Poor beggar. Who ever thought he’d have gone down -like that in so short a time? Now, mother, the only thing wanting is -that you should say ‘I told you so.’ And Fan,--no, Fan can do worse; she -can tell me that she thought he was safe in my hands.” - -“It is not my way to say I told you so, Markham; but yet----” - -“You could do it, mammy, if you tried--that is well known. I’m rather -glad he is ill, poor beggar; it stops the business. But there are things -to pay, that is the worst.” - -“Surely, if it is to a gentleman, he will forgive him,” cried Frances, -“when he knows----” - -“Forgive him! Poor Gaunt would rather die. It would be as much as a -man’s life was worth to offer to--forgive another man. But how should -the child know? That’s the beauty of Society and the rules of honour, -Fan. You can forgive a man many things, but not a shilling you’ve won -from him. And how is he to mend, good life! with the thought of having -to pay up in the end?” Markham repeated this despondent speech several -times before he went gloomily away. “I had rather die straight off, and -make no fuss. But even then, he’d have to pay up, or somebody for him. -If I had known what I know now, I’d have eaten him sooner than have -taken him among those fellows, who have no mercy.” - -“Markham, if you would listen to me, you would give them up--you too.” - -“Oh, I----” he said, with his short laugh. “They can’t do much harm to -me.” - -“But you must change--in that as well as other things, if----” - -“Ah, if,” he said, with a curious grimace; and took up his hat and went -away. - -Thus, Frances said to herself, his momentary penitence and her mother’s -pity melted away in consideration of themselves. They could not say a -dozen words on any other subject, even such an urgent one as this, -before their attention dropped, and they relapsed into the former -question about themselves. And such a question!--Markham’s marriage, -which depended upon Nelly Winterbourn’s widowhood and the portion her -rich husband left her. Markham was an English peer, the head of a family -which had been known for centuries, which even had touched the history -of England here and there; yet this was the ignoble way in which he was -to take the most individual step of a man’s life. Her heart was full -almost to bursting of these questions, which had been gradually -awakening in her mind. Lady Markham, when left alone, turned always to -the consolation of her correspondence--of those letters to write which -filled up all the interstices of her other occupations. Perhaps she was -specially glad to take refuge in this assumed duty, having no desire to -enter again with her daughter into any discussion of the events of the -day. Frances withdrew into a distant corner. She took a book with her, -and did her best to read it, feeling that anything was better than to -allow herself to think, to summon up again the sound of that hoarse -broken voice running on in the feverish current of disturbed thought. -Was he still talking, talking, God help him! of death and blood and the -two colours, and her ribbon, and the misery which was all play? Oh, the -misery, causeless, unnecessary, to no good purpose, that had come merely -from this--that Constance had put herself in Frances’ place,--that the -pot of iron had thrust itself in the road of the pot of clay. But she -must not think--she must not think, the girl said to herself with -feverish earnestness, and tried the book again. Finding it of no avail, -however, she put it down, and left her corner and came, in a moment of -leisure between two letters, behind her mother’s chair. “May I ask you a -question, mamma?” - -“As many as you please, my dear;” but Lady Markham’s face bore a -harassed look. “You know, Frances, there are some to which there is no -answer--which I can only ask with an aching heart, like yourself,” she -said. - -“This is a very simple one. It is, Have I any money--of my own?” - -Lady Markham turned round on her chair and looked at her daughter. -“Money!” she said. “Are you in need of anything? Do you want money, -Frances? I shall never forgive myself, if you have felt yourself -neglected.” - -“It is not that. I mean--have I anything of my own?” - -After a little pause. “There is a--small provision made for you by my -marriage settlement,” Lady Markham said. - -“And--once more--could, oh, could I have it, mamma?” - -“My dear child! you must be out of your senses. How could you have it at -your age--unless you were going to marry?” - -This suggestion Frances rejected with the contempt it merited. “I shall -never marry,” she said; “and there never could be a time when it would -be of so much importance to me to have it as now. Oh, tell me, is there -no way by which I could have it now?” - -“Sir Thomas is one of our trustees. Ask him. I do not think he will let -you have it, Frances. But perhaps you could tell him what you want, if -you will not have confidence in me. Money is just the thing that is -least easy for me. I could give you almost anything else; but money I -have not. What can you want money for, a girl like you?” - -Frances hesitated before she replied. “I would rather not tell you,” she -said; “for very likely you would not approve; but it is -nothing--wrong.” - -“You are very honest, my dear. I do not suppose for a moment it is -anything wrong. Ask Sir Thomas,” Lady Markham said, with a smile. The -smile had meaning in it, which to Frances was incomprehensible. “Sir -Thomas--will refuse nothing he can in reason give--of that I am sure.” - -Sir Thomas, when he came in shortly afterwards, said that he would not -disturb Lady Markham. “For I see you are busy, and I have something to -say to Frances.” - -“Who has also something to say to you,” Lady Markham said, with a -benignant smile. Her heart gave a throb of satisfaction. It was all she -could do to restrain herself, not to tell the dear friend to whom she -was writing that there was every prospect of a _most happy_ -establishment for dear Frances. And her joy was quite genuine and almost -innocent, notwithstanding all she knew. - -“You have written to your father?” Sir Thomas said. “My dear Frances, I -have got the most hopeful letter from him, the first I have had for -years. He asks me if I know what state Hilborough is in--if it is -habitable? That looks like coming home, don’t you think? And it is -years since he has written to me before.” - -Frances did not know what Hilborough was; but she disliked showing her -ignorance. And this idea was not so comforting to her as Sir Thomas -expected. She said: “I do not think he will come,” with downcast eyes. - -But Sir Thomas was strong in his own way of thinking. He was excited and -pleased by the letter. He told her again and again how he had desired -this--how happy it made him to think he was about to be successful at -last. “And just at the moment when all is likely to be arranged--when -Markham---- You have brought me luck, Frances. Now, tell me what it was -you wanted from me?” - -Frances’ spirits had fallen lower and lower while his rose. Her mind -ranged over the new possibilities with something like despair. It would -be Constance, not she, who would have done it, if he came -back--Constance, who had taken her place from her--the love that ought -to have been hers--her father--and who now, on her return, would resume -her place with her mother too. Ah, what would Constance do? Would she -do anything for him who lay yonder in the fever, for his father and his -mother, poor old people!--anything to make up for the harm she had done? -Her heart burned in her agitated, troubled bosom. “It is nothing,” she -said--“nothing that you would do for me. I had a great wish--but I know -you would not let me do it, neither you nor my mother.” - -“Tell me what it is, and we shall see.” - -Frances felt her voice die away in her throat. “We went this morning to -see--to see----” - -“You mean poor Gaunt. It is a sad sight, and a sad story--too sad for a -young creature like you to be mixed up in. Is it anything for him, that -you want me to do?” - -She looked at him through those hot gathering tears which interrupt the -vision of women, and blind them when they most desire to see clearly. A -sense of the folly of her hope, of the impossibility of making any one -understand what was in her mind, overwhelmed her. “I cannot, I cannot,” -she cried. “Oh, I know you are very kind. I wanted my own money, if I -have any. But I know you will not give it me, nor think it right, nor -understand what I want to do with it.” - -“Have you so little trust in me?” said Sir Thomas. “I hope, if you told -me, I could understand. I cannot give you your own money, Frances; but -if it were for a good--no, I will not say that--for a sensible, for a -practicable purpose, you should have some of mine.” - -“Yours!” she cried, almost with indignation. “Oh no; that is not what I -mean. They are nothing--nothing to you.” She paused when she had said -this, and grew very pale. “I did not mean---- Sir Thomas, please do not -say anything to mamma.” - -He took her hand affectionately between his own. “I do not half -understand,” he said; “but I will keep your secret, so far as I know it, -my poor little girl.” - -Lady Markham at her writing-table, with her back turned, went on with -her correspondence all the time in high satisfaction and pleasure, -saying to herself that it would be far better than Nelly -Winterbourn’s--that it would be the finest match of the year. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - - -It had seemed to Frances, as it appears naturally to all who have little -experience, that a man who was so ill as Captain Gaunt must get better -or get worse without any of the lingering suspense which accompanies a -less violent complaint; but, naturally, Lady Markham was wiser, and -entertained no such delusions. When it had gone on for a week, it -already seemed to Frances as if he had been ill for a year,--as if there -never had been any subject of interest in the world but the lingering -course of the malady, which waxed from less to more, from days of quiet -to hours of active delirium. The business-like nurses, always so cool -and calm, with their professional reports, gave the foolish girl a chill -to her heart, thinking, as she did, of the anxiety that would have -filled, not the house alone in which he lay, but all the little -community, had he been ill at home. Perhaps it was better for him that -he was not ill at home,--that the changes in his state were watched by -clear eyes, not made dim by tears or oversharp by anxiety, but which -took him very calmly, as a case interesting, no doubt, but only in a -scientific sense. - -After a few days, Lady Markham herself wrote to his mother a very kind -letter, full of detail, describing everything which she had done, and -how she had taken Captain Gaunt entirely into her own hands. “I thought -it better not to lose any time,” she said; “and you may assure yourself -that everything has been done for him that could have been done, had you -yourself been here. I have acted exactly as I should have done for my -own son in the circumstances;” and she proceeded to explain the -treatment, in a manner which was far too full of knowledge for poor Mrs -Gaunt’s understanding, who could scarcely read the letter for tears. The -best nurses, the best doctor, the most anxious care, Lady Markham’s own -personal supervision, so that nothing should be neglected. The two old -parents held their little counsel over this letter with full hearts. It -had been Mrs Gaunt’s first intention to start at once, to get to her boy -as fast as express trains could carry her; but then they began to look -at each other, to falter forth broken words about expense. Two nurses, -the best doctor in London--and then the mother’s rapid journey, the old -General left alone. How was she to do it, so anxious, so unaccustomed as -she was? They decided, with many doubts and terrors, with great -self-denial, and many a sick flutter of questionings as to which was -best, to remain. Lady Markham had promised them news every day of their -boy, and a telegram at once if there was “any change”--those awful -words, that slay the very soul. Even the poor mother decided that in -these circumstances it would be “self-indulgence” to go; and from -henceforward, the old people lived upon the post-hours,--lived in awful -anticipation of a telegram announcing a “change.” Frances was their -daily correspondent. She had gone to look at him, she always said, -though the nurses would not permit her to stay. He was no worse. But -till another week, there could be no change. Then she would write that -the critical day had passed--that there was still no change, and would -not be again for a week; but that he was no worse. No worse!--this was -the poor fare upon which General Gaunt and his wife lived in their -little Swiss _pension_, where it was so cheap. They gave up even their -additional candle, and economised that poor little bit of expenditure; -they gave up their wine; they made none of the little excursions which -had been their delight. Even with all these economies, how were they to -provide the expenses which were running on--the dear London lodgings, -the nurses, the boundless outgoings, which it was understood they would -not grudge? Grudge! No; not all the money in the world, if it could save -their George. But where--where were they to get this money? Whence was -it to come? - -This Frances knew, but no one else. And she, too, knew that the lodgings -and the nurses and the doctors were so far from being all. The poor girl -spent the days much as they did, in agonised questions and -considerations. If she could but get her money, her own money, whatever -it was. Later, for her own use, what would it matter? She could work, -she could take care of children, it did not matter what she did: but to -save him, to save them. She had learned so much, however, about life and -the world in which she lived, as to know that, were her object known, it -would be treated as the supremest folly. Wild ideas of Jews, of finding -somebody who would lend her what she wanted, as young men do in novels, -rose in her mind, and were dismissed, and returned again. But she was -not a young man; she was only a girl, and knew not what to do, nor where -to go. Not even the very alphabet of such knowledge was hers. - -While this was going on, she was taken, all abstracted as she was, into -Society--to the solemn heavinesses of dinner-parties; to dances even, in -which her gravity and self-absorption were construed to mean very -different things. Lady Markham had never said a word to any one of the -idea which had sprung into her own mind full grown at sight of Sir -Thomas holding in fatherly kindness her little girl’s hands. She had -never said a word, oh, not a word. How such a wild and extraordinary -rumour had got about, she could not imagine. But the ways of Society and -its modes of information are inscrutable: a glance, a smile, are enough. -And what so natural as this to bring a veil of gravity over even a -_débutante_ in her first season? Lucky little girl, some people said; -poor little thing, some others. No wonder she was so serious; and her -mother, that successful general--her mother, that triumphant -match-maker, radiant, in spite, people said, of the very uncomfortable -state of affairs about Markham, and the fact that, in the absence of the -executor, Nelly Winterbourn knew nothing as yet as to how she was -“left.” - -Thus the weeks went past in great suspense for all. Markham had -recovered, it need scarcely be said, from his fit of remorse; and he, -perhaps, was the one to whom these uncertainties were a relief rather -than an oppression. Mrs Winterbourn had retired into the country, to -wait the arrival of the all--important functionary who had possession -of her husband’s will, and to pass decorously the first profundity of -her mourning. Naturally, Society knew everything about Nelly: how, under -the infliction of Sarah Winterbourn’s society, she was quite as well as -could be expected; how she was behaving herself beautifully in her -retirement, seeing nobody, doing just what it was right to do. Nelly had -always managed to retain the approval of Society, whatever she did. In -the best circles, it was now a subject of indignant remark that Sarah -Winterbourn should take it upon herself to keep watch like a dragon over -the widow. For Nelly’s prevision was right, and the widow was what the -men now called her, though women are not addicted to that form of -nomenclature. But Sarah Winterbourn was universally condemned. Now that -the poor girl had completed her time of bondage, and conducted herself -so perfectly, why could not that dragon leave her alone? Markham made no -remark upon the subject; but his mother, who understood him so well, -believed he was glad that Sarah Winterbourn should be there, making all -visits unseemly. Lady Markham thought he was glad of the pause -altogether, of the impossibility of doing anything; and to be allowed to -go on without any disturbance in his usual way. She had herself made one -visit to Nelly, and reported, when she came home, that notwithstanding -the presence of Sarah, Nelly’s natural brightness was beginning to -appear, and that soon she would be as _espiègle_ as ever. That was Lady -Markham’s view of the subject; and there was no doubt that she spoke -with perfect knowledge. - -It was very surprising, accordingly, to the ladies, when, some days -after this, Lady Markham’s butler came up-stairs to say that Mrs -Winterbourn was at the door, and had sent to inquire whether his -mistress was at home and alone before coming up-stairs. “Of course I am -at home,” said Lady Markham; “I am always at home to Mrs Winterbourn. -But to no one else, remember, while she is here.” When the man went away -with his message, Lady Markham had a moment of hesitation. “You may -stay,” she said to Frances, “as you were present before and saw her in -her trouble. But I wonder what has brought her to town? She did not -intend to come to town till the end of the season. She must have -something to tell me. O Nelly, how are you, dear?” she cried, going -forward and taking the young widow into her arms. Nelly was in crape -from top to toe. As she had always done what was right, what people -expected from her, she continued to do so till the end. A little rim of -white was under the edge of her close black bonnet with its long veil. -Her cuffs were white and hem-stitched in the old-fashioned _deep_ way. -Nothing, in short, could be more _deep_ than Nelly’s costume altogether. -She was a very pattern for widows; and it was very becoming, as that -dress seldom fails to be. It would have been natural to expect in -Nelly’s countenance some consciousness of this, as well as perhaps a -something at the corners of her mouth which should show that, as Lady -Markham said, she would soon be as _espiègle_ as ever. But there was -nothing of this in her face. She seemed to have stiffened with her -crape. She suffered Lady Markham’s embrace rather than returned it. She -did not take any notice of Frances. She walked across the room, -sweeping with her long dress, with her long veil like an ensign of woe, -and sat down with her back to the light. But for a minute or more she -said nothing, and listened to Lady Markham’s questions without even a -movement in reply. - -“What is the matter, my dear? Is it something you have to tell me, or -have you only got tired of the country?” Lady Markham said, with a look -of alarm beginning to appear in her face. - -“I am tired of the country,” said Mrs Winterbourn; “but I am also tired -of everything else, so that does not matter much. Lady Markham, I have -come to tell you a great piece of news. My trustee and Mr Winterbourn’s -executor, who has been at the other end of the world, has come home.” - -“Yes, Nelly?” Lady Markham’s look of alarm grew more and more marked. -“You make me very anxious,” she cried. “I am sure something has happened -that you did not foresee.” - -“Oh, nothing has happened--that I ought not to have foreseen. I always -wondered why Sarah Winterbourn stuck to me so. The will has been opened -and read, and I know how it all is now. I rushed to tell you, as you -have been so kind.” - -“Dear Nelly!” Lady Markham said, not knowing, in the growing -perturbation of her mind, what else to say. - -“Mr Winterbourn has been very liberal to me. He has left me everything -he can leave away from his heir-at-law. Nothing that is entailed, of -course; but there is not very much under the entail. They tell me I will -be one of the richest women--a wealthy widow.” - -“My dear Nelly, I am so very glad; but I am not surprised. Mr -Winterbourn had a great sense of justice. He could not do less for you -than that.” - -“But Lady Markham, you have not heard all.” It was not like Nelly -Winterbourn to speak in such measured tones. There was not the faintest -sign of the _espiègle_ in her voice. Frances, roused by the astonished, -alarmed look in her mother’s face, drew a little nearer almost -involuntarily, notwithstanding her abstraction in anxieties of her own. - -“Nelly, do you mind Frances being here?” - -“Oh, I wish her to be here! It will do her good. If she is going to -do--the same as I did, she ought to know.” She made a pause again--Lady -Markham meanwhile growing pale with fright and panic, though she did not -know what there could be to fear. - -“There are some people who had begun to think that I was not so well -‘left’ as was expected,” she said; “but they were mistaken. I am very -well ‘left.’ I am to have the house in Grosvenor Square, and the Knoll, -and all the plate and carriages, and three parts or so of Mr -Winterbourn’s fortune--so long as I remain Mr Winterbourn’s widow. He -was, as you say, a just man.” - -There was a pause. But for something in the air which tingled after -Nelly’s voice had ceased, the listeners would scarcely have been -conscious that anything more than ordinary had been said. Lady Markham -said “Nelly?” in a breathless interrogative tone--alarmed by that thrill -in the air, rather than by the words, which were so simple in their -sound. - -“Oh yes; he had a great sense of justice. So long as I remain Mrs -Winterbourn, I am to have all that. It was his, and I was his, and the -property is to be kept together. Don’t you see, Lady Markham?--Sarah -knew it, and I might have known, had I thought. He had a great respect -for the name of Winterbourn--not much, perhaps, for anything else.” She -paused a little, then added: “That’s all. I wished you to know.” - -“Oh my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “is it possible--is it possible? -You--debarred from marrying, debarred from everything--at your age!” - -“Oh, I can do anything I please,” cried Nelly. “I can go to the bad if I -please. He does not say so long as I behave myself--only so long as I -remain the widow Winterbourn. I told you they would all call me so. -Well, they can do it! That’s what I am to be all my life--the widow -Winterbourn.” - -“Nelly--O Nelly,” cried Lady Markham, throwing her arms round her -visitor. “Oh, my poor child! And how can I tell--how am I to tell----?” - -“You can tell everybody, if you please,” said Mrs Winterbourn, freeing -herself from the clasping arms and rising up in her stiff crape. “He had -a great sense of justice. He doesn’t say I’m to wear weeds all my life. -I think I mean to come back to Grosvenor Square on Monday, and perhaps -give a ball or two, and some dinners, to celebrate--for I have come into -my fortune, don’t you see?” she said, with an unmoved face. - -“Hush, dear--hush! You must not talk like that,” Lady Markham said, -holding her arm. - -“Why not! Justice is justice, whether for him or me. I was such a fool -as to be wretched when he was dying, because---- But it appears that -there was no love lost--no love and no faith lost. He did not believe in -me, any more than I believed in him. I outwitted him when he was living, -and he outwits me when he is dead. Do you hear, Frances?--that is how -things go. If you do as I did, as I hear you are going to do---- Oh, do -it if you please; I will never interfere. But make up your mind to -this--he will have his revenge on you--or justice; it is all the same -thing. Good-bye, Lady Markham. I hope you will countenance me at my -first ball--for now I have come into my fortune, I mean to enjoy myself. -Don’t you think these things are rather becoming? I mean to wear them -out. They will make a sensation at my parties,” she said, and for the -first time laughed aloud. - -“This is just the first wounded feeling,” said Lady Markham. “O Nelly, -you must not fly in the face of Society. You have always been so good. -No, no; let us think it over. Perhaps we can find a way out of it. There -is bound to be a flaw somewhere.” - -“Good-bye,” said Nelly. “I have not fixed on the day for my first At -Home; but the invitations will be out directly. Good-bye, Frances. You -must come--and Sir Thomas. It will be a fine lesson for Sir Thomas.” She -walked across the room to the door, and there stood for a moment, -looking back. She looked taller, almost grand in still fury and despair -with her immovable face. But as she stood there, a faint softening came -to the marble. “Tell Geoff--gently,” she said, and went away. They could -hear the soft sweep of her black robes retiring down the stair, and -then the door opening, the clang of the carriage. - -Lady Markham had dropped into a chair in her dismay, and sat with her -hands clasped and her eyes wide open, listening to these sounds, as if -they might throw some light on the situation. The consequences which -might follow from Nelly’s freedom had been heavy on her heart; and it -was possible that by-and-by this strange news might bring the usual -comfort; but in the meantime, consternation overwhelmed her. “As long as -she remains his widow!” she said to herself in a tone of horror, as the -tension of her nerves yielded and the carriage drove away. “And how am I -to tell him--gently; how am I to tell him gently?” she cried. It was as -if a great catastrophe had overwhelmed the house. - -In an hour or so, however, Lady Markham recovered her energy, and began -to think whether there might be any way out of it. “I’ll tell you,” she -cried suddenly; “there is your uncle Clarendon, Frances. He is a great -lawyer. If any man can find a flaw in the will, he will do it.” She rang -the bell at once, and ordered the carriage. “But, oh dear,” she said, -“I forgot. Lady Meliora is coming about Trotter’s Buildings, the place -in Whitechapel. I cannot go. Whatever may happen, I cannot go to-day. -But, my dear, you have never taken any part as yet; you need not stay -for this meeting: and besides, you are a favourite in Portland Place; -you are the best person to go. You can tell your uncle Clarendon---- -Stop; I will write a note,” Lady Markham cried. That was always the most -satisfactory plan in every case. She sent her daughter to get ready to -go out; and she herself dashed off in two minutes four sheets of the -clearest statement, a _précis_ of the whole case. Mr Clarendon, like -most people, liked Lady Markham,--he did not share his wife’s -prejudices; and Frances was a favourite. Surely, moved by these two -influences combined, he would bestir himself and find a flaw in the -will! - -In less than half an hour from the time of Mrs Winterbourn’s departure, -Frances found herself alone in the brougham, going towards Portland -Place. Her mind was not absorbed in Nelly Winterbourn. She was not old -enough, or sufficiently used to the ways of Society, to appreciate the -tragedy in this case. Nelly’s horror at the moment of her husband’s -death she had understood; but Nelly’s tragic solemnity now struck her as -with a jarring note. Indeed, Frances had never learned to think of money -as she ought. And yet, how anxious she was about money! How her thoughts -returned, as soon as she felt herself alone and free to pursue them, to -the question which devoured her heart. It was a relief to her to be thus -free, thus alone and silent, that she might think of it. If she could -but have driven on and on for a hundred miles or so, to think of it, to -find a solution for her problem! But even a single mile was something; -for before she had got through the long line of Piccadilly, a sudden -inspiration came to her mind. The one person in the world whom she could -ask for help was the person whom she was on her way to see--her aunt -Clarendon, who was rich, with whom she was a favourite; who was on the -other side, ready to sympathise with all that belonged to the life of -Bordighera, in opposition to Eaton Square. Nelly Winterbourn and her -troubles fled like shadows from Frances’ mind. To be truly -disinterested, to be always mindful of other people’s interests, it is -well to have as few as possible of one’s own. - -Mrs Clarendon received her, as always, with a sort of combative -tenderness, as if in competition for her favour with some powerful -adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid that -adversary, to offer more than she did, of which Frances was usually -uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her like a cordial. -“I suppose you are being taken to all sorts of places?” she said. “I -wish I had not given up Society so much; but when the season is over, -and the fine people are all in the country, then you will see that we -have not forgotten you. Has Sir Thomas come with you, Frances? I -supposed, perhaps, you had come to tell me----” - -“Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was too much -occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her aunt could mean. -“Oh, aunt Caroline,” she said, “I have come to speak to you of something -I am very, very much interested about.” In all sincerity, she had -forgotten the original scope of her mission, and only remembered her own -anxiety. And then she told her story--how Captain Gaunt, the son of her -old friend, the youngest, the one that was best beloved, had come to -town--how he had made friends who were not--nice--who made him play and -lose money--though he had no money. - -“Of course, my dear, I know--Lord Markham and his set.” - -At this Frances coloured high. “It was not Markham. Markham has found -out for me. It was some--fellows who had no mercy, he said.” - -“Oh yes; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an innocent -girl like you should be in any way mixed up with such people. Whether -Lord Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets some of his friends to -do it----” - -“Aunt Caroline, now you take away my last hope; for Markham is my -brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who speaks so of -my brother--he is always so kind, so kind to me.” - -“I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to you,” said -Mrs Clarendon. - -But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned away her -head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding tears--those -tears which would come in spite of her, notwithstanding all the efforts -she could make. “I had a little hope in you,” Frances said; “but now I -have none, none. My mother sees him every day; if he lives, she will -have saved his life. But I cannot ask her for what I want. I cannot ask -her for more--she has done so much. And now, you make it impossible for -me to ask you!” - -If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best, she could not have hit -upon a more effectual way. “My dear child,” cried Mrs Clarendon, -hurrying to her, drawing her into her arms, “what is it, what is it that -moves you so much? Of whom are you speaking? His life? Whose life is in -danger? And what is it you want? If you think I, your father’s only -sister, will do less for you than Lady Markham does----! Tell me, my -dear, tell me what is it you want?” - -Then Frances continued her story. How young Gaunt was ill of a -brain-fever, and raved about his losses, and the black and red, and of -his mother in mourning (with an additional ache in her heart, Frances -suppressed all mention of Constance), and how _she_ understood, though -nobody else did, that the Gaunts were not rich, that even the illness -itself would tax all their resources, and that the money, the debts to -pay, would ruin them, and break their hearts. “I don’t say he has not -been wrong, aunt Caroline--oh, I suppose he has been very wrong!--but -there he is lying: and oh, how pitiful it is to hear him! and the old -General, who was so proud of him; and Mrs Gaunt, dear Mrs Gaunt, who -always was so good to me!” - -“Frances, my child, I am not a hard-hearted woman, though you seem to -think so,--I can understand all that. I am very, very sorry for the poor -mother; and for the young man even, who has been led astray: but I don’t -see what you can do.” - -“What!” cried Frances, her eyes flashing through her tears--“for their -son, who is the same as a brother--for them, whom I have always known, -who have helped to bring me up? Oh, you don’t know how people live where -there are only a few of them,--where there is no society, if you say -that. If he had been ill there, at home, we should all have nursed him, -every one. We should have thought of nothing else. We would have cooked -for him, or gone errands, or done anything. Perhaps those ladies are -better who go to the hospitals. But to tell me that you don’t know what -I could do! Oh,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, throwing up her -hands, “if I had the money, if I had only the money, I know what I would -do!” - -Mrs Clarendon was a woman who did not spend money, who had everything -she wanted, who thought little of what wealth could procure; but she was -a Quixote in her heart, as so many women are where great things are in -question, though not in small. “Money?” she said, with a faint quiver of -alarm in her voice. “My dear, if it was anything that was feasible, -anything that was right, and you wanted it very much--the money might be -found,” she said. The position, however, was too strange to be mastered -in a moment, and difficulties rose as she spoke. “A young man. People -might suppose---- And then Sir Thomas--what would Sir Thomas think?” - -“That is why I came to you; for he will not give me my own money--if I -have any money. Aunt Caroline, if you will give it me now, I will pay -you back as soon as I am of age. Oh, I don’t want to take it from you--I -want---- If everything could be paid before he is better, before he -knows--if we could hide it, so that the General and his mother should -never find out. That would be worst of all, if they were to find out--it -would break their hearts. Oh, aunt Caroline, she thinks there is no one -like him. She loves him so; more than--more than any one here loves -anybody: and to find out all that would break her heart.” - -Mrs Clarendon rose at this moment, and stood up with her face turned -towards the door. “I can’t tell what is the matter with me,” she said; -“I can scarcely hear what you are saying. I wonder if I am going to be -ill, or what it is. I thought just then I heard a voice. Surely there is -some one at the door. I am sure I heard a voice---- Oh, a voice you -ought to know, if it was true. Frances--I will think of all that -after--just now---- He must be dead, or else he is here!” - -Frances, who thought of no possibility of death save to one, caught her -aunt’s arm with a cry. The great house was very still--soft carpets -everywhere--the distant sound of a closing door scarcely penetrating -from below. Yet there was something, that faint human stir which is more -subtle than sound. They stood and waited, the elder woman penetrated by -sudden excitement and alarm, she could not tell why; the girl -indifferent, yet ready for any wonder in the susceptibility of her -anxious state. As they stood, not knowing what they expected, the door -opened slowly, and there suddenly stood in the opening, like two people -in a dream--Constance, smiling, drawing after her a taller figure. -Frances, with a start of amazement, threw from her her aunt’s arm, which -she held, and calling “Father!” flung herself into Waring’s arms. - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - - -“I found him in the mood; so I thought it best to strike while the iron -was hot,” Constance said. She had settled down languidly in a favourite -corner, as if she had never been away. She had looked for the footstool -where she knew it was to be found, and arranged the cushion as she liked -it. Frances had never made herself so much at home as Constance did at -once. She looked on with calm amusement while her aunt poured out her -delight, her wonder, her satisfaction, in Waring’s ears. She did not -budge herself from her comfortable place; but she said to Frances in an -undertone: “Don’t let her go on too long. She will bore him, you know; -and then he will repent. And I don’t want him to repent.” - -As for Frances, she saw the ground cut away entirely from under her -feet, and stood sick and giddy after the first pleasure of seeing her -father was over, feeling her hopes all tumble about her. Mrs Clarendon, -who had been so near yielding, so much disposed to give her the help she -wanted, had forgotten her petition and her altogether in the unexpected -delight of seeing her brother. And here was Constance, the sight of whom -perhaps might call the sick man out of his fever, who might restore life -and everything, even happiness to him, if she would. But would she? -Frances asked herself. Most likely, she would do nothing, and there -would be no longer any room left for Frances, who was ready to do all. -She would have been more than mortal if she had not looked with a -certain bitterness at this new and wonderful aspect of affairs. - -“I saw mamma’s brougham at the door,” Constance said; “you must take me -home. Of course, this was the place for papa to come; but I must go -home. It would never do to let mamma think me devoid of feeling. How is -she, and Markham--and everybody? I have scarcely had any news for three -months. We met Algy Muncastle on the boat, and he told us some -things--a great deal about Nelly Winterbourn--the widow, as they call -her--and about you.” - -“There could be nothing to say of me.” - -“Oh, but there was, though. What a sly little thing you are, never to -say a word! Sir Thomas.--Ah, you see I know. And I congratulate you with -all my heart, Fan. He is rolling in money, and such a good kind old man. -Why, he was a lover of mamma’s _dans les temps_. It is delightful to -think of you consoling him. And you will be as rich as a little -princess, with mamma to see that all the settlements are right.” - -“I don’t know what you mean,” Frances said abruptly. She was so -preoccupied and so impatient, that she would not even allow herself to -inquire. She went to where her father sat talking to his sister, and -stood behind his chair, putting her hand upon his arm. He did not -perhaps care for her very much. He had aunt Caroline to think of, from -whom he had been separated so long; and Constance, no doubt, had made -him her own too, as she had made everybody else her own; but still he -was all that Frances had, the nearest, the one that belonged to her -most. To touch him like this gave her a little consolation. And he -turned round and smiled at her, and put his hand upon hers. That was a -little comfort too; but it did not last long. It was time she should -return to her mother; and Constance was anxious to go, notwithstanding -her fear that her father might be bored. “I must go and see my mother, -you know, papa. It would be very disrespectful not to go. And you won’t -want me, now you have got aunt Caroline. Frances is going to drive me -home.” She said this as if it was her sister’s desire to go; but as a -matter of fact, she had taken the command at once. Frances, reluctant -beyond measure to return to the house, in which she felt she would no -longer be wanted--which was a perverse imagination, born of her -unhappiness--wretched to lose the prospect of help, which she had been -beginning to let herself believe in, was yet too shy and too miserable -to make any resistance. She remembered her mother’s note for Mr -Clarendon before she went away, and she made one last appeal to her -aunt. “You will not forget what we were talking about, aunt Caroline?” - -“Dear me,” said Mrs Clarendon, putting up her hand to her head. “What -was it, Frances? I have such a poor memory; and your father’s coming, -and all this unexpected happiness, have driven everything else away.” - -Frances went down-stairs with a heart so heavy that it seemed to lie -dead in her breast. Was there no help for her, then? no help for him, -the victim of Constance and of Markham? no way of softening calamity to -the old people? Her temper rose as her hopes fell. All so rich, so -abounding, but no one who would spare anything out of his superfluity, -to help the ruined and heartbroken. Oh yes, she said to herself in not -unnatural bitterness, the hospitals, yes; and Trotter’s Buildings in -Whitechapel. But for the people to whom they were bound so much more -closely, the man who had sat at their tables, whom they had received and -made miserable, nothing! oh, nothing! not a finger held out to save him. -The little countenance that had been like a summer day, so innocent and -fresh and candid, was clouded over. Pride prevented--pride, more -effectual than any other defence--the outburst which in other -circumstances would have relieved her heart. She sat in her corner, -withdrawn as far as possible from Constance, listening dully, making -little response. After several questions, her sister turned upon her -with a surprise which was natural too. - -“What is the matter?” she said. “You don’t talk as you used to do. Is it -town that has spoiled you? Do you think I will interfere with you? Oh, -you need not be at all afraid. I have enough of my own without meddling -with you.” - -“I don’t know what I have that you could interfere with,” said Frances. -“Nothing here.” - -“Do you want to quarrel with me?” Constance said. - -“It is of no use to quarrel; there is nothing to quarrel about. I might -have thought you would interfere when you came first to Bordighera. I -had people then who seemed to belong to me. But here--you have the first -place. Why should I quarrel? You are only coming back to your own.” - -“Fan, for goodness’ sake, don’t speak in that dreadful tone. What have I -done? If you think papa likes me best, you are mistaken. And as for the -mother, don’t you know her yet? Don’t you know that she is nice to -everybody, and cares neither for you nor me?” - -“No,” cried Frances, raising herself bolt upright; “I don’t know that! -How dare you say it, you who are her child? Perhaps you think no one -cares--not one, though you have made an end of my home. Did you hear -about George Gaunt, what you have done to him? He is lying in a -brain-fever, raving, raving, talking for ever, day and night; and if he -dies, Markham and you will have killed him--you and Markham; but you -have been the worst. It will be murder, and you should be killed for -it!” the girl cried. Her eyes blazed upon her sister in the close -inclosure of the little brougham. “You thought he did not care, either, -perhaps.” - -“Fan! Good heavens! I think you must be going out of your senses,” -Constance cried. - -Frances was not able to say any more. She was stifled by the commotion -of her feelings, her heart beating so wildly in her breast, her emotion -reaching the intolerable. The brougham stopped, and she sprang out and -ran into the house, hurrying up-stairs to her own room. Constance, more -surprised and disconcerted than she could have believed possible, -nevertheless came in with an air of great composure, saying a word in -passing to the astonished servant at the door. She was quite amiable -always to the people about her. She walked up-stairs, remarking, as she -passed, a pair of new vases with palms in them, which decorated the -staircase, and which she approved. She opened the drawing-room door in -her pretty, languid-stately, always leisurely way. - -“How are you, mamma? Frances has run up-stairs; but here am I, just come -back,” she said. - -Lady Markham rose from her seat with a little scream of astonishment. -“CONSTANCE! It is not possible. Who would have dreamed of seeing you!” -she cried. - -“Oh yes, it is quite possible,” said Constance, when they had kissed, -with a prolonged encounter of lips and cheeks. “Surely, you did not -think I could keep very long away?” - -“My darling, did you get home-sick, or mammy-sick as Markham says, after -all your philosophy?” - -“I am so glad to see you, mamma, and looking so well. No, not home-sick, -precisely, dear mother, but penetrated with the folly of staying -_there_, where nothing was ever doing, when I might have been in the -centre of everything: which is saying much the same thing, though in -different words.” - -“In very different words,” said Lady Markham, resuming her seat with a -smile. “I see you have not changed at all, Con. Will you have any tea? -And did you leave--your home there--with as little ceremony as you left -me!” - -“May I help myself, mamma? don’t you trouble. It is very nice to see -your pretty china, instead of Frances’ old bizarre cups, which were much -too good for me. Oh, I did not leave my--home. I--brought it back with -me.” - -“You brought----?” - -“My father with me, mamma.” - -“Oh!” Lady Markham said. She was too much astonished to say more. - -“Perhaps it was because he got very tired of me, and thought there was -no other way of getting rid of me; perhaps because he was tired of it -himself. He came at last like a lamb. I did not really believe it till -we were on the boat, and Algy Muncastle turned up, and I introduced him -to my father. You should have seen how he stared.” - -“Oh!” said Lady Markham again; and then she added faintly: “Is--is he -here?” - -“You mean papa? I left him at aunt Caroline’s. In the circumstances, -that seemed the best thing to do.” - -Lady Markham leaned back in her chair; she had become very pale. One -shock after another had reduced her strength. She closed her eyes while -Constance very comfortably sipped her tea. It was not possible that she -could have dreamed it or imagined it, when, on opening her eyes again, -she saw Constance sitting by the tea-table with a plate of bread and -butter before her. “I have really,” she explained seriously, “eaten -nothing to-day.” - -Frances came down some time after, having bathed her eyes and smoothed -her hair. It was always smooth like satin, shining in the light. She -came in, in her unobtrusive way, ashamed of herself for her outburst of -temper, and determined to be “good,” whatever might happen. She was -surprised that there was no conversation going on. Constance sat in a -chair which Frances at once recognised as having been hers from the -beginning of time, wondering at her own audacity in having sat in it, -when she did not know. Lady Markham was still leaning back in her chair. -“Oh, it’s nothing--only a little giddiness. So many strange things are -happening. Did you give your uncle Clarendon my note? I suppose Frances -told you, Con, how we have been upset to-day?” - -“Upset?” said Constance over her bread and butter. “I should have -thought you would have been immensely pleased. It is about Sir Thomas, I -suppose?” - -“About Sir Thomas! Is there any news about Sir Thomas?” said Lady -Markham, with an elaborately innocent look. “If so, it has not yet been -confided to me.” And then she proceeded to tell to her daughter the -story of Nelly Winterbourn. - -“I should have thought that would all have been set right in the -settlements,” Constance said. - -“So it ought. But she had no one to see to the settlements--no one with -a real interest in her; and it was such a magnificent match.” - -“No better than Sir Thomas, mamma.” - -“Ah, Sir Thomas. Is there really a story about Sir Thomas? I can only -say, if it is so, that he has never confided it to me.” - -“I hope no mistake will be made about the settlements in that case. And -what do you suppose Markham will do?” - -“What can he do? He will do nothing, Con. You know, after all, that is -the _rôle_ that suits him best. Even if all had been well, unless Nelly -had asked him herself----” - -“Do you think she would have minded, after all this time? But I suppose -there’s an end of Nelly now,” Constance said, regretfully. - -“I am afraid so,” Lady Markham replied. And then recovering, she began -to tell her daughter the news--all the news of this one and the other, -which Frances had never been able to understand, which Constance -entered into as one to the manner born. They left the subject of Nelly -Winterbourn, and not a word was said of young Gaunt and his fever; but -apart from these subjects, everything that had happened since Constance -left England was discussed between them. They talked and smiled and -rippled over into laughter, and passed in review the thousand friends -whose little follies and freaks both knew, and skimmed across the -surface of tragedies with a consciousness, that gave piquancy to the -amusement, of the terrible depths beneath. Frances, keeping behind, not -willing to show her troubled countenance, from which the traces of tears -were not easily effaced, listened to this light talk with a wonder which -almost reached the height of awe. Her mother at least must have many -grave matters in her mind; and even on Constance, the consciousness of -having stirred up all the quiescent evils in the family history, of her -father in England, of the meeting which must take place between the -husband and wife so long parted, all by her influence, must have a -certain weight. But there they sat and talked and laughed, and shot -their little shafts of wit. Frances, at last feeling her heart ache too -much for further repression, and that the pleasant interchange between -her mother and sister exasperated instead of lightened her burdened -soul, left them, and sought refuge in her room, where presently she -heard their voices again as they came up-stairs to dress. Constance’s -boxes had in the meantime arrived from the railway, and the conversation -was very animated upon fashions and new adaptations and what to wear. -Then the door of Constance’s room was closed, and Lady Markham came -tapping at that of Frances. She took the girl into her arms. “Now,” she -said, “my dream is going to be realised, and I shall have my two girls, -one on each side of me. My little Frances, are you not glad?” - -“Mother----” the girl said, faltering, and stopped, not able to say any -more. - -Lady Markham kissed her tenderly, and smiled, as if she were content. -Was she content? Was the happiness, now she had it, as great as she -said? Was she able to be light-hearted with all these complications -round her? But to these questions who could give any answer? Presently -she went to dress, shutting the door; and, between her two girls, -retired so many hundred, so many thousand miles away--who could -tell?--into herself. - -In the evening there was considerable stir and commotion in the house. -Markham, warned by one of his mother’s notes, came to dinner full of -affectionate pleasure in Con’s return, and cheerful inquiries for her. -“As yet, you have lost nothing, Con. As yet, nobody has got well into -the swim. As to how the mammy will feel with two daughters to take -about, that is a mystery. If we had known, we’d have shut up little Fan -in the nursery for a year more.” - -“It is I that should be sent to the nursery,” said Constance. “Three -months is a long time. Algy Muncastle thought I was dead and buried. He -looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.” - -“A girl might just as well be dead and buried as let half the season -slip over and never appear.” - -“Unless she were a widow,” said Con. - -“Ah! unless she were a widow, as you say. That changes the face of -affairs.” Markham made a slight involuntary retreat when he received -that blow, but no one mentioned the name of Nelly Winterbourn. It was -much too serious to be taken any notice of now. In the brightness of -Lady Markham’s drawing-room, with all its softened lights, grave -subjects were only discussed _tête-à-tête_. When the company was more -than two, everything took a sportive turn. Of the two visitors, however, -who came in later, one was not at all disposed to follow this rule. Sir -Thomas said but little to Constance, though her arrival was part of the -news which had brought him here; but he held Lady Markham’s hand with an -anxious look into her eyes, and as soon as he could, drew Frances aside -to the distant corner in which she was fond of placing herself. “Do you -know he has come?” he cried. - -“I have seen papa, Sir Thomas, if that is what you mean.” - -“What else could I mean?” said Sir Thomas. “You know how I have tried -for this. What did he say? I want to know what disposition he is in. And -what disposition is _she_ in? Frances, you and I have a great deal to -do. We have the ball at our feet. There is nobody acting in both their -interests but you and I.” - -There was something in Frances’ eyes and in her look of mute endurance -which startled him, even in the midst of his enthusiasm. “What is the -matter?” he said. “I have not forgotten our bargain. I will do much for -you, if you will work for me. And you want something. Come, tell me what -it is?” - -She gave him a look of reproach. Had he, too, forgotten the sick and -miserable, the sufferer, of whom no one thought? “Sir Thomas,” she said, -“Constance has money; she has stopped at Paris to buy dresses. Oh, give -me what is my share.” - -“I remember now,” he said. - -“Then you know the only thing that any one can do for me. Oh, Sir -Thomas, if you could but give it me now.” - -“Shall I speak to your father?” he asked. - -These words Markham heard by chance, as he passed them to fetch -something his mother wanted. He returned to where she sat with a curious -look in his little twinkling eyes. “What is Sir Thomas after? Do you -know the silly story that is about? They say that old fellow is after -Lady Markham’s daughter. It had better be put a stop to, mother. I won’t -have anything go amiss with little Fan.” - -“Go amiss! with Sir Thomas. There is nobody he might not marry, -Markham--not that anything has ever been said.” - -“Let him have anybody he pleases except little Fan. I won’t have -anything happen to Fan. She is not one that would stand it, like the -rest of us. We are old stagers; we are trained for the stake; we know -how to grin and bear it. But that little thing, she has never been -brought up to it, and it would kill her. I won’t have anything go wrong -with little Fan.” - -“There is nothing going wrong with Frances. You are not talking with -your usual sense, Markham. If that was coming, Frances would be a lucky -girl.” - -Markham looked at her with his eyes all pursed up, nearly disappearing -in the puckers round them. “Mother,” he said, “we know a girl who was a -very lucky girl, you and I. Remember Nelly Winterbourn.” - -It gave Lady Markham a shock to hear Nelly’s name. “O Markham, the less -we say of her the better,” she cried. - -There was another arrival while they talked--Claude Ramsay, with the -flower in his coat a little rubbed by the greatcoat which he had taken -off in the hall, though it was now June. “I heard you had come back,” he -said, dropping languidly into a chair by Constance. “I thought I would -come and see if it was true.” - -“You see it is quite true.” - -“Yes; and you are looking as well as possible. Everything seems to agree -with you. Do you know I was very nearly going out to that little place -in the Riviera? I got all the _renseignements_; but then I heard that it -got hot and the people went away.” - -“You ought to have come. Don’t you know it is at the back of the east -wind, and there are no draughts there?” - -“What an ideal place!” said Claude. “I shall certainly go next winter, -if you are going to be there.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - - -Frances slept very little all night; her mind was jarred and sore almost -at every point. The day with all its strange experiences, and still more -strange suggestions, had left her in a giddy round of the unreal, in -which there seemed no ground to stand upon. Nelly Winterbourn was the -first prodigy in that round of wonders. Why, with that immovable tragic -face, had she intimated to Lady Markham the tenure upon which she held -her fortune? Why had it been received as something conclusive on all -sides? “There is an end of Nelly.” But why? And then came her mission to -her aunt, the impression that had been made on her mind--the hope that -had dawned on Frances; and then the event which swept both hope and -impression away, and the bitter end that seemed to come to everything -in the reappearance of Constance. Was it that she was jealous of -Constance? Frances asked herself in the silence of the night, with -noiseless bitter tears. The throbbing of her heart was all pain; -life had become pain, and nothing more. Was it that she was -jealous--_jealous_ of her sister? It seemed to Frances that her heart -was being wrung, pressed till the life came out of it in great drops -under some giant’s hands. She said to herself, No, no. It was only that -Constance came in her careless grace, and the place was hers, wherever -she came; and all Frances had done, or was trying to do, came to nought. -Was that jealousy? She lay awake through the long hours of the summer -night, seeing the early dawn grow blue, and then warm and lighten into -the light of day. And then all the elements of chaos round her, which -whirled and whirled and left no honest footing, came to a pause and -disappeared, and one thing real, one fact remained--George Gaunt in his -fever, lying rapt from all common life, taking no note of night or day. -Perhaps the tide might be turning for death or life, for this was once -more the day that might be the crisis. The other matters blended into a -phantasmagoria, of which Frances could not tell which part was false and -which true, or if anything was true; but here was reality beyond -dispute. She thought of the pale light stealing into his room, blinding -the ineffectual candles; of his weary head on the pillow growing -visible; of the long endless watch; and far away among the mountains, of -the old people waiting and praying, and wondering what news the morning -would bring them. This thought stung Frances into a keen life and -energy, and took from her all reflection upon matters so abstract as -that question whether or not she was jealous of Constance. What did it -matter? so long as he could be brought back from the gates of death and -the edge of the grave, so long as the father and mother could be saved -from that awful and murderous blow. She got up hastily long before any -one was stirring. There are moments when all our ineffectual thinkings, -and even futile efforts, end in a sudden determination that the thing -must be done, and revelation of how to do it. She got up with a little -tremor upon her, such as a great inventor might have when he saw at last -his way clearly, or a poet when he had caught the spark of celestial -fire. Is there any machine that was ever invented, or even any power so -divine as the right way to save a life and deliver a soul? Frances’ -little frame was all tingling, but it made her mind clear and firm. She -asked herself how she could have thought of any other but this way. - -It was very early in the morning when she set out. If it had not been -London, in which no dew falls, the paths would have been wet with dew; -even in London, there was a magical something in the air which breathed -of the morning, and which not all the housemaids’ brooms and tradesmen’s -carts in the world could dispel. Frances walked on in the stillness, -along the long silent line of the Park, where there was nobody save a -little early schoolmistress, or perhaps a belated man about town, -surprised by the morning, with red eyes and furtive looks, in the -overcoat which hid his evening clothes, hurrying home--to break the -breadth of the sunshine, the soft morning light, which was neither too -warm nor dazzling, but warmed gently, sweetly to the heart. Her trouble -had departed from her in the resolution she had taken. She was very -grave, not knowing whether death or life, sorrow or hope, might be in -the air, but composed, because, whatever it was, it must now come, all -being done that man could do. She did not hasten, but walked slowly, -knowing how early she was, how astonished her aunt’s servants would be -to see her, unattended, walking up to the door. “I will arise and go to -my father.” Wherever these words can be said, there is peace in them, a -sense of safety at least. There are, alas! many cases in which, with -human fathers, they cannot be said; but Waring, whatever his faults -might be, had not forfeited his child’s confidence, and he would -understand. To all human aches and miseries, to be understood is the one -comfort above all others. Those to whom she had appealed before, had -been sorry; they had been astonished; they had gazed at her with -troubled eyes. But her father would understand. This was the chief thing -and the best. She went along under the trees, which were still fresh and -green, through the scenes which, a little while later, would be astir -with all the movements, the comedies, the tragedies, the confusions and -complications of life. But now they lay like a part of the fair silent -country, like the paths in a wood, like the glades in a park, all silent -and mute, birds in the branches, dew upon the grass--a place where Town -had abdicated, where Nature reigned. - -Waring awoke betimes, being accustomed to the early hours of a primitive -people. It was a curious experience to him to come down through a -closed-up and silent house, where the sunshine came in between the -chinks of the shutters, and all was as it had been in the confusion of -the night. A frightened maid-servant came before him to open the study, -which his brother-in-law Clarendon had occupied till a late hour. Traces -of the lawyer’s vigil were still apparent enough--his waste-paper basket -full of fragments; the little tray standing in the corner, which, even -when holding nothing more than soda-water and claret, suggests -dissipation in the morning. Waring was jarred by all this -unpreparedness. He thought with a sigh of the bookroom in the Palazzo -all open to the sweet morning air, before the sun had come round that -way; and when he stepped out upon the little iron balcony attached to -the window and looked out upon other backs of houses, all crowding -round, the recollection of the blue seas, the waving palms, the great -peaks, all carved against the brilliant sky, made him turn back in -disgust. The mean London walls of yellow brick, the narrow houses, the -little windows, all blinded with white blinds and curtains, so near that -he could almost touch them--“However, it will not be like this at -Hilborough,” he said to himself. He was no longer in the mood in which -he had left Bordighera; but yet, having left it, he was ready to -acknowledge that Bordighera was now impossible. His life there had -continued from year to year--it might have continued for ever, with -Frances ignorant of all that had gone before; but the thread of life -once broken, could be knitted again no more. He acknowledged this to -himself; and then he found that, in acknowledging it, he had brought -himself face to face with all the gravest problems of his life. He had -held them at arm’s-length for years; but now they had to be decided, and -there was no alternative. He must meet them; he must look them in the -face. And _her_, too, he must look in the face. Life once more had come -to a point at which neither habit nor the past could help him. All over -again, as if he were a boy coming of age, it would have to be decided -what it should be. - -Waring was not at all surprised by the appearance of Frances fresh with -the morning air about her. It seemed quite natural to him. He had -forgotten all about the London streets, and how far it was from one -point to another. He thought she had gained much in her short absence -from him,--perhaps in learning how to act for herself, to think for -herself, which she had acquired since she left him; for he was entirely -unaware, and even quite incapable of being instructed, that Frances had -lived her little life as far apart from him, and been as independent of -him while sitting by his side at Bordighera, as she could have been at -the other end of the world. But he was impressed by the steady light of -resolution, the cause of which was as yet unknown to him, which was -shining in her eyes. She told him her story at once, without the little -explanations that had been necessary to the others. When she said George -Gaunt, he knew all that there was to say. The only thing that it was -expedient to conceal was Markham’s part in the catastrophe, which was, -after all, not at all clear to Frances; and as Waring was not acquainted -with Markham’s reputation, there was no suggestion in his mind of the -name that was wanting to explain how the young officer, knowing nobody, -had found entrance into the society which had ruined him. Frances told -her tale in few words. She was magnanimous, and said nothing of -Constance on the one hand, any more than of Markham on the other. She -told her father of the condition in which the young man lay--of his -constant mutterings, so painful to hear, the Red and Black that came up, -over and over again, in his confused thoughts, the distracting burden -that awaited him if he ever got free of that circle of confusion and -pain--of the old people in Switzerland waiting for the daily news, not -coming to him as they wished, because of that one dread yet vulgar -difficulty which only she understood. “Mamma says, of course they would -not hesitate at the expense. Oh no, no! they would not hesitate. But how -can I make her understand? yet we know.” - -“How could she understand?” he said with a pale smile, which Frances -knew. “_She_ has never hesitated.” It was all that jarred even upon her -excited nerves and mind. The situation was so much more clear to him -than to the others, to whom young Gaunt was a stranger. And Waring, too, -was in his nature something of a Quixote to those who took him on the -generous side. He listened--he understood; he remembered all that had -been enacted under his eyes. The young fellow had gone to London in -desperation, unsettled, and wounded by the woman to whom he had given -his love--and he had fallen into the first snare that presented itself. -It was weak, it was miserable; but it was not more than a man could -understand. When Frances found that at last her object was attained, the -unlikeliness that it ever should have been attained, overwhelmed her -even in the moment of victory. She clasped her arms round her father’s -arm, and laid down her head upon it, and, to his great surprise, burst -into a passion of tears. “What is the matter? What has happened? Have I -said anything to hurt you?” he cried, half touched, half vexed, not -knowing what it was, smoothing her glossy hair half tenderly, half -reluctantly, with his disengaged hand. - -“Oh, it is nothing, nothing! It is my folly; it is--happiness. I have -tried to tell them all, and no one would understand. But one’s -father--one’s father is like no one else,” cried Frances, with her cheek -upon his sleeve. - -Waring was altogether penetrated by these simple words, and by the -childish action, which reminded him of the time when the little forlorn -child he had carried away with him had no one but him in the world. “My -dear,” he said, “it makes me happy that you think so. I have been rather -a failure, I fear, in most things; but if you think so, I can’t have -been a failure all round.” His heart grew very soft over his little -girl. He was in a new world, though it was the old one. His sister, whom -he had not seen for so long, had half disgusted him with her violent -partisanship, though his was the party she upheld so strongly. And -Constance, who had no hold of habitual union upon him, had exhibited all -her faults to his eyes. But his little girl was still his little girl, -and believed in her father. It brought a softening of all the ice and -snow about his heart. - -They walked together through the many streets to inquire for poor Gaunt, -and were admitted with shakings of the head and downcast looks. He had -passed a very disturbed night, though at present he seemed to sleep. The -nurse who had been up all night, and was much depressed, was afraid that -there were symptoms of a “change.” “I think the parents should be sent -for, sir,” she said, addressing herself at once to Waring. These -attendants did not mind what they said over the uneasy bed. “He don’t -know what we are saying, any more than the bed he lies on. Look at him, -miss, and tell me if you don’t think there is a change?” Frances held -fast by her father’s arm. She was more diffident in his presence than -she had been before. The sufferer’s gaunt face was flushed, his lips -moved, though, in his weakness, his words were not audible. The other -nurse, who had come to relieve her colleague, and who was fresh and -unwearied, was far more hopeful. But she, too, thought that “a change” -might be approaching, and that it would be well to summon the friends. -She went down-stairs with them to talk it over a little more. “It seems -to me that he takes more notice than we are aware of,” she said. “The -ways of sick folks are that wonderful, we don’t understand, not the half -of them; seems to me that you have a kind of an influence, miss. Last -night he changed after you were here, and took me for his mamma, and -asked me what I meant, and said something about a Miss Una that was -true, and a false Jessie or something. I wonder if your name is Miss -Una, miss?” This inquiry was made while Waring was writing a telegram to -the parents. Frances, who was not very quick, could only wonder for a -long time who Una was and Jessie. It was not till evening, nearly twelve -hours after, that there suddenly came into her mind the false Duessa of -the poet. And then the question remained, who was Una, and who Duessa? a -question to which she could find no reply. - -Frances remained with her father the greater part of the day. When she -found that what she desired was to be done, there fell a strange kind of -lull into her being, which unaccountably took away her strength, so that -she scarcely felt herself able to hold up her head. She began to be -aware that she had neither slept by night nor had any peace by day, and -that a fever of the mind had been stealing upon her, a sort of -reflection of the other fever, in which her patient was enveloped as in -a living shroud. She was scarcely able to stand, and yet she could not -rest. Had she not put force upon herself, she would have been sending to -and fro all day, creeping thither on limbs that would scarcely support -her, to know how he was, or if the change had yet appeared. She had not -feared for his life before, having no tradition of death in her mind; -but now an alarm grew upon her that any moment might see the blow fall, -and that the parents might come in vain. It was while she stood at one -of the windows of Mrs Clarendon’s gloomy drawing-room, watching for the -return of one of her messengers, that she saw her mother’s well-known -brougham drive up to the door. She turned round with a little cry of -“Mamma” to where her father was sitting, in one of the seldom used -chairs. Mrs Clarendon, who would not leave him for many minutes, was -hovering by, wearying his fastidious mind with unnecessary solicitude, -and a succession of questions which he neither could nor wished to -answer. She flung up her arms when she heard Frances’ cry. “Your mother! -Oh, has she dared! Edward, go away, and let me meet her. She will not -get much out of me.” - -“Do you think I am going to fly from my wife?” Waring said. He rose up -very tremulous, yet with a certain dignity. “In that case, I should not -have come here.” - -“But, Edward, you are not prepared. O Edward, be guided by me. If you -once get into that woman’s hands----” - -“Hush!” he said; “her daughter is here.” Then, with a smile: “When a -lady comes to see me, I hope I can receive her still as a gentleman -should, whoever she may be.” - -The door opened, and Lady Markham came in. She was very pale, yet -flushed from moment to moment. She, who had usually such perfect -self-command, betrayed her agitation by little movements, by the -clasping and unclasping of her hands, by a hurried, slightly audible -breathing. She stood for a moment without advancing, the door closing -behind her, facing the agitated group. Frances, following an instinctive -impulse, went hastily towards her mother as a maid of honour in an -emergency might hurry to take her place behind the Queen. Mrs Clarendon -on her side, with a similar impulse, drew nearer to her brother--the way -was cleared between the two, once lovers, now antagonists. The pause was -but for a moment. Lady Markham, after that hesitation, came forward. -She said: “Edward, I should be wanting in my duty if I did not come to -welcome you home.” - -“Home!” he said, with a curious smile. Then he, too, came forward a -little. “I accept your advances in the same spirit, Frances.” She was -holding out her hands to him with a little appeal, looking at him with -eyes that sank and rose again--an emotion that was restrained by her -age, by her matronly person, by the dignity of the woman, which could -not be quenched by any flood of feeling. He took her hands in his with a -strange timidity, hesitating, as if there might be something more, then -let them drop, and they stood once again apart. - -“I have to thank you, too,” she said, “for bringing Constance back to me -safe and well; and what is more, Edward, for this child.” She put out -her hand to Frances, and drew her close, so that the girl could feel the -agitation in her mother’s whole person, and knew that, weak as she was, -she was a support to the other, who was so much stronger. “I owe you -more thanks still for her--that she never had been taught to think any -harm of her mother, that she came back to me as innocent and true as she -went away.” - -“If you found her so, Frances, it was to her own praise, rather than -mine.” - -“Nay,” she said with a tremulous smile, “I have not to learn now that -the father of my children was fit to be trusted with a girl’s -mind--more, perhaps, than their mother--and the world together.” She -shook off this subject, which was too germane to the whole matter, with -a little tremulous movement of her head and hands. “We must not enter on -that,” she said. “Though I am only a woman of the world, it might be too -much for me. Discussion must be for another time. But we may be -friends.” - -“So far as I am concerned.” - -“And I too, Edward. There are things even we might consult -about--without prejudice, as the lawyers say--for the children’s good.” - -“Whatever you wish my advice upon----” - -“Yes, that is perhaps the way to put it,” Lady Markham said, after a -pause which looked like disappointment, and with an agitated smile. -“Will you be so friendly, then,” she added, “as to dine at my house with -the girls and me? No one you dislike will be there. Sir Thomas, who is -in great excitement about your arrival; and perhaps Claude Ramsay, whom -Constance has come back to marry.” - -“Then she has settled that?” - -“I think so; yet no doubt she would like him to be seen by you. I hope -you will come,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. - -“It will be very strange,” he said, “to dine as a guest at your table.” - -“Yes, Edward; but everything is strange. We are so much older now than -we were. We can afford, perhaps, to disagree, and yet be friends.” - -“I will come if it will give you any pleasure,” he said. - -“Certainly, it will give me pleasure.” She had been standing all the -time, not having even been offered a seat--an omission which neither he -nor she had discovered. He did it now, placing with great politeness a -chair for her; but she did not sit down. - -“For the first time, perhaps it is enough,” she said. “And Caroline -thinks it more than enough. Good-bye, Edward. If you will believe me, I -am--truly glad to see you: and I hope we may be friends.” - -She half raised her clasped hands again. This time he took them in both -his, and leaning towards her, kissed her on the forehead. Frances felt -the tremor that ran through her mother’s frame. “Good-bye,” she said, -“till this evening.” Only the girl knew why Lady Markham hurried from -the room. She stopped in the hall below to regain her self-command and -arrange her bonnet. “It is so long since we have met,” she said, “it -upsets me. Can you wonder, Frances? The woman in the end always feels it -most. And then there are so many things to upset me just now. Constance -and Markham--say nothing of Markham; do not mention his name--and even -you----” - -“There is nothing about me to annoy you, mamma.” - -Lady Markham smiled with a face that was near crying. She gave a little -tap with her finger upon Frances’ cheek, and then she hurried away. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII. - - -The dinner, it need scarcely be said, was a strange one. Except in -Constance, who was perfectly cool, and Claude, who was more concerned -about a possible draught from a window than anything else, there was -much agitation in the rest of the party. Lady Markham was nervously -cordial, anxious to talk and to make everything “go”--which, indeed, she -would have done far more effectually had she been able to retain her -usual cheerful and benign composure. But there are some things which are -scarcely possible even to the most accomplished woman of the world. How -to place the guests, even, had been a trouble to her, almost too great -to be faced. To place her husband by her side was more than she could -bear, and where else could it be appropriate to place him, unless -opposite to her, where the master of the house should sit? The -difficulty was solved loosely by placing Constance there, and her father -beside her. He sat between his daughters; while Ramsay and Sir Thomas -were on either side of his wife. Under such circumstances, it was -impossible that the conversation could be other than formal, with -outbursts of somewhat conventional vivacity from Sir Thomas, supported -by anxious responses from Lady Markham. Frances took refuge in saying -nothing at all. And Waring sat like a ghost, with a smile on his face, -in which there was a sort of pathetic humour, dashed with something that -was half derision. To be sitting there at all was wonderful indeed, and -to be listening to the smalltalk of a London dinner-table, with all its -little discussions, its talk of plays and pictures and people, its -scraps of political life behind the scenes, its esoteric revelations on -all subjects, was more wonderful still. He had half forgotten it; and to -come thus at a single step into the midst of it all, and hear this -babble floating on the air which was charged with so many tragic -elements, was more wonderful still. To think that they should all be -looking at each other across the flowers and the crystal, and knowing -what questions were to be solved between them, yet talking and expecting -others to talk of the new tenor and the last scandal! It seemed to the -stranger out of the wilds, who had been banished from society so long, -that it was a thing incredible, when he was thus thrown into it again. -There were allusions to many things which he did not understand. There -was something, for instance, about Nelly Winterbourn which called forth -a startling response from Lady Markham. “You must not,” she said, “say -anything about poor Nelly in this house. From my heart, I am sorry and -grieved for her; but in the circumstances, what can any one do? The -least said, the better, especially here.” The pause after this was -minute but marked, and Waring asked Constance, “Who is Nelly -Winterbourn?” - -“She is a young widow, papa. It was thought her husband had left her a -large fortune; but he has left it to her on the condition that she -should not marry again.” - -“Is that why she is not to be spoken of in this house?” said Waring, -growing red. This explanation had been asked and given in an undertone. -He thought it referred to the circumstances in which his own marriage -had taken place--Lady Markham being a young widow with a large jointure; -and that this was the reason why the other was not to be mentioned; and -it gave him a hot sense of offence, restrained by the politeness which -is exercised in society, but not always when the offenders are one’s -wife and children. It turned the tide of softened thoughts back upon his -heart, and increased to fierceness the derision with which he listened -to all the trifles that floated uppermost. When the ladies left the -room, he did not meet the questioning, almost timid, look that Lady -Markham threw upon him. He saw it, indeed, but he would not respond to -it. That allusion had spoiled all the rest. - -In the little interval after dinner, Claude Ramsay did his best to make -himself agreeable. “I am very glad to see you back, sir,” he said. “I -told Lady Markham it was the right thing. When a girl has a father, -it’s always odd that he shouldn’t appear.” - -“Oh, you told Lady Markham that it was--the right thing?” - -“A coincidence, wasn’t it? when you were on your way,” said Claude, -perceiving the mistake he had made. “You know, sir,” he added with a -little hesitation, “that it has all been made up for a long time between -Constance and me.” - -“Yes? What has all been made up? I understand that my daughter came out -to me to----” - -“Oh!” said Claude, interrupting hurriedly, “it is _that_ that has all -been made up. Constance has been very nice about it,” he continued. “She -has been making a study of the Riviera, and collecting all sorts of -_renseignements_; for in most cases, it is necessary for me to winter -abroad.” - -“That was what she was doing then--her object, I suppose?” said Waring -with a grim smile. - -“Besides the pleasure of visiting you, sir,” said Claude, with what he -felt to be great tact. “She seems to have done a great deal of -exploring, and she tells me she has found just the right site for the -villa--and all the _renseignements_,” he added. “To have been on the -spot, and studied the aspect, and how the winds blow, is such a great -thing; and to be near your place too,” he said politely, by an -after-thought. - -“Which I hope is to be your place no more, Waring,” said Sir Thomas. -“Your own place is very empty, and craving for you all the time.” - -“It is too fine a question to say what is my own place,” he said, with -that pale indignant smile. “Things are seldom made any clearer by an -absence of a dozen years.” - -“A great deal clearer--the mists blow away, and the hot fumes. Come, -Waring, say you are glad you have come home.” - -“I suppose,” said Claude, “you find it really too hot for summer on that -coast. What would you say was the end of the season? May? Just when -London begins to be possible, and most people have come to town.” - -“Is not that one of the _renseignements_ Constance has given you?” -Waring asked with a short laugh; but he made no reply to the other -questions. And then there was a little of the inevitable politics before -the gentlemen went up-stairs. Lady Markham had been threatened with what -in France is called an _attaque des nerfs_, when she reached the shelter -of the drawing-room. She was a little hysterical, hardly able to get the -better of the sobbing which assailed her. Constance stood apart, and -looked on with a little surprise. “You know, mamma,” she said -reflectively, “an effort is the only thing. With an effort, you can stop -it.” - -Frances was differently affected by this emotion. She, who had never -learned to be familiar, stole behind her mother’s chair and made her -breast a pillow for Lady Markham’s head,--a breast in which the heart -was beating now high, now low, with excitement and despondency. She did -not say anything; but there is sometimes comfort in a touch. It helped -Lady Markham to subdue the unwonted spasm. She held close for a moment -the arms which were over her shoulders, and she replied to Constance, -“Yes, that is true. I am ashamed of myself. I ought to know better--at -my age.” - -“It has gone off on the whole very well,” Constance said. And then she -retired to a sofa and took up a book. - -Lady Markham held Frances’ hand in hers for a moment or two longer, then -drew her towards her and kissed her, still without a word. They had -approached nearer to each other in that silent encounter than in all -that had passed before. Lady Markham’s heart was full of many -commotions; the past was rising up around her with all its agitating -recollections. She looked back, and saw, oh, so clearly in that pale -light which can never alter, the scenes that ought never to have been, -the words that ought never to have been said, the faults, the -mistakes--those things which were fixed there for ever, not to be -forgotten. Could they ever be forgotten? Could any postscript be put to -the finished story? Or was this strange meeting--unsought, scarcely -desired on either side, into which the separated Two, who ought to have -been One, seemed to have been driven without any will of their own--was -it to be mere useless additional pain, and no more? - -The ladies were all very peacefully employed when the gentlemen came -up-stairs. Lady Markham turned round as usual from her writing-table to -receive them with a smile. Constance laid down her book. Frances, from -her accustomed dim corner, lifted up her eyes to watch them as they came -in. They stood in the middle of the room for a minute, and talked to -each other according to the embarrassed usage of Englishmen, and then -they distributed themselves. Sir Thomas fell to Frances’ share. He -turned to her eagerly, and took her hand and pressed it warmly. “We have -done it,” he said, in an excited whisper. “So far, all is victorious; -but still there is a great deal more to do.” - -“I think it is Constance that has done it,” Frances said. - -“She has worked for us--without meaning it--no doubt. But I am not going -to give up the credit to Constance; and there is still a great deal to -do. You must not lay down your arms, my dear. You and I, we have the -ball at our feet: but there is a great deal still to do.” - -Frances made no reply. The corner which she had chosen for herself was -almost concealed behind a screen which parted the room in two. The other -group made a picture far enough withdrawn to gain perspective. Waring -stood near his wife, who from time to time gave him a look, half -watchful, half wistful, and sometimes made a remark, to which he gave a -brief reply. His attitude and hers told a story; but it was a confused -and uncertain one, of which the end was all darkness. They were -together, but fortuitously, without any will of their own; and between -them was a gulf fixed. Which would cross it, or was it possible that it -ever could be crossed at all? The room was very silent, for the -conversation was not lively between Constance and Claude on the sofa; -and Sir Thomas was silent, watching too. All was so quiet, indeed, that -every sound was audible without; but there was no expectation of any -interruption, nobody looked for anything, there was a perfect -indifference to outside sounds. So much so, that for a moment the -ladies were scarcely startled by the familiar noise, so constantly -heard, of Markham’s hansom drawing up at the door. It could not be -Markham; he was out of the way, disposed of till next morning. But Lady -Markham, with that presentiment which springs up most strongly when -every avenue by which harm can come seems stopped, started, then rose to -her feet with alarm. “It can’t surely be---- Oh, what has brought him -here!” she cried, and looked at Claude, to bid him, with her eyes, rush -to meet him, stop him, keep him from coming in. But Claude did not -understand her eyes. - -As for Waring, seeing that something had gone wrong in the programme, -but not guessing what it was, he accepted her movement as a dismissal, -and quietly joined his daughter and his friend behind the screen. The -two men got behind it altogether, showing only where their heads passed -its line; but the light was not bright in that corner, and the new-comer -was full of his own affairs. For it was Markham, who came in rapidly, -stopped by no wise agent, or suggestion of expediency. He came into the -room dressed in light morning-clothes, greenish, grayish, yellowish, -like the colour of his sandy hair and complexion. He came in with his -face puckered up and twitching, as it did when he was excited. His -mother, Constance, Claude, sunk in the corner of the sofa, were all he -saw; and he took no notice of Claude. He crossed that little opening -amid the fashionably crowded furniture, and went and placed himself in -front of the fireplace, which was full at this season of flowers, not of -fire. From that point of vantage he greeted them with his usual laugh, -but broken and embarrassed. “Well, mother--well, Con; you thought you -were clear of me for to-night.” - -“I did not expect you, Markham. Is anything--has anything----? - -“Gone wrong?” he said. “No--I don’t know that anything has gone wrong. -That depends on how you look at it. I’ve been in the country all day.” - -“Yes, Markham; so I know.” - -“But not where I was going,” he said. His laugh broke out again, quite -irrelevant and inappropriate. “I’ve seen Nelly,” he said. - -“Markham!” his mother cried, with a tone of wonder, disapproval, -indignation, such as had never been heard in her voice before, through -all that had been said and understood concerning Markham and Nelly -Winterbourn. She had sunk into her chair, but now rose again in distress -and anxiety. “Oh,” she cried, “how could you? how could you? I thought -you had some true feeling. O Markham, how unworthy of you _now_ to vex -and compromise that poor girl!” - -He made no answer for a moment, but moistened his lips, with a sound -that seemed like a ghost of the habitual chuckle. “Yes,” he said, “I -know you made it all up that the chapter was closed _now_; but I never -said so, mother. Nelly’s where she was before, when we hadn’t the -courage to do anything. Only worse: shamed and put in bondage by that -miserable beggar’s will. And you all took it for granted that there was -an end between her and me. I was waiting to marry her when she was free -and rich, you all thought; but I wasn’t bound, to be sure, nor the sort -of man to think of it twice when I knew she would be poor.” - -“Markham! no one ever said, nobody thought----” - -“Oh, I know very well what people thought--and said too, for that -matter,” said Markham. “I hope a fellow like me knows Society well -enough for that. A pair of old stagers like Nelly and me, of course we -knew what everybody said. Well, mammy, you’re mistaken this time, that’s -all. There’s nothing to be taken for granted in this world. Nelly’s -game, and so am I. As soon as it’s what you call decent, and the crape -business done with--for she has always done her duty by him, the -wretched fellow, as everybody knows----” - -“Markham!” his mother cried, almost with a shriek--“why, it is ruin, -destruction. I must speak to Nelly--ruin both to her and you.” - -He laughed. “Or else the t’other thing--salvation, you know. Anyhow, -Nelly’s game for it, and so am I.” - -There suddenly glided into the light at this moment a little figure, -white, rapid, noiseless, and caught Markham’s arm in both hers. “O -Markham! O Markham!” cried Frances, “I am so glad! I never believed it; -I always knew it. I am so glad!” and began to cry, clinging to his arm. - -Markham’s puckered countenance twitched and puckered more and more. His -chuckle sounded over her half like a sob. “Look here,” he said. “Here’s -the little one approves. She’s the one to judge, the sort of still small -voice--eh, mother? Come; I’ve got far better than I deserve: I’ve got -little Fan on my side.” - -Lady Markham wrung her hands with an impatience which partly arose from -her own better instincts. The words which she wanted would not come to -her lips. “The child, what can she know!” she cried, and could say no -more. - -“Stand by me, little Fan,” said Markham, holding his sister close to -him. “Mother, it’s not a small thing that could part you and me; that is -what I feel, nothing else. For the rest, we’ll take the Priory, Nelly -and I, and be very jolly upon nothing. Mother, you didn’t think in your -heart that YOUR son was a base little beggar, no better than -Winterbourn?” - -Lady Markham made no reply. She sank down in her chair and covered her -face with her hands. In the climax of so many emotions, she was -overwhelmed. She could not stand up against Markham: in her husband’s -presence, with everything hanging in the balance, she could say nothing. -The worldly wisdom she had learned melted away from her. Her heart was -stirred to its depths, and the conventional bonds restrained it no more. -A kind of sweet bitterness--a sense of desertion, yet hope; of secret -approval, yet opposition--disabled her altogether. One or two convulsive -sobs shook her frame. She was able to say nothing, nothing, and was -silent, covering her face with her hands. - -Waring had seen Markham come in with angry displeasure. He had listened -with that keen curiosity of antagonism which is almost as warm as the -interest of love, to hear what he had to say. Sir Thomas, standing by -his side, threw in a word or two to explain, seeing an opportunity in -this new development of affairs. But nothing was really altered until -Frances rose. Her father watched her with a poignant anxiety, wonder, -excitement. When she threw herself upon her brother’s arm, and, all -alone in her youth, gave him her approval, the effect upon the mind of -her father was very strange. He frowned and turned away, then came back -and looked again. His daughter, his little white spotless child, thrown -upon the shoulder of the young man whom he had believed he hated, his -wife’s son, who had been always in his way. It was intolerable. He must -spring forward, he thought, and pluck her away. But Markham’s stifled -cry of emotion and happiness somehow arrested Waring. He looked again, -and there was something tender, pathetic, in the group. He began to -perceive dimly how it was. Markham was making a resolution which, for a -man of his kind, was heroic; and the little sister, the child, his own -child, of his training, not of the world, had gone in her innocence and -consecrated it with her approval. The approval of little Frances! And -Markham had the heart to feel that in that approval there was something -beyond and above everything else that could be said to him. Waring, too, -like his wife, was in a condition of mind which offered no defence -against the first touch of nature which was strong enough to reach him. -He was open not to everyday reasoning, but to the sudden prick of a keen -unhabitual feeling. A sudden impulse came upon him in this softened, -excited mood. Had he paused to think, he would have turned his back upon -that scene and hurried away, to be out of the contagion. But, -fortunately, he did not pause to think. He went forward quickly, laying -his hand upon the back of the chair in which Lady Markham sat, -struggling for calm--and confronted his old antagonist, his boy-enemy of -former times, who recognised him suddenly, with a gasp of astonishment. -“Markham,” he said, “if I understand rightly, you are acting like a true -and honourable man. Perhaps I have not done you justice, hitherto. Your -mother does not seem able to say anything. I believe in my little girl’s -instinct. If it will do you any good, you have my approval too.” - -Markham’s slackened arm dropped to his side, though Frances -embraced it still. His very jaw dropped in the amazement, -almost consternation, of this sudden appearance. “Sir,” he stammered, -“your--your--support--your--friendship would be all I could----” And -here his voice failed him, and he said no more. - -Then Waring went a step further by an unaccountable impulse, which -afterwards he could not understand. He held out one hand, still holding -with the other the back of Lady Markham’s chair. “I know what the loss -will be to your mother,” he said; “but perhaps--perhaps, if she pleases: -that may be made up too.” - -She removed her hands suddenly and looked up at him. There was not a -particle of colour in her cheek. The hurrying of her heart parched her -open lips. The two men clasped hands over her, and she saw them through -a mist, for a moment side by side. - -At this moment of extreme agitation and excitement, Lady Markham’s -butler suddenly opened the drawing-room door. He came in with that -solemnity of countenance with which, in his class, it is thought proper -to name all that is preliminary to death. “If you please, my lady,” he -said, “there’s a man below has come to say that the fever’s come to a -crisis, and that there’s a change.” - -“You mean Captain Gaunt,” cried Lady Markham, rising with a -half-stupefied look. She was so much worn by these divers emotions, that -she did not see where she went. - -“Captain Gaunt!” said Constance with a low cry. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - - -Lady Markham was a woman, everybody knew, who never hesitated when she -realised a thing to be her duty, especially in all that concerned -hospitals and the sick. She appeared by George Gaunt’s bedside in the -middle of what seemed to him a terrible, long, endless night. It was not -yet midnight, indeed; but they do not reckon by hours in the darkness -through which he was drifting, through which there flashed upon his eyes -confused gleams of scenes that were like scenes upon a stage all -surrounded by darkness. The change had come. One of the nurses, the -depressed one, thought it was for death; the other, possessed by the -excitement of that great struggle, in which sometimes it appears that -one human creature can visibly help another to hold the last span of -soil on which human foot can stand, stood by the bed, almost carried -away by what to her was like the frenzy of battle to a soldier, watching -to see where she could strike a blow at the adversary, or drag the -champion a hair’s-breadth further on the side of victory. There appeared -to him at that moment two forms floating in the air--both white, bright, -with the light upon them, radiant as with some glory of their own to the -gaze of fever. He remembered them afterwards as if they had floated out -of the chamber, disembodied, two faces, nothing more; and then all again -was night. “He’s talked a deal about his mother, poor gentleman. He’ll -never live to see his mother,” said the melancholy attendant, shaking -her head. “Hush,” said the other under her breath. “Don’t you know we -can’t tell what he hears and what he don’t hear?” Lady Markham was of -this opinion too. She called the doleful woman with her outside the -door, and left the last battle to be fought out. Frances stood on the -other side of the bed. How she came there, why she was allowed to come, -neither she nor any one knew. She stood looking at him with an awe in -her young soul which silenced every other feeling. Nelly Winterbourn -had been afraid of death, of seeing or coming near it. But Frances was -not afraid. She stood, forgetting everything, with her head thrown back, -her eyes expanded, her heart dilating and swelling in her bosom. She -seemed to herself to be struggling too, gasping with his efforts for -breath, helping him--oh, if she could help him!--saying her simple -prayers involuntarily, sometimes aloud. Over and over again, in the -confusion and darkness and hurrying of the last battle, there would come -to him a glimpse of that face. It floated over him, the light all -concentrated in it--then rolling clouds and gloom. - -It was nearly morning when the doctor came. “Still living?”--“Alive; but -that is all,” was the brief interchange outside the door. He would have -been surprised, had he had any time for extraneous emotions, to see on -the other side of the patient’s bed, softly winnowing the air with a -large fan, a girl in evening dress, pearls gleaming upon her white neck, -standing rapt and half-unconscious in the midst of the unwonted scene. -But the doctor had no time to be surprised. He went through his -examination in that silence which sickens the very heart of the -lookers-on. Then he said, briefly, “It all depends now on the strength -whether we can pull him through. The fever is gone; but he is as weak as -water. Keep him in life twelve hours longer, and he’ll do.” - -Twelve hours!--one whole long lingering endless summer day. Lady -Markham, with her own affairs at such a crisis, had not hesitated. She -came in now, having got a change of dress, and sent the weary nurse, who -had stood over him all night, away. Blessed be fashion, when its fads -are for angels’ work! Noiselessly into the room came with her, clean, -fresh, and cool, everything that could restore. The morning light came -softly in, the air from the open windows. Freshness and hope were in her -face. She gave her daughter a look, a smile. “He may be weak, but he has -never given in,” she said. Reinforcements upon the field of battle. In a -few hours, which were as a year, the hopeful nurse was back again -refreshed. And thus the endless day went on. Noon, and still he lived. -Markham walked about the little street with his pockets full of small -moneys, buying off every costermonger or wandering street vendor of -small-wares, boldly interfering with the liberty of the subject, -stopping indignant cabs, and carts half paralysed with slow -astonishment. It was scarcely necessary, for the patient’s brain was not -yet sufficiently clear to be sensitive to noises; but it was something -to do for him. A whole cycle of wonder had gone round, but there was no -time to think of it in the absorbing interest of this. Waring had -employed his wife’s son to clear off those debts, which, if the old -General ever knew of them, would add stings to sorrow--which, if the -young man mended, would be a crushing weight round his neck. Waring had -done this without a word or look that inferred that Markham was to -blame. The age of miracles had come back; but, as would happen, perhaps, -if that age did come back, no one had time or thought to give to the -prodigies, for the profounder interest which no wonder could equal, the -fight between death and life--the sudden revelation, in common life, of -all the mysteries that make humanity what it is--the love which made a -little worldling triumphant over every base suggestion--the pity that -carried a woman out of herself and her own complicated affairs, to stand -by another woman’s son in the last mortal crisis--the nature which -suspended life in every one of all these differing human creatures, and -half obliterated, in thought of another, the interests that were their -own. - -Through the dreadful night and through the endless sunshine of that day, -a June day, lavish of light and pleasure, reluctant to relinquish a -moment of its joy and triumph, the height of summer days, the old -people, the old General and his wife, the father and mother, travelled -without pause, with few words, with little hope, daring to say nothing -to each other except faint questions and calculations as to when they -could be there. When they could be there! They did not put the other -question to each other, but within themselves, repeated it without -ceasing: Would they be there before----? Would they be there in -time?--to see him once again. They scarcely breathed when the cab, -blundering along, got to the entrance of a little street, where it was -stopped by a wild figure in a grey overcoat, which rushed at the horse -and held him back. Then the old General rose in his wrath: “Drive on, -man! drive on. Ride him down, whoever the fool is.” And then, somewhat -as those faces had appeared at the sick man’s bedside, there came at the -cab window an ugly little face, all puckers and light, half recognised -as a bringer of good tidings, half hated as an obstruction, saying: “All -right--all right. I’m here to stop noises. He’s going to pull through.” - -“Mamma,” said Constance next evening, when all their excitement and -emotions were softened down, “I hope you told Mrs Gaunt that I had been -there?” - -“My dear, Mrs Gaunt was not thinking of either you or me. Perhaps she -might be conscious of Frances; I don’t know even that. When one’s child -is dying, it does not matter to one who shows feeling. By-and-by, no -doubt, she will be grateful to us all.” - -“Not to me--never to me.” - -“Perhaps she has no reason, Con,” her mother said. - -“I am sure I cannot tell you, mamma. If he had died, of course--though -even that would not have been my fault. I amused him very much for six -weeks, and then he thought I behaved very badly to him. But all the time -I felt sure that it would really do him no harm. I think it was cheap to -buy at that price all your interest and everything that has been done -for him--not to speak of the experience in life.” - -Lady Markham shook her head. “Our experiences in life are sometimes not -worth the price we pay for them; and to make another pay----” - -“Oh!” said Constance with a toss of her head, shaking off self-reproach -and this mild answer together. “It appears that there is some post his -father wants for him to keep him at home; and Claude will move heaven -and earth--that’s to say the Horse Guards and all the other -authorities--to get it. Mamma,” she added after a pause, “Frances will -marry him, if you don’t mind.” - -“Marry him!” cried Lady Markham with a shriek of alarm; “that is what -can never be.” - -Meanwhile, Frances was walking back from Mrs Gaunt’s lodging, where the -poor lady, all tremulous and shaken with joy and weariness, had been -pouring into her sympathetic ears all the anguish of the waiting, now so -happily over, and weeping over the kindness of everybody--everybody was -so kind. What would have happened had not everybody been so kind? -Frances had soothed her into calm, and coming down-stairs, had met Sir -Thomas at the door with his inquiries. He looked a little grave, she -thought, somewhat preoccupied. “I am very glad,” he said, “to have the -chance of a talk with you, Frances. Are you going to walk? Then I will -see you home.” - -Frances looked up in his face with simple pleasure. She tripped along by -his side like a little girl, as she was. They might have been father and -daughter smiling to each other, a pretty sight as they went upon their -way. But Sir Thomas’s smile was grave. “I want to speak to you on some -serious subjects,” he said. - -“About mamma? Oh, don’t you think, Sir Thomas, it is coming all right?” - -“Not about your mother. It is coming all right, thank God, better than I -ever hoped. This is about myself. Frances, give me your advice. You have -seen a great deal since you came to town. What with Nelly Winterbourn -and poor young Gaunt, and all that has happened in your own family, you -have acquired what Con calls experience in life.” - -Frances’ small countenance grew grave too. “I don’t think it can be true -life,” she said. - -He gave a little laugh, in which there was a tinge of embarrassment. -“From your experience,” he said, “tell me: would you ever advise, -Frances, a marriage between a girl like you--mind you, a good girl, that -would do her duty, not in Nelly Winterbourn’s way--and an elderly, -rather worldly man?” - -“Oh no, no, Sir Thomas,” cried the girl; and then she paused a little, -and said to herself that perhaps she might have hurt Sir Thomas’s -feelings by so distinct an expression. She faltered a little, and added: -“It would depend, wouldn’t it, upon who they were?” - -“A little, perhaps,” he said. “But I am glad I have had your first -unbiassed judgment. Now for particulars. The man is not a bad old -fellow, and would take care of her. He is rich, and would provide for -her--not like that hound Winterbourn. Oh, you need not make that -gesture, my dear, as if money meant nothing; for it means a great deal. -And the girl is as good a little thing as ever was born. Society has got -talking about it; it has been spread abroad everywhere; and perhaps if -it comes to nothing, it may do her harm. Now, with those further lights, -let me have your deliverance. And remember, it is very serious--not play -at all.” - -“I have not enough lights, Sir Thomas. Does she,” said Frances, with a -slight hesitation--“love him? And does he love her?” - -“He is very fond of her; I’ll say that for him,” said Sir Thomas -hurriedly. “Not perhaps in the boy-and-girl way. And she--well, if you -put me to it, I think she likes him, Frances. They are as friendly as -possible together. She would go to him, I believe, with any of her -little difficulties. And he has as much faith in her--as much faith as -in---- I can’t put a limit to his faith in her,” he said. - -Frances looked up at him with the grave judicial look into which she had -been forming her soft face. “All you say, Sir Thomas, looks like a -father and child. I would do that to papa--or to you.” - -Here he burst, to her astonishment, into a great fit of laughter, not -without a little tremor, as of some other feeling in it. “You are a -little Daniel,” he said. “That’s quite conclusive, my dear. Oh, wise -young judge, how I do honour thee!” - -“But----” Frances cried, a little bewildered. Then she added: “Well, you -may laugh at me if you like. Of course, I am no judge; but if the -gentleman is so like her father, cannot she be quite happy in being fond -of him, instead of----? Oh no! Marrying is quite different--quite, -_quite_ different. I feel sure she would think so, if you were to ask -her, herself,” she said. - -“And what about the poor old man?” - -“You did not say he was a poor old man; you said he was elderly, which -means----” - -“About my age.” - -“That is not an old man. And worldly--which is not like you. I think, -if he is what you say, that he would like better to keep his friend; -because people can be friends, Sir Thomas, don’t you think, though one -is young and one is old?” - -“Certainly, Frances--witness you and me.” - -She took his arm affectionately of her own accord and gave it a little -kind pressure. “That is just what I was thinking,” she said, with the -pleasantest smile in the world. - -Sir Thomas took Lady Markham aside in the evening and repeated this -conversation. “I don’t know who can have put such an absurd rumour -about,” he said. - -“Nor I,” said Lady Markham; “but there are rumours about every one. It -is not worth while taking any notice of them.” - -“But if I had thought Frances would have liked it, I should never have -hesitated a moment.” - -“She might not what you call like it,” said Lady Markham, dubiously; -“and yet she might----” - -“Be talked into it, for her good? I wonder,” said Sir Thomas, with -spirit, “whether my old friend, who has always been a model woman in my -eyes, thinks that would be very creditable to me?” - -Lady Markham gave a little conscious guilty laugh, and then, oddly -enough, which was so unlike her--twenty-four hours in a sickroom is -trying to any one--began to cry. “You flatter me with reproaches,” she -said. “Markham asks me if I expect _my_ son to be base; and you ask me -how I can be so base myself, being your model woman. I am not a model -woman; I am only a woman of the world, that has been trying to do my -best for my own. And look there,” she said, drying her eyes; “I have -succeeded very well with Con. She will be quite happy in her way.” - -“And now,” said Sir Thomas after a pause, “dear friend, who are still my -model woman, how about your own affairs?” - -She blushed celestial rosy red, as if she had been a girl. “Oh,” she -said, “I am going down with Edward to Hilborough to see what it wants to -make it habitable. If it is not too damp, and we can get it put in -order--I am quite up in the sanitary part of it, you know--he means to -send the Gaunts there with their son to recruit, when he is well enough. -I am so glad to be able to do something for his old neighbours. And then -we shall have time ourselves, before the season is over, to settle what -we shall do.” - -The reader is far too knowing in such matters not to be able to divine -how the marriages followed each other in the Waring family within the -course of that year. Young Gaunt, when he got better, confused with his -illness, soothed by the weakness of his convalescence and all the tender -cares about him, came at last to believe that the debts which had driven -him out of his senses had been nothing but a bad dream. He consulted -Markham about them, detailing his broken recollections. Markham replied -with a perfectly opaque countenance: “You must have been dreaming, old -man. Nightmares take that form the same as another. Never heard half a -word from any side about it; and you know those fellows, if you owed -them sixpence and didn’t pay, would publish it in every club in London. -It has been a bad dream. But look here,” he added; “don’t you ever go in -for that sort of thing again. Your head won’t stand it. I’m going to -set you the example,” he said, with his laugh. “Never--if I should live -to be a hundred,” Gaunt cried with fervour. The sensation of this -extraordinary escape, which he could not understand, the relief of -having nothing to confess to the General, nothing to bring tears from -his mother’s eyes, affected him like a miraculous interposition of God, -which no doubt it was, though he never knew how. There was another -vision which belonged to the time of his illness, but which was less -apocryphal, as it turned out--the vision of those two forms through the -mist--of one, all white, with pearls on the milky throat, which had been -somehow accompanied in his mind with a private comment that at last, -false Duessa being gone for ever, the true Una had come to him. After a -while, in the greenness of Hilborough, amid the cool shade, he learned -to fathom how that was. - -But were we to enter into all the processes by which Lady Markham -changed from the “That can never be!” of her first light on the subject, -to giving a reluctant consent to Frances’ marriage, we should require -another volume. It may be enough to say that in after-days, Captain -Gaunt--but he was then Colonel--thought Constance a very handsome woman, -yet could not understand how any one in his senses could consider the -wife of Claude Ramsay worthy of a moment’s comparison with his own. -“Handsome, yes, no doubt,” he would say; “and so is Nelly Markham, for -that matter,--but of the earth, earthy, or of the world, worldly; -whereas Frances----” - -Words failed to express the difference, which was one with which words -had nothing to do. - -THE END. - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 3 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61444-0.txt or 61444-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61444/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: A House Divided Against Itself; vol. 3 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61444] - -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_XXXIII">Chapter: XXXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV"> XXXIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV"> XXXV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI"> XXXVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII"> XXXVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII"> XXXVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX"> XXXIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XL"> XL., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI"> XLI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII"> XLII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII"> XLIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV"> XLIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV"> XLV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI"> XLVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII"> XLVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII"> XLVIII.</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. III.<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_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Markham</span> received young Gaunt with the most gracious kindness: had -his mother seen him seated in the drawing-room at Eaton Square, with -Frances hovering about him full of pleasure and questions, and her -mother insisting that he should stay to luncheon, and Markham’s hansom -just drawing up at the door, she would have thought her boy on the -highway to fortune. The sweetness of the two ladies—the happy eagerness -of Frances, and Lady Markham’s grace and graciousness—had a soothing -effect upon the young man. He had been unwilling to come, as he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> -unwilling to go anywhere at this crisis of his life; but it soothed him, -and filled him with a sort of painful and bitter pleasure to be thus -surrounded by all that was most familiar to Constance,—by her mother -and sister, and all their questions about her. These questions, indeed, -it was hard upon him to be obliged to answer; but yet that pain was the -best thing that now remained to him, he said to himself. To hear her -name, and all those allusions to her, to be in the rooms where she had -spent her life—all this gave food to his longing fancy, and wrung, yet -soothed, his heart.</p> - -<p>“My dear, you will worry Captain Gaunt with your questions; and I don’t -know those good people, Tasie and the rest: you must let me have my turn -now. Tell me about my daughter, Captain Gaunt. She is not a very good -correspondent. She gives few details of her life; and it must be so very -different from life here. Does she seem to enjoy herself? Is she happy -and bright? I have longed so much to see some one, impartial, whom I -could ask.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Impartial! If they only knew! “She is always bright,” he said with a -suppressed passion, the meaning of which Frances divined suddenly, -almost with a cry, with a start and thrill of sudden certainty, which -took away her breath. “But for happy, I cannot tell. It is not good -enough for her, out there.”</p> - -<p>“No? Thank you, Captain Gaunt, for appreciating my child. I was afraid -it was not much of a sphere for her. What company has she? Is there -anything going on——?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Frances, “I told you—there is never anything going on.”</p> - -<p>The young soldier shook his head. “There is no society—except the -Durants—and ourselves—who are not interesting,” he said, with a -somewhat ghastly smile.</p> - -<p>“The Durants are the clergyman’s family?—and yourselves. I think she -might have been worse off. I am sure Mrs Gaunt has been kind to my -wayward girl,” she said, looking him in the face with that charming -smile.</p> - -<p>“Kind!” he cried, as if the word were a profanation. “My mother is too -happy to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span>—anything. But Miss Waring,” he added with a feeble smile, -“has little need of—any one. She has so many resources—she is so far -above——”</p> - -<p>He got inarticulate here, and stumbled in his speech, growing very red. -Frances watched him under her eyelids with a curious sensation of pain. -He was very much in earnest, very sad, yet transported out of his -langour and misery by Constance’s name. Now Frances had heard of George -Gaunt for years, and had unconsciously allowed her thoughts to dwell -upon him, as has been mentioned in another part of this history. His -arrival, had it not happened in the midst of other excitements which -preoccupied her, would have been one of the greatest excitements she had -ever known. She remembered now that when it did happen, there had been a -faint, almost imperceptible, touch of disappointment in it, in the fact -that his whole attention was given to Constance, and that for herself, -Frances, he had no eyes. But in the moment of seeing him again she had -forgotten all that, and had gone back to her previous prepossession in -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> favour, and his mother’s certainty that Frances and her George -would be “great friends.” Now she understood with instant divination the -whole course of affairs. He had given his heart to Constance, and she -had not prized the gift. The discovery gave her an acute, yet vague (if -that could be), impression of pain. It was she, not Constance, that had -been prepossessed in his favour. Had Constance not been there, no doubt -she would have been thrown much into the society of George -Gaunt—and—who could tell what might have happened? All this came -before her like the sudden opening of a landscape hid by fog and mists. -Her eyes swept over it, and then it was gone. And this was what never -had been, and never would be.</p> - -<p>“Poor Con,” said Lady Markham. “She never was thrown on her own -resources before. Has she so many of them? It must be a curiously -altered life for her, when she has to fall back upon what you call her -resources. But you think she is happy?” she asked with a sigh.</p> - -<p>How could he answer? The mere fact that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> she was Constance, seemed to -Gaunt a sort of paradise. If she could make him happy by a look or a -word, by permitting him to be near her, how was it possible that, being -herself, she could be otherwise than blessed? He was well enough aware -that there was a flaw in his logic somewhere, but his mind was not -strong enough to perceive where that flaw was.</p> - -<p>Markham came in in time to save him from the difficulty of an answer. -Markham did not recollect the young man, whom he had only seen once; but -he hailed him with great friendliness, and began to inquire into his -occupations and engagements. “If you have nothing better to do, you must -come and dine with me at my club,” he said in the kindest way, for which -Frances was very grateful to her brother. And young Gaunt, for his part, -began to gather himself together a little. The presence of a man roused -him. There is something, no doubt, seductive and relaxing in the fact of -being surrounded by sympathetic women, ready to divine and to console. -He had not braced himself to bear the pain of their questions; but -somehow had felt a certain luxury in letting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> his despondency, his -languor, and displeasure with life appear. “I have to be here,” he had -said to them, “to see people, I believe. My father thinks it necessary: -and I could not stay; that is, my people are leaving Bordighera. It -becomes too hot to hold one—they say.”</p> - -<p>“But you would not feel that, coming from India?”</p> - -<p>“I came to get braced up,” he said with a smile, as of self-ridicule, -and made a little pause. “I have not succeeded very well in that,” he -added presently. “They think England will do me more good. I go back to -India in a year; so that, if I can be braced up, I should not lose any -time.”</p> - -<p>“You should go to Scotland, Captain Gaunt. I don’t mean at once, but as -soon as you are tired of the season—that is the place to brace you -up—or to Switzerland, if you like that better.”</p> - -<p>“I do not much care,” he had said with another melancholy smile, “where -I go.”</p> - -<p>The ladies tried every way they could think of to console him, to give -him a warmer interest in his life. They told him that when he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> -feeling stronger, his spirits would come back. “I know how one runs down -when one feels out of sorts,” Lady Markham said. “You must let us try to -amuse you a little, Captain Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>But when Markham appeared, this softness came to an end. George Gaunt -picked himself up, and tried to look like a man of the world. He had to -see some one at the Horse Guards, and he had some relations to call -upon; but he would be very glad, he said, to dine with Lord Markham. It -surprised Frances that her mother did not appear to look with any -pleasure on this engagement. She even interposed in a way which was -marked. “Don’t you think, Markham, it would be better if Captain Gaunt -and you dined with <i>me</i>? Frances is not half satisfied. She has not -asked half her questions. She has the first right to an old friend.”</p> - -<p>“Gaunt is not going away to-morrow,” said Markham. “Besides, if he’s out -of sorts, he wants amusing, don’t you see?”</p> - -<p>“And we are not capable of doing that! Frances, do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“Very capable, in your way. But for a man,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> when he’s low, ladies are -dangerous—that’s my opinion, and I’ve a good deal of experience.”</p> - -<p>“Of low spirits, Markham!”</p> - -<p>“No, but of ladies,” he said with a chuckle. “I shall take him somewhere -afterwards; to the play perhaps, or—somewhere amusing: whereas you -would talk to him all night, and Fan would ask him questions, and keep -him on the same level.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham made a reply which to Frances sounded very strange. She -said, “To the play—perhaps?” in a doubtful tone, looking at her son. -Gaunt had been sitting looking on in the embarrassed and helpless way in -which a man naturally regards a discussion over his own body as it were, -particularly if it is a conflict of kindness, and, glad to be delivered -from this friendly duel, turned to Frances with some observation, taking -no heed of Lady Markham’s remark. But Frances heard it with a confused -premonition which she could not understand. She could not understand, -and yet—— She saw Markham shrug his shoulders in reply; there was a -slight colour upon his face, which ordinarily knew none. What did they -both mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span></p> - -<p>But how elated would Mrs Gaunt have been, how pleased the General, had -they seen their son at Lady Markham’s luncheon-table, in the midst, so -to speak, of the first society! Sir Thomas came in to lunch, as he had a -way of doing; and so did a gay young Guardsman, who was indeed naturally -a little contemptuous of a man in the line, yet civil to Markham’s -friend. These simple old people would have thought their George on the -way to every advancement, and believed even the heart-break which had -procured him that honour well compensated. These were far from his own -sentiments; yet, to feel himself thus warmly received by “<i>her</i> people,” -the object of so much kindness, which his deluded heart whispered must -surely, surely, whatever she might intend, have been suggested at least -by something she had said of him, was balm and healing to his wounds. He -looked at her mother—and indeed Lady Markham was noted for her -graciousness, and for looking as if she meant to be the motherly friend -of all who approached her—with a sort of adoration. To be the mother of -Constance, and yet to speak to ordinary mortals<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> with that smile, as if -she had no more to be proud of than they! And what could it be that made -her so kind? not anything in him—a poor soldier, a poor soldier’s son, -knowing nothing but the exotic society of India and its curious -ways—surely something which, out of some relenting of the heart, some -pity or regret, Constance had said. Frances sat next to him at table, -and there was a more subtle satisfaction still in speaking low, aside to -Frances, when he got a little confused with the general conversation, -that bewildering talk which was all made up of allusions. He told her -that he had brought a parcel from the Palazzo, and a box of flowers from -the bungalow,—that his mother was very anxious to hear from her, that -they were going to Switzerland—no, not coming home this year. “They -have found a cheap place in which my mother delights,” he said, with a -faint smile. He did not tell her that his coming home a little -circumscribed their resources, and that the month in town which they -were so anxious he should have, which in other circumstances he would -have enjoyed so much, but which now he cared nothing for, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> for -anything, was the reason why they had stopped half-way on their usual -summer journey to England. Dear old people, they had done it for -him—this was what he thought to himself, though he did not say it—for -him, for whom nobody could now do anything! He did not say much, but as -he looked in Frances’ sympathetic eyes, he felt that, without saying a -word to her, she must understand it all.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham made no remark about their visitor until after they had -done their usual afternoon’s “work,” as it was her habit to call -it—their round of calls, to which she went in an exact succession, -saying lightly, as she cut short each visit, that she could stay no -longer, as she had so much to do. There was always a shop or two to go -to, in addition to the calls, and almost always some benevolent -errand—some Home to visit, some hospital to call at, something about -the work of poor ladies, or the salvation of poor girls,—all these were -included along with the calls in the afternoon’s work. And it was not -till they had returned home and were seated together at tea, refreshing -themselves after their labours, that she mentioned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> young Gaunt. She -then said, after a minute’s silence, suddenly, as if the subject had -been long in her mind, “I wish Markham had let that young man alone; I -wish he had left him to you and me.”</p> - -<p>Frances started a little, and felt, with great self-indignation and -distress, that she blushed—though why, she could not tell. She looked -up, wondering, and said, “Markham! I thought it was so very kind.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear; I believe he means to be kind.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am sure he does; for he could have no interest in George -Gaunt—not for himself. I thought it was perhaps for my sake, because he -was—because he was the son of—such a friend.”</p> - -<p>“Were they so good to you, Frances? And no doubt to Con too.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure of it, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Poor people,” said Lady Markham; “and this is the reward they get. Con -has been experimenting on that poor boy. What do I mean by -experimenting? You know well enough what I mean, Frances. I suppose he -was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> only man at hand, and she has been amusing herself. He has been -dangling about her constantly, I have no doubt, and she has made him -believe that she liked it as well as he did. And then he has made a -declaration, and there has been a scene. I am sorry to say I need no -evidence in this case: I know all about it. And now, Markham! Poor -people, I say: it would have been well for them if they had never seen -one of our race.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!” cried Frances, with a little indignation, “I feel sure you are -misjudging Constance. Why should she do anything so cruel? Papa used to -say that one must have a motive.”</p> - -<p>“<i>He</i> said so! I wonder if he could tell what motives were his -when—— Forgive me, my dear. We will not discuss your father. As for -Con, her motives are clear enough—amusement. Now, my dear, don’t! I -know you were going to ask me, with your innocent face, what amusement -it could possibly be to break that young man’s heart. The greatest in -the world, my love! We need not mince matters between ourselves. There -is nothing that diverts Con so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> much, and many another woman. You think -it is terrible; but it is true.”</p> - -<p>“I think—you must be mistaken,” said Frances, pale and troubled, with a -little gasp as for breath. “But,” she went on, “supposing even that you -were right about Con, what could Markham do?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked at her very gravely. “He has asked this poor young -fellow—to dinner,” she said.</p> - -<p>Frances could scarcely restrain a laugh, which was half hysterical. -“That does not seem very tragic,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, it does not seem very tragic—poor people, poor people!” said -Lady Markham, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>And there was no more; for a visitor appeared—one of a little circle of -ladies who came in and out every day, intimates, who rushed up-stairs -and into the room without being announced, always with something to say -about the Home, or the Hospital, or the Reformatory, or the Poor Ladies, -or the endangered girls. There was always a great deal to talk over -about these institutions, which formed an important<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> part of the “work” -which all these ladies had to do. Frances withdrew to a little distance, -so as not to embarrass her mother and her friend, who were discussing -“cases” for one of those refuges of suffering humanity, and were more -comfortable when she was out of hearing. Frances knitted and thought of -home—not this bewildering version of it, but the quiet of the idle -village life where there was no “work,” but where all were neighbours, -lending a kindly hand to each other in trouble, and where the tranquil -days flew by she knew not how. She thought of this with a momentary, -oft-recurring secret protest against this other life, of which, as was -natural, she saw the evil more clearly than the good; and then, with a -bound, her thoughts returned to the extraordinary question to which her -mother had made so extraordinary a reply. What could Markham do? “He has -asked the poor young fellow to dinner.” Even now, in the midst of the -painful confusion of her mind, she almost laughed. Asked him to dinner! -How would that harm him? At Markham’s club there would be no poisoned -dishes—nothing that would slay. What harm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> could it do to George Gaunt -to dine with Markham? She asked herself the question again and again, -but could find no reply. When she turned to the other side and thought -of Constance, the blood rushed to her head with a feverish angry pang. -Was that also true? But in this case, Frances, like her mother, felt -that no doubt was possible. In this respect she had been able to -understand what her mother said to her. Her heart bled for the poor -people, whom Lady Markham compassionated without knowing them, and -wondered how Mrs Gaunt would bear the sight of the girl who had been -cruel to her son. All that, with agitation and trouble she could -believe: but Markham! What could Markham do?</p> - -<p>She was going to the play with her mother that evening, which was to -Frances, fresh to every real enjoyment, one of the greatest of -pleasures. But she did not enjoy it that night. Lady Markham paid little -attention to the play: she studied the people as they went and came, -which was a usual weakness of hers, much wondered at and deplored by -Frances, to whom the stage was the centre of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> attraction. But on this -occasion Lady Markham was more <i>distraite</i> than ever, levelling her -glass at every new group that appeared in the recesses between the -acts,—the restless crowd, which is always in motion. Her face, when she -removed the glass from it, was anxious, and almost unhappy. “Frances,” -she said, in one of these pauses, “your eyes must be sharper than mine; -try if you can see Markham anywhere.”</p> - -<p>“Here is Markham,” said her son, opening the door of the box. “What does -the mother want with me, Fan?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you are here!” Lady Markham cried, leaning back in her chair with a -sigh of relief. “And Captain Gaunt too.”</p> - -<p>“Quite safe, and out of the way of mischief,” said Markham with a -chuckle, which brought the colour to his mother’s cheek.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> this, for about a fortnight, Captain Gaunt was very often visible -in Eaton Square. He dined next evening with Lady Markham and -Frances—Sir Thomas, who scarcely counted, he was so often there, being -the only other guest. Sir Thomas was a man who had a great devotion for -Lady Markham, and a very distant link of cousinship, which, or something -in themselves which made that impossible, had silenced any remark of -gossip, much less scandal, upon their friendship. He came in to luncheon -whenever it pleased him; he dined there—when he was not dining anywhere -else. But as both he and Lady Markham had many engagements, this was not -too often the case, though there was rarely an evening, if the ladies -were at home, when Sir Thomas did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> not “look in.” His intimacy was like -that of a brother in the cheerful easy house. This cheerful company, the -friendliness, the soothing atmosphere of feminine sympathy around him, -and underneath all the foolish hope, more sweet than anything else, that -a certain relenting on the part of Constance must be underneath, took -away the gloom and dejection, in great part at least, from the young -soldier’s looks. He exerted himself to please the people who were so -kind to him, and his melancholy smile had begun to brighten into -something more natural. Frances, for her part, thought him a very -delightful addition to the party. She looked at him across the table -almost with the pride which a sister might have felt when he made a good -appearance and did himself credit. He seemed to belong to her more or -less,—to reflect upon her the credit which he gained. It showed that -her friends after all were worth thinking of, that they were not -unworthy of the admiration she had for them, that they were able to hold -their own in what the people here called Society and the world. She -raised her little animated face to young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> Gaunt, was the first to see -what he meant, unconsciously interpreted or explained for him when he -was hazy—and beamed with delight when Lady Markham was interested and -amused. Poor Frances was not always quite clever enough to see when it -happened that the two elders were amused by the man himself, rather than -by what he said—and her gratification was great in his success. She -herself had never aspired to success in her own person; but it was a -great pleasure to her that the little community at Bordighera should be -vindicated and put in the best light. “They will never be able to say to -me <i>now</i> that we had no Society, that we saw nobody,” Frances said to -herself—attributing, however, a far greater brilliancy to poor George -than he ever possessed. He fell back into melancholy, however, when the -ladies left, and Sir Thomas found him dull. He had very little to say -about Waring, on whose behalf the benevolent baronet was so much -interested.</p> - -<p>“Do you think he shows any inclination towards home?” Sir Thomas asked.</p> - -<p>“I am sure,” young Gaunt answered, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> solemn face, “that there is -nothing there that can satisfy such a creature as that.”</p> - -<p>“He has no society, then?” asked Sir Thomas.</p> - -<p>“Oh, society! it is like the poem,” said the young man, with a sigh. “I -should think it would be so everywhere. ‘Ye common people of the sky, -what are ye when your queen is nigh?’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>Sir Thomas had been much puzzled by the application to Waring, as he -supposed, of the phrase, “such a creature as that;” but now he -perceived, with a compassionate shake of his head, what the poor young -fellow meant. Con had been at her tricks again! He said, with the -pitying look which such a question warranted, “I suppose you are very -fond of poetry?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said the young soldier, astonished, looking at him suddenly. “Oh -no. I am afraid I am very ignorant; but sometimes it expresses what -nothing else can express. Don’t you think so?”</p> - -<p>“I think perhaps it is time to join the ladies,” Sir Thomas said. He was -sorry for the boy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> though a little contemptuous too; but then he -himself had known Con and her tricks from her cradle, and those of many -another, and he was hardened. He thought their mothers had been far more -attractive women.</p> - -<p>Was it the same art which made Frances look up with that bright look of -welcome, and almost affectionate interest, when they returned to the -drawing-room? Sir Thomas liked her so much, that he hoped it was not -merely one of their tricks; then paused, and said to himself that it -would be better if it were so, and not that the girl had really taken a -fancy to this young fellow, whose heart and head were both full of -another, and who, even without that, would evidently be a very poor -thing for Lady Markham’s daughter. Sir Thomas was so far unjust to -Frances, that he concluded it must be one of her tricks, when he -recollected how complacent she had been to Claude Ramsay, finding places -for him where he could sit out of the draught. They were all like that, -he said to himself; but concluded that, as one nail drives out another, -a second “affair,” if he could be drawn into it, might cure the victim. -This rapid <i>résumé</i> of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> all the circumstances, present and future, is a -thing which may well take place in an experienced mind in the moment of -entering a room in which there are materials for the development of a -new chapter in the social drama. The conclusion he came to led him to -the side of Lady Markham, who was writing the address upon one of her -many notes. “It is to Nelly Winterbourn,” she explained, “to inquire—— -You know they have dragged that poor sufferer up to town, to be near the -best advice; and he is lying more dead than alive.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is not very benevolent, so far as he is concerned; but I -hope he’ll linger a long time,” said Sir Thomas.</p> - -<p>“Oh, so do I! These imbroglios may go on for a long time and do nobody -any harm. But when a horrible crisis comes, and one feels that they must -be cleared up!” It was evident that in this Lady Markham was not -specially considering the sufferings of poor Mr Winterbourn.</p> - -<p>“What does Markham say?” Sir Thomas asked.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Say! He does not say anything. He shuffles—you know the way he has. He -never could stand still upon both of his feet.”</p> - -<p>“And you can’t guess what he means to do?”</p> - -<p>“I think—— But who can tell? even with one whom I know so intimately -as Markham. I don’t say even in my son, for that does not tell for very -much.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all,” said the social philosopher.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a little, sometimes. I believe to a certain extent in a kind of -magnetic sympathy. You don’t, I know. I think, then, so far as I can -make out, that Markham would rather do nothing at all. He likes the -<i>status quo</i> well enough. But then he is only one; and the other—one -cannot tell how she might feel.”</p> - -<p>“Nelly is the unknown quantity,” said Sir Thomas; and then Lady Markham -sent away, by the hands of the footman, her anxious affectionate little -billet “to inquire.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile young Gaunt sat down by Frances. On the table near them there -was a glorious show of crimson—the great dazzling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> red anemones, the -last of the season, which Mrs Gaunt had sent. It had been very difficult -to find them so late on, he told her; they had hunted into the coolest -corners where the spring flowers lingered the longest, his mother quite -anxious about it, climbing into the little valleys among the hills. “For -you know what you are to my mother,” he said, with a smile, and then a -sigh. Mrs Gaunt had often made disparaging comparisons—comparisons how -utterly out of the question! He allowed to himself that this candid -countenance, so open and simple, and so full of sympathy, had a -charm—more than he could have believed; but yet to make a comparison -between this sister and the other! Nevertheless it was very consolatory, -after the effort he had made at dinner, to lay himself back in the soft -low chair, with his long limbs stretched out, and talk or be talked to, -no longer with any effort, with a softening tenderness towards the -mother who loved Frances, but with whom he had had many scenes before he -left her, in frantic defence of the woman who had broken his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Mrs Gaunt was always so kind to me,” Frances said, gratefully, a little -moisture starting into her eyes. “At the Durants’ there seemed always a -little comparison with Tasie; but with your mother there was no -comparison.”</p> - -<p>“A comparison with Tasie!” He laughed in spite of himself. “Nothing can -be so foolish as these comparisons,” he added, not thinking of Tasie.</p> - -<p>“Yes, she was older,” said Frances. “She had a right to be more clever. -But it was always delightful at the bungalow. Does my father go there -often now?”</p> - -<p>“Did he ever go often?”</p> - -<p>“N-no,” said Frances, hesitating; “but sometimes in the evening. I hope -Constance makes him go out. I used to have to worry him, and often get -scolded. No, not scolded—that was not his way; but sent off with a -sharp word. And then he would relent, and come out.”</p> - -<p>“I have not seen very much of Mr Waring,” Gaunt said.</p> - -<p>“Then what does Constance do? Oh, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> must be such a change for her! I -could not have imagined such a change. I can’t help thinking sometimes -it is a great pity that I, who was not used to it, nor adapted for it, -should have all this—and Constance, who likes it, who suits it, should -be—banished; for it must be a sort of banishment for her, don’t you -think?”</p> - -<p>“I—suppose so. Yes, there could be no surroundings too bright for her,” -he said, dreamily. He seemed to see her, notwithstanding, walking with -him up into the glades of the olive-gardens, with her face so bright. -Surely she had not felt her banishment then! Or was it only that the -amusement of breaking his heart made up for it, for the moment, as his -mother said?</p> - -<p>“Fancy,” said Frances; “I am going to court on Monday—I—in a train and -feathers. What would they all say? But all the time I am feeling like -the daw in the peacock’s plumes. They seem to belong to Constance. She -would wear them as if she were a queen herself. She would not perhaps -object to be stared at; and she would be admired.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes!”</p> - -<p>“She was, they say, when she was presented, so much admired. She might -have been a maid of honour; but mamma would not. And I, a poor little -brown sparrow, in all the fine feathers—I feel inclined to call out, ‘I -am only Frances.’ But that is not needed, is it, when any one looks at -me?” she said, with a laugh. She had met with nobody with whom she could -be confidential among all her new acquaintances. And George Gaunt was a -new acquaintance too, if she had but remembered; but there was in him -something which she had been used to, something with which she was -familiar, a breath of her former life—and that acquaintance with his -name and all about him which makes one feel like an old friend. She had -expected for so many years to see him, that it appeared to her -imagination as if she had known him all these years—as if there was -scarcely any one with whom she was so familiar in the world.</p> - -<p>He looked at her attentively as she spoke, a little touched, a little -charmed by this instinctive delicate familiarity, in which he at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> last, -having so lately come out of the hands of a true operator, saw, whatever -Sir Thomas might think, that it was not one of their tricks. She did not -want any compliment from him, even had he been capable of giving it. She -was as sincere as the day, as little troubled about her inferiority as -she was convinced of it; the laugh with which she spoke had in it a -genuine tone of innocent youthful mirth, such as had not been heard in -that house for long. The exhilarating ring of it, so spontaneous, so -gay, reached Lady Markham and Sir Thomas in their colloquy, and roused -them. Frances herself had never laughed like that before. Her mother -gave a glance towards her, smiling. “The little thing has found her own -character in the sight of her old friend,” she said; and then rounded -her little epigram with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“The young fellow ought to think much of himself to have two of them -taking that trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Lady Markham. “Do you think she is taking -trouble? She does not understand what it means.”</p> - -<p>“Do any of them not understand what it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> means?” asked Sir Thomas. He had -a large experience in Society, and thought he knew; but he had little -experience out of Society, and so, perhaps, did not. There are some -points in which a woman’s understanding is the best.</p> - -<p>The evening had not been unpleasant to any one, not even, perhaps, to -the lovelorn, when Markham appeared, coming back from his dinner-party, -a signal to the other gentlemen that it was time for them to disappear -from theirs. He gave his mother the last news of Winterbourn; and he -told Sir Thomas that a division was expected, and that he ought to be in -the House. “The poor sufferer” was sinking slowly, Markham said. It was -quite impossible now to think of the operation which might perhaps have -saved him three months since. His sister was with Nelly, who had neither -mother nor sister of her own; and the long-expected event was thus to -come off decorously, with all the proper accessories. It was a very -important matter for two at least of the speakers; but this was how they -talked of it, hiding, perhaps, the anxiety within. Then Markham turned -to the other group.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Have you got all the feathers and the furbelows ready?” he said. “Do -you think there will be any of you visible through them, little Fan?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t frighten the child, Markham. She will do very well. She can be as -steady as a little rock: and in that case it doesn’t matter that she is -not tall.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, tall—as if that were necessary! You are not tall yourself, our -mother; but you are a very majestic person when you are in your -war-paint.”</p> - -<p>“There’s the Queen herself, for that matter,” said Sir Thomas. “See her -in a procession, and she might be six feet. I feel a mouse before her.” -He had held once some post about the court, and had a right to speak.</p> - -<p>“Let us hope Fan will look majestic too. You should, to carry off the -effect I shall produce. In ordinary life,” said Markham, “I don’t -flatter myself that I am an Adonis; but you should see me screwed up -into a uniform. No, I’m not in the army, Fan. What is my uniform, -mother, to please her? A Deputy Lieutenant, or something of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> sort. -I hope you are a great deal the wiser, Fan.”</p> - -<p>“People always look well in uniform,” said Frances, looking at him -somewhat doubtfully, on which Markham broke forth into his chuckle. -“Wait till you see me, my little dear. Wait till the little boys see me -on the line of route. They are the true tests of personal attraction. -Are you coming, Gaunt? Do you feel inclined to give those fellows their -revenge?”</p> - -<p>Markham had spoken rather low, and at some distance from his mother; but -the word caught her quick ear.</p> - -<p>“Revenge? What do you mean by revenge? Who is going to be revenged?” she -cried.</p> - -<p>“Nobody is going to fight a duel, if that is what you mean,” said -Markham, quietly turning round. “Gaunt has, for as simple as he stands -there, beaten me at billiards, and I can’t stand under the affront. -Didn’t you lick me, Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>“It was an accident,” said Gaunt. “If that is all, you are very welcome -to your revenge.”</p> - -<p>“Listen to his modesty, which, by-the-by,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> shows a little want of tact; -for am I the man to be beaten by an accident?” said Markham, with his -chuckle of self-ridicule. “Come along, Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham detained Sir Thomas with a look as he rose to accompany -them. She gave Captain Gaunt her hand, and a gracious, almost anxious -smile. “Markham is noted for bad hours,” she said. “You are not very -strong, and you must not let him beguile you into his evil ways.” She -rose too, and took Sir Thomas by the arm as the young man went away. -“Did you hear what he said? Do you think it was only billiards he meant? -My heart quakes for that poor boy and the poor people he belongs to. -Don’t you think you could go after them and see what they are about?”</p> - -<p>“I will do anything you please. But what good could I do?” said Sir -Thomas. “Markham would not put up with any interference from me—nor the -other young fellow either, for that matter.”</p> - -<p>“But if you were there, if they saw you about, it would restrain them: -oh, you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> always been such a true friend. If you were but there.”</p> - -<p>“There: where?” There came before the practical mind of Sir Thomas a -vision of himself, at his sober age, dragged into he knew not what -nocturnal haunts, like an elderly spectre, jeered at by the -pleasure-makers. “I will do anything to please you,” he said, -helplessly. “But what can I do? It would be of no use. You know yourself -that interference never does any good.”</p> - -<p>Frances stood by aghast, listening to this conversation. What did it -mean? Of what was her mother afraid? Presently Lady Markham took her -seat again, with a return to her usual smiling calm. “You are right, and -I am wrong,” she said. “Of course we can do nothing. Perhaps, as you -say, there is no real reason for anxiety.” (Frances observed, however, -that Sir Thomas had not said this.) “It is because the boy is not well -off, and his people are not well off—old soldiers, with their pensions -and their savings. That is what makes me fear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if that is the case, you need have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> less alarm. Where there’s -not much to lose, the risks are lessened,” Sir Thomas said, calmly.</p> - -<p>When he too was gone, Frances crept close to her mother. She knelt down -beside the chair on which Lady Markham sat, grave and pale, with -agitation in her face. “Mother,” she whispered, taking her hand and -pressing her cheek against it, “Markham is so kind—he never would do -poor George any harm.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “how can you tell? Markham is not a -man to be read off like a book. He is very kind—which does not hinder -him from being cruel too. He means no harm, perhaps; but when the harm -is done, what does it matter whether he meant it or not? And as for the -risks being lessened because your friend is poor, that only means that -he is despatched all the sooner. Markham is like a man with a fever: he -has his fits of play, and one of them is on him now.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean—gambling?” said Frances, growing pale too. She did not -know very well what gambling was, but it was ruin, she had always -heard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Don’t let us talk of it,” said Lady Markham. “We can do no good; and to -distress ourselves for what we cannot prevent is the worst policy in the -world, everybody says. You had better go to bed, dear child; I have some -letters to write.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Gaunt</span> did not appear again at Eaton Square for two or three days,—not, -indeed, till after the great event of Frances’ history had taken -place—the going to court, which had filled her with so many alarms. -After all, when she got there, she was not frightened at all, the sense -of humour which was latent in her nature getting the mastery at the last -moment, and the spectacle, such as it was, taking all her attention from -herself. Lady Markham’s good taste had selected for Frances as simple a -dress as was possible, and her ornaments were the pearls which her aunt -had given her, which she had never been able to look at, save uneasily, -as spoil. Mrs Clarendon, however, condescended, which was a wonderful -stretch of good-nature, to come to Eaton Square to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> see her dressed, -which, as everybody knows, is one of the most agreeable parts of the -ceremony. Frances had not a number of young friends to fill the house -with a chorus of admiration and criticism; but the Miss Montagues -thought it “almost a duty” to come, and a number of her mother’s -friends. These ladies filled the drawing-room, and were much more -formidable than even the eyes of Majesty, preoccupied with the sight of -many toilets, and probably very tired of them, which would have no more -than a passing glance for Frances. The spectators at Eaton Square took -her to pieces conscientiously, though they agreed, after each had made -her little observation, that the <i>ensemble</i> was perfect, and that the -power of millinery could no further go. The intelligent reader needs not -to be informed that Frances was all white, from her feathers to her -shoes. Her pretty glow of youthfulness and expectation made the toilet -supportable, nay, pretty, even in the glare of day. Markham, who was not -afraid to confront all these fair and critical faces, in his uniform, -which misbecame, and did not even fit him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> and which made his -insignificance still more apparent, walked round and round his little -sister with the most perfect satisfaction. “Are you sure you know how to -manage that train, little Fan? Do you feel quite up to your curtsey?” he -said in a whisper with his chuckle of mirth; but there was a very tender -look in the little man’s eyes. He might wrong others; but to Frances, -nobody could be more kind or considerate. Mrs Clarendon, when she saw -him, turned upon her heel and walked off into the back drawing-room, -where she stood for some minutes sternly contemplating a picture, and -ignoring everybody. Markham did not resent this insult. “She can’t abide -me, Fan,” he went on. “Poor lady, I don’t wonder. I was a little brat -when she knew me first. As soon as I go away, she will come back; and I -am going presently, my dear. I am going to snatch a morsel in the -dining-room, to sustain nature. I hope you had your sandwiches, Fan? It -will take a great deal of nourishment to keep you up to that curtsey.” -He patted her softly on her white shoulder, with kindness beaming out of -his ugly face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> “I call you a most satisfactory production, my dear. Not -a beauty, but better—a real nice innocent girl. I should like any -fellow to show me a nicer,” he went on, with his short laugh. Though it -took the form of a chuckle, there was something in it that showed -Markham’s heart was touched. And this was the man whom even his own -mother was afraid to trust a young man with! It seemed to Frances that -it was impossible such a thing could be true.</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon, as Markham had predicted, came back as he retired. Her -contemplation of the dress of the <i>débutante</i> was very critical. “Satin -is too heavy for you,” she said. “I wonder your mother did not see that -silk would have been far more in keeping; but she always liked to -overdo. As for my Lord Markham, I am glad he will have to look after -your mother, and not you, Frances; for the very look of a man like that -contaminates a young girl. Don’t say to me that he is your brother, for -he is not your brother. Considering my age and yours, I surely ought to -know best. Turn round a little. There is a perceptible crease across the -middle of your shoulder,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> and I don’t quite like the hang of this skirt. -But one thing looks very well, and that is your pearls. They have been -in the family I can’t tell you how long. My grandmother gave them to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma insisted I should wear them, and nothing else, aunt Caroline.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I daresay. You have nothing else good enough to go with them, most -likely. And Lady Markham knows a good thing very well, when she sees it. -Have you been put through all that you have to do, Frances? Remember to -keep your right hand quite free; and take care your train doesn’t get in -your way. Oh, why is it that your poor father is not here to see you, to -go with you! It would be a very different thing then.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing would make papa go, aunt Caroline. Do you think he would dress -himself up like Markham, to be laughed at?”</p> - -<p>“I promise you nobody would laugh at my brother,” said Mrs Clarendon. -“As for Lord Markham——” But she bit her lip, and forbore. She spoke to -none of the other ladies, who swarmed like numerous bees in the room,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> -keeping up a hum in the air; but she made very formal acknowledgments to -Lady Markham as she went away. “I am much obliged to you for letting me -come to see Frances dressed. She looks very well on the whole, though, -perhaps, I should have adopted a different style had it been in my -hands.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Caroline,” cried Lady Markham, ignoring this ungracious -conclusion, “how can you speak of letting you come? You know we are only -too glad to see you whenever you will come. And I hope you liked the -effect of your beautiful pearls. What a charming present to give the -child; I thought it so kind of you.”</p> - -<p>“So long as Frances understands that they are family ornaments,” said -Mrs Clarendon, stiffly, rejecting all acknowledgments.</p> - -<p>There was a little murmur and titter when she went away. “Is it Medusa -in person?” “It is Mrs Clarendon, the wife of the great Q.C.” “It is -Frances’ aunt, and she does not like any remark.” “It is my dear -sister-in-law,” said Lady Markham. “She does not love me; but she is -kind to Frances, which covers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> a multitude of sins.” “And very rich,” -said another lady, “which covers a multitude more.” This put a little -bitterness into the conversation to Frances, standing there in her fine -clothes, and not knowing how to interfere; and it was a relief to her -when Markham, though she could not blame the whispering girls who called -him a guy, came in shuffling and smiling, with a glance and nod of -encouragement to his little sister to take the mother down-stairs to her -carriage. After that, all was a moving phantasmagoria of colour and -novel life, and nothing clear.</p> - -<p>And it was not until after this great day that Captain Gaunt appeared -again. The ladies received him with reproaches for his absence. “I -expected to see you yesterday at least,” said Lady Markham. “You don’t -care for fine clothes, as we women do; but five o’clock tea, after a -Drawing-room, is a fine sight. You have no idea how grand we were, and -how much you have lost.”</p> - -<p>Captain Gaunt responded with a very grave, indeed melancholy smile. He -was even more dejected than when he made his first appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span>ance. Then his -melancholy had been unalloyed, and not without something of that tragic -satisfaction in his own sufferings which the victims of the heart so -often enjoy. But now there were complications of some kind, not so -easily to be understood. He smiled a very serious evanescent smile. “I -shall have to lose still more,” he said, “for I think I must leave -London—sooner than I thought.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried Frances, whom this concerned the most; “leave London! You -were to stay a month.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; but my month seems to have run away before it has begun,” he said, -confusedly. Then, finding Lady Markham’s eye upon him, he added, “I -mean, things are very different from what I expected. My father thought -I might do myself good by seeing people who—might push me, he supposed. -I am not good at pushing myself,” he said, with an abrupt and harsh -laugh.</p> - -<p>“I understand that. You are too modest. It is a defect, as well as the -reverse one of being too bold. And you have not met—the people you -hoped?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“It is not exactly that either. My father’s old friends have been kind -enough; but London perhaps is not the place for a poor soldier.” He -stopped, with again a little quiver of a smile.</p> - -<p>“That is quite true,” said Lady Markham, gravely. “I enter into your -feelings. You don’t think that the game is worth the candle? I have -heard so many people say so—even among those who were very well able to -push themselves, Captain Gaunt. I have heard them say that any little -thing they might have gained was not worth the expenditure and trouble -of a season in London—besides all the risks.”</p> - -<p>Captain Gaunt listened to this with his discouraged look. He made no -reply to Lady Markham, but turned to Frances with a sort of smile. “Do -you remember,” he said, “I told you my mother had found a cheap place in -Switzerland, such as she delights in? I think I shall go and join them -there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am very sorry,” said Frances, with a countenance of unfeigned -regret. “No doubt Mrs Gaunt will be glad to have you; but she will be -sorry too. Don’t you think she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> rather you stayed your full time -in London, and enjoyed yourself a little? I feel sure she would like -that best.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t think I am enjoying myself,” he said, with the air of a man -who would like to be persuaded. He had perhaps been a little piqued by -Lady Markham’s way of taking him at his word.</p> - -<p>“There must be a great deal to enjoy,” said Frances; “every one says so. -They think there is no place like London. You cannot have exhausted -everything in a week, Captain Gaunt. You have not given it a fair trial. -Your mother and the General, they would not like you to run away.”</p> - -<p>“Run away! no,” he said, with a little start; “that is what I should not -do.”</p> - -<p>“But it would be running away,” said Frances, with all the zeal of a -partisan. “You think you are not doing any good, and you forget that -they wished you to have a little pleasure too. They think a great deal -of London. The General used to talk to me, when I thought I should never -see it. He used to tell me to wait till I had seen London;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> everything -was there. And it is not often you have the chance, Captain Gaunt. It -may be a long time before you come from India again; and think if you -told any one out there you had only been a week in town!”</p> - -<p>He listened to her very devoutly, with an air of giving great weight to -those simple arguments. They were more soothing to his pride, at least, -than the way in which her mother took him at his word.</p> - -<p>“Frances speaks,” said Lady Markham—and while she spoke, the sound of -Markham’s hansom was heard dashing up to the door—“Frances speaks as if -she were in the interest of all the people who prey upon visitors in -London. I think, on the whole, Captain Gaunt, though I regret your -going, that my reason is with you rather than with her. And, my dear, if -Captain Gaunt thinks this is right, it is not for his friends to -persuade him against his better judgment.”</p> - -<p>“What is Gaunt’s better judgment going to do?” said Markham. “It’s -always alarming to hear of a man’s better judgment. What is it all -about?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked up in her son’s face with great seriousness and -meaning. “Captain Gaunt,” she said, “is talking of leaving London, -which—if he finds his stay unprofitable and of little advantage to -him—though I should regret it very much, I should think him wise to -do.”</p> - -<p>“Gaunt leaving London? Oh no! He is taking you in. A man who is a -ladies’ man likes to say that to ladies in order to be coaxed to stay. -That is at the bottom of it, I’ll be bound. And where was our hero -going, if he had his way?”</p> - -<p>Frances thought that there were signs in Gaunt of failing temper, so she -hastened to explain. “He was going to Switzerland, Markham, to a place -Mrs Gaunt knows of, where she is to be.”</p> - -<p>“To Switzerland!” Markham cried—“the dullest place on the face of the -earth. What would you do there, my gallant Captain? Climb?—or listen -all day long to those who recount their climbings, or those who plan -them—all full of insane self-complacency, as if there was the highest -morality in climbing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> mountains. Were you going in for the mountains, -Fan?”</p> - -<p>“Frances was pleading for London—a very unusual fancy for her,” said -Lady Markham. “The very young are not afraid of responsibility; but I -am, at my age. I could not venture to recommend Captain Gaunt to stay.”</p> - -<p>“I only meant—I only thought——” Frances stammered and hung her head a -little. Had she been indiscreet? Her abashed look caught young Gaunt’s -eye. Why should she be abashed?—and on his account? It made his heart -stir a little, that heart which had been so crushed and broken, and, he -thought, pitched away into a corner; but at that moment he found it -again stirring quite warm and vigorous in his breast.</p> - -<p>“I always said she was full of sense,” said Markham. “A little sister is -an admirable institution; and her wisdom is all the more delightful that -she doesn’t know what sense it is.” He patted Frances on the shoulder as -he spoke. “It wouldn’t do, would it, Fan, to have him run away?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“If there was any question of that,” Gaunt said, with something of a -defiant air.</p> - -<p>“And to Switzerland,” said Markham, with a chuckle. “Shall I tell you my -experiences, Gaunt? I was there for my sins once, with the mother here. -Among all her admirable qualities, my mamma has that of demanding few -sacrifices in this way—so that a man is bound in honour to make one now -and then.”</p> - -<p>“Markham, when you are going to say what you know I will disapprove, you -always put in a little flattery—which silences me.”</p> - -<p>He kissed his hand to her with a short laugh. “The place,” he said, “was -in possession of an athletic band, in roaring spirits and tremendous -training, men and women all the same. You could scarcely tell the -creatures one from another—all burned red in the faces of them, worn -out of all shape and colour in the clothes of them. They clamped along -the passages in their big boots from two o’clock till five every -morning. They came back, perspiring, in the afternoon—a procession of -old clothes, all complacent, as if they had done the finest action in -the world. And the rest of us surrounded<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> them with a circle of -worshippers, till they clamped up-stairs again, fortunately very early, -to bed. Then a faint sort of life began for <i>nous autres</i>. We came out -and admired the stars and drank our coffee in peace—short-lived peace, -for, as everybody had been up at two in the morning, the poor beggars -naturally wanted to get to bed. You are an athletic chap, so you might -like it, and perhaps attain canonisation by going up Mont Blanc.”</p> - -<p>“My mother—is not in one of those mountain centres,” said Gaunt, with a -faint smile.</p> - -<p>“Worse and worse,” said Markham. “We went through that experience too. -In the non-climbing places the old ladies have it all their own way. You -will dine at two, my poor martyr; you will have tea at six, with cold -meat. The table-cloths and napkins will last a week. There will be honey -with flies in it on every table. All about the neighbourhood, mild -constitutionals will meet you at every hour in the day. There will be -gentle raptures over a new view. ‘Have you seen it, Captain Gaunt? Do -come with us to-morrow and let us show it you; <i>quite</i> the finest -view’—of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> Pilatus, or Monte Rosa, or the Jungfrau, or whatever it may -happen to be. And meanwhile we shall all be playing our little game -comfortably at home. We will give you a thought now and then. Frances -will run to the window and say, ‘I thought that was Captain Gaunt’s -step;’ and the mother will explain to Sir Thomas, ‘Such a pity our poor -young friend found that London did not suit him.’<span class="lftspc">”</span></p> - -<p>“Well, Markham,” said his mother, with firmness, “if Captain Gaunt found -that London did not suit him, I should think all the more highly of him -that he withdrew in time.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps the note was too forcibly struck. Gaunt drew himself slightly -up. “There is nothing so very serious in the matter, after all. London -may not suit me; but still I do not suppose it will do me any harm.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked on at this triangular duel with eyes that acquired -gradually consciousness and knowledge. She saw ere long that there was -much more in it than met the eye. At first, her appeal to young Gaunt to -remain had been made on the impulse of the moment, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> without thought. -Now she remained silent, only with a faint gesture of protest when -Markham brought in her name.</p> - -<p>“Let us go to luncheon,” said her mother. “I am glad to hear you are not -really in earnest, Captain Gaunt; for of course we should all be very -sorry if you went away. London is a siren to whose wiles we all give in. -I am as bad myself as any one can be. I never make any secret of my -affection for town; but there are some with whose constitutions it never -agrees, who either take it too seriously or with too much passion. We -old stagers get very moderate and methodical in our dissipations, and -make a little go a long way.”</p> - -<p>But there was a chill at table; and Lady Markham was “not in her usual -force.” Sir Thomas, who came in as usual as they were going down-stairs, -said, “Anything the matter? Oh, Captain Gaunt going away. Dear me, so -soon! I am surprised. It takes a great deal of self-control to make a -young fellow leave town at this time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“It was only a project,” said poor young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> Gaunt. He was pleased to be -persuaded that it was more than could be expected of him. Lady Markham -gave Sir Thomas a look which made that devoted friend uncomfortable; but -he did not know what he had done to deserve it. And so Captain Gaunt -made up his mind to stay.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Yes</span>, I wish you had not said anything, Frances: not that it matters -very much. I don’t suppose he was in earnest, or, at all events, he -would have changed his mind before evening. But, my dear, this poor -young fellow is not able to follow the same course as Markham’s friends -do. They are at it all the year round, now in town, now somewhere else. -They bet and play, and throw their money about, and at the end of the -year they are not very much the worse—or at least that is what he -always tells me. One time they lose, but another time they gain. And -then they are men who have time, and money more or less. But when a -young man with a little money comes among them, he may ruin himself -before he knows.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry,” said Frances. “It is difficult to believe that -Markham could hurt any one.”</p> - -<p>Her mother gave her a grateful look. “Dear Markham!” she said. “To think -that he should be so good—and yet—— It gives me great pleasure, -Frances, that you should appreciate your brother. Your father never did -so—and all of them, all the Warings—— But it is understood between -us, is it not, that we are not to touch upon that subject?”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it would be painful, mamma. But how am I to understand unless I -am told?”</p> - -<p>“You have never been told, then—your father——? But I might have known -he would say very little; he always hated explanations. My dear,” said -Lady Markham, with evident agitation, “if I were to enter into that -story, it would inevitably take the character of a self-defence, and I -can’t do that to my own child. It is the worst of such unfortunate -circumstances as ours that you must judge your parents, and find one or -other in the wrong. Oh yes; I do not deceive myself on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> subject. -And you are a partisan in your nature. Con was more or less of a cynic, -as people become who are bred up in Society, as she was. She could -believe we were both wrong, calmly, without any particular feeling. But -you,—of your nature, Frances, you would be a partisan.”</p> - -<p>“I hope not, mamma. I should be the partisan of both sides,” said -Frances, almost under her breath.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham rose and gave her a kiss. “Remain so,” she said, “my dear -child. I will say no harm of him to you, as I am sure he has said no -harm of me. Now let us think no more of Markham’s faults, nor of poor -young Gaunt’s danger, nor of——”</p> - -<p>“Danger?” said Frances, with an anxious look.</p> - -<p>“If it were less than danger, would I have said so much, do you think?”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma, pardon me,—if it is real danger, ought you not to say -more?”</p> - -<p>“What! for the sake of another woman’s son, betray and forsake my own? -How can I say to him in so many words, ‘Take care of Markham; avoid -Markham and his friends.’ I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> said it in hints as much as I dare. -Yes, Frances, I would do a great deal for another woman’s son. It would -be the strongest plea. But in this case how can I do more? Never mind; -fate will work itself out quite independent of you and me. And here are -people coming—Claude, probably, to see if you have changed your mind -about him, or whether I have heard from Constance. Poor boy! he must -have one of you two.”</p> - -<p>“I hope not,” said Frances, seriously.</p> - -<p>“But I am sure of it,” cried her mother, with a smile. “We shall see -which of us is the better prophet. But this is not Claude. I hear the -sweep of a woman’s train. Hush!” she said, holding up a finger. She rose -as the door opened, and then hastened forward with an astonished -exclamation, “Nelly!” and held out both her hands.</p> - -<p>“You did not look for me?” said Mrs Winterbourn, with a defiant air.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed; I did not look for you. And so fine, and looking so well. -He must have taken an unexpected turn for the better, and you have come -to tell me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, am I not smart?” said Nelly, looking down upon her beautiful dress -with a curious air, half pleasure, half scorn. “It is almost new; I have -never worn it before.”</p> - -<p>“Sit down here beside me, my dear, and tell me all about it. When did -this happy change occur?”</p> - -<p>“Happy? For whom?” she asked, with a harsh little laugh. “No, Lady -Markham, there is no change for the better: the other way—they say -there is no hope. It will not be very long, they say, before——”</p> - -<p>“And Nelly, Nelly! you here, in your fine new dress.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; it seems ridiculous, does it not?” she said, laughing again. “I -away—going out to pay visits in my best gown, and my husband—dying. -Well! I know that if I had stayed any longer in that dreary house -without any air, and with Sarah Winterbourn, I should have died. Oh, you -don’t know what it is. To be shut up there, and never hear a step except -the doctor’s, or Robert’s carrying up the beef-tea. So I burst out of -prison, to save my life. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> may blame me if you like, but it was to -save my life, neither less nor more.”</p> - -<p>“Nelly, my dear,” said Lady Markham, taking her hand, “there is nothing -wonderful in your coming to see so old a friend as I am. It is quite -natural. To whom should you go in your trouble, if not to your old -friends?”</p> - -<p>Upon which Nelly laughed again in an excited hysterical way. “I have -been on quite a round,” she said. “You always did scold me, Lady -Markham; and I know you will do so again. I was determined to show -myself once more before—the waters went over my head. I can come out -now in my pretty gown. But <i>afterwards</i>, if I did such a thing everybody -would think me mad. Now you know why I have come, and you can scold me -as much as you please. But I have done it, and it can’t be undone. It is -a kind of farewell visit, you know,” she added, in her excited tone. -“After this I shall disappear into—crape and affliction. A widow! What -a horrible word. Think of me, Nelly St John; me, a widow! Isn’t it -horrible, horrible? That is what they will call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> me, Markham and the -other men—the widow. I know how they will speak, as well as if I heard -them. Lady Markham, they will call me <i>that</i>, and you know what they -will mean.”</p> - -<p>“Nelly, Nelly, my poor child!” Lady Markham held her hand and patted it -softly with her own. “Oh Nelly, you are very imprudent, very silly. You -will shock everybody, and make them talk. You ought not to have come out -now. If you had sent for me, I would have gone to you in a moment.”</p> - -<p>“It was not <i>that</i> I wanted. I wanted just to be like others for -once—before—- I don’t seem to care what will happen to me—afterwards. -What do they do to a woman, Lady Markham, when her husband dies? They -would not let her bury herself with him, or burn herself, or any of -those sensible things. What do they do, Lady Markham? Brand her -somewhere in her flesh with a red-hot iron—with ‘Widow’ written upon -her flesh?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, you must care for poor Mr Winterbourn a great deal more than -you were aware, or you would not feel this so bitterly. Nelly——”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” she said, with a sort of solemnity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> “Don’t say that, Lady -Markham. Don’t talk about what I feel. It is all so miserable, I don’t -know what I am doing. To think that he should be my husband, and I just -boiling with life, and longing to get free, to get free: I that was born -to be a good woman, if I could, if you would all have let me, if I had -not been made to—— Look here! I am going to speak to that little girl. -You can say the other thing afterwards. I know you will. You can make it -look so right—so right. Frances, if you are persuaded to marry Claude -Ramsay, or any other man that you don’t care for, remember you’ll just -be like me. Look at me, dressed out, paying visits, and my husband -dying. Perhaps he may be dead when I get home.” She paused a moment with -a nervous shivering, and drew her summer cloak closely around her. “He -is going to die, and I am running about the streets. It is horrible, -isn’t it? He doesn’t want me, and I don’t want him; and next week I -shall be all in crape, and branded on my shoulder or somewhere—where, -Lady Markham?—all for a man who—all for a man that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Nelly, Nelly! for heaven’s sake, at least respect the child.”</p> - -<p>“It is because I respect her that I say anything. Oh, it is all -horrible! And already the men and everybody are discussing, What will -Nelly do? The widow, what will she do?”</p> - -<p>Then the excited creature suddenly, without warning, broke out into -sobbing and tears. “Oh, don’t think it is for grief,” she said, as -Frances instinctively came towards her; “it’s only the excitement, the -horror of it, the feeling that it is coming so near. I never was in the -house with Death, never, that I can remember. And I shall be the chief -mourner, don’t you know? They will want me to do all sorts of things. -What do you do when you are a widow, Lady Markham? Have you to give -orders for the funeral, and say what sort of a—coffin there is to be, -and—all that?”</p> - -<p>“Nelly, Nelly! Oh, for God’s sake, don’t say those dreadful things. You -know you will not be troubled about anything, least of all—— And, my -dear, my dear, recollect your husband is still alive. It is dreadful to -talk of details such as those for a living man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Most likely,” she said, looking up with a shiver, “he will be dead when -I get home. Oh, I wish it might all be over, everything, before I go -home. Couldn’t you hide me somewhere, Lady Markham? Save me from seeing -him and all those—details, as you call them. I cannot bear it; and I -have no mother nor any one to come to me—nobody, nobody but Sarah -Winterbourn.”</p> - -<p>“I will go home with you, Nelly; I will take you back, my dear. Frances, -take care of her till I get my bonnet. My poor child, compose yourself. -Try and be calm. You must be calm, and bear it,” Lady Markham said.</p> - -<p>Frances, with alarm, found herself left alone with this strange -being—not much older than herself, and yet thrown amid such tragic -elements. She stood by her, not knowing how to approach the subject of -her thoughts, or indeed any subject—for to talk to her of common things -was impossible. Mrs Winterbourn, however, did not turn towards Frances. -Her sobbing ended suddenly, as it had begun. She sat with her head upon -her hands, gazing at the light. After a while she said, though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> without -looking round, “You once offered to sit up with me, thinking, or -pretending, I don’t know which, that I was sitting up with him all -night: would you have done so if you had been in my place?”</p> - -<p>“I think—I don’t know,” said Frances, checking herself.</p> - -<p>“You would—you are not straightforward enough to say it—I know you -would; and in your heart you think I am a bad creature, a woman without -a heart.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think so,” said Frances. “You must have a heart, or you would -not be so unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“Do you know what I am unhappy about? About myself. I am not thinking of -him; he married me to please himself, not me,—and I am thinking of -myself, not him. It is all fair. You would do the same if you married -like me.”</p> - -<p>Frances made no reply. She looked with awe and pity at this miserable -excitement and wretchedness, which was so unlike anything her innocent -soul knew.</p> - -<p>“You don’t answer,” said Nelly. “You think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> you never would have married -like me. But how can you tell? If you had an offer as good as Mr -Winterbourn, your mother would make you marry him. I made a great match, -don’t you know? And if you ever have that in your power, Lady Markham -will make short work of your objections. You will just do as other -people have done. Claude Ramsay is not so rich as Mr Winterbourn; but I -suppose he will be your fate, unless Con comes back and takes him, -which, very likely, is what she will do. Oh, are you ready, Lady -Markham? It is a pity you should give yourself so much trouble; for, you -see, I am quite composed now, and ready to go home.”</p> - -<p>“Come, then, my dear Nelly. It is better you should lose no time.” Lady -Markham paused to say, “I shall probably be back quite soon; but if I -don’t come, don’t be alarmed,” in Frances’ ear.</p> - -<p>The girl went to the window and watched Nelly sweep out to her carriage -as if nothing could ever happen to her. The sight of the servants and of -the few passers-by had restored her in a moment to herself. Frances -stood and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> pondered for some time at the window. Nelly’s was an -agitating figure to burst into her quiet life. She did not need the -lesson it taught; but yet it filled her with trouble and awe. This -brilliant surface of Society, what tragedies lay underneath! She -scarcely dared to follow the young wife in imagination to her home; but -she felt with her the horror of the approaching death, the dread -interval when the event was coming, the still more dread moment after, -when, all shrinking and trembling in her youth and loneliness, she would -have to live side by side with the dead, whom she had never loved, to -whom no faithful bond had united her—— It was not till another -carriage drew up and some one got out of it that Frances retreated, with -a very different sort of alarm, from the window. It was some one coming -to call, she did not see whom, one of those wonderful people who came to -talk over with her mother other people whom Frances did not know. How -was she to find any subject on which to talk to them? Her anxiety was -partially relieved by seeing that it was Claude who came in. He -explained that Lady Someone had dropped him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> at the door, having picked -him up at some other place where they had both been calling. “There is a -little east in the wind,” he said, pulling up the collar of his coat:</p> - -<p>“Was that Nelly Winterbourn I saw driving away from the door? I thought -it was Nelly. And when he is dying, with not many hours to live——!”</p> - -<p>“And why should not she come to mamma?” said Frances. “She has no mother -of her own.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Ramsay, looking at her keenly, “I see what you mean. She has -no mother of her own; and therefore she comes to Markham’s, which is -next best.”</p> - -<p>“I said, to my mother,” said Frances, indignantly. “I don’t see what -Markham has to do with it.”</p> - -<p>“All the same, I shouldn’t like my wife to be about the streets, going -to—any one’s mother, when I was dying.”</p> - -<p>“It would be right enough,” cried Frances, hot and indignant, “if you -had married a woman who did not care for you.” She forgot, in the heat -of her partisanship, that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> was admitting too much. But Claude did -not remember, any more than she.</p> - -<p>“Oh, come,” he said, “Miss Waring, Frances. (May I call you Frances? It -seems unnatural to call you Miss Waring, for, though I only saw you for -the first time a little while ago, I have known you all your life.) Do -you think it’s quite fair to compare me to Winterbourn? He was fifty -when he married Nelly, a fellow quite used up. At all events, I am -young, and never was fast; and I don’t see,” he added, pathetically, -“why a woman shouldn’t be able to care for me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I did not mean that,” cried Frances, with penitence; “I only -meant——”</p> - -<p>“And you shouldn’t,” said Claude, shaking his head, “pay so much -attention to what Nelly says. She makes herself out a martyr now; but -she was quite willing to marry Winterbourn. She was quite pleased. It -was a great match; and now she is going to get the good of it.”</p> - -<p>“If being very unhappy is getting the good of it——!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, unhappy!” said Claude. It was evi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span>dent he held Mrs Winterbourn’s -unhappiness lightly enough. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “talking of -unhappiness, I saw another friend of yours the other day who was -unhappy, if you like—that young soldier-fellow, the Indian man. What do -you call him?—Grant? No; that’s a Nile man. Gaunt. Now, if Lady Markham -had taken him in hand——”</p> - -<p>“Captain Gaunt!” said Frances, in alarm; “what has happened to him, Mr -Ramsay? Is he ill? Is he——” Her face flushed with anxiety, and then -grew pale.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say exactly,” said Claude, “for I am not in his confidence; but -I should say he had lost his money, or something of that sort. I don’t -frequent those sort of places in a general way; but sometimes, if I’ve -been out in the evening, if there’s no east in the wind, and no rain or -fog, I just look in for a moment. I rather think some of those fellows -had been punishing that poor innocent Indian man. When a stranger comes -among them, that’s a way they have. One feels dreadfully sorry for the -man; but what can you do?”</p> - -<p>“What can you do? Oh, anything, rather<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> than stand by,” cried Frances, -excited by sudden fears, “and see—and see—— I don’t know what you -mean, Mr Ramsay! Is it <i>gambling</i>? Is that what you mean?”</p> - -<p>“You should speak to Markham,” he replied. “Markham’s deep in all that -sort of thing. If anybody could interfere, it would be Markham. But I -don’t see how even he could interfere. He is not the fellow’s keeper; -and what could he say? The other fellows are gentlemen; they don’t -cheat, or that sort of thing. Only, when a man has not much money, or -has not the heart to lose it like a man——”</p> - -<p>“Mr Ramsay, you don’t know anything about Captain Gaunt,” cried Frances, -with hot indignation and excitement. “I don’t understand what you mean. -He has the heart for—whatever he may have to do. He is not like you -people, who talk about everybody, who know everybody. But he has been in -action; he has distinguished himself; he is not a nobody like——”</p> - -<p>“You mean me,” said Claude. “So far as being in action goes, I am a -nobody of course. But I hope, if I went in for play and that sort of -thing, I would bear my losses without look<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span>ing as ghastly as a skeleton. -That is where a man of the world, however little you may think of us, -has the better of people out of Society. But I have nothing to do with -his losses. I only tell you, so that, if you can do anything to get hold -of him, to keep him from going to the bad——”</p> - -<p>“To the—bad!” she cried. Her face grew pale; and something appalling, -an indistinct vision of horrors, dimly appeared before Frances’ eyes. -She seemed to see not only George Gaunt, but his mother weeping, his -father looking on with a startled miserable face. “Oh,” she cried, -trying to throw off the impression, “you don’t know what you are saying. -George Gaunt would never do anything that is bad. You are making some -dreadful mistake, or—— Oh, Mr Ramsay, couldn’t you tell him, if you -know it is so bad, before——?”</p> - -<p>“What!” cried Claude, horror-struck. “I tell—a fellow I scarcely know! -He would have a right to—kick me, or something—or at least to tell me -to mind my own business. No; but you might speak to Markham. Markham is -the only man who perhaps might interfere.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Markham! always Markham! Oh, I wish any one would tell me what -Markham has to do with it,” cried Frances, with a moan.</p> - -<p>“That’s just one of his occupations,” said Ramsay, calmly. “They say it -doesn’t tell much on him one way or other, but Markham can’t live -without play. Don’t you think, as Lady Markham does not come in, that -you might give me a cup of tea?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Constance Waring</span> had not been enjoying herself in Bordighera. Her -amusement indeed came to an end with the highly exciting yet -disagreeable scene which took place between herself and young Gaunt the -day before he went away. It is late to recur to this, so much having -passed in the meantime; but it really was the only thing of note that -happened to her. The blank negative with which she had met his suit, the -air of surprise, almost indignation, with which his impassioned appeal -was received, confounded poor young Gaunt. He asked her, with a -simplicity that sprang out of despair, “Did you not know then? Were you -not aware? Is it possible that you were not—prepared?”</p> - -<p>“For what, Captain Gaunt?” Constance asked, fixing him with a haughty -look.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span></p> - -<p>He returned that look with one that would have cowed a weaker woman. -“Did you not know that I—loved you?” he said.</p> - -<p>Even she quailed a little. “Oh, as for that, Captain Gaunt!—a man must -be responsible for his own follies of that kind. I did not ask you -to—care for me, as you say. I thought, indeed, that you would have the -discretion to see that anything of the kind between us was out of the -question.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” he asked, almost sternly; and Constance hesitated a little, -finding it perhaps not so easy to reply.</p> - -<p>“Because,” she said after a pause, with a faint flush, which showed that -the effort cost her something—“because—we belong to two different -worlds—because all our habits and modes of living are different.” By -this time she began to grow a little indignant that he should give her -so much trouble. “Because you are Captain Gaunt, of the Indian service, -and I am Constance Waring,” she said, with angry levity.</p> - -<p>He grew deadly red with fierce pride and shame.</p> - -<p>“Because you are of the higher class, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> I of the lower,” he said. “Is -that what you mean? Yet I am a gentleman, and one cannot well be more.”</p> - -<p>To this she made no reply, but moved away from where she had been -standing to listen to him, and returned to her chair. They were on the -loggia, and this sudden movement left him at one end, while she returned -to the other. He stood for a time following her with his eyes; then, -having watched the angry <i>abandon</i> with which she threw herself into her -seat, turning her head away, he came a little closer with a certain -sternness in his aspect.</p> - -<p>“Miss Waring,” he said, “notwithstanding the distance between us, you -have allowed me to be your—companion for some time past.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said. “What then? There was no one else, either for me or for -you.”</p> - -<p>“That, then, was the sole reason?”</p> - -<p>“Captain Gaunt,” she cried, “what is the use of all this? We were thrown -in each other’s way. I meant nothing more; if you did, it was your own -fault. You could not surely expect that I should marry you and go to -India with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> you? It is absurd—it is ridiculous,” she cried, with a hot -blush, throwing back her head. He saw with suddenly quickened -perceptions that the suggestion filled her with contempt and shame. And -the young man’s veins tingled as if fire was in them; the rage of love -despised shook his very soul.</p> - -<p>“And why?” he cried—“and why?” his voice tremulous with passion. “What -is ridiculous in that? It may be ridiculous that I should have believed -in a girl like you. I may have been a vain weak fool to do it, not to -know that I was only a plaything for your amusement; but it never could -be ridiculous to think that a woman might love and marry an honourable -man.”</p> - -<p>He paused several times to command his voice, and she listened -impatient, not looking at him, clasping and unclasping her hands.</p> - -<p>“It would be ridiculous in me,” she cried. “You don’t know me, or you -never would have dreamt—— Captain Gaunt, this had better end. It is of -no use lashing yourself to fury, or me either. Think the worst of me you -can; it will be all the better for you—it will make<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> you hate me. Yes, -I have been amusing myself; and so, I supposed, were you too.”</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “you could not think that.”</p> - -<p>She turned round and gave him one look, then averted her eyes again, and -said no more.</p> - -<p>“You did not think that,” he cried, vehemently. “You knew it was death -to me, and you did not mind. You listened and smiled, and led me on. You -never checked me by a word, or gave me to understand—— Oh,” he cried, -with a sudden change of tone, “Constance, if it is India, if it is only -India, you have but to hold up a finger, and I will give up India -without a word.”</p> - -<p>He had suddenly come close to her again. A wild hope had blazed up in -him. He made as though he would throw himself at her feet. She lifted -her hand hurriedly to forbid this action.</p> - -<p>“Don’t!” she cried, sharply. “Men are not theatrical nowadays. It is -nothing to me whether you go to India or stay at home. I have told you -already I never thought of anything beyond friendship. Why should not we -have amused each other, and no harm? If I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> have done you any harm, I am -sorry; but it will only be for a very short time.”</p> - -<p>He had turned away, stung once more into bitterness, and had tried to -say something in reply; but his strength had not been equal to his -intention, and in the strong revulsion of feeling, the young man leant -against the wall of the loggia, hiding his face in his hands.</p> - -<p>There was a little pause. Then Constance turned round half stealthily to -see why there was no reply. Her heart perhaps smote her a little when -she saw that attitude of despair. She rose, and, after a moment’s -hesitation, laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Captain Gaunt, don’t -vex yourself like that. I am not worth it. I never thought that any one -could be so much in earnest about me.”</p> - -<p>“Constance,” he cried, turning round quickly upon her, “I am all in -earnest. I care for nothing in the world but you. Oh, say that you were -hasty—say that you will give me a little hope!”</p> - -<p>She shook her head. “I think,” she said, “that all the time you must -have mistaken me for Frances. If I had not come, you would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> have fallen -in love with her, and she with you.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t insult me, at least!” he cried.</p> - -<p>“Insult you—by saying that <i>my</i> sister——! You forget yourself, -Captain Gaunt. If my sister is not good enough for you, I wonder who you -think good enough. She is better than I am; far better—in that way.”</p> - -<p>“There is only one woman in the world for me; I don’t care if there was -no other,” he said.</p> - -<p>“That is benevolent towards the rest of the world,” said Constance, -recovering her composure. “Do you know,” she said, gravely, “I think it -will be much better for you to go away. I hope we may eventually be good -friends; but not just at present. Please go. I should like to part -friends; and I should like you to take a parcel for Frances, as you are -going to London; and to see my mother. But, for heaven’s sake, go away -now. A walk will do you good, and the fresh air. You will see things in -their proper aspect. Don’t look at me as if you could kill me. What I am -saying is quite true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“A walk,” he repeated with unutterable scorn, “will do me good!”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, calmly. “It will do you a great deal of good. And -change of air and scene will soon set you all right. Oh, I know very -well what I am saying. But pray, go now. Papa will make his appearance -in about ten minutes; and you don’t want to make a confidant of papa.”</p> - -<p>“It matters nothing to me who knows,” he said; but all the same he -gathered himself up and made an effort to recover his calm.</p> - -<p>“It does to me, then,” said Constance. “I am not at all inclined for -papa’s remarks. Captain Gaunt, good-bye. I wish you a pleasant journey; -and I hope that some time or other we may meet again, and be very good -friends.”</p> - -<p>She had the audacity to hold out her hand to him calmly, looking into -his eyes as she spoke. But this was more than young Gaunt could bear. He -gave her a fierce look of passion and despair, waved his hand without -touching hers, and hurried headlong away.</p> - -<p>Constance stood listening till she heard the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> door close behind him; and -then she seated herself tranquilly again in her chair. It was evening, -and she was waiting for her father for dinner. She had taken her last -ramble with the Gaunts that afternoon; and it was after their return -from this walk that the young soldier had rushed back to inform her of -the letters which called him at once to London, and had burst forth into -the love-tale which had been trembling on his lips for days past. She -had known very well that she could not escape—that the reckoning for -these innocent pleasures would have to come. But she had not expected it -at that moment, and had been temporarily taken by surprise. She seated -herself now with a sigh of relief, yet regret. “Thank goodness, that’s -over,” she said to herself; but she was not quite comfortable on the -subject. In the first place, it <i>was</i> over, and there was an end of all -her simple fun. No more walks, no more talks skirting the edge of the -sentimental and dangerous, no more diplomatic exertions to keep the -victim within due limits—fine exercises of power, such as always carry -with them a real pleasure. And then, being no more than human,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> she had -a little compunction as to the sufferer. “He will get over it,” she said -to herself; change of air and scene would no doubt do everything for -him. Men have died, and worms have eaten them, &c. Still, she could not -but be sorry. He had looked very wretched, poor fellow, which was -complimentary; but she had felt something of the self-contempt of a man -who has got a cheap victory over an antagonist much less powerful than -himself. A practised swordsman (or woman) of Society should not measure -arms with a merely natural person, knowing nothing of the noble art of -self-defence. It was perhaps a little—mean, she said to herself. Had it -been one of her own species, the duel would have been as amusing -throughout, and no harm done. This vexed her a little, and made her -uneasy. She remembered, though she did not in general care much about -books or the opinion of the class of nobodies who write them, of some -very sharp things that had been said upon this subject. Lady Clara Vere -de Vere had not escaped handling; and she thought that after it Lady -Clara must have felt small, as Constance Waring did now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span></p> - -<p>But then, on the other hand, what could be more absurd than for a man to -suppose, because a girl was glad enough to amuse herself with him for a -week or two, in absolute default of all other society, that she was -ready to marry him, and go to India with him! To India! What an idea! -And it had been quite as much for his amusement as for hers. Neither of -them had any one else: it was in self-defence—it was the only resource -against absolute dulness. It had made the time pass for him as well as -for her. He ought to have known all along that she meant nothing more. -Indeed Constance wondered how he could be so silly as to want to have a -wife and double his expenses, and bind himself for life. A man, she -reflected, must be so much better off when he has only himself to think -of. Fancy him taking <i>her</i> bills on his shoulders as well as his own! -She wondered, with a contemptuous laugh, how he would like that, or if -he had the least idea what these bills would be. On the whole, it was -evident, in every point of view, that he was much better out of it. -Perhaps even by this time he would have been tearing his hair, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> she -taken him at his word. But no. Constance could not persuade herself that -this was likely. Yet he would have torn his hair, she was certain, -before the end of the first year. Thus she worked herself round to -something like self-forgiveness; but all the same there rankled at her -heart a sense of meanness, the consciousness of having gone out in -battle-array and vanquished with beat of drum and sound of trumpet an -unprepared and undefended adversary, an antagonist with whom the -struggle was not fair. Her sense of honour was touched, and all her -arguments could not content her with herself.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you have been out with the Gaunts again?” Waring said, as -they sat at table, in a dissatisfied tone.</p> - -<p>“Yes; but you need never put the question to me again in that -uncomfortable way, for George Gaunt is going off to-morrow, papa.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he is going off to-morrow? Then I suppose you have been honest, and -given him his <i>congé</i> at last?”</p> - -<p>“I honest? I did not know I had ever been accused of picking and -stealing. If he had asked me for his <i>congé</i>, he should have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> had it -long ago. He has been sent for, it seems.”</p> - -<p>“Then has the <i>congé</i> not yet been asked for? In that case we shall have -him back again, I suppose?” said her father, in a tone of resignation, -and with a shrug of his shoulders.</p> - -<p>“No; for his people will be away. They are going to Switzerland, and the -Durants are going to Homburg. Where do you mean to go, when it is too -hot to stay here?”</p> - -<p>He looked at her half angrily for a moment. “It is never too hot to stay -here,” he said; then, after a pause, “We can move higher up among the -hills.”</p> - -<p>“Where one will never see a soul—worse even than here!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you will see plenty of country-folk,” he said—“a fine race of -people, mountaineers, yet husbandmen, which is a rare combination.”</p> - -<p>Constance looked up at him with a little <i>moue</i> of mingled despair and -disdain.</p> - -<p>“With perhaps some romantic young Italian count for you to practise -upon,” he said.</p> - -<p>Though the humour on his part was grim<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> and derisive rather than -sympathetic, her countenance cleared a little. “You know, papa,” she -said, with a faintly complaining note, “that my Italian is very limited, -and your counts and countesses speak no language but their own.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, who can tell? There may be some poor soldier on furlough who has -French enough to—— By the way,” he added, sharply, “you must remember -that they don’t understand flirtation with girls. If you were a married -woman, or a young widow——”</p> - -<p>“You might pass me off as a young widow, papa. It would be amusing—or -at least it <i>might</i> be amusing. That is not a quality of the life here -in general. What an odd thing it is that in England we always believe -life to be so much more amusing abroad than at home.”</p> - -<p>“It is amusing—at Monte Carlo, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>Constance made another <i>moue</i> at the name of Monte Carlo, from the sight -of which she had not derived much pleasure. “I suppose,” she said, -impartially, “what really amuses one is the kind of diversion one has -been accus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span>tomed to, and to know everybody: chiefly to know everybody,” -she added, after a pause.</p> - -<p>“With these views, to know nobody must be bad luck indeed!”</p> - -<p>“It is,” she said, with great candour; “that is why I have been so much -with the Gaunts. One can’t live absolutely alone, you know, papa.”</p> - -<p>“I can—with considerable success,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you! There are various things to account for it with you,” she -said.</p> - -<p>He waited for a moment, as if to know what these various things were; -then smiled to himself a little angrily at his daughter’s calm way of -taking his disabilities for granted. It was not till some time after, -when the dinner had advanced a stage, that he spoke again. Then he said, -without any introduction, “I often wonder, Constance, when you find this -life so dull as you do——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, very dull,” she said frankly,—“especially now, when all the -people are going away.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder often,” he repeated, “my dear, why you stay; for there is -nothing to recom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span>pense you for such a sacrifice. If it is for my sake, -it is a pity, for I could really get on very well alone. We don’t see -very much of each other; and till now, if you will pardon me for saying -so, your mind has been taken up with a pursuit which—you could have -carried on much better at home.”</p> - -<p>“You mean what you are pleased to call flirtation, papa? No, I could not -have carried on that sort of thing at home. The conditions are -altogether different. It <i>is</i> difficult to account for my staying, when, -clearly, you don’t consider me of any use, and don’t want me.”</p> - -<p>“I have never said that. Of course I am very glad to have you. It is in -the bond, and therefore my right. I was regarding the question solely -from your point of view.”</p> - -<p>Constance did not answer immediately. She paused to think. When she had -turned the subject over in her mind, she replied, “I need not tell you -how complicated one’s motives get. It takes a long time to make sure -which is really the fundamental one, and how it works.”</p> - -<p>“You are a philosopher, my dear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Not more than one must be with Society pressing upon one as it does, -papa. Nothing is straightforward nowadays. You have to dig quite deep -down before you come at the real meaning of anything you do; and very -often, when you get hold of it, you don’t quite like to acknowledge it, -even to yourself.”</p> - -<p>“That is rather an alarming preface, but very just too. If you don’t -like to acknowledge it to yourself, you will like still less to -acknowledge it to me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite see that: perhaps I am harder upon myself than you would -be. No; but I prefer to think of it a little more before I tell you. I -have a kind of feeling now that it is because—but you will think that a -shabby sort of pride—it is because I am too proud to own myself beaten, -which I should do if I were to go back.”</p> - -<p>“It is a very natural sort of pride,” he said.</p> - -<p>“But it is not all that. I must go a little deeper still. Not to-night. -I have done as much thinking as I am quite able for to-night.”</p> - -<p>And thus the question was left for another day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning, Constance, seated as usual in the loggia, which was now, -as the weather grew hot, veiled with an awning, heard—her ears being -very quick, and on the alert for every sound—a tinkle of the bell, a -sound of admittance, the step of Domenico leading some visitor to the -place in which she sat. Was it <i>he</i>, coming yet again to implore her -pardon, an extension of privileges, a hope for the future? She made out -instantaneously, however, that the footstep which followed Domenico was -not that of young Gaunt. It was softer, less decided—an indefinite -female step. She sat up in her chair and listened, letting her book -fall, and next moment saw Mrs Gaunt, old-fashioned, unassured, with a -troubled look upon her face, in her shawl and big hat, come out almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> -timidly upon the loggia. Constance sprang to her feet—then in a moment -collapsed and shrank away into herself. Before the young lover she was a -queen, and to her father she preserved her dignity very well; but when -<i>his</i> mother appeared, the girl had no longer any power to hold up her -head. Mrs Gaunt was old, very badly dressed, not very clever or wise; -but Constance felt those mild, somewhat dull eyes penetrating to the -depths of her own guilty heart.</p> - -<p>“How do you do, Miss Waring?” said Mrs Gaunt, stiffly. (She had called -her “my dear” yesterday, and had been so anxious to please her, doing -everything she could to ingratiate herself.) “I hope I do not disturb -you so early; but my son, Captain Gaunt, is going away——”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes—I heard. I am very sorry,” the guilty Constance murmured, -hanging her head.</p> - -<p>“I do not know that there is any cause to be sorry; we were going anyhow -in a few days. And in London my son will find many friends.”</p> - -<p>“I mean,” said Constance, drawing a long breath, beginning to recover a -little courage,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> feeling, even in her discomfiture, a faint amusement -still—“I mean, for his friends here, who will miss him so much.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt darted a glance at her, half wrathful, half wavering; it had -seemed so unnatural to her that any girl could play with or resist her -son. Perhaps, after all, he had misunderstood Constance. She said, -proudly, “His friends always miss George; he is so friendly. Nobody ever -asks anything from him, to take any trouble or make any sacrifice, in -vain.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure he is very good,” said Constance, tremulous, yet waking to -the sense of humour underneath.</p> - -<p>“That is why I am here to-day,” said Mrs Gaunt. “My -son—remembers—though perhaps you will allow he has not much call to do -so, Miss Waring—that you said something about a parcel for Frances. -Dear Frances; he will see her—that will always be something.”</p> - -<p>“Then he is not coming to say good-bye?” she said, opening her eyes with -a semblance of innocent and regretful surprise.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Waring! oh, Constance!” cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> the poor mother. “But perhaps -my boy has made a mistake. He is very wretched. I am sure he never -closed his eyes all last night. If you saw him this morning, it would go -to your heart. Ah, my dear, he thinks you will have nothing to say to -him, and his heart is broken. If you will only let me tell him that he -has made a mistake!”</p> - -<p>“Is it about me, Mrs Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Constance! who should it be about but you? He has never looked at -any one else since he saw you first. All that has been in his mind has -been how to see you, how to talk to you, to make himself agreeable if he -could—to try and get your favour. I will not conceal anything from you. -I never was satisfied from the first. I thought you were too grand, too -much used to fine people and their ways, ever to look at one of us. But -then, when I saw my George, the flower of my flock, with nothing in his -mind but how to please you, his eyes following you wherever you went, as -if there was not another in the world——”</p> - -<p>“There was not another in Bordighera, at least,” said Constance, under -her breath.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span></p> - -<p>“There was not——? What did you say—what did you say? Oh, there was -nobody that he ever wasted a thought on but you. I had my doubts all the -time. I used to say, ‘George, dear, don’t go too far; don’t throw -everything at her feet till you know how she feels.’ But I might as well -have talked to the sea. If he had been the king of all the world, he -would have poured everything into your lap. Oh, my dear, a man’s true -love is a great thing; it is more than crowns or queen’s jewels. You -might have all the world contains, and beside that it would be as -nothing—and this is what he has given you. Surely you did not -understand him when he spoke, or he did not understand you. Perhaps you -were taken by surprise—fluttered, as girls will be, and said the wrong -words. Or you were shy. Or you did not know your own mind. Oh, -Constance, say it was a mistake, and give me a word of comfort to take -to my boy!”</p> - -<p>The tears were running down the poor mother’s cheeks as she pleaded thus -for her son. When she had left home that morning, after surprising, -divining the secret, which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> had done his best to hide from her -overnight, there had been a double purpose in Mrs Gaunt’s mind. She had -intended to pour out such vials of wrath upon the girl who had scorned -her son, such floods of righteous indignation, that never, never should -she raise her head again; and she had intended to watch her opportunity, -to plead on her knees, if need were, if there was any hope of getting -him what he wanted. It did not disturb her that these two intentions -were totally opposed to each other. And she had easily been beguiled -into thinking that there was good hope still.</p> - -<p>While she spoke, Constance on her side had been going through a series -of observations, running comments upon this address, which did not move -her very much. “If he had been king of all the world—ah, that would -have made a difference,” she said to herself; and it was all she could -do to refrain from bursting forth in derisive laughter at the suggestion -that she herself had perhaps been shy, or had not known her own mind. To -think that any woman could be such a simpleton, so easily deceived! The -question was, whether to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> be gentle with the delusion, and spare Mrs -Gaunt’s feelings; or whether to strike her down at once with indignation -and sharp scorn. There passed through the mind of Constance a rapid -calculation that in so small a community it was better not to make an -enemy, and also perhaps some softening reflections from the remorse -which really had touched her last night. So that when Mrs Gaunt ended by -that fervent prayer, her knees trembling with the half intention of -falling upon them, her voice faltering, her tears flowing, Constance -allowed herself to be touched with responsive emotion. She put out both -her hands and cried, “Oh, don’t speak like that to me; oh, don’t look at -me so! Dear, dear Mrs Gaunt, teach me what to do to make up for it! for -I never thought it would come to this. I never imagined that he, who -deserves so much better, would trouble himself about me. Oh, what a -wretched creature I am to bring trouble everywhere! for I am not free. -Don’t you know I am—engaged to some one else? Oh, I thought everybody -knew of it! I am not free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Not free!” said Mrs Gaunt, with a cry of dismay.</p> - -<p>“Oh, didn’t you know of it?” said Constance. “I thought everybody knew. -It has been settled for a long time—since I was quite a child.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs Gaunt, solemnly, “if your heart is not in it, you -ought not to go on with it. I did hear something of—a gentleman, whom -your mamma wished you to marry; who was very rich, and all that.”</p> - -<p>Constance nodded her head slowly, in a somewhat melancholy assent.</p> - -<p>“But I was told that you did not wish it yourself—that you had broken -it off—that you had come here to avoid—— Oh, my dear girl, don’t take -up a false sense of duty, or—or honour—or self-sacrifice! Constance, -you may have a right to sacrifice yourself, but not another—not -another, dear. And all his happiness is wrapped up in you. And if it is -a thing your heart does not go with!” cried the poor lady, losing -herself in the complication of phrases. Constance only shook her head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Dear Mrs Gaunt! I <i>must</i> think of honour and duty. What would become of -us all if we put an engagement aside, because—because——? And it would -be cruel to the other; he is not strong. I could not, oh, I could not -break off—oh no, not for worlds—it would kill him. But will you try -and persuade Captain Gaunt not to think hardly of me? I thought I might -enjoy his friendship without any harm. If I have done wrong, oh forgive -me!” Constance cried.</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt dried her eyes. She was a simple-minded woman, who knew what -she wanted, and whose instinct taught her to refuse a stone when it was -offered to her instead of bread. She said, “He will forgive you, Miss -Waring; he will not think hardly of you, you may be sure. They are too -infatuated to do that, when a girl like you takes the trouble to—— But -I think you might have thought twice before you did it, knowing what you -tell me now. A young man fresh from India, where he has been working -hard for years—coming home to get up his strength, to enjoy himself a -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span>little, to make up for all his long time away—— And because you are a -little lonely, and want to enjoy his—friendship, as you say, you go and -spoil his holiday for him, make it all wretched, and make even his poor -mother wish that he had never come home at all. And you think it will -all be made up if you say you are sorry at the end! To him, perhaps, -poor foolish boy; but oh, not to me.”</p> - -<p>Constance made no reply to this. She had done her best, and for a moment -she thought she had succeeded; but she had always been aware, by -instinct, that the mother was less easy to beguile than the son; and she -was silent, attempting no further self-defence.</p> - -<p>“Young men are a mystery to me,” said Mrs Gaunt, standing with agitated -firmness in the middle of the loggia, taking no notice of the chair -which had been offered her. She did not even look at Constance, but -directed her remarks to the swaying palms in the foreground and the -hills behind—“they are a mystery! There may be one under their very -eyes that is as good as gold and as true as steel, and they will never -so much as look at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> her. And there will be another that thinks of -nothing but amusing herself, and that is the one they will adore. Oh, it -is not for the first time now that I have found it out! I had my -misgivings from the very first; but he was like all the rest—he would -not hear a word from his mother; and now I am sure I wish his furlough -was at an end; I wish he had never come home. His father and I would -rather have waited on and pined for him, or even made up our minds to -die without seeing him, rather than he should have come here to break -his heart.”</p> - -<p>She paused a moment and then resumed again, turning from the palms and -distant peaks to concentrate a look of fire upon Constance, who sat sunk -in her wicker chair, turning her head away.</p> - -<p>“And if a man were to go astray after being used like that, whose fault -would it be? If he were to go wrong—if he were to lose heart, to say -What’s the good? whose fault would it be? Oh, don’t tell me that you -didn’t know what you were doing—that you didn’t mean to break his -heart! Did you think he had no heart at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> all? But then, why should you -have taken the trouble? It wouldn’t have amused you, it would have been -no fun, had he had no heart.”</p> - -<p>“You seem,” said Constance, without turning her head, launching a stray -arrow in self-defence, “to know all about it, Mrs Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I do know all about it,—I am a woman myself. I wasn’t always -old and faded. I know there are some things a girl may do in innocence, -and some—that no one but a wicked woman of the world—— Oh, you are -young to be called such a name. I oughtn’t, at your age, however I may -suffer by you, to call you such a name.”</p> - -<p>“You may call me what name you like. Fortunately I have not to look to -you as my judge. Look here,” cried Constance, springing to her feet. -“You say you are a woman yourself. I am not like Frances, a girl that -knew nothing. If your son is at my feet, I have had better men at my -feet, richer men, far better matches than Captain Gaunt. Would any one -in their senses expect me to marry a poor soldier, to go out to India, -to follow the regiment? You forget I’m Lady Markha<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span>m’s daughter as well -as Mr Waring’s. Put yourself in her place for a moment, and think what -you would say if your daughter told you that was what she was going to -do. To marry a poor man, not even at home—an officer in India! What -would you say? You would lock me up in my room, and keep me on bread and -water. You would say, the girl is mad. At least that is what my mother, -if she could, would do.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Gaunt caught upon the point which was most salient and attackable. -“An Indian officer!” she cried. “That shows how little you know. He is -not an Indian officer—he is a Queen’s officer: not that it matters. -There were men in the Company’s service that—— The Company’s service -was—— How dare you speak so to me? General Gaunt was in the Company’s -service!” she cried, with an outburst of injured feeling and excited -pride.</p> - -<p>To this Constance made reply with a mocking laugh, which nearly drove -her adversary frantic, and resumed her seat, having said what she had to -say.</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs Gaunt sat down, too, in sheer inability to support herself. Her -limbs trembled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> under her. She wanted to cry, but would not, had she -died in that act of self-restraint. And as she could not have said -another word without crying, force was upon her to keep silence, though -her heart burned. After an interval, she said, tremulously, “If this is -one of our punishments for Eve’s fault, it’s far, far harder to bear -than the other; and every woman has to bear it more or less. To see a -man that ought to make one woman’s happiness turned into a jest by -another woman, and made a laughing-stock of, and all his innocent -pleasure turned into bitterness. Why did you do it? Were there not -plenty of men in the world that you should take my boy for your -plaything? Wasn’t there room for you in London, that you should come -here? Oh, what possessed you to come here, where no one wanted you, and -spoil all?”</p> - -<p>Constance turned round and stared at her accuser with troubled eyes. It -was a question to which it was difficult to give any answer; and she -could not deny that it was a very pertinent question. No one had wanted -her. There had been room for her in London, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> a recognised place, and -everything a girl could desire. Oh, how she desired now those things -which belonged to her, which she had left so lightly, which there was -nothing here to replace! Why had she left them? If a wish could have -taken her back, out of this foreign, alien, unloved scene, away from Mrs -Gaunt, scolding her in the big hat and shawl, which would be only fit -for a charade at home, to Lady Markham’s soft and lovely presence—to -Claude, even poor Claude, with his beautiful eyes and his fear of -draughts—how swiftly would she have travelled through the air! But a -wish would not do it; and she could only stare at her assailant blankly, -and in her heart echo the question, Why, oh why?</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding this stormy interview, Constance had so far recovered by -the afternoon, and was so utterly destitute of anything else by way of -amusement, that she walked down to the railway station at the hour when -the train started for Marseilles and England, with a perfectly composed -and smiling countenance, and the little parcel for Frances under her -arm. Mrs Gaunt was like a woman turned to stone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> when she suddenly saw -this apparition, standing upon the platform, talking to her old general, -amusing and occupying him so that he almost forgot that he was here on -no joyful but a melancholy occasion. And to see George hurry forward, -his dark face lit up with a sudden glow, his hat in his hand, as if he -were about to address the Queen! These are things which are very hard -upon women, to whom it is generally given to preserve their senses even -when the most seductive siren smiles.</p> - -<p>“You would not come to say good-bye to me, so I had to take it into my -own hands,” Constance said, in her clear young voice, which was to be -heard quite distinctly through all the jabber of the Riviera -functionaries. “And here is the little parcel for Frances, if you will -be so very good. <i>Do</i> go and see them, Captain Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“Of course he will go and see them,” said the General—“too glad. He has -not so many people to see in town that he should forget our old friend -Waring’s near connections, and Frances, whom we were all so fond of. And -you may be sure he will be honoured by any commissions you will give -him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I have no commissions. Markham does my commissions when I have any. -He is the best of brothers in that respect. Give my love to mamma, -Captain Gaunt. She will like to see some one who has seen me. Tell her I -get on—pretty well. Tell them all to come out here.”</p> - -<p>“He must not do that, Miss Waring; for it will soon be too hot, and we -are all going away.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I was not in earnest,” said Constance; “it was only a little jest. -I must look too sincere for anything, for people are always taking my -little jokes as if I meant them, every word.” She raised her eyes to -Captain Gaunt as she spoke, and with one steady look made an end in a -moment of all the hasty hopes that had sprung up again in less time than -Jonah’s gourd. She put the parcel in his charge, and shook hands with -him, taking no notice of his sudden change of countenance,—and not only -this, but waited a little way off till the poor young fellow had got -into the train, and had been taken farewell of by his parents. Then she -waved her hand and a little film of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> a pocket-handkerchief, and waited -till the old pair came out, Mrs Gaunt with very red eyes, and even the -General blowing his nose unnecessarily.</p> - -<p>“It seems only the other day that we came down to meet him—after not -seeing him for so many years.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my poor boy! But I should not mind if I thought he had got any good -out of his holiday,” said Mrs Gaunt, launching a burning look among her -tears at the siren.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I think he has enjoyed himself, Mrs Gaunt. I am sure you need not -have any burden on your mind on that account,” the young deceiver said -smoothly.</p> - -<p>Yes, he had enjoyed himself, and now had to pay the price of it in -disappointment and ineffectual misery. This was all it had brought him, -this brief intoxicating dream, this fool’s paradise. Constance walked -with them as far as their way lay together, and “talked very nicely,” as -he said afterwards, to the General; but Mrs Gaunt, if she could have -done it with a wish, would have willingly pitched this siren, where -other sirens belong to—into the sea.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">And</span> Constance, too, had found it amusing—she did not hesitate to -acknowledge that to herself. She had got a great deal of diversion out -of these six weeks. There had been nothing, really, when you came to -think of it, to amuse anybody: a few dull walks; a drive along the dusty -roads, which were more dusty than anything she had ever experienced in -her life; and then a ramble among the hills, a climb from terrace to -terrace of the olive-gardens, or through the stony streets of a little -mountain town. It was the contrast, the harmony, the antagonism, the -duel and the companionship continually going on, which had given -everything its zest. The scientific man with an exciting object under -the microscope, the astronomer with his new star pulsing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> out of the -depths of the sky, could scarcely have been more absorbed than -Constance. Not so much; for not the most cherished of star-fishes, not -the most glorious of stars, is so exciting as it is to watch the risings -and flowings of emotion under your own hand, to feel that you can cause -ecstasy or despair, and raise up another human creature to the heights -of delight, or drop him to depths beneath purgatory, at your will. When -the young and cruel possess this power—and the very young are often -cruel by ignorance, by inability to understand suffering—they are -seldom clever enough to use it to the full extent. But Constance was -clever, and had tasted blood before. It had made the time pass as -nothing else could have done. It had carried on a thread of keen -interest through all these commonplace pursuits. It had been as amusing, -nay, much more so than if she had loved him; for she got the advantage -of his follies without sharing them, and felt herself to stand high in -cool ethereal light, while the unfortunate young man turned himself -outside in for her enlightenment. She had enjoyed her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span>self—she did not -deny it; but now there was the penalty to pay.</p> - -<p>He was gone, clean gone, escaped from her power; and nothing was left -but the beggarly elements of this small bare life, in which there was -nothing to amuse or interest. The roads were more intolerable than ever, -lying white in heat and dust, which rose in clouds round every -carriage—carriage! that was an euphemism—cab which passed. The sun -blazed everywhere, so that one thought regretfully of the dull skies of -England, and charitably of the fogs and rains. There was nothing to do -but to go up among the olives and sit down upon some ledge and look at -the sea. Constance did not draw, neither did she read. She did nothing -that could be of any use to her here. She regretted now that she had -allowed herself at the very beginning to fall into the snare of that -amusement, too ready to her hand, which consisted of Captain Gaunt. It -had been a mistake—if for no other reason, at least because it left the -dulness more dull than ever, now it was over. He it was who had been her -resource, his looks and ways her study, the gradual growth of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> love -the romance which had kept her going. She asked herself sometimes -whether she could possibly have done as much harm to him as to herself -by this indulgence, and answered earnestly, No. How could it do him any -harm? He was vexed, of course, for the moment, because he could not have -her; but very soon he would come to. He would be a fool, more of a fool -than she thought him, if he did not soon see that it was much better for -him that she had thought only of a little amusement. Why should he -marry, a young man with very little money? There could be no doubt it -would have been a great mistake. Constance did not know what society in -India is like, but she supposed it must be something like society at -home, and in that case there was no doubt he would have found it -altogether more difficult had he gone back a married man.</p> - -<p>She could not think, looking at the subject dispassionately, how he -could ever have wished it. An unmarried young man (she reflected) gets -asked to a great many places, where the people could not be troubled -with a pair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> And whereas some girls may be promoted by marriage, it is -<i>almost always</i> to the disadvantage of a young man. So, why should he -make a fuss about it, this young woman of the world asked herself. He -ought to have been very glad that he had got his amusement and no -penalty to pay. But for herself, she was sorry. Now he was gone, there -was nobody to talk to, nobody to walk with, no means of amusement at -all. She did not know what to do with herself, while he was speeding to -dear London. What was she to do with herself? Filial piety and the -enjoyment of her own thoughts—without anything to do even for her -father, or any subject to employ her thoughts upon—these were all that -seemed to be left to her in her life. The tourists and invalids were all -gone, so that there was not even the chance of somebody turning up at -the hotels; and even the Gaunts—between whom and herself there was now -a gulf fixed—and the Durants, who were bores unspeakable, were going -away. What was she to do?</p> - -<p>Alas, that exhilarating game which had ended so sadly for George Gaunt -was not ending very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> cheerfully for Constance. It had made life too -tolerable—it had kept her in a pleasant self-deception as to the -reality of the lot she had chosen. Now that reality flashed upon -her,—nay, the word is far too animated—it did not flash, nothing any -longer flashed, except that invariable, intolerable sun,—it opened upon -her dully, with its long, long, endless vistas. The still rooms in the -Palazzo with the green <i>persiani</i> closed, all blazing sunshine without, -all dead stillness and darkness within—and nothing to do, nobody to -see, nothing to give a fresh turn to her thoughts. Not a novel even! -Papa’s old books upon out-of-the-way subjects, dreary as the dusty road, -endless as the uneventful days—and papa himself, the centre of all. -When she turned this over and over in her mind, it seemed to her that -if, when she first came, instead of being seduced into flowery paths of -flirtation, she had paid a little attention to her father, it might have -been better for her now. But that chance was over, and George Gaunt was -gone, and only dulness remained behind.</p> - -<p>And oh, how different it must be in town,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> where the season was just -beginning, and Frances, that little country thing, who would care -nothing about it, was going to be presented! Constance, it is scarcely -necessary to say, had been told what her sister was to wear; indeed, -having gone through the ceremony herself, and knowing exactly what was -right, could have guessed without being told. How would Frances look -with her little demure face and her neat little figure? Constance had no -unkindly feeling towards her sister. She fully recognised the advantages -of the girl, who was like mamma; and whose youthful freshness would be -enhanced by the good looks of the little stately figure beside her, -showing the worst that Frances was likely to come to, even when she got -old. Constance knew very well that this was a great advantage to a girl, -having heard the frank remarks of Society upon those beldams who lead -their young daughters into the world, presenting in their own persons a -horrible caricature of what those girls may grow to be. But Frances -would look very well, the poor exile decided, sitting on the low wall of -one of the terraces, gazing through the grey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> olives over the blue sea. -She would look very well. She would be frightened, yet amused, by the -show. She would be admired—by people who liked that quiet kind. Markham -would be with them; and Claude, perhaps Claude, if it was a fine day, -and there was no east in the wind! She stopped to laugh to herself at -this suggestion, but her colour rose at the same time, and an angry -question woke in her mind. Claude! She had told Mrs Gaunt she was -engaged to him still. Was she engaged to him? Or had he thrown her off, -as she threw him off, and perhaps found consolation in Frances? At this -thought the olive-gardens in their coolness grew intolerable, and the -sea the dreariest of prospects. She jumped up, and notwithstanding the -sun and the dust, went down the broad road, the old Roman way, where -there was no shade nor shelter. It was not safe, she said to herself, to -be left there with her thoughts. She must break the spell or die.</p> - -<p>She went, of all places in the world, poor Constance! to the Durants’ in -search of a little variety. Their loggia also was covered with an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> -awning; but they did not venture into it till the sun was going down. -They had their tea-table in the drawing-room, which, till the eyes grew -accustomed to it, was quite dark, with one ray of subdued light stealing -in from the open door of the loggia, but the blinds all closed and the -windows. Here Constance was directed, by the glimmer of reflection in -the teapot and china, to the spot where the family were sitting, Mrs -Durant and Tasie languidly waving their fans. The <i>dolce far niente</i> was -not appreciated in that clerical house. Tasie thought it her duty to be -always doing something—knitting at least for a bazaar, if it was not -light enough for other work. But the heat had overcome even Tasie; -though it could not, if it had been tropical, do away with the little -furnace of the hot tea. They all received Constance with the languid -delight of people in an atmosphere of ninety degrees, to whom no visitor -has appeared, nor any incident happened, all day.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss Waring,” said Tasie, “we have just had a great disappointment. -Some one sent us the ‘Queen’ from home, and we looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> directly for the -drawing-room, to see Frances’ name and how she was dressed; but it is -not there.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Constance; “the 29th is her day.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that is what I said, mamma. I said we must have mistaken the date. -It couldn’t be that there was any mistake about going, when she wrote -and told us. I knew the date must be wrong.”</p> - -<p>“Many things may occur at the last moment to stop one, Tasie. I have -known a lady with her dress all ready laid out on the bed; and -circumstances happened so that she could not go.”</p> - -<p>“That is by no means a singular experience, my dear,” said Mr Durant, -who in his black coat was almost invisible. “I have known many such -cases; and in matters more important than drawing-rooms.”</p> - -<p>“There was the Sangazures,” said the clergyman’s wife—“don’t you -recollect? Lady Alice was just putting on her bonnet to go to her -daughter’s marriage, when——”</p> - -<p>“It is really unnecessary to recall so many<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> examples,” said Constance. -“No doubt they are all quite true; but as a matter of fact, in this case -the date was the 29th.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope,” said Tasie, “that somebody will send us another ‘Queen’; -for I should be so sorry to miss seeing about Frances. Have you heard, -Miss Waring, how she is to be dressed?”</p> - -<p>“It will be the usual white business,” said Constance, calmly.</p> - -<p>“You mean—all white? Yes, I suppose so; and the material, silk or -satin, with tulle? Oh yes, I have no doubt; but to see it all written -down, with the drapings and <i>bouillonnés</i> and all that, makes it so much -more real. Don’t you think so? Dear Frances, she always looked so nice -in white—which is trying to many people. I really cannot wear white, -for my part.”</p> - -<p>Constance looked at her with a scarcely concealed smile. She was not -tolerant of the old-young lady, as Frances was. Her eyes meant mischief -as they made out the sandy complexion, the uncertain hair, which were so -unlike Frances’ clear little face and glossy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> brown satin locks. But, -fortunately, the eloquence of looks did not tell for much in that -closely shuttered dark room. And Constance’s nerves, already so jarred -and strained, responded with another keen vibration when Mrs Durant’s -voice suddenly came out of the gloom with a bland question: “And when -are you moving? Of course, like all the rest, you must be on the wing.”</p> - -<p>“Where should we be going? I don’t think we are going anywhere,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“My dear Miss Waring, that shows, if you will let me say so, how little -you know of our climate here. You must go: in the summer it is -intolerable. We have stayed a little longer than usual this year. My -husband takes the duty at Homburg every summer, as perhaps you are -aware.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is so much nicer there for the Sunday work,” said Tasie; “though -I love dear little Bordighera too. But the Sunday-school is a trial. To -give up one’s afternoons and take a great deal of trouble for perhaps -three children! Of course, papa, I know it is my duty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“And quite as much your duty, if there were but one; for, think, if you -saved but one soul,—is that not worth living for, Tasie?” Mr Durant -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, yes, papa. I only say it is a little hard. Of course that is -the test of duty. Tell Frances, please, when you write, Miss Waring, -there is to be a bazaar for the new church; and I daresay she could send -or do me something—two or three of her nice little sketches. People -like that sort of thing. Generally things at bazaars are so useless. -Knitted things, everybody has got such shoals of them; but a -water-colour—you know that always sells.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell Fan,” said Constance, “when I write—but that is not often. -We are neither of us very good correspondents.”</p> - -<p>“You should tell your papa,” went on Mrs Durant, “of that little place -which I always say I discovered, Miss Waring. Such a nice little place, -and quite cool and cheap. Nobody goes; there is not a tourist passing by -once in a fortnight. Mr Waring would like it, I know. Don’t you think Mr -Waring would like it, papa?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“That depends, my dear, upon so many circumstances over which he has no -control—such as, which way the wind is blowing, and if he has the books -he wants, and——”</p> - -<p>“Papa, you must not laugh at Mr Waring. He is a dear. I will not hear a -word that is not nice of Mr Waring,” cried Tasie.</p> - -<p>This championship of her father was more than Constance could bear. She -rose from her seat quickly, and declared that she must go.</p> - -<p>“So soon?” said Mrs Durant, holding the hand which Constance had held -out to her, and looking up with keen eyes and spectacles. “And we have -not said a word yet of the event, and all about it, and why it was. But -I think we can give a guess at why it was.”</p> - -<p>“What event?” Constance said, with chill surprise: as if she cared what -was going on in their little world!</p> - -<p>“Ah, how can you ask me, my dear? The last event, that took us all so -much by surprise. I am afraid, I am sadly afraid, you are not without -blame.”</p> - -<p>“Oh mamma! Miss Waring will think we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> do nothing but gossip. But you -must remember there is so little going on, that we can’t help -remarking—— And perhaps it was quite true what they said, that poor -Captain Gaunt——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if it is anything about Captain Gaunt,” said Constance, hastily -withdrawing her hand; “I know so little about the people here——”</p> - -<p>Tasie followed her to the door. “You must not mind,” she said, “what -mamma says. She does not mean anything—it is only her way. She always -thinks there must be reasons for things. Now I,” said Tasie, “know that -very often there are no reasons for anything.” Having uttered this -oracle, she allowed the visitor to go down-stairs. “And you will not -forget to tell Frances,” she said, looking over the balustrade. In a -little house like that of the Durants the stairs in England would have -been wood, and shabby ones; but here they were marble, and of imposing -appearance. “Any little thing I should be thankful for,” said Tasie; “or -she might pick up a few trifles from one of the Japanese shops; but -water-colours are what I should prefer. Good-bye,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> dear Miss Waring. Oh, -it is not good-bye for good; I shall certainly come to see you before we -go away!”</p> - -<p>Constance had not gone half-way along the Marina when she met General -Gaunt, who looked grave, but yet greeted her kindly. “We are going -to-morrow,” he said. “My wife is so very busy, I do not know if she will -be able to find time to call to say good-bye.”</p> - -<p>“I hope you don’t think so badly of me as she does, General Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>“Badly, my dear young lady! You must know that is impossible,” said the -old soldier, shuffling a little from one foot to the other. And then he -added, “Ladies are a little unreasonable. And if they think you have -interfered with the little finger of a child of theirs—— But I hope -you will let me have the pleasure of paying my farewell visit in the -morning.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, General,” Constance said. She held her head high, and walked -proudly away past all the empty hotels and shops, not heeding the sun, -which still played down upon her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> though from a lower level. She cared -nothing for these people, she said to herself vehemently: and yet the -mere feeling of the farewells in the air added a forlorn aspect to the -stagnation of the place. Everybody was going away except her father and -herself. She felt as if the preparations and partings, and all the -pleasure of Tasie in the “work” elsewhere, and her little fussiness -about the bazaar, were all offences to herself, Constance, who was not -thought good enough even to ask a contribution from. No one thought -Constance good for anything, except to blame her for ridiculous -impossibilities, such as not marrying Captain Gaunt. It seemed that this -was the only thing which she was supposed capable of doing. And while -all the other people went away, she was to stay here to be burned brown, -and perhaps to get fever, unused as she was to a blazing summer like -this. She had to stay here—she, who was so young and could enjoy -everything—while all the old people, to whom it could not matter very -much, went away. She felt angry, offended, miserable, as she went in and -got herself ready mechanically for dinner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> She knew her father would -take no notice,—would probably receive the news of the departure of the -others without remark. He cared nothing, not nearly so much as about a -new book. And she, throbbing with pain, discomfiture, loneliness, and -anger, was alone to bear the burden of this stillness, and of the -uninhabited world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XL" id="CHAPTER_XL"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Waring</span> was not so indifferent to the looks or feelings of his daughter -as appeared. After all, he was not entirely buried in his books. To -Frances, who had grown up by his side without particularly attracting -his attention, he had been kindly indifferent, not feeling any occasion -to concern himself about the child, who always had managed to amuse -herself, and never had made any call upon him. But Constance had come -upon him as a stranger, as an individual with a character and faculties -of her own, and it had not been without curiosity that he had watched -her to see how she would reconcile herself with the new circumstances. -Her absorption in the amusement provided for her by young Gaunt had -somewhat revolted her father, who set it down as one of the usual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> -exhibitions of love in idleness, which every one sees by times as he -makes his way through the world. He had not interfered, being thoroughly -convinced that interference is useless, in addition to that reluctance -to do anything which had grown upon him in his recluse life. But since -Gaunt had disappeared without a sign—save that of a little -irritability, a little unusual gravity on the part of Constance—her -father had been roused somewhat to ask what it meant. Had the young -fellow “behaved badly,” as people say? Had he danced attendance upon her -all this time only to leave her at the end? It did not seem possible, -when he looked at Constance with her easy air of mastery, and thought of -the shy, eager devotion of the young soldier and his impassioned looks. -But yet he was aware that in such cases all prognostics failed, that the -conqueror was sometimes conquered, and the intended victim remained -master of the field. Waring observed his daughter more closely than ever -on this evening. She was <i>distraite</i>, self-absorbed, a little impatient, -sometimes not noting what he said to her, sometimes answering in an -irritable tone. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> replies she made to him when she did reply showed -that her mind was running on other matters. She said abruptly, in the -middle of a little account he was giving her, with the idea of amusing -her, of one of the neighbouring mountain castles, “Do you know, papa, -that everybody is going away?”</p> - -<p>Waring felt, with a certain discomfiture, which was comic, yet annoying, -like one who has been suddenly pulled up with a good deal of “way” on -him, and stops himself with difficulty—“a branch of the old Dorias,” he -went on, having these words in his very mouth; and then, after a -precipitate pause, “Eh? Oh, everybody is——? Yes, I know. They always -do at this time of the year.”</p> - -<p>“It will be rather miserable, don’t you think, when every one is gone?”</p> - -<p>“My dear Constance, ‘every one’ means the Gaunts and Durants. I could -not have supposed you cared.”</p> - -<p>“For the Gaunts and Durants—oh no,” said Constance. “But to think there -is not a soul—no one to speak to—not even the clergyman, not even -Tasie.” She laughed, but there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> a certain look of alarm in her face, -as if the emergency was one which was unprecedented. “That frightens -one, in spite of one’s self. And what are we going to do?”</p> - -<p>It was Waring now who hesitated, and did not know how to reply. “We!” he -said. “To tell the truth, I had not thought of it. Frances was always -quite willing to stay at home.”</p> - -<p>“But I am not Frances, papa.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, my dear; that is quite true. Of course I never -supposed so. You understand that for myself I prefer always not to be -disturbed—to go on as I am. But you, a young lady fresh from -society—— Had I supposed that you cared for the Durants, for instance, -I should have thought of some way of making up for their absence; but I -thought, on the whole, you would prefer their absence.”</p> - -<p>“That has nothing to do with it,” said Constance. “I don’t care for the -individuals—they are all rather bores. Captain Gaunt,” she added, -resolutely, introducing the name with determination, “became very much -of a bore before he went away. But the thing is to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> nobody—nobody! -One has to put up with bores very often; but to have nobody, actually -not a soul! The circumstances are quite unprecedented.”</p> - -<p>There was something in her air as she said this which amused her father. -It was the air of a social philosopher brought to a pause in the face of -an unimagined dilemma, rather than of a young lady stranded upon a -desert shore where no society was to be found.</p> - -<p>“No doubt,” he said, “you never knew anything of the kind before.”</p> - -<p>“Never,” said Constance, with warmth. “People who are a nuisance, often -enough; but <i>nobody</i>, never before.”</p> - -<p>“I prefer nobody,” said her father.</p> - -<p>She raised her eyes to him, as if he were one of the problems to which, -for the first time, her attention was seriously called. “Perhaps,” she -said; “but then you are not in a natural condition, papa—no more than a -hermit in the desert, who has forsworn society altogether.”</p> - -<p>“Allowing that I am abnormal, Constance, for the argument’s sake<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“And so was Frances, more or less—that is, she could content herself -with the peasants and fishermen, who, of course, are just as good as -anybody else, if you make up your mind to it, and understand their ways. -But I am not abnormal,” Constance said, her colour rising a little. “I -want the society of my own kind. It seems unnatural to you, probably, -just as your way of thinking seems unnatural to me.”</p> - -<p>“I have seen both ways,” said Waring, in his turn becoming animated; -“and so far as my opinion goes, the peasants and fishermen are a -thousand times better than what you call Society; and solitude, with -one’s own thoughts and pursuits, the best of all.”</p> - -<p>There was a momentary pause, and then Constance said, “That may be, -papa. What is best in the abstract is not the question. In that way, -mere nothing would be the best of all, for there could be no harm in -it.”</p> - -<p>“Nor any good.”</p> - -<p>“That is what I mean on my side—nor any good. It might be better to be -alone—then (I suppose) you would never be bored, never feel the need of -anything, the mere sound of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> voice, some one going by. That may be -your way of thinking, but it is not mine. If one has no society, one had -better die at once and save trouble. That is what I should like to do.”</p> - -<p>A certain feminine confusion in her argument, produced by haste and the -stealing in of personal feeling, stopped Constance, who was too -clear-headed not to see when she had got involved. Her confusion had the -usual effect of touching her temper and causing a little crise of -sentiment. The tears came to her eyes. She could be heroic, and veil her -personal grievances like a social martyr so long as this was necessary -in presence of the world; but in the present case it was not necessary: -it was better, in fact, to let nature have its way.</p> - -<p>“That will not be necessary, I hope,” said Waring, somewhat coldly. He -thought of Frances with a sigh, who never bothered him, who was -contented with everything! and carried on her own little thoughts, -whatever they might be, her little drawings, her little life, so -tranquilly, knowing nothing better. What was he to do, with the -responsibility upon his hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> of this other creature? whom all the same -he could not shake off, nor even—as a gentleman, if not as a -father—allow to perceive what an embarrassment she was. “Without going -so far,” he said, “we must consult what is best to be done, since you -feel it so keenly. My ordinary habits even of <i>villeggiatura</i> would not -please you any better than staying at home, I fear. We used to go up to -Dolceacqua, Frances and I; or to Eza; or to Porto Fino, on the opposite -coast,—at no one of which places was there a soul—as you reckon -souls—to be seen.”</p> - -<p>“That is a great pity,” said Constance; “for even Frances, though she -may have been a Stoic born, must have wanted to see a human creature who -spoke English now and then.”</p> - -<p>“A Stoic! It never occurred to me that she was a Stoic,” said Waring, -with astonishment, and a sudden sense of offence. The idea that his -little Frances was not perfectly happy, that she had anything to put up -with, anything to forgive, was intolerable to him; and it was a new -idea. He reflected that she had consented to go away with an ease which -surprised him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> at the time. Was it possible? This suggestion disturbed -him much in his certainty that his was absolutely the right way.</p> - -<p>“If all these expedients are unsatisfactory,” he said, sharply, “perhaps -you will come to my assistance, and tell me where you would be satisfied -to go.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Constance, “I am going to make a suggestion which is a very -bold one; perhaps you will be angry—but I don’t do it to make you -angry; and, please, don’t answer me till you have thought a moment. It -is just this—Why shouldn’t we go home?”</p> - -<p>“Go home!” The words flew from him in the shock and wonder. He grew pale -as he stared at her, too much thunderstruck to be angry, as she said.</p> - -<p>Constance put up her hand to stop him. “I said, please don’t answer till -you have thought.”</p> - -<p>And then they sat for a minute or more looking at each other from -opposite sides of the table—in that pause which comes when a new and -strange thought has been thrown into the midst of a turmoil which it has -power to excite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> or to allay. Waring went through a great many phases of -feeling while he looked at his young daughter sitting undaunted opposite -to him, not afraid of him, treating him as no one else had done for -years—as an equal, as a reasonable being, whose wishes were not to be -deferred to superstitiously, but whose reasons for what he did and said -were to be put to the test, as in the case of other men. And he knew -that he could not beat down this cool and self-possessed girl, as -fathers can usually crush the young creatures whom they have had it in -their power to reprove and correct from their cradles. Constance was an -independent intelligence. She was a gentlewoman, to whom he could not be -rude any more than to the Queen. This hushed at once the indignant -outcry on his lips. He said at last, calmly enough, with only a little -sneer piercing through his forced smile, “We must take care, like other -debaters, to define what we mean exactly by the phrases we use. Home, -for example. What do you mean by home? My home, in the ordinary sense of -the word, is here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My dear father,” said Constance, with the air, somewhat exasperated by -his folly, of a philosopher with a neophyte, “I wish you would put the -right names to things. Yes, it is quite necessary to define, as you say. -How can an Englishman, with all his duties in his own country, deriving -his income from it, with houses belonging to him, and relations, and -everything that makes up life—how can he, I ask you, say that home, in -the ordinary sense of the word, is here? What is the ordinary sense of -the word?” she said, after a pause—looking at him with the indignant -frown of good sense, and that little air of repressed exasperation, as -of the wiser towards the foolisher, which made Waring, in the midst of -his own just anger and equally just discomfiture, feel a certain -amusement too. He kept his temper with the greatest pains and care. -Domenico had left the room when the discussion began, and the lamp which -hung over the table lighted impartially the girl’s animated countenance, -pressing forward in the strength of a position which she felt to be -invulnerable, and the father’s clouded and withdrawing face,—for he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> -had taken his eyes from her, with unconscious cowardice, when she fixed -him with that unwavering gaze.</p> - -<p>“I will allow that you put the position very strongly—as well as a -little undutifully,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Undutifully? Is it one’s duty to one’s father to be silly—to give up -one’s power of judging what is wrong and what is right? I am sure, papa, -you are much too candid a thinker to suggest that.”</p> - -<p>What could he say? He was very angry; but this candid thinker took him -quite at unawares. It tickled while it defied him. And he was a very -candid thinker, as she said. Perhaps he had been treated illogically in -the great crisis of his life; for, as a matter of fact, when an argument -was set before him, when it was a good argument, even if it told against -him, he would never refuse to acknowledge it. And conscience, perhaps, -had said to him on various occasions what his daughter now said. He -could bring forward nothing against it. He could only say, I choose it -to be so; and this would bear no weight with Constance. “You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> are not a -bad dialectician,” he said. “Where did you learn your logic? Women are -not usually strong in that point.”</p> - -<p>“Women are said to be just what it pleases men to represent them,” said -Constance. “Listen, papa. Frances would not have said that to you that I -have just said. But don’t you know that she would have thought it all -the same? Because it is quite evident and certain, you know. What did -you say the other day of that Italian, that Count something or other, -who has the castle there on the hill, and never comes near it from one -year’s end to another?”</p> - -<p>“That is quite a different matter. There is no reason why he should not -spend a part of every year there.”</p> - -<p>“And what reason is there with you? Only what ought to be an additional -reason for going—that you have——” Here Constance paused a little, and -grew pale. And her father looked up at her, growing pale too, -anticipating a crisis. Another word, and he would be able to crush this -young rebel, this meddler with things which concerned her not. But -Constance was better advised; she said, hurriedly—“relations<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> and -dependants, and ever so many things to look to—things that cannot be -settled without you.”</p> - -<p>“And what may these be?” He had been so fully prepared for the -introduction at this point of the mother, from whom Constance, too, had -fled—the wife, who was, as he said to himself, the cause of all that -was inharmonious in his own life—that the withdrawal of her name left -him breathless, with the force of an impulse which was not needed. “What -are the things that cannot be settled without me?”</p> - -<p>“Well—for one thing, papa, your daughter’s marriage,” said Constance, -still looking at him steadily, but with a sudden glow of colour covering -her face.</p> - -<p>“My daughter’s marriage?” he repeated, vaguely, once more taken by -surprise. “What! has Frances already, in the course of a few weeks——?”</p> - -<p>“It is very probable,” said Constance, calmly. “But I was not thinking -of Frances. Perhaps you forget that I am your daughter too, and that -your sanction is needed for me as well as for her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Here Waring leant towards her over the table. “Is this how it has -ended?” he said. “Have you really so little perception of what is -possible for a girl of your breeding, as to think that a life in India -with young Gaunt——?”</p> - -<p>Constance grew crimson from her hair to the edge of her white dress. -“Captain Gaunt?” she said, for the first time avoiding her father’s eye. -Then she burst into a laugh, which she felt was weak and half hysterical -in its self-consciousness. “Oh no,” she said; “that was only -amusement—that was nothing. I hope, indeed, I have a little -more—perception, as you say. What I meant was——” Her eyes took a -softened look, almost of entreaty, as if she wanted him to help her out.</p> - -<p>“I did not know you had any second string to your bow,” he said. Now was -his time to avenge himself, and he took advantage of it.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Constance, drawing herself up majestically, “I have no -second string to my bow. I have made a mistake. It is a thing which may -happen to any one. But when one does so, and sees it, the thing to do is -to acknowledge and remedy it, I think. Some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> people, I am aware, are not -of the same opinion. But I, for one, am not going to keep it up.”</p> - -<p>“You refer to—a mistake which has not been acknowledged?”</p> - -<p>“Papa, don’t let us quarrel, you and me. I am very lonely—oh, -dreadfully lonely! I want you to stand by me. What I refer to is my -affair, not any one’s else. I find out now that Claude—of course I told -you his name—Claude—would suit me very well—better than any one else. -There are drawbacks, perhaps; but I understand him, and he understands -me. That is the great thing, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“It is a great thing—if it lasts.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it would last. I know him as well as I know myself.”</p> - -<p>“I see,” said Waring, slowly. “You have made up your mind to return to -England, and accomplish the destiny laid out for you. A very wise -resolution, no doubt. It is only a pity that you did not think better of -it at first, instead of turning my life upside down and causing -everybody so much trouble. Never mind. It is to be hoped that your -resolution will hold now; and there need be no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> trouble in that -case about finding a place in which to pass the summer. <i>You</i> are going, -I presume—home?”</p> - -<p>This time the tears came very visibly to Constance’s eyes. There was -impatience and vexation in them, as well as feeling. “Where is home?” -she said. “I will have to ask you. The home I have been used to is my -sister’s now. Oh, it is hard, I see, very hard, when you have made a -mistake once, to mend it! The only home that I know of is an old house -where the master has not been for a long time—which is all overgrown -with trees, and tumbling into ruins for anything I know. But I suppose, -unless you forbid me, that I have a right to go there—and perhaps aunt -Caroline——”</p> - -<p>“Of what are you speaking?” he said, making an effort to keep his voice -steady.</p> - -<p>“I am speaking of Hilborough, papa.”</p> - -<p>At this he sprang up from his chair, as if touched by some intolerable -recollection; then composing himself, sat down again, putting force upon -himself, restraining the sudden impulse of excitement. After a time, he -said, “Hilborough. I had almost forgotten the name.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes,—so I thought. You forget that you have a home, which is cooler -and quieter, as quiet as any of your villages here—where you could be -as solitary as you liked, or see people if you liked—where you are the -natural master. Oh, I thought you must have forgotten it! In summer it -is delightful. You are in the middle of a wood, and yet you are in a -nice English house. Oh, an <i>English</i> house is very different from those -Palazzos. Papa, there is your <i>villeggiatura</i>, as you call it, just what -you want, far, far better than Mrs Durant’s cheap little place, that she -asked me to tell you of, or Mrs Gaunt’s <i>pension</i> in Switzerland, or -Homburg. They think you are poor; but you know quite well you are not -poor. Take me to Hilborough, papa; oh, take me home! It is there I want -to go.”</p> - -<p>“Hilborough,” he repeated to himself—“Hilborough. I never thought of -that. I suppose she <i>has</i> a right to it. Poor old place! Yes, I suppose, -if the girl chooses to call it home——”</p> - -<p>He rose up quite slowly this time, and went, as was his usual custom, -towards the door which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> led through the other rooms to the loggia, but -without paying any attention to the movements of Constance, which he -generally followed instead of directing. She rose too, and went to him, -and stole her hand through his arm. The awning had been put aside, and -the soft night-air blew in their faces as they stepped out upon that -terrace in which so much of their lives was spent. The sea shone beyond -the roofs of the houses on the Marina, and swept outwards in a pale -clearness towards the sky, which was soft in summer blue, with the stars -sprinkled faintly over the vast vault, too much light still remaining in -heaven and earth to show them at their best. Constance walked with her -father, close to his side, holding his arm, almost as tall as he was, -and keeping step and pace with him. She said nothing more, but stood by -him as he walked to the ledge of the loggia and looked out towards the -west, where there was still a lingering touch of gold. He was not at all -in the habit of expressing admiration of the landscape, but to-night, as -if he were making a remark called forth by the previous argument, “It is -all very lovely,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes; but not more lovely than home,” said the girl. “I have been at -Hilborough in a summer night, and everything was so sweet—the stars all -looking through the trees as if they were watching the house—and the -scent of the flowers. Don’t you remember the white rose at -Hilborough—what they call Mother’s tree?”</p> - -<p>He started a little, and a thrill ran through him. She could feel it in -his arm—a thrill of recollection, of things beyond the warfare and -turmoil of his life, on the other, the boyish side—recollections of -quiet and of peace.</p> - -<p>“I think I will go to my own room a little, Constance, and smoke my -cigarette there. You have brought a great many things to my mind.”</p> - -<p>She gave his arm a close pressure before she let it go. “Oh, take me to -Hilborough! Let us go to our own home, papa.”</p> - -<p>“I will think of it,” he replied.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLI" id="CHAPTER_XLI"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> ate a mournful little dinner alone, after the agitations to -which she had been subject. Her mother did not return; and Markham, who -had been expected up to the last moment, did not appear. It was unusual -to her now to spend so many hours alone, and her mind was oppressed not -only by the strange scene with Nelly Winterbourn, but more deeply still -by Claude’s news. George Gaunt had always been a figure of great -interest to Frances; and his appearance here in the world which was as -yet so strange, with his grave, indeed melancholy face, had awakened her -to a sense of sympathy and friendliness which no one had called forth in -her before. He was as strange as she was to that dazzling puzzle of -society, sat silent as she did, roused himself into interest like her -about matters which did not much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> interest anybody else. She had felt -amid so many strangers that here was one whom she could always -understand, whose thoughts she could follow, who said what she had been -about to say. It made no difference to Frances that he had not signalled -her out for special notice. She took that quietly, as a matter of -course. Her mother, Markham, the other people who appeared and -disappeared in the house, were all more interesting, she felt, than she; -but sometimes her eyes had met those of Captain Gaunt in sympathy, and -she had perceived that he could understand her, whether he wished to do -so or not. And then he was Mrs Gaunt’s youngest, of whom she had heard -so much. It seemed to Frances that his childhood and her own had got all -entangled, so that she could not be quite sure whether this and that -incident of the nursery had been told of him or of herself. She was more -familiar with him than he could be with her. And to hear that he was -unhappy, that he was in danger, a stranger among people who preyed upon -him, and yet not to be able to help him, was almost more than she could -bear.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span></p> - -<p>She went up to the empty drawing-room, with the soft illumination of -many lights, which was habitual there, which lay all decorated and -bright, sweet with spring flowers, full of pictures and ornaments, like -a deserted palace, and she felt the silence and beauty of it to be -dreary and terrible. It was like a desert to her, or rather like a -prison, in which she must stay and wait and listen, and, whatever might -come, do nothing to hinder it. What could she do? A girl could not go -out into those haunts, where Claude Ramsay, though he was so delicate, -could go; she could not put herself forward, and warn a man, who would -think he knew much better than she could do. She sat down and tried to -read, and then got up, and glided about from one table to another, from -one picture to another, looking vaguely at a score of things without -seeing them. Then she stole within the shadow of the curtain, and looked -out at the carriages which went and came, now and then drawing up at -adjacent doors. It made her heart beat to see them approaching, to think -that perhaps they were coming here—her mother perhaps; perhaps Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> -Thomas; perhaps Markham. Was it possible that this night, of all -others—this night, when her heart seemed to appeal to earth and heaven -for some one to help her—nobody would come? It was Frances’ first -experience of these vigils, which to some women fill up so much of life. -There had never been any anxiety at Bordighera, any disturbing -influence. She had always known where to find her father, who could -solve every problem and chase away every difficulty. Would he, she -wondered, be able to do so now? Would he, if he were here, go out for -her, and find George Gaunt, and deliver him from his pursuers? But -Frances could not say to herself that he would have done so. He was not -fond of disturbing himself. He would have said, “It is not my business;” -he would have refused to interfere, as Claude did. And what could she -do, a girl, by herself? Lady Markham had been very anxious to keep him -out of harm’s way; but she had said plainly that she would not forsake -her own son in order to save the son of another woman. Frances was -wandering painfully through labyrinths of such thoughts, racking her -brain with vain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> questions as to what it was possible to do, when -Markham’s hansom, stopping with a sudden clang at the door, drove her -thoughts away, or at least made a break in them, and replaced, by a -nervous tremor of excitement and alarm, the pangs of anxious expectation -and suspense. She would rather not have seen Markham at that moment. She -was fond of her brother. It grieved her to hear even Lady Markham speak -of him in questionable terms: all the natural prejudices of affectionate -youth were enlisted on his side; but, for the first time, she felt that -she had no confidence in Markham, and wished that it had been any one -but he.</p> - -<p>He came in with a light overcoat over his evening clothes,—he had been -dining out; but he did not meet Frances with the unembarrassed -countenance which she had thought would have made it so difficult to -speak to him about what she had heard. He came in hurriedly, looking -round the drawing-room with a rapid investigating glance before he took -any notice of her. “Where is the mother?” he asked, hurriedly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span></p> - -<p>“She has not come back,” said Frances, divining from his look that it -was unnecessary to say more.</p> - -<p>Markham sat down abruptly on a sofa near. He did not make any reply to -her, but put up the handle of his cane to his mouth with a curious -mixture of the comic and the tragic, which struck her in spite of -herself. He did not require to put any question; he knew very well where -his mother was, and all that was happening. The sense of the great -crisis which had arrived took from him all power of speech, paralysing -him with mingled awe and dismay. But yet the odd little figure on the -sofa sucking his cane, his hat in his other hand, his features all -fallen into bewilderment and helplessness, was absurd. Out of the depths -of Frances’ trouble came a hysterical titter against her will. This -roused him also. He looked at her with a faint evanescent smile.</p> - -<p>“Laughing at me, Fan? Well, I don’t wonder. I am a nice fellow to have -to do with a tragedy. Screaming farce is more like my style.”</p> - -<p>“I did not laugh, Markham; I have not any heart for laughing,” she -said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Oh, didn’t you? But it sounded like it. Fan, tell me, has the mother -been long away, and did any one see that unfortunate girl when she was -here?”</p> - -<p>“No, Markham—unless it were Mr Ramsay; he saw her drive away with -mamma.”</p> - -<p>“The worst of old gossips,” he said, desperately sucking his cane, with -a gloomy brow. “I don’t know an old woman so bad. No quarter there—that -is the word. Fan, the mother is a trump. Nothing is so bad when she is -mixed up in it. Was Nelly much cut up, or was she in one of her wild -fits? Poor girl! You must not think badly of Nelly. She has had hard -lines. She never had a chance: an old brute, used up, that no woman -could take to. But she has done her duty by him, Fan.”</p> - -<p>“She does not think so, Markham.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, by Jove, she was giving you that, was she? Fan, I sometimes think -poor Nelly’s off her head a little. Poor Nelly, poor girl! I don’t want -to set her up for an example; but she has done her duty by him. Remember -this, whatever you may hear. I—am rather a good one to know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He gave a curious little chuckle as he said this—a sort of strangled -laugh, of which he was ashamed, and stifled it in its birth.</p> - -<p>“Markham, I want to speak to you—about something very serious.”</p> - -<p>He gave a keen look at her sideways from the corner of one eye. Then he -said, in a sort of whisper to himself, “Preaching;” but added in his own -voice, “Fire away, Fan,” with a look of resignation.</p> - -<p>“Markham—it is about Captain Gaunt.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” he cried. He gave a little laugh. “You frightened me, my dear. I -thought at this time of the day you were going to give me a sermon from -the depths of your moral experience, Fan. So long as it isn’t about poor -Nelly, say what you please about Gaunt. What about Gaunt?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Markham, Mr Ramsay told me—and mamma has been frightened ever -since he came. What have you done with him, Markham? Don’t you remember -the old General at Bordighera—and his mother? And he had just come from -India, for his holiday, after years and years. And they are poor—that -is to say, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> are well enough off for them; but they are not like -mamma and you. They have not got horses and carriages; they don’t -live—as you do.”</p> - -<p>“As I do! I am the poorest little beggar living, and that is the truth, -Fan.”</p> - -<p>“The poorest! Markham, you may think you can laugh at me. I am not -clever; I am quite ignorant—that I know. But how can you say you are -poor? You don’t know what it is to be poor. When they go away in the -summer, they choose little quiet places; they spare everything they can. -That is one thing I know better than you do. To say you are poor!”</p> - -<p>He rose up and came towards her, and taking her hands in his, gave them -a squeeze which was painful, though he was unconscious of it. “Fan,” he -said, “all that is very pretty, and true for you; but if I hadn’t been -poor, do you think all this would have happened as it has done? Do you -think I’d have stood by and let Nelly marry that fellow? Do you -think——? Hush! there’s the mother, with news; no doubt she’s got news. -Fan, what d’ye think it’ll be?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>He held her hands tight, and pressed them till she had almost cried out, -looking in her face with a sort of nervous smile which twitched at the -corners of his mouth, looking in her eyes as if into a mirror where he -could see the reflection of something, and so be spared the pain of -looking directly at it. She saw that the subject which was of so much -interest to her had passed clean out of his head. His own affairs were -uppermost in Markham’s mind, as is generally the case whenever a man can -be supposed to have any affairs at all of his own.</p> - -<p>And Frances, kept in this position, as a sort of mirror in which he -could see the reflection of his mother’s face, saw Lady Markham come in, -looking very pale and fatigued, with that air of having worn her outdoor -dress for hours which gives a sort of haggard aspect to weariness. She -gave a glance round, evidently without perceiving very clearly who was -there, then sank wearily upon the sofa, loosening her cloak. “It is all -over,” she said in a low tone, as if speaking to herself—“it is all -over. Of course I could not come away before——”</p> - -<p>Markham let go Frances’ hands without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> word. He walked away to the -further window, and drew the curtain aside and looked out. Why, he could -not have told, nor with what purpose—with a vague intention of making -sure that the hansom which stood there so constantly was at the door.</p> - -<p>“What is Markham doing?” said his mother, in a faint querulous tone. -“Tell him not to fidget with these curtains. It worries me. I am tired, -and my nerves are all wrong. Yes, you can take my cloak, Frances. Don’t -call anybody. No one will come here to-night. Markham, did you hear what -I said? It is all over. I waited till——”</p> - -<p>He came towards her from the end of the room with a sort of smile upon -his grey sandy-coloured face, his mouth and eyebrows twitching, his eyes -screwed up so that nothing but two keen little glimmers of reflection -were visible. “You are not the sort,” he said, with a little tremor in -his voice, “to forsake a man when he is down.” He had his hands in his -pockets, his shoulders pushed up; nowhere could there have been seen a -less tragic figure. Yet every line of his odd face was touched and -moving with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> feeling, totally beyond any power of expression in words.</p> - -<p>“It was not a happy scene,” she said. “He sent for her at the last. -Sarah Winterbourn was there at the bedside. She was fond of him, I -believe. A woman cannot help being fond of her brother, however little -he may deserve it. Nelly——”</p> - -<p>Here Markham broke in with a sound that was like, yet not like, his -usual laugh. “How’s Nelly?” he said abruptly, without sequence or -reason. Lady Markham paused to look at him, and then went on—</p> - -<p>“Nelly trembled so, I could scarcely keep her up. She wanted not to go; -she said, What was the good? But I got her persuaded at last. A man -dying like that is a—is a—— It is not a pleasant sight. He signed to -her to go and kiss him.” Lady Markham shuddered slightly. “He was past -speaking—I mean, he was past understanding—— I—I wish I had not seen -it. One can’t get such a scene out of one’s mind.”</p> - -<p>She put up her hand and pressed her fingers upon her eyes, as if the -picture was there, and she was trying to get rid of it. Markham had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span> -turned away again, and was examining, or seeming to examine, the flowers -in a jardinière. Now and then he made a movement, as if he would have -stopped the narrative. Frances, trembling and crying with natural horror -and distress, had loosened her mother’s cloak and taken off her bonnet -while she went on speaking. Lady Markham’s hair, though always covered -with a cap, was as brown and smooth as her daughter’s. Frances put her -hand upon it timidly, and smoothed the satin braid. It was all she could -do to show the emotion, the sympathy in her heart; and she was as much -startled in mind as physically, when Lady Markham suddenly threw one arm -round her and rested her head upon her shoulder. “Thank God,” the mother -cried, “that here is one, whatever may happen, that will never, -never——! Frances, my love, don’t mind what I say. I am worn out, and -good for nothing. Go and get me a little wine, for I have no strength -left in me.”</p> - -<p>Markham turned to her with his chuckle more marked than ever, as Frances -left the room. “I am glad to see that you have strength to remember what -you’re about, mammy, in spite of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> that little break-down. It wouldn’t -do, would it?—to let Frances believe that a match like Winterbourn was -a thing she would never—never——! though it wasn’t amiss for poor -Nelly, in <i>her</i> day.”</p> - -<p>“Markham, you are very hard upon me. The child did not understand either -one thing or the other. And I was not to blame about Nelly; you cannot -say I was to blame. If I had been, I think to-night might make up: that -ghastly face, and Nelly’s close to it, with her eyes staring in horror, -the poor little mouth——”</p> - -<p>Markham’s exclamation was short and sharp like a pistol-shot. It was a -monosyllable, but not one to be put into print. “Stop that!” he said. -“It can do no good going over it. Who’s with her now?”</p> - -<p>“I could not stay, Markham; besides, it would have been out of place. -She has her maid, who is very kind to her; and I made them give her a -sleeping-draught—to make her forget her trouble. Sarah Winterbourn -laughed out when I asked for it. The doctor was shocked. It was so -natural that poor little Nelly, who never saw anything so ghastly, -never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> was in the house with death; never saw, much less touched——”</p> - -<p>“I can understand Sarah,” he said, with a grim smile.</p> - -<p>Frances came back with the wine, and her mother paused to kiss her as -she took it from her hand. “I am sure you have had a wearing, miserable -evening. You look quite pale, my dear. I ought not to speak of such -horrid things before you at your age. But you see, Markham, she saw -Nelly, and heard her wild talk. It was all excitement and misery and -overstrain; for in reality she had nothing to reproach herself -with—nothing, Frances. He proved that by sending for her, as I tell -you. He knew, and everybody knows, that poor Nelly had done her duty by -him.”</p> - -<p>Frances paid little attention to this strange defence. She was, as her -mother knew, yet could scarcely believe, totally incapable of -comprehending the grounds on which Nelly was so strongly asserted to -have done her duty, or of understanding that not to have wronged her -husband in one unpardonable way, gave her a claim upon the applause of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> -her fellows. Fortunately, indeed, Frances was defended against all -questions on this subject by the possession of that unsuspected trouble -of her own, of which she felt that for the night at least it was futile -to say anything. Nelly was the only subject upon which her mother could -speak, or for which Markham had any ears. They did not say anything, -either after Frances left them or in her presence, of the future, of -which, no doubt, their minds were full—of which Nelly’s mind had been -so full when she burst into Lady Markham’s room in her finery, on that -very day; of what was to happen after, what “the widow”—that name -against which she so rebelled, but which was already fixed upon her in -all the clubs and drawing-rooms—was to do? that was a question which -was not openly put to each other by the two persons chiefly concerned.</p> - -<p>When Markham appeared in his usual haunts that night, he was aware of -being regarded with many significant looks; but these he was of course -prepared for, and met with a countenance in which it would have puzzled -the wisest to find any special expression.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span></p> - -<p>Lady Markham went to bed as soon as her son left her. She had said she -could receive no one, being much fatigued. “My lady have been with Mrs -Winterbourn,” was the answer made to Sir Thomas when he came to the door -late, after a tedious debate in the House of Commons. Sir Thomas, like -everybody, was full of speculations on this point, though he regarded it -from a point of view different from the popular one. The world was -occupied with the question whether Nelly would marry Markham, now that -she was rich and free. But what occupied Sir Thomas, who had no doubt on -this subject, was the—afterwards? What would Lady Markham do? Was it -not now at last the moment for Waring to come home?</p> - -<p>In Lady Markham’s mind, some similar thoughts were afloat. She had said -that she was fatigued; but fatigue does not mean sleep, at least not at -Lady Markham’s age. It means retirement, silence, and leisure for the -far more fatiguing exertion of thought. When her maid had been -dismissed, and the faint night-lamp was all that was left in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> -curtained, cushioned, luxurious room, the questions that arose in her -mind were manifold. Markham’s marriage would make a wonderful difference -in his mother’s life. Her house in Eaton Square she would no doubt -retain; but the lovely little house in the Isle of Wight, which had been -always hers—and the solemn establishment in the country, would be hers -no more. These two things of themselves would make a great difference. -But what was of still more consequence was, that Markham himself would -be hers no more. He would belong to his wife. It was impossible to -believe of him that he could ever be otherwise than affectionate and -kind; but what a difference when Markham was no longer one of the -household! And then the husband, so long cut off, so far separated, much -by distance, more by the severance of all the habits and mutual claims -which bind people together—with him what would follow? What would be -the effect of the change? Questions like these, diversified by perpetual -efforts of imagination to bring before her again the tragical scene of -which she had been a witness,—the dying man, with his hoarse attempts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> -to be intelligible; the young, haggard, horrified countenance of Nelly, -compelled to approach the awful figure, for which she had a child’s -dread,—kept her awake long into the night. It is seldom that a woman of -her age sees herself on the eve of such changes without any will of -hers. It seemed to have overwhelmed her in a moment, although, indeed, -she had foreseen the catastrophe. What would Nelly do? was the question -all the world was asking. But Lady Markham had another which occupied -her as much on her own side. Waring, what would he do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLII" id="CHAPTER_XLII"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> question which disturbed Frances, which nobody knew or cared for, -was just as little likely to gain attention next day as it had been on -the evening of Mr Winterbourn’s death. Lady Markham returned to Nelly -before breakfast; she was with her most of the day; and Markham, though -he lent an apparent attention to what Frances said to him, was still far -too much absorbed in his own subject to be easily moved by hers. “Gaunt? -Oh, he is all right,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Will you speak to him, Markham? Will you warn him? Mr Ramsay says he is -losing all his money; and I know, oh Markham, I <i>know</i> that he has not -much to lose.”</p> - -<p>“Claude is a little meddler. I assure you, Fan, Gaunt knows his own -affairs best.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“No,” cried Frances: “when I tell you, Markham, when I tell you! that -they are quite poor, <i>really</i> poor—not like you.”</p> - -<p>“I have told you, my little dear, that I am the poorest beggar in -London.”</p> - -<p>“Oh Markham! and you drive about in hansoms, and smoke cigars, all day.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my dear, what would you have me do? Keep on trudging through the -mud, which would waste all my time; or get on the knife-board of an -omnibus? Well, these are the only alternatives. The omnibuses have their -recommendation—they are fun; but after a while, society in that -development palls upon the intelligent observer. What do you want me to -do, Fan? Come, I have a deal on my mind; but to please you, and to make -you hold your tongue, if there is anything I can do, I will try.”</p> - -<p>“You can do everything, Markham. Warn him that he is wasting his -money—that he is spending what belongs to the old people—that he is -making himself wretched. Oh, don’t laugh, Markham! Oh, if I were in your -place! I know what I should do—I would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> get him to go home, instead of -going to—those places.”</p> - -<p>“Which places, Fan?”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried the girl, exasperated to tears, “how can I tell?—the places -you know—the places you have taken him to, Markham—places where, if -the poor General knew it, or Mrs Gaunt——”</p> - -<p>“There you are making a mistake, little Fan. The good people would think -their son was in very fine company. If he tells them the names of the -persons he meets, they will think——”</p> - -<p>“Then you know they will think wrong, Markham!” she cried, almost with -violence, keeping herself with a most strenuous effort from an outburst -of indignant weeping. He did not reply at once; and she thought he was -about to consider the question on its merits, and endeavour to find out -what he could do. But she was undeceived when he spoke.</p> - -<p>“What day did you say, Fan, the funeral was to be?” he asked, with the -air of a man who has escaped from an unwelcome intrusion to the real -subject of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas found her alone, flushed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> miserable, drying her tears -with a feverish little angry hand. She was very much alone during these -days, when Lady Markham was so often with Nelly Winterbourn. Sir Thomas -was pleased to find her, having also an object of his own. He soothed -her, when he saw that she had been crying. “Never mind me,” he said; -“but you must not let other people see that you are feeling it so much: -for you cannot be supposed to take any particular interest in -Winterbourn: and people will immediately suppose that you and your -mother are troubled about the changes that must take place in the -house.”</p> - -<p>“I was not thinking at all of Mrs Winterbourn,” cried Frances, with -indignation.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear; I knew you could not be. Don’t let any one but me see you -crying. Lady Markham will feel the marriage dreadfully, I know. But now -is our time for our grand <i>coup</i>.”</p> - -<p>“What grand <i>coup</i>?” the girl said, with an astonished look.</p> - -<p>“Have you forgotten what I said to you at the Priory? One of the chief -objects of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> life is to bring Waring back. It is intolerable to think -that a man of his abilities should be banished for ever, and lost not -only to his country but his kind. Even if he were working for the good -of the race out there—— But he is doing nothing but antiquities, so -far as I can hear, and there are plenty of antiquarians good for nothing -else. Frances, we must have him home.”</p> - -<p>“Home!” she said. Her heart went back with a bound to the rooms in the -Palazzo with all the green <i>persiani</i> shut, and everything dark and -cool: it was getting warm in London, but there were no such precautions -taken. And the loggia at night, with the palm-trees waving majestically -their long drooping fans, and the soft sound of the sea coming over the -houses of the Marina—ah, and the happy want of thought, the pleasant -vacancy, in which nothing ever happened! She drew a long breath. “I -ought not to say so, perhaps; but when you say home——”</p> - -<p>“You think of the place where you were brought up? That is quite -natural. But it would not be the same to him. He was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> brought up -there; he can have nothing to interest him there. Depend upon it, he -must very often wish that he could pocket his pride and come back. We -must try to get him back, Frances. Don’t you think, my dear, that we -could manage it, you and I?”</p> - -<p>Frances shook her head, and said she did not know. “But I should be very -glad—oh, very glad: if I am to stay here,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Of course you would be glad; and of course you are to stay here. You -could not leave your poor mother by herself. And now that Markham—now -that probably everything will be changed for Markham—— If Markham were -out of the way, it would be so much easier; for, you know, he always was -the stumbling-block. She would not let Waring manage him, and she could -not manage him herself.”</p> - -<p>Frances was so far instructed in what was going on around her, that she -knew how important in Markham’s history the death of Mr Winterbourn had -been; but it was not a subject on which she could speak. She said: “I am -very sorry papa did not like Markham. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span> does not seem possible not to -like Markham. But I suppose gentlemen—— Oh, Sir Thomas, if he were -here, I would ask papa to do something for me; but now I don’t know who -to ask to help me—if anything can be done.”</p> - -<p>“Is it something I can do?”</p> - -<p>“I think,” she said, “any one that was kind could do it; but only not a -girl. Girls are good for so little. Do you remember Captain Gaunt, who -came to town a few weeks ago? Sir Thomas, I have heard that something -has happened to Captain Gaunt. I don’t know how to tell you. Perhaps you -will think that it is not my business; but don’t you think it is your -friend’s business, when you get into trouble? Don’t you think that—that -people who know you—who care a little for you—should always be ready -to help?”</p> - -<p>“That is a hard question to put to me. In the abstract, yes; but in -particular cases—— Is it Captain Gaunt for whom you care a little?”</p> - -<p>Frances hesitated a moment, and then she answered boldly: “Yes—at least -I care for his people a great deal. And he has come home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> from India, -not very strong; and he knew nothing about—about what you call Society; -no more than I did. And now I hear that he is—I don’t know how to tell -you, Sir Thomas—losing all his money (and he has not any money) in the -places where Markham goes—in the places that Markham took him to. Oh, -wait till I have told you everything, Sir Thomas! they are not rich -people,—not like any of you here. Markham says he is poor——”</p> - -<p>“So he is, Frances.”</p> - -<p>“Ah,” she cried, with hasty contempt, “but you don’t understand! He may -not have much money; but they—they live in a little house with two -maids and Toni. They have no luxuries or grandeur. When they take a -drive in old Luca’s carriage, it is something to think about. All that -is quite, quite different from you people here. Don’t you see, Sir -Thomas, don’t you see? And Captain Gaunt has been—oh, I don’t know how -it is—losing his money; and he has not got any—and he is -miserable—and I cannot get any one to take an interest, to tell him—to -warn him, to get him to give up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“Did he tell you all this himself?” said Sir Thomas, gravely.</p> - -<p>“Oh no, not a word. It was Mr Ramsay who told me; and when I begged him -to say something, to warn him——”</p> - -<p>“He could not do that. There he was quite right; and you were quite -wrong, if you will let me say so. It is too common a case, alas! I don’t -know what any one can do.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Sir Thomas! if you will think of the old General and his mother, -who love him more than all the rest—for he is the youngest. Oh, won’t -you do something, try something, to save him?” Frances clasped her -hands, as if in prayer. She raised her eyes to his face with such an -eloquence of entreaty, that his heart was touched. Not only was her -whole soul in the petition for the sake of him who was in peril, but it -was full of boundless confidence and trust in the man to whom she -appealed. The other plea might have failed; but this last can scarcely -fail to affect the mind of any individual to whom it is addressed.</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas put his hand on her shoulder with fatherly tenderness. “My -dear little girl,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span>” he said, “what do you think I can do? I don’t know -what I can do. I am afraid I should only make things worse, were I to -interfere.”</p> - -<p>“No, no. He is not like that. He would know you were a friend. He would -be thankful. And oh, how thankful, how thankful I should be!”</p> - -<p>“Frances, do you take, then, so great an interest in this young man? Do -you want me to look after him for your sake?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him hastily with an eager “Yes”—then paused a little, and -looked again with a dawning understanding which brought the colour to -her cheek. “You mean something more than I mean,” she said, a little -troubled. “But yet, if you will be kind to George Gaunt, and try to help -him, for my sake—— Yes, oh, yes! Why should I refuse? I would not have -asked you if I had not thought that perhaps you would do it—for me.”</p> - -<p>“I would do a great deal for you; for your mother’s daughter, much; and -for poor Waring’s child; and again, for yourself. But, Frances, a young -man who is so weak, who falls into temptation in this way—my dear, you -must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> let me say it—he is not a mate for such as you.”</p> - -<p>“For me? Oh no. No one thought—no one ever thought——” cried Frances -hastily. “Sir Thomas, I hear mamma coming, and I do not want to trouble -her, for she has so much to think of? Will you? Oh, promise me. Look for -him to-night; oh, look for him to-night!”</p> - -<p>“You are so sure that I can be of use?” The trust in her eyes was so -genuine, so enthusiastic, that he could not resist that flattery. “Yes, -I will try. I will see what it is possible to do. And you, Frances, -remember you are pledged, too; you are to do everything you can for me.”</p> - -<p>He was patting her on the shoulder, looking down upon her with very -friendly tender eyes, when Lady Markham came in. She was a little -startled by the group; but though she was tired and discomposed and out -of heart, she was not so preoccupied but what her quick mind caught a -new suggestion from it. Sir Thomas was very rich. He had been devoted to -herself, in all honour and kindness, for many years. What if -Frances——? A whole train of new ideas burst into her mind on the -moment, al<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span>though she had thought, as she came in, that in the present -chaos and hurry of her spirits she had room for nothing more.</p> - -<p>“You look,” she said with a smile, “as if you were settling something. -What is it? An alliance, a league?”</p> - -<p>“Offensive and defensive,” said Sir Thomas. “We have given each other -mutual commissions, and we are great friends, as you see. But these are -our little secrets, which we don’t mean to tell. How is Nelly, Lady -Markham? And is it all right about the will?”</p> - -<p>“The will is the least of my cares. I could not inquire into that, as -you may suppose; nor is there any need, so far as I know. Nelly is quite -enough to have on one’s hands, without thinking of the will. She is very -nervous and very headstrong. She would have rushed away out of the -house, if I had not used—almost force. She cannot bear to be under the -same roof with death.”</p> - -<p>“It was the old way. I scarcely wonder, for my part: for it was never -pretended, I suppose, that there was any love in the matter.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no” (Lady Markham looked at her own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> elderly knight and at her young -daughter, and said to herself, What if Frances——?); “there was no -love. But she has always been very good, and done her duty by him—that, -everybody will say.”</p> - -<p>“Poor Nelly!—that is quite true. But still I should not like, if I were -such a fool as to marry a young wife, to have her do her duty to me in -that way.”</p> - -<p>“You would be very different,” said Lady Markham with a smile. “I should -not think you a fool at all; and I should think her a lucky woman.” She -said this with Nelly Winterbourn’s voice still ringing in her ears.</p> - -<p>“Happily, I am not going to put it to the test. Now, I must go—to look -after your affairs, Miss Frances; and remember that you are pledged to -look after mine in return.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham looked after him very curiously as he went away. She -thought, as women so often think, that men were very strange, -inscrutable—“mostly fools,” at least in one way. To think that perhaps -little Frances—— It would be a great match, greater than Claude -Ramsay—as good in one point of view, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> other respects far better -than Nelly St John’s great marriage with the rich Mr Winterbourn. “I am -glad you like him so much, Frances,” she said. “He is not young—but he -has every other quality; as good as ever man was, and so considerate and -kind. You may take him into your confidence fully.” She waited a moment -to see if the child had anything to say; then, too wise to force or -precipitate matters, went on: “Poor Nelly gives me great anxiety, -Frances. I wish the funeral were over, and all well. Her nerves are in -such an excited state, one can’t feel sure what she may do or say. The -servants and people happily think it grief; but to see Sarah Winterbourn -looking at her fills me with fright, I can’t tell why. <i>She</i> doesn’t -think it is grief. And how should it be? A dreadful, cold, always ill, -repulsive man. But I hope she may be kept quiet, not to make a scandal -until after the funeral at least. I don’t know what she said to you, my -love, that day; but you must not pay any attention to what a woman says -in such an excited state. Her marriage has been unfortunate (which is a -thing that may happen in any circumstances), not because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> Mr Winterbourn -was such a good match, but because he was such a disagreeable man.”</p> - -<p>Frances, who had no clue to her mother’s thoughts, or to any -appropriateness in this short speech, had little interest in it. She -said, somewhat stiffly, that she was sorry for poor Mrs Winterbourn—but -much more sorry for her own mother, who was having so much trouble and -anxiety. Lady Markham smiled upon her, and kissed her tenderly. It was a -relief to her mind, in the midst of all those anxious questions, to have -a new channel for her thoughts; and upon this new path she threw herself -forth in the fulness of a lively imagination, leaving fact far behind, -and even probability. She was indeed quite conscious of this, and -voluntarily permitted herself the pleasant exercise of building a new -castle in the air. Little Frances! And she said to herself there would -be no drawback in such a case. It would be the finest match of the -season; and no mother need fear to trust her daughter in Sir Thomas’s -hands.</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas came back next morning when Lady Markham was again absent. He -informed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> Frances that he had gone to several places where he was told -Captain Gaunt was likely to be found, and had seen Markham as usual -“frittering himself away;” but Gaunt had nowhere been visible. “Some one -said he had fallen ill. If that is so, it is the best thing that could -happen. One has some hope of getting hold of him so.” But where did he -live? That was the question. Markham did not know, nor any one about. -That was the first thing to be discovered, Sir Thomas said. For the -first time, Frances appreciated her mother’s business-like arrangements -for her great correspondence, which made an address-book so necessary. -She found Gaunt’s address there; and passed the rest of the day in -anxiety, which she could confide to no one, learning for the first time -those tortures of suspense which to so many women form a great part of -existence. Frances thought the day would never end. It was so much the -more dreadful to her that she had to shut it all up in her own bosom, -and endeavour to enter into other anxieties, and sympathise with her -mother’s continual panic as to what Nelly Winterbourn might do. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> -house altogether was in a state of suppressed excitement; even the -servants—or perhaps the servants most keenly of any, with their quick -curiosity and curious divination of any change in the atmosphere of a -family—feeling the thrill of approaching revolution. Frances with her -private preoccupation was blunted to this; but when Sir Thomas arrived -in the evening, it was all she could do to curb herself and keep within -the limits of ordinary rule. She sprang up, indeed, when she heard his -step on the stair, and went off to the further corner of the room, where -she could read his face out of the dimness before he spoke; and where, -perhaps, he might seek her, and tell her, under some pretence. These -movements were keenly noted by her mother, as was also the alert air of -Sir Thomas, and his interest and activity, though he looked very grave. -But Frances did not require to wait for the news she looked for so -anxiously.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am very serious,” Sir Thomas said, in answer to Lady Markham’s -question. “I have news to tell you which will shock you. Your poor young -friend Gaunt—Captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> Gaunt—wasn’t he a friend of yours?—is lying -dangerously ill of fever in a poor little set of lodgings he has got. He -is far too ill to know me or say anything to me; but so far as I can -make out, it has something to do with losses at play.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham turned pale with alarm and horror. “Oh, I have always been -afraid of this! I had a presentiment,” she cried. Then rallying a -little: “But, Sir Thomas, no one thinks now that fever is brought on by -mental causes. It must be bad water or defective drainage.”</p> - -<p>“It may be—anything; I can’t tell; I am no doctor. But the fact is, the -young fellow is lying delirious, raving. I heard him myself—about -stakes and chances and losses, and how he will make it up to-morrow. -There are other things too. He seems to have had hard lines, poor -fellow, if all is true.”</p> - -<p>Frances had rushed forward, unable to restrain herself. “Oh, his mother, -his mother—we must send for his mother,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“I will go and see him to-morrow,” said Lady Markham. “I had a -presentiment. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> has been on my mind ever since I saw him first. I -blame myself for losing sight of him. But to-morrow——”</p> - -<p>“To-morrow—to-morrow; that is what the poor fellow says.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIII" id="CHAPTER_XLIII"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Markham</span> did not forget her promise. Whatever else a great lady may -forget in these days, her sick people, her hospitals, she is sure never -to forget. She went early to the lodgings, which were not far off, -hidden in one of the quaint corners of little old lanes behind -Piccadilly, where poor Gaunt was. She did not object to the desire of -Frances to go with her, nor to the anxiety she showed. The man was ill; -he had become a “case;” it was natural and right that he should be an -object of interest. For herself, so far as Lady Markham’s thoughts were -free at all, George Gaunt was much more than a case to her. A little -while ago, she would have given him a large share in her thoughts, with -a remorseful consciousness almost of a personal part in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> injury -which had been done him. But now there were so many other matters in the -foreground of her mind, that this, though it gave her one sharp twinge, -and an additional desire to do all that could be done for him, had yet -fallen into the background. Besides, things had arrived at a climax: -there was no longer any means of delivering him, no further anxiety -about his daily movements; there he lay, incapable of further action. It -was miserable, yet it was a relief. Markham and Markham’s associates had -no more power over a sick man.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham managed her affairs always in a business-like way. She sent -to inquire what was the usual hour of the doctor’s visit, and timed her -arrival so as to meet him, and receive all the information he could -give. Even the medical details of the case were not beyond Lady -Markham’s comprehension. She had a brief but very full consultation with -the medical man in the little parlour down-stairs, and promptly issued -her orders for nurses and all that could possibly be wanted for the -patient. Two nurses at once—one for the day, and the other for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> -night; ice by the cart-load; the street to be covered with hay; any -traffic that it was possible to stop, arrested. These directions Frances -heard while she sat anxious and trembling in the brougham, and watched -the doctor—a humble and undistinguished practitioner of the -neighbourhood, stirred into excited interest by the sudden appearance of -the great lady, with her liberal ideas, upon the scene—hurrying away. -Lady Markham then disappeared again into the house,—the small, trim, -shallow, London lodging-house, with a few scrubby plants in its little -balconies on the first floor, where the windows were open, but veiled by -sun-blinds. Something that sounded like incessant talking came from -these windows—a sound to which Frances paid no attention at first, -thinking it nothing but a conversation, though curiously carried on -without break or pause. But after a while the monotony of the sound gave -her a painful sensation. The street was very quiet, even without the -hay. Now and then a cart or carriage would come round the corner, taking -a short-cut from one known locality to another.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> Sometimes a street cry -would echo through the sunshine. A cart full of flowering-plants, with a -hoarse-voiced proprietor, went along in stages, stopping here and there; -but through all ran the strain of talk, monologue or conversation, never -interrupted. The sound affected the girl’s nerves, she could not tell -why. She opened the door of the brougham at last, and went into the -narrow little doorway of the house, where it became more distinct,—a -persistent dull strain of speech. All was deserted on the lower floor, -the door of the sitting-room standing open, the narrow staircase leading -to the sick man’s rooms above. Frances felt her interest, her eager -curiosity, grow at every moment. She ran lightly, quickly up-stairs. The -door of the front room, the room with the balconies, was ajar; and now -it became evident that the sound was that of a single voice, hoarse, not -always articulate, talking. Oh, the weary strain of talk, monotonous, -unending—sometimes rising faintly, sometimes falling lower, never done, -without a pause. That could not be raving, Frances said to herself. Oh, -not raving! Cries of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> excitement and passion would have been -comprehensible. But there was something more awful in the persistency of -the dull choked voice. She said to herself it was not George Gaunt’s -voice: she did not know what it was. But as she put forth all these -arguments to herself, trembling, she drew ever nearer and nearer to the -door.</p> - -<p>“Red—red—and red. Stick to my colour: my colour—my coat, Markham, and -the ribbon, her ribbon. I say red. Play, play—all play—always: -amusement: her ribbon, red. No, no; not red, black, colour death—no -colour: means nothing, all nothing. Markham, play. Gain or -lose—all—all: nothing kept back. Red, I say; and red—blood—blood -colour. Mother, mother! no, it’s black, black. No blood—no blood—no -reproach. Death—makes up all—death. Black—red—black—all death -colours, all death, death.” Then there was a little change in the voice. -“Constance?—India; no, no; not India. Anywhere—give up everything. -Amusement, did you say amusement? Don’t say so, don’t say so. Sport to -you—but death, death:—colour of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> death, black: or red—blood: all -death colours, death. Mother! don’t put on black—red ribbons like -hers—red, heart’s blood. No bullet, no—her little hand, little white -hand—and then blood-red. Constance! Play—play—nothing left—play.”</p> - -<p>Frances stood outside and shuddered. Was this, then, what they called -raving? She shrank within herself; her heart failed her; a sickness -which took the light from her eyes, made her limbs tremble and her head -swim. Oh, what sport had he been to the two—the two who were nearest to -her in the world! What had they done with him, Mrs Gaunt’s boy—the -youngest, the favourite? There swept through the girl’s mind like a -bitter wind a cry against—Fate was it, or Providence? Had they but let -alone, had each stayed in her own place, it would have been Frances who -should have met, with a fresh heart, the young man’s early fancy. They -would have met sincere and faithful, and loved each other, and all would -have been well. But there was no Frances; there was only Constance, to -throw his heart away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> She seemed to see it all as in a -picture—Constance with the red ribbons on her grey dress, with the -smile that said it was only amusement; with the little hand, the little -white hand, that gave the blow. And then all play, all play, red or -black, what did it matter? and the bullet; and the mother in mourning, -and Markham. Constance and Markham! murderers. This was the cry that -came from the bottom of the girl’s heart. Murderers!—of two; of him and -of herself; of the happiness that was justly hers, which at this moment -she claimed, and wildly asserted her right to have, in the clamour of -her angry heart. She seemed to see it all in a moment: how he was hers; -how she had given her heart to him before she ever saw him; how she -could have made him happy. She would not have shrunk from India or -anywhere. She would have made him happy. And Constance, for a jest, had -come between; for amusement, had broken his heart. And Markham, for -amusement—for amusement!—had destroyed his life; and hers as well. -There are moments when the gentle and simple mind becomes more terrible -than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> any fury. She saw it all as in a picture—with one clear sudden -revelation. And her heart rose against it with a sensation of wrong, -which was intolerable—of misery, which she could not, would not bear.</p> - -<p>She pushed open the door, scarcely knowing what she did. The bed was -pulled out from the wall, almost into the centre of the room; and -behind, while this strange husky monologue of confused passion was going -on unnoted, Lady Markham and the landlady stood together talking in calm -undertones of the treatment to be employed. Frances’ senses, all -stimulated to the highest point, took in, without meaning to do so, -every particular of the scene and every word that was said.</p> - -<p>“I can do no good by staying now,” Lady Markham was saying. “There is so -little to be done at this stage. The ice to his head, that is all till -the nurse comes. She will be here before one o’clock. And in the -meantime, you must watch him carefully, and if anything occurs, let me -know. Be very careful to tell me everything; for the slightest symptom -is important.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my lady; I’ll take great care, my lady.” The woman was overawed, -yet excited, by this unexpected visitor, who had turned the dull drama -of the lodger’s illness into a great, important, and exciting conflict, -conducted by the highest officials, against disease and death.</p> - -<p>“As I go home, I shall call at Dr——’s”—naming the great doctor of -the moment—“who will meet the other gentleman here; and after that, if -they decide on ice-baths or any other active treatment—— But there -will be time to think of that. In the meantime, if anything important -occurs, communicate with me at once, at Eaton Square.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my lady; I’ll not forget nothing. My ’usband will run in a moment -to let your ladyship know.”</p> - -<p>“That will be quite right. Keep him in the house, so that he may get -anything that is wanted.” Lady Markham gave her orders with the -liberality of a woman who had never known any limit to the possibilities -of command in this way. She went up to the bed and looked at the -patient, who lay all unconscious of inspection, continuing the hoarse -talk, to which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> she had ceased to attend, through which she had carried -on her conversation in complete calm. She touched his forehead for a -moment with the back of her ungloved hand, and shook her head. “The -temperature is very high,” she said. There was a semi-professional calm -in all she did. Now that he was under treatment, he could be considered -dispassionately as a “case.” When she turned round and saw Frances -within the door, she held up her finger. “Look at him, if you wish, for -a moment, poor fellow; but not a word,” she said. Frances, from the -passion of anguish and wrong which had seized upon her, sank altogether -into a confused hush of semi-remorseful feeling. Her mother at least was -occupied with nothing that was not for his good.</p> - -<p>“I told you that I mistrusted Markham,” she said, as they drove away. -“He did not mean any harm. But that is his life. And I think I told you -that I was afraid Constance—— Oh, my dear, a mother has a great many -hard offices to undertake in her life—to make up for things which her -children may have done—<i>en gaieté du cœur</i>, without thought.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“<i>Gaieté du cœur</i>—is that what you call it,” cried Frances, “when you -murder a man?” Her voice was choked with the passion that filled her.</p> - -<p>“Frances! Murder! You are the last one in the world from whom I should -have expected anything violent.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” cried the girl, flushed and wild, her eyes gleaming through an -angry dew of pain, “what word is there that is violent enough? He was -happy and good, and there were—there might have been—people who could -have loved him, and—and made him happy. When one comes in, one who had -no business there, one who—and takes him from—the others, and makes a -sport of him and a toy to amuse herself, and flings him broken away. It -is worse than murder—if there is anything worse than murder,” she -cried.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham could not have been more astonished if some passer-by had -presented a pistol at her head. “Frances!” she cried, and took the -girl’s hot hands into her own, endeavouring to soothe her; “you speak as -if she meant to do it—as if she had some interest in doing it. Frances, -you must be just!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“If I were just—if I had the power to be just—is there any punishment -which could be great enough? His life? But it is more than his life. It -is misery and torture and wretchedness, to him first, and then to—to -his mother—to——” She ended as a woman, as a poor little girl, -scarcely yet woman grown, must—in an agony of tears.</p> - -<p>All that a tender mother and that a kind woman could do—with due regard -to the important business in her hands, and a glance aside to see that -the coachman did not mistake Sir Joseph’s much frequented door—Lady -Markham did to quench this extraordinary passion, and bring back calm to -Frances. She succeeded so far, that the girl, hurriedly drying her -tears, retiring with shame and confusion into herself, recovered -sufficient self-command to refrain from further betrayal of her -feelings. In the midst of it all, though she was not unmoved by her -mother’s tenderness, she had a kind of fierce perception of Lady -Markham’s anxiety about Sir Joseph’s door, and her eagerness not to lose -any time in conveying her message to him, which she did rapidly in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span> -own person, putting the footman aside, corrupting somehow by sweet words -and looks the incorruptible functionary who guarded the great doctor’s -door. It was all for poor Gaunt’s sake, and done with care for him, as -anxious and urgent as if he had been her own son; and yet it was -business too, which, had Frances been in a mood to see the humour of it, -might have lighted the tension of her feelings. But she was in no mind -for humour—a thing which passion has never any eyes for or cognisance -of. “That is all quite right. He will meet the other doctor this -afternoon; and we may be now comfortable that he is in the best hands,” -Lady Markham said, with a sigh of satisfaction. She added: “I suppose, -of course, his parents will not hesitate about the expense?” in a -faintly inquiring tone; but did not insist on any reply. Nor could -Frances have given any reply. But amid the chaos of her mind, there came -a consciousness of poor Mrs Gaunt’s dismay, could she have known. She -would have watched her son night and day; and there was not one of the -little community at Bordighera—Mrs Durant, with all her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> little -pretences; Tasie, with her airs of young-ladyhood—who would not have -shared the vigil. But the two expensive nurses, with every accessory -that new-fangled science could think of—this would have frightened out -of their senses the two poor parents, who would not “hesitate about the -expense,” or any expense that involved their son’s life. In this point, -too, the different classes could not understand each other. The idea -flew through the girl’s mind with a half-despairing consciousness that -this, too, had something to do with the overwhelming revolution in her -own circumstances. A man of her own species would have understood -Constance; he would have known Markham’s reputation and ways. The pot of -iron and the pot of clay could not travel together without damage to the -weakest. This went vaguely through Frances’ mind in the middle of her -excitement, and perhaps helped to calm her. It also stilled, if it did -not calm her, to see that her mother was a little afraid of her in her -new development.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham, when she returned to the brougham after her visit to Sir -Joseph, mani<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span>festly avoided the subject. She was careful not to say -anything of Markham or of Constance. Her manner was anxious, -deprecatory, full of conciliation. She advised Frances, with much -tenderness, to go and rest a little when they got home. “I fear you have -been doing too much, my darling,” she cried, and followed her to her -room with some potion in a glass.</p> - -<p>“I am quite well,” Frances said; “there is nothing the matter with me.”</p> - -<p>“But I am sure, my dearest, that you are overdone.” Her anxious and -conciliatory looks were of themselves a tonic to Frances, and brought -her back to herself.</p> - -<p>Markham, when he appeared in the evening, showed unusual feeling too. He -was at the crisis, it seemed, of his own life, and perhaps other -sentiments had therefore an easier hold upon him. He came in looking -very downcast, with none of his usual banter in him. “Yes, I know. I -have heard all about it, bless you. What else, do you think, are those -fellows talking about? Poor beggar. Who ever thought he’d have gone down -like that in so short a time? Now, mother, the only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> thing wanting is -that you should say ‘I told you so.’ And Fan,—no, Fan can do worse; she -can tell me that she thought he was safe in my hands.”</p> - -<p>“It is not my way to say I told you so, Markham; but yet——”</p> - -<p>“You could do it, mammy, if you tried—that is well known. I’m rather -glad he is ill, poor beggar; it stops the business. But there are things -to pay, that is the worst.”</p> - -<p>“Surely, if it is to a gentleman, he will forgive him,” cried Frances, -“when he knows——”</p> - -<p>“Forgive him! Poor Gaunt would rather die. It would be as much as a -man’s life was worth to offer to—forgive another man. But how should -the child know? That’s the beauty of Society and the rules of honour, -Fan. You can forgive a man many things, but not a shilling you’ve won -from him. And how is he to mend, good life! with the thought of having -to pay up in the end?” Markham repeated this despondent speech several -times before he went gloomily away. “I had rather die straight off, and -make no fuss. But even then, he’d have to pay up, or somebody for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> him. -If I had known what I know now, I’d have eaten him sooner than have -taken him among those fellows, who have no mercy.”</p> - -<p>“Markham, if you would listen to me, you would give them up—you too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I——” he said, with his short laugh. “They can’t do much harm to -me.”</p> - -<p>“But you must change—in that as well as other things, if——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, if,” he said, with a curious grimace; and took up his hat and went -away.</p> - -<p>Thus, Frances said to herself, his momentary penitence and her mother’s -pity melted away in consideration of themselves. They could not say a -dozen words on any other subject, even such an urgent one as this, -before their attention dropped, and they relapsed into the former -question about themselves. And such a question!—Markham’s marriage, -which depended upon Nelly Winterbourn’s widowhood and the portion her -rich husband left her. Markham was an English peer, the head of a family -which had been known for centuries, which even had touched the history -of England here and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> there; yet this was the ignoble way in which he was -to take the most individual step of a man’s life. Her heart was full -almost to bursting of these questions, which had been gradually -awakening in her mind. Lady Markham, when left alone, turned always to -the consolation of her correspondence—of those letters to write which -filled up all the interstices of her other occupations. Perhaps she was -specially glad to take refuge in this assumed duty, having no desire to -enter again with her daughter into any discussion of the events of the -day. Frances withdrew into a distant corner. She took a book with her, -and did her best to read it, feeling that anything was better than to -allow herself to think, to summon up again the sound of that hoarse -broken voice running on in the feverish current of disturbed thought. -Was he still talking, talking, God help him! of death and blood and the -two colours, and her ribbon, and the misery which was all play? Oh, the -misery, causeless, unnecessary, to no good purpose, that had come merely -from this—that Constance had put herself in Frances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span>’ place,—that the -pot of iron had thrust itself in the road of the pot of clay. But she -must not think—she must not think, the girl said to herself with -feverish earnestness, and tried the book again. Finding it of no avail, -however, she put it down, and left her corner and came, in a moment of -leisure between two letters, behind her mother’s chair. “May I ask you a -question, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“As many as you please, my dear;” but Lady Markham’s face bore a -harassed look. “You know, Frances, there are some to which there is no -answer—which I can only ask with an aching heart, like yourself,” she -said.</p> - -<p>“This is a very simple one. It is, Have I any money—of my own?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham turned round on her chair and looked at her daughter. -“Money!” she said. “Are you in need of anything? Do you want money, -Frances? I shall never forgive myself, if you have felt yourself -neglected.”</p> - -<p>“It is not that. I mean—have I anything of my own?”</p> - -<p>After a little pause. “There is a—small<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> provision made for you by my -marriage settlement,” Lady Markham said.</p> - -<p>“And—once more—could, oh, could I have it, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“My dear child! you must be out of your senses. How could you have it at -your age—unless you were going to marry?”</p> - -<p>This suggestion Frances rejected with the contempt it merited. “I shall -never marry,” she said; “and there never could be a time when it would -be of so much importance to me to have it as now. Oh, tell me, is there -no way by which I could have it now?”</p> - -<p>“Sir Thomas is one of our trustees. Ask him. I do not think he will let -you have it, Frances. But perhaps you could tell him what you want, if -you will not have confidence in me. Money is just the thing that is -least easy for me. I could give you almost anything else; but money I -have not. What can you want money for, a girl like you?”</p> - -<p>Frances hesitated before she replied. “I would rather not tell you,” she -said; “for very likely you would not approve; but it is -nothing—wrong.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You are very honest, my dear. I do not suppose for a moment it is -anything wrong. Ask Sir Thomas,” Lady Markham said, with a smile. The -smile had meaning in it, which to Frances was incomprehensible. “Sir -Thomas—will refuse nothing he can in reason give—of that I am sure.”</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas, when he came in shortly afterwards, said that he would not -disturb Lady Markham. “For I see you are busy, and I have something to -say to Frances.”</p> - -<p>“Who has also something to say to you,” Lady Markham said, with a -benignant smile. Her heart gave a throb of satisfaction. It was all she -could do to restrain herself, not to tell the dear friend to whom she -was writing that there was every prospect of a <i>most happy</i> -establishment for dear Frances. And her joy was quite genuine and almost -innocent, notwithstanding all she knew.</p> - -<p>“You have written to your father?” Sir Thomas said. “My dear Frances, I -have got the most hopeful letter from him, the first I have had for -years. He asks me if I know what state Hilborough is in—if it is -habit<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span>able? That looks like coming home, don’t you think? And it is -years since he has written to me before.”</p> - -<p>Frances did not know what Hilborough was; but she disliked showing her -ignorance. And this idea was not so comforting to her as Sir Thomas -expected. She said: “I do not think he will come,” with downcast eyes.</p> - -<p>But Sir Thomas was strong in his own way of thinking. He was excited and -pleased by the letter. He told her again and again how he had desired -this—how happy it made him to think he was about to be successful at -last. “And just at the moment when all is likely to be arranged—when -Markham—— You have brought me luck, Frances. Now, tell me what it was -you wanted from me?”</p> - -<p>Frances’ spirits had fallen lower and lower while his rose. Her mind -ranged over the new possibilities with something like despair. It would -be Constance, not she, who would have done it, if he came -back—Constance, who had taken her place from her—the love that ought -to have been hers—her father—and who now, on her return, would resume -her place with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> mother too. Ah, what would Constance do? Would she -do anything for him who lay yonder in the fever, for his father and his -mother, poor old people!—anything to make up for the harm she had done? -Her heart burned in her agitated, troubled bosom. “It is nothing,” she -said—“nothing that you would do for me. I had a great wish—but I know -you would not let me do it, neither you nor my mother.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me what it is, and we shall see.”</p> - -<p>Frances felt her voice die away in her throat. “We went this morning to -see—to see——”</p> - -<p>“You mean poor Gaunt. It is a sad sight, and a sad story—too sad for a -young creature like you to be mixed up in. Is it anything for him, that -you want me to do?”</p> - -<p>She looked at him through those hot gathering tears which interrupt the -vision of women, and blind them when they most desire to see clearly. A -sense of the folly of her hope, of the impossibility of making any one -understand what was in her mind, overwhelmed her. “I cannot, I cannot,” -she cried. “Oh, I know you are very kind. I wanted my own money,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> if I -have any. But I know you will not give it me, nor think it right, nor -understand what I want to do with it.”</p> - -<p>“Have you so little trust in me?” said Sir Thomas. “I hope, if you told -me, I could understand. I cannot give you your own money, Frances; but -if it were for a good—no, I will not say that—for a sensible, for a -practicable purpose, you should have some of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Yours!” she cried, almost with indignation. “Oh no; that is not what I -mean. They are nothing—nothing to you.” She paused when she had said -this, and grew very pale. “I did not mean—— Sir Thomas, please do not -say anything to mamma.”</p> - -<p>He took her hand affectionately between his own. “I do not half -understand,” he said; “but I will keep your secret, so far as I know it, -my poor little girl.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham at her writing-table, with her back turned, went on with -her correspondence all the time in high satisfaction and pleasure, -saying to herself that it would be far better than Nelly -Winterbourn’s—that it would be the finest match of the year.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLIV" id="CHAPTER_XLIV"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> had seemed to Frances, as it appears naturally to all who have little -experience, that a man who was so ill as Captain Gaunt must get better -or get worse without any of the lingering suspense which accompanies a -less violent complaint; but, naturally, Lady Markham was wiser, and -entertained no such delusions. When it had gone on for a week, it -already seemed to Frances as if he had been ill for a year,—as if there -never had been any subject of interest in the world but the lingering -course of the malady, which waxed from less to more, from days of quiet -to hours of active delirium. The business-like nurses, always so cool -and calm, with their professional reports, gave the foolish girl a chill -to her heart, thinking, as she did, of the anxiety that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> would have -filled, not the house alone in which he lay, but all the little -community, had he been ill at home. Perhaps it was better for him that -he was not ill at home,—that the changes in his state were watched by -clear eyes, not made dim by tears or oversharp by anxiety, but which -took him very calmly, as a case interesting, no doubt, but only in a -scientific sense.</p> - -<p>After a few days, Lady Markham herself wrote to his mother a very kind -letter, full of detail, describing everything which she had done, and -how she had taken Captain Gaunt entirely into her own hands. “I thought -it better not to lose any time,” she said; “and you may assure yourself -that everything has been done for him that could have been done, had you -yourself been here. I have acted exactly as I should have done for my -own son in the circumstances;” and she proceeded to explain the -treatment, in a manner which was far too full of knowledge for poor Mrs -Gaunt’s understanding, who could scarcely read the letter for tears. The -best nurses, the best doctor, the most anxious care, Lady Markham’s own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> -personal supervision, so that nothing should be neglected. The two old -parents held their little counsel over this letter with full hearts. It -had been Mrs Gaunt’s first intention to start at once, to get to her boy -as fast as express trains could carry her; but then they began to look -at each other, to falter forth broken words about expense. Two nurses, -the best doctor in London—and then the mother’s rapid journey, the old -General left alone. How was she to do it, so anxious, so unaccustomed as -she was? They decided, with many doubts and terrors, with great -self-denial, and many a sick flutter of questionings as to which was -best, to remain. Lady Markham had promised them news every day of their -boy, and a telegram at once if there was “any change”—those awful -words, that slay the very soul. Even the poor mother decided that in -these circumstances it would be “self-indulgence” to go; and from -henceforward, the old people lived upon the post-hours,—lived in awful -anticipation of a telegram announcing a “change.” Frances was their -daily correspondent. She had gone to look at him, she always said, -though the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> nurses would not permit her to stay. He was no worse. But -till another week, there could be no change. Then she would write that -the critical day had passed—that there was still no change, and would -not be again for a week; but that he was no worse. No worse!—this was -the poor fare upon which General Gaunt and his wife lived in their -little Swiss <i>pension</i>, where it was so cheap. They gave up even their -additional candle, and economised that poor little bit of expenditure; -they gave up their wine; they made none of the little excursions which -had been their delight. Even with all these economies, how were they to -provide the expenses which were running on—the dear London lodgings, -the nurses, the boundless outgoings, which it was understood they would -not grudge? Grudge! No; not all the money in the world, if it could save -their George. But where—where were they to get this money? Whence was -it to come?</p> - -<p>This Frances knew, but no one else. And she, too, knew that the lodgings -and the nurses and the doctors were so far from being all. The poor girl -spent the days much as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> did, in agonised questions and -considerations. If she could but get her money, her own money, whatever -it was. Later, for her own use, what would it matter? She could work, -she could take care of children, it did not matter what she did: but to -save him, to save them. She had learned so much, however, about life and -the world in which she lived, as to know that, were her object known, it -would be treated as the supremest folly. Wild ideas of Jews, of finding -somebody who would lend her what she wanted, as young men do in novels, -rose in her mind, and were dismissed, and returned again. But she was -not a young man; she was only a girl, and knew not what to do, nor where -to go. Not even the very alphabet of such knowledge was hers.</p> - -<p>While this was going on, she was taken, all abstracted as she was, into -Society—to the solemn heavinesses of dinner-parties; to dances even, in -which her gravity and self-absorption were construed to mean very -different things. Lady Markham had never said a word to any one of the -idea which had sprung into her own mind full grown at sight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> of Sir -Thomas holding in fatherly kindness her little girl’s hands. She had -never said a word, oh, not a word. How such a wild and extraordinary -rumour had got about, she could not imagine. But the ways of Society and -its modes of information are inscrutable: a glance, a smile, are enough. -And what so natural as this to bring a veil of gravity over even a -<i>débutante</i> in her first season? Lucky little girl, some people said; -poor little thing, some others. No wonder she was so serious; and her -mother, that successful general—her mother, that triumphant -match-maker, radiant, in spite, people said, of the very uncomfortable -state of affairs about Markham, and the fact that, in the absence of the -executor, Nelly Winterbourn knew nothing as yet as to how she was -“left.”</p> - -<p>Thus the weeks went past in great suspense for all. Markham had -recovered, it need scarcely be said, from his fit of remorse; and he, -perhaps, was the one to whom these uncertainties were a relief rather -than an oppression. Mrs Winterbourn had retired into the country, to -wait the arrival of the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span>all—important functionary who had possession -of her husband’s will, and to pass decorously the first profundity of -her mourning. Naturally, Society knew everything about Nelly: how, under -the infliction of Sarah Winterbourn’s society, she was quite as well as -could be expected; how she was behaving herself beautifully in her -retirement, seeing nobody, doing just what it was right to do. Nelly had -always managed to retain the approval of Society, whatever she did. In -the best circles, it was now a subject of indignant remark that Sarah -Winterbourn should take it upon herself to keep watch like a dragon over -the widow. For Nelly’s prevision was right, and the widow was what the -men now called her, though women are not addicted to that form of -nomenclature. But Sarah Winterbourn was universally condemned. Now that -the poor girl had completed her time of bondage, and conducted herself -so perfectly, why could not that dragon leave her alone? Markham made no -remark upon the subject; but his mother, who understood him so well, -believed he was glad that Sarah Winterbourn should be there, making<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> all -visits unseemly. Lady Markham thought he was glad of the pause -altogether, of the impossibility of doing anything; and to be allowed to -go on without any disturbance in his usual way. She had herself made one -visit to Nelly, and reported, when she came home, that notwithstanding -the presence of Sarah, Nelly’s natural brightness was beginning to -appear, and that soon she would be as <i>espiègle</i> as ever. That was Lady -Markham’s view of the subject; and there was no doubt that she spoke -with perfect knowledge.</p> - -<p>It was very surprising, accordingly, to the ladies, when, some days -after this, Lady Markham’s butler came up-stairs to say that Mrs -Winterbourn was at the door, and had sent to inquire whether his -mistress was at home and alone before coming up-stairs. “Of course I am -at home,” said Lady Markham; “I am always at home to Mrs Winterbourn. -But to no one else, remember, while she is here.” When the man went away -with his message, Lady Markham had a moment of hesitation. “You may -stay,” she said to Frances, “as you were present before and saw her in -her trouble. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> I wonder what has brought her to town? She did not -intend to come to town till the end of the season. She must have -something to tell me. O Nelly, how are you, dear?” she cried, going -forward and taking the young widow into her arms. Nelly was in crape -from top to toe. As she had always done what was right, what people -expected from her, she continued to do so till the end. A little rim of -white was under the edge of her close black bonnet with its long veil. -Her cuffs were white and hem-stitched in the old-fashioned <i>deep</i> way. -Nothing, in short, could be more <i>deep</i> than Nelly’s costume altogether. -She was a very pattern for widows; and it was very becoming, as that -dress seldom fails to be. It would have been natural to expect in -Nelly’s countenance some consciousness of this, as well as perhaps a -something at the corners of her mouth which should show that, as Lady -Markham said, she would soon be as <i>espiègle</i> as ever. But there was -nothing of this in her face. She seemed to have stiffened with her -crape. She suffered Lady Markham’s embrace rather than returned it. She -did not take any notice of Frances. She walked across<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> the room, -sweeping with her long dress, with her long veil like an ensign of woe, -and sat down with her back to the light. But for a minute or more she -said nothing, and listened to Lady Markham’s questions without even a -movement in reply.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, my dear? Is it something you have to tell me, or -have you only got tired of the country?” Lady Markham said, with a look -of alarm beginning to appear in her face.</p> - -<p>“I am tired of the country,” said Mrs Winterbourn; “but I am also tired -of everything else, so that does not matter much. Lady Markham, I have -come to tell you a great piece of news. My trustee and Mr Winterbourn’s -executor, who has been at the other end of the world, has come home.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Nelly?” Lady Markham’s look of alarm grew more and more marked. -“You make me very anxious,” she cried. “I am sure something has happened -that you did not foresee.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing has happened—that I ought not to have foreseen. I always -wondered why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> Sarah Winterbourn stuck to me so. The will has been opened -and read, and I know how it all is now. I rushed to tell you, as you -have been so kind.”</p> - -<p>“Dear Nelly!” Lady Markham said, not knowing, in the growing -perturbation of her mind, what else to say.</p> - -<p>“Mr Winterbourn has been very liberal to me. He has left me everything -he can leave away from his heir-at-law. Nothing that is entailed, of -course; but there is not very much under the entail. They tell me I will -be one of the richest women—a wealthy widow.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Nelly, I am so very glad; but I am not surprised. Mr -Winterbourn had a great sense of justice. He could not do less for you -than that.”</p> - -<p>“But Lady Markham, you have not heard all.” It was not like Nelly -Winterbourn to speak in such measured tones. There was not the faintest -sign of the <i>espiègle</i> in her voice. Frances, roused by the astonished, -alarmed look in her mother’s face, drew a little nearer almost -involuntarily, notwithstanding her abstraction in anxieties of her own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Nelly, do you mind Frances being here?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish her to be here! It will do her good. If she is going to -do—the same as I did, she ought to know.” She made a pause again—Lady -Markham meanwhile growing pale with fright and panic, though she did not -know what there could be to fear.</p> - -<p>“There are some people who had begun to think that I was not so well -‘left’ as was expected,” she said; “but they were mistaken. I am very -well ‘left.’ I am to have the house in Grosvenor Square, and the Knoll, -and all the plate and carriages, and three parts or so of Mr -Winterbourn’s fortune—so long as I remain Mr Winterbourn’s widow. He -was, as you say, a just man.”</p> - -<p>There was a pause. But for something in the air which tingled after -Nelly’s voice had ceased, the listeners would scarcely have been -conscious that anything more than ordinary had been said. Lady Markham -said “Nelly?” in a breathless interrogative tone—alarmed by that thrill -in the air, rather than by the words, which were so simple in their -sound.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; he had a great sense of justice. So<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> long as I remain Mrs -Winterbourn, I am to have all that. It was his, and I was his, and the -property is to be kept together. Don’t you see, Lady Markham?—Sarah -knew it, and I might have known, had I thought. He had a great respect -for the name of Winterbourn—not much, perhaps, for anything else.” She -paused a little, then added: “That’s all. I wished you to know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh my dear,” cried Lady Markham, “is it possible—is it possible? -You—debarred from marrying, debarred from everything—at your age!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can do anything I please,” cried Nelly. “I can go to the bad if I -please. He does not say so long as I behave myself—only so long as I -remain the widow Winterbourn. I told you they would all call me so. -Well, they can do it! That’s what I am to be all my life—the widow -Winterbourn.”</p> - -<p>“Nelly—O Nelly,” cried Lady Markham, throwing her arms round her -visitor. “Oh, my poor child! And how can I tell—how am I to tell——?”</p> - -<p>“You can tell everybody, if you please,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> Mrs Winterbourn, freeing -herself from the clasping arms and rising up in her stiff crape. “He had -a great sense of justice. He doesn’t say I’m to wear weeds all my life. -I think I mean to come back to Grosvenor Square on Monday, and perhaps -give a ball or two, and some dinners, to celebrate—for I have come into -my fortune, don’t you see?” she said, with an unmoved face.</p> - -<p>“Hush, dear—hush! You must not talk like that,” Lady Markham said, -holding her arm.</p> - -<p>“Why not! Justice is justice, whether for him or me. I was such a fool -as to be wretched when he was dying, because—— But it appears that -there was no love lost—no love and no faith lost. He did not believe in -me, any more than I believed in him. I outwitted him when he was living, -and he outwits me when he is dead. Do you hear, Frances?—that is how -things go. If you do as I did, as I hear you are going to do—— Oh, do -it if you please; I will never interfere. But make up your mind to -this—he will have his revenge on you—or justice; it is all the same -thing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span> Good-bye, Lady Markham. I hope you will countenance me at my -first ball—for now I have come into my fortune, I mean to enjoy myself. -Don’t you think these things are rather becoming? I mean to wear them -out. They will make a sensation at my parties,” she said, and for the -first time laughed aloud.</p> - -<p>“This is just the first wounded feeling,” said Lady Markham. “O Nelly, -you must not fly in the face of Society. You have always been so good. -No, no; let us think it over. Perhaps we can find a way out of it. There -is bound to be a flaw somewhere.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye,” said Nelly. “I have not fixed on the day for my first At -Home; but the invitations will be out directly. Good-bye, Frances. You -must come—and Sir Thomas. It will be a fine lesson for Sir Thomas.” She -walked across the room to the door, and there stood for a moment, -looking back. She looked taller, almost grand in still fury and despair -with her immovable face. But as she stood there, a faint softening came -to the marble. “Tell Geoff—gently,” she said, and went away. They could -hear the soft sweep of her black<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> robes retiring down the stair, and -then the door opening, the clang of the carriage.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham had dropped into a chair in her dismay, and sat with her -hands clasped and her eyes wide open, listening to these sounds, as if -they might throw some light on the situation. The consequences which -might follow from Nelly’s freedom had been heavy on her heart; and it -was possible that by-and-by this strange news might bring the usual -comfort; but in the meantime, consternation overwhelmed her. “As long as -she remains his widow!” she said to herself in a tone of horror, as the -tension of her nerves yielded and the carriage drove away. “And how am I -to tell him—gently; how am I to tell him gently?” she cried. It was as -if a great catastrophe had overwhelmed the house.</p> - -<p>In an hour or so, however, Lady Markham recovered her energy, and began -to think whether there might be any way out of it. “I’ll tell you,” she -cried suddenly; “there is your uncle Clarendon, Frances. He is a great -lawyer. If any man can find a flaw in the will, he will do it.” She rang -the bell at once, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> ordered the carriage. “But, oh dear,” she said, -“I forgot. Lady Meliora is coming about Trotter’s Buildings, the place -in Whitechapel. I cannot go. Whatever may happen, I cannot go to-day. -But, my dear, you have never taken any part as yet; you need not stay -for this meeting: and besides, you are a favourite in Portland Place; -you are the best person to go. You can tell your uncle Clarendon—— -Stop; I will write a note,” Lady Markham cried. That was always the most -satisfactory plan in every case. She sent her daughter to get ready to -go out; and she herself dashed off in two minutes four sheets of the -clearest statement, a <i>précis</i> of the whole case. Mr Clarendon, like -most people, liked Lady Markham,—he did not share his wife’s -prejudices; and Frances was a favourite. Surely, moved by these two -influences combined, he would bestir himself and find a flaw in the -will!</p> - -<p>In less than half an hour from the time of Mrs Winterbourn’s departure, -Frances found herself alone in the brougham, going towards Portland -Place. Her mind was not absorbed in Nelly Winterbourn. She was not old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> -enough, or sufficiently used to the ways of Society, to appreciate the -tragedy in this case. Nelly’s horror at the moment of her husband’s -death she had understood; but Nelly’s tragic solemnity now struck her as -with a jarring note. Indeed, Frances had never learned to think of money -as she ought. And yet, how anxious she was about money! How her thoughts -returned, as soon as she felt herself alone and free to pursue them, to -the question which devoured her heart. It was a relief to her to be thus -free, thus alone and silent, that she might think of it. If she could -but have driven on and on for a hundred miles or so, to think of it, to -find a solution for her problem! But even a single mile was something; -for before she had got through the long line of Piccadilly, a sudden -inspiration came to her mind. The one person in the world whom she could -ask for help was the person whom she was on her way to see—her aunt -Clarendon, who was rich, with whom she was a favourite; who was on the -other side, ready to sympathise with all that belonged to the life of -Bordighera, in opposition to Eaton Square. Nelly Winter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span>bourn and her -troubles fled like shadows from Frances’ mind. To be truly -disinterested, to be always mindful of other people’s interests, it is -well to have as few as possible of one’s own.</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon received her, as always, with a sort of combative -tenderness, as if in competition for her favour with some powerful -adversary unseen. There was in her a constant readiness to outbid that -adversary, to offer more than she did, of which Frances was usually -uncomfortably conscious, but which to-day stimulated her like a cordial. -“I suppose you are being taken to all sorts of places?” she said. “I -wish I had not given up Society so much; but when the season is over, -and the fine people are all in the country, then you will see that we -have not forgotten you. Has Sir Thomas come with you, Frances? I -supposed, perhaps, you had come to tell me——”</p> - -<p>“Sir Thomas?” Frances said, with much surprise; but she was too much -occupied with concerns more interesting to ask what her aunt could mean. -“Oh, aunt Caroline,” she said, “I have come to speak to you of something -I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> am very, very much interested about.” In all sincerity, she had -forgotten the original scope of her mission, and only remembered her own -anxiety. And then she told her story—how Captain Gaunt, the son of her -old friend, the youngest, the one that was best beloved, had come to -town—how he had made friends who were not—nice—who made him play and -lose money—though he had no money.</p> - -<p>“Of course, my dear, I know—Lord Markham and his set.”</p> - -<p>At this Frances coloured high. “It was not Markham. Markham has found -out for me. It was some—fellows who had no mercy, he said.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; they are all the same set. I am very sorry that an innocent -girl like you should be in any way mixed up with such people. Whether -Lord Markham plucks the pigeon himself, or gets some of his friends to -do it——”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Caroline, now you take away my last hope; for Markham is my -brother; and I will never, never ask any one to help me who speaks so of -my brother—he is always so kind, so kind to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see what opportunity he has ever had to be kind to you,” said -Mrs Clarendon.</p> - -<p>But Frances in her disappointment would not listen. She turned away her -head, to get rid, so far as was possible, of the blinding tears—those -tears which would come in spite of her, notwithstanding all the efforts -she could make. “I had a little hope in you,” Frances said; “but now I -have none, none. My mother sees him every day; if he lives, she will -have saved his life. But I cannot ask her for what I want. I cannot ask -her for more—she has done so much. And now, you make it impossible for -me to ask you!”</p> - -<p>If Frances had studied how to move her aunt best, she could not have hit -upon a more effectual way. “My dear child,” cried Mrs Clarendon, -hurrying to her, drawing her into her arms, “what is it, what is it that -moves you so much? Of whom are you speaking? His life? Whose life is in -danger? And what is it you want? If you think I, your father’s only -sister, will do less for you than Lady Markham does——! Tell me, my -dear, tell me what is it you want?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Then Frances continued her story. How young Gaunt was ill of a -brain-fever, and raved about his losses, and the black and red, and of -his mother in mourning (with an additional ache in her heart, Frances -suppressed all mention of Constance), and how <i>she</i> understood, though -nobody else did, that the Gaunts were not rich, that even the illness -itself would tax all their resources, and that the money, the debts to -pay, would ruin them, and break their hearts. “I don’t say he has not -been wrong, aunt Caroline—oh, I suppose he has been very wrong!—but -there he is lying: and oh, how pitiful it is to hear him! and the old -General, who was so proud of him; and Mrs Gaunt, dear Mrs Gaunt, who -always was so good to me!”</p> - -<p>“Frances, my child, I am not a hard-hearted woman, though you seem to -think so,—I can understand all that. I am very, very sorry for the poor -mother; and for the young man even, who has been led astray: but I don’t -see what you can do.”</p> - -<p>“What!” cried Frances, her eyes flashing through her tears—“for their -son, who is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> same as a brother—for them, whom I have always known, -who have helped to bring me up? Oh, you don’t know how people live where -there are only a few of them,—where there is no society, if you say -that. If he had been ill there, at home, we should all have nursed him, -every one. We should have thought of nothing else. We would have cooked -for him, or gone errands, or done anything. Perhaps those ladies are -better who go to the hospitals. But to tell me that you don’t know what -I could do! Oh,” cried the girl, springing to her feet, throwing up her -hands, “if I had the money, if I had only the money, I know what I would -do!”</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon was a woman who did not spend money, who had everything -she wanted, who thought little of what wealth could procure; but she was -a Quixote in her heart, as so many women are where great things are in -question, though not in small. “Money?” she said, with a faint quiver of -alarm in her voice. “My dear, if it was anything that was feasible, -anything that was right, and you wanted it very much—the money might be -found,” she said. The position, however, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> too strange to be mastered -in a moment, and difficulties rose as she spoke. “A young man. People -might suppose—— And then Sir Thomas—what would Sir Thomas think?”</p> - -<p>“That is why I came to you; for he will not give me my own money—if I -have any money. Aunt Caroline, if you will give it me now, I will pay -you back as soon as I am of age. Oh, I don’t want to take it from you—I -want—— If everything could be paid before he is better, before he -knows—if we could hide it, so that the General and his mother should -never find out. That would be worst of all, if they were to find out—it -would break their hearts. Oh, aunt Caroline, she thinks there is no one -like him. She loves him so; more than—more than any one here loves -anybody: and to find out all that would break her heart.”</p> - -<p>Mrs Clarendon rose at this moment, and stood up with her face turned -towards the door. “I can’t tell what is the matter with me,” she said; -“I can scarcely hear what you are saying. I wonder if I am going to be -ill, or what it is. I thought just then I heard a voice. Surely there is -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span>some one at the door. I am sure I heard a voice—— Oh, a voice you -ought to know, if it was true. Frances—I will think of all that -after—just now—— He must be dead, or else he is here!”</p> - -<p>Frances, who thought of no possibility of death save to one, caught her -aunt’s arm with a cry. The great house was very still—soft carpets -everywhere—the distant sound of a closing door scarcely penetrating -from below. Yet there was something, that faint human stir which is more -subtle than sound. They stood and waited, the elder woman penetrated by -sudden excitement and alarm, she could not tell why; the girl -indifferent, yet ready for any wonder in the susceptibility of her -anxious state. As they stood, not knowing what they expected, the door -opened slowly, and there suddenly stood in the opening, like two people -in a dream—Constance, smiling, drawing after her a taller figure. -Frances, with a start of amazement, threw from her her aunt’s arm, which -she held, and calling “Father!” flung herself into Waring’s arms.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLV" id="CHAPTER_XLV"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“I <span class="smcap">found</span> him in the mood; so I thought it best to strike while the iron -was hot,” Constance said. She had settled down languidly in a favourite -corner, as if she had never been away. She had looked for the footstool -where she knew it was to be found, and arranged the cushion as she liked -it. Frances had never made herself so much at home as Constance did at -once. She looked on with calm amusement while her aunt poured out her -delight, her wonder, her satisfaction, in Waring’s ears. She did not -budge herself from her comfortable place; but she said to Frances in an -undertone: “Don’t let her go on too long. She will bore him, you know; -and then he will repent. And I don’t want him to repent.”</p> - -<p>As for Frances, she saw the ground cut away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> entirely from under her -feet, and stood sick and giddy after the first pleasure of seeing her -father was over, feeling her hopes all tumble about her. Mrs Clarendon, -who had been so near yielding, so much disposed to give her the help she -wanted, had forgotten her petition and her altogether in the unexpected -delight of seeing her brother. And here was Constance, the sight of whom -perhaps might call the sick man out of his fever, who might restore life -and everything, even happiness to him, if she would. But would she? -Frances asked herself. Most likely, she would do nothing, and there -would be no longer any room left for Frances, who was ready to do all. -She would have been more than mortal if she had not looked with a -certain bitterness at this new and wonderful aspect of affairs.</p> - -<p>“I saw mamma’s brougham at the door,” Constance said; “you must take me -home. Of course, this was the place for papa to come; but I must go -home. It would never do to let mamma think me devoid of feeling. How is -she, and Markham—and everybody? I have scarcely had any news for three -months. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> met Algy Muncastle on the boat, and he told us some -things—a great deal about Nelly Winterbourn—the widow, as they call -her—and about you.”</p> - -<p>“There could be nothing to say of me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but there was, though. What a sly little thing you are, never to -say a word! Sir Thomas.—Ah, you see I know. And I congratulate you with -all my heart, Fan. He is rolling in money, and such a good kind old man. -Why, he was a lover of mamma’s <i>dans les temps</i>. It is delightful to -think of you consoling him. And you will be as rich as a little -princess, with mamma to see that all the settlements are right.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean,” Frances said abruptly. She was so -preoccupied and so impatient, that she would not even allow herself to -inquire. She went to where her father sat talking to his sister, and -stood behind his chair, putting her hand upon his arm. He did not -perhaps care for her very much. He had aunt Caroline to think of, from -whom he had been separated so long; and Constance, no doubt, had made -him her own too, as she had made<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> everybody else her own; but still he -was all that Frances had, the nearest, the one that belonged to her -most. To touch him like this gave her a little consolation. And he -turned round and smiled at her, and put his hand upon hers. That was a -little comfort too; but it did not last long. It was time she should -return to her mother; and Constance was anxious to go, notwithstanding -her fear that her father might be bored. “I must go and see my mother, -you know, papa. It would be very disrespectful not to go. And you won’t -want me, now you have got aunt Caroline. Frances is going to drive me -home.” She said this as if it was her sister’s desire to go; but as a -matter of fact, she had taken the command at once. Frances, reluctant -beyond measure to return to the house, in which she felt she would no -longer be wanted—which was a perverse imagination, born of her -unhappiness—wretched to lose the prospect of help, which she had been -beginning to let herself believe in, was yet too shy and too miserable -to make any resistance. She remembered her mother’s note for Mr -Clarendon before she went away, and she made one last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> appeal to her -aunt. “You will not forget what we were talking about, aunt Caroline?”</p> - -<p>“Dear me,” said Mrs Clarendon, putting up her hand to her head. “What -was it, Frances? I have such a poor memory; and your father’s coming, -and all this unexpected happiness, have driven everything else away.”</p> - -<p>Frances went down-stairs with a heart so heavy that it seemed to lie -dead in her breast. Was there no help for her, then? no help for him, -the victim of Constance and of Markham? no way of softening calamity to -the old people? Her temper rose as her hopes fell. All so rich, so -abounding, but no one who would spare anything out of his superfluity, -to help the ruined and heartbroken. Oh yes, she said to herself in not -unnatural bitterness, the hospitals, yes; and Trotter’s Buildings in -Whitechapel. But for the people to whom they were bound so much more -closely, the man who had sat at their tables, whom they had received and -made miserable, nothing! oh, nothing! not a finger held out to save him. -The little countenance that had been like a summer day, so innocent and -fresh and candid, was clouded over. Pride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> prevented—pride, more -effectual than any other defence—the outburst which in other -circumstances would have relieved her heart. She sat in her corner, -withdrawn as far as possible from Constance, listening dully, making -little response. After several questions, her sister turned upon her -with a surprise which was natural too.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” she said. “You don’t talk as you used to do. Is it -town that has spoiled you? Do you think I will interfere with you? Oh, -you need not be at all afraid. I have enough of my own without meddling -with you.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I have that you could interfere with,” said Frances. -“Nothing here.”</p> - -<p>“Do you want to quarrel with me?” Constance said.</p> - -<p>“It is of no use to quarrel; there is nothing to quarrel about. I might -have thought you would interfere when you came first to Bordighera. I -had people then who seemed to belong to me. But here—you have the first -place. Why should I quarrel? You are only coming back to your own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Fan, for goodness’ sake, don’t speak in that dreadful tone. What have I -done? If you think papa likes me best, you are mistaken. And as for the -mother, don’t you know her yet? Don’t you know that she is nice to -everybody, and cares neither for you nor me?”</p> - -<p>“No,” cried Frances, raising herself bolt upright; “I don’t know that! -How dare you say it, you who are her child? Perhaps you think no one -cares—not one, though you have made an end of my home. Did you hear -about George Gaunt, what you have done to him? He is lying in a -brain-fever, raving, raving, talking for ever, day and night; and if he -dies, Markham and you will have killed him—you and Markham; but you -have been the worst. It will be murder, and you should be killed for -it!” the girl cried. Her eyes blazed upon her sister in the close -inclosure of the little brougham. “You thought he did not care, either, -perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“Fan! Good heavens! I think you must be going out of your senses,” -Constance cried.</p> - -<p>Frances was not able to say any more. She was stifled by the commotion -of her feelings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> her heart beating so wildly in her breast, her emotion -reaching the intolerable. The brougham stopped, and she sprang out and -ran into the house, hurrying up-stairs to her own room. Constance, more -surprised and disconcerted than she could have believed possible, -nevertheless came in with an air of great composure, saying a word in -passing to the astonished servant at the door. She was quite amiable -always to the people about her. She walked up-stairs, remarking, as she -passed, a pair of new vases with palms in them, which decorated the -staircase, and which she approved. She opened the drawing-room door in -her pretty, languid-stately, always leisurely way.</p> - -<p>“How are you, mamma? Frances has run up-stairs; but here am I, just come -back,” she said.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham rose from her seat with a little scream of astonishment. -“<span class="smcap">Constance!</span> It is not possible. Who would have dreamed of seeing you!” -she cried.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, it is quite possible,” said Constance, when they had kissed, -with a prolonged encounter of lips and cheeks. “Surely, you did not -think I could keep very long away?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“My darling, did you get home-sick, or mammy-sick as Markham says, after -all your philosophy?”</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see you, mamma, and looking so well. No, not home-sick, -precisely, dear mother, but penetrated with the folly of staying -<i>there</i>, where nothing was ever doing, when I might have been in the -centre of everything: which is saying much the same thing, though in -different words.”</p> - -<p>“In very different words,” said Lady Markham, resuming her seat with a -smile. “I see you have not changed at all, Con. Will you have any tea? -And did you leave—your home there—with as little ceremony as you left -me!”</p> - -<p>“May I help myself, mamma? don’t you trouble. It is very nice to see -your pretty china, instead of Frances’ old bizarre cups, which were much -too good for me. Oh, I did not leave my—home. I—brought it back with -me.”</p> - -<p>“You brought——?”</p> - -<p>“My father with me, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” Lady Markham said. She was too much astonished to say more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Perhaps it was because he got very tired of me, and thought there was -no other way of getting rid of me; perhaps because he was tired of it -himself. He came at last like a lamb. I did not really believe it till -we were on the boat, and Algy Muncastle turned up, and I introduced him -to my father. You should have seen how he stared.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Lady Markham again; and then she added faintly: “Is—is he -here?”</p> - -<p>“You mean papa? I left him at aunt Caroline’s. In the circumstances, -that seemed the best thing to do.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham leaned back in her chair; she had become very pale. One -shock after another had reduced her strength. She closed her eyes while -Constance very comfortably sipped her tea. It was not possible that she -could have dreamed it or imagined it, when, on opening her eyes again, -she saw Constance sitting by the tea-table with a plate of bread and -butter before her. “I have really,” she explained seriously, “eaten -nothing to-day.”</p> - -<p>Frances came down some time after, having bathed her eyes and smoothed -her hair. It was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span> always smooth like satin, shining in the light. She -came in, in her unobtrusive way, ashamed of herself for her outburst of -temper, and determined to be “good,” whatever might happen. She was -surprised that there was no conversation going on. Constance sat in a -chair which Frances at once recognised as having been hers from the -beginning of time, wondering at her own audacity in having sat in it, -when she did not know. Lady Markham was still leaning back in her chair. -“Oh, it’s nothing—only a little giddiness. So many strange things are -happening. Did you give your uncle Clarendon my note? I suppose Frances -told you, Con, how we have been upset to-day?”</p> - -<p>“Upset?” said Constance over her bread and butter. “I should have -thought you would have been immensely pleased. It is about Sir Thomas, I -suppose?”</p> - -<p>“About Sir Thomas! Is there any news about Sir Thomas?” said Lady -Markham, with an elaborately innocent look. “If so, it has not yet been -confided to me.” And then she proceeded to tell to her daughter the -story of Nelly Winterbourn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I should have thought that would all have been set right in the -settlements,” Constance said.</p> - -<p>“So it ought. But she had no one to see to the settlements—no one with -a real interest in her; and it was such a magnificent match.”</p> - -<p>“No better than Sir Thomas, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Sir Thomas. Is there really a story about Sir Thomas? I can only -say, if it is so, that he has never confided it to me.”</p> - -<p>“I hope no mistake will be made about the settlements in that case. And -what do you suppose Markham will do?”</p> - -<p>“What can he do? He will do nothing, Con. You know, after all, that is -the <i>rôle</i> that suits him best. Even if all had been well, unless Nelly -had asked him herself——”</p> - -<p>“Do you think she would have minded, after all this time? But I suppose -there’s an end of Nelly now,” Constance said, regretfully.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid so,” Lady Markham replied. And then recovering, she began -to tell her daughter the news—all the news of this one and the other, -which Frances had never been able to understand, which Constance -entered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> into as one to the manner born. They left the subject of Nelly -Winterbourn, and not a word was said of young Gaunt and his fever; but -apart from these subjects, everything that had happened since Constance -left England was discussed between them. They talked and smiled and -rippled over into laughter, and passed in review the thousand friends -whose little follies and freaks both knew, and skimmed across the -surface of tragedies with a consciousness, that gave piquancy to the -amusement, of the terrible depths beneath. Frances, keeping behind, not -willing to show her troubled countenance, from which the traces of tears -were not easily effaced, listened to this light talk with a wonder which -almost reached the height of awe. Her mother at least must have many -grave matters in her mind; and even on Constance, the consciousness of -having stirred up all the quiescent evils in the family history, of her -father in England, of the meeting which must take place between the -husband and wife so long parted, all by her influence, must have a -certain weight. But there they sat and talked and laughed, and shot -their little shafts of wit.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> Frances, at last feeling her heart ache too -much for further repression, and that the pleasant interchange between -her mother and sister exasperated instead of lightened her burdened -soul, left them, and sought refuge in her room, where presently she -heard their voices again as they came up-stairs to dress. Constance’s -boxes had in the meantime arrived from the railway, and the conversation -was very animated upon fashions and new adaptations and what to wear. -Then the door of Constance’s room was closed, and Lady Markham came -tapping at that of Frances. She took the girl into her arms. “Now,” she -said, “my dream is going to be realised, and I shall have my two girls, -one on each side of me. My little Frances, are you not glad?”</p> - -<p>“Mother——” the girl said, faltering, and stopped, not able to say any -more.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham kissed her tenderly, and smiled, as if she were content. -Was she content? Was the happiness, now she had it, as great as she -said? Was she able to be light-hearted with all these complications -round her? But to these questions who could give any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> answer? Presently -she went to dress, shutting the door; and, between her two girls, -retired so many hundred, so many thousand miles away—who could -tell?—into herself.</p> - -<p>In the evening there was considerable stir and commotion in the house. -Markham, warned by one of his mother’s notes, came to dinner full of -affectionate pleasure in Con’s return, and cheerful inquiries for her. -“As yet, you have lost nothing, Con. As yet, nobody has got well into -the swim. As to how the mammy will feel with two daughters to take -about, that is a mystery. If we had known, we’d have shut up little Fan -in the nursery for a year more.”</p> - -<p>“It is I that should be sent to the nursery,” said Constance. “Three -months is a long time. Algy Muncastle thought I was dead and buried. He -looked at me as if he were seeing a ghost.”</p> - -<p>“A girl might just as well be dead and buried as let half the season -slip over and never appear.”</p> - -<p>“Unless she were a widow,” said Con.</p> - -<p>“Ah! unless she were a widow, as you say. That changes the face of -affairs.” Markham<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> made a slight involuntary retreat when he received -that blow, but no one mentioned the name of Nelly Winterbourn. It was -much too serious to be taken any notice of now. In the brightness of -Lady Markham’s drawing-room, with all its softened lights, grave -subjects were only discussed <i>tête-à-tête</i>. When the company was more -than two, everything took a sportive turn. Of the two visitors, however, -who came in later, one was not at all disposed to follow this rule. Sir -Thomas said but little to Constance, though her arrival was part of the -news which had brought him here; but he held Lady Markham’s hand with an -anxious look into her eyes, and as soon as he could, drew Frances aside -to the distant corner in which she was fond of placing herself. “Do you -know he has come?” he cried.</p> - -<p>“I have seen papa, Sir Thomas, if that is what you mean.”</p> - -<p>“What else could I mean?” said Sir Thomas. “You know how I have tried -for this. What did he say? I want to know what disposition he is in. And -what disposition is <i>she</i> in? Frances, you and I have a great deal to -do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> We have the ball at our feet. There is nobody acting in both their -interests but you and I.”</p> - -<p>There was something in Frances’ eyes and in her look of mute endurance -which startled him, even in the midst of his enthusiasm. “What is the -matter?” he said. “I have not forgotten our bargain. I will do much for -you, if you will work for me. And you want something. Come, tell me what -it is?”</p> - -<p>She gave him a look of reproach. Had he, too, forgotten the sick and -miserable, the sufferer, of whom no one thought? “Sir Thomas,” she said, -“Constance has money; she has stopped at Paris to buy dresses. Oh, give -me what is my share.”</p> - -<p>“I remember now,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Then you know the only thing that any one can do for me. Oh, Sir -Thomas, if you could but give it me now.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I speak to your father?” he asked.</p> - -<p>These words Markham heard by chance, as he passed them to fetch -something his mother wanted. He returned to where she sat with a curious -look in his little twinkling eyes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> “What is Sir Thomas after? Do you -know the silly story that is about? They say that old fellow is after -Lady Markham’s daughter. It had better be put a stop to, mother. I won’t -have anything go amiss with little Fan.”</p> - -<p>“Go amiss! with Sir Thomas. There is nobody he might not marry, -Markham—not that anything has ever been said.”</p> - -<p>“Let him have anybody he pleases except little Fan. I won’t have -anything happen to Fan. She is not one that would stand it, like the -rest of us. We are old stagers; we are trained for the stake; we know -how to grin and bear it. But that little thing, she has never been -brought up to it, and it would kill her. I won’t have anything go wrong -with little Fan.”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing going wrong with Frances. You are not talking with -your usual sense, Markham. If that was coming, Frances would be a lucky -girl.”</p> - -<p>Markham looked at her with his eyes all pursed up, nearly disappearing -in the puckers round them. “Mother,” he said, “we know a girl who was a -very lucky girl, you and I. Remember Nelly Winterbourn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>It gave Lady Markham a shock to hear Nelly’s name. “O Markham, the less -we say of her the better,” she cried.</p> - -<p>There was another arrival while they talked—Claude Ramsay, with the -flower in his coat a little rubbed by the greatcoat which he had taken -off in the hall, though it was now June. “I heard you had come back,” he -said, dropping languidly into a chair by Constance. “I thought I would -come and see if it was true.”</p> - -<p>“You see it is quite true.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; and you are looking as well as possible. Everything seems to agree -with you. Do you know I was very nearly going out to that little place -in the Riviera? I got all the <i>renseignements</i>; but then I heard that it -got hot and the people went away.”</p> - -<p>“You ought to have come. Don’t you know it is at the back of the east -wind, and there are no draughts there?”</p> - -<p>“What an ideal place!” said Claude. “I shall certainly go next winter, -if you are going to be there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span>”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVI" id="CHAPTER_XLVI"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Frances</span> slept very little all night; her mind was jarred and sore almost -at every point. The day with all its strange experiences, and still more -strange suggestions, had left her in a giddy round of the unreal, in -which there seemed no ground to stand upon. Nelly Winterbourn was the -first prodigy in that round of wonders. Why, with that immovable tragic -face, had she intimated to Lady Markham the tenure upon which she held -her fortune? Why had it been received as something conclusive on all -sides? “There is an end of Nelly.” But why? And then came her mission to -her aunt, the impression that had been made on her mind—the hope that -had dawned on Frances; and then the event which swept both hope and -impression away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> and the bitter end that seemed to come to everything -in the reappearance of Constance. Was it that she was jealous of -Constance? Frances asked herself in the silence of the night, with -noiseless bitter tears. The throbbing of her heart was all pain; life -had become pain, and nothing more. Was it that she was -jealous—<i>jealous</i> of her sister? It seemed to Frances that her heart -was being wrung, pressed till the life came out of it in great drops -under some giant’s hands. She said to herself, No, no. It was only that -Constance came in her careless grace, and the place was hers, wherever -she came; and all Frances had done, or was trying to do, came to nought. -Was that jealousy? She lay awake through the long hours of the summer -night, seeing the early dawn grow blue, and then warm and lighten into -the light of day. And then all the elements of chaos round her, which -whirled and whirled and left no honest footing, came to a pause and -disappeared, and one thing real, one fact remained—George Gaunt in his -fever, lying rapt from all common life, taking no note of night or day. -Perhaps the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> tide might be turning for death or life, for this was once -more the day that might be the crisis. The other matters blended into a -phantasmagoria, of which Frances could not tell which part was false and -which true, or if anything was true; but here was reality beyond -dispute. She thought of the pale light stealing into his room, blinding -the ineffectual candles; of his weary head on the pillow growing -visible; of the long endless watch; and far away among the mountains, of -the old people waiting and praying, and wondering what news the morning -would bring them. This thought stung Frances into a keen life and -energy, and took from her all reflection upon matters so abstract as -that question whether or not she was jealous of Constance. What did it -matter? so long as he could be brought back from the gates of death and -the edge of the grave, so long as the father and mother could be saved -from that awful and murderous blow. She got up hastily long before any -one was stirring. There are moments when all our ineffectual thinkings, -and even futile efforts, end in a sudden determination that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> the thing -must be done, and revelation of how to do it. She got up with a little -tremor upon her, such as a great inventor might have when he saw at last -his way clearly, or a poet when he had caught the spark of celestial -fire. Is there any machine that was ever invented, or even any power so -divine as the right way to save a life and deliver a soul? Frances’ -little frame was all tingling, but it made her mind clear and firm. She -asked herself how she could have thought of any other but this way.</p> - -<p>It was very early in the morning when she set out. If it had not been -London, in which no dew falls, the paths would have been wet with dew; -even in London, there was a magical something in the air which breathed -of the morning, and which not all the housemaids’ brooms and tradesmen’s -carts in the world could dispel. Frances walked on in the stillness, -along the long silent line of the Park, where there was nobody save a -little early schoolmistress, or perhaps a belated man about town, -surprised by the morning, with red eyes and furtive looks, in the -overcoat<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> which hid his evening clothes, hurrying home—to break the -breadth of the sunshine, the soft morning light, which was neither too -warm nor dazzling, but warmed gently, sweetly to the heart. Her trouble -had departed from her in the resolution she had taken. She was very -grave, not knowing whether death or life, sorrow or hope, might be in -the air, but composed, because, whatever it was, it must now come, all -being done that man could do. She did not hasten, but walked slowly, -knowing how early she was, how astonished her aunt’s servants would be -to see her, unattended, walking up to the door. “I will arise and go to -my father.” Wherever these words can be said, there is peace in them, a -sense of safety at least. There are, alas! many cases in which, with -human fathers, they cannot be said; but Waring, whatever his faults -might be, had not forfeited his child’s confidence, and he would -understand. To all human aches and miseries, to be understood is the one -comfort above all others. Those to whom she had appealed before, had -been sorry; they had been astonished; they had gazed at her with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> -troubled eyes. But her father would understand. This was the chief thing -and the best. She went along under the trees, which were still fresh and -green, through the scenes which, a little while later, would be astir -with all the movements, the comedies, the tragedies, the confusions and -complications of life. But now they lay like a part of the fair silent -country, like the paths in a wood, like the glades in a park, all silent -and mute, birds in the branches, dew upon the grass—a place where Town -had abdicated, where Nature reigned.</p> - -<p>Waring awoke betimes, being accustomed to the early hours of a primitive -people. It was a curious experience to him to come down through a -closed-up and silent house, where the sunshine came in between the -chinks of the shutters, and all was as it had been in the confusion of -the night. A frightened maid-servant came before him to open the study, -which his brother-in-law Clarendon had occupied till a late hour. Traces -of the lawyer’s vigil were still apparent enough—his waste-paper basket -full of fragments; the little tray standing in the corner, which, even -when hold<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span>ing nothing more than soda-water and claret, suggests -dissipation in the morning. Waring was jarred by all this -unpreparedness. He thought with a sigh of the bookroom in the Palazzo -all open to the sweet morning air, before the sun had come round that -way; and when he stepped out upon the little iron balcony attached to -the window and looked out upon other backs of houses, all crowding -round, the recollection of the blue seas, the waving palms, the great -peaks, all carved against the brilliant sky, made him turn back in -disgust. The mean London walls of yellow brick, the narrow houses, the -little windows, all blinded with white blinds and curtains, so near that -he could almost touch them—“However, it will not be like this at -Hilborough,” he said to himself. He was no longer in the mood in which -he had left Bordighera; but yet, having left it, he was ready to -acknowledge that Bordighera was now impossible. His life there had -continued from year to year—it might have continued for ever, with -Frances ignorant of all that had gone before; but the thread of life -once broken, could be knitted again no more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> He acknowledged this to -himself; and then he found that, in acknowledging it, he had brought -himself face to face with all the gravest problems of his life. He had -held them at arm’s-length for years; but now they had to be decided, and -there was no alternative. He must meet them; he must look them in the -face. And <i>her</i>, too, he must look in the face. Life once more had come -to a point at which neither habit nor the past could help him. All over -again, as if he were a boy coming of age, it would have to be decided -what it should be.</p> - -<p>Waring was not at all surprised by the appearance of Frances fresh with -the morning air about her. It seemed quite natural to him. He had -forgotten all about the London streets, and how far it was from one -point to another. He thought she had gained much in her short absence -from him,—perhaps in learning how to act for herself, to think for -herself, which she had acquired since she left him; for he was entirely -unaware, and even quite incapable of being instructed, that Frances had -lived her little life as far apart from him, and been as independent of -him while sitting by his side<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> at Bordighera, as she could have been at -the other end of the world. But he was impressed by the steady light of -resolution, the cause of which was as yet unknown to him, which was -shining in her eyes. She told him her story at once, without the little -explanations that had been necessary to the others. When she said George -Gaunt, he knew all that there was to say. The only thing that it was -expedient to conceal was Markham’s part in the catastrophe, which was, -after all, not at all clear to Frances; and as Waring was not acquainted -with Markham’s reputation, there was no suggestion in his mind of the -name that was wanting to explain how the young officer, knowing nobody, -had found entrance into the society which had ruined him. Frances told -her tale in few words. She was magnanimous, and said nothing of -Constance on the one hand, any more than of Markham on the other. She -told her father of the condition in which the young man lay—of his -constant mutterings, so painful to hear, the Red and Black that came up, -over and over again, in his confused thoughts, the distracting burden -that awaited him if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> he ever got free of that circle of confusion and -pain—of the old people in Switzerland waiting for the daily news, not -coming to him as they wished, because of that one dread yet vulgar -difficulty which only she understood. “Mamma says, of course they would -not hesitate at the expense. Oh no, no! they would not hesitate. But how -can I make her understand? yet we know.”</p> - -<p>“How could she understand?” he said with a pale smile, which Frances -knew. “<i>She</i> has never hesitated.” It was all that jarred even upon her -excited nerves and mind. The situation was so much more clear to him -than to the others, to whom young Gaunt was a stranger. And Waring, too, -was in his nature something of a Quixote to those who took him on the -generous side. He listened—he understood; he remembered all that had -been enacted under his eyes. The young fellow had gone to London in -desperation, unsettled, and wounded by the woman to whom he had given -his love—and he had fallen into the first snare that presented itself. -It was weak, it was miserable; but it was not more than a man could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> -understand. When Frances found that at last her object was attained, the -unlikeliness that it ever should have been attained, overwhelmed her -even in the moment of victory. She clasped her arms round her father’s -arm, and laid down her head upon it, and, to his great surprise, burst -into a passion of tears. “What is the matter? What has happened? Have I -said anything to hurt you?” he cried, half touched, half vexed, not -knowing what it was, smoothing her glossy hair half tenderly, half -reluctantly, with his disengaged hand.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is nothing, nothing! It is my folly; it is—happiness. I have -tried to tell them all, and no one would understand. But one’s -father—one’s father is like no one else,” cried Frances, with her cheek -upon his sleeve.</p> - -<p>Waring was altogether penetrated by these simple words, and by the -childish action, which reminded him of the time when the little forlorn -child he had carried away with him had no one but him in the world. “My -dear,” he said, “it makes me happy that you think so. I have been rather -a failure, I fear, in most things; but if you think so, I can’t have -been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> a failure all round.” His heart grew very soft over his little -girl. He was in a new world, though it was the old one. His sister, whom -he had not seen for so long, had half disgusted him with her violent -partisanship, though his was the party she upheld so strongly. And -Constance, who had no hold of habitual union upon him, had exhibited all -her faults to his eyes. But his little girl was still his little girl, -and believed in her father. It brought a softening of all the ice and -snow about his heart.</p> - -<p>They walked together through the many streets to inquire for poor Gaunt, -and were admitted with shakings of the head and downcast looks. He had -passed a very disturbed night, though at present he seemed to sleep. The -nurse who had been up all night, and was much depressed, was afraid that -there were symptoms of a “change.” “I think the parents should be sent -for, sir,” she said, addressing herself at once to Waring. These -attendants did not mind what they said over the uneasy bed. “He don’t -know what we are saying, any more than the bed he lies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span> on. Look at him, -miss, and tell me if you don’t think there is a change?” Frances held -fast by her father’s arm. She was more diffident in his presence than -she had been before. The sufferer’s gaunt face was flushed, his lips -moved, though, in his weakness, his words were not audible. The other -nurse, who had come to relieve her colleague, and who was fresh and -unwearied, was far more hopeful. But she, too, thought that “a change” -might be approaching, and that it would be well to summon the friends. -She went down-stairs with them to talk it over a little more. “It seems -to me that he takes more notice than we are aware of,” she said. “The -ways of sick folks are that wonderful, we don’t understand, not the half -of them; seems to me that you have a kind of an influence, miss. Last -night he changed after you were here, and took me for his mamma, and -asked me what I meant, and said something about a Miss Una that was -true, and a false Jessie or something. I wonder if your name is Miss -Una, miss?” This inquiry was made while Waring was writing a telegram to -the parents. Frances,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> who was not very quick, could only wonder for a -long time who Una was and Jessie. It was not till evening, nearly twelve -hours after, that there suddenly came into her mind the false Duessa of -the poet. And then the question remained, who was Una, and who Duessa? a -question to which she could find no reply.</p> - -<p>Frances remained with her father the greater part of the day. When she -found that what she desired was to be done, there fell a strange kind of -lull into her being, which unaccountably took away her strength, so that -she scarcely felt herself able to hold up her head. She began to be -aware that she had neither slept by night nor had any peace by day, and -that a fever of the mind had been stealing upon her, a sort of -reflection of the other fever, in which her patient was enveloped as in -a living shroud. She was scarcely able to stand, and yet she could not -rest. Had she not put force upon herself, she would have been sending to -and fro all day, creeping thither on limbs that would scarcely support -her, to know how he was, or if the change had yet appeared. She had not -feared for his life before, having no tradi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span>tion of death in her mind; -but now an alarm grew upon her that any moment might see the blow fall, -and that the parents might come in vain. It was while she stood at one -of the windows of Mrs Clarendon’s gloomy drawing-room, watching for the -return of one of her messengers, that she saw her mother’s well-known -brougham drive up to the door. She turned round with a little cry of -“Mamma” to where her father was sitting, in one of the seldom used -chairs. Mrs Clarendon, who would not leave him for many minutes, was -hovering by, wearying his fastidious mind with unnecessary solicitude, -and a succession of questions which he neither could nor wished to -answer. She flung up her arms when she heard Frances’ cry. “Your mother! -Oh, has she dared! Edward, go away, and let me meet her. She will not -get much out of me.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think I am going to fly from my wife?” Waring said. He rose up -very tremulous, yet with a certain dignity. “In that case, I should not -have come here.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“But, Edward, you are not prepared. O Edward, be guided by me. If you -once get into that woman’s hands——”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” he said; “her daughter is here.” Then, with a smile: “When a -lady comes to see me, I hope I can receive her still as a gentleman -should, whoever she may be.”</p> - -<p>The door opened, and Lady Markham came in. She was very pale, yet -flushed from moment to moment. She, who had usually such perfect -self-command, betrayed her agitation by little movements, by the -clasping and unclasping of her hands, by a hurried, slightly audible -breathing. She stood for a moment without advancing, the door closing -behind her, facing the agitated group. Frances, following an instinctive -impulse, went hastily towards her mother as a maid of honour in an -emergency might hurry to take her place behind the Queen. Mrs Clarendon -on her side, with a similar impulse, drew nearer to her brother—the way -was cleared between the two, once lovers, now antagonists. The pause was -but for a moment. Lady Markham, after that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> hesitation, came forward. -She said: “Edward, I should be wanting in my duty if I did not come to -welcome you home.”</p> - -<p>“Home!” he said, with a curious smile. Then he, too, came forward a -little. “I accept your advances in the same spirit, Frances.” She was -holding out her hands to him with a little appeal, looking at him with -eyes that sank and rose again—an emotion that was restrained by her -age, by her matronly person, by the dignity of the woman, which could -not be quenched by any flood of feeling. He took her hands in his with a -strange timidity, hesitating, as if there might be something more, then -let them drop, and they stood once again apart.</p> - -<p>“I have to thank you, too,” she said, “for bringing Constance back to me -safe and well; and what is more, Edward, for this child.” She put out -her hand to Frances, and drew her close, so that the girl could feel the -agitation in her mother’s whole person, and knew that, weak as she was, -she was a support to the other, who was so much stronger. “I owe you -more thanks still for her—that she never had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> taught to think any -harm of her mother, that she came back to me as innocent and true as she -went away.”</p> - -<p>“If you found her so, Frances, it was to her own praise, rather than -mine.”</p> - -<p>“Nay,” she said with a tremulous smile, “I have not to learn now that -the father of my children was fit to be trusted with a girl’s -mind—more, perhaps, than their mother—and the world together.” She -shook off this subject, which was too germane to the whole matter, with -a little tremulous movement of her head and hands. “We must not enter on -that,” she said. “Though I am only a woman of the world, it might be too -much for me. Discussion must be for another time. But we may be -friends.”</p> - -<p>“So far as I am concerned.”</p> - -<p>“And I too, Edward. There are things even we might consult -about—without prejudice, as the lawyers say—for the children’s good.”</p> - -<p>“Whatever you wish my advice upon——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is perhaps the way to put it,” Lady Markham said, after a -pause which looked like disappointment, and with an agitated smile.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> -“Will you be so friendly, then,” she added, “as to dine at my house with -the girls and me? No one you dislike will be there. Sir Thomas, who is -in great excitement about your arrival; and perhaps Claude Ramsay, whom -Constance has come back to marry.”</p> - -<p>“Then she has settled that?”</p> - -<p>“I think so; yet no doubt she would like him to be seen by you. I hope -you will come,” she said, looking up at him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“It will be very strange,” he said, “to dine as a guest at your table.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Edward; but everything is strange. We are so much older now than -we were. We can afford, perhaps, to disagree, and yet be friends.”</p> - -<p>“I will come if it will give you any pleasure,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, it will give me pleasure.” She had been standing all the -time, not having even been offered a seat—an omission which neither he -nor she had discovered. He did it now, placing with great politeness a -chair for her; but she did not sit down.</p> - -<p>“For the first time, perhaps it is enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span>” she said. “And Caroline -thinks it more than enough. Good-bye, Edward. If you will believe me, I -am—truly glad to see you: and I hope we may be friends.”</p> - -<p>She half raised her clasped hands again. This time he took them in both -his, and leaning towards her, kissed her on the forehead. Frances felt -the tremor that ran through her mother’s frame. “Good-bye,” she said, -“till this evening.” Only the girl knew why Lady Markham hurried from -the room. She stopped in the hall below to regain her self-command and -arrange her bonnet. “It is so long since we have met,” she said, “it -upsets me. Can you wonder, Frances? The woman in the end always feels it -most. And then there are so many things to upset me just now. Constance -and Markham—say nothing of Markham; do not mention his name—and even -you——”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing about me to annoy you, mamma.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham smiled with a face that was near crying. She gave a little -tap with her finger upon Frances’ cheek, and then she hurried away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVII" id="CHAPTER_XLVII"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> dinner, it need scarcely be said, was a strange one. Except in -Constance, who was perfectly cool, and Claude, who was more concerned -about a possible draught from a window than anything else, there was -much agitation in the rest of the party. Lady Markham was nervously -cordial, anxious to talk and to make everything “go”—which, indeed, she -would have done far more effectually had she been able to retain her -usual cheerful and benign composure. But there are some things which are -scarcely possible even to the most accomplished woman of the world. How -to place the guests, even, had been a trouble to her, almost too great -to be faced. To place her husband by her side was more than she could -bear, and where else could it be appro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span>priate to place him, unless -opposite to her, where the master of the house should sit? The -difficulty was solved loosely by placing Constance there, and her father -beside her. He sat between his daughters; while Ramsay and Sir Thomas -were on either side of his wife. Under such circumstances, it was -impossible that the conversation could be other than formal, with -outbursts of somewhat conventional vivacity from Sir Thomas, supported -by anxious responses from Lady Markham. Frances took refuge in saying -nothing at all. And Waring sat like a ghost, with a smile on his face, -in which there was a sort of pathetic humour, dashed with something that -was half derision. To be sitting there at all was wonderful indeed, and -to be listening to the smalltalk of a London dinner-table, with all its -little discussions, its talk of plays and pictures and people, its -scraps of political life behind the scenes, its esoteric revelations on -all subjects, was more wonderful still. He had half forgotten it; and to -come thus at a single step into the midst of it all, and hear this -babble floating on the air which was charged with so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span> many tragic -elements, was more wonderful still. To think that they should all be -looking at each other across the flowers and the crystal, and knowing -what questions were to be solved between them, yet talking and expecting -others to talk of the new tenor and the last scandal! It seemed to the -stranger out of the wilds, who had been banished from society so long, -that it was a thing incredible, when he was thus thrown into it again. -There were allusions to many things which he did not understand. There -was something, for instance, about Nelly Winterbourn which called forth -a startling response from Lady Markham. “You must not,” she said, “say -anything about poor Nelly in this house. From my heart, I am sorry and -grieved for her; but in the circumstances, what can any one do? The -least said, the better, especially here.” The pause after this was -minute but marked, and Waring asked Constance, “Who is Nelly -Winterbourn?”</p> - -<p>“She is a young widow, papa. It was thought her husband had left her a -large fortune; but he has left it to her on the condition that she -should not marry again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Is that why she is not to be spoken of in this house?” said Waring, -growing red. This explanation had been asked and given in an undertone. -He thought it referred to the circumstances in which his own marriage -had taken place—Lady Markham being a young widow with a large jointure; -and that this was the reason why the other was not to be mentioned; and -it gave him a hot sense of offence, restrained by the politeness which -is exercised in society, but not always when the offenders are one’s -wife and children. It turned the tide of softened thoughts back upon his -heart, and increased to fierceness the derision with which he listened -to all the trifles that floated uppermost. When the ladies left the -room, he did not meet the questioning, almost timid, look that Lady -Markham threw upon him. He saw it, indeed, but he would not respond to -it. That allusion had spoiled all the rest.</p> - -<p>In the little interval after dinner, Claude Ramsay did his best to make -himself agreeable. “I am very glad to see you back, sir,” he said. “I -told Lady Markham it was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> right thing. When a girl has a father, -it’s always odd that he shouldn’t appear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you told Lady Markham that it was—the right thing?”</p> - -<p>“A coincidence, wasn’t it? when you were on your way,” said Claude, -perceiving the mistake he had made. “You know, sir,” he added with a -little hesitation, “that it has all been made up for a long time between -Constance and me.”</p> - -<p>“Yes? What has all been made up? I understand that my daughter came out -to me to——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Claude, interrupting hurriedly, “it is <i>that</i> that has all -been made up. Constance has been very nice about it,” he continued. “She -has been making a study of the Riviera, and collecting all sorts of -<i>renseignements</i>; for in most cases, it is necessary for me to winter -abroad.”</p> - -<p>“That was what she was doing then—her object, I suppose?” said Waring -with a grim smile.</p> - -<p>“Besides the pleasure of visiting you, sir,” said Claude, with what he -felt to be great<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> tact. “She seems to have done a great deal of -exploring, and she tells me she has found just the right site for the -villa—and all the <i>renseignements</i>,” he added. “To have been on the -spot, and studied the aspect, and how the winds blow, is such a great -thing; and to be near your place too,” he said politely, by an -after-thought.</p> - -<p>“Which I hope is to be your place no more, Waring,” said Sir Thomas. -“Your own place is very empty, and craving for you all the time.”</p> - -<p>“It is too fine a question to say what is my own place,” he said, with -that pale indignant smile. “Things are seldom made any clearer by an -absence of a dozen years.”</p> - -<p>“A great deal clearer—the mists blow away, and the hot fumes. Come, -Waring, say you are glad you have come home.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Claude, “you find it really too hot for summer on that -coast. What would you say was the end of the season? May? Just when -London begins to be possible, and most people have come to town.”</p> - -<p>“Is not that one of the <i>renseignements</i> Con<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span>stance has given you?” -Waring asked with a short laugh; but he made no reply to the other -questions. And then there was a little of the inevitable politics before -the gentlemen went up-stairs. Lady Markham had been threatened with what -in France is called an <i>attaque des nerfs</i>, when she reached the shelter -of the drawing-room. She was a little hysterical, hardly able to get the -better of the sobbing which assailed her. Constance stood apart, and -looked on with a little surprise. “You know, mamma,” she said -reflectively, “an effort is the only thing. With an effort, you can stop -it.”</p> - -<p>Frances was differently affected by this emotion. She, who had never -learned to be familiar, stole behind her mother’s chair and made her -breast a pillow for Lady Markham’s head,—a breast in which the heart -was beating now high, now low, with excitement and despondency. She did -not say anything; but there is sometimes comfort in a touch. It helped -Lady Markham to subdue the unwonted spasm. She held close for a moment -the arms which were over her shoulders, and she replied to Constance, -“Yes, that is true. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span> am ashamed of myself. I ought to know better—at -my age.”</p> - -<p>“It has gone off on the whole very well,” Constance said. And then she -retired to a sofa and took up a book.</p> - -<p>Lady Markham held Frances’ hand in hers for a moment or two longer, then -drew her towards her and kissed her, still without a word. They had -approached nearer to each other in that silent encounter than in all -that had passed before. Lady Markham’s heart was full of many -commotions; the past was rising up around her with all its agitating -recollections. She looked back, and saw, oh, so clearly in that pale -light which can never alter, the scenes that ought never to have been, -the words that ought never to have been said, the faults, the -mistakes—those things which were fixed there for ever, not to be -forgotten. Could they ever be forgotten? Could any postscript be put to -the finished story? Or was this strange meeting—unsought, scarcely -desired on either side, into which the separated Two, who ought to have -been One, seemed to have been driven without any will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span> of their own—was -it to be mere useless additional pain, and no more?</p> - -<p>The ladies were all very peacefully employed when the gentlemen came -up-stairs. Lady Markham turned round as usual from her writing-table to -receive them with a smile. Constance laid down her book. Frances, from -her accustomed dim corner, lifted up her eyes to watch them as they came -in. They stood in the middle of the room for a minute, and talked to -each other according to the embarrassed usage of Englishmen, and then -they distributed themselves. Sir Thomas fell to Frances’ share. He -turned to her eagerly, and took her hand and pressed it warmly. “We have -done it,” he said, in an excited whisper. “So far, all is victorious; -but still there is a great deal more to do.”</p> - -<p>“I think it is Constance that has done it,” Frances said.</p> - -<p>“She has worked for us—without meaning it—no doubt. But I am not going -to give up the credit to Constance; and there is still a great deal to -do. You must not lay down your arms, my dear. You and I, we have the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> -ball at our feet: but there is a great deal still to do.”</p> - -<p>Frances made no reply. The corner which she had chosen for herself was -almost concealed behind a screen which parted the room in two. The other -group made a picture far enough withdrawn to gain perspective. Waring -stood near his wife, who from time to time gave him a look, half -watchful, half wistful, and sometimes made a remark, to which he gave a -brief reply. His attitude and hers told a story; but it was a confused -and uncertain one, of which the end was all darkness. They were -together, but fortuitously, without any will of their own; and between -them was a gulf fixed. Which would cross it, or was it possible that it -ever could be crossed at all? The room was very silent, for the -conversation was not lively between Constance and Claude on the sofa; -and Sir Thomas was silent, watching too. All was so quiet, indeed, that -every sound was audible without; but there was no expectation of any -interruption, nobody looked for anything, there was a perfect -indifference to outside sounds. So much so, that for a moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> the -ladies were scarcely startled by the familiar noise, so constantly -heard, of Markham’s hansom drawing up at the door. It could not be -Markham; he was out of the way, disposed of till next morning. But Lady -Markham, with that presentiment which springs up most strongly when -every avenue by which harm can come seems stopped, started, then rose to -her feet with alarm. “It can’t surely be—— Oh, what has brought him -here!” she cried, and looked at Claude, to bid him, with her eyes, rush -to meet him, stop him, keep him from coming in. But Claude did not -understand her eyes.</p> - -<p>As for Waring, seeing that something had gone wrong in the programme, -but not guessing what it was, he accepted her movement as a dismissal, -and quietly joined his daughter and his friend behind the screen. The -two men got behind it altogether, showing only where their heads passed -its line; but the light was not bright in that corner, and the new-comer -was full of his own affairs. For it was Markham, who came in rapidly, -stopped by no wise agent, or suggestion of expediency. He came into the -room dressed in light morning-clothes, greenish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> grayish, yellowish, -like the colour of his sandy hair and complexion. He came in with his -face puckered up and twitching, as it did when he was excited. His -mother, Constance, Claude, sunk in the corner of the sofa, were all he -saw; and he took no notice of Claude. He crossed that little opening -amid the fashionably crowded furniture, and went and placed himself in -front of the fireplace, which was full at this season of flowers, not of -fire. From that point of vantage he greeted them with his usual laugh, -but broken and embarrassed. “Well, mother—well, Con; you thought you -were clear of me for to-night.”</p> - -<p>“I did not expect you, Markham. Is anything—has anything——?</p> - -<p>“Gone wrong?” he said. “No—I don’t know that anything has gone wrong. -That depends on how you look at it. I’ve been in the country all day.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Markham; so I know.”</p> - -<p>“But not where I was going,” he said. His laugh broke out again, quite -irrelevant and inappropriate. “I’ve seen Nelly,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Markham!” his mother cried, with a tone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> of wonder, disapproval, -indignation, such as had never been heard in her voice before, through -all that had been said and understood concerning Markham and Nelly -Winterbourn. She had sunk into her chair, but now rose again in distress -and anxiety. “Oh,” she cried, “how could you? how could you? I thought -you had some true feeling. O Markham, how unworthy of you <i>now</i> to vex -and compromise that poor girl!”</p> - -<p>He made no answer for a moment, but moistened his lips, with a sound -that seemed like a ghost of the habitual chuckle. “Yes,” he said, “I -know you made it all up that the chapter was closed <i>now</i>; but I never -said so, mother. Nelly’s where she was before, when we hadn’t the -courage to do anything. Only worse: shamed and put in bondage by that -miserable beggar’s will. And you all took it for granted that there was -an end between her and me. I was waiting to marry her when she was free -and rich, you all thought; but I wasn’t bound, to be sure, nor the sort -of man to think of it twice when I knew she would be poor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Markham! no one ever said, nobody thought——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know very well what people thought—and said too, for that -matter,” said Markham. “I hope a fellow like me knows Society well -enough for that. A pair of old stagers like Nelly and me, of course we -knew what everybody said. Well, mammy, you’re mistaken this time, that’s -all. There’s nothing to be taken for granted in this world. Nelly’s -game, and so am I. As soon as it’s what you call decent, and the crape -business done with—for she has always done her duty by him, the -wretched fellow, as everybody knows——”</p> - -<p>“Markham!” his mother cried, almost with a shriek—“why, it is ruin, -destruction. I must speak to Nelly—ruin both to her and you.”</p> - -<p>He laughed. “Or else the t’other thing—salvation, you know. Anyhow, -Nelly’s game for it, and so am I.”</p> - -<p>There suddenly glided into the light at this moment a little figure, -white, rapid, noiseless, and caught Markham’s arm in both hers. “O -Markham! O Markham!” cried Frances, “I am so glad! I never believed it; -I always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> knew it. I am so glad!” and began to cry, clinging to his arm.</p> - -<p>Markham’s puckered countenance twitched and puckered more and more. His -chuckle sounded over her half like a sob. “Look here,” he said. “Here’s -the little one approves. She’s the one to judge, the sort of still small -voice—eh, mother? Come; I’ve got far better than I deserve: I’ve got -little Fan on my side.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham wrung her hands with an impatience which partly arose from -her own better instincts. The words which she wanted would not come to -her lips. “The child, what can she know!” she cried, and could say no -more.</p> - -<p>“Stand by me, little Fan,” said Markham, holding his sister close to -him. “Mother, it’s not a small thing that could part you and me; that is -what I feel, nothing else. For the rest, we’ll take the Priory, Nelly -and I, and be very jolly upon nothing. Mother, you didn’t think in your -heart that <small>YOUR</small> son was a base little beggar, no better than -Winterbourn?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span></p><p>Lady Markham made no reply. She sank down in her chair and covered her -face with her hands. In the climax of so many emotions, she was -overwhelmed. She could not stand up against Markham: in her husband’s -presence, with everything hanging in the balance, she could say nothing. -The worldly wisdom she had learned melted away from her. Her heart was -stirred to its depths, and the conventional bonds restrained it no more. -A kind of sweet bitterness—a sense of desertion, yet hope; of secret -approval, yet opposition—disabled her altogether. One or two convulsive -sobs shook her frame. She was able to say nothing, nothing, and was -silent, covering her face with her hands.</p> - -<p>Waring had seen Markham come in with angry displeasure. He had listened -with that keen curiosity of antagonism which is almost as warm as the -interest of love, to hear what he had to say. Sir Thomas, standing by -his side, threw in a word or two to explain, seeing an opportunity in -this new development of affairs. But nothing was really altered until -Frances rose. Her father watched her with a poignant anxiety, wonder, -excitement. When she threw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> herself upon her brother’s arm, and, all -alone in her youth, gave him her approval, the effect upon the mind of -her father was very strange. He frowned and turned away, then came back -and looked again. His daughter, his little white spotless child, thrown -upon the shoulder of the young man whom he had believed he hated, his -wife’s son, who had been always in his way. It was intolerable. He must -spring forward, he thought, and pluck her away. But Markham’s stifled -cry of emotion and happiness somehow arrested Waring. He looked again, -and there was something tender, pathetic, in the group. He began to -perceive dimly how it was. Markham was making a resolution which, for a -man of his kind, was heroic; and the little sister, the child, his own -child, of his training, not of the world, had gone in her innocence and -consecrated it with her approval. The approval of little Frances! And -Markham had the heart to feel that in that approval there was something -beyond and above everything else that could be said to him. Waring, too, -like his wife, was in a condition of mind which offered no defence -against the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> touch of nature which was strong enough to reach him. -He was open not to everyday reasoning, but to the sudden prick of a keen -unhabitual feeling. A sudden impulse came upon him in this softened, -excited mood. Had he paused to think, he would have turned his back upon -that scene and hurried away, to be out of the contagion. But, -fortunately, he did not pause to think. He went forward quickly, laying -his hand upon the back of the chair in which Lady Markham sat, -struggling for calm—and confronted his old antagonist, his boy-enemy of -former times, who recognised him suddenly, with a gasp of astonishment. -“Markham,” he said, “if I understand rightly, you are acting like a true -and honourable man. Perhaps I have not done you justice, hitherto. Your -mother does not seem able to say anything. I believe in my little girl’s -instinct. If it will do you any good, you have my approval too.”</p> - -<p>Markham’s slackened arm dropped to his side, though Frances embraced it -still. His very jaw dropped in the amazement, almost consternation, of -this sudden appearance. “Sir,” he stammered, -“your—your—support<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span>—your—friendship would be all I could——” And -here his voice failed him, and he said no more.</p> - -<p>Then Waring went a step further by an unaccountable impulse, which -afterwards he could not understand. He held out one hand, still holding -with the other the back of Lady Markham’s chair. “I know what the loss -will be to your mother,” he said; “but perhaps—perhaps, if she pleases: -that may be made up too.”</p> - -<p>She removed her hands suddenly and looked up at him. There was not a -particle of colour in her cheek. The hurrying of her heart parched her -open lips. The two men clasped hands over her, and she saw them through -a mist, for a moment side by side.</p> - -<p>At this moment of extreme agitation and excitement, Lady Markham’s -butler suddenly opened the drawing-room door. He came in with that -solemnity of countenance with which, in his class, it is thought proper -to name all that is preliminary to death. “If you please, my lady,” he -said, “there’s a man below has come to say that the fever’s come to a -crisis, and that there’s a change.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“You mean Captain Gaunt,” cried Lady Markham, rising with a -half-stupefied look. She was so much worn by these divers emotions, that -she did not see where she went.</p> - -<p>“Captain Gaunt!” said Constance with a low cry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XLVIII" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Markham</span> was a woman, everybody knew, who never hesitated when she -realised a thing to be her duty, especially in all that concerned -hospitals and the sick. She appeared by George Gaunt’s bedside in the -middle of what seemed to him a terrible, long, endless night. It was not -yet midnight, indeed; but they do not reckon by hours in the darkness -through which he was drifting, through which there flashed upon his eyes -confused gleams of scenes that were like scenes upon a stage all -surrounded by darkness. The change had come. One of the nurses, the -depressed one, thought it was for death; the other, possessed by the -excitement of that great struggle, in which sometimes it appears that -one human creature can visibly help another to hold the last span of -soil on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> which human foot can stand, stood by the bed, almost carried -away by what to her was like the frenzy of battle to a soldier, watching -to see where she could strike a blow at the adversary, or drag the -champion a hair’s-breadth further on the side of victory. There appeared -to him at that moment two forms floating in the air—both white, bright, -with the light upon them, radiant as with some glory of their own to the -gaze of fever. He remembered them afterwards as if they had floated out -of the chamber, disembodied, two faces, nothing more; and then all again -was night. “He’s talked a deal about his mother, poor gentleman. He’ll -never live to see his mother,” said the melancholy attendant, shaking -her head. “Hush,” said the other under her breath. “Don’t you know we -can’t tell what he hears and what he don’t hear?” Lady Markham was of -this opinion too. She called the doleful woman with her outside the -door, and left the last battle to be fought out. Frances stood on the -other side of the bed. How she came there, why she was allowed to come, -neither she nor any one knew. She stood looking at him with an awe in -her young soul which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> silenced every other feeling. Nelly Winterbourn -had been afraid of death, of seeing or coming near it. But Frances was -not afraid. She stood, forgetting everything, with her head thrown back, -her eyes expanded, her heart dilating and swelling in her bosom. She -seemed to herself to be struggling too, gasping with his efforts for -breath, helping him—oh, if she could help him!—saying her simple -prayers involuntarily, sometimes aloud. Over and over again, in the -confusion and darkness and hurrying of the last battle, there would come -to him a glimpse of that face. It floated over him, the light all -concentrated in it—then rolling clouds and gloom.</p> - -<p>It was nearly morning when the doctor came. “Still living?”—“Alive; but -that is all,” was the brief interchange outside the door. He would have -been surprised, had he had any time for extraneous emotions, to see on -the other side of the patient’s bed, softly winnowing the air with a -large fan, a girl in evening dress, pearls gleaming upon her white neck, -standing rapt and half-unconscious in the midst of the unwonted scene. -But the doctor had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span> no time to be surprised. He went through his -examination in that silence which sickens the very heart of the -lookers-on. Then he said, briefly, “It all depends now on the strength -whether we can pull him through. The fever is gone; but he is as weak as -water. Keep him in life twelve hours longer, and he’ll do.”</p> - -<p>Twelve hours!—one whole long lingering endless summer day. Lady -Markham, with her own affairs at such a crisis, had not hesitated. She -came in now, having got a change of dress, and sent the weary nurse, who -had stood over him all night, away. Blessed be fashion, when its fads -are for angels’ work! Noiselessly into the room came with her, clean, -fresh, and cool, everything that could restore. The morning light came -softly in, the air from the open windows. Freshness and hope were in her -face. She gave her daughter a look, a smile. “He may be weak, but he has -never given in,” she said. Reinforcements upon the field of battle. In a -few hours, which were as a year, the hopeful nurse was back again -refreshed. And thus the endless day went on. Noon, and still he lived. -Markham walked about the little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> street with his pockets full of small -moneys, buying off every costermonger or wandering street vendor of -small-wares, boldly interfering with the liberty of the subject, -stopping indignant cabs, and carts half paralysed with slow -astonishment. It was scarcely necessary, for the patient’s brain was not -yet sufficiently clear to be sensitive to noises; but it was something -to do for him. A whole cycle of wonder had gone round, but there was no -time to think of it in the absorbing interest of this. Waring had -employed his wife’s son to clear off those debts, which, if the old -General ever knew of them, would add stings to sorrow—which, if the -young man mended, would be a crushing weight round his neck. Waring had -done this without a word or look that inferred that Markham was to -blame. The age of miracles had come back; but, as would happen, perhaps, -if that age did come back, no one had time or thought to give to the -prodigies, for the profounder interest which no wonder could equal, the -fight between death and life—the sudden revelation, in common life, of -all the mysteries that make humanity what it is—the love which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> made a -little worldling triumphant over every base suggestion—the pity that -carried a woman out of herself and her own complicated affairs, to stand -by another woman’s son in the last mortal crisis—the nature which -suspended life in every one of all these differing human creatures, and -half obliterated, in thought of another, the interests that were their -own.</p> - -<p>Through the dreadful night and through the endless sunshine of that day, -a June day, lavish of light and pleasure, reluctant to relinquish a -moment of its joy and triumph, the height of summer days, the old -people, the old General and his wife, the father and mother, travelled -without pause, with few words, with little hope, daring to say nothing -to each other except faint questions and calculations as to when they -could be there. When they could be there! They did not put the other -question to each other, but within themselves, repeated it without -ceasing: Would they be there before——? Would they be there in -time?—to see him once again. They scarcely breathed when the cab, -blundering along, got to the entrance of a little street, where it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> -stopped by a wild figure in a grey overcoat, which rushed at the horse -and held him back. Then the old General rose in his wrath: “Drive on, -man! drive on. Ride him down, whoever the fool is.” And then, somewhat -as those faces had appeared at the sick man’s bedside, there came at the -cab window an ugly little face, all puckers and light, half recognised -as a bringer of good tidings, half hated as an obstruction, saying: “All -right—all right. I’m here to stop noises. He’s going to pull through.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Constance next evening, when all their excitement and -emotions were softened down, “I hope you told Mrs Gaunt that I had been -there?”</p> - -<p>“My dear, Mrs Gaunt was not thinking of either you or me. Perhaps she -might be conscious of Frances; I don’t know even that. When one’s child -is dying, it does not matter to one who shows feeling. By-and-by, no -doubt, she will be grateful to us all.”</p> - -<p>“Not to me—never to me.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she has no reason, Con,” her mother said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I am sure I cannot tell you, mamma. If he had died, of course—though -even that would not have been my fault. I amused him very much for six -weeks, and then he thought I behaved very badly to him. But all the time -I felt sure that it would really do him no harm. I think it was cheap to -buy at that price all your interest and everything that has been done -for him—not to speak of the experience in life.”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham shook her head. “Our experiences in life are sometimes not -worth the price we pay for them; and to make another pay——”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Constance with a toss of her head, shaking off self-reproach -and this mild answer together. “It appears that there is some post his -father wants for him to keep him at home; and Claude will move heaven -and earth—that’s to say the Horse Guards and all the other -authorities—to get it. Mamma,” she added after a pause, “Frances will -marry him, if you don’t mind.”</p> - -<p>“Marry him!” cried Lady Markham with a shriek of alarm; “that is what -can never be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, Frances was walking back from Mrs Gaunt’s lodging, where the -poor lady, all tremulous and shaken with joy and weariness, had been -pouring into her sympathetic ears all the anguish of the waiting, now so -happily over, and weeping over the kindness of everybody—everybody was -so kind. What would have happened had not everybody been so kind? -Frances had soothed her into calm, and coming down-stairs, had met Sir -Thomas at the door with his inquiries. He looked a little grave, she -thought, somewhat preoccupied. “I am very glad,” he said, “to have the -chance of a talk with you, Frances. Are you going to walk? Then I will -see you home.”</p> - -<p>Frances looked up in his face with simple pleasure. She tripped along by -his side like a little girl, as she was. They might have been father and -daughter smiling to each other, a pretty sight as they went upon their -way. But Sir Thomas’s smile was grave. “I want to speak to you on some -serious subjects,” he said.</p> - -<p>“About mamma? Oh, don’t you think, Sir Thomas, it is coming all right?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Not about your mother. It is coming all right, thank God, better than I -ever hoped. This is about myself. Frances, give me your advice. You have -seen a great deal since you came to town. What with Nelly Winterbourn -and poor young Gaunt, and all that has happened in your own family, you -have acquired what Con calls experience in life.”</p> - -<p>Frances’ small countenance grew grave too. “I don’t think it can be true -life,” she said.</p> - -<p>He gave a little laugh, in which there was a tinge of embarrassment. -“From your experience,” he said, “tell me: would you ever advise, -Frances, a marriage between a girl like you—mind you, a good girl, that -would do her duty, not in Nelly Winterbourn’s way—and an elderly, -rather worldly man?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, no, Sir Thomas,” cried the girl; and then she paused a little, -and said to herself that perhaps she might have hurt Sir Thomas’s -feelings by so distinct an expression. She faltered a little, and added: -“It would depend, wouldn’t it, upon who they were?”</p> - -<p>“A little, perhaps,” he said. “But I am glad I have had your first -unbiassed judgment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> Now for particulars. The man is not a bad old -fellow, and would take care of her. He is rich, and would provide for -her—not like that hound Winterbourn. Oh, you need not make that -gesture, my dear, as if money meant nothing; for it means a great deal. -And the girl is as good a little thing as ever was born. Society has got -talking about it; it has been spread abroad everywhere; and perhaps if -it comes to nothing, it may do her harm. Now, with those further lights, -let me have your deliverance. And remember, it is very serious—not play -at all.”</p> - -<p>“I have not enough lights, Sir Thomas. Does she,” said Frances, with a -slight hesitation—“love him? And does he love her?”</p> - -<p>“He is very fond of her; I’ll say that for him,” said Sir Thomas -hurriedly. “Not perhaps in the boy-and-girl way. And she—well, if you -put me to it, I think she likes him, Frances. They are as friendly as -possible together. She would go to him, I believe, with any of her -little difficulties. And he has as much faith in her—as much faith as -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span>in—— I can’t put a limit to his faith in her,” he said.</p> - -<p>Frances looked up at him with the grave judicial look into which she had -been forming her soft face. “All you say, Sir Thomas, looks like a -father and child. I would do that to papa—or to you.”</p> - -<p>Here he burst, to her astonishment, into a great fit of laughter, not -without a little tremor, as of some other feeling in it. “You are a -little Daniel,” he said. “That’s quite conclusive, my dear. Oh, wise -young judge, how I do honour thee!”</p> - -<p>“But——” Frances cried, a little bewildered. Then she added: “Well, you -may laugh at me if you like. Of course, I am no judge; but if the -gentleman is so like her father, cannot she be quite happy in being fond -of him, instead of——? Oh no! Marrying is quite different—quite, -<i>quite</i> different. I feel sure she would think so, if you were to ask -her, herself,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And what about the poor old man?”</p> - -<p>“You did not say he was a poor old man; you said he was elderly, which -means——”</p> - -<p>“About my age.”</p> - -<p>“That is not an old man. And worldly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span>—which is not like you. I think, -if he is what you say, that he would like better to keep his friend; -because people can be friends, Sir Thomas, don’t you think, though one -is young and one is old?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, Frances—witness you and me.”</p> - -<p>She took his arm affectionately of her own accord and gave it a little -kind pressure. “That is just what I was thinking,” she said, with the -pleasantest smile in the world.</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas took Lady Markham aside in the evening and repeated this -conversation. “I don’t know who can have put such an absurd rumour -about,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Nor I,” said Lady Markham; “but there are rumours about every one. It -is not worth while taking any notice of them.”</p> - -<p>“But if I had thought Frances would have liked it, I should never have -hesitated a moment.”</p> - -<p>“She might not what you call like it,” said Lady Markham, dubiously; -“and yet she might——”</p> - -<p>“Be talked into it, for her good? I wonder,” said Sir Thomas, with -spirit, “whether my old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> friend, who has always been a model woman in my -eyes, thinks that would be very creditable to me?”</p> - -<p>Lady Markham gave a little conscious guilty laugh, and then, oddly -enough, which was so unlike her—twenty-four hours in a sickroom is -trying to any one—began to cry. “You flatter me with reproaches,” she -said. “Markham asks me if I expect <i>my</i> son to be base; and you ask me -how I can be so base myself, being your model woman. I am not a model -woman; I am only a woman of the world, that has been trying to do my -best for my own. And look there,” she said, drying her eyes; “I have -succeeded very well with Con. She will be quite happy in her way.”</p> - -<p>“And now,” said Sir Thomas after a pause, “dear friend, who are still my -model woman, how about your own affairs?”</p> - -<p>She blushed celestial rosy red, as if she had been a girl. “Oh,” she -said, “I am going down with Edward to Hilborough to see what it wants to -make it habitable. If it is not too damp, and we can get it put in -order—I am quite up in the sanitary part of it, you know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span>—he means to -send the Gaunts there with their son to recruit, when he is well enough. -I am so glad to be able to do something for his old neighbours. And then -we shall have time ourselves, before the season is over, to settle what -we shall do.”</p> - -<p>The reader is far too knowing in such matters not to be able to divine -how the marriages followed each other in the Waring family within the -course of that year. Young Gaunt, when he got better, confused with his -illness, soothed by the weakness of his convalescence and all the tender -cares about him, came at last to believe that the debts which had driven -him out of his senses had been nothing but a bad dream. He consulted -Markham about them, detailing his broken recollections. Markham replied -with a perfectly opaque countenance: “You must have been dreaming, old -man. Nightmares take that form the same as another. Never heard half a -word from any side about it; and you know those fellows, if you owed -them sixpence and didn’t pay, would publish it in every club in London. -It has been a bad dream. But look here,” he added; “don’t you ever go in -for that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> sort of thing again. Your head won’t stand it. I’m going to -set you the example,” he said, with his laugh. “Never—if I should live -to be a hundred,” Gaunt cried with fervour. The sensation of this -extraordinary escape, which he could not understand, the relief of -having nothing to confess to the General, nothing to bring tears from -his mother’s eyes, affected him like a miraculous interposition of God, -which no doubt it was, though he never knew how. There was another -vision which belonged to the time of his illness, but which was less -apocryphal, as it turned out—the vision of those two forms through the -mist—of one, all white, with pearls on the milky throat, which had been -somehow accompanied in his mind with a private comment that at last, -false Duessa being gone for ever, the true Una had come to him. After a -while, in the greenness of Hilborough, amid the cool shade, he learned -to fathom how that was.</p> - -<p>But were we to enter into all the processes by which Lady Markham -changed from the “That can never be!” of her first light on the subject, -to giving a reluctant consent to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span> Frances’ marriage, we should require -another volume. It may be enough to say that in after-days, Captain -Gaunt—but he was then Colonel—thought Constance a very handsome woman, -yet could not understand how any one in his senses could consider the -wife of Claude Ramsay worthy of a moment’s comparison with his own. -“Handsome, yes, no doubt,” he would say; “and so is Nelly Markham, for -that matter,—but of the earth, earthy, or of the world, worldly; -whereas Frances——”</p> - -<p>Words failed to express the difference, which was one with which words -had nothing to do.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<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. 3 -of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61444-h.htm or 61444-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61444/ - -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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