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diff --git a/old/61445-0.txt b/old/61445-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0126cc7..0000000 --- a/old/61445-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17617 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A House Divided Against Itself (Complete), 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 (Complete) - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: February 18, 2020 [EBook #61445] - -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 - Complete. - - Vol. 1 - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCLXXXVI - - - - - A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -The day was warm, and there was no shade; out of the olive woods which -they had left behind, and where all was soft coolness and freshness, -they had emerged into a piece of road widened and perfected by recent -improvements till it was as shelterless as a broad street. High walls on -one side clothed with the green clinging trails of the mesembryanthemum, -with palm-trees towering above, but throwing no shadow below; on the -other a low house or two, and more garden walls, leading in a broad -curve to the little old walled town, its campanile rising up over the -clustered roofs, in which was their home. They had fifteen minutes or -more of dazzling sunshine before them ere they could reach any point of -shelter. - -Ten minutes, or even five, would have been enough for Frances. She could -have run along, had she been alone, as like a bird as any human creature -could be, being so light and swift and young. But it was very different -with her father. He walked but slowly at the best of times; and in the -face of the sun at noon, what was to be expected of him? It was part of -the strange contrariety of fate, which was against him in whatever he -attempted, small or great, that it should be just here, in this broad, -open, unavoidable path, that he encountered one of those parties which -always made him wroth, and which usually he managed to keep clear of -with such dexterity--an English family from one of the hotels. - -Tourists from the hotels are always objectionable to residents in a -place. Even when the residents are themselves strangers--perhaps, -indeed, all the more from that fact--the chance visitors who come to -stare and gape at those scenes which the others have appropriated and -taken possession of, are insufferable. Mr Waring had lived in the old -town of Bordighera for a great number of years. He had seen the Marina -and the line of hotels on the beach created, and he had watched the -travellers arriving to take possession of them--the sick people, and the -people who were not sick. He had denounced the invasion unceasingly, and -with vehemence; he had never consented to it. The Italians about might -be complacent, thinking of the enrichment of the neighbourhood, and of -what was good for trade, as these prosaic people do; but the English -colonist on the Punto could not put up with it. And to be met here, on -his return from his walk, by an unblushing band about whom there could -be no mistake, was very hard to bear. He had to walk along exposed to -the fire of all their unabashed and curious glances, to walk slowly, to -miss none, from that of the stout mother to that of the slim governess. -In the rear of the party came the papa, a portly Saxon, of the class -which, if comparisons could be thought of in so broad and general a -sentiment, Mr Waring disliked worst of all--a big man, a rosy man, a -fat man, in large easy morning clothes, with a big white umbrella over -his head. This last member of the family came at some distance behind -the rest. He did not like the sun, though he had been persuaded to leave -England in search of it. He was very warm, moist, and in a state of -general relaxation, his tidy necktie coming loose, his gloves only half -on, his waistcoat partially unbuttoned. It was March, when no doubt a -good genuine east wind was blowing at home. At that moment this -traveller almost regretted the east wind. - -The Warings were going up-hill towards their abode: the slope was gentle -enough, yet it added to the slowness of Mr Waring’s pace. All the -English party had stared at him, as is the habit of English parties; and -indeed he and his daughter were not unworthy of a stare. But all these -gazes came with a cumulation of curiosity to widen the stare of the last -comer, who had, besides, twenty or thirty yards of vacancy in which the -indignant resident was fully exposed to his view. Little Frances, who -was English enough to stare too, though in a gentlewomanly way, saw a -change gradually come, as he gazed, over the face of the stranger. His -eyebrows rose up bushy and arched with surprise; his eyelids puckered -with the intentness of his stare; his lips dropped apart. Then he came -suddenly to a stand-still, and gasped forth the word “WARING!” in tones -of surprise to which capital letters can give but faint expression. - -Mr Waring, struck by this exclamation as by a bullet, paused too, as -with something of that inclination to turn round which is said to be -produced by a sudden hit. He put up his hand momentarily, as if to pull -down his broad-brimmed hat over his brows. But in the end he did -neither. He stood and faced the stranger with angry energy. “Well?” he -said. - -“Dear me! who could have thought of seeing you here? Let me call my -wife. She will be delighted. Mary! Why, I thought you had gone to the -East. I thought you had disappeared altogether. And so did everybody. -And what a long time it is, to be sure! You look as if you had forgotten -me.” - -“I have,” said the other, with a supercilious gaze, perusing the large -figure from top to toe. - -“Oh come, Waring! Why--Mannering; you can’t have forgotten Mannering, a -fellow that stuck by you all through. Dear, how it brings up everything, -seeing you again! Why, it must be a dozen years ago. And what have you -been doing all this time? Wandering over the face of the earth, I -suppose, in all sorts of out-of-the-way places, since nobody has ever -fallen in with you before.” - -“I am something of an invalid,” said Waring. “I fear I cannot stand in -the sun to answer so many questions. And my movements are of no -importance to any one but myself.” - -“Don’t be so misanthropical,” said the stranger in his large round -voice. “You always had a turn that way. And I don’t wonder if you are -soured--any fellow would be soured. Won’t you say a word to Mary? She’s -looking back, wondering with all her might what new acquaintance I’ve -found out here, never thinking it’s an old friend. Hillo, Mary! What’s -the matter? Don’t you want to see her? Why, man alive, don’t be so -bitter! She and I have always stuck up for you; through thick and thin, -we’ve stuck up for you. Eh! can’t stand any longer? Well, it is hot, -isn’t it? There’s no variety in this confounded climate. Come to the -hotel, then--the Victoria, down there.” - -Waring had passed his interrogator, and was already at some distance, -while the other, breathless, called after him. He ended, affronted, by -another discharge of musketry, which hit the fugitive in the rear. “I -suppose,” the indiscreet inquirer demanded, breathlessly, “that’s the -little girl?” - -Frances had followed with great but silent curiosity this strange -conversation. She had not interposed in any way, but she had stood close -by her father’s side, drinking in every word with keen ears and eyes. -She had heard and seen many strange things, but never an encounter like -this; and her eagerness to know what it meant was great; but she dared -not linger a moment after her father’s rapid movement of the hand, and -the longer stride than usual, which was all the increase of speed he was -capable of. As she had stood still by his side without a question, she -now went on, very much as if she had been a delicate little piece of -machinery of which he had touched the spring. That was not at all the -character of Frances Waring; but to judge by her movements while at her -father’s side, an outside observer might have thought so. She had never -offered any resistance to any impulse from him in her whole life; indeed -it would have seemed to her an impossibility to do so. But these -impulses concerned the outside of her life only. She went along by his -side with the movement of a swift creature restrained to the pace of a -very slow one, but making neither protest nor remark. And neither did -she ask any explanation, though she cast many a stolen glance at him as -they pursued their way. And for his part, he said nothing. The heat of -the sun, the annoyance of being thus interrupted, were enough to account -for that. - -This broad bit of sunny road which lay between them and the shelter of -their home had been made by one of those too progressive municipalities, -thirsting for English visitors and tourists in general, who fill with -hatred and horror the old residents in Italy; and after it followed a -succession of stony stairs more congenial to the locality, by which, -under old archways and through narrow alleys, you got at last to the -wider centre of the town, a broad stony piazza, under the shadow of the -Bell Tower, the characteristic campanile which was the landmark of the -place. Except on one side of the piazza, all here was in grateful shade. -Waring’s stern face softened a little when he came into these cool and -almost deserted streets: here and there was a woman at a doorway, an old -man in the deep shadow of an open shop or booth unguarded by any window, -two or three girls filling their pitchers at the well, but no intrusive -tourists or passengers of any kind to break the noonday stillness. The -pair went slowly through the little town, and emerged by another old -gateway, on the farther side, where the blue Mediterranean, with all its -wonderful shades of colour, and line after line of headland cutting down -into those ethereal tints, stretched out before them, ending in the haze -of the Ligurian mountains. The scene was enough to take away the breath -of one unaccustomed to that blaze of wonderful light, and all the -delightful accidents of those purple hills. But this pair were too -familiarly acquainted with every line to make any pause. They turned -round the sunny height from the gateway, and entered by a deep small -door sunk in the wall, which stood high like a great rampart rising from -the Punto. This was the outer wall of the palace of the lord of the -town, still called _the_ Palazzo at Bordighera. Every large house is a -palace in Italy; but the pretensions of this were well founded. The -little door by which they entered had been an opening of modern and -peaceful times, the state entrance being through a great doorway and -court on the inner side. The deep outer wall was pierced by windows, -only at the height of the second storey on the sea side, so that the -great marble stair up which Waring toiled slowly was very long and -fatiguing, as if it led to a mountaintop. He reached his rooms -breathless, and going in through antechamber and corridor, threw himself -into the depths of a large but upright chair. There were no signs of -luxury about. It was not one of those hermitages of culture and ease -which English recluses make for themselves in the most unlikely places. -It was more like a real hermitage; or, to speak more simply, it was -like, what it really was, an apartment in an old Italian house, in a -rustic castle, furnished and provided as such a place, in the possession -of its natural inhabitants, would be. - -The Palazzo was subdivided into a number of habitations, of which the -apartment of the Englishman was the most important. It was composed of a -suite of rooms facing to the sea, and commanding the entire circuit of -the sun; for the windows on one side were to the east, and at the other -the apartment ended in a large loggia, commanding the west and all the -glorious sunsets accomplished there. We Northerners, who have but a -limited enjoyment of the sun, show often a strange indifference to him -in the sites and situations of our houses; but in Italy it is well known -that where the sun does not go the doctor goes, and much more regard is -shown to the aspect of the house. - -The Warings at the worst of that genial climate had little occasion for -fire; they had but to follow the centre of light when he glided out of -one room to fling himself more abundantly into another. The Punto is -always full in the cheerful rays. It commands everything--air and sea, -and the mountains and all their thousand effects of light and shade; and -the Palazzo stands boldly out upon this the most prominent point in the -landscape, with the houses of the little town withdrawing on a dozen -different levels behind. In the warlike days when no point of vantage -which a pirate could seize upon was left undefended or assailable, it is -probable that there was no loggia from which to watch the western -illuminations. But peace has been so long on the Riviera that the loggia -too was antique, the parapet crumbling and grey. It opened from a large -room, very lofty, and with much faded decoration on the upper walls and -roof, which was the salone or drawing-room, beyond which was an -ante-room, then a sort of library, a dining-room, a succession of -bed-chambers; much space, little furniture, sunshine and air unlimited, -and a view from every window which it was worth living to be able to -look out upon night and day. This, however, at the moment of which we -write, was shut out all along the line, the green _persiani_ being -closed, and nothing open but the loggia, which was still cool and in the -shade. The rooms lay in a soft green twilight, cool and fresh; the doors -were open from one to another, affording a long vista of picturesque -glimpses. - -From where Waring had thrown himself down to rest, he looked straight -through the apartment, over the faded formality of the ante-room with -its large old chairs, which were never moved from their place, across -his own library, in which there was a glimmer of vellum binding and old -gilding, to the table with its white tablecloth, laid out for breakfast -in the eating-room. The quiet soothed him after a while, and perhaps the -evident preparations for his meal, the large and rotund flask of Chianti -which Domenico was placing on the table, the vision of another figure -behind Domenico with a delicate dish of mayonnaise in her hands. He -could distinguish that it was a mayonnaise, and his angry spirit calmed -down. Noon began to chime from the campanile, and Frances came in -without her hat and with the eagerness subdued in her eyes. “Breakfast -is ready, papa,” she said. She had that look of knowing nothing and -guessing nothing beyond what lies on the surface, which so many women -have. - -She was scarcely to be called a woman, not only because of being so -young, but of being so small, so slim, so light, with such a tiny -figure, that a stronger breeze than usual would, one could not help -thinking, blow her away. Her father was very tall, which made her tiny -size the more remarkable. She was not beautiful--few people are to the -positive degree; but she had the prettiness of youth, of round soft -contour, and peach-like skin, and clear eyes. Her hair was light brown, -her eyes dark brown, neither very remarkable; her features small and -clearly cut, as was her figure, no slovenliness or want of finish about -any line. All this pleasing exterior was very simple and easily -comprehended, and had but little to do with her, the real Frances, who -was not so easy to understand. She had two faces, although there was in -her no guile. She had the countenance she now wore, as it were for daily -use--a countenance without expression, like a sunny cheerful morning in -which there is neither care nor fear--the countenance of a girl calling -papa to breakfast, very punctual, determined that nobody should reproach -her as being half of a minute late, or having a hair or a ribbon a -hair’s-breadth out of place. That such a girl should have ever suspected -anything, feared anything--except perhaps gently that the mayonnaise was -not to papa’s taste--was beyond the range of possibilities; or that she -should be acquainted with anything in life beyond the simple routine of -regular hours and habits, the sweet and gentle bond of the ordinary, -which is the best rule of young lives. - -Frances Waring had sometimes another face. That profile of hers was not -so clearly cut for nothing; nor were her eyes so lucid only to perceive -the outside of existence. In her room, during the few minutes she spent -there, she had looked at herself in her old-fashioned dim glass, and -seen a different creature. But what that was, or how it was, must show -itself farther on. She led the way into the dining-room, the trimmest -composed little figure, all England embodied--though she scarcely -remembered England--in the self-restrained and modest toilet of a -little girl accustomed to be cared for by women well instructed in the -niceties of feminine costume; and yet she had never had any one to take -counsel with except an Italian maid-of-all-work, who loved the brightest -primitive colours, as became her race. Frances knew so few English -people that she had not even the admiration of surprise at her success. -Those she did know took it for granted that she got her pretty sober -suits, her simple unelaborate dresses, from some very excellent -dressmaker at “home,” not knowing that she did not know what home was. - -Her father followed her, as different a figure as imagination could -suggest. He was very tall, very thin, with long legs and stooping -shoulders, his hair in limp locks, his shirt-collar open, a velvet -coat--looking as entirely adapted to the locality, the conventional -right man in the right place, as she was not the conventional woman. A -gloomy look, which was habitual to him, a fretful longitudinal pucker in -his forehead, the hollow lines of ill health in his cheeks, disguised -the fact that he was, or had been, a handsome man; just as his extreme -spareness and thinness made it difficult to believe that he had also -been a very powerful one. Nor was he at all old, save in the very young -eyes of his daughter, to whom forty-five was venerable. He might have -been an artist or a poet of a misanthropical turn of mind; though, when -a man has chronic asthma, misanthropy is unnecessary to explain his look -of pain, and fatigue, and disgust with the outside world. He walked -languidly, his shoulders up to his ears, and followed Frances to the -table, and sat down with that air of dissatisfaction which takes the -comfort out of everything. Frances either was inaccessible to this kind -of discomfort, or so accustomed to it that she did not feel it. She sat -serenely opposite to him, and talked of indifferent things. - -“Don’t take the mayonnaise, if you don’t like it, papa; there is -something else coming that will perhaps be better. Mariuccia does not at -all pride herself upon her mayonnaise.” - -“Mariuccia knows very little about it; she has not even the sense to -know what she can do best.” He took a little more of the dish, partly -out of contradiction, which was the result which Frances hoped. - -“The lettuce is so crisp and young, that makes it a little better,” she -said, with the air of a connoisseur. - -“A little better is not the word; it is very good,” he said, fretfully; -then added with a slight sigh, “Everything is better for being young.” - -“Except people, I know. Why does young mean good with vegetables and -everything else, and silly only when it is applied to people?--though it -can’t be helped, I know.” - -“That is one of your metaphysical questions,” he said, with a slight -softening of his tone. “Perhaps because of human jealousy. We all like -to discredit what we haven’t got, and most people you see are no longer -young.” - -“Oh, do you think so, papa? I think there are more young people than old -people.” - -“I suppose you are right, Fan; but they don’t count for so much, in the -way of opinion at least. What has called forth these sage remarks?” - -“Only the lettuce,” she said, with a laugh. Then, after a pause, “For -instance, there were six or seven children in the party we met to-day, -and only two parents.” - -“There are seldom more than two parents, my dear.” - -She had not looked up when she made this careless little speech, and yet -there was a purpose in it, and a good deal of keen observation through -her drooped eyelashes. She received his reply with a little laugh. “I -did not mean that, papa; but that six or seven are a great deal more -than two, which of course you will laugh at me for saying. I suppose -they were all English?” - -“I suppose so. The father--if he was the father--certainly was English.” - -“And you knew him, papa?’ - -“He knew me, which is a different thing.” - -Then there was a little pause. The conversation between the father and -daughter was apt to run in broken periods. He very seldom originated -anything. When she found a subject upon which she could interest him, he -would reply, to a certain limit, and then the talk would drop. He was -himself a very silent man, requiring no outlet of conversation; and -when he refused to be interested, it was a task too hard for Frances to -lead him into speech. She on her side was full of a thousand unsatisfied -curiosities, which for the most part were buried in her own bosom. In -the meantime Domenico made the circle of the table with the new dish, -and his step and a question or two from his master were all the remarks -that accompanied the meal. Mr Waring was something of a _gourmet_, but -at the same time he was very temperate--a conjunction which is -favourable to fine eating. His table was delicately furnished with -dishes almost infinitesimal in quantity, but superlative in quality; and -he ate his dainty light repast with gravity and slowly, as a man -performs what he feels to be one of the most important functions of his -life. - -“Tell Mariuccia that a few drops from a fresh lemon would have improved -this _ragoût_--but a very fresh lemon.” - -“Yes, Excellency, _freschissimo_,” said Domenico, with solemnity. - -In the household generally, nothing was so important as the second -breakfast, except, indeed, the dinner, which was the climax of the day. -The gravity of all concerned, the little solemn movement round the -white-covered table in the still soft shade of the atmosphere, with -those green _persiani_ shutting out all the sunshine, and the brown old -walls, bare of any decoration, throwing up the group, made a curious -picture. The walls were quite bare, the floor brown and polished, with -only a square of carpet round the table; but the roof and cornices were -gilt and painted with tarnished gilding and half-obliterated pictures. -Opposite to Frances was a blurred figure of a cherub with a finger on -his lip. She looked up at this faint image as she had done a hundred -times, and was silent. He seemed to command the group, hovering over it -like a little tutelary god. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -The Warings had been settled at Bordighera almost as long as Frances -could remember. She had known no other way of living than that which -could be carried on under the painted roofs in the Palazzo, nor any -other domestic management than that of Domenico and Mariuccia. She -herself had been brought up by the latter, who had taught her to knit -stockings and to make lace of a coarse kind, and also how to spare and -save, and watch every detail of the spese--the weekly or daily -accounts--with an anxious eye. Beyond this, Frances had received very -little education: her father had taught her fitfully to read and write -after a sort; and he had taught her to draw, for which she had a little -faculty--that is to say, she had made little sketches of all the points -of view round about, which, if they were not very great in art, amused -her, and made her feel that there was something she could do. Indeed, so -far as doing went, she had a good deal of knowledge. She could mend very -neatly--so neatly, that her darn or her patch was almost an ornament. -She was indeed neat in everything, by instinct, without being taught. -The consequence was, that her life was very full of occupation, and her -time never hung heavy on her hands. At eighteen, indeed, it may be -doubted whether time ever does hang heavy on a girl’s hands. It is when -ten years or so of additional life have passed over her head, bringing -her no more important occupations than those which are pleasant and -appropriate to early youth, that she begins to feel her disabilities; -but fortunately, that is a period of existence with which at the present -moment we have nothing to do. - -Her father, who was not fifty yet, had been a young man when he came to -this strange seclusion. Why he should have chosen Bordighera, no one had -taken the trouble to inquire. He came when it was a little town on the -spur of the hill, without either hotels or tourists, or at least very -few of these articles--like many other little towns which are perched on -little platforms among the olive woods all over that lovely country. The -place had commended itself to him because it was so completely out of -the way. And then it was very cheap, simple, and primitive. He was not, -however, by any means a primitive-minded man; and when he took Domenico -and Mariuccia into his service, it was for a year or two an interest in -his life to train them to everything that was the reverse of their own -natural primitive ways. Mariuccia had a little native instinct for -cookery such as is not unusual among the Latin races, and which her -master trained into all the sophistications of a cordon bleu. And -Domenico had that lively desire to serve his padrone “hand and foot,” as -English servants say, and do everything for him, which comes natural to -an amiable Italian eager to please. Both of them had been encouraged and -trained to carry out these inclinations. Mr Waring was difficult to -please. He wanted attendance continually. He would not tolerate a speck -of dust anywhere, or any carelessness of service; but otherwise he was -not a bad master. He left them many independences, which suited them, -and never objected to that appropriation to themselves of his house as -theirs, and assertion of themselves as an important part of the family, -which is the natural result of a long service. Frances grew up -accordingly in franker intimacy with the honest couple than is usual in -English households. There was nothing they would not have done for the -Signorina--starve for her, scrape and pinch for her, die for her if need -had been; and in the meantime, while there was no need for service more -heroic, correct her, and improve her mind, and set her faults before her -with simplicity. Her faults were small, it is true, but zealous Love did -not omit to find many out. - -Mr Waring painted a little, and was disposed to call himself an artist; -and he read a great deal, or was supposed to do so, in the library, -which formed one of the set of rooms, among the old books in vellum, -which took a great deal of reading. A little old public library existing -in another little town farther up among the hills, gave him an excuse, -if it was not anything more, for a great deal of what he called work. -There were some manuscripts and a number of old editions laid up in this -curious little hermitage of learning, from which the few people who knew -him believed he was going some day to compile or collect something of -importance. The people who knew him were very few. An old clergyman, who -had been a colonial chaplain all his life, and now “took the service” in -the bare little room which served as an English church, was the chief of -his acquaintances. This gentleman had an old wife and a middle-aged -daughter, who furnished something like society for Frances. Another -associate was an old Indian officer, much battered by wounds, liver, and -disappointment, who, systematically neglected by the authorities (as he -thought), and finding himself a nobody in the home to which he had -looked forward for so many years, had retired in disgust, and built -himself a little house, surrounded with palms, which reminded him of -India, and full in the rays of the sun, which kept off his neuralgia. -He, too, had a wife, whose constant correspondence with her numerous -children occupied her mind and thoughts, and who liked Frances because -she never tired of hearing stories of those absent sons and daughters. -They saw a good deal of each other, these three resident families, and -reminded each other from time to time that there was such a thing as -society. - -In summer they disappeared--sometimes to places higher up among the -hills, sometimes to Switzerland or the Tyrol, sometimes “home.” They all -said home, though neither the Durants nor the Gaunts knew much of -England, and though they could never say enough in disparagement of its -grey skies and cold winds. But the Warings never went “home.” Frances, -who was entirely without knowledge or associations with her native -country, used the word from time to time because she heard Tasie Durant -or Mrs Gaunt do so; but her father never spoke of England, nor of any -possible return, nor of any district in England as that to which he -belonged. It escaped him at times that he had seen something of society -a dozen or fifteen years before this date; but otherwise, nothing was -known about his past life. It was not a thing that was much discussed, -for the intercourse in which he lived with his neighbours was not -intimate, nor was there any particular reason why he should enter upon -his own history; but now and then it would be remarked by one or another -that nobody knew anything of his antecedents. “What’s your county, -Waring?” General Gaunt had once asked; and the other had answered with a -languid smile, “I have no county,” without the least attempt to explain. -The old general, in spite of himself, had apologised, he did not know -why; but still no information was given. And Waring did not look like a -man who had no county. His thin long figure had an aristocratic air. He -knew about horses, and dogs, and country-gentleman sort of subjects. It -was impossible that he should turn out to be a shopkeeper’s son, or a -_bourgeois_ of any kind. However, as has been said, the English -residents did not give themselves much trouble about the matter. There -was not enough of them to get up a little parochial society, like that -which flourishes in so many English colonies, gossiping with the best, -and forging anew for themselves those chains of a small community which -everybody pretends to hate. - -In the afternoon of the day on which the encounter recorded in the -previous chapter had taken place, Frances sat in the loggia alone at her -work. She was busy with her drawing--a very elaborate study of -palm-trees, which she was making from a cluster of those trees which -were visible from where she sat. A loggia is something more than a -balcony; it is like a room with the outer wall or walls taken away. This -one was as large as the big _salone_ out of which it opened, and had -therefore room for changes of position as the sun changed. Though it -faced the west, there was always a shady corner at one end or the other. -It was the favourite place in which Frances carried on all her -occupations--where her father came to watch the sunset--where she had -tea, with that instinct of English habit and tradition which she -possessed without knowing how. Mr Waring did not much care for her tea, -except now and then in a fitful way; and Mariuccia thought it medicine. -But it pleased Frances to have the little table set out with two or -three old china cups which did not match, and a small silver teapot, -which was one of the very few articles of value in the house. Very -rarely, not once in a month, had she any occasion for these cups; but -yet, such a chance did occur at long intervals; and in the meantime, -with a pleasure not much less infantine, but much more wistful than that -with which she had played at having a tea-party seven or eight years -before, she set out her little table now. - -She was seated with her drawing materials on one table and the tea on -another, in the stillness of the afternoon, looking out upon the -mountains and the sea. No; she was doing nothing of the sort. She was -looking with all her might at the clump of palm-trees within the garden -of the villa, which lay low down at her feet between her and the sunset. -She was not indifferent to the sunset. She had an admiration, which even -the humblest art-training quickens, for the long range of coast, with -its innumerable ridges running down from the sky to the sea, in every -variety of gnarled edge, and gentle slope, and precipice; and for the -amazing blue of the water, with its ribbon-edge of paler colours, and -the deep royal purple of the broad surface, and the white sails thrown -up against it, and the white foam that turned up the edges of every -little wave. But in the meantime she was not thinking of them, nor of -the infinitely varied lines of the mountains, or the specks of towns, -each with its campanile shining in the sun, which gave character to the -scene; but of the palms on which her attention was fixed, and which, -however beautiful they sound, or even look, are apt to get very spiky in -a drawing, and so often will not “come” at all. She was full of fervour -in her work, which had got to such a pitch of impossibility that her -lips were dry and wide apart from the strain of excitement with which -she struggled with her subject, when the bell tinkled where it hung -outside upon the stairs, sending a little jar through all the Palazzo, -where bells were very uncommon; and presently Tasie Durant, pushing open -the door of the _salone_, with a breathless little “Permesso?” came out -upon the loggia in her usual state of haste, and with half-a-dozen small -books tumbling out of her hand. - -“Never mind, dear; they are only books for the Sunday-school. Don’t you -know we had twelve last Sunday? Twelve!--think!--when I have thought it -quite large and extensive to have five. I never was more pleased. I am -getting up a little library for them like they have at home. It is so -nice to have everything like they have at home.” - -“Like what?” said Frances, though she had no education. - -“Like they have--well, if you are so particular, the same as they have -at home. There were three of one family--think! Not little nobodies, but -ladies and gentlemen. It is so nice of people not just poor people, -people of education, to send their children to the Sunday-school.” - -“New people?” said Frances. - -“Yes; tourists, I suppose. You all scoff at the tourists; but I think it -is very good for the place, and so pleasant for us to see a new face -from time to time. Why should they all go to Mentone? Mentone is so -towny, quite a big place. And papa says that in his time Nice was -everything, and that nobody had ever heard of Mentone.” - -“Who are the new people, Tasie?” Frances asked. - -“They are a large family--that is all I know; not likely to settle, -more’s the pity. Oh no. Quite _well_ people, not even a delicate child,” -said Miss Durant, regretfully; “and such a nice domestic family, always -walking about together. Father and mother, and governess and six -children. They must be very well off, too, or they could not travel like -that, such a lot of them, and nurses--and I think I heard, a courier -too.” This, Miss Durant said in a tone of some emotion; for the place, -as has been said, was just beginning to be known, and the people who -came as yet were but pioneers. - -“I have seen them. I wonder who they are. My father----” said Frances; -and then stopped, and held her head on one side, to contemplate the -effect of the last touches on her drawing; but this was in reality -because it suddenly occurred to her that to publish her father’s -acquaintance with the stranger might be unwise. - -“Your father?” said Tasie. “Did he take any notice of them? I thought he -never took any notice of tourists. Haven’t you done those palms yet? -What a long time you are taking over them! Do you think you have got -the colour quite right on those stems? Nothing is so difficult to do as -palms, though they look so easy--except olives: olives are impossible. -But what were you going to say about your father? Papa says he has not -seen Mr Waring for ages. When will you come up to see us?” - -“It was only last Saturday, Tasie.” - -“----Week,” said Tasie. “Oh yes, I assure you; for I put it down in my -diary: Saturday week. You can’t quite tell how time goes, when you don’t -come to church. Without Sunday, all the days are alike. I wondered that -you were not at church last Sunday, Frances, and so did mamma.” - -“Why was it? I forget. I had a headache, I think. I never like to stay -away. But I went to church here in the village instead.” - -“O Frances, I wonder your papa lets you do that! It is much better when -you have a headache to stay at home. I am sure I don’t want to be -intolerant, but what good can it do you going there? You can’t -understand a word.” - -“Yes, indeed I do--many words. Mariuccia has shown me all the places; -and it is good to see the people all saying their prayers. They are a -great deal more in earnest than the people down at the Marina, where it -would be just as natural to dance as to pray.” - -“Ah, dance!” said Tasie, with a little sigh. “You know there is never -anything of that kind here. I suppose you never was at a dance in your -life--unless it is in summer, when you go away?” - -“I have never been at a dance in my life. I have seen a ballet, that is -all.” - -“O Frances, please don’t talk of anything so wicked! A ballet! that is -very different from nice people dancing--from dancing one’s own self -with a nice partner. However, as we never do dance here, I can’t see why -you should say that about our church. It is a pity, to be sure, that we -have no right church; but it is a lovely room, and quite suitable. If -you would only practise the harmonium a little, so as to take the music -when I am away. I never can afford to have a headache on Sunday,” Miss -Durant added, in an injured tone. - -“But, Tasie, how could I take the harmonium, when I don’t even know how -to play?” - -“I have offered to teach you, till I am tired, Frances. I wonder what -your papa thinks, if he calls it reasonable to leave you without any -accomplishments? You can draw a little, it is true; but you can’t bring -out your sketches in the drawing-room of an evening, to amuse people; -and you can always play----” - -“When you _can_ play.” - -“Yes, of course that is what I mean--when you can play. It has quite -vexed me often to think how little trouble is taken about you; for you -can’t always be young, so young as you are now. And suppose some time -you should have to go home--to your friends, you know?” - -Frances raised her head from her drawing and looked her companion in the -face. “I don’t think we have any--friends,” she said. - -“Oh, my dear, that must be nonsense!” cried Tasie. “I confess I have -never heard your papa talk of any. He never says ‘my brother,’ or ‘my -sister,’ or ‘my brother-in-law,’ as other people do--but then he is such -a very quiet man; and you must have somebody--cousins at least--you must -have cousins; nobody is without somebody,” Miss Durant said. - -“Well, I suppose we must have cousins,” said Frances. “I had not thought -of it. But I don’t see that it matters much; for if my cousins are -surprised that I can’t play, it will not hurt them--they can’t be -considered responsible for me, you know.” - -Tasie looked at her with the look of one who would say much if she -could--wistfully and kindly, yet with something of the air of mingled -importance and reluctance with which the bearer of ill news hesitates -before opening his budget. She had indeed no actual ill news to tell, -only the burden of that fact of which everybody felt Frances should be -warned--that her father was looking more delicate than ever, and that -his “friends” ought to know. She would have liked to speak, and yet she -had not courage to do so. The girl’s calm consent that probably she must -have cousins was too much for any one’s patience. She never seemed to -think that one day she might have to be dependent on these cousins; she -never seemed to think---- But after all, it was Mr Waring’s fault. It -was not poor Frances that was to blame. - -“You know how often I have said to you that you ought to play, you -ought to be able to play. Supposing you have not any gift for it, still -you might be able to do a little. You could so easily get an old piano, -and I should like to teach you. It would not be a task at all. I should -like it. I do so wish you would begin. Drawing and languages depend a -great deal upon your own taste and upon your opportunities; but every -lady ought to play.” - -Tasie (or Anastasia, but that name was too long for anybody’s patience) -was a great deal older than Frances--so much older as to justify the -hyperbole that she might be her mother; but of this fact she herself was -not aware. It may seem absurd to say so, but yet it was true. She knew, -of course, how old she was, and how young Frances was; but her faculties -were of the kind which do not perceive differences. Tasie herself was -just as she had been at Frances’ age--the girl at home, the young lady -of the house. She had the same sort of occupations: to arrange the -flowers; to play the harmonium in the little colonial chapel; to look -after the little exotic Sunday-school; to take care of papa’s surplice; -to play a little in the evenings when they “had people with them”; to -do fancy-work, and look out for such amusements as were going. It would -be cruel to say how long this condition of young-ladyhood had lasted, -especially as Tasie was a very good girl, kind, and friendly, and -simple-hearted, and thinking no evil. - -Some women chafe at the condition which keeps them still girls when they -are no longer girls; but Miss Durant had never taken it into her -consideration. She had a little more of the housekeeping to do, since -mamma had become so delicate; and she had a great deal to fill up her -time, and no leisure to think or inquire into her own position. It was -her position, and therefore the best position which any girl could have. -She had the satisfaction of being of the greatest use to her parents, -which is the thing of all others which a good child would naturally -desire. She talked to Frances without any notion of an immeasurable -distance between them, from the same level, though with a feeling that -the girl, by reason of having had no mother, poor thing, was lamentably -backward in many ways, and sadly blind, though that was natural, to the -hazard of her own position. What would become of her if Mr Waring died? -Tasie would sometimes grow quite anxious about this, declaring that she -could not sleep for thinking of it. If there were relations--as of -course there must be--she felt that they would think Frances sadly -deficient. To teach her to play was the only practical way in which she -could show her desire to benefit the girl, who, she thought, might -accept the suggestion from a girl like herself, when she might not have -done so from a more authoritative voice. - -Frances on her part accepted the suggestion with placidity, and replied -that she would think of it, and ask her father; and perhaps if she had -time---- But she did not really at all intend to learn music of Tasie. -She had no desire to know just as much as Tasie did, whose -accomplishments, as well as her age and her condition altogether, were -quite evident and clear to the young creature, whose eyes possessed the -unbiassed and distinct vision of youth. She appraised Miss Durant -exactly at her real value, as the young so constantly do, even when -they are quite submissive to the little conventional fables of life, and -never think of asserting their superior knowledge; but the conversation -was suggestive, and beguiled her mind into many new channels of thought. -The cousins unknown--should she ever be brought into intercourse with -them, and enter perhaps a kind of other world through their means--would -they think it strange that she knew so little, and could not play the -piano? Who were they? These thoughts circled vaguely in her mind through -all Tasie’s talk, and kept flitting out and in of her brain, even when -she removed to the tea-table and poured out some tea. Tasie always -admired the cups. She cried, “This is a new one, Frances. Oh, how lucky -you are! What pretty bits you have picked up!” with all the ardour of a -collector. And then she began to talk of the old Savona pots, which were -to be had so cheap, quite cheap, but which, she heard at home, were so -much thought of. - -Frances did not pay much attention to the discourse about the Savona -pots; she went on with her thoughts about the cousins, and when Miss -Durant went away, gave herself up entirely to those speculations. What -sort of people would they be? Where would they live? And then there -recurred to her mind the meeting of the morning, and what the stranger -said who knew her father. It was almost the first time she had ever seen -him meet any one whom he knew, except the acquaintances of recent times, -with whom she had made acquaintance, as he did. But the stranger of the -morning evidently knew about him in a period unknown to Frances. She had -made a slight and cautious attempt to find out something about him at -breakfast, but it had not been successful. She wondered whether she -would have courage to ask her father now in so many words who he was and -what he meant. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -As it turned out, Frances had not the courage. Mr Waring strolled into -the loggia shortly after Miss Durant had left her. He smiled when he -heard of her visit, and asked what news she had brought. Tasie was the -recognised channel for news, and seldom appeared without leaving some -little story behind her. - -“I don’t think she had any news to-day, except that there had been a -great many at the Sunday-school last Sunday. Fancy, papa, twelve -children! She is quite excited about it.” - -“That is a triumph,” said Mr Waring, with a laugh. He stretched out his -long limbs from the low basket-chair in which he had placed himself. He -had relaxed a little altogether from the tension of the morning, feeling -himself secure and at his ease in his own house, where no one could -intrude upon him or call up ghosts of the past. The air was beyond -expression sweet and tranquillising, the sun going down in a mist of -glory behind the endless peaks and ridges that stretched away towards -the west, the sea lapping the shore with a soft cadence that was more -imagined than heard on the heights of the Punto, but yet added another -harmony to the scene. Near at hand a faint wind rustled the long leaves -of the palm-trees, and the pale olive woods lent a softness to the -landscape, tempering its radiance. Such a scene fills up the weary mind, -and has the blessed quality of arresting thought. It was good for the -breathing too--or at least so this invalid thought--and he was more -amiable than usual, with no harshness in voice or temper to introduce a -discord. “I am glad she was pleased,” he said. “Tasie is a good girl, -though not perhaps so much of a girl as she thinks. Why she goes in for -a Sunday-school where none is wanted, I can’t tell; but anyhow, I am -glad she is pleased. Where did they come from, the twelve children? Poor -little beggars, how sick of it they must have been!” - -“A number of them belonged to that English family, papa----” - -“I suppose they must all belong to English families,” he said, calmly; -“the natives are not such fools.” - -“But, papa, I mean--the people we met--the people you knew.” - -He made no reply for a few minutes, and then he said calmly, “What an -ass the man must be, not only to travel with children, but to send them -to poor Tasie’s Sunday-school! You must do me the justice, Fan, to -acknowledge that I never attempted to treat you in that way.” - -“No; but, papa--perhaps the gentleman is a very religious man.” - -“And you don’t think I am? Well, perhaps I laid myself open to such a -retort.” - -“O papa!” Frances cried, with tears starting to her eyes, “you know I -could not mean that.” - -“If you take religion as meaning a life by rule, which is its true -meaning, you were right enough, my dear. That is what I never could do. -It might have been better for me if I had been more capable of it. It is -always better to put one’s self in harmony with received notions and -the prejudices of society. Tasie would not have her Sunday-school but -for that. It is the right thing. I think you have a leaning towards the -right thing, my little girl, yourself.” - -“I don’t like to be particular, papa, if that is what you mean.” - -“Always keep to that,” her father said, with a smile. And then he opened -the book which he had been holding all this time in his hand. Such a -thing had happened, when Frances was in high spirits and very -courageous, as that she had pursued him even into his book; but it was a -very rare exercise of valour, and to-day she shrank from it. If she only -had the courage! But she had not the courage. She had given up her -drawing, for the sun no longer shone on the group of palms. She had no -book, and indeed at any time was not much given to reading, except when -a happy chance threw a novel into her hands. She watched the sun go down -by imperceptible degrees, yet not slowly, behind the mountains. When he -had quite disappeared, the landscape changed too; the air, as the -Italians say, grew brown; a little momentary chill breathed out of the -sky. It is always depressing to a solitary watcher when this change -takes place. - -Frances was not apt to be depressed, but for the moment she felt lonely -and dull, and a great sense of monotony took hold upon her. It was like -this every night; it would be like this, so far as she knew, every night -to come, until perhaps she grew old, like Tasie, without becoming aware -that she had ceased to be a girl. It was not a cheering prospect. And -when there is any darkness or mystery surrounding one’s life, these are -just the circumstances to quicken curiosity, and turn it into something -graver, into an anxious desire to know. Frances did not know positively -that there was a mystery. She had no reason to think there was, she said -to herself. Her father preferred to live easily on the Riviera, instead -of living in a way that would trouble him at home. Perhaps the gentleman -they had met was a bore, and that was why Mr Waring avoided all mention -of him. He frequently thought people were bores, with whom Frances was -very well satisfied. Why should she think any more of it? Oh, how she -wished she had the courage to ask plainly and boldly, Who are we? Where -do we come from? Have we any friends? But she had not the courage. She -looked towards him, and trembled, imagining within herself what would be -the consequence if she interrupted his reading, plucked him out of the -quietude of the hour and of his book, and demanded an explanation--when -very likely there was no explanation! when, in all probability, -everything was quite simple, if she only knew. - -The evening passed as evenings generally did pass in the Palazzo. Mr -Waring talked a little at dinner quite pleasantly, and smoked a -cigarette in the loggia afterwards in great good-humour, telling Frances -various little stories of people he had known. This was a sign of high -satisfaction on his part, and very agreeable to her, and no doubt he was -entirely unaware of the perplexity in her mind and the questions she was -so desirous of asking. The air was peculiarly soft that evening, and he -sat in the loggia till the young moon set, with an overcoat on his -shoulders and a rug on his knees, sometimes talking, sometimes -silent--in either way a very agreeable companion. Frances had never -been cooped up in streets, or exposed to the chill of an English spring; -so she had not that keen sense of contrast which doubles the enjoyment -of a heavenly evening in such a heavenly locality. It was all quite -natural, common, and everyday to her; but no one could be indifferent to -the sheen of the young moon, to the soft circling of the darkness, and -the reflections on the sea. It was all very lovely, and yet there was -something wanting. What was wanting? She thought it was knowledge, -acquaintance with her own position, and relief from this strange -bewildering sensation of being cut off from the race altogether, which -had risen within her mind so quickly and with so little cause. - -But many beside Frances have felt the wistful call for happiness more -complete, which comes in the soft darkening of a summer night; and -probably it was not explanation, but something else, more common to -human nature, that she wanted. The voices of the peaceful people -outside, the old men and women who came out to sit on the benches upon -the Punto, or on the stone seat under the wall of the Palazzo, and -compare their experiences, and enjoy the cool of the evening, sounded -pleasantly from below. There was a softened din of children playing, and -now and then a sudden rush of voices, when the young men who were -strolling about got excited in conversation, and stopped short in their -walk for the delivery of some sentence more emphatic than the rest; and -the mothers chattered over their babies, cooing and laughing. The babies -should have been in bed, Frances said to herself, half laughing, half -crying, in a sort of tender anger with them all for being so familiar -and so much at home. They were entirely at home where they were; they -knew everybody, and were known from father to son, and from mother to -daughter, all about them. They did not call a distant and unknown -country by that sweet name, nor was there one among them who had any -doubt as to where he or she was born. This thought made Frances sigh, -and then made her smile. After all, if that was all! And then she saw -that Domenico had brought the lamp into the _salone_, and that it was -time to go indoors. - -Next morning she went out between the early coffee and the mid-day -breakfast to do some little household business, on which, in -consideration that she was English and not bound by the laws that are so -hard and fast with Italian girls, Mariuccia consented to let her go -alone. It was very seldom that Mr Waring went out or indeed was visible -at that hour, the expedition of the former day being very exceptional. -Frances went down to the shops to do her little commissions for -Mariuccia. She even investigated the Savona pots of which Tasie had -spoken. In her circumstances, it was scarcely possible not to be more or -less of a collector. There is nobody in these regions who does not go -about with eyes open to anything there may be to “pick up.” And after -this she walked back through the olive woods, by those distracting -little terraces which lead the stranger so constantly out of his way, -but are quite simple to those who are to the manner born--until she -reached once more the broad piece of unshadowed road which leads up to -the old town. At the spot at which she and her father had met the -English family yesterday, she made a momentary pause, recalling all the -circumstances of the meeting, and what the stranger had said--“A fellow -that stuck by you all through.” All through what? she asked herself. As -she paused to make this little question, to which there was no response, -she heard a sound of voices coming from the upper side of the wood, -where the slopes rose high into more and more olive gardens. “Don’t -hurry along so; I’m coming,” some one said. Frances looked up, and her -heart jumped into her mouth as she perceived that it was once more the -English family whom she was about to meet on the same spot. - -The father was in advance this time, and he was hurrying down, she -thought, with the intention of addressing her. What should she do? She -knew very well what her father would have wished her to do; but probably -for that very reason a contradictory impulse arose in her. Without -doubt, she wanted to know what this man knew and could tell her. Not -that she would ask him anything; she was too proud for that. To betray -that she was not acquainted with her father’s affairs, that she had to -go to a stranger for information, was a thing of which she was -incapable. But if he wished to speak to her--to send, perhaps, some -message to her father? Frances quieted her conscience in this way. She -was very anxious, excited by the sense that there was something to find -out; and if it was anything her father would not approve, why, then she -could shut it up in her own breast and never let him know it to trouble -him. And it was right at her age that she should know. All these -sophistries hurried through her mind more rapidly than lightning during -the moment in which she paused hesitating, and gave the large -Englishman, overwhelmed with the heat, and hurrying down the steep path -with his white umbrella over his head, time to make up to her. He was -rather out of breath, for though he had been coming down hill, and not -going up, the way was steep. - -“Miss Waring, Miss Waring!” he cried as he approached, “how is your -father? I want to ask for your father,” taking off his straw hat and -exposing his flushed countenance under the shadow of the green-lined -umbrella, which enhanced all its ruddy tints. Then, as he came within -reach of her, he added hastily, “I am so glad I have met you. How is he? -for he did not give me any address.” - -“Papa is quite well, thank you,” said Frances, with the habitual -response of a child. - -“Quite well? Oh, that is a great deal more than I expected to hear. He -was not quite well yesterday, I am sure. He is dreadfully changed. It -was a sort of guesswork my recognising him at all. He used to be such a -powerful-made man. Is it pulmonary? I suspect it must be something of -the kind, he has so wasted away.” - -“Pulmonary? Indeed I don’t know. He has a little asthma sometimes. And -of course he is very thin,” said Frances; “but that does not mean -anything; he is quite well.” - -The stranger shook his head. He had taken the opportunity to wipe it -with a large white handkerchief, and had made his bald forehead look -redder than ever. “I shouldn’t like to alarm you,” he said--“I wouldn’t, -for all the world; but I hope you have trustworthy advice? These Italian -doctors, they are not much to be trusted. You should get a real good -English doctor to come and have a look at him.” - -“Oh, indeed, it is only asthma; he is well enough, quite well, not -anything the matter with him,” Frances protested. The large stranger -stood and smiled compassionately upon her, still shaking his head. - -“Mary,” he said--“here, my dear! This is Miss Waring. She says her -father is quite well, poor thing. I am telling her I am so very glad we -have met her, for Waring did not leave me any address.” - -“How do you do, my dear?” said the stout lady--not much less red than -her husband--who had also hurried down the steep path to meet Frances. -“And your father is quite well? I am so glad. We thought him looking -rather--thin; not so strong as he used to look.” - -“But then,” added her husband, “it is such a long time since we have -seen him, and he never was very stout. I hope, if you will pardon me for -asking, that things have been smoothed down between him and the rest of -the family? When I say ‘smoothed down,’ I mean set on a better -footing--more friendly, more harmonious. I am very glad I have seen you, -to inquire privately; for one never knows how far to go with a man of -his--well--peculiar temper.” - -“Don’t say that, George. You must not think, my dear, that Mr Mannering -means anything that is not quite nice, and friendly, and respectful to -your papa. It is only out of kindness that he asks. Your poor papa has -been much tried. I am sure he has always had my sympathy, and my -husband’s too. Mr Mannering only means that he hopes things are more -comfortable between your father and---- Which is so much to be desired -for everybody’s sake.” - -The poor girl stood and stared at them with large, round, widely opening -eyes, with the wondering stare of a child. There had been a little -half-mischievous, half-anxious longing in her mind to find out what -these strangers knew; but now she came to herself suddenly, and felt as -a traveller feels who all at once pulls himself up on the edge of a -precipice. What was this pitfall which she had nearly stumbled into, -this rent from the past which was so great and so complete that she had -never heard of it, never guessed it? Fright seized upon her, and dismay, -and, what probably stood her in more stead for the moment, a stinging -sensation of wounded pride, which brought the colour burning to her -cheeks. Must she let these people find out that she knew nothing, at her -age--that her father had never confided in her at all--that she could -not even form an idea what they were talking about? She had pleased -herself with the possibility of some little easy discovery--of finding -out, perhaps, something about the cousins whom it seemed certain, -according to Tasie, every one must possess, whether they were aware of -it or not--some little revelation of origin and connections such as -could do nobody any harm. But when she woke up suddenly to find herself -as it were upon the edge of a chasm which had split her father’s life in -two, the young creature trembled. She was frightened beyond measure by -this unexpected contingency; she dared not listen to another word. - -“Oh,” she said, with a quiver in her voice, “I am afraid I have no time -to stop and talk. Papa will be waiting for his breakfast. I will tell -him you--asked for him.” - -“Give him our love,” said the lady. “Indeed, George, she is quite right; -we must hurry too, or we shall be too late for the _table d’hôte_.” - -“But I have not got the address,” said the husband. Frances made a -little curtsey, as she had been taught, and waved her hand as she -hurried away. He thought that she had not understood him. “Where do you -live?” he called after her as she hastened along. She pointed towards -the height of the little town, and alarmed for she knew not what, lest -he should follow her, lest he should call something after her which she -ought not to hear, fled along towards the steep ascent. She could hear -the voices behind her slightly elevated talking to each other, and then -the sound of the children rattling down the stony course of the higher -road, and the quick question and answer as they rejoined their parents. -Then gradually everything relapsed into silence as the party -disappeared. When she heard the voices no longer, Frances began to -regret that she had been so hasty. She paused for a moment, and looked -back; but already the family were almost out of sight, the solid figures -which led the procession indistinguishable from the little ones who -straggled behind. Whether it might have been well or ill to take -advantage of the chance, it was now over. She arrived at the Palazzo out -of breath, and found Domenico at the door, looking out anxiously for -her. “The signorina is late,” he said, very gravely; “the padrone has -almost had to wait for his breakfast.” Domenico was quite original, and -did not know that such a terrible possibility had threatened any -illustrious personage before. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -It was natural that this occurrence should take a great hold of the -girl’s mind. It was not the first time that she had speculated -concerning their life. A life which one has always lived, indeed, the -conditions of which have been familiar and inevitable since childhood, -is not a matter which awakens questions in the mind. However -extraordinary its conditions may be, they are natural--they are life to -the young soul which has had no choice in the matter. Still there are -curiosities which will arise. General Gaunt foamed at the mouth when he -talked of the way in which he had been treated by the people “at home”; -but still he went “home” in the summer as a matter of course. And as for -the Durants, it was a subject of the fondest consideration with them -when they could afford themselves that greatest of delights. They all -talked about the cold, the fogs, the pleasure of getting back to the -sunshine when they returned; but this made no difference in the fact -that to go home was their thought all the year, and the most salient -point in their lives. “Why do we never go home?” Frances had often asked -herself. And both these families, and all the people to whom she had -ever talked, the strangers who went and came, and those whom they met in -the rambles which the Warings, too, were forced to take in the hot -weather, when the mistral was blowing--talked continually of their -county, of their parish, of their village, of where they lived, and -where they had been born. But on these points Mr Waring never said a -word. And whereas Mrs Gaunt could talk of nothing but her family, who -were scattered all over the world, and the Durants met people they knew -at every turn, the Warings knew nobody, had no relations, no house at -home, and apparently had been born nowhere in particular, as Frances -sometimes said to herself with more annoyance than humour. Sometimes -she wondered whether she had ever had a mother. - -These thoughts, indeed, occurred but fitfully now and then, when some -incident brought more forcibly than usual under her notice the -difference between herself and others. She did not brood over them, her -life being quite pleasant and comfortable to herself, and no necessity -laid upon her to elucidate its dimnesses. But yet they came across her -mind from time to time. She had not been brought face to face with any -old friend of her father’s, that she could remember, until now. She had -never heard any question raised about his past life. And yet no doubt he -had a past life, like every other man, and there was something in -it--something, she could not guess what, which had made him unlike other -men. - -Frances had a great deal of self-command. She did not betray her -agitation to her father; she did not ask him any questions; she told him -about the greengrocer and the fisherman, these two important agents in -the life of the Riviera, and of what she had seen in the Marina, even -the Savona pots; but she did not disturb his meal and his digestion by -any reference to the English strangers. She postponed until she had time -to think of it, all reference to this second meeting. She had by -instinct made no reply to the question about where she lived; but she -knew that there would be no difficulty in discovering that, and that her -father might be subject at any moment to invasion by this old -acquaintance, whom he had evidently no desire to see. What should she -do? The whole matter wanted thought. Whether she should ask him what to -do; whether she should take it upon herself; whether she should disclose -to him her newborn curiosity and anxiety, or conceal them in her own -bosom; whether she should tell him frankly what she felt--that she was -worthy to be trusted, and that it was the right of his only child to be -prepared for all emergencies, and to be acquainted with her family and -her antecedents, if not with his,--all these were things to be thought -over. Surely she had a right, if any one had a right. But she would not -stand upon that. - -She sat by herself all day and thought, putting forward all the -arguments on either side. If there was, as there might be, something -wrong in that past--something guilty, which might make her look on her -father with different eyes, he had a right to be silent, and she no -right, none whatever, to insist upon such a revelation. And what end -would it serve? If she had relations or a family from whom she had been -separated, would not the revelation fill her with eager desire to know -them, and open a fountain of dissatisfaction and discontent in her life -if she were not permitted to do so? Would she not chafe at the -banishment if she found out that somewhere there was a home, that she -had “belongings” like all the rest of the world? These were little -feeble barriers which she set up against the strong tide of -consciousness in her that she was to be trusted, that she ought to know. -Whatever it was, and however she might bear it, was it not true that she -ought to know? She was not a fool or a child. Frances knew that her -eighteen years had brought more experience, more sense to her, than -Tasie’s forty; that she was capable of understanding, capable of -keeping a secret--and was it not her own secret, the explanation of the -enigma of her life as well as of his? - -This course of reflection went on in her mind until the evening, and it -was somewhat quickened by a little conversation which she had in the -afternoon with the servants. Domenico was going out. It was early in the -afternoon, the moment of leisure, when one meal with all its -responsibilities was over, and the second great event of the day, the -dinner, not yet imminent. It was the hour when Mariuccia sat in the -ante-room and did her sewing, her mending, her knitting--whatever was -wanted. This was a large and lofty room--not very light, with a great -window looking out only into the court of the Palazzo--in which stood a -long table and a few tall chairs. The smaller ante-room, from which the -long suite of rooms opened on either side, communicated with this, as -did also the corridor, which ran all the length of the house, and the -kitchen and its appendages on the other side. There is always abundance -of space of this kind in every old Italian house. Here Mariuccia -established herself whenever she was free to leave her cooking and her -kitchen-work. She was a comely middle-aged woman, with a dark gown, a -white apron, a little shawl on her shoulders, large earrings, and a gold -cross at her neck, which was a little more visible than is common with -Englishwomen of her class. Her hair was crisp and curly, and never had -been covered with anything, save, when she went to church, a shawl or -veil; and Mariuccia’s olive complexion and ruddy tint feared no -encounter of the sun. Domenico was tall, and spare, and brown, a grave -man with little jest in him; but his wife was always ready to laugh. He -came out hat in hand while Frances stood by the table inspecting -Mariuccia’s work. “I am going out,” he said; “and this is the hour when -the English gentlefolks pay visits. See that thou remember what the -padrone said.” - -“What did the padrone say?” cried Frances, pricking up her ears. - -“Signorina, it was to my wife I was speaking,” said Domenico. - -“That I understand; but I wish to know as well. Was papa expecting a -visit? What did he say?” - -“The padrone himself will tell the signorina,” said Domenico, “all that -is intended for her. Some things are for the servants, some for the -family; Mariuccia knows what I mean.” - -“You are an ass, ’Menico,” said his wife, calmly. “Why shouldn’t the -dear child know? It is nothing to be concerned about, my soul--only that -the padrone does not receive, and again that he does not receive, and -that he never receives. I must repeat this till the Ave Maria, if -necessary, till the strangers accept it and go away.” - -“Are these special orders?” said Frances, “or has it always been so? I -don’t think that it has always been so.” - -Domenico had gone out while his wife was speaking, with a -half-threatening and wholly disapproving look, as if he would not -involve himself in the responsibility which Mariuccia had taken upon -her. - -“_Carina_, don’t trouble yourself about it. It has always been so in the -spirit, if not in the letter,” said Mariuccia. “Figure to yourself -Domenico or me letting in any one, any one that chose to come, to -disturb the signor padrone! That would be impossible. It appears, -however, that there is some one down there in the hotels to whom the -padrone has a great objection, greater than to the others. It is no -secret, nothing to trouble you. But ’Menico, though he is a good man, is -not very wise. _Che!_ you know that as well as I.” - -“And what will you do if this gentleman will not pay any attention--if -he comes in all the same? The English don’t understand what it means -when you say you do not receive. You must say he is not in; he has gone -out; he is not at home.” - -“_Che! che! che!_” cried Mariuccia; “little deceiver! But that would be -a lie.” - -Frances shook her head. “Yes; I suppose so,” she said, with a troubled -look; “but if you don’t say it, the Englishman will come in all the -same.” - -“He will come in, then, over my body,” cried Mariuccia with a cheerful -laugh, standing square and solid against the door. - -This gave the last impulse to Frances’ thoughts. She could not go on -with her study of the palms. She sat with her pencil in her hand, and -the colour growing dry, thinking all the afternoon through. It was very -certain, then, that her father would not expose himself to another -meeting with the strangers who called themselves his friends--innocent -people who would not harm any one, Frances was sure. They were -tourists--that was evident; and they might be vulgar--that was possible. -But she was sure that there was no harm in them. It could only be that -her father was resolute to shut out his past, and let no one know what -had been. This gave her an additional impulse, instead of -discouragement. If it was so serious, and he so determined, then surely -there must be something that she, his only child, ought to know. She -waited till the evening with a gradually growing excitement; but not -until after dinner, after the soothing cigarette, which he puffed so -slowly and luxuriously in the loggia, did she venture to speak. Then the -day was over. It could not put him out, or spoil his appetite, or risk -his digestion. To be sure, it might interfere with his sleep; but after -consideration, Frances did not think that a very serious matter, -probably because she had never known what it was to pass a wakeful -night. She began, however, with the greatest caution and care. - -“Papa,” she said, “I want to consult you about something Tasie was -saying.” - -“Ah! that must be something very serious, no doubt.” - -“Not serious, perhaps; but---- she wants to teach me to play.” - -“To play! What? Croquet? or whist, perhaps? I have always heard she was -excellent at both.” - -“These are games, papa,” said Frances, with a touch of severity. “She -means the piano, which is very different.” - -“Ah!” said Mr Waring, taking the cigarette from his lips and sending a -larger puff of smoke into the dim air; “very different indeed, Frances. -It is anything but a game to hear Miss Tasie play.” - -“She says,” continued Frances, with a certain constriction in her -throat, “that every lady is expected to play--to play a little at least, -even if she has not much taste for it. She thinks when we go home--that -all our relations will be so surprised----” - -She stopped, having no breath to go further, and watched as well as she -could, through the dimness and through the mist of agitation in her own -eyes, her father’s face. He made no sign; he did not disturb even the -easy balance of his foot, stretched out along the pavement. After -another pause, he said in the same indifferent tone, “As we are not -going home, and as you have no relations in particular, I don’t think -your friend’s argument is very strong. Do you?” - -“O papa, I don’t want indeed to be inquisitive or trouble you, but I -should like to know!” - -“What?” he said, with the same composure. “If I think that a lady, -whether she has any musical taste or not, ought to play? Well, that is a -very simple question. I don’t, whatever Miss Tasie may say.” - -“It is not that,” Frances said, regaining a little control of herself. -“I said I did not know of any relations we had. But Tasie said there -must be cousins; we must have cousins--everybody has cousins. That is -true, is it not?” - -“In most cases, certainly,” Mr Waring said; “and a great nuisance too.” - -“I don’t think it would be a nuisance to have people about one’s own -age, belonging to one--not strangers--people who were interested in you, -to whom you could say anything. Brothers and sisters, that would be the -best; but cousins--I think, papa, cousins would be very nice.” - -“I will tell you, if you like, of one cousin you have,” her father said. - -The heart of Frances swelled as if it would leap out of her breast. She -put her hands together, turning full round upon him in an attitude of -supplication and delight. “O papa!” she cried with enthusiasm, -breathless for his next word. - -“Certainly, if you wish it, Frances. He is in reality your first-cousin. -He is fifty. He is a great sufferer from gout. He has lived so well in -the early part of his life, that he is condemned to slops now, and -spends most of his time in an easy-chair. He has the temper of a demon, -and swears at everybody that comes near him. He is very red in the -face, very bleared about the eyes, very----” - -“O papa!” she cried, in a very different tone. She was so much -disappointed, that the sudden downfall had almost a physical effect upon -her, as if she had fallen from a height. Her father laughed softly while -she gathered all her strength together to regain command of herself, and -the laugh had a jarring effect upon her nerves, of which she had never -been conscious till now. - -“I don’t suppose that he would care much whether you played the piano or -not; or that you would care much, my dear, what he thought.” - -“For all that, papa,” said Frances, recovering herself, “it is a little -interesting to know there is somebody, even if he is not at all what one -thought. Where does he live, and what is his name? That will give me one -little landmark in England, where there is none now.” - -“Not a very reasonable satisfaction,” said her father lazily, but -without any other reply. “In my life, I have always found relations a -nuisance. Happy are they who have none; and next best is to cast them -off and do without them. As a matter of fact, it is every one for -himself in this world.” - -Frances was silenced, though not convinced. She looked with some anxiety -at the outline of her father’s spare and lengthy figure laid out in the -basket-chair, one foot moving slightly, which was a habit he had, the -whole extended in perfect rest and calm. He was not angry, he was not -disturbed. The questions which she had put with so much mental -perturbation had not affected him at all. She felt that she might dare -further without fear. - -“When I was out to-day,” she said, faltering a little, “I met--that -gentleman again.” - -“Ah!” said Mr Waring--no more; but he ceased to shake his foot, and -turned towards her the merest hair’s-breadth, so little that it was -impossible to say he had moved, and yet there was a change. - -“And the lady,” said Frances, breathless. “I am sure they wanted to be -kind. They asked me a great many questions.” - -He gave a faint laugh, but it was not without a little quiver in it. -“What a good thing that you could not answer them!” he said. - -“Do you think so, papa? I was rather unhappy. It looked as if you could -not trust me. I should have been ashamed to say I did not know; which is -the truth--for I know nothing, not so much as where I was born!” cried -the girl. “It is very humiliating, when you are asked about your own -father, to say you don’t know. So I said it was time for breakfast, and -you would be waiting; and ran away.” - -“The best thing you could have done, my dear. Discretion in a woman, or -a girl, is always the better part of valour. I think you got out of it -very cleverly,” Mr Waring said. - -And that was all. He did not seem to think another word was needed. He -did not even rise and go away, as Frances had known him to do when the -conversation was not to his mind. She could not see his face, but his -attitude was unchanged. He had recovered his calm, if there had ever -been any disturbance of it. But as for Frances, her heart was thumping -against her breast, her pulses beating in her ears, her lips parched and -dry. “I wish,” she cried, “oh, I wish you would tell me something, papa! -Do you think I would talk of things you don’t want talked about? I am -not a child any longer; and I am not silly, as perhaps you think.” - -“On the contrary, my dear,” said Mr Waring, “I think you are often very -sensible.” - -“Papa! oh, how can you say that, how can you say such things--and then -leave me as if I were a baby, knowing nothing!” - -“My dear,” he said (with the sound of a smile in his voice, she thought -to herself), “you are very hard to please. Must not I say that you are -sensible? I think it is the highest compliment I can pay you.” - -“O papa!” Disappointment, and mortification, and the keen sense of being -fooled, which is so miserable to the young, took her very breath away. -The exasperation with which we discover that not only is no explanation, -no confidence to be given us, but the very occasion for it ignored, and -our anxiety baffled by a smile--a mortification to which women are so -often subject--flooded her being. She had hard ado not to burst into -angry tears, not to betray the sense of cruelty and injustice which -overwhelmed her; but who could have seen any injustice or cruelty in -the gentleness of his tone, his soft reply? Frances subdued herself as -best she could in her dark corner of the loggia, glad at least that he -could not see the spasm that passed over her, the acute misery and -irritation of her spirit. It would be strange if he did not divine -something of what was going on within her: but he took no notice. He -began in the same tone, as if one theme was quite as important as the -other, to remark upon the unusual heaviness of the clouds which hid the -moon. “If we were in England, I should say there was a storm brewing,” -he said. “Even here, I think we shall have some rain. Don’t you feel -that little creep in the air, something sinister, as if there was a bad -angel about? And Domenico, I see, has brought the lamp. I vote we go -in.” - -“Are there any bad angels?” she cried, to give her impatience vent. - -He had risen up, and stood swaying indolently from one foot to the -other. “Bad angels? Oh yes,” he said; “abundance; very different from -devils, who are honest--like the fiends in the pictures, unmistakable. -The others, you know, deceive. Don’t you remember?-- - - ‘How there looked him in the face - An angel beautiful and bright; - And how he knew it was a fiend, - That miserable knight.’” - -He turned and went into the _salone_, repeating these words in an -undertone to himself. But there was in his face none of the bitterness -or horror with which they must have been said by one who had ever in his -own person made that discovery. He was quite calm, meditative, marking -with a slight intonation and movement of his head the cadence of the -poetry. - -Frances stayed behind in the darkness. She had not the practice which we -acquire in later life; she could not hide the excitement which was still -coursing through her veins. She went to the corner of the loggia which -was nearest the sea, and caught in her face the rush of the rising -breeze, which flung at her the first drops of the coming rain. A storm -on that soft coast is a welcome break in the monotony of the clear skies -and unchanging calm. After a while her father called to her that the -rain was coming in, that the windows must be shut; and she hurried in, -brushing by Domenico, who had come to close everything up, and who -looked at her reproachfully as she rushed past him. She came behind her -father’s chair and leaned over to kiss him. “I have got a little wet, -and I think I had better go to bed,” she said. - -“Yes, surely, if you wish it, my dear,” said Mr Waring. Something moist -had touched his forehead, which was too warm to be rain. He waited -politely till she had gone before he wiped it off. It was the edge of a -tear, hot, miserable, full of anger as well as pain, which had made that -mark upon his high white forehead. It made him pause for a minute or two -in his reading. “Poor little girl!” he said, with a sigh. Perhaps he was -not so insensible as he seemed. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -It is a common impression that happiness and unhappiness are permanent -states of mind, and that for long tracts of our lives we are under the -continuous sway of one or other of these conditions. But this is almost -always a mistake, save in the case of grief, which is perhaps the only -emotion which is beyond the reach of the momentary lightenings and -alleviations and perpetual vicissitudes of life. Death, and the pangs of -separation from those we love, are permanent, at least for their time; -but in everything else there is an ebb and flow which keeps the heart -alive. When Frances Waring told the story of this period of her life, -she represented herself unconsciously as having been oppressed by the -mystery that over-shadowed her, and as having lost all the ease of her -young life prematurely in a sudden encounter with shadows unsuspected -before. But as a matter of fact, this was not the case. She had a bad -night--that is, she cried herself asleep; but once over the boundary -which divides our waking thoughts from the visions of the night, she -knew no more till the sun came in and woke her to a very cheerful -morning. It is true that care made several partially successful assaults -upon her that day and for several days after. But as everything went on -quite calmly and peacefully, the impression wore off. The English family -found out, as was inevitable, where Mr Waring lived, without any -difficulty; and first the father came, then the mother, and finally the -pair together, to call. Frances, to whom a breach of decorum or civility -was pain unspeakable, sat trembling and ashamed in the deepest corner of -the loggia, while these kind strangers encountered Mariuccia at the -door. The scene, as a matter of fact, was rather comic than tragic, for -neither the visitors nor the guardian of the house possessed any -language but their own; and Mr and Mrs Mannering had as little -understanding of the statement that Mr Waring did not “receive” as -Frances had expected. - -“But he is in--_è in casa_--_è_ IN?” said the worthy Englishman. “Then, -my dear, of course it is only a mistake. When he knows who we are--when -he has our names----” - -“_Non riceve oggi_,” said Mariuccia, setting her sturdy breadth in the -doorway; “_oggi non riceve il signore_” (The master does not receive -to-day). - -“But he is in?” repeated the bewildered good people. They could have -understood “Not at home,” which to Mariuccia would have been simply a -lie--with which indeed, had need been, or could it have done the padrone -any good, she would have burdened her conscience as lightly as any one. -But why, when it was not in the least necessary? - -Thus they played their little game at cross-purposes, while Frances sat, -hot and red with shame, in her corner, sensible to the bottom of her -heart of the discourtesy, the unkindness, of turning them from the door. -They were her father’s friends; they claimed to have “stuck by him -through thick and thin;” they were people who knew about him, and all -that he belonged to, and the conditions of his former life; and yet they -were turned from his door! - -She did not venture to go out again for some days, except in the -evening, when she knew that all the strangers were at the inevitable -_table d’hôte_; and it was with a sigh of relief, yet disappointment, -that she heard they had gone away. Yes, at last they did go away, angry, -no doubt, thinking her father a churl, and she herself an ignorant -rustic, who knew nothing about good manners. Of course this was what -they must think. Frances heard those words, “_Non riceve oggi_,” even in -her dreams. She saw in imagination the astonished faces of the visitors. -“But he will receive us, if you will only take in our names;” and then -Mariuccia’s steady voice repeating the well-known phrase. What must they -have thought? That it was an insult--that their old friend scorned and -defied them. What else could they suppose? - -They departed, however, and Frances got over it: and everything went on -as before; her father was just as usual--a sphinx indeed, more and more -hopelessly wrapped up in silence and mystery, but so natural and easy -and kind in his uncommunicativeness, with so little appearance of -repression or concealment about him, that it was almost impossible to -retain any feeling of injury or displeasure. Love is cheated every day -in this way by offenders much more serious, who can make their -dependants happy even while they are ruining them, and beguile the -bitterest anxiety into forgetfulness and smiles. It was easy to make -Frances forget the sudden access of wonderment and wounded feeling which -had seized her, even without any special exertion; time alone and the -calm succession of the days were enough for that. She resumed her little -picture of the palms, and was very successful--more than usually so. Mr -Waring, who had hitherto praised her little works as he might have -praised the sampler of a child, was silenced by this, and took it away -with him into his room, and when he brought it back, looked at her with -more attention than he had been used to show. “I think,” he said, -“little Fan, that you must be growing up,” laying his hand upon her -head with a smile. - -“I am grown up, papa; I am eighteen,” she said. - -At which he laughed softly. “I don’t think much of your eighteen; but -this shows. I should not wonder, with time and work, if--you mightn’t be -good enough to exhibit at Mentone--after a while.” - -Frances had been looking at him with an expression of almost rapturous -expectation. The poor little countenance fell at this, and a quick sting -of mortification brought tears to her eyes. The exhibition at Mentone -was an exhibition of amateurs. Tasie was in it, and even Mrs Gaunt, and -all the people about who ever spoilt a piece of harmless paper. “O -papa!” she said. Since the failure of her late appeal to him, this was -the only formula of reproach which she used. - -“Well,” he said, “are you more ambitious than that, you little thing? -Perhaps, by-and-by, you may be fit even for better things.” - -“It is beautiful,” said Mariuccia. “You see where the light goes, and -where it is in the shade. But, _carina_, if you were to copy the face -of Domenico, or even mine, that would be more interesting. The palms we -can see if we look out of the window; but imagine to yourself that -’Menico might go away, or even might die; and we should not miss him so -much if we had his face hung up upon the wall.” - -“It is easier to do the trees than to do Domenico,” said Frances; “they -stand still.” - -“And so would ’Menico stand still, if it was to please the signorina--he -is not very well educated, but he knows enough for that; or I myself, -though you will think, perhaps, I am too old to make a pretty picture. -But if I had my veil on, and my best earrings, and the coral my mother -left me----” - -“You look very nice, Mariuccia--I like you as you are; but I am not -clever enough to make a portrait.” - -Mariuccia cried out with scorn. “You are clever enough to do whatever -you wish to do,” she said. “The padrone thinks so too, though he will -not say it. Not clever enough! _Magari!_ too clever is what you mean.” - -Frances set up her palms on a little stand of carved wood, and was very -well pleased with herself; but that sentiment palls perhaps sooner than -any other. It was very agreeable to be praised, and also it was pleasant -to feel that she had finished her work successfully. But after a short -time it began to be a great subject of regret that the work was done. -She did not know what to do next. To make a portrait of Domenico was -above her powers. She idled about for the day, and found it -uncomfortable. That is the moment in which it is most desirable to have -a friend on whom to bestow one’s tediousness. She bethought herself that -she had not seen Tasie for a week. It was now more than a fortnight -since the events detailed in the beginning of this history. Her father, -when asked if he would not like a walk, declined. It was too warm, or -too cold, or perhaps too dusty, which was very true; and accordingly she -set out alone. - -Walking down through the Marina, the little tourist town which was -rising upon the shore, she saw some parties of travellers arriving, -which always had been a little pleasure to her. It was mingled now with -a certain excitement. Perhaps some of them, like those who had just -gone away, might know all about her, more than she knew herself--what a -strange thought it was!--some of those unknown people in their -travelling cloaks, which looked so much too warm--people whom she had -never seen before, who had not a notion that she was Frances Waring! One -of the parties was composed of ladies, surrounded and enveloped, so to -speak, by a venerable courier, who swept them and their possessions -before him into the hotel. Another was led by a father and mother, not -at all unlike the pair who had “stuck by” Mr Waring. How strange to -imagine that they might not be strangers at all, but people who knew all -about her! - -In the first group was a girl, who hung back a little from the rest, and -looked curiously up at all the houses, as if looking for some one--a -tall, fair-haired girl, with a blue veil tied over her hat. She looked -tired, but eager, with more interest in her face than any of the others -showed. Frances smiled to herself with the half-superiority which a -resident is apt to feel: a girl must be very simple indeed, if she -thought the houses on the Marina worth looking at, Frances thought. But -she did not pause in her quick walk. The Durants lived at the other end -of the Marina, in a little villa built upon a terrace over an olive -garden--a low house with no particular beauty, but possessing also a -loggia turned to the west, the luxury of building on the Riviera. Here -the whole family were seated, the old clergyman with a large English -newspaper, which he was reading deliberately from end to end; his wife -with a work-basket full of articles to mend; and Tasie at the little -tea-table, pouring out the tea. Frances was received with a little -clamour of satisfaction, for she was a favourite. - -“Sit here, my dear.” “Come this way, close to me, for you know I am -getting a little hard of hearing.” - -They had always been kind to her, but never, she thought, had she been -received with so much cordiality as now. - -“Have you come by yourself, Frances? and along the Marina? I think you -should make Domenico or his wife walk with you, when you go through the -Marina, my dear.” - -“Why, Mrs Durant? I have always done it. Even Mariuccia says it does -not matter, as I am an English girl.” - -“Ah, that may be true; but English girls are not like American girls. I -assure you they are taken a great deal more care of. If you ever go -home----” - -“And how is your poor father to-day, Frances?” said Mrs Durant. - -“Oh, papa is very well. He is not such a poor father. There is nothing -the matter with him. At least, there is nothing _new_ the matter with -him,” said Frances, with a little impatience. - -“No,” said the clergyman, looking up over the top of his spectacles and -shaking his head. “Nothing _new_ the matter with him. I believe that.” - -“----If you ever go home,” resumed Mrs Durant; “and of course some time -you will go home----” - -“I think very likely I never shall,” said the girl. “Papa never talks of -going home. He says home is here.” - -“That is all very well for the present moment, my dear; but I feel sure, -for my part, that one time or other it will happen as I say; and then -you must not let them suppose you have been a little savage, going about -as you liked here.” - -“I don’t think any one would care much, Mrs Durant; and I am not going; -so you need not be afraid.” - -“Your poor father,” Mr Durant went on in his turn, “has a great deal of -self-command, Frances; he has a great deal of self-control. In some -ways, that is an excellent quality, but it may be carried too far. I -wish very much he would allow me to come and have a talk with him--not -as a clergyman, but just in a friendly way.” - -“I am quite sure you may come and talk with him as much as you like,” -said Frances, astonished; “or if you want very much to see him, he will -come to you.” - -“Oh, I should not take it upon me to ask that--in the meantime,” Mr -Durant said. - -The girl stared a little, but asked no further questions. There was -something among them which she did not understand--a look of curiosity, -an air of meaning more than their words said. The Durants were always a -little apt to be didactic, as became a clergyman’s family; but Tasie -was generally a safe refuge. Frances turned to her with a little sigh of -perplexity, hoping to escape further question. “Was the Sunday-school as -large last Sunday, Tasie?” she said. - -“Oh, Frances, no! Such a disappointment! There were only four! Isn’t it -a pity? But you see the little Mannerings have all gone away. Such sweet -children! and the little one of all has such a voice. They are perhaps -coming back for Easter, if they don’t stay at Rome; and if so, I think -we must put little Herbert in a white surplice--he will look like an -angel--and have a real anthem with a soprano solo, for once.” - -“I doubt if they will all come back,” said Mr Durant. “Mr Mannering -himself indeed, I don’t doubt, _on business_; but as for the family, you -must not flatter yourself, Tasie.” - -“_She_ liked the place,” said his wife; “and very likely she would think -it her duty, if anything is to come of it, you know.” - -“Be careful,” said the clergyman, with a glance aside, which Frances -would have been dull indeed not to have perceived was directed at -herself. “Don’t say anything that may be premature.” - -Frances was brave in her way. She felt, with a little rising excitement, -that her friends were bursting with some piece of knowledge which they -were longing to communicate. It roused in her an impatience and -reluctance mingled with keen curiosity. She would not hear it, and yet -was breathless with impatience to know what it was. - -“Mr Mannering?” she said, deliberately--“that was the gentleman that -knew papa.” - -“You saw him, then?” cried Mrs Durant. There was something like a faint -disappointment in her tone. - -“He was one of papa’s early friends,” said Frances, with a little -emphasis. “I saw him twice. He and his wife both; they seemed kind -people.” - -Mr Durant and his wife looked at each other, and even Tasie stared over -her teacups. “Oh, very kind people, my dear; I don’t think you could do -better than have full confidence in them,” Mrs Durant said. - -“And your poor father could not have a truer friend,” said the old -clergyman. “You must tell him I am coming to have a talk with him about -it. It was a great revelation, but I hope that everything will turn out -for the best.” - -Frances grew redder and redder as she sat a mark for all their arrows. -What was it that was a “revelation”? But she would not ask. She began to -be angry, and to say to herself that she would put her hands to her -ears, that she would listen to nothing. - -“Henry!” said Mrs Durant, “who is it that is premature now?” - -“I am afraid I can’t stay,” said Frances, rising quickly from her chair. -“I have something to do for Mariuccia. I only came in because--because I -was passing. Never mind, Tasie; I know my way so well; and Mr Durant -wants some more tea.” - -“Oh but, Frances, my dear, you really must let me send some one with -you. You must not move about in that independent way.” - -“And we had a great many things to say to you,” said the old clergyman, -keeping her hand in his. “Are you really in such a hurry? It will be -better for yourself to wait a little, and hear something that will be -for your good.” - -“It cannot be any worse for me to run about to-day than any other day,” -said Frances, almost sternly; “and whatever there is to hear, won’t -to-morrow do just as well? I think it is a little funny of you all to -speak to me so; but now I must go.” - -She was so rapid in her movements that she was gone before Tasie could -extricate herself from the somewhat crazy little table. And then they -all three looked at each other and shook their heads. “Do you think she -can know?” “Can she have known it all the time?” “Has Waring told her, -or was it Mannering?” they said to each other. - -Frances could not hear their mutual questions, but something very like -the purport of them got into her agitated brain. She felt sure they were -wondering whether she knew--what? this revelation, this something which -they had found out. Nothing would make her submit to hear it from them, -she said to herself. But the moment was come when she could not be put -off any longer. She would go to her father, and she would not rest -until she was informed what it was. - -She hastened along, avoiding the Marina, which had amused her on her -way, hurrying from terrace to terrace of the olive groves. Her heart was -beating fast, and her rapid pace made it faster. But as she thought of -her father’s unperturbed looks, the calm with which he had received her -eager questions, and the very small likelihood that anything she could -say about the hints of the Durants would move him, her pace and her -excitement both decreased. She went more slowly, less hopefully, back to -the Palazzo. It was all very well to say that she must know. But what if -he would not tell her? What if he received her questions as he had -received them before? The circumstances were not changed, nor was he -changed because the Durants knew something, she did not know what. Oh, -what a poor piece of friendship was that, that betrayed a friend’s -secret to his neighbours! She did not know, she could not so much as -form a guess, what the secret was. But little or great, his friend -should have kept it. She said this to herself bitterly, when the chill -probabilities of the case began to make themselves felt. It was harder -to think that the Durants knew, than to be kept in darkness herself. - -She went in at last very soberly, with the intention of telling her -father all that had passed, if perhaps that of itself might be an -inducement to him to have confidence in her. It was not a pleasant -mission. Her steps had become very sober as she went up the long marble -stair. Mariuccia met her with a little cry. Had she not met the padrone? -He had gone out down through the olive woods to meet her and fetch her -home. It was a brief reprieve. In the evening after dinner was the time -when he was most accessible. Frances, with a thrill of mingled relief -and disappointment, retired to her room to make her little toilet. She -had an hour or two at least before her ere it would be necessary to -speak. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -When one has made up one’s mind to reopen a painful subject after -dinner, the preliminary meal is not usually a very pleasant one; nor, -with the tremor of preparation in one’s mind, is one likely to make a -satisfactory dinner. Frances could not talk about anything. She could -not eat; her mind was absorbed in what was coming. It seemed to her that -she must speak: and yet how gladly would she have escaped from or -postponed the explanation! Explanation! Possibly he would only smile, -and baffle her as he had done before; or perhaps be angry, which would -be better. Anything would be better than that indifference. - -She went out to the loggia when dinner was over, trembling with the -sensation of suspense. It was still not dark, and the night was clear -with the young moon already shining, so that between the retiring day -and the light of the night it was almost as clear as it had been two -hours before. Frances sat down, shivering a little, though not with -cold. Usually her father accompanied or immediately followed her, but by -some perversity he did not do so to-night. She seated herself in her -usual place, and waited, listening for every sound--that is, for sounds -of one kind--his slow step coming along the polished floor, here soft -and muffled over a piece of carpet, there loud upon the _parquet_. But -for some time, during which she rose into a state of feverish -expectation, there was no such sound. - -It was nearly half an hour, according to her calculation, probably not -half so much by common computation of time, when one or two doors were -opened and shut quickly and a sound of voices met her ear--not sounds, -however, which had any but a partial interest for her, for they did not -indicate his approach. After a while there followed the sound of a -footstep but it was not Mr Waring’s; it was not Domenico’s subdued -tread, nor the measured march of Mariuccia. It was light, quick, and -somewhat uncertain. Frances was half disappointed, half relieved. Some -one was coming, but not her father. It would be impossible to speak to -him to-night. The relief was uppermost; she felt it through her whole -being. Not to-night; and no one can ever tell what to-morrow may bring -forth. She looked up no longer with anxiety, but curiosity, as the door -opened. It opened quickly; some one looked out, as if to see what was -beyond, then, with a slight exclamation of satisfaction, stepped out -upon the loggia into the partial light. - -Frances rose up quickly, with the curious sensation of acting over -something which she had rehearsed before, she did not know where or how. -It was the girl whom she had remarked on the Marina as having just -arrived who now stood looking about her curiously, with her -travelling-cloak fastened only at the throat, her gauze veil thrown up -about her hat. This new-comer came in quickly, not with the timidity of -a stranger. She came out into the centre of the loggia, where the light -fell fully around her, and showed her tall slight figure, the fair hair -clustering in her neck, a certain languid grace of movement, which her -energetic entrance curiously belied. Frances waited for some form of -apology or self-introduction, prepared to be very civil, and feeling in -reality pleased and almost grateful for the interruption. - -But the young lady made no explanation. She put her hands up to her -throat and loosed her cloak with a little sigh of relief. She undid the -veil from her hat. “Thank heaven, I have got here at last, free of those -people!” she said, putting herself _sans façon_ into Mr Waring’s chair, -and laying her hat upon the little table. Then she looked up at the -astonished girl, who stood looking on. - -“Are you Frances?” she said; but the question was put in an almost -indifferent tone. - -“Yes; I am Frances. But I don’t know----” Frances was civil to the -bottom of her soul, polite, incapable of hurting any one’s feelings. She -could not say anything disagreeable; she could not demand brutally, Who -are you? and what do you want here? - -“I thought so,” said the stranger; “and, oddly enough, I saw you this -afternoon, and wondered if it could be you. You are a little like -mamma.--I am Constance, of course,” she added, looking up with a -half-smile. “We ought to kiss each other, I suppose, though we can’t -care much about each other, can we?--Where is papa?” - -Frances had no breath to speak; she could not say a word. She looked at -the new-comer with a gasp. Who was she? And who was papa? Was it some -strange mistake which had brought her here? But then the question, “Are -you Frances?” showed that it could not be a mistake. - -“I beg your pardon,” she said; “I don’t understand. This is--Mr -Waring’s. You are looking for--your father?” - -“Yes, yes,” cried the other impatiently; “I know. You can’t imagine I -should have come here and taken possession if I had not made sure first! -You are well enough known in this little place. There was no trouble -about it.--And the house looks nice, and this must be a fine view when -there is light to see it by.--But where is papa? They told me he was -always to be found at this hour.” - -Frances felt the blood ebb to her very finger-points, and then rush back -like a great flood upon her heart. She scarcely knew where she was -standing or what she was saying in her great bewilderment. “Do you -mean--_my_ father?” she said. - -The other girl answered with a laugh: “You are very particular. I mean -our father, if you prefer it. Your father--my father. What does it -matter?--Where is he? Why isn’t he here? It seems he must introduce us -to each other. I did not think of any such formality. I thought you -would have taken me for granted,” she said. - -Frances stood thunderstruck, gazing, listening, as if eyes and ears -alike fooled her. She did not seem to know the meaning of the words. -They could not, she said to herself, mean what they seemed to mean--it -was impossible. There must be some wonderful, altogether unspeakable -blunder. “I don’t understand,” she said again, in a piteous tone. “It -must be some mistake.” - -The other girl fixed her eyes upon her in the waning light. She had not -paid so much attention to Frances at first as to the new place and -scene. She looked at her now with the air of weighing her in some unseen -balance and finding her wanting, with impatience and half contempt. “I -thought you would have been glad to see me,” she said; “but the world -seems just the same in one place as another. Because I am in distress at -home you don’t want me here.” - -Then Frances felt herself goaded, galled into the matter-of-fact -question, “Who are you?” though she felt that she would not believe the -answer she received. - -“Who am I? Don’t you know who I am? Who should I be but Con? Constance -Waring, your sister?--Where,” she cried, springing to her feet and -stamping one of them upon the ground--“where, _where_ is papa?” - -The door opened again behind her softly, and Mr Waring with his slow -step came out. “Did I hear some one calling for me?” he said.--“Frances, -it is not you, surely, that are quarrelling with your visitor?--I beg -the lady’s pardon; I cannot see who it is.” - -The stranger turned upon him with impatience in her tone. “It was I who -called,” she said. “I thought you were sure to be here. Papa, I have -always heard that you were kind--a kind man, they all said; that was why -I came, thinking---- I am Constance!” she added after a pause, drawing -herself up and facing him with something of his own gesture and -attitude. She was tall, not much less than he was; very unlike little -Frances. Her slight figure seemed to draw out as she raised her head and -looked at him. She was not a suppliant. Her whole air was one of -indignation that she should be subjected to a moment’s doubt. - -“Constance!” said Mr Waring. The daylight was gone outside; the moon had -got behind a fleecy white cloud; behind those two figures there was a -gleam of light from within, Domenico having brought in the lamp into the -drawing-room. He stepped backward, opening the glass door. “Come in,” he -said, “to the light.” - -Frances came last, with a great commotion in her heart, but very still -externally. She felt herself to have sunk into quite a subordinate -place. The other two, they were the chief figures. She had now no -explanation to ask, no questions to put, though she had a thousand; but -everything else was thrown into the background, everything was inferior -to this. The chief interest was with the others now. - -Constance stepped in after him with a proud freedom of step, the air of -one who was mistress of herself and her fate. She went up to the table -on which the tall lamp stood, her face on a level with it, fully lighted -up by it. She held her hat in her hand, and played with it with a -careless yet half-nervous gesture. Her fair hair was short, and -clustered in her neck and about her forehead almost like a child’s, -though she was not like a child. Mr Waring, looking at her, was more -agitated than she. He trembled a little; his eyelids were lifted high -over his eyes. Her air was a little defiant; but there was no suspicion, -only a little uncertainty in his. He put out his hand to her after a -minute’s inspection. “If you are Constance, you are welcome,” he said. - -“I don’t suppose that you have any doubt I am Constance,” said the girl, -flinging her hat on the table and herself into a chair. “It is a very -curious way to receive one, though, after such a long journey--such a -tiresome long journey,” she repeated, with a voice into which a -querulous tone of exhaustion had come. - -Mr Waring sat down too in the immediate centre of the light. He had not -kissed her nor approached her, save by the momentary touch of their -hands. It was a curious way to receive a stranger, a daughter. She lay -back in her chair as if wearied out, and tears came to her eyes. “I -should not have come, if I had known,” she said, with her lip quivering. -“I am very tired. I put up with everything on the journey, thinking, -when I came here---- And I am more a stranger here than anywhere!” She -paused, choking with the half-hysterical fit of crying which she would -not allow to overcome her. “She--knows nothing about me!” she cried, -with a sharp accent of pain, as if this was the last blow. - -Frances, in her bewilderment, did not know what to do or say. She looked -at her father, but his face was dumb, and gave her no suggestion; and -then she looked at the new-comer, who lay back with her head against the -back of the chair, her eyes closed, tears forcing their way through her -eyelashes, her slender white throat convulsively struggling with a sob. -The mind of Frances had been shaken by a sudden storm of feelings -unaccustomed; a throb of something which she did not understand, which -was jealousy, though she neither knew nor intended it, had gone through -her being. She seemed to see herself cast forth from her easy supremacy, -her sway over her father’s house, deposed from her principal place. And -she was only human. Already she was conscious of a downfall. Constance -had drawn the interest towards herself--it was she to whom every eye -would turn. The girl stood apart for a moment, with that inevitable -movement which has been in the bosom of so many since the well-behaved -brother of the Prodigal put it in words, “Now that this thy son has -come.” Constance, so far as Frances knew, was no prodigal; but she was -what was almost worse--a stranger, and yet the honours of the house were -to be hers. She stood thus, looking on, until the sight of the -suppressed sob, of the closed eyes, of the weary, hopeless attitude, -were too much for her. Then it came suddenly into her mind, if she is -Constance! Frances had not known half an hour before that there was any -Constance who had a right to her sympathy in the world. She gave her -father another questioning look, but got no reply from his eyes. -Whatever had to be done must be done by herself. She went up to the -chair in which her sister lay and touched her on the shoulder. “If we -had known you were coming,” she said, “it would have been different. It -is a little your fault not to let us know. I should have gone to meet -you; I should have made your room ready. We have nothing ready, because -we did not know.” - -Constance sat suddenly up in her chair and shook her head, as if to -shake off the emotion that had been too much for her. “How sensible you -are!” she said. “Is that your character?--She is quite right, isn’t she? -But I did not think of that. I suppose I am impetuous, as people say. I -was unhappy, and I thought you would--receive me with open arms. It is -evident _I_ am not the sensible one.” She said this with still a quiver -in her lip, but also a smile, pushing back her chair, and resuming the -unconcerned air which she had worn at first. - -“Frances is quite right. You ought to have written and warned us,” said -Mr Waring. - -“Oh yes; there are so many things that one ought to do.” - -“But we will do the best we can for you, now you are here. Mariuccia -will easily make a room ready. Where is your baggage? Domenico can go to -the railway, to the hotel, wherever you have come from.” - -“My box is outside the door. I made them bring it. The woman--is that -Mariuccia?--would not take it in. But she let me come in. She was not -suspicious. She did not say, ‘If you are Constance.’” And here she -laughed, with a sound that grated upon Mr Waring’s nerves. He jumped up -suddenly from his chair. - -“I had no proof that you were Constance,” he said, “though I believed -it. But only your mother’s daughter could reproduce that laugh.” - -“Has Frances got it?” the girl cried, with an instant lighting up of -opposition in her eyes; “for I am like you, but she is the image of -mamma.” - -He turned round and looked at Frances, who, feeling that an entire -circle of new emotions, unknown to her, had come into being at a bound, -stood with a passive, frightened look, spectator of everything, not -knowing how to adapt herself to the new turn of affairs. - -“By Jove!” her father said, with an air of exasperation she had never -seen in him before, “that is true! But I had never noticed it. Even -Frances. You’ve come to set us all by the ears.” - -“Oh no! I’ll tell you, if you like, why I came. Mamma--has been more -aggravating than usual. I said to myself you would be sure to understand -what that meant. And something arose--I will tell you about it after--a -complication, something that mamma insisted I should do, though I had -made up my mind not to do it.” - -“You had better,” said her father, with a smile, “take care what ideas -on that subject you put into your sister’s head.” - -Constance paused, and looked at Frances with a look which was half -scrutinising, half contemptuous. “Oh, she is not like me,” she said. -“Mamma was very aggravating, as you know she can be. She wanted me---- -But I’ll tell you after.” And then she began: “I hope, because you live -in Italy, papa, you don’t think you ought to be a medieval parent; but -that sort of thing in Belgravia, you know, is too ridiculous. It was so -out of the question that it was some time before I understood. It was -not exactly a case of being locked up in my room and kept on bread and -water; but something of the sort. I was so much astonished at first, I -did not know what to do; and then it became intolerable. I had nobody I -could appeal to, for everybody agreed with her. Markham is generally a -safe person; but even Markham took her side. So I immediately thought of -you. I said to myself, One’s father is the right person to protect one. -And I knew, of course, that if anybody in the world could understand how -impossible it is to live with mamma when she has taken a thing into her -head, it would be you.” - -Waring kept his eye upon Frances while this was being said, with an -almost comic embarrassment. It was half laughable; but it was painful, -as so many laughable things are; and there was something like alarm, or -rather timidity, in the look. The man looked afraid of the little -girl--whom all her life he had treated as a child--and her clear -sensible eyes. - -“One thinks these things, perhaps, but one does not put them into -words,” he said. - -“Oh, it is no worse to say them than to think them,” said Constance. “I -always say what I mean. And you must know that things went very far--so -far that I couldn’t put up with it any longer; so I made up my mind all -at once that I would come off to you.” - -“And I tell you, you are welcome, my dear. It is so long since I saw you -that I could not have recognised you. That is natural enough. But now -that you are here--I cannot decide upon the wisdom of the step till I -know all the circumstances----” - -“Oh, wisdom! I don’t suppose there is any wisdom about it. No one -expects wisdom from me. But what could I do? There was nothing else that -I could do.” - -“At all events,” said Waring, with a little inclination of his head and -a smile, as if he were talking to a visitor, Frances said to -herself--“Frances and I will forgive any lack of wisdom which has given -us--this pleasure.” He laughed at himself as he spoke. “You must expect -for a time to feel like a fine lady paying a visit to her poor -relations,” he said. - -“Oh, I know you will approve of me when you hear everything. Mamma says -I am a Waring all over, your own child.” - -The sensations with which Frances stood and listened, it would be -impossible to describe. Mamma! who was this, of whom the other girl -spoke so lightly, whom she had never heard of before? Was it possible -that a mother as well as a sister existed for her, as for others, in the -unknown world out of which Constance had come? A hundred questions were -on her lips, but she controlled herself, and asked none of them. -Reflection, which comes so often slowly, almost painfully, to her came -now like the flash of lightning. She would not betray to any one, not -even to Constance, that she had never known she had a mother. Papa -might be wrong--oh, how wrong he had been!--but she would not betray -him. She checked the exclamation on her lips; she subdued her soul -altogether, forcing it into silence. This was the secret she had been so -anxious to penetrate, which he had kept so closely from her. Why should -he have kept it from her? It was evident it had not been kept on the -other side. Whatever had happened, had Frances been in trouble, she knew -of no one with whom she could have taken refuge; but her sister had -known. Her brain was made dizzy by these thoughts. It was open to her -now to ask whatever she pleased. The mystery had been made plain; but at -the same time her mouth was stopped. She would not confuse her father, -nor betray him. It was chiefly from this bewildering sensation, and not, -as her father, suddenly grown acute in respect to Frances, thought, from -a mortifying consciousness that Constance would speak with more freedom -if she were not there, that Frances now spoke. “I think,” she said, -“that I had better go and see about the rooms. Mariuccia will not know -what to do till I come; and you will take care of Constance, papa.” - -He looked at her, hearing in her tone a wounded feeling, a touch of -forlorn pride, which perhaps was there, but not so much as he thought; -but it was Constance who replied: “Oh yes, we will take care of each -other. I have so much to tell him,” with a laugh. Frances was aware that -there was relief in it, in the prospect of her own absence, but she did -not feel it so strongly as her father did. She gave them both a smile, -and went away. - -“So that is Frances,” said the new-found sister, looking after her. “I -find her very like mamma. But everybody says I am your child, -disposition and all.” She rose, and came up to Waring, who had never -lessened the distance between himself and her. She put her hand within -his arm and held up her face to him. “I am like you. I shall be much -happier with you. Do you think you will like having me instead of -Frances, father?” She clasped his arm against her in a caressing way, -and leant her cheek upon the sleeve of his velvet coat. “Don’t you -think you would like to have _me_, father, instead of her?” she said. - -A whole panorama of the situation, like a landscape, suddenly flashed -before Waring’s mind. The spell of this caress, and the confidence she -showed of being loved, which is so great a charm, and the impulse of -nature, so much as that is worth, drew him towards this handsome -stranger, who took possession of him and his affections without a doubt, -and pushed away the other from his heart and his side with an impulse -which his philosophy said was common to all men--or at least, if that -was too sweeping, to all women. But in the same moment came that sense -of championship and proprietorship, the one inextricably mingled with -the other, which makes us all defend our own whenever assailed. Frances -was his own; she was his creation; he had taught her almost everything. -Poor little Frances! Not like this girl, who could speak for herself, -who could go everywhere, half commanding, half taking with guile every -heart that she encountered. Frances would never do that. But she would -be true, true as the heavens themselves, and never falter. By a sudden -gleam of perception he saw that, though he had never told her anything -of this, though it must have been a revelation of wonder to her, yet -that she had not burst forth into any outcries of astonishment, or asked -any compromising questions, or done anything to betray him. - -His heart went forth to Frances with an infinite tenderness. He had not -been a doting father to her; he had even--being himself what the world -calls a clever man, much above her mental level--felt himself to -condescend a little, and almost upbraided Heaven for giving him so -ordinary a little girl. And Constance, it was easy to see, was a -brilliant creature, accustomed to take her place in the world, fit to be -any man’s companion. But the first result of this revelation was to -reveal to him, as he had never seen it before, the modest and true -little soul which had developed by his side without much notice from -him, whom he had treated with such cruel want of confidence, to whom the -shock of this evening’s disclosures must have been so great, but who, -even in the moment of discovery, shielded him. All this went through -his mind with the utmost rapidity. He did not put his new-found child -away from him; but there was less enthusiasm than Constance expected in -the kiss he gave her. “I am very glad to have you here, my dear,” he -said more coldly than pleased her. “But why instead of Frances? You will -be happier both of you for being together.” - -Constance did not disengage herself with any appearance of -disappointment. She perceived, perhaps, that she was not to be so -triumphant here as was usually her privilege. She relinquished her -father’s arm after a minute, not too precipitately, and returned to her -chair. “I shall like it, as long as it is possible,” she said. “It will -be very nice for me having a father and sister instead of a mother and -brother. But you will find that mamma will not let you off. She likes to -have a girl in the house. She will have her pound of flesh.” She threw -herself back into her chair with a laugh. “How quaint it all is; and how -beautiful the view must be, and the mountains and the sea! I shall be -very happy here--the world forgetting, by the world forgot--and with -you, papa.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -“She has come to stay,” Frances said. - -“What?” cried Mariuccia, making the small monosyllable sound as if it -were the biggest word in her vocabulary. - -“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as much as I -am. She has come--home.” Frances was a little uncertain about the word, -and it was only “_a casa_” that she said--“to the house,” which means -the same. - -Mariuccia threw up her arms in astonishment. “Then there has been -another signorina all the time!” she cried. “Figure to yourself that I -have been with the padrone a dozen years, and I never heard of her -before.” - -“Papa does not talk very much about his concerns,” said Frances in her -faithfulness. “And what we have got to do is to make her very -comfortable. She is very pretty, don’t you think? Such beautiful blond -hair--and tall. I never shall be tall, I fear. They say she is like -papa; but, as is natural, she is much more beautiful than papa.” - -“Beauty is as you find it,” said Mariuccia. “_Carina_, no one will ever -be so pretty as our own signorina to Domenico and me.--What is the child -doing? She is pulling the things off her own bed.--My angel, you have -lost your good sense. You are fluttered and upset by this new arrival. -The blue room will be very good for the new young lady. Perhaps she will -not stay very long?” - -The wish was father to the thought. But Frances took no notice of the -suggestion. She said briskly, going on with what she was doing, “She -must have my room, Mariuccia. The blue room is _quite_ nice; it will do -very well for me; but I should like her to feel at home, not to think -our house was bare and cold. The blue room would be rather naked, if we -were to put her there to-night. It will not be naked for me, for, of -course, I am used to it all, and know everything. But when Constance -wakes to-morrow morning and looks round her, and wonders where she -is--oh, how strange it all seems!--I wish her to open her eyes upon -things that are pretty, and to say to herself, ‘What a delightful house -papa has! What a nice room! I feel as if I had been here all my life.’” - -“Constanza--is that her name? It is rather a common name--not -distinguished, like our signorina’s. But it is very good for her, I have -no doubt. And so you will give her your own room, that she may be fond -of the house, and stay and supplant you? That is what will happen. The -good one, the one of gold, gets pushed out of the way. I would not give -her my room to make her love the house.” - -“I think you would, Mariuccia.” - -“No; I do not think so,” said Mariuccia, squaring herself with one arm -akimbo. “No; I do not deny that I would probably take some new things -into the blue room, and put up curtains. But I am older than you are, -and I have more sense. I would not do it. If she gets your room, she -will get your place; and she will please everybody, and be admired, and -my angel will be put out of the way.” - -“I am such a horrid little wretch,” said Frances, “that I thought of -that too. It was mean, oh, so mean of me. She is prettier than I am, and -taller; and--yes, of course, she must be older too, so you see it is her -right.” - -“Is she the eldest?” asked Mariuccia. - -Frances made a puzzled pause; but she would not let the woman divine -that she did not know. “Oh yes; she must be the eldest.--Come quick, -Mariuccia; take all these things to the blue room; and now for your -clean linen and everything that is nice and sweet.” - -Mariuccia did what she was told, but with many objections. She carried -on a running murmur of protest all the time. “When there are changes in -a family; when it is by the visitation of God, that is another matter. A -son or a daughter who is in trouble, who has no other refuge; that is -natural; there is nothing to say. But to remain away during a dozen -years, and then to come back at a moment’s notice--nay, without even a -moment’s notice--in the evening, when all the beds are made up, and -demand everything that is comfortable.--I have always thought that there -was a great deal to be said for the poor young signorino of whom the -priest speaks, he who had always stayed at home when his brother was -amusing himself. _Carina_, you know what I mean.” - -“I have thought of that too,” said Frances. “But my sister is not a -prodigal; and papa has never done anything for her. It is all quite -different. When we know each other better, it will be delightful always -to have a companion, Mariuccia--think how pleasant it will be always to -have a companion. I wonder if she will like my pictures?--Now, don’t you -think the room looks very pretty? I always thought it was a pretty room. -Leave the _persiani_ open that she may see the sea; and in the morning -don’t forget to come in and close them before the sun gets hot.--I think -that will do now.” - -“Indeed I hope it will do--after all the trouble you have taken. And I -hope the young lady is worthy of it.--But, my angel, what shall I do -when I come in to wake her? Does she expect that I can talk her language -to her? No, no. And she will know nothing; she will not even be able to -say ‘Good morning.’” - -“I hope so. But if not, you must call me first, that is all,” said -Frances cheerfully.--“Now, don’t go to bed just yet; perhaps she will -like something--some tea; or perhaps a little supper; or---- I never -asked if she had dined.” - -Mariuccia regarded this possibility with equanimity. She was not afraid -of a girl’s appetite. But she made a grimace at the mention of the tea. -“It is good when one has a cold; oh yes,” she said; “but to drink it at -all times, as you do! If she wants anything it will be a great deal -better to give her a sirop, or a little red wine.” - -Frances detained Mariuccia as long as she could, and lingered herself -still longer after all was ready in the room. She did not know how to go -back to the drawing-room, where she had left these two together, to say -to each other, no doubt, many things that could be better said in her -absence. There was no jealousy, only delicacy, in this; and she had -given up her pretty room to her sister, and carried her indispensable -belongings to the bare one, with the purest pleasure in making Constance -comfortable. Constance! whom an hour ago she had never heard of, and -who now was one of them, nearer to her than anybody, except her father. -But all this being done, she had the strangest difficulty in going back, -in thrusting herself, as imagination said, between them, and -interrupting their talk. To think that it should be such a tremendous -matter to return to that familiar room in which the greater part of her -life had been passed! It felt like another world into which she was -about to enter, full of unknown elements and conditions which she did -not understand. She had not known what it was to be shy in the very -limited society she had ever known; but she was shy now, feeling as if -she had not courage to put her hand upon the handle of the door. The -familiar creak and jar of it as it opened seemed to her like noisy -instruments announcing her approach, which stopped the conversation, as -she had divined, and made her father and her sister look up with a -little start. Frances could have wished to sink through the floor, to -get rid of her own being altogether, as she saw them both give this -slight start. Constance was leaning upon the table, the light of the -lamp shining full upon her face, with the air of being in the midst of -an animated narrative, which she stopped when Frances entered; and Mr -Waring had been listening with a smile. He turned half round and held -out his hand to the timid girl behind him. “Come, Frances,” he said, -“you have been a long time making your preparations. Have you been -bringing out the fairest robe for your sister?” It was odd how the -parable--which had no signification in their circumstances--haunted them -all. - -“Your room is quite ready whenever you please. And would you like tea or -anything? I ought to have asked if you had dined,” Frances said. - -“Is she the housekeeper?--How odd!--Do you look after everything?--Dear -me! I am afraid, in that case, I shall make a very poor substitute for -Frances, papa.” - -“It is not necessary to think of that,” he said hastily, giving her a -quick glance. - -Frances saw it, with another involuntary, quickly suppressed pang. Of -course there would be things that Constance must be warned not to say. -And yet it felt as if papa had deserted her and gone over to the other -side. She had not the remotest conception what the warning referred to, -or what Constance meant. - -“I dined at the hotel,” Constance went on, “with those people whom I -travelled with. I suppose you will have to call and be civil. They were -quite delighted to think that they would know somebody at -Bordighera--some of the inhabitants.--Yes, tea, if you please. And then -I think I shall go to bed; for twenty-four hours in the train is very -fatiguing, besides the excitement. Don’t you think Frances is very much -like mamma? There is a little way she has of setting her chin.--Look -there! That is mamma all over. I think they would get on together very -well: indeed I feel sure of it.” And again there was a significant look -exchanged, which once more went like a sting to Frances’ heart. - -“Your sister has been telling me,” said Mr Waring, with a little -hesitation, “of a great many people I used to know. You must be very -much surprised, my dear; but I will take an opportunity----” He was -confused before her, as if he had been before a judge. He gave her a -look which was half shame and half gratitude, sentiments both entirely -out of place between him and Frances. She could not bear that he should -look at her so. - -“Yes, papa,” she said as easily as she could; “I know you must have a -great deal to talk of. If Constance will give me her keys I will unpack -her things for her.” Both the girls instinctively, oddly, addressed each -other through their father, the only link between them, hesitating a -little at the familiarity which nature made necessary, but which had no -other warrant. - -“Oh, isn’t there a maid who can do it?” Constance cried, opening her -eyes. - -The evening seemed long to Frances, though it was not long. Constance -trifled over the tea--which Mariuccia made with much reluctance--for -half an hour. But she talked all the time; and as her talk was of people -Frances had never heard of, and was mingled with little allusions to -what had passed before,--“I told you about him;” “You remember, we were -talking of them;” with a constant recurrence of names which to Frances -meant nothing at all,--it seemed long to her. - -She sat down at the table, and took her knitting, and listened, and -tried to look as if she took an interest. She did indeed take a great -interest; no one could have been more eager to enter without -_arrière-pensée_ into the new life thus unfolded before her; and -sometimes she was amused and could laugh at the stories Constance was -telling; but her chief feeling was that sense of being entirely “out of -it”--having nothing to do with it--which makes people who do not -understand society feel like so many ghosts standing on the margin, -knowing nothing. The feeling was strange and very forlorn. It is an -unpleasant experience even for those who are strangers, to whom it is a -passing incident; but as the speaker was her sister and the listener her -father, Frances felt this more deeply still. Generally in the evening -conversation flagged between them. He would have his book, and Frances -sometimes had a book too, or a drawing upon which she could work, or at -least her knitting. She had felt that the silence which reigned in the -room on such occasions was not what ought to be. It was not like the -talk which was supposed to go on in all the novels she had ever read -where the people were _nice_. And sometimes she attempted to entertain -her father with little incidents in the life of their poor neighbours, -or things which Mariuccia had told her; but he listened benevolently, -with his finger between the leaves of his book, or even without closing -his book, looking up at her over the leaves--only out of kindness to -her, not because he was interested; and then silence would fall on them, -a silence which was very sweet to Frances, in the midst of which her own -little stream of thoughts flowed on continuously, but which now and then -she was struck to the heart to think must be very dull for papa. - -But to-night it was not dull for him. She listened, and said to herself -this was the way to make conversation; and laughed whenever she could, -and followed every little gesture of her sister’s with admiring eyes. -But at the end, Frances, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, -felt that she had not been amused. She thought the people in the village -were just as interesting. But then she was not so clever as Constance, -and could not do them justice in the same way. - -“And now I am going to bed,” Constance said. She rose up in an instant -with a rapid movement, as if the thought had only just struck her and -she obeyed the impulse at once. There was a freedom about all her -movements which troubled and captivated Frances. She had been leaning -half over the table, her sleeves, which were a little wide, falling back -from her arms, now leaning her chin in the hollow of one hand, now -supporting it with both, putting her elbows wherever she pleased. -Frances herself had been trained by Mariuccia to very great decorum in -respect to attitudes. If she did furtively now and then lean an elbow -upon the table, she was aware that it was wrong all the time; and as for -legs, she knew it was only men who were permitted to cross them, or to -do anything save sit with two feet equal to each other upon the floor. -But Constance cared for none of these rules. She rose up abruptly -(Mariuccia would have said, as if something had stung her), almost -before she had finished what she was saying. “Show me my room, please,” -she said, and yawned. She yawned quite freely, naturally, without any -attempt to conceal or to apologise for it as if it had been an accident. -Frances could not help being shocked, yet neither could she help -laughing with a sort of pleasure in this breach of all rules. But -Constance only stared, and did not in the least understand why she -should laugh. - -“Where have you put your sister?” Mr Waring asked. - -“I have put her--in the room next to yours, papa; between your room and -mine, you know: for I am in the blue room now. There she will not feel -strange; she will have people on each side.” - -“That is to say, you have given her----” - -It was Frances’ turn now to give a warning glance. “The room I thought -she would like best,” she said, with a soft but decisive tone. She too -had a little imperious way of her own. It was so soft, that a stranger -would not have found it out; but in the Palazzo they were all acquainted -with it, and no one--not even Mariuccia--found it possible to say a -word after this small trumpet had sounded. Mr Waring accordingly was -silenced, and made no further remark. He went with his daughters to the -door, and kissed the cheek which Constance held lightly to him. “I shall -see you again, papa,” Frances said, in that same little determined -voice. - -Mr Waring did not make any reply, but shrank a little aside, to let her -pass. He looked like a man who was afraid. She had spared him; she had -not betrayed the ignorance in which he had brought her up; but now the -moment of reckoning was near, and he was afraid of Frances. He went back -into the _salone_, and walked up and down with a restlessness which was -natural enough, considering how all the embers of his life had been -raked up by this unexpected event. He had lived in absolute quiet for -fourteen long years: a strange life--a life which might have been -supposed to be impossible for a man still in the heyday of his strength; -but yet, as it appeared, a life which suited him, which he preferred to -others more natural. To settle down in an Italian village with a little -girl of six for his sole companion--when he came to think of it, nothing -could be more unnatural, more extraordinary; and yet he had liked it -well enough, as well as he could have liked anything at that crisis of -his fate. He was the kind of man who, in other circumstances, in another -age, would have made himself a monk, and spent his existence very -placidly in illuminating manuscripts. He had done something as near this -as is possible to an Englishman not a Roman Catholic, of the nineteenth -century. Unfortunately, Waring had no ecclesiastical tendencies, or even -in the nineteenth century he might have found out for himself some -pseudo-monkery in which he could have been happy. As it was, he had -retired with his little girl, and on the whole had been comfortable -enough. But now the little girl had grown up, and required to have -various things accounted for; and the other individuals who had claims -upon him, whom he thought he had shaken off altogether, had turned up -again, and had to be dealt with. The monk had an easy time of it in -comparison. He who has but himself to think of may manage himself, if -he has good luck; but the responsibility of others on your shoulders is -a terrible drawback to tranquillity. A little girl! That seemed the -simplest of all things. It had never occurred to him that she would form -a link by which all his former burdens might be drawn back; or that she, -more wonderful still, should ever arise and demand to know why. But both -of these impossible things had happened. - -Waring walked about the _salone_. He opened the glass door and stepped -out into the loggia, into the tranquil shining of the moon, which lit up -all the blues of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps all over the -quivering palms. How quiet it was! and yet that tranquil nature lying -unmoved, taking whatever came of good or evil, did harm in a far more -colossal way than any man could do. The sea, then looking so mild, would -suddenly rise up and bring havoc and destruction worse than an army; yet -next day smile again, and throw its spray into the faces of the -children, and lie like a harmless thing under the light. But a man -could not do this. A man had to give an account of all that he had done, -whether it was good or whether it was evil,--if not to God--which on the -whole was the easiest, for God knew all about it, how little harm had -been intended, how little anything had been intended, how one mistake -involved another,--if not to God--why, to some one harder to face; -perhaps to one’s little girl. - -He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, which, all of -them, were so indifferent to what was happening to him, with a feeling -that the imperfect human lamp which so easily got out of gear--as easily -as a man--was a more appropriate light for his disturbed soul; and met -Frances with her brown eyes waiting for him at the door. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -“It is not because of this only, papa--I wanted before to speak to you. -I was waiting in the loggia for you, when Constance came.” - -“What did you want, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that you have a -right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared to-night; I am -rather exhausted--to-night.” - -Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. “It shall be -exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal--oh, a great -deal more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am the same person; and -I thought it might save us all trouble if you would tell me--as much as -you think I ought to know.” - -She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest pose, -a little stiff, a little prim--the training of Mariuccia. After -Constance, there was something in the attitude of Frances which made her -father smile, though he was in no mood for smiling; and it was clear -that he could not, that he ought not to escape. He would not sit down, -however, and meet her eye. He stood by the table for a few minutes, with -his eyes upon the books, turning them over, as if he were looking for -something. At last he said, but without looking up, “There is nothing -very dreadful to tell; no guilty secret, though you may suppose so. Your -mother and I----” - -“Then I have really a mother, and she is living?” the girl cried. - -He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your age -that means a great deal--I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you knew---- -Yes; you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose that seems a -very wonderful piece of news?” - -Frances did not say anything. The water came into her eyes. Her heart -beat loudly, yet softly, against her young bosom. She had known it, so -that she was not surprised. The surprise had been broken by Constance’s -careless talk, by the wonder, the doubt, the sense of impossibility, -which had gradually yielded to a conviction that it must be so. Her -feeling was that she would like to go now, without delay, without asking -any more questions, to her mother. Her mother! and he hadn’t thought -before how much that meant to a girl--of her age! - -Mr Waring was a little disconcerted by having no answer. Of course it -meant a great deal to a girl; but still, not so much as to make her -incapable of reply. He felt a little annoyed, disturbed, perhaps -jealous, as Frances herself had been. It was with difficulty that he -resumed again; but it had to be done. - -“Your mother and I,” he said, taking up the books again, opening and -shutting them, looking at the title-page now of one, now of another, -“did not get on very well. I don’t know who was in fault--probably both. -She had been married before. She had a son whom you hear Constance speak -of as Markham. Markham has been at the bottom of all the trouble. He -drove me out of my senses when he was a boy. Now he is a man: so far as -I can make out it is he that has disturbed our peace again--hunted us -up, and sent Constance here. If you ever meet Markham--and of course now -you are sure to meet him--beware of him.” Here he made a pause again, -and looked with great seriousness at the book in his hand, turning the -leaf to finish a sentence which was continued on the next page. - -“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Frances; “I am afraid I am very stupid. -What relation is Markham to me?” - -He looked at her for a moment, then threw down the book with some -violence on the table, as if it were the offender. “He is your -step-brother,” he said. - -“My--brother? Then I have a brother too?” After a little pause she -added, “It is very wonderful, papa, to come into a new world like this -all at once. I want--to draw my breath.” - -“It is my fault that it comes upon you all at once. I never thought---- -You were a very small child when I brought you away. You forgot them -all, as was natural. I did not at first know how entirely a child -forgets; and then--then it seemed a pity to disturb your mind, and -perhaps set you longing for--what it was impossible for you to obtain.” - -It surprised him a little that Frances did not breathe a syllable of -reproach. She said nothing. In her imagination she was looking back over -these years, wondering how it would have been had she known. Would life -ever be the same, now that she did know? The world seemed to open up -round her, so much greater, wider, more full than she had thought. She -had not thought much on the subject. Life in Bordighera was more limited -even than life in an English village. The fact that she did not belong -to the people among whom she had spent all these years, made a -difference; and her father’s recluse habits, the few people he cared to -know, the stagnation of his life, made a greater difference still. -Frances had scarcely felt it until that meeting with the Mannerings, -which put so many vague ideas into her mind. A child does not naturally -inquire into the circumstances which have surrounded it all its life. It -was natural to her to live in this retired place, to see nobody, to -make amusements and occupations for herself--to know no one more like -herself than Tasie Durant. Had she even possessed any girl-friends -living the natural life of youth, that might have inspired a question or -two. But she knew no girls--except Tasie, whose girlhood was a sort of -fossil, and who might almost have been the mother of Frances. She saw -indeed the village girls, but it did not occur to her to compare herself -with them. Familiar as she was with all their ways, she was still a -_forestière_--one of the barbarous people, English, a word which -explains every difference. Frances did not quite know in what the -peculiarity and eccentricity of the English consisted; but she, too, -recognised with all simplicity that, being English, she was different. -Now it came suddenly to her mind that the difference was not anything -generic and general, but that it was her own special circumstances that -had been unlike all the rest. There had been a mother all the time; -another girl, a sister, like herself. It made her brain whirl. - -She sat quite silent, thinking it all over, not perceiving her father’s -embarrassment--thinking less of him, indeed, than of all the wonderful -new things that seemed to crowd about her. She did not blame him. She -was not thinking enough of him to blame him; her mind was quite -sufficiently occupied by her discoveries. As she had taken him all her -life without examination, she continued to take him. He was her father; -that was enough. It did not occur to her to ask herself whether what he -had done was right or wrong. Only, it was all very strange. The old -solid earth had gone from under her feet, and the old order of things -had been overthrown. She was looking out upon a world not realised--a -spectator of something like the throes of creation, seeing the new -landscape tremble and roll into place, the heights and hollows all -changing; there was a great deal of excitement in it, both pain and -pleasure. It occupied her so fully, that he fell back into a secondary -place. - -But this did not occur to Waring. He had not realised that it could be -possible. He felt himself the centre of the system in which his little -daughter lived, and did not understand how she could ignore him. He -thought her silence--the silence of amazement, and excitement, and of -that curious spectatorship--was the silence of reproach, and that her -mind was full of a sense of wrong, which only duty kept in check. He -felt himself on his trial before her. Having said all that he had to -say, he remained silent, expecting her response. If she had given vent -to an indignant exclamation, he would have been relieved; he would have -allowed that she had a right to be indignant. But her silence was more -than he could bear. He searched through the recesses of his own -thoughts; but for the moment he could not find any further excuse for -himself. He had done it for the best. Probably she would not see that. -Waring was well enough acquainted with the human mind to know that every -individual sees such a question from his or her own point of view: and -he was prepared to find that his daughter would be unable to perceive -what was so plain to him. But still he was aware that he had done it for -the best. After a while the silence became so irksome to him that he -felt compelled to break it and resume his explanations. If she would -not say anything, there were a number of things which he might say. - -“It is a pity,” he said, “that it has all broken upon you so suddenly. -If I could have divined that Constance would have taken such a step---- -To tell you the truth, I have never realised Constance at all,” he -added, with an impulse towards the daughter he knew. “She was of course -a mere child: to see her so independent, and with so distinct a will of -her own, is very bewildering. I assure you, Frances, if it is wonderful -to you, it is scarcely less wonderful to me.” - -There was something in his tone that made her lift her eyes to him; and -to see him stand there so embarrassed, so subdued, so much unlike the -father who, though very kind and tender, had always been perhaps a -little condescending, patronising, towards the girl, whom he scarcely -recognised as an independent entity, went to her heart. She could not -tell him not to be frightened--not to look at her with that guilty, -apologetic look, which altogether reversed their ordinary relationship; -but it added a pang to her bewilderment. She asked hastily, by way of -concealing this uncomfortable change, a question which she thought he -would have no difficulty in answering--“Is Constance much older than I -am, papa?” - -He gave a sort of furtive smile, as if he had no right to smile in the -circumstances. “I don’t wonder at your question. She has seen a great -deal more of the world. But if there is a minute or two between you, I -don’t know which has it. There is no elder or younger in the case. You -are twins, though no one would think so.” - -This gave Frances a further shock--though why, it would be impossible to -say. The blood rushed to her face. “She must think me--a very poor -little thing,” she said, in a hurried tone. “I never knew--I have no -friend except Tasie--to show me what girls might be.” The thought -mortified her in an extraordinary way; it brought a sudden gush of salt -tears--tears quite different from those which had welled to her eyes -when he told her of her mother. Constance, who was so different, would -despise her--Constance, who knew exactly all about it, and that Frances -was as old, perhaps a few minutes older than she. It is always -difficult to divine what form pride will take. This was the manner in -which it affected Frances. The same age! and yet the one an accomplished -woman, judging for herself--and the other not much more than a child. - -“You do yourself injustice,” said Mr Waring, somewhat rehabilitated by -the mortification of Frances. “Nobody could think you a poor little -thing. You have not the same knowledge of the world. Constance has been -very differently brought up. I think my training a great deal better -than what she has had,” he added quickly, with a mingled desire to cheer -and restore self-confidence to Frances, and to reassert himself after -his humiliation. He felt what he said; and yet, as was natural, he said -a little more than he felt. “I must tell you,” he said, in this new -impulse, “that your mother is--a much more important person than I am. -She is a great deal richer. The marriage was supposed to be much to my -advantage.” - -There was a smile on his face which Frances, looking up suddenly, warned -by a certain change of tone, did not like to see. She kept her eyes -upon him instinctively, she could not tell why, with a look which had a -certain influence upon him, though he did not well understand it either. -It meant that the unknown woman of whom he spoke was the girl’s -mother--her mother--one of whom no unbefitting word was to be said. It -checked him in a quite curious unexpected way. When he had spoken of -her, which he had done very rarely since they parted, it had been with a -sense that he was free to characterise her as he thought she deserved. -But here he was stopped short. That very evening he had said things to -Constance of her mother which in a moment he felt that he dared not say -to Frances. The sensation was a very strange one. He made a distinct -pause, and then he said hurriedly, “You must not for a moment suppose -that there was anything wrong; there is no story that you need be afraid -of hearing--nothing, neither on her side nor mine--nothing to be ashamed -of.” - -All at once Frances grew very pale; her eyes opened wide; she gazed at -him with speechless horror. The idea was altogether new to her artless -mind. It flashed through his that Constance would not have been at all -surprised--that probably she would have thought it “nice of him” to -exonerate his wife from all moral shortcoming. The holy ignorance of the -other brought a sensation of shame to Waring, and at the same time a -sensation of pride. Nothing could more clearly have proved the -superiority of his training. She would have felt no consternation, only -relief at this assurance, if she had been all her life in her mother’s -hands. - -“It is a great deal to say, however, though you are too inexperienced to -know. The whole thing was incompatibility--incompatibility of temper, -and of ideas, and of tastes, and of fortune even. I could not, you may -suppose, accept advantages purchased with my predecessor’s money, or -take the good of his rank through my wife; and she would not come down -in the world to my means and to my name. It was an utter mistake -altogether. We should have understood each other beforehand. It was -impossible that we could get on. But that was all. There was probably -more talk about it than if there had been really more to talk about.” - -Frances rose up with a little start. “I think, perhaps,” she said, “I -don’t want you to tell me any more.” - -“Well--perhaps you are right.” But he was startled by her quick -movement. “I did not mean to say anything that could shock you. If you -are to hear anything at all, the truth is what you must hear. But you -must not blame me over-much, Frances. Your very impatience of what I -have been saying will explain to you why I thought that to say -nothing--as long as I could help it--was the best.” - -Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle, but she made no -comment. “Good night, papa. To-morrow it will all seem different. -Everything is strange to-night.” - -He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the little -serious face, the face that had never been so serious before. “Don’t -think any worse of me, Frances, than you can help.” - -Her eyes opened wider with astonishment. - -“Think of you, worse---- But, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,” -she said, simply; “I am thinking of _it_.” - -Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling experiences -during the course of the evening, but this was the unkindest of all--and -it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She was not thinking of his -conduct, which was the first thing in his mind, but of IT, the -revelation which had been made to her. He might have perceived that, or -divined it, if he had not been occupied by this idea, which did not -occupy her at all--the thought of how he personally had come through the -business. He gave a little faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and -kissed her. “That’s all right,” he said. “Good night; but don’t let IT -interfere with your sleep. To-morrow everything will look different, as -you say.” - -Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she had -reached the door, returned again. “I think I ought to tell you, papa, -that I am sure the Durants know. They said a number of strange things to -me yesterday, which I think I understand now. If you don’t mind, I would -rather let them suppose that I knew all the time; otherwise, it looks -as if you thought you could not trust me.” - -“I could trust you,” he said, with a little fervour,--“my dear child, my -dear little girl--I would trust you with my life.” - -Was there a faint smile in the little girl’s limpid simple eyes? He -thought so, and it disconcerted him strangely. She made no response to -that protestation, but with a little nod of her head went away. Waring -sat down at the table again, and began to think it all over from the -beginning. He was sore and aching, like a man who has fallen from a -height. He had fallen from the pedestal on which, to Frances, he had -stood all these years. She might not be aware of it even--but he was. -And he had fallen from those Elysian fields of peace in which he had -been dwelling for so long. They had not, perhaps, seemed very Elysian -while he was secure of their possession. They had been monotonous in -their stillness, and wearied his soul. But now that he looked back upon -them, a new cycle having begun, they seemed to him like the very home -of peace. He had not done anything to forfeit this tranquillity; and yet -it was over, and he stood once more on the edge of an agitated and -disturbed life. He was a man who could bear monotony, who liked his own -way, yet liked that bondage of habit which is as hard as iron to some -souls. He liked to do the same things at the same time day after day, -and to be undisturbed in doing them. But now all his quiet was over. -Constance would have a thousand requirements such as Frances had never -dreamed of; and her brother no doubt would soon turn up--that -step-brother whom Waring had never been able to tolerate even when he -was a child. She might even come Herself--who could tell? - -When this thought crossed his mind, he got up hastily and left the -_salone_, leaving the lamp burning, as Domenico found it next morning, -to his consternation--a symbol of Chaos come again--burning in the -daylight. Mr Waring almost fled to his room and locked his door in the -horror of that suggestion. And this was not only because the prospect -of such a visit disturbed him beyond measure, but because he had not yet -made a clean breast of it. Frances did not yet know all. - -Frances for her part went to the blue room, and opened the _persiani_, -and sat looking out upon the moonlight for some time before she went to -bed. The room was bare; she missed her pictures, which Constance had -taken no notice of--the Madonna that had been above her head for so many -years, and which had vaguely appeared to her as a symbol of the mother -who had never existed in her life. Now there seemed less need for the -Madonna. The bare walls had pictures all over them--pictures of a new -life. In imagination, no one is shy, or nervous, or strange. She let the -new figures move about her freely, and delighted herself with familiar -pictures of them and the changes that must accompany them. She was not -like her father, afraid of changes. She thought of the new people, the -new combinations, the quickened life: and the thought made her smile. -They would come, and she would make the house gay and bright to receive -them. Perhaps some time, surrounded by this new family that belonged to -her, she might even be taken “home.” The thought was delightful -notwithstanding the thrill of excitement in it. But still there was -something which Frances did not know. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“What is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, walking out upon -the loggia, where the Durants were sitting, on the same memorable -afternoon on which all that has been above related occurred. The General -was dressed in loosely fitting light-coloured clothes. It was one of the -recommendations of the Riviera to him that he could wear out there all -his old Indian clothes, which would have been useless to him at home. He -was a very tall old man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the -complexion, extremely spare, with a fine old white moustache, which had -an immense effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might be -adapted in his case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the General -looked; and yet he was at bottom rather a mild old man, and had never -hurt anybody, except the sepoys in the Mutiny, all his life. His head -was covered with a broad light felt hat, which, soft as it was, took an -aggressive cock when he put it on. He held his gloves dangling from his -hand with the air of having been in too much haste to put them to their -proper use. And his step, as he stepped off the carpet upon the marble -of the loggia, sounded like that of an alert officer who has just heard -that the enemy has made a reconnaissance in force two miles off, and -that there is no time to lose. “What is this I hear about Waring?” he -said. - -“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs Durant. - -“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking his head. - -“But what is it?” asked the General. “I found Mrs Gaunt almost crying -when I went in. What she said was, ‘Charles, we have been nourishing a -viper in our bosoms.’ I am not addicted to metaphor, and I insisted upon -plain English; and then it all came out. She told me Waring was an -impostor, and had been taking us all in; that some old friend of his had -been here, and had told you. Is that true?” - -“My dear!” said Mr Durant in a tone of remonstrance. - -“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It could not -possibly be kept a secret--so few of us here, and all so intimate.” - -“Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt. - -“Oh, my dear General, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you had better -tell the General, your own way.” - -The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He was dying -to tell all that he knew, yet he could not but improve the occasion. -“Oh, ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is anything to be told, the -best of women is not to be trusted. But, General, our poor friend is no -impostor. He never said he was a widower.” - -“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls----” the General began; then with -a start, “I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl--a girl in ten -thousand,” he added, with a happy inspiration. Tasie, who was still -seated behind the teacups, give him a smile in reply. - -“Poor dear Mr Waring,” she said, “whether he is a widower or has a -wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr Waring a flirt. He -might be any one’s grandfather from his manner. I cannot see that it -matters a bit.” - -“Not so far as we are concerned, thank heaven!” said her mother, with -the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. “But I don’t think -it is quite respectable for one of our small community to have a wife -alive and never to let any one know.” - -“I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person of rank,” -said Mr Durant. “It has disturbed me very much--though, happily, as my -wife says, from no private motive.” Here the good man paused, and gave -vent to a sigh of thankfulness, establishing the impression that his -ingenuous Tasie had escaped as by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and -then he continued, “I think some one should speak to him on the subject. -He ought to understand that now it is known, public opinion requires---- -Some one should tell him----” - -“There is no one so fit as a clergyman,” the General said. - -“That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but with our poor friend---- -There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.” - -“O Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but respect to -you.” - -“I should say that a man of the world, like the General----” - -“Oh, not I,” cried the General, getting up hurriedly. “No, thank you; I -never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your business, Padre. -Besides, I have no daughter: whether he is married or not is nothing to -me.” - -“Nor to us, heaven be praised!” said Mrs Durant; and then she added, “It -is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a girl that has -never known a mother’s care! How much better for her to be with her -mother, and properly introduced into society, than living in that -hugger-mugger way, without education, without companions! If it were not -for Tasie, the child would never see a creature near her own age.” - -“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to heighten the -hardship of the situation than from any sense that this was true. - -“Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-Indian. “He -ought to be made to feel that everybody at the station---- Wife all -right, do you know? Bless me! if the wife is all right, what does the -man mean? Why can’t they quarrel peaceably, and keep up appearances, as -we all do?” - -“Oh no--not all; _we_ never quarrel.” - -“Not for a long time, my love.” - -“Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty years. We had a -little disagreement then about where we were to go for the summer. Oh, I -remember it well--the agony it cost me! Don’t say ‘as we _all_ do,’ -General, for it would not be true.” - -“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the General. “All the more -reason why you should talk to him, Padre. Tell him he’s come among us on -false pretences, not knowing the damage he might have done. I always -thought he was a queer hand to have the education of a little girl.” - -“He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, taught her to -knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the time in such a fine -position, able to do anything for her! Oh, it is of Frances I think -most!” - -“It is quite evident,” said the General, “that Mr Durant must -interfere.” - -“I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, a man -like that----” - -“There is no such great harm about the man.” - -“And he is very good to Frances,” said Tasie, almost under her breath. - -“I daresay he meant no harm,” said the General, “if that is all. Only, -he should be warned; and if anything can be done for Frances---- It is a -pity she should see nobody, and never have a chance of establishing -herself in life.” - -“She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs Durant. “As for -establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of Providence, -General. It is not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into a -girl’s mind--unless it is put there, which is so often the case.” - -“The General means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would make her more -fit to be a companion for her papa. Frances is a dear girl; but it is -quite true--she is wanting in conversation. They often sit a whole -evening together and scarcely speak.” - -“She is a nice little thing,” said the General, energetically--“I always -thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junketing of any -description, in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers in this -place. The Padre should interfere.” - -“If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr Durant. - -“I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “I’m not too fond of -interference myself. But when a man has concealed his antecedents, and -they have been found out. And then the little girl----” - -“Yes: it is Frances I think of most,” said Mr Durant. - -It was at last settled among them that it was clearly the clergyman’s -business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin with, but -he liked the moral support of what he called a consensus of opinion. Mr -Durant was not so reluctant as he professed to be. He had not much scope -for those social duties which, he was of opinion, were not the least -important of a clergyman’s functions; and though there was a little -excitement in the uncertainty from Sunday to Sunday how many people -would be at church, what the collection would be, and other varying -circumstances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was -monotonous, and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies -which Mr Durant had held, he had come in contact with various romances -of real life. These were still the days of gaming, when every German -bath had its _tapis vert_ and its little troup of tragedies. But the -Riviera was very tranquil, and Bordighera had just been found out by the -invalid and the pleasure-seeker. It was monotonous: there had been few -deaths, even among the visitors, which are always varieties in their way -for the clergyman, and often are the means of making acquaintances both -useful and agreeable to himself and his family. But as yet there had not -even been many deaths. This gave great additional excitement to what is -always exciting, for a small community--the cropping up under their very -noses, in their own immediate circle, of a mystery, of a discovery -which afforded boundless opportunity for talk. The first thing naturally -that had affected Mr and Mrs Durant was the miraculous escape of Tasie, -to whom Mr Waring _might_ have made himself agreeable, and whose peace -of mind might have been affected, for anything that could be said to the -contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-breadth escape; -although it had not occurred previously to any one that any sort of -mutual attraction between Mr Waring and Tasie was possible. - -And then the other aspects of the case became apparent. Mr Durant felt -now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, to allow -Waring to suppose that everything was as it had always been, was -impossible. He and his wife had decided this without the intervention of -General Gaunt; but when the General appeared--the only other permanent -pillar of society in Bordighera--then there arose that consensus which -made further steps inevitable. Mrs Gaunt looked in later, after dinner, -in the darkening; and she, too, was of opinion that something must be -done. She was affected to tears by the thought of that mystery in their -very midst, and of what the poor (unknown) lady must have suffered, -deserted by her husband, and bereft of her child. “He might at least -have left her her child,” she said, with a sob; and she was fully of -opinion that he should be spoken to without delay, and that they should -not rest till Frances had been restored to her mother. She thought it -was “a duty” on the part of Mr Durant to interfere. The consensus was -thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the entire -community. “We will sleep upon it,” Mr Durant said. But the morning -brought no further light. They were all agreed more strongly than ever -that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it was undeniably a duty for -the clergyman to interfere. - -Mr Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the mid-day -breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the day, the time -for business, before social intercourse is supposed to begin. He was -very carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, and was indeed a very -agreeable example of a neat old clerical gentleman. Ecclesiastical -costume was much more easy in those days. It was before the era of long -coats and soft hats, when a white tie was the one incontrovertible sign -of the clergyman who did not think of calling himself a priest. He was -indeed, having been for a number of years located in Catholic countries, -very particular not to call himself a priest, or to condescend to any -garb which could recall the _soutane_ and three-cornered hat of the -indigenous clergy. His black clothes were spotless, but of the ordinary -cut, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned. But yet neither _soutane_ nor -_berretta_ could have made it more evident that Mr Durant, setting out -with an ebony stick and black gloves, was an English clergyman going -mildly but firmly to interfere. Had he been met with in the wilds of -Africa, even there mistake would have been impossible. In his serious -eye, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of -gentle determination diffused over his whole person, this was apparent. -It made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened the door. After -what had happened yesterday, Domenico felt that anything might happen. -“Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, foretells the nature of the -tragic volume,” he said to Mariuccia--at least if he did not use these -words, his meaning was the same. He ushered the English pastor into the -room which Mr Waring occupied as a library, with bated breath. “Master -is going to catch it,” was what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might -have said. But Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle. - -Waring’s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong room, -with three windows and as many doors, opening into the dining-room on -one hand, and the ante-room on the other. It had the usual -indecipherable fresco on the roof, and the walls on one side were half -clothed with bookcases. Not a very large collection of books, and yet -enough to make a pretty show, with their old gilding, and the dull white -of the vellum in which so many were bound. It was a room in which he -spent the most of his time, and it had been made comfortable according -to the notions of comfort prevailing in these regions. There was a -square of carpet under his writing-table. His chair was a large old -_fauteuil_, covered with faded damask; and curtains, also faded, were -festooned over all the windows and doors. The _persiani_ were shut to -keep out the sun, and the cool atmosphere had a greenish tint. Waring, -however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat with his chair -pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a novel. He had -the air of a man who had taken refuge there from some embarrassment or -annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man occupied in so-called studies -needing leisure, with his note-books at hand, and pen and ink within -reach. Such a man is usually very glad to be interrupted in the midst of -his self-imposed labours, and Waring’s first movement was one of -satisfaction. He threw down the book, with an apology for having ever -taken it up in the half-ashamed, half-violent way in which he got rid of -it. Don’t suppose I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say. -But the aspect of Mr Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose -hurriedly, and gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,” he said. - -“Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun is down, -it is never so fresh in the evening. Especially for business, I find it -the best time.” - -“That means, I suppose,” said Waring, “that your visit this morning -means business, and not mere friendship, as I had supposed?” - -“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, smoothing his -hat with his hand; “but I don’t deny it is something more serious: -a--a--question I want to ask you, if you don’t mind----” - -Just at this moment, in the next room there rose a little momentary and -pleasant clamour of voices and youthful laughter; two voices -certainly--Frances and another. This made Mr Durant prick up his ears. -“You have--visitors?” he said. - -“Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring, with a -smile. - -Now was the time when Mr Durant realised the difficult nature of his -mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst of the -consensus of opinion, with everybody encouraging him and pressing upon -him the fact that it was “a duty,” the matter seemed easy enough. But -when he found himself in Waring’s house, looking a man in the face with -whose concerns he had really no right to interfere, and who had not at -all the air of a man ready to be brought to the confessional, Mr -Durant’s confidence failed him. He faltered a little; he looked at his -very unlikely penitent, and then he looked at the hat which he was -turning round in his hands, but which gave him no courage. Then he -cleared his throat. “The question is--quite a simple one,” he said. -“There can be no doubt of your ability--to answer. I am sure you will -forgive me if I say, to begin with----” - -“One moment. Is this question--which seems to trouble you--about my -affairs or yours?” - -Mr Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. “That is -just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my dear Waring, that -you have been received here--well, there is not very much in our -power--but with every friendly feeling, every desire to make you one of -us.” - -“All this preface shows me that it is I who have been found wanting. -You are quite right; you have been most hospitable and kind--to myself, -almost too much so; to my daughter, you have given all the society she -has ever known.” - -“I am glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. My dear -friend, was it right, then, when we opened our arms to you so -unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character--under false -colours?” - -“Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “This is going a little too far. I -suppose I understand what you mean. Mannering, who calls himself my old -friend, has been here; and as he could not hold his tongue if his life -depended upon it, he has told you---- But why you should accuse me of -holding a false position, of coming under false colours--which was what -you said----” - -“Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “did you never -think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and--well, still a -good-looking man--did you never think that there might be some -susceptible heart--some woman’s heart----” - -“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “I never supposed -for a moment----” - -“----Some young creature,” Mr Durant continued, solemnly, “whom it -might be my duty and your duty to guard from deception; but who -naturally, taking you for a widower----” - -Waring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up before his -table like a little boy who was about to be caned. Exclamations of -dismay fell unconsciously from his lips. “Sir! I never thought----” - -Mr Durant paused to contemplate with pleasure the panic he had caused. -He put down his hat and rubbed together his little fat white hands. “By -the blessing of Providence,” he said, drawing a long breath, “that -danger has been averted. I say it with thankfulness. We have been -preserved from any such terrible result. But had things been differently -ordered--think, only think! and be grateful to Providence.” - -The answer which Waring made to this speech was to burst into a fit of -uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering his gravity. -As soon as he paused, exhausted, to draw breath, he was off again. The -suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, became ludicrous beyond -description. He quavered forth “I beg your pardon” between the fits, -which Mr Durant did not at all like. He sat looking on at the hilarity -very gravely without a smile. - -“I did not expect so much levity,” he said. - -“I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running down his -cheeks. “Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character of a gay -Lothario is the last one in the world----” - -“It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergyman. -“Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should -withdraw. Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce.” - -“It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. But I -think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set before me, -we may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr Durant,” continued -Waring, “you have only anticipated an explanation I intended to make. -Mannering is an ass.” - -“I am sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr Durant, -with much gravity. - -“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, who is very -unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more distinctly. Constance, I -want you here.” - -The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there suddenly -appeared in the doorway the tall figure of a girl who had never been -seen as yet in Bordighera--a girl who was very simply dressed, yet who -had an air which the old gentleman, acquainted, as he flattered himself, -with the air of fine people, could not ignore. She stood with a careless -grace, returning slightly, not without a little of that impertinence of -a fine lady which is so impressive to the crowd, his salutation. “Did -you want me, papa?” she quietly asked. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -The revelation which thus burst upon Mr Durant was known throughout the -length and breadth of Bordighera, as that good man said, before the day -was out. The expression was not so inappropriate as might be at first -supposed, considering the limited society to which the fact that Mr -Waring had a second daughter was of any particular interest; for the -good chaplain’s own residence was almost at the extremity of the Marina, -and General Gaunt’s on the highest point of elevation among the olive -gardens; while the only other English inhabitants were in the hotels -near the beach, and consisted of a landlady, a housekeeper, and the -highly respectable person who had charge of the stables at the Bellevue. -This little inferior world was respectfully interested but not excited -by the new arrival. - -But to Mrs Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first importance; and -Mrs Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it was a revelation of -further wickedness, and that there was no telling where these -discoveries might end. “We shall be hearing that he has a son next,” she -said. They had a meeting in the afternoon to talk it over; and it really -did appear at first that the new disclosure enhanced the enormity of the -first--for, naturally, the difference between a widower and a married -man is aggravated by the discovery that the deceiver pretending to have -only one child has really “a family.” At the first glance the ladies -were all impressed by this; though afterwards, when they began to think -of it, they were obliged to admit that the conclusion perhaps was not -very well founded. And when it turned out that Frances and the new-comer -were twins, that altogether altered the question, and left them, though -they were by no means satisfied, without anything further to say. - -While all this went on outside the Palazzo, there was much going on -within it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrassment. -Mr Waring, with a consciousness that he was acting a somewhat cowardly -part, ran away from it altogether, and shut himself up in his library, -and left his daughters to make acquaintance with each other as they best -could. He was, as has been said, by no means sufficiently at his ease to -return to what he called his studies, the ordinary occupations of his -life. He had run away, and he knew it. He went so far as to turn the key -in one door, so that, whatever happened, he could only be invaded from -one side, and sat down uneasily in the full conviction that from moment -to moment he might be called upon to act as interpreter or peacemaker, -or to explain away difficulties. He did not understand women, but only -his wife, from whom he had taken various prejudices on the subject; -neither did he understand girls, but only Frances, whom, indeed, he -ought to have known better than to suppose, either that she was likely -to squabble with her sister, or call him in to mediate or explain. -Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; and he knew -that, yet lived in a vague dread, and did not even sit comfortably on -his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel--which was the -condition in which he was found by Mr Durant. The clergyman’s visit did -him a little good, giving him at once a grievance and an object of -ridicule. During the rest of the day he was so far distracted from his -real difficulties as to fall from time to time into fits of secret -laughter over the idea of having been in all unconsciousness a source of -danger for Tasie. He had never been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to -have run the risk of destroying Tasie’s peace of mind was beyond his -wildest imagination. He longed to confide it to somebody, but there was -no one with whom he could share the fun. Constance perhaps might have -understood; but Frances! He relapsed into gravity when he thought of -Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous suggestion which would amuse -her. - -Meanwhile the girls, who were such strangers to each other, yet so -closely bound by nature, were endeavouring to come to a knowledge of -each other by means which were much more subtle than any explanation -their father could have supplied; so that he might, if he had understood -them better, have been entirely at his ease on this point. As a matter -of fact, though Constance was the cleverer of the two, it was Frances -who advanced most quickly in her investigations, for the excellent -reason that it was Constance who talked, while Frances, for the most -part having nothing at all interesting to say of herself, held her -peace. Frances had been awakened at an unusually late hour in the -morning--for the agitation of the night had abridged her sleep at the -other end--by the sounds of mirth which accompanied the first dialogue -between her new sister and Mariuccia. The Italian which Constance knew -was limited, but it was of a finer quality than any with which Mariuccia -was acquainted; yet still they came to some sort of understanding, and -both repudiated the efforts of Frances to explain. And from that moment -Constance had kept the conversation in her hands. She did not chatter, -nor was there any appearance of loquacity in her; but Frances had lived -much alone, and had been taught not to disturb her father when she was -with him, so that it was more her habit to be talked to than to talk. -She did not even ask many questions--they were scarcely necessary; for -Constance, as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives for -the step she had taken. These revelations gave Frances new lights almost -at every word. - -“You always knew, then, about--us?” Frances said. She had intended to -say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled modesty and pride. - -“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, if not -oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham who found out -that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in the world. Papa does -not much like him. I daresay you have never heard anything very -favourable of him; but that is a mistake. We knew pretty well about you. -Mamma used to ask that you should write, since there was no reason why, -at your age, you should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I -suppose he thought it better not.” - -“I suppose so.” - -“I should not myself have been restrained by that,” said Constance. “I -think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience of that sort at our -age is too much. I should not have obeyed him. I should have told him -that in such a matter I must judge for myself. However, if one learns -anything as one grows up,” said this young philosopher, “it is that no -two people are alike. I suppose that was not how the subject presented -itself to you?” - -Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said had she -been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do so now? The -idea was a very strange one to her mind, and yet what could be more -natural? It was with a sense of precipitate avoidance of a subject which -must be contemplated fully at an after-period, that she said hurriedly, -“I have never written letters. It did not come into my head.” - -“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial scrutiny. -Then she added, with a sequence of thoughts which it was not difficult -to follow, “Don’t you think it is very odd that you and I should be the -same age?” - -Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. She -looked wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced than she -felt herself to be. “I suppose--we ought to have been like each other,” -she said. - -“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t know whether -you are like her in mind--but on the outside. And I am like _him_. It is -very funny. It shows that one has these peculiarities from one’s birth; -it couldn’t be habit or association, as people say, for I have never -been with him--neither have you with mamma. I suppose he is very -independent-minded, and does what he likes without thinking? So do I. -And you consider what other people will say, and how it will look, and a -thousand things.” - -It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not at -all in the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did she -consider very much what other people would say? Perhaps it was true. She -had been obliged, she reflected, to consider what Mariuccia would say; -so that probably Constance was right. - -“It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. He is -invaluable; he never forgets; and if you want to find anything out, he -will take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell you why I left home. -If we are going to live together as sisters, we ought to make confidants -of each other; and if you have to go, you can take my part. Well, then! -You must know there is a man in it. They say you should always ask, ‘Who -is She?’ when there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as -natural to ask, ‘Who is He?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.” - -The language, the tone, the meaning, were all new to Frances. She did -not know anything about it. When there is a row between men; when a girl -gets into a scrape: the one and the other were equally far from her -experience. She felt herself blush, though she scarcely knew why. She -shook her head when Constance added, though rather as a remark than as -a question, “Don’t you know? Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any -personal experience, but as a general principle? The man in this case -was well enough. Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; -that I had better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he -would have advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that -this is a point upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma pressed me -more than a mother has any right to do--to a person of my age.” - -“But, Constance, eighteen is not so very old.” - -“Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl, somewhat imperiously; -then she paused and added--“in most cases, when one has been much in the -world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle ages when your mother -thinks she can make you do what she pleases and marry as she likes. That -must be one’s own affair. I must say that I thought papa would take my -part more strongly, for they have always been so much opposed. But after -all, though he is not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is -his side.” - -“Did you not like--the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing could be more -modest than this question, and yet it brought the blood to her face. She -had never heard the ordinary _badinage_ on this subject, or thought of -love with anything but awe and reverence, as a mystery altogether beyond -her and out of discussion. She did not look at her sister as she put the -question. Constance lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined -with cushions, which was her father’s favourite seat, with her hands -clasped behind her head, in one of those attitudes of complete _abandon_ -which Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl. - -“Did I like--the gentleman? I did not think that question could ever -again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the good of a -sister. Mamma and Markham and all my people had such a different way of -looking at it. You must know that _that_ is not the first question, -whether you like the man. As for that, I liked him--well enough. There -was nothing to--dislike in him.” - -Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like -reproach. “I may not have used the right word. I have never spoken on -such subjects before.” - -“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said Constance. -“I suppose papa has brought you up to think that such things must never -be spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original about it. I have been asked -if he was not rich enough, if he was not handsome enough, if it was -because he had no title: and I have been asked if I loved him, which was -nonsense. I could answer all that; but you I can’t answer. Don’t I like -him? I was not going to be persecuted about him. It was Markham who put -this into my head. ‘Why don’t you go to your father,’ he said, ‘if you -won’t hear reason? He is just the sort of person to understand you, if -we don’t.’ So, then, I took them at their word. I came off--to papa.” - -“Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think----” - -“I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good sense. They -think him romantic, and all that. I have always been accustomed to -think so too. But the curious thing is that he isn’t,” said Constance, -with an injured air. “I suppose, however foolish one’s father may be for -himself, he still feels that he must stand on the parents’ side.” - -“You speak,” said Frances, with a little indignation, “as if papa was -likely to be against--his children; as if he were an enemy.” - -“Taking sides is not exactly being enemies,” said Constance. “We are -each of our own faction, you know. It is like Whigs and Tories. The -fathers and mothers side with each other, even though they may be quite -different and not get on together. There is a kind of reason in it. -Only, I have always heard so much of papa as unreasonable and unlike -other people, that I never thought of him in that light. He would be -just the same, though, except that for the present I am a stranger, and -he feels bound to be civil to me. If it were not for his politeness, he -is capable of being medieval too.” - -“I don’t know what medieval means,” said Frances, with much heat, -indignant to hear her father thus spoken of as a subject for criticism. -Perhaps she had criticised him in her time, as children use--but -silently, not putting it into words, which makes a great difference. And -besides, what one does one’s self in this way is quite another matter. -As she looked at this girl, who was a stranger, though in some -extraordinary way not a stranger, a momentary pang and impotent sudden -rage against the web of strange circumstances in which she felt herself -caught and bewildered, flamed up in her mild eyes and mind, unaccustomed -to complications. Constance took no notice of this sudden passion. - -“It means bread and water,” she said, with a laugh, “and shutting up in -one’s own room, and cutting off of all communication from without. -Mamma, if she were driven to it, is quite capable of that. They all -are--rather than give in; but as we are not living in the middle ages, -they have to give in at last. Perhaps, if I had thought that what you -may call his official character would be too strong for papa, I should -have fought it out at home. But I thought he at least would be himself, -and not a conventional parent. I am sure he has been a very queer sort -of parent hitherto; but the moment a fight comes, he puts himself on his -own side.” - -She gave forth these opinions very calmly, lying back in the long chair, -with her hands clasped behind her head, and her eyes following -abstractedly the lines of the French coast. The voice which uttered -sentiments so strange to Frances was of the most refined and harmonious -tones, low, soft, and clear. And the lines of her slim elastic figure, -and of her perfectly appropriate dress, which combined simplicity and -costliness, carelessness and consummate care, as only high art can, -added to the effect of a beauty which was not beauty in any -demonstrative sense, but rather harmony, ease, grace, fine health, fine -training, and what, for want of a better word, we call blood. Not that -the bluest blood in the world inevitably carries with it this perfection -of tone; but Constance had the effect which a thoroughbred horse has -upon the connoisseur. It would have detracted from the impression she -made had there been any special point upon which the attention -lingered--had her eyes, or her complexion, her hands, or her hair, or -any individual trait, called for particular notice. But hers was not -beauty of that description. - -Her sister, who was, so to speak, only a little rustic, sat and gazed at -her in a kind of rapture. Her heart did not, as yet at least, go out -towards this intruder into her life; her affections were as yet -untouched; and her temper was a little excited, disturbed by the -critical tone which her sister assumed, and the calm frankness with -which she spoke. But though all these dissatisfied, almost hostile -sentiments were in Frances’ mind, her eyes and attention were -fascinated. She could not resist the influence which this external -perfection of being produced upon her. It was only perhaps now in the -full morning light, in the _abandon_ of this confidence and candour, -which had none of the usual tenderness of confidential revelations, but -rather a certain half-disdainful self-discovery which necessity -demanded, that Frances fully perceived her sister’s gifts. Her own -impatience, her little impulses of irritation and contradiction, died -away in the wondering admiration with which she gazed. Constance showed -no sign even of remarking the effect she produced. She said -meditatively, dropping the words into the calm air without any apparent -conception of novelty or wonder in them, “I wonder how you will like it -when you have to go.” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -Within the first few days, a great many of these conversations took -place, and Frances gradually formed an idea to herself--not, perhaps, -very like reality, but yet an idea--of the other life from which her -sister had come. The chief figure in it was “mamma,” the mother with -whom Constance was so carelessly familiar, and of whom she herself knew -nothing at all. Frances did not learn from her sister’s revelations to -love her mother. The effect was very different from that which, in such -circumstances, might have been looked for. She came to look upon this -unknown representative of “the parents’ side,” as Constance said, as -upon a sort of natural opponent, one who understood but little and -sympathised not at all with the younger, the other faction, the -generation which was to succeed and replace her. Of this fact the other -girl never concealed her easy conviction. The elders for the moment had -the power in their hands, but by-and-by their day would be over. There -was nothing unkind or cruel in this certainty; it was simply the course -of nature: by-and-by their sway would be upset by the natural progress -of events, and in the meantime it was modified by the other certainty, -that if the young stood firm, the elders had no alternative but to give -in. Altogether, it was evident the parents’ side was not the winning -side; but all the same it had the power of annoying the other to a very -great extent, and exercised this power with a selfishness which was -sometimes brutal. Mamma, it was evident, had not considered Constance at -all. She had taken her about into society for her own ends, not for her -daughter’s pleasure: and, finally, she had formed a plan by which -Constance was to be handed over to another proprietor without any -consultation of her own wishes. - -The heart of Frances sank as she slowly identified this maternal image, -so different from that which fancy and nature suggest. She tried to -compare it with the image which she herself might in her turn have -communicated of her father, had it been she who was the expositor. It -frightened her to find, as she tried this experiment in her own mind, -that the representation of papa would not have been much more -satisfactory. She would have shown him as passing his time chiefly in -his library, taking very little notice of her tastes and wishes, -settling what was to be done, where to go, everything that was of any -importance in their life, without at all taking into account what she -wished. This she had always felt to be perfectly natural, and she had no -feeling of a grievance in the matter; but supposing it to be necessary -to tell the story to an ignorant person, what would that ignorant -person’s opinion be? It gave her a great shock to perceive that the -impression produced would also be one of harsh authority, indifferent, -taking no note of the inclinations of those who were subject to it. That -was how Constance would understand papa. It was not the case, and yet it -would look so to one who did not know. Perceiving this, Frances came to -feel that it might be natural to represent the world as consisting of -two factions, parents and children. There was a certain truth in it. If -there should happen to occur any question--which was impossible--between -papa and herself, she felt sure that it would be very difficult for him -to realise that she had a will of her own; and yet Frances was very -conscious of having a will of her own. - -In this way she learned a great many things vaguely through the talk of -her sister. She learned that balls and other entertainments, such as, to -her inexperienced fancy, had seemed nothing but pleasure, were not in -reality intended, at least as their first object, for pleasure at all. -Constance spoke of them as things to which one must go. “We looked in -for an hour,” she would say. “Mamma thinks she ought to have -half-a-dozen places to go to every evening,” with a tone in which there -was more sense of injury than pleasure. Then there was the mysterious -question of love, which was at once so simple and so awful a matter, on -which there could be no doubt or question: that, it appeared, was quite -a complicated affair, in which the lover, the hero, was transferred into -“the man,” whose qualities had to be discovered and considered, as if he -were a candidate for a public office. All this bewildered Frances more -than can be imagined or described. Her sister’s arrival, and the -disclosures involved in it, had broken up to her all the known lines of -heaven and earth; and now that everything had settled down again, and -these lines were beginning once more to be apparent, Frances felt that -though they were wider, they were narrower too. She knew a great deal -more; but knowledge only made that appear hard and unyielding which had -been elastic and infinite. The vague and imaginary were a great deal -more lovely than this, which, according to her sister’s revelation, was -the real and true. - -Another very curious experience for Frances occurred when Mrs Durant and -Mrs Gaunt, as in duty bound, and moved with lively curiosity, came to -call and make acquaintance with Mr Waring’s new daughter. Constance -regarded these visitors with languid curiosity, only half rising from -her chair to acknowledge her introduction to them, and leaving Frances -to answer the questions which they thought it only civil to put. Did she -like Bordighera? - -“Oh yes; well enough,” Constance replied. - -“My sister thinks the people not so picturesque as she expected,” said -Frances. - -“But of course she felt the delightful difference in the climate?” -People, Mrs Durant understood, were suffering dreadfully from east wind -in London. - -“Ah! one doesn’t notice in town,” said Constance. - -“My sister is not accustomed to living without comforts and with so -little furniture. You know that makes a great difference,” said her -anxious expositor and apologist. - -And then there would ensue a long pause, which the new-comer did nothing -at all to break: and then the conversation fell into the ordinary -discussion of who was at church on Sunday, how many new people from the -hotels, and how disgraceful it was that some who were evidently English -should either poke into the Roman Catholic places or never go to church -at all. - -“It comes to the same thing, indeed,” Mrs Durant said, indignantly; “for -when they go to the native place of worship, they don’t understand. Even -I, that have been so long on the Continent, I can’t follow the -service.” - -“But papa can,” said Tasie. - -“Ah, papa--papa is much more highly educated than I could ever pretend -to be; and besides, he is a theologian, and knows. There were quite -half-a-dozen people, evidently English, whom I saw with my own eyes -coming out of the chapel on the Marina. Oh, don’t say anything, Tasie! I -think, in a foreign place, where the English have a character to keep -up, it is quite a sin.” - -“You know, mamma, they think nobody knows them,” Tasie said. - -Mrs Gaunt did not care so much who attended church; but when she found -that Constance had, as she told the General, “really nothing to say for -herself,” she too dropped into her habitual mode of talk. She did her -best in the first place to elicit the opinions of Constance about -Bordighera and the climate, about how she thought Mr Waring looking, and -if dear Frances was not far stronger than she used to be. But when these -judicious inquiries failed of a response, Mrs Gaunt almost turned her -back upon Constance. “I have had a letter from Katie, my dear,” she -said. - -“Have you indeed? I hope she is quite well--and the babies?” - -“Oh, the babies; they are always well. But poor Katie, she has been a -great sufferer. I told you she had a touch of fever, by last mail. Now -it is her liver. You are never safe from your liver in India. She had -been up to the hills, and there she met Douglas, who had gone to settle -his wife and children. His wife is a poor little creature, always -ailing; and their second boy---- But, dear me, I have not told you my -great news! Frances--George is coming home! He is coming by Brindisi and -Venice, and will be here directly. I told him I was sure all my kind -neighbours would be so glad to see him; and it will be so nice for -him--don’t you think?--to see Italy on his way.” - -“Oh, very nice,” said Frances. “And you must be very happy, both the -General and you.” - -“The General does not say much, but he is just as happy as I am. Fancy! -by next mail! in another week!” The poor lady dried her eyes, and added, -laughing, sobbing, “Only think--in a week--my youngest boy!” - -“Do you mean to say,” said Constance, when Mrs Gaunt was gone, “that -you have made them believe you care? Oh, that is exactly like mamma. She -makes people think she is quite happy and quite miserable about their -affairs, when she does not care one little bit! What is this woman’s -youngest son to you?” - -“But she is---- I have been here all my life. I am glad that she should -be happy,” cried Frances, suddenly placed upon her defence. - -When she thought of it, Mrs Gaunt’s youngest boy was nothing at all to -her; nor did she care very much whether all the English in the hotels on -the Marina went to church. But Mrs Gaunt was interested in the one, and -the Durants in the other. And was it true what Constance said, that she -was a humbug, that she was a deceiver, because she pretended to care? -Frances was much confused by this question. There was something in it: -perhaps it was true. She faltered as she replied, “Do you think it is -wrong to sympathise? It is true that I don’t feel all that for myself. -But still it is not false, for I do feel it for them--in a sort of a -way.” - -“And that is all the society you have here? the clergywoman and the old -soldier. And will they expect me, too, to feel for them--in a sort of a -way?” - -“Dear Constance,” said Frances, in a pleading tone, “it could never be -quite the same, you know; because you are a stranger, and I have known -them ever since I was quite a little thing. They have all been very kind -to me. They used to have me to tea; and Tasie would play with me; and -Mrs Gaunt brought down all her Indian curiosities to amuse me. Oh, you -don’t know how kind they are! I wonder, sometimes, when I see all the -carved ivory things, and remember how they were taken out from under the -glass shades for me, a little thing, how I didn’t break them, and how -dear Mrs Gaunt could trust me with them! And then Tasie----” - -“Tasie! What a ridiculous name! But it suits her well enough. She must -be forty, I should think.” - -“Her right name is Anastasia. She is called after the Countess of -Denrara, who is her godmother,” said Frances, with great gravity. She -had heard this explanation a great many times from Mrs Durant, and -unconsciously repeated it in something of the same tone. Constance -received this with a sudden laugh, and clapped her hands. - -“I didn’t know you were a mimic. That is capital. Do Tasie now. I am -sure you can; and then we shall have got a laugh out of them at least.” - -“What do you mean?” asked Frances, growing pale. “Do you think I would -laugh at them? When you know how really good they are----” - -“Oh yes; I suppose I shall soon know,” said Constance, opening her mouth -in a yawn, which Frances thought would have been dreadful in any one -else, but which, somehow, was rather pretty in her. Everything was -rather pretty in her, even her little rudenesses and impertinences. “If -I stay here, of course I shall have to be intimate with them, as you -have been. And must I take a tender interest in the youngest boy? Let us -see! He will be a young soldier probably, as his mother is an old one, -and as he is coming from India. He will never have seen any one. He is -bound to take one of us for a goddess, either you or me.” - -“Constance!” cried Frances, in her consternation raising her voice. - -“Well,” said her sister, “is there anything wonderful in that? We are -very different types, and till we see the hero, we shall not be able to -tell which he is likely to prefer. I see my way to a little diversion, -if you will not be too puritanical, Fan. That never does a man any harm. -It will rouse him up; it will give him something to think of. A place -like this can’t have much amusement, even for a youngest boy. We shall -make him enjoy himself. His mother will bless us. You know, everybody -says it is part of education for a man.” - -Frances looked at her sister with eyes bewildered, somewhat horrified, -full of disapproval; while Constance, roused still more by her sister’s -horror than by the first mischievous suggestion which had awakened her -from her indifference, laughed, and woke up into full animation. “We -will go and return their visits,” she said, “and I will be sympathetic -too. But you shall see, when I take up a part, I make much more of it -than you do. I know who these people were who did not go to church. -They were my people--the people I travelled with; and they shall go next -Sunday, and Tasie’s heart shall rejoice. When we call, I will let them -know that England, even at Bordighera, expects every man--and every -woman, which is more to the purpose--and that their absence was -remarked. They will never be absent again, Fan. And as for the other -interest, I shall inquire all about Katie’s illnesses, and secure the -very last intelligence about the youngest boy. She will show me his -photograph. She will tell me stories of how he cut his first tooth. I -wonder,” said Constance, suddenly pausing and falling back into the old -languid tone, “whether you will take up my old ways, when you are with -mamma.” - -“I shall never have it in my power to try,” said Frances. “Mamma will -never want me.” She was a little shy of using that name. - -“Don’t you know the condition, then? I think you don’t half know our -story. Papa behaved rather absurdly, but honestly too. When they -separated, he settled that one of us should always be with her, and one -of us with him. He had the right to have taken us both. Men have more -rights than women. We belong to him, but we don’t belong to her. I don’t -see the reason of it, but still that is law. He allowed her to have one -of us always. I daresay he thought two little things like what we were -then would have been a bore to him. At all events, that is how it was -settled. Now it does not need much cleverness to see, that as I have -left her, she will probably claim you. She will not let papa off -anything he has promised. She likes a girl in the house. She will say, -‘Send me Frances.’ I should like to hide behind a door or under a table, -and see how you get on.” - -“I am sure you must be mistaken,” said Frances, much disturbed; “there -was never any question about me.” - -“No; because I was there. Oh yes; there was often question of you. Mamma -has a little picture of you as you were when you were taken away. It -always hangs in her room; and when I had to be scolded, she used to -apostrophise you. She used to say, ‘That little angel would never have -done so-and-so.’ I did, for I was a little demon; so I rather hated -you. She will send for you now; and I wonder if you will be a little -angel still. I should like to see how you get on. But I shall be fully -occupied here driving people to church, and making things pleasant for -the old soldier’s youngest son.” - -“I wish you would not talk so wildly,” said Frances. “You are laughing -at me all the time. You think I am such a simpleton, I will believe all -you say. And indeed I am not clever enough to understand when you are -laughing at me. All this is impossible. That I should take your place, -and that you should take mine--oh, impossible!” cried Frances, with a -sharper certainty than ever, as that last astounding idea made itself -apparent: that Constance should order papa’s dinners and see after the -mayonnaise, and guide Mariuccia--“oh, impossible!” she cried. - -“Nothing is impossible. You think I am not good enough to do the -housekeeping for papa. I only hope you will _s’en tirer_ of the -difficulties of my place, as I shall of yours. Be a kind girl, and write -to me, and tell me how things go. I know what will happen. You will -think everything charming at first; and then---- But don’t let Markham -get hold of you. Markham is very nice. He is capital for getting you out -of a scrape; but still, I should not advise you to be guided by him, -especially as you are papa’s child, and he is not fond of papa.” - -“Please don’t say any more,” cried Frances. “I am not going--anywhere. I -shall live as I have always done; but only more pleasantly from -having--you.” - -“That is very pretty of you,” said Constance, turning round to look at -her; “if you are sure you mean it, and that it is not only true--in a -sort of a way. I am afraid I have been nothing but a bore, breaking in -upon you like this. It would be nice if we could be together,” she -added, very calmly, as if, however, no great amount of philosophy would -be necessary to reconcile her to the absence of her sister. “It would be -nice; but it will not be allowed. You needn’t be afraid, though, for I -can give you a number of hints which will make it much easier. Mamma is -a little--she is just a little--but I should think you would get on -with her. You look so young, for one thing. She will begin your -education over again, and she likes that; and then you are like her, -which will give you a great pull. It is very funny to think of it; it is -like a transformation scene; but I daresay we shall both get on a great -deal better than you think. For my part, I never was the least afraid.” - -With this, Constance sank into her chair again, and resumed the book she -had been reading, with that perfect composure and indifference which -filled Frances with admiration and dismay. - -It was with difficulty that Frances herself kept her seat or her -self-command at all. She had been drawing, making one of those -innumerable sketches which could be made from the loggia: now of a peak -among the mountains; now of the edge of foam on the blue, blue margin of -the sea; now of an olive, now of a palm. Frances had a consistent -conscientious way of besieging Nature, forcing her day by day to render -up the secret of another tint, another shadow. It was thus she had come -to the insight which had made her father acknowledge that she was -“growing up.” But to-day her hand had no cunning. Her pulses beat so -tumultuously that her pencil shared the agitation, and fluttered too. -She kept still as long as she could, and spoiled a piece of paper, which -to Frances, with very little money to lose, was something to be thought -of. And when she had accomplished this, and added to her excitement the -disagreeable and confusing effect of failure in what she was doing, -Frances got up abruptly and took refuge in the household concerns, in -directions about the dinner, and consultations with Mariuccia, who was -beginning to be a little jealous of the signorina’s absorption in her -new companion. “If the young lady is indeed your sister, it is natural -she should have a great deal of your attention; but not even for that -does one desert one’s old friends,” Mariuccia said, with a little -offended dignity. - -Frances felt, with a sinking of the heart, that her sister’s arrival had -been to her perhaps less an unmixed pleasure than to any of the -household. But she did not say so. She made no exhibition of the -trouble in her bosom, which even the consultations over the mayonnaise -did not allay. That familiar duty indeed soothed her for the moment. The -question was whether it should be made with chicken or fish--a very -important matter. But though this did something to relieve her, the -culinary effort did not last. To think of being sent away into that new -world in which Constance had been brought up--to leave everything she -knew--to meet “mamma,” whose name she whispered to herself almost -trembling, feeling as if she took a liberty with a stranger,--all this -was bewildering, wonderful, and made her heart beat and her head ache. -It was not altogether that the anticipation was painful. There was a -flutter of excitement in it which was almost delight; but it was an -alarmed delight, which shook her nerves as much as if it had been -unmixed terror. She could not compose herself into indifference as -Constance did, or sit quietly down to think, or resume her usual -occupation, in the face of this sudden opening out before her of the -unforeseen and unknown. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -The days ran on for about a week with a suppressed and agitating -expectation in them, which seemed to Frances to blur and muddle all the -outlines, so that she could not recollect which was Wednesday or which -was Friday, but felt it all one uncomfortable long feverish sort of day. -She could not take the advantage of any pleasure there might be in -them--and it was a pleasure to watch Constance, to hear her talk, to -catch the many glimpses of so different a life, which came from the -careless, easy monologue which was her style of conversation--for the -exciting sense that she did not know what might happen at any moment, or -what was going to become of her. Even the change from her familiar place -at table, which Constance took without any thought, just as she took -her father’s favourite chair on the loggia, and the difference in her -room, helped to confuse her mind, and add to the feverish sensation of a -life altogether out of joint. - -Constance had not observed any of those signs of individual habitation -about the room which Frances had fancied would lead to a discovery of -the transfer she had made. She took it quite calmly, not perceiving -anything beyond the ordinary in the chamber which Frances had adorned -with her sketches, with the little curiosities she had picked up, with -all the little collections of her short life. It was wanting still in -many things which to Constance seemed simple necessities. How was she to -know how many were in it which were luxuries to that primitive locality? -She remained altogether unconscious, accordingly, of the sacrifice her -sister had made for her, and spoke lightly of poor Frances’ pet -decorations, and of the sketches, the authorship of which she did not -take the trouble to suspect. “What funny little pictures!” she had said. -“Where did you get so many odd little things? They look as if the -frames were homemade, as well as the drawings.” - -Fortunately she was not in the habit of waiting for an answer to such a -question, and she did not remark the colour that rose to her sister’s -cheeks. But all this added to the disturbing influence, and made these -long days look unlike any other days in Frances’ life. She took the -other side of the table meekly with a half-smile at her father, warning -him not to say anything; and she lived in the blue room without thinking -of adding to its comforts--for what was the use, so long as this -possible banishment hung over her head? Life seemed to be arrested -during these half-dozen days. They had the mingled colours and huddled -outlines of a spoiled drawing; they were not like anything else in her -life, neither the established calm and certainty that went before, nor -the strange novelty that followed after. - -There were no confidences between her father and herself during this -period. Since their conversation on the night of Constance’s arrival, -not a word had been said between them on the subject. They mutually -avoided all occasion for further talk. At least Mr Waring avoided it, -not knowing how to meet his child, or to explain to her the hazard to -which her life was exposed. He did not take into consideration the -attraction of the novelty, the charm of the unknown mother and the -unknown life, at which Frances permitted herself to take tremulous and -stealthy glimpses as the days went on. He contemplated her fate from his -own point of view as something like that of the princess who was doomed -to the dragon’s maw but for the never-to-be-forgotten interposition of -St George, that emblem of chivalry. There was no St George visible on -the horizon, and Waring thought the dragon no bad emblem of his wife. -And he was ashamed to think that he was helpless to deliver her; and -that, by his fault, this poor little Una, this hapless Andromeda, was to -be delivered over to the waiting monster. - -He avoided Frances, because he did not know how to break to her this -possibility, or how, since Constance probably had made her aware of it, -to console her in the terrible crisis at which she had arrived. It was -a painful crisis for himself as well as for her. The first evening on -which, coming into the loggia to smoke his cigarette after dinner, he -had found Constance extended in his favourite chair, had brought this -fully home to him. He strolled out upon the open-air room with all the -ease of custom, and for the first moment he did not quite understand -what it was that was changed in it, that put him out, and made him feel -as if he had come, not into his own familiar domestic centre, but -somebody else’s place. He hung about for a minute or two, confused, -before he saw what it was; and then, with a half-laugh in his throat, -and a mingled sense that he was annoyed, and that it was ridiculous to -be annoyed, strolled across the loggia, and half seated himself on the -outer wall, leaning against a pillar. He was astonished to think how -much disconcerted he was, and with what a comical sense of injury he saw -his daughter lying back so entirely at her ease in his chair. She was -his daughter, but she was a stranger, and it was impossible to tell her -that her place was not there. Next evening he was almost angry, for he -thought that Frances might have told her though he could not. And indeed -Frances had done what she could to warn her sister of the usurpation. -But Constance had no idea of vested rights of this description, and had -paid no attention. She took very little notice, indeed, of what was said -to her, unless it arrested her attention in some special way; and she -had never been trained to understand that the master of a house has -sacred privileges. She had not so much as known what it is to have a -master to a house. - -This and other trifles of the same kind gave to Waring something of the -same confused and feverish feeling which was in the mind of Frances. And -there hung over him a cloud as of something further to come, which was -not so clear as her anticipations, yet was full of discomfort and -apprehension. He thought of many things, not of one thing, as she did. -It seemed to him not impossible that his wife herself might arrive some -day as suddenly as Constance had done, to reclaim her child, or to take -away his, for that was how they were distinguished in his mind. The -idea of seeing again the woman from whom he had been separated so long, -filled him with dread; and that she should come here and see the limited -and recluse life he led, and his bare rooms, and his homely servants, -filled him with a kind of horror. Rather anything than that. He did not -like to contemplate even the idea that it might be necessary to give up -the girl, who had flattered him by taking refuge with him and seeking -his protection; but neither was the thought of being left with her and -having Frances taken from him endurable. In short, his mind was in a -state of mortal confusion and tumult. He was like the commander of a -besieged city, not knowing on what day he might be summoned to -surrender; not able to come to any conclusion whether it would be most -wise to yield, or if the state of his resources afforded any feasible -hopes of holding out. - -Constance had been a week at the Palazzo before the trumpets sounded: -The letters were delivered just before the twelve-o’clock breakfast; and -Frances had received so much warning as this, that Mariuccia informed -her there had been a large delivery that morning. The signor padrone had -a great packet; and there were also some letters for the other young -lady, Signorina Constanza. “But never any for thee, _carina_,” Mariuccia -had said. The poor girl thus addressed had a momentary sense that she -was indeed to be pitied on this account, before the excitement of the -certainty that now something definite must be known as to what was to -become of her, swelled her veins to bursting; and she felt herself grow -giddy with the thought that what had been so vague and visionary, might -now be coming near, and that in an hour or less she would know! Waring -was as usual shut up in his bookroom; but she could see Constance on the -loggia with her lap full of letters, lying back in the long chair as -usual, reading them as if they were the most ordinary things in the -world. Frances, for her part, had to wait in silence until she should -learn from others what her fate was to be. It seemed very strange that -one girl should be free to do so much, while another of the same age -could do nothing at all. - -Waring came into breakfast with the letters in his hand. “I have heard -from your mother,” he said, looking straight before him, without turning -to the right or the left. Frances tried to appropriate this to herself, -to make some reply, but her voice died in her throat; and Constance, -with the easiest certainty that it was she who was addressed, answered -before she could recover herself. - -“Yes--so have I. Mamma is rather fond of writing letters. She says she -has told you what she wishes, and then she tells me to tell you. I don’t -suppose that is of much use?” - -“Of no use at all,” said he. “She is pretty explicit. She says----” - -Constance leant over the table a little, holding up her finger. “Don’t -you think, papa,” she said, “as it is business, that it would be better -not to enter upon it just now? Wait till we have had our breakfast.” - -He looked at her with an air of surprise. “I don’t see----” he said; -then, after a moment’s reflection, “Perhaps you are right, after all. It -may be better not to say anything just now.” - -Frances had recovered her voice. She looked from one to another as they -spoke, with a cruel consciousness that it was she, not they, who was -most concerned. At this point she burst forth with feelings not to be -controlled. “If it is on my account, I would rather know at once what it -is,” she cried. - -And then she had to bear the looks of both--her father’s astonished -half-remorseful gaze, and the eyes of Constance, which conveyed a -warning. Why should Constance, who had told her of the danger, warn her -now not to betray her knowledge of it? Frances had got beyond her own -control. She was vexed by the looks which were fixed upon her, and by -the supposed consideration for her comfort which lay in their delay. “I -know,” she said quickly, “that it is something about me. If you think I -care for breakfast, you are mistaken; but I think I have a right to know -what it is, if it is about me. O papa, I don’t mean to -be--disagreeable,” she cried suddenly, sinking into her own natural tone -as she caught his eye. - -“That is not very much like you, certainly,” he said, in a confused -voice. - -“Evil communications,” said Constance, with a laugh. “I have done her -harm already.” - -Frances felt that her sister’s voice threw a new irritation into her -mood. “I am not like myself,” she said, “because I know something is -going to happen to me, and I don’t know what it is. Papa, I don’t want -to be selfish, but let me know, please, only let me know what it is.” - -“It is only that mamma has sent for you,” said Constance, lightly; “that -is all. It is nothing so very dreadful. Now do let us have our breakfast -in peace.” - -“Is that true, papa?” Frances said. - -“My dear little girl--I had meant to explain it all--to tell you--and I -have been so silly as to put off. Your sister does not understand how we -have lived together, Frances, you and I.” - -“Am I to go, papa?” - -He made a gesture of despair. “I don’t know what to do. I have given my -promise. It is as bad for me as for you, Frances. But what am I to do?” - -“I suppose,” said Constance, who had helped herself very tranquilly from -the dish which Domenico had been holding unobserved at his master’s -elbow, “that there is no law that could make you part with her, if you -don’t wish to. Promises are all very well with strangers; but they are -never kept--are they?--between husband and wife. The father has all the -right on his side, and you are not obliged to give either of us up. What -a blessing,” she cried suddenly, “to have servants who don’t understand! -That was why I said, don’t talk of it till after breakfast. But it does -not at all matter. It is as good as if he were deaf and dumb. Papa, you -need not give her up unless you like.” - -Waring looked at his daughter with mingled attention and anger. The -suggestion was detestable, but yet---- - -“And then,” she went on, “there is another thing. It might have been all -very well when we were children; but now we are of an age to judge for -ourselves. At eighteen, you can choose which you will stay with. Oh, -younger than that. There have been several trials in the papers--no one -can force Frances to go anywhere she does not like, at her age.” - -“I wish,” he said, with a little irritation, restrained by politeness, -for Constance was still a young-lady visitor to her father, “that you -would leave this question to be discussed afterwards. Your sister was -right, Frances--after breakfast--after I have had a little time to think -of it. I cannot come to any decision all at once.” - -“That is a great deal better,” said Constance, approvingly. “One can’t -tell all in a moment. Frances is like mamma in that too. She requires -you to know your own mind--to say Yes or No at once. You and I are very -like each other, papa. I shall never hurry your decision, or ask you to -settle a thing in a moment. But these cutlets are getting quite cold. Do -have some before they are spoiled.” - -Waring had no mind for the cutlets, to which he helped himself -mechanically. He did not like to look at Frances, who sat silent, with -her hands clasped on the table, pale but with a light in her eyes. The -voice of Constance running on, forming a kind of veil for the trouble -and confusion in his own mind, and doubtless in that of her sister, was -half a relief and half an aggravation; he was grateful for it, yet -irritated by it. He felt himself to play a very poor figure in the -transaction altogether, as he had felt ever since she arrived. Frances, -whom he had regarded as a child, had sprung up into a judge, into all -the dignity of an injured person, whose right to complain of the usage -to which she had been subjected no one could deny. And when he stole a -furtive glance at her pale face, her head held high, the new light that -burned in her eyes, he felt that she was fully aware of the wrong he had -done her, and that it would not be so easy to dictate what she was to -do, as everybody up to this moment had supposed. He saw, or thought he -saw, resistance, indignation, in the gleam that had been awakened in -Frances’ dove’s eyes. And his heart fell--yet rose also; for how could -he constrain her, if she refused to go? He had no right to constrain -her. Her mother might complain, but it would not be his doing. On the -other side, it would be shameful, pitiful on his part to go back from -his word--to acknowledge to his wife that he could not do what he had -pledged himself to do. - -In every way it was an uncomfortable breakfast, all the forms of which -he followed, partly for the sake of Constance, partly for that of -Domenico. But Frances ate nothing, he could see. He prolonged the meal, -through a sort of fear of the interview afterwards, of what he must say -to her, and of what she should reply. He felt ashamed of his reluctance -to encounter this young creature, whom a few days ago he had smiled at -as a child; and ashamed to look her in the face, to explain and argue -with, and entreat, where he had been always used to tell her to do this -and that, without the faintest fear that she would disobey him. If even -he had been left to tell her himself of all the circumstances, to make -her aware gradually of all that he had kept from her (for her good), to -show her now how his word was pledged! But even this had been taken out -of his hands. - -All this time no one talked but Constance, who went on with an -occasional remark and with her meal, for which she had a good appetite. -“I wish you would eat something, Frances,” she said. “You need not begin -to punish yourself at once. I feel it dreadfully, for it is all my -fault. It is I who ought to lose my breakfast, not you. If you will -take a few hints from me, I don’t think you will find it so bad. Or -perhaps, if we all lay our heads together, we may see some way out of -it. Papa knows the law, and I know the English side, and you know what -you think yourself. Let us talk it all over, and perhaps we may see our -way.” - -To this Frances made no reply save a little inclination of her head, and -sat with her eyes shining, with a certain proud air of self-control and -self-support, which was something quite new to her. When the -uncomfortable repast could be prolonged no longer, she was the first to -get up. “If you do not mind,” she said, “I want to speak to papa by -himself.” - -Constance had risen too. She looked with an air of surprise at her -little sister. “Oh, if you like,” she said; “but I think you will find -that I can be of use.” - -“If you are going to the bookroom, I will come with you, papa,” said -Frances, but she did not wait for any reply; she opened the door and -walked before him into that place of refuge, where he had been -sheltering himself all these days. Constance gave him an inquiring -look, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. - -“She is on her high horse, and she is more like mamma than ever; but I -suppose I may come all the same.” - -He wavered a moment: he would have been glad of her interposition, even -though it irritated him; but he had a whimsical sense of alarm in his -mind, which he could not get over. He was afraid of Frances--which was -one of the most comical things in the world. He shook his head, and -followed humbly into the bookroom, and himself closed the door upon the -intruder. Frances had seated herself already at his table, in the seat -which she always occupied when she came to consult him about the dinner, -or about something out of the usual round which Mariuccia had asked for. -To see her seated there, and to feel that the door was closed against -all intrusion, made Waring feel as if all this disturbance was a dream. -How good the quiet had been; the calm days, which nothing interfered -with; the little housekeeper, whose childlike prudence and wisdom were -so quaint, whose simple obedience was so ready, who never, save in -respect to the _spese_, set up her own will or way! His heart grew very -soft as he sat down and looked at her. No, he said to himself, he would -not break that old bond; he would not compel his little girl to leave -him, send her out as a sacrifice. He would rather stand against all the -wives in the world. - -“Papa,” said Frances, “a great deal of harm has been done by keeping me -ignorant. I want you to show me mamma’s letter. Unless I see it, how can -I know?” - -This pulled him up abruptly and checked the softening mood. “Your -mother’s letter,” he said, “goes over a great deal of old ground. I -don’t see that it could do you any good. It appears I promised--what -Constance told you, with her usual coolness--that one of you should be -always left with her. Perhaps that was foolish.” - -“Surely, papa, it was just.” - -“Well, I thought so at the time. I wanted to do what was right. But -there was no right in the matter. I had a perfect right to take you both -away, to bring you up as I pleased. It would have been better, perhaps, -had I done what the law authorised me to do. However, that need not be -gone into now. What your sister said was quite true. You are at an age -when you are supposed to be able to judge for yourself, and nobody in -the world can force you to go where you don’t want to go.” - -“But if you promised, and if--my mother trusted to your promise?” There -was something more solemn in that title than to say “mamma.” It seemed -easier to apply it to the unknown. - -“I won’t have you made a sacrifice of on my account,” he said, hastily. - -He was surprised by her composure, by that unwonted light in her eyes. -She answered him with great gravity, slowly, as if conscious of the -importance of her conclusion. “It would be no sacrifice,” she said. - -Waring, there could be no doubt, was very much startled. He could not -believe his ears. “No sacrifice? Do you mean to say that you want to -leave me?” he cried. - -“No, papa: that is, I did not. I knew nothing. But now that I know, if -my mother wants me, I will go to her. It is my duty. And I should like -it,” she added, after a pause. - -Waring was dumb with surprise and dismay. He stared at her, scarcely -able to believe that she could understand what she was saying--he, who -had been afraid to suggest anything of the kind, who had thought of -Andromeda and the virgins who were sacrificed to the dragon. He gazed -aghast at this new aspect of the face with which he was so familiar, the -uplifted head and shining eyes. He could not believe that this was -Frances, his always docile, submissive, unemancipated girl. - -“Papa,” she said, “everything seems changed, and I too. I want to know -my mother; I want to see--how other people live.” - -“Other people!” He was glad of an outlet for his irritation. “What have -we to do with other people? If it had not been for this unlucky arrival, -you would never have known.” - -“I must have known some time,” she said. “And do you think it right that -a girl should not know her mother--when she has a mother? I want to go -to her, papa.” - -He flung out of his chair with an angry movement, and took up the keys -which lay on his table and opened a small cabinet which stood in the -corner of the room, Frances watching him all the time with the greatest -attention. Out of this he brought a small packet of letters, and threw -them to her with a movement which, for so gentle a man, was almost -violent. “I kept these back for your good, not to disturb your mind. You -may as well have them, since they belong to you--now,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -“Come out for a walk, papa,” said Constance. - -“What! in the heat of the day? You think you are in England.” - -“No, indeed. I wish I did--at least, that is not what I mean. But I wish -you did not think it necessary to stay in a place like this. Why should -you shut yourself out from the world? You are very clever, papa.” - -“Who told you so? You cannot have found that out by your own unassisted -judgment.” - -“A great many people have told me. I have always known. You seem to have -made a mystery about us, but we never made any mystery about you: for -one thing, of course we couldn’t, for everybody knew. But if you chose -to go back to England----” - -“I shall never go back to England.” - -“Oh,” said Constance, with a laugh, “never is a long day.” - -“So long a day, that it is a pity you should link your fortunes to mine, -my dear. Frances has been brought up to it; but your case is quite -different: and you see even she catches at the first opportunity of -getting away.” - -“You are scarcely just to Frances,” said Constance, with her usual calm. -“You might have said the same thing of me. I took the first opportunity -also. To know that one has a father, whom one never remembers to have -seen, is very exciting to the imagination; and just in so much as one -has been disappointed in the parent one knows, one expects to find -perfection in the parent one has never seen. Anything that you don’t -know is better than everything you do know,” she added, with the air of -a philosopher. - -“I am afraid, in that case, acquaintance has been fatal to your ideal.” - -“Not exactly,” she said. “Of course you are quite different from what I -supposed. But I think we might get on well enough, if you please. Do -come out. If we keep in the shade, it is not really very hot. It is -often hotter in London, where nobody thinks of staying indoors. If we -are to live together, don’t you think you must begin by giving in to me -a little, papa?” - -“Not to the extent of getting a sunstroke.” - -“In March!” she cried, with a tone of mild derision. “Let me come into -the bookroom, then. You think if Frances goes that you will never be -able to get on with me.” - -“My thoughts have not gone so far as that. I may have believed that a -young lady fresh from all the gaieties of London----” - -“But so tired of them, and very glad of a little novelty, however it -presents itself.” - -“Yes, so long as it continues novel. But the novelty of making the -_spese_ in a village, and looking sharply after every centesimo that is -asked for an artichoke----” - -“The _spese_ means the daily expenses? I should not mind that. And -Mariuccia is far more entertaining than an ordinary English cook. And -the neighbours--well, the neighbours afford some opportunities for fun. -Mrs Gaunt--is it?--expects her youngest boy. And then there is Tasie.” - -The name of Tasie brought a certain relaxation to the muscles of -Waring’s face. He gave a glance round him, to see that all the doors -were closed. “I must confide in you, Constance; though, mind, Frances -must not share it. I sitting here, simple as you see me, have been -supposed dangerous to Tasie’s peace of mind. Is not that an excellent -joke?” - -“I don’t see that it is a joke at all,” said Constance, without even a -smile. “Why, Tasie is antediluvian. She must be nearly as old as you -are. Any old gentleman might be dangerous to Tasie. Tell me something -more wonderful than that.” - -“Oh, that is how it appears to you!” said Waring. His laugh came to a -sudden end, broken off, so to speak, in half, and an air of portentous -gravity came over his face. He turned over the papers on the table -before him, as with a sudden thought. “By the way, I forgot I had -something to do this afternoon,” he said. “Before dinner, perhaps, we -may take a stroll, if the sun is not so hot. But this is my -working-time,” he added, with a stiff smile. - -Constance could not disregard so plain a hint. She rose up quickly. She -had taken Frances’ chair, which he had forgiven her at first; but it -made another note against her now. - -“What have I done?” she said to herself, raising her eyebrows, angry and -yet half amused by her dismissal. Frances had gone to her room too, and -was not to be disturbed, as her sister had seen by the look of her face. -She felt herself, as she would have said, very much “out of it,” as she -wandered round the deserted _salone_, looking at everything in it with a -care suggested by her solitude rather than any real interest. She looked -at the big high-coloured water-pots, turned into decorations, one could -imagine against their will, which stood in the corners of the room, and -which were Mrs Durant’s present to Frances; and at the blue Savona -vases, with the names of medicines, real or imaginary, betraying their -original intention; and all the other decorative scraps--the little old -pictures, the pieces of needlework and brocade. They were pretty when -she looked at them, though she had not perceived their beauty at the -first glance. There were more decorations of the same description in -the ante-room, which gave her a little additional occupation; and then -she strolled into the loggia and threw herself into the long chair. She -had a book, one of the novels she had bought on the journey. But -Constance was not accustomed to much reading. She got through a chapter -or two; and then she looked round upon the view and mused a little, and -then returned to her novel. The second time she threw it down and went -back to the drawing-room, and had another look at the Savona pots. She -had thought how well they would look on a certain shelf at “home.” And -then she stopped and took herself to task. What did she mean by home? -This was home. She was going to live here; it was to be her place in the -world. What she had to do was to think of the decorations here, and -whether she could add to them, not of vacant corners in another place. -Finally, she returned again to the loggia, and sat down once more rather -drearily. - -There had never occurred a day in her experience in which she had been -so long without “something to do.” Something to do meant something that -was amusing, something to pass the time, somebody to entertain, or -perhaps, if nothing else was possible, to quarrel with. To sit alone and -look round her at “the view,” to have not a creature to say a word to, -and nothing to engage herself with but a book--and nothing to look -forward to but this same thing repeated three hundred and sixty-five -days in the year! The prospect, the thought, made Constance shiver. It -could not be. She must do something to break the spell. But what was -there to do? The _spese_ were all made for to-day, the dinner was -ordered; and she knew very little either about the _spese_ or the -dinner. She would have to learn, to think of new dishes, and write them -down in a little book, as Frances did. Her dinners, she said to herself, -must be better than those of Frances. But when was she to begin, and how -was she to do it? In the meantime she went and fetched a shawl, and -while the sun blazed straight on the loggia from the south, to which it -was open in front, and left only one scrap of shade in a corner scarcely -enough to shelter the long chair, fell asleep there, finding that she -had nothing else to do. - -Frances had gone to her room with her packet of letters. She had not -thought what they were, nor what had been the meaning of what her father -said when he gave them to her. She took them--no, not to her own room, -but to the blue room, in which there was so little comfort. Her little -easy-chair, her writing-table, all the things with which she was at -home, belonged to Constance now. She sat down, or rather up, in a stiff -upright chair, and opened her little packet upon her bed. To her -astonishment, she found that it contained letters addressed to herself, -unopened. The first of them was printed in large letters, as for the -eyes of a child. They were very simple, not very long, concluding -invariably with one phrase: “Dear, write to me”--“Write to me, my -darling.” Frances read them with her eyes full of tears, with a rising -wave of passion and resentment which seemed to suffocate her. He had -kept them all back. What harm could they have done? Why should she have -been kept in ignorance, and made to appear like a heartless child, like -a creature without sense or feeling? Half for her mother, half for -herself, the girl’s heart swelled with a kind of fury. She had not been -ready to judge her father even after she had been aware of his sin -against her. She had still accepted what he did as part of him, bidding -her own mind be silent, hushing all criticism. But when she read these -little letters, her passion overflowed. How dared he to ignore all her -rights, to allow herself to be misrepresented, to give a false idea of -her? This was the most poignant pang of all. Without being selfish, it -is still impossible to feel a wrong of this kind to another so acutely -as to yourself. He had deprived her of the comfort of knowing that she -had a mother, of communicating with her, of retaining some hold upon -that closest of natural friends. That injury she had condoned and -forgiven; but when Frances saw how her father’s action must have shaped -the idea of herself in the mind of her mother, there was a moment in -which she felt that she could not forgive him. If she had received year -by year these tender letters, yet never had been moved to answer one of -them, what a creature must she have been, devoid of heart or common -feeling, or even good taste, that superficial grace by which the want -of better things is concealed! She was more horrified by this thought -than by any other discovery she could have made. She seemed to see the -Frances whom her mother knew--a little ill-conditioned child; a small, -petty, ungracious, unloving girl. Was this what had been thought of her? -And it was all his fault--all her father’s fault! - -At first she could see no excuse for him. She would not allow to herself -that any love for her, or desire to retain her affection, was at the -bottom of the concealment. She got a sheet of paper, and began to write -with passionate vehemence, pouring forth all her heart. “Imagine that I -have never seen your dear letters till to-day--never till to-day! and -what must you think of me?” she wrote. But when she had put her whole -heart into it, working a miracle, and making the dull paper to glow and -weep, there came a change over her thoughts. She had kept his secret -till now. She had not betrayed even to Constance the ignorance in which -she had been kept; and should she change her course, and betray him -now? - -As she came to think it over, she felt that she herself blamed her -father bitterly, that he had fallen from the pedestal on which to her he -had stood all her life. Yet the thought that others should be conscious -of this degradation was terrible to her. When Constance spoke lightly of -him, it was intolerable to Frances; and the mother of whom she knew -nothing, of whom she knew only that she was her mother, a woman who had -grievances of her own against him, who would be perhaps pleased, almost -pleased, to have proof that he had done this wrong! Frances paused, with -the fervour of indignation still in her heart, to consider how she -should bear it if this were so. It was all selfish, she said to herself, -growing more miserable as she fought with the conviction that whether in -condemning him or covering what he had done, herself was her first -thought. She had to choose now between vindicating herself at his cost, -or suffering continued misconception to screen him. Which should she do? -Slowly she folded up the letter she had written and put it away, not -destroying but saving it, as leaving it still possible to carry out her -first intention. Then she wrote another shorter, half-fictitious letter, -in which the bitterness in her heart seemed to take the form of -reproach, and her consent to obey her mother’s call was forced and -sullen. But this letter was no sooner written than it was torn to -pieces. What was she to do? She ended, after much thought, by destroying -also her first letter, and writing as follows:-- - - - “DEAR MOTHER,--To see my sister and to hear that you want me, is - very bewildering and astonishing to me. I am very ready to come, - if, indeed, you will forgive me all that you must think so bad in - me, and let me try as well as I can to please you. Indeed I desire - to do so with all my heart. I have understood very little, and I - have been thoughtless, and, you will think, without any natural - affection; but this is because I was so ignorant, and had nobody to - tell me. Forgive me, dear mamma. I do not feel as if I dare write - to you now and call you by that name. As soon as we can consider - and see how it is best for me to travel, I will come. I am not - clever and beautiful, like Constance; but indeed I do wish to - please you with all my heart. - “FRANCES.” - - -This was all she could say. She put it up in an envelope, feeling -confused with her long thinking, and with all the elements of change -that were about her, and took it back to the bookroom to ask for the -address. She had felt that she could not approach her father with -composure or speak to him of ordinary matters; but it made a little -formal bridge, as it were, from one kind of intercourse to another, to -ask him for that address. - -“Will you please tell me where mamma lives?” she said. - -Waring turned round quickly to look at her. “So you have written -already?” - -“O papa, can you say ‘already’? What kind of creature must she think I -am, never to have sent a word all these years?” - -He paused a moment and then said, “You have told her, I suppose?” - -“I have told her nothing except that I am ready to come whenever we can -arrange how I am to travel. Papa,” she said, with one of those sudden -relentings which come in the way of our sternest displeasure with those -we love--“O papa,” laying her hand on his arm, “why did you do it? I am -obliged to let her think that I have been without a heart all my -life--for I cannot bear it when any one blames you.” - -“Frances,” he said, with a response equally sudden, putting his arm -round her, “what will my life be without you? I have always trusted in -you, depended on you without knowing it. Let Constance go back to her, -and stay you with me.” - -Frances had not been accustomed to many demonstrations of affection, and -this moved her almost beyond her power of self-control. She put down her -head upon her father’s shoulder and cried, “Oh, if we could only go back -a week! but we can’t; no, nor even half a day. Things that might have -been this morning, can’t be now, papa! I was very, very angry--oh, in a -rage--when I read these letters. Why did you keep them from me? Why did -you keep my mother from me? I wrote and told her everything, and then I -tore up my letter and told her nothing. But I can never be the same -again,” said the girl, shaking her head with that conviction of the -unchangeableness of a first trouble which is so strong in youth. “Now I -know what it is to be one thing and appear another, and to bear blame -and suffer for what you have not deserved.” - -Waring repented his appeal to his child. He repented even the sudden -impulse which had induced him to make it. He withdrew his arm from her -with a sudden revulsion of feeling, and a recollection that Constance -was not emotional, but a young woman of the world, who would understand -many things which Frances did not understand. He withdrew his arm, and -said somewhat coldly, “Show me what address you have put upon your -mother’s letter. You must not make any mistake in that.” - -Frances dried her eyes hastily, and felt the check. She put her letter -before him without a word. It was addressed to Mrs Waring, no more. - -“I thought so,” he said, with a laugh which sounded harsh to the -excited girl; “and, to be sure, you had no means of knowing. I told you -your mother was a much more important person than I. You will see the -difference between wealth and poverty, as well as between a father’s -sway and a mother’s, when you go to Eaton Square. This is your mother’s -address.” He wrote it hastily on a piece of paper and pushed it towards -her. Frances had received many shocks and surprises in the course of -these days, but scarcely one which was more startling to her simple mind -than this. The paper which her father gave her did not bear his name. It -was addressed to Lady Markham, Eaton Square, London. Frances turned to -him an astonished gaze. “That is where--mamma is living?” she said. - -“That is--your mother’s name and address,” he answered, coldly. “I told -you she was a greater personage than I.” - -“But, papa----” - -“You are not aware,” he said, “that, according to the beautiful -arrangements of society, a woman who makes a second marriage below her -is allowed to keep her first husband’s name. It is so, however. Lady -Markham chose to avail herself of that privilege. That is all, I -suppose? You can send your letter without any further reference to me.” - -Frances went away without a word, treading softly, with a sort of -suspense of life and thought. She could not tell how she felt or what it -meant. She knew nothing about the arrangements of society. Did it mean -something wrong, something that was impossible? Frances could not tell -how that could be--that your father and mother should not only live -apart, but have different names. A vague horror took possession of her -mind. She went back to her room again, and stared at that strange piece -of paper without knowing what to make of it. Lady Markham! It was not to -that personage she had written her poor little simple letter. How could -she say mother to a great lady, one who was not even of the same name? -She was far too ignorant to know how little importance was to be -attached to this. To Frances, a name was so much. She had never been -taught anything but the primitive symbols, the innocently conventional -alphabet of life. This new discovery filled her with a chill horror. She -took her letter out of its envelope with the intention of destroying -that too, and letting silence--that silence which had reigned over her -life so long--fall again and for ever between her and the mother whose -very name was not hers. But as this impulse swept over her, her eye -caught one of the first of the little letters which had revealed this -unknown woman to her. It was written in very large letters, such as a -child might read, and in little words. “My darling, write to me; I long -so for you.--Your loving Mother.” Her simple mind was swept by -contending impulses, like strong winds carrying her now one way, now -another. And unless it should be that unknown mother herself, there was -nobody in the world to whom she could turn for counsel. Her heart -revolted against Constance, and her father had been vexed, she could not -tell how. She was incapable of betraying the secrets of the family to -any one beyond its range. What was she to do? - -And all this because the mother, the source of so much disturbance in -her little life, was Lady Markham and not Mrs Waring! But this, to the -ignorance and simplicity of Frances, was the most incomprehensible -mystery of all. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Waring went out with Constance when the sun got low in the skies. He -took a much longer walk than was at all usual to him, and pointed out to -her many points of view. The paths that ran among the olive woods, the -little terraces which cut up the sides of the hills, the cool grey -foliage and gnarled trunks, the clumps of flowers--garden flowers in -England, but here as wild, and rather more common than blades of -grass--delighted her; and her talk delighted him. He had not gone so far -for months; nor had he, he thought, for years found the time go so fast. -It was very different from Frances’ mild attempts at conversation. “Do -you think, papa?” “Do you remember, papa?”--so many references to events -so trifling, and her little talk about Tasie’s plans and Mrs Gaunt’s -news. Constance took him boldly into her life and told him what was -going on in _the world_. Ah, the world! That was the only world. He had -said in his bitterness, again and again, that Society was as limited as -any village, and duchesses curiously like washerwomen; but when he found -himself once more on the edge of that great tumult of existence, he was -like the old war-horse that neighs at the sound of the battle. He began -to ask her questions about the people he had known. He had always been a -shy, proud man, and had never thrown himself into the stream; but still -there had been people who had known him and liked him, or whom he had -liked: and gradually he awakened into animation and pleasure. - -When they met the old General taking his stroll too, before dinner, that -leathern old Indian was dazzled by the bright creature, who walked along -between them, almost as tall as the two men, with her graceful careless -step and independent ways, not deferring to them as the other ladies -did, but leading the conversation. Even General Gaunt began to think -whether there was any one whom he could speak of, any one he had known, -whom perhaps this young exponent of Society might know. She knew -everybody. Even princes and princesses had no mystery for her. She told -them what everybody said, with an air of knowing better, which in her -meant no conceit or presumption, as in other young persons. Constance -was quite unconscious of the possibility of being thus judged. She was -not self-conscious at all. She was pleased to bring out her news for the -advantage of the seniors. Frances was none the wiser when her sister -told her the change that had come over the Grandmaisons, or how Lord -Sunbury’s marriage had been brought about, and why people now had -altered their hours for the Row. Frances listened; but she had never -heard about Lord Sunbury’s marriage, nor why it should shock the elegant -public. But the gentleman remembered his father, or they knew how young -men commit themselves without intending it. It is not to be supposed -that there was anything at all _risqué_ in Constance’s talk. She -touched, indeed, upon the edge of scandals which had been in the -newspapers, and therefore were known even to people in the Riviera; but -she did it with the most absolute innocence, either not knowing or not -understanding the evil. “I believe there was something wrong, but I -don’t know what--mamma would never tell me,” she said. Her conversation -was like a very light graceful edition of a Society paper--not then -begun to be--with all the nastiness and almost all the malice left out. -But not quite all; there was enough to be piquant. “I am afraid I am a -little ill-natured; but I don’t like that man,” she would say now and -then. When she said, “I don’t like that woman,” the gentlemen laughed. -She was conscious of having a little success, and she was pleased too. -Frances perhaps might be a better housekeeper, but Constance could not -but think that in the equally important work of amusing papa she would -be more successful than Frances. It was not much of a triumph, perhaps, -for a girl who had known so many; but yet it was the only one as yet -possible in the position in which she now was. - -“I suppose it is settled that Frances is to go?” she said, as General -Gaunt took the way to his bungalow, and she and her father turned -towards home. - -“She seems to have settled it for herself,” he said. - -“I am always repeating she is so like mamma--that is exactly what mamma -would have done. They are very positive. You and I, papa, are not -positive at all.” - -“I think, my dear, that coming off as you did by yourself, was very -positive indeed--and the first step in the universal turning upside-down -which has ensued.” - -“I hope you are not sorry I came?” - -“No, Constance; I am very glad to have you;” and this was quite true, -although he had said to Frances something that sounded very different. -Both things were true--both that he wished she had never left her -mother; that he wished she might return to her mother, and leave Frances -with him as of old; and that he was very glad to have her here. - -“If I were to go back, would not everything settle down just as it was -before?” - -Then he thought of what Frances, taught by the keenness of a personal -experience, had said to him a few hours ago. “No,” he said; “nothing can -ever be as it was before. We never can go back to what has been, whether -the event that has changed it has been happy or sad.” - -“Oh, surely sometimes,” said Constance. “That is a dreadful way to talk -of anything so trifling as my visit. It could not make any real -difference, because all the facts are just the same as they were -before.” - -To this he made no reply. She had no way, thanks to Frances, of finding -out how different the position was. And she went on, after a -pause--“Have you settled how she is to go?” - -“I have not even thought of that.” - -“But, papa, you must think of it. She cannot go unless you manage it for -her. Markham heard of those people coming, and that made it quite easy -for me. If Markham were here----” - -“Heaven forbid!” - -“I have always heard you were prejudiced about Markham. I don’t think he -is very safe myself. I have warned Frances, whatever she does, not to -let herself get into his hands.” - -“Frances in Markham’s hands! That is a thing I could not permit for a -moment. Your mother may have a right to Frances’ society, but none to -throw her into the companionship of----” - -“Her brother, papa.” - -“Her brother! Her step-brother, if you please--which I think scarcely a -relationship at all.” - -Waring’s prejudices, when they were roused, were strong. His daughter -looked up in amazement at his sudden passion, the frown on his face, and -the fire in his eye. - -“You forget that I have been brought up with Markham,” she said. “He is -_my_ brother; and he is a very good brother. There is nothing he will -not do for me. I only warned Frances because--because she is different; -because----” - -“Because--she is a girl who ought not to breathe the same air with a -young reprobate--a young----” - -“Papa! you are mistaken. I don’t know what Markham may have been; but he -is not a reprobate. It was because Frances does not understand chaff, -you know. She would think he was in earnest, and he is never in earnest. -She would take him seriously, and nobody takes him seriously. But if you -think he is bad, there is nobody who thinks that. He is not bad; he only -has ways of thinking----” - -“Which I hope my daughters will never share,” said Waring, with a little -formality. - -Constance raised her head as if to speak, but then stopped, giving him a -look which said more than words, and added no more. - -In the meantime, Frances had been left alone. She had directed her -letter, and left it to be posted. That step was taken, and could no more -be thought over. She was glad to have a little of her time to herself, -which once had been all to herself. She did not like as yet to broach -the subject of her departure to Mariuccia; but she thought it all over -very anxiously, trying to find some way which would take the burden of -the household off the shoulders of Constance, who was not used to it. -She thought the best thing to do would be to write out a series of -_menus_, which Mariuccia might suggest to Constance, or carry out upon -her own responsibility, whichever was most practicable; and she resolved -that various little offices, which she had herself fulfilled, might be -transferred to Domenico without interfering with her father’s comfort. -All these arrangements, though she turned them over very soberly in her -mind, had a bewildering, dizzying effect upon her. She thought that it -was as if she were going to die. When she went away out of the narrow -enclosure of this world, which she knew, it would be to something so -entirely strange to her that it would feel like another life. It would -be as if she had died. She would not know anything; the surroundings, -the companions, the habits, all would be strange. She would have to -leave utterly behind her everything she had ever known. The thought was -not melancholy, as is in almost all cases the thought of leaving “the -warm precincts of the cheerful day”; it made her heart swell and rise -with an anticipation which was full of excitement and pleasure, but -which at the same time had the effect of making her brain swim. - -She could not make to herself any picture of the world to which she was -going. It would be softer, finer, more luxurious than anything she knew; -but that was all. Of her mother, she did try to form some idea. She was -acquainted only with mothers who were old. Mrs Durant, who wore a cap, -encircling her face, and tied under her chin; and Mrs Gaunt, who had -grandchildren who were as old as Frances. Her own mother could not be -like either of these; but still she would be old, more or less--would -wrap herself up when she went out, would have grey, or even perhaps -white hair (which Frances liked in an old lady: Mrs Durant wore a front, -and Mrs Gaunt was suspected of dyeing her hair), and would not care to -move about more than she could help. She would go out “into Society” -beautifully dressed with lace and jewels; and Frances grew more dizzy -than ever, trying to imagine herself standing behind this magnificent -old figure, like a maid of honour behind a queen. But it was difficult -to imagine the details of a picture so completely vague. There was a -general sense of splendour and novelty, a vague expectation of something -delightful, which it was beyond her power to realise, but no more. - -She had roused herself from the vague excitement of these dreams, which -were very absorbing, though there was so little solidity in them, with a -sudden fear that she was losing all the afternoon, and that it was time -to prepare for dinner. She went to the corner of the loggia which -commanded the road, to look out for Constance and her father. The road -swept along below the Punto, leading to the town; and a smaller path -traversing the little height, climbed upward to the platform on which -the Palazzo stood. Frances did not at first remark, as in general every -villager does, an unfamiliar figure making its way up this path. Her -father and sister were not visible, and it was for them she was looking. -Presently, however, her eye was caught by the stranger, no doubt an -English tourist, with a glass in his eye--a little man, with a soft grey -felt hat, which, when he lifted his head to inspect the irregular -structure of the old town, gave him something the air of a moving -mushroom. His movements were somewhat irregular, as his eyes were fixed -upon the walls, and did not serve to guide his feet, which stumbled -continually on the inequalities of the path. His progress began to amuse -her, as he came nearer, his head raised, his eyes fixed upon the -buildings before him, his person executing a series of undulations like -a ship in a storm. He climbed up at last to the height, and coming up to -some women who were seated on the stone bench opposite to Frances on the -loggia, began to ask them for instructions as to how he was to go. - -The little scene amused Frances. The women were knitting, with a little -cluster of children about them, scrambling upon the bench or on the -dusty pathway at their feet. The stranger took off his big hat and -addressed them with few words and many gestures. She heard _casa_ and -_Inglese_, but nothing else that was comprehensible. The women did their -best to understand, and replied volubly. But here the little tourist -evidently could not follow. He was like so many tourist visitors, -capable of asking his question, but incapable of understanding the -answer given him. Then there arose a shrill little tempest of laughter, -in which he joined, and of which Frances herself could not resist the -contagion. Perhaps a faint echo from the loggia caught the ear of one of -the women, who knew her well, and who immediately pointed her out to the -stranger. The little man turned round and made a few steps towards the -Palazzo. He took off the mushroom-top of grey felt, and presented to her -an ugly, little, vivacious countenance. “I beg you ten thousand -pardons,” he said; “but if you speak English, as I understand them to -say, will you be so very kind as to direct me to the house of Mr Waring? -Ah, I am sure you are both English and kind! They tell me he lives near -here.” - -Frances looked down from her height demurely, suppressing the too ready -laugh, to listen to this queer little man; but his question took her -very much by surprise. Another stranger asking for Mr Waring! But oh, so -very different a one from Constance--an odd, little, ugly man, looking -up at her in a curious one-sided attitude, with his glass in his eye. -“He lives here,” she said. - -“What? Where?” He had replaced his mushroom on his head, and he cocked -up towards her one ear, the ear upon the opposite side to the eye which -wore the glass. - -“Here!” cried Frances, pointing to the house, with a laugh which she -could not restrain. - -The stranger raised his eyebrows so much and so suddenly that his glass -fell. “Oh!” he cried--but the biggest O, round as the O of Giotto, as -the Italians say. He paused there some time, looking at her, his mouth -retaining the shape of that exclamation; and then he cast an -investigating glance along the wall, and asked, “How am I to get in?” - -“Nunziata, show the gentleman the door,” cried Frances to one of the -women on the bench. She lingered a moment, to look again down the road -for her father. It was true that nothing could be so wonderful as what -had already happened; but it seemed that surprises were not yet over. -Would this be some one else who had known him, who was arriving full of -the tale that had been told, and was a mystery no longer--some “old -friend” like Mr Mannering, who would not be satisfied without betraying -the harmless hermit, whom some chance had led him to discover? There was -some bitterness in Frances’ thoughts. She had not remembered the -Mannerings before, in the rush of other things to think of. The fat -ruddy couple, so commonplace and so comfortable! Was it all their doing? -Were they to blame for everything? for the conclusion of one existence, -and the beginning of another? She went in to the drawing-room and sat -down there, to be ready to receive the visitor. He could not be so -important--that was impossible; there could be no new mystery to record. - -When the door opened and Domenico solemnly ushered in the stranger, -Frances, although her thoughts were not gay, could scarcely help -laughing again. He carried his big grey mushroom-top now in his hand; -and the little round head which had been covered with it seemed -incomplete without that thatch. Frances felt herself looking from the -head to the hat with a ludicrous sense of this incompleteness. He had a -small head, thinly covered with light hair, which seemed to grow in -tufts like grass. His eyes twinkled keen, two very bright grey eyes, -from the puckers of eyelids which looked old, as if he had got them -second-hand. There was a worn and wrinkled look about him altogether, -carried out in his dress, and even in his boots, which suggested the -same idea. An old man who looked young, or a young man who looked old. -She could not make out which he was. He did not bow and hesitate, and -announce himself as a friend of her father’s, as she expected him to do, -but came up to her briskly with a quick step, but a shuffle in his gait. - -“I suppose I must introduce myself,” he said; “though it is odd that we -should need an introduction to each other, you and I. After the first -moment, I should have known you anywhere. You are quite like my mother. -Frances, isn’t it? And I’m Markham, of course, you know.” - -“Markham!” cried Frances. She had thought she could never be surprised -again, after all that had happened. But she felt herself more -astonished than ever now. - -“Yes, Markham. You think I am not much to look at, I can see. I am not -generally admired at the first glance. Shake hands, Frances. You don’t -quite feel like giving me a kiss, I suppose, at the first offset? Never -mind. We shall be very good friends, after a while.” - -He sat down, drawing a chair close to her. “I am very glad to find you -by yourself. I like the looks of you. Where is Con? Taken possession of -the governor, and left you alone to keep house, I should suppose?” - -“Constance has gone out to walk with papa. I had several things to do.” - -“I have not the least doubt of it. That would be the usual distribution -of labour, if you remained together. Fan, my mother has sent me to fetch -you home.” - -Frances drew a little farther away. She gave him a look of vague alarm. -The familiarity of the address troubled her. But when she looked at him -again, her gravity gave way. He was such a queer, such a very queer -little man. - -“You may laugh if you like, my dear,” he said. “I am used to it. -Providence--always the best judge, no doubt--has not given me an -awe-inspiring countenance. It is hard upon my mother, who is a pretty -woman. But I accept the position, for my part. This is a charming place. -You have got a number of nice things. And those little sketches are very -tolerable. Who did them? You? Waring, so far as I remember, used to draw -very well himself. I am glad you draw; it will give you a little -occupation. I like the looks of you, though I don’t think you admire -me.” - -“Indeed,” said Frances, troubled, “it is because I am so much surprised. -Are you really--are you sure you are----” - -He gave a little chuckle, which made her start--an odd, comical, single -note of laughter, very cordial and very droll, like the little man -himself. - -“I’ve got a servant with me,” he said, “down at the hotel, who knows -that I go by the name of Markham when I’m at home. I don’t know if that -will satisfy you. But Con, to be sure, knows me, which will be better. -You don’t hear any voice of nature saying within your breast, ‘This is -my long-lost brother?’ That’s a pity. But by-and-by, you’ll see, we’ll -be very good friends.” - -“Oh, I didn’t mean that I had any doubt. It is so great a surprise--one -thing after another.” - -“Now, answer me one question: Did you know anything about your family -before Con came? Ah,” he said, catching her alarmed and wondering -glance, “I thought not. I have always said so:--he never told you. And -it has all burst upon you in a moment, you poor little thing. But you -needn’t be afraid of us. My mother has her faults; but she is a nice -woman. You will like her. And I am very queer to look at, and many -people think I have a screw loose. But I’m not bad to live with. Have -you settled it with the governor? Has he made many objections? He and I -never drew well together. Perhaps you know?” - -“He does not speak as if--he liked you. But I don’t know anything. I -have not been told--much. Please don’t ask me things,” Frances cried. - -“No, I will not. On the contrary, I’ll tell you everything. Con -probably would put a spoke in my wheel too. My dear little Fan, don’t -mind any of them. Give me your little hand. I am neither bad nor good. I -am very much what people make me. I am nasty with the nasty -sometimes--more shame to me: and disagreeable with the disagreeable. But -I am innocent with the innocent,” he said with some earnestness; “and -that is what you are, unless my eyes deceive me. You need not be afraid -of me.” - -“I am not afraid,” said Frances, looking at him. Then she added, after a -pause, “Not of you, nor of any one. I have never met any bad people. I -don’t believe any one would do me harm.” - -“Nor I,” he said with a little fervour, patting her hand with his own. -“All the same,” he added, after a moment, “it is perhaps wise not to -give them the chance. So I’ve come to fetch you home.” - -Frances, as she became accustomed to this remarkable new member of her -family, began immediately, after her fashion, to think of the material -necessities of the case. She could not start with him at once on the -journey; and in the meantime where should she put him? The most natural -thing seemed to be to withdraw again from the blue room, and take the -little one behind, which looked out on the court. That would do, and no -one need be any the wiser. She said, with a little hesitation, “I must -go now and see about your room.” - -“Room!” he cried. “Oh no; there’s no occasion for a room. I wouldn’t -trouble you for the world. I have got rooms at the hotel. I’ll not stay -even, since daddy’s out, to meet him. You can tell him I’m here, and -what I came for. If he wants to see me, he can look me up. I am very -glad I have seen _you_. I’ll write to the mother to-night to say you’re -quite satisfactory, and a credit to all your belongings; and I’ll come -to-morrow to see Con; and in the meantime, Fan, you must settle when you -are to come; for it is an awkward time for a man to be loafing about -here.” - -He got up as he spoke, and stooping, gave her a serious brotherly kiss -upon her forehead. “I hope you and I will be very great friends,” he -said. - -And then he was gone! Was he a dream only, an imagination? But he was -not the sort of figure that imagination produces. No dream-man could -ever be so comical to behold, could ever wear a coat so curiously -wrinkled, or those boots, in the curves of which the dust lay as in the -inequalities of the dry and much-frequented road. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -The walk with Constance, though he had set out upon it reluctantly, had -done Waring great good. He was comparatively rehabilitated in his own -eyes. Between her and him there was no embarrassment, no uneasy -consciousness. She had paid him the highest compliment by taking refuge -with him, flying to his protection from the tyranny of her mother, and -giving him thus a victory as sweet as unexpected over that nearest yet -furthest of all connections, that inalienable antagonist in life. He had -been painfully put out of _son assiette_, as the French say. Instead of -the easy superiority which he had held not only in his own house, but in -the limited society about, he had been made to stand at the bar, first -by his own child, afterwards by the old clergyman, for whom he -entertained a kindly contempt. Both of these simple wits had called upon -him to account for his conduct. It was the most extraordinary turning of -the tables that ever had occurred to a man like himself. And though he -had spoken the truth when in that moment of melting he had taken his -little girl into his arms and bidden her stay with him, he was yet glad -now to get away from Frances, to feel himself occupying his proper place -with her sister, and to return thus to a more natural state of affairs. -The intercourse between him and his child-companion had been closer than -ever could, he believed, exist between him and any other human being -whatsoever; but it had been rent in twain by all the concealments which -he was conscious of, by all the discoveries which circumstances had -forced upon her. He could no longer be at his ease with her, or she -regard him as of old. The attachment was too deep, the interruption too -hard, to be reconcilable with that calm which is necessary to ordinary -existence. Constance had restored him to herself by her pleasant -indifference, her easy talk, her unconsciousness of everything that was -not usual and natural. He began to think that if Frances were but -away--since she wished to go--a new life might begin--a life in which -there would be nothing below the surface, no mystery, which is a mistake -in ordinary life. It would be difficult, no doubt, for a brilliant -creature like Constance to content herself with the humdrum life which -suited Frances; and whether she would condescend to look after his -comforts, he did not know. But so long as Mariuccia was there, he could -not suffer much materially; and she was a very amusing companion, far -more so than her sister. As he came back to the Palazzo, he was -reconciled to himself. - -This comfortable state of mind, however, did not last long. Frances met -them at the door with her face full of excitement. “Did you meet him?” -she said. “You must have met him. He has not been gone ten minutes.” - -“Meet whom? We met no one but the General.” - -“I think I know,” cried Constance. “I have been expecting him every -day--Markham.” - -“He says he has come to fetch me, papa.” - -“Markham!” cried Waring. His face clouded over in a moment. It is not -easy to get rid of the past. He had accomplished it for a dozen years; -and after a very bad moment, he thought he was about to shuffle it off -again; but it was evident that in this he was premature. “I will not -allow you to go with Markham,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Your -mother ought to have known better. He is not an escort I choose for my -daughter.” - -“Poor old Markham! he is a very nice escort,” said Constance, in her -easy way. “There is no harm in him, papa. But never mind till after -dinner, and then we can talk it over. You are ready, Fan? Oh, then I -must fly. We have had a delightful walk. I never knew anything about -fathers before; they are the most charming companions,” she said, -kissing her hand to him as she went away. But this did not mollify the -angry man. There rose up before him the recollection of a hundred -contests in which Markham’s voice had come in to make everything worse, -or of which Markham’s escapades had been the cause. - -“I will not see him,” he said; “I will not sanction his presence here. -You must give up the idea of going altogether, till he is out of the -way.” - -“I think, papa, you must see him.” - -“Must--there is no _must_. I have not been in the habit of acknowledging -compulsion, and be assured that I shall not begin now. You seem to -expect that your small affairs are to upset my whole life!” - -“I suppose,” said Frances, “my affairs are small; but then they are my -life too.” - -She ought to have been subdued into silence by his first objection; but, -on the contrary, she met his angry eyes with a look which was -deprecating, but not abject, holding her little own. It was a long time -since Waring had encountered anything which he could not subdue and put -aside out of his path. But, he said to himself--all that long restrained -and silent temper which had once reigned and raged within him, springing -up again unsubdued--he might have known! The moment long deferred, yet -inevitable, which brought him in contact once more with his wife, could -bring nothing with it but pain. Strife breathed from her wherever she -appeared. He had never been a match for her and her boy, even at his -best; and now that he had forgotten the ways of battle--now that his -strength was broken with long quiet, and the sword had fallen from his -hand--she had a pull over him now which she had not possessed before. He -could have done without both the children a dozen years ago. He was -conscious that it was more from self-assertion than from love that he -had carried off the little one, who was rather an embarrassment than a -pleasure in those days--because he would not let her have everything her -own way. But now, Frances was no longer a creature without identity, not -a thing to be handed from one to another. He could not free himself of -interest in her, of responsibility for her, of feeling his honour and -credit implicated in all that concerned her. Ah! that woman knew. She -had a hold upon him that she never had before; and the first use she -made of it was to insult him--to send her son, whom he hated, for his -daughter, to force him into unwilling intercourse with her family once -more. - -Frances took the opportunity to steal away while her father gloomily -pursued these thoughts. What a change from the tranquillity which -nothing disturbed! now one day after another, there was some new thing -that stirred up once more the original pain. There was no end to it. The -mother’s letters at one moment, the brother’s arrival at another, and no -more quiet whatever could be done, no more peace. - -Nevertheless, dinner and the compulsory decorum which surrounds that -great daily event, had its usual tranquillising effect. Waring could not -shut out from his mind the consciousness that to refuse to see his -wife’s son, the brother of his own children, was against all the -decencies of life. It is easy to say that you will not acknowledge -social compulsion, but it is not so easy to carry out that -determination. By the time that dinner was over, he had begun to -perceive that it was impossible. He took no part, indeed, in the -conversation, lightly maintained, by Constance, about her brother, made -short replies even when he was directly addressed, and kept up more or -less the lowering aspect with which he had meant to crush Frances. But -Frances was not crushed, and Constance was excited and gay. “Let us send -for him after dinner,” she said. “He is always amusing. There is nothing -Markham does not know. I have seen nobody for a fortnight, and no doubt -a hundred things have happened. Do send for Markham, Frances. Oh, you -must not look at papa. I know papa is not fond of him. Dear! if you -think one can be fond of everybody one meets--especially one’s -connections. Everybody knows that you hate half of them. That makes it -piquant. There is nobody you can say such spiteful things to as people -whom you belong to, whom you call by their Christian names.” - -“That is a charming Christian sentiment--entirely suited to the -surroundings you have been used to, Con; but not to your sister’s.” - -“Oh, my sister! She has heard plenty of hard things said of that good -little Tasie, who is her chief friend. Frances would not say them -herself. She doesn’t know how. But her surroundings are not so ignorant. -You are not called upon to assume so much virtue, papa.” - -“I think you forget a little to whom you are speaking,” said Waring, -with quick anger. - -“Papa!” cried Constance, with an astonished look, “I think it is you who -forget. We are not in the middle ages. Mamma failed to remember that. I -hope you have not forgotten too, or I shall be sorry I came here.” - -He looked at her with a sudden gleam of rage in his eyes. That temper -which had fallen into disuse was no more overcome than when all this -trouble began; but he remained silent, putting force upon himself, -though he could not quite conceal the struggle. At last he burst into an -angry laugh: “You will train me, perhaps, in time to the subjection -which is required from the nineteenth-century parent,” he said. - -“You are charming,” said his daughter, with a bow and smile across the -table. “There is only this lingering trace of medievalism in respect to -Markham. But you know, papa, really a feud can’t exist in these days. -Now, answer me yourself; can it? It would subject us all to ridicule. My -experience is that people as a rule are _not_ fond of each other; but to -show it is quite a different thing. Oh no, papa; no one can do that.” - -She was so certain of what she said, so calm in the enunciation of her -dogmas, that he only looked at her and made no other reply. And when -Constance appealed to Frances whether Domenico should not be sent to the -hotel to call Markham, he avoided the inquiring look which Frances cast -at him. “If papa has no objection,” she said with hesitation and alarm. -“Oh, papa can have no objection,” Constance cried; and the message was -sent; and Markham came. Frances, frightened, made many attempts to -excuse herself; but her father would neither see nor hear the efforts -she made. He retired to the bookroom, while the girls entertained their -visitor on the loggia; or rather, while he entertained them. Waring -heard the voices mingled with laughter, as we all hear the happier -intercourse of others when we are ourselves in gloomy opposition, -nursing our wrath. He thought they were all the more lively, all the -more gay, because he was displeased. Even Frances. He forgot that he had -made up his mind that Frances had better go (as she wished to go), and -felt that she was a little monster to take so cordially to the stranger -whom she knew he disliked and disapproved. Nevertheless, in spite of -this irritation and misery, the little lecture of Constance on what was -conventionally necessary had so much effect upon him, that he appeared -on the loggia before Markham went away, and conquered himself -sufficiently to receive, if not to make much response to the salutations -which his wife’s son offered. Markham jumped up from his seat with the -greatest cordiality, when this tall shadow appeared in the soft -darkness. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you, sir, after all -these years. I hope I am not such a nuisance as I was when you knew me -before--at the age when all males should be kept out of sight of their -seniors, as the sage says.” - -“What sage was that? Ah! his experience was all at second-hand.” - -“Not like yours, sir,” said Markham. And then there was a slight pause, -and Constance struck in. - -“Markham is a great institution to people who don’t get the ‘Morning -Post.’ He has told me a heap of things. In a fortnight, when one is not -on the spot, it is astonishing what quantities of things happen. In town -one gets used to having one’s gossip hot and hot every day.” - -“The advantage of abstinence is that you get up such an appetite for -your next meal. I had only a few items of news. My mother gave me many -messages for you, sir. She hopes you will not object to trust little -Frances to my care.” - -“I object--to trust my child to any one’s care,” said Waring, quickly. - -“I beg your pardon. You intend, then, to take my sister to England -yourself,” the stranger said. - -It was dark, and their faces were invisible to each other; but the girls -looking on saw a momentary swaying of the tall figure towards the -smaller one, which suggested something like a blow. Frances had nearly -sprung from her seat; but Constance put out her hand and restrained -her. She judged rightly. Passion was strong in Waring’s mind. He could, -had inclination prevailed, have seized the little man by the coat, and -pitched him out into the road below. But bonds were upon him more potent -than if they had been made of iron. - -“I have no such intention,” he said. “I should not have sent her at all. -But it seems she wishes to go. I will not interfere with her -arrangements. But she must have some time to prepare.” - -“As long as she likes, sir,” said Markham, cheerfully. “A few days more -out of the east wind will be delightful to me.” - -And no more passed between them. Waring strolled about the loggia with -his cigarette. Though Frances had made haste to provide a new chair as -easy as the other, he had felt himself dislodged, and had not yet -settled into a new place; and when he joined them in the evening, he -walked about or sat upon the wall, instead of lounging in indolent -comfort, as in the old quiet days. On this evening he stood at the -corner, looking down upon the lights of the Marina in the distance, and -the grey twinkle of the olives in the clear air of the night. The poor -neighbours of the little town were still on the Punto, enjoying the -coolness of the evening hours; and the murmur of their talk rose on one -side, a little softened by distance; while the group on the loggia -renewed its conversation close at hand. Waring stood and listened with a -contempt which he partially knew to be unjust. But he was sore and -bitter, and the ease and gaiety seemed a kind of insult to him, one of -many insults which he was of opinion he had received from his wife’s -son. “Confounded little fool,” he said to himself. - -But Constance was right in her worldly wisdom. It would make them all -ridiculous if he made objections to Markham, if he showed openly his -distaste to him. The world was but a small world at Bordighera; but yet -it was not without its power. The interrupted conversation went on with -great vigour. He remarked with a certain satisfaction that Frances -talked very little; but Constance and her brother--as he called himself, -the puppy!--never paused. There is no such position for seeing the worst -of ordinary conversation. Waring stood looking out blankly upon the -bewildering lines of the hills towards the west, with the fresh breeze -in his face, and his cigarette only kept alight by a violent puff now -and then, listening to the lively chatter. How vacant it was--about this -one and that one; about So-and-so’s peculiarities; about things not even -made clear, which each understood at half a word, which made them laugh. -Good heavens! at what? Not at the wit of it, for there was no wit--at -some ludicrous image involved, which to the listener was dull, dull as -the village chatter on the other side; but more dull, more vapid in its -artificial ring. How they echoed each other, chiming in; how they -remembered anecdotes to the discredit of their friends; how they ran on -in the same circle endlessly, with jests that were without point even to -Frances, who sat listening in an eager tension of interest, but could -not keep up to the height of the talk, which was all about people she -did not know--and still more without point to Waring, who had known, but -knew no longer, and who was angry and mortified and bitter, feeling his -supremacy taken from him in his own house, and all his habits shattered: -yet knew very well that he could not resist, that to show his dislike -would only make him ridiculous; that he was once more subject to -Society, and dare not show his contempt for its bonds. - -After a while, he flung his half-finished cigarette over the wall, and -stalked away, with a brief, “Excuse me, but I must say good-night.” -Markham sprang up from his chair; but his step-father only waved his -hand to the little party sitting in the evening darkness, and went away, -his footsteps sounding upon the marble floor through the _salone_ and -the ante-room, closing the doors behind him. There was a little silence -as he disappeared. - -“Well,” said Markham, with a long-drawn breath, “that’s over, Con; and -better than might have been expected.” - -“Better! Do you call that better? I should say almost as bad as could -be. Why didn’t you stand up to him and have it out?” - -“My dear, he always cows me a little,” said Markham. “I remember times -when I stood up to him, as you say, with that idiotcy of youth in which -you are so strong, Con; but I think I generally came off second-best. -Our respected papa has a great gift of language when he likes.” - -“He does not like now, he is too old; he has given up that sort of -thing. Ask Frances. She thinks him the mildest of pious fathers.” - -“If you please,” said the little voice of Frances out of the gloom, with -a little quiver in it, “I wish you would not speak about papa so, before -me. It is perhaps quite right of you, who have no feeling for him, or -don’t know him very well; but with me it is quite different. Whether you -are right or wrong, I cannot have it, please.” - -“The little thing is quite right, Con,” said Markham. “I beg your -pardon, little Fan. I have a great respect for papa, though he has none -for me. Too old! He is not so old as I am, and a much more estimable -member of society. He is not old enough--that is the worst of it--for -you and me.” - -“I am not going to encourage her in her nonsense,” said Constance, “as -if one’s father or mother was something sacred, as if they were not just -human beings like ourselves. But apart from that, as I have told -Frances, I think very well of papa.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -There was no more said for a day or two about the journey. But that it -was to take place, that Markham was waiting till his step-sister was -ready, and that Frances was making her preparations to go, nobody any -longer attempted to ignore. Waring himself had gone so far in his -recognition of the inevitable as to give Frances money to provide for -the necessities of the journey. “You will want things,” he said. “I -don’t wish it to be thought that I kept you like a little beggar.” - -“I am not like a little beggar, papa,” cried Frances, with an -indignation which scarcely any of the more serious grievances of her -life had called forth. She had always supposed him to be pleased with -the British neatness, the modest, girlish costumes which she had -procured for herself by instinct, and which made this girl, who knew -nothing of England, so characteristically an English girl. This proof of -the man’s ignorance--which Frances ignorantly supposed to mean entire -indifference to her appearance--went to her heart. “And it is impossible -to get things here,” she added, with her usual anxious penitence for her -impatience. - -“You can do it in Paris, then,” he said. “I suppose you have enough of -the instincts of your sex to buy clothes in Paris.” - -Girls are not fond of hearing of the instincts of their sex. She turned -away with a speechless vexation and distress which it pleased him to -think rudeness. - -“But she keeps the money all the same,” he said to himself. - -Thus it became very apparent that the departure of Frances was -desirable, and that she could not go too soon. But there were still -inevitable delays. Strange! that when love embittered made her stay -intolerable, the washerwoman should have compelled it. But to Frances, -for the moment, everything in life was strange. - -And not the least strange was the way in which Markham, whom she liked, -but did not understand--the odd, little, shabby, unlovely personage, who -looked like anything in the world but an individual of importance--was -received by the little world of Bordighera. At the little church on -Sunday, there was a faint stir when he came in, and one lady pointed him -out to another as the small audience filed out. The English landlady at -the hotel spoke of him continually. Lord Markham was now the authority -whom she quoted on all subjects. Even Domenico said “meelord” with a -relish. And as for the Durants, their enthusiasm was boundless. Tasie, -not yet quite recovered from the excitement of Constance’s arrival, lost -her self-control altogether when Markham appeared. It was so good of him -to come to church, she said; such an example for the people at the -hotels! And so nice to lose so little time in coming to call upon papa. -Of course, papa, as the clergyman, would have called upon him as soon as -it was known where he was staying. But it was so pretty of Lord Markham -to conform to foreign ways and make the first visit. “We knew it must -be your doing, Frances,” she said, with grateful delight. - -“But, indeed, it was not my doing. It is Constance who makes him come,” -Frances cried. - -Constance, indeed, insisted upon his company everywhere. She took him -not only to the Durants, but to the bungalow up among the olive woods, -which they found in great excitement, and where the appearance of Lord -Markham partially failed of its effect, a greater hero and stranger -being there. George Gaunt, the General’s youngest son, the chief subject -of his mother’s talk, the one of her children about whom she always had -something to say, had arrived the day before, and in his presence even a -living lord sank into a secondary place. Mrs Gaunt had been the first to -see the little party coming along by the terraces of the olive woods. -She had, long, long ago, formed plans in her imagination of what might -ensue when George came home. She ran out to meet them with her hands -extended. “Oh Frances, I am so glad to see you! Only fancy what has -happened. George has come!” - -“I am so glad,” said Frances, who was the first. She was more used to -the winding of those terraces, and then she had not so much to talk of -as Constance and Markham. Her face lighted up with pleasure. “How happy -you must be!” she said, kissing the old lady affectionately. “Is he -well?” - -“Oh, wonderfully well; so much better than I could have hoped. George, -George, where are you? Oh, my dear, I am so anxious that you should -meet! I want you to like him,” Mrs Gaunt said. - -Almost for the first time there came a sting of pain to Frances’ heart. -She had heard a great deal of George Gaunt. She had thought of him more -than of any other stranger. She had wondered what he would be like, and -smiled to herself at his mother’s too evident anxiety to bring them -together, with a slight, not disagreeable flutter of interest in her own -consciousness. And now here he was, and she was going away! It seemed a -sort of spite of fortune, a tantalising of circumstances; though, to be -sure, she did not know whether she should like him, or if Mrs Gaunt’s -hopes might bear any fruit. Still, it was the only outlet her -imagination had ever had, and it had amused and given her a pleasant -fantastic glimpse now and then into something that might be more -exciting than the calm round of every day. - -She stood on the little grassy terrace which surrounded the house, -looking towards the open door, but not taking any step towards it, -waiting for the hero to appear. The house was low and broad, with a -veranda round it, planted in the midst of the olive groves, where there -was a little clearing, and looking down upon the sea. Frances paused -there, with her face towards the house, and saw coming out from under -the shadow of the veranda, with a certain awkward celerity, the straight -slim figure of the young Indian officer, his mother’s hero, and, in a -visionary sense, her own. She did not advance--she could not tell -why--but waited till he should come up, while his mother turned round, -beckoning to him. This was how it was that Constance and Markham arrived -upon the scene before the introduction was fully accomplished. Frances -held out her hand, and he took it, coming forward; but already his eyes -had travelled over her head to the other pair arriving, with a look of -inquiry and surprise. He let Frances’ hand drop as soon as he had -touched it, and turned towards the other, who was much more attractive -than Frances. Constance, who missed nothing, gave him a glance, and then -turned to his mother. “We brought our brother to see you,” she said (as -Frances had not had presence of mind to do). “Lord Markham, Mrs Gaunt. -But we have come at an inappropriate moment, when you are occupied.” - -“Oh no! It is so kind of you to come. This is my son George, Miss -Waring. He arrived last night. I have so wanted him to meet----” She did -not say Frances; but she looked at the little girl, who was quite -eclipsed and in the background, and then hurriedly added, “your--family: -whose name he knows, as such friends! And how kind of Lord Markham to -come all this way!” - -She was not accustomed to lords, and the mother’s mind jumped at once to -the vain, but so usual idea, that this lord, who had himself sought the -acquaintance, might be of use to her son. She brought forward George, -who was a little dazzled too; and it was not till the party had been -swept into the veranda, where the family sat in the evening, that Mrs -Gaunt became aware that Frances had followed, the last of the train, and -had seated herself on the outskirts of the group, no one paying any heed -to her. Even then, she was too much under the influence of the less -known visitors to do anything to put this right. - -“I am delighted that you think me kind,” said Markham, in answer to the -assurances which Mrs Gaunt kept repeating, not knowing what to say. “My -step-father is not of that opinion at all. Neither will you be, I fear, -when you know my mission. I have come for Frances.” - -“For Frances!” she cried, with a little suppressed scream of dismay. - -“Ah, I said you would not be of that opinion long,” Markham said. - -“Is Frances going away?” said the old General. “I don’t think we can -stand that. Eh, George? that is not what your mother promised you. -Frances is all we have got to remind us that we were young once. Waring -must hear reason. He must not let her go away.” - -“Frances is going; but Constance stays,” interposed that young lady. -“General, I hope you will adopt me in her stead.” - -“That I will,” said the old soldier; “that is, I will adopt you in -addition, for we cannot give up Frances. Though, if it is only for a -short visit, if you pledge yourself to bring her back again, I suppose -we will have to give our consent.” - -“Not I,” said Mrs Gaunt under her breath. She whispered to her son, “Go -and talk to her. This is not Frances; _that_ is Frances,” leaning over -his shoulder. - -George did not mean to shake off her hand; but he made a little -impatient movement, and turned the other way to Constance, to whom he -made some confused remark. - -All the conversation was about Frances; but she took no part in it, nor -did any one turn to her to ask her own opinion. She sat on the edge of -the veranda, half hidden by the luxuriant growth of a rose which -covered one of the pillars, and looked out rather wistfully, it must be -allowed, over the grey clouds of olives in the foreground, to the blue -of the sea beyond. It was twilight under the shade of the veranda; but -outside, a subdued daylight, on the turn towards night. The little talk -about her was very flattering, but somehow it did not have the effect it -might have had; for though they all spoke of her as of so much -importance, they left her out with one consent. Not exactly with one -consent. Mrs Gaunt, standing up, looking from one to another, -hurt--though causelessly--beyond expression by the careless movement of -her newly returned boy, would have gone to Frances, had she not been -held by some magnetic attraction which emanated from the others--the -lord who might be of use--the young lady, whose careless ease and -self-confidence were dazzling to simple people. - -Neither the General nor his wife could realise that she was merely -Frances’ sister, Waring’s daughter. She was the sister of Lord Markham. -She was on another level altogether from the little girl who had been so -pleasant to them all, and so sweet. They were very sorry that Frances -was going away; but the other one required attention, had to be thought -of, and put in the chief place. As for Frances, who knew them all so -well, she would not mind. And thus even Mrs Gaunt directed her attention -to the new-comer. - -Frances thought it was all very natural, and exactly what she wished. -She was glad, very glad that they should take to Constance; that she -should make friends with all the old friends who to herself had been so -tender and kind. But there was one thing in which she could not help but -feel a little disappointed, disconcerted, cast down. She had looked -forward to George. She had thought of this new element in the quiet -village life with a pleasant flutter of her heart. It had been natural -to think of him as falling more or less to her own share, partly because -it would be so in the fitness of things, she being the youngest of all -the society--the girl, as he would be the boy; and partly because of his -mother’s fond talk, which was full of innocent hints of her hopes. That -George should come when she was just going away, was bad enough; but -that they should have met like this, that he should have touched her -hand almost without looking at her, that he should not have had the most -momentary desire to make acquaintance with Frances, whose name he must -have heard so often, that gave her a real pang. To be sure, it was only -a pang of the imagination. She had not fallen in love with his -photograph, which did not represent an Adonis; and it was something, -half a brother, half a comrade, not (consciously) a lover, for which -Frances had looked in him. But yet it gave her a very strange, painful, -deserted sensation when she saw him look over her head at Constance, and -felt her hand dropped as soon as taken. She smiled a little at herself, -when she came to think of it, saying to herself that she knew very well -Constance was far more charming, far more pretty than she, and that it -was only natural she should take the first place. Frances was ever -anxious to yield to her the first place. But she could not help that -quiver of involuntary feeling. She was hurt, though it was all so -natural. It was natural, too, that she should be hurt, and that nobody -should take any notice--all the most everyday things in the world. - -George Gaunt came to the Palazzo next day. He came in the afternoon with -his father, to be introduced to Waring; and he came again after -dinner--for these neighbours did not entertain each other at the -working-day meals, so to speak, but only in light ornamental ways, with -cups of tea or black coffee--with both his parents to spend the evening. -He was thin and of a slightly greenish tinge in his brownness, by reason -of India and the illnesses he had gone through; but his slim figure had -a look of power; and he had kind eyes, like his mother’s, under the -hollows of his brows: not a handsome young man, yet not at all common or -ordinary, with a soldier’s neatness and upright bearing. To see Markham -beside him with his insignificant figure, his little round head tufted -with sandy hair, his one-sided look with his glass in his eye, or his -ear tilted up on the opposite side, was as good as a sermon upon race -and its advantages. For Markham was the fifteenth lord; and the Gaunts -were, it was understood, of as good as no family at all. Captain George -from that first evening had neither ear nor eye for any one but -Constance. He followed her about shyly wherever she moved; he stood over -her when she sat down. He said little, for he was shy, poor fellow; yet -he did sometimes hazard a remark, which was always subsidiary or -responsive to something she had said. - -Mrs Gaunt’s distress at this subversion of all she had intended was -great. She got Frances into a corner of the loggia while the others -talked, and thrust upon her a pretty sandalwood box inlaid with ivory, -one of those that George had brought from India. “It was always intended -for you, dear,” she said. “Of course he could not venture to offer it -himself.” - -“But, dear Mrs Gaunt,” said Frances, with a low laugh, in which all her -little bitterness evaporated, “I don’t think he has so much as seen my -face. I am sure he would not know me if we met in the road.” - -“Oh, my dear child,” cried poor Mrs Gaunt, “it has been such a -disappointment to me. I have just cried my eyes out over it. To think -you should not have taken to each other after all my dreams and hopes.” - -Frances laughed again; but she did not say that there had been no -failure of interest on her side. She said, “I hope he will soon be quite -strong and well. You will write and tell me about everybody.” - -“Indeed I will. Oh Frances, is it possible that you are going so soon? -It does not seem natural that you should be going, and that your sister -should stay.” - -“Not very natural,” said Frances, with a composure which was less -natural still. “But since it is to be, I hope you will see as much of -her as you can, dear Mrs Gaunt, and be as kind to her as you have been -to me.” - -“Oh, my dear, there is little doubt that I shall see a great deal of -her,” said the mother, with a glance towards the other group, of which -Constance was the central figure. She was lying back in the big -wicker-work chair; with the white hands and arms, which showed out of -sleeves shorter than were usual in Bordighera, very visible in the dusk, -accompanying her talk by lively gestures. The young captain stood like -a sentinel a little behind her. His mother’s glance was half vexation -and half pleasure. She thought it was a great thing for a girl to have -secured the attentions of her boy, and a very sad thing for the girl who -had not secured them. Any doubt that Constance might not be grateful, -had not yet entered her thoughts. Frances, though she was so much less -experienced, saw the matter in another light. - -“You must remember,” she said, “that she has been brought up very -differently. She has been used to a great deal of admiration, Markham -says.” - -“And now you will come in for that, and she must take what she can get -here.” Mrs Gaunt’s tone when she said this showed that she felt, whoever -was the loser, it would not be Constance. Frances shook her head. - -“It will be very different with me. And dear Mrs Gaunt, if Constance -should not--do as you wish----” - -“My dear, I will not interfere. It never does any good when a mother -interferes,” Mrs Gaunt said hurriedly. Her mind was incapable of -pursuing the idea which Frances so timidly had endeavoured to suggest. -And what could the girl do more? - -Next day she went away. Her father, pale and stern, took leave of her in -the bookroom with an air of offence and displeasure which went to -Frances’ heart. “I will not come to the station. You will have, no -doubt, everybody at the station. I don’t like greetings in the -market-places,” he said. - -“Papa,” said Frances, “Mariuccia knows everything. I am sure she will be -careful. She says she will not trouble Constance more than is necessary. -And I hope----” - -“Oh, we shall do very well, I don’t doubt.” - -“I hope you will forgive me, papa, for all I may have done wrong. I hope -you will not miss me; that is, I hope--oh, I hope you will miss me a -little, for it breaks my heart when you look at me like that.” - -“We shall do very well,” said Waring, not looking at her at all, “both -you and I.” - -“And you have nothing to say to me, papa?” - -“Nothing--except that I hope you will like your new life and find -everything pleasant. Good-bye, my dear; it is time you were going.” - -And that was all. Everybody was at the station, it was true, which made -it no place for leave-takings; and Frances did not know that he watched -the train from the loggia till the white plume of steam disappeared with -a roar in the next of those many tunnels that spoil the beautiful -Cornice road. Constance walked back in the midst of the Gaunts and -Durants, looking, as she always did, the mistress of the situation. But -neither did Frances, blotted out in the corner of the carriage, crying -behind her veil and her handkerchief, leaving all she knew behind her, -understand with what a tug at her heart Constance saw the familiar -little ugly face of her brother for the last time at the -carriage-window, and turned back to the deadly monotony of the shelter -she had sought for herself, with a sense that everything was over, and -she herself completely deserted, like a wreck upon a desolate shore. - - END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. - - PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. - - * * * * * - - - - - A HOUSE - DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF - - BY - - MRS OLIPHANT - - IN THREE VOLUMES - - VOL. II. - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - MDCCCLXXXVI - - - - - A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -“Yes, I hope you will come and see me often. Oh yes, I shall miss my -sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa. Good night. Good -night, Captain Gaunt. No; I don’t sketch; that was Frances. I don’t know -the country either. It was my sister who knew it. I am quite ignorant -and useless. Good night.” - -Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of his only -remaining companion. He heard her come in afterwards with a step more -distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried farther. He said to -himself that everything was more distinct about this girl, and he was -glad that she was coming, glad of some relief from the depression which -overcame him against his will. She came across one room after another, -and out upon the loggia, throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped -chair. It did not occur to him that she was unaware of his presence, and -he was surprised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, there -could be no doubt why it was that Constance did not speak. There was no -loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, which it was -impossible to mistake. She said, after a moment, to herself, “What a -fool I am!” But even this reflection did not stem the tide. A sensation -of utter solitude had seized upon her. She was abandoned, among -strangers; and though she had so much experience of the world, it was -not of this world that Constance had any knowledge. Had she been left -alone among a new tribe of people unknown to her, she would not have -been afraid! Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the -solitude, broken only by the occasional appearance of these rustic -companions; the simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart -upon her, an entirely undesired gift; the anxious mother, who was about -to mount guard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in the -background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had altogether -receded from Constance, and left her with such companions alone? She was -not thinking of her father, neither of himself nor of his possible -presence, which was of little importance to her. After a while she sat -upright and passed her handkerchief quickly over her face. “It is my own -fault,” she said, still to herself; “I might have known.” - -“You don’t see, Constance, that I am here.” - -She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. “Oh, are you there, -papa? No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t think of any one being here. Well, -they are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, as you divined. She -bore up very well; but, of course, it was a little sad for her, leaving -everything she knows.” - -“You were crying a minute ago, Constance.” - -“Was I? Oh, well, that was nothing. Girls cry, and it doesn’t mean -much. You know women well enough to know that.” - -“Yes, I know women--enough to say the ordinary things about them,” said -Waring; “but perhaps I don’t know you, which is of far more consequence -just now.” - -“There is not much in me to know,” said the girl in a light voice. “I am -just like other girls. I am apt to cry when I see people crying. Frances -sobbed--like a little foolish thing; for why should she cry? She is -going to see the world. Did you ever feel, when you came here first, a -sort of horror seize upon you, as if--as if--as if you were lost in a -savage wilderness, and would never see a human face again?” - -“No; I cannot say I ever felt that.” - -“No, to be sure,” cried Constance. “What ridiculous nonsense I am -talking! A savage wilderness! with all these houses about, and the -hotels on the beach. I mean--didn’t you feel as if you would like to run -violently down a steep place into the sea?” Then she stopped, and -laughed. “It was the swine that did that.” - -“It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling matters; and -yet I understand you,” he said gravely. “You have made a mistake. You -thought you were philosopher enough to give up the world; and it turns -out that you are not. But you need not cry, for it is not too late. You -can change your mind.” - -“I--change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I would give -them the triumph of supposing that I could not do without them, that I -was obliged to go back? Not for the world.” - -“I understand the sentiment,” he said. “Still, between these two -conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I do not -see any middle course.” - -“Oh yes, there is a middle course. I can make myself very comfortable -here; and that is what I mean to do. Papa, if you had not found it out, -I should not have told you. I hope you are not offended?” - -“Oh no, I am not offended,” he said, with a short laugh. “It is perhaps -a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for what gives you -so little satisfaction. That is the worst of it; these mistakes affect -so many others besides one’s self.” - -Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this reproof; -but she made no immediate reply. After a while: “Frances will be a -little strange at first; but she will like it by-and-by; and it is only -right she should have her share,” she said softly. “I have been -wondering,” she went on, with a laugh that was somewhat forced, “whether -mamma will respect her individuality at all; or if she will put her -altogether into my place? I wonder if--that man I told you of, papa----” - -“Well, what of him?” said Waring, rather sharply. - -“I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll. -Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it; -and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so -docile--and so obedient----” - -“You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or -anything that offers? I don’t think she is so well brought up as that.” - -“I did not mean to insult my sister,” cried Constance, springing to her -feet. “She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose -to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.” - -Waring’s face grew scarlet in the darkness. “I hope,” he said, “that I -am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a -lady.” - -“You mean me!” she cried, breathless. “Oh, I can----” But here she -stopped. “Papa,” she resumed, “what good will it do us to quarrel? I -don’t want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I -am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love---- Oh, I think you might be -good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don’t know -what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.” - -She went to him quickly, and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried. -Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but -after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm -round her, and said a few soothing words. “You may be good for a great -deal, if you choose,” he said; “and if you will believe me, my dear, you -will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities -than Frances; you are much better educated than she is--at least I -suppose so, for she was not educated at all.” - -“How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don’t expect to be -amused; all that is over,” said Constance, in a dolorous tone. - -He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether -he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. “You -are not complimentary,” he said. “What I mean is, that if you sit still -and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable; -whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the -situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of -it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.” - -“Ah,” said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and -went back to her chair. “I thought, perhaps, you meant something more -positive. There are perhaps possibilities: Frances would have thought it -wrong to look out for amusement--that must have been because you trained -her so.” - -“Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. -It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more -delight than others.” - -“Yes, yes,” she cried; “that is like me. Some people are more alive than -others; that is what you mean, papa.” - -“I am not sure that it is what I mean; but if you like to take it so, I -have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to live, Constance. -You will find it a great deal more amusing than to mope; and it will be -much pleasanter to me.” - -“Yes,” she said, “I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the -same as what you mean. I will not do it in Frances’ way; but still I -will take your advice, papa. I am sure you are right in what you say.” - -“I am glad you think so, my dear. If you cannot have everything you -want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy.” - -“Then I will be a true philosopher,” she said, with a laugh. The laugh -was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a -little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. “But I must -not interfere too much with Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you -like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her -_menu_, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I -knew all about it. By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should -like to have a piano, if I might.” - -“That will not be very difficult,” he said. “Can you play?” - -At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored. -“You shall hear, when you get me a piano. Thanks, papa; you have quite -restored me to myself. I can’t knit you socks, like Frances; and I am -not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether -devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other. Good -night.” - -“This is sudden,” he said. “Good night, if you think it is time for that -ceremony.” - -“It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations -to make in my room, now that--now that--at present when I am quite -settled and see my way.” - -He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of -very little consequence. Indeed it was perhaps well that she should go -and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the -day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there -was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had -ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which -Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost -grateful to Constance for taking herself away. He thought a little of -Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had -ever taken--and such a journey, away from everything and everybody she -knew. Poor little Fan! he thought a little about her; but he thought a -great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that -peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear capable of -disturbance? The circumstances were all very different now. Frances, who -would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her -mother’s companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to -escape from the companionship of which he had given up the world and -(almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be -his companion, would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and -everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, -would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that -dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which -makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was -impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant -witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner, -the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this -thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn -Frances that her father was not to be discussed with my lady. But what -was the use of saying anything, when letters would come and go -continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled -to put up with it, though nothing could be more unpleasant. If these -girls had been boys, this would not have happened. It was perhaps the -first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys -were far more objectionable to his fine taste than girls, gave more -trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present -circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less -embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of that unprofitable -exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all -cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him -perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would -think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would -require that he should reply. But this, except once or twice, perhaps, -to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him -to do. - -Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She -had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being high-bred and -courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she -had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have -touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an -irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with -that intention of self-martyrdom with which so many good people -exasperate their neighbours. She would have been quite as comfortable in -the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was -safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had -set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no -longer the impress of Frances’ mind, but of her own. She took down a -number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly -pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have -supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The -depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was -over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any -longer possible, did not return at first. Her father’s words, which she -understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of -amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the -fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them -to him to justify herself. “Frances does not require so much amusement -as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight -than another.” She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much -glee, laughing to herself under her breath: “If you cannot get what you -want, you must take what you can get.” How astounded he would be if it -should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas--which were -so true! Her father’s arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did -not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind -when she had felt herself to awake, as it were, on the edge of this -desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw -that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word, -that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one -would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way -for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a -strong unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham’s face -disappear, and realised that he was gone, actually gone, and had left -her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her -young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest. - -After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her -father, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated -herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole -matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten -o’clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a -succession of entertainments under her mother’s wing; but she had -nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old -chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to -bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still -audible without--people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone -benches on the Punto, just those same delights of society which happy -people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But -Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were -foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise -under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to -go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky -spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances -rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, -hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that -little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance -regretting her village. Oh, if they could but have changed places! To -think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night air blowing in -her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the -morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep -along, then Paris, London, at last! She shut the _persiani_ almost -violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls -which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She felt -like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts -and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prison, -and never more to go free. - -But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable -sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang -up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her -father had said: “If you cannot get what you want, you must take what -you can get.” There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this -arid place. She had her father’s sanction for making use of her -opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a -necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as -she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her -sister’s bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken -her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the -corners of her mouth; although, after all, the thought of the travellers -came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying -herself to sleep. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -Captain Gaunt called next day to bring, he said, a message from his -mother. She sent Mr Waring a newspaper which she thought he might like -to see, an English weekly newspaper, which some of her correspondents -had sent her, in which there was an article---- He did not give a very -clear account of this, nor make it distinctly apparent why Waring should -be specially interested; and as a matter of fact, the newspaper found -its way to the waste-paper basket, and interested nobody. But, no doubt, -Mrs Gaunt’s intentions had been excellent. When the young soldier -arrived, there was a carriage at the door, and Constance had her hat on. -“We are going,” she said, “to San Remo, to see about a piano. Do you -know San Remo? Oh, I forgot you are as much a stranger as I am; you -don’t know anything. What a good thing that there are two ignorant -persons! We will keep each other in countenance, and they will be -compelled to make all kinds of expeditions to show us everything.” - -“That will be a wonderful chance for me,” said the young man, “for -nobody would take so much trouble for me alone.” - -“How can you tell that? Miss Tasie, I should think, would be an -excellent cicerone,” said Constance. She said it with a light laugh of -suggestion, meaning to imply, though, of course, she had _said_ nothing, -that Tasie would be too happy to put herself at Captain Gaunt’s -disposition; a suggestion which he, too, received with a laugh--for this -is one of the points upon which both boys and girls are always -ungenerous. - -“And failing Miss Tasie,” said Constance, “suppose you come with papa -and me? They say it is a pretty drive. They say, of course, that -everything here is lovely, and that the Riviera is paradise. Do you find -it so?” - -“I can fancy circumstances in which I should find it so,” said the young -soldier. - -“Ah, yes; every one can do that. I can fancy circumstances in which Bond -Street would be paradise--oh, very easily! It is not far from paradise -at any time.” - -“That is a heaven of which I know very little, Miss Waring.” - -“Ah, then, you must learn. The true Elysian fields are in London in May. -If you don’t know that, you can form no idea of happiness. An exile from -all delights gives you the information, and you may be sure it is true.” - -“Why, then, Miss Waring, if you think so----” - -“Am I here? Oh, that is easily explained. I have a sister.” - -“Yes, I know.” - -“Ah, I understand you have heard a great deal about my sister. I suffer -here from being compared with her. I am not nearly so good, so wise, as -Frances. But is that my fault, Captain Gaunt? You are impartial; you are -a new-comer. If I could, I would, be as nice as Frances, don’t you -believe?” - -The young man gave Constance a look, which, indeed, she expected, and -said with confusion, “I don’t see--any need for improvement,” and -blushed as near crimson as was possible over the greenish brown of his -Indian colour. - -Constance for her part did not blush. She laughed, and made him an -almost imperceptible curtsey. The ways of flirtation are not original, -and all the parallels of the early encounters might be stereotyped, as -everybody knows. - -“You are very amiable,” she said; “but then you don’t know Frances, and -your opinion, accordingly, is less valuable. I did not ask you, however, -to believe me to be equal to my sister, but only to believe that I would -be as nice if I could. However, all that is no explanation. We have a -mother, you know, in England. We are, unfortunately, that sad thing, a -household divided against itself.” - -Captain Gaunt was not prepared for such confidences. He grew still a -little browner with embarrassment, and muttered something about being -very sorry, not knowing what to say. - -“Oh, there is not very much to be sorry about. Papa enjoys himself in -his way here, and mamma is very happy at home. The only thing is that we -must each have our turn, you know--that is only fair. So Frances has -gone to mamma, and here am I in Bordighera. We are each dreadfully out -of our element. Her friends condemn me, to begin with, as if it were my -fault that I am not like her; and my friends, perhaps---- But no; I -don’t think so. Frances is so good, so nice, so everything a girl ought -to be.” - -At this she laughed softly again; and young Gaunt’s consciousness that -his mother’s much vaunted Frances was the sort of girl to please old -ladies rather than young men, a prim, little, smooth, correct maiden, -with not the least “go” in her, took additional force and certainty. -Whereas---- But he had no words in which to express his sense of the -advantages on the other side. - -“You must find it,” he said, knowing nothing more original to say, -“dreadfully dull living here.” - -“I have not found anything as yet; I have only just come. I am no more -than a few days older than you are. We can compare notes as time goes -on. But perhaps you don’t mean to stay very long in these abodes of the -blest?” - -“I don’t know that I did intend it. But I shall stay now as long as ever -I can,” said the young man. Then--for he was shy--he added hastily, “It -is a long time since I have seen my people, and they like to have me.” - -“Naturally. But you need not have spoiled what looked like a very pretty -compliment by adding that. Perhaps you didn’t mean it for a compliment? -Oh, I don’t mind at all. It is much more original, if you didn’t mean -it. Compliments are such common coin. But I don’t pretend to despise -them, as some girls do; and I don’t like to see them spoiled,” Constance -said seriously. - -The young man looked at her with consternation. After a while, his -moustache expanded into a laugh, but it was a confused laugh, and he did -not understand. Still less did he know how to reply. Constance had been -used to sharper wits, who took her at half a word; and she was half -angry to be thus obliged to explain. - -“We are going to San Remo, as I told you,” she said. “I am waiting for -my father. We are going to look for a piano. Frances is not musical, so -there is no piano in the house. You must come too, and give your advice. -Oh, are you ready, papa? Captain Gaunt, who does not know San Remo, and -who does know music, is coming with us to give us his advice.” - -The young soldier stammered forth that to go to San Remo was the thing -he most desired in the world. “But I don’t think my advice will be good -for much,” he said, conscientiously. “I do a little on the violin; but -as for pretending to be a judge of a piano----” - -“Come; we are all ready,” said Constance, leading the way. - -Waring had to let the young fellow precede him, to see him get into the -carriage without any articulate murmur. As a matter of fact, a sort of -stupor seized the father, altogether unaccustomed to be the victim of -accidents. Frances might have lived by his side till she was fifty -before she would have thought of inviting a stranger to be of their -party--a stranger, a young man, which was a class of being with which -Waring had little patience, a young soldier, proverbially frivolous, and -occupied with foolish matters. Young Gaunt respectfully left to his -senior the place beside Constance; but he placed himself opposite to -her, and kept his eyes upon her with a devout attention, which Waring -would have thought ridiculous had he not been irritated by it. The young -fellow was a great deal too much absorbed to contribute much to the -amusement of the party; and it irritated Waring beyond measure to see -his eyes gleam from under his eyebrows, opening wider with delight, half -closing with laughter, the ends of his moustache going up to his ears. -Waring, an impartial spectator, was not so much impressed by his -daughter’s wit. He thought he had heard a great deal of the same before, -or even better, surely better, for he could recollect that he had in his -day been charmed by a similar treatment, which must have been much -lighter in touch, much less commonplace in subject, because--he was -charmed. Thus we argue in our generations. In the meantime, young Gaunt, -though he had not been without some experience, looked at Constance -from under his brows, and listened as if to the utterances of the gods. -If only they could have had it all to themselves; if only the old father -had been out of the way! - -The sunshine, the sea, the beautiful colour, the unexpected vision round -every corner of another and another picturesque cluster of towns and -roofs; all that charm and variety which give to Italy above every -country on earth the admixture of human interest, the endless chain of -association which adds a grace to natural beauty, made very little -impression upon this young pair. She would have been amused and -delighted by the exercise of her own power, and he would have been -enthralled by her beauty, and what he considered her wit and high -spirits, had their progress been along the dullest streets. It was only -Waring’s eyes, disgusted by the prospect before him of his daughter’s -little artifices, and young Gaunt’s imbecile subjection, which turned -with any special consciousness to the varying blues of the sea, to the -endless developments of the landscape. Flirtation is one of the last -things in the world to brook a spectator. Its little absurdities, which -are so delightful to the actors in the drama, and which at a distance -the severest critic may smile at and forgive, excite the wrath of a too -close looker-on, in a way quite disproportioned to their real -offensiveness. The interchange of chatter which prevents, as that -observer would say, all rational conversation, the attempts to charm, -which are so transparent, the response of silly admiration, which is -only another form of vanity--how profoundly sensible we all are of their -folly! Had Constance taken as much pains to please her father, he would, -in all probability, have yielded altogether to the spell; but he was -angry, ashamed, furious, that she should address those wiles to the -young stranger, and saw through him with a clearsightedness which was -exasperating. It was all the more exasperating that he could not tell -what she meant by it. Was it possible that she had already formed an -inclination towards this tawny young stranger? Had his bilious hues -affected her imagination? Love at first sight is a very respectable -emotion, and commands in many cases both sympathy and admiration. But no -man likes to see the working of this sentiment in a woman who belongs to -him. Had Constance fallen in love? He grew angry at the very suggestion, -though breathed only in the recesses of his own mind. A girl who had -been brought up in the world, who had seen all kinds of people, was it -possible that she should fall a victim in a moment to the attractions of -a young nobody--a young fellow who knew nothing but India? That he -should be subjected, was simple enough; but Constance! Waring’s brow -clouded more and more. He kept silent, taking no part in the talk, and -the young fools did not so much as remark it, but went on with their own -absurdity more and more. - -The transformation of a series of little Italian municipalities, -although in their nature more towns than villages, rendered less rustic -by the traditions of an exposed coast, and many a crisis of -self-defence, into little modern towns full of hotels and tourists, is -neither a pleasant nor a lovely process. San Remo in the old days, -before Dr Antonio made it known to the world, lay among its -olive-gardens on the edge of the sea, which grew bluer and bluer as it -crept to the feet of the human master of the soil, a delight to behold, -a little picture which memory cherished. Wide promenades flanked with -big hotels, with conventional gardens full of green bushes, and a kiosk -for the band, make a very different prospect now. But then, in the old -days, there could have been no music-sellers with pianos to let or sell; -no famous English chemist with coloured bottles; no big shops in which -travellers could be tempted. Constance forgot Captain Gaunt when she -found herself in this atmosphere of the world. She began to remember -things she wanted. “Papa, if you don’t despise it too much, you must let -me do a little shopping,” she said. She wanted a hat for the sun. She -wanted some eau-de-Cologne. She wanted just to run into the jeweller’s -to see if the coral was good, to see if there were any peasant-ornaments -which would be characteristic. At all this her father smiled somewhat -grimly, taking it as a part of the campaign into which his daughter had -chosen to enter for the overthrow of the young soldier. But Constance -was perfectly sincere, and had forgotten her campaign in the new and -warmer interest. - -“So long as you do not ask me to attend you from shop to shop,” he said. - -“Oh no; Captain Gaunt will come,” said Constance. - -Captain Gaunt was not a victim who required many wiles. He was less -amusing than she had hoped, in so far that he had given in, in an -incredibly short space of time. He was now in a condition to be trampled -on at her pleasure, and this was unexciting. A longer resistance would -have been much more to Constance’s mind. Captain Gaunt accompanied her -to all the shops. He helped her with his advice about the piano, bending -his head over her as she ran through a little air or two, and struck a -few chords on one after the other of the music-seller’s stock. They were -not very admirable instruments, but one was found that would do. - -“You can bring your violin,” Constance said; “we must try to amuse -ourselves a little.” This was before her father left them, and he heard -it with a groan. - -Waring took a silent walk round the bay while the purchases went on. He -thought of past experiences, of the attraction which a shop has for -women. Frances, no doubt, after a little of her mother’s training, would -be the same. She would find out the charms of shopping. He had not even -her return to look forward to, for she would not be the same Frances who -had left him, when she came back. _When_ she came back?--if she ever -came back. The same Frances, never; perhaps not even a changed Frances. -Her mother would quickly see what an advantage she had in getting the -daughter whom her husband had brought up. She would not give her back; -she would turn her into a second Constance. There had been a time when -Waring had concluded that Constance was amusing and Frances dull; but it -must be remembered that he was under provocation now. If she had been -amusing, it had not been for him. She had exerted herself to please a -commonplace, undistinguished boy, with an air of being indifferent to -everything else, which was beyond measure irritating to her father. And -now she had got scent of shops, and would never be happy save when she -was rushing from one place to another--to Mentone, to Nice perhaps, -wherever her fancied wants might lead her. Waring discussed all this -with himself as he rambled along, his nerves all set on edge, his taste -revolted. Flirtations and shops--was he to be brought to this? he who -had been free from domestic encumbrance, who had known nothing for so -many years but a little ministrant, who never troubled him, who was -ready when he wanted her, but never put forth herself as a restraint or -an annoyance. He had advised Constance to take what good she could find -in her life; but he had never imagined that this was the line she would -take. - -The drive home was scarcely more satisfactory. Young Gaunt had got a -little courage by the episode of the shops. He ventured to tell her of -the trifles he had brought with him from India, and to ask if Miss -Waring would care to see them; and he described to her the progress he -had made with his violin, and what his attainments were in music. -Constance told him that the best thing he could do was to bring the said -violin and all his music, so that they might see what they could do -together. “If you are not too far advanced for me,” she said with a -laugh. “Come in the morning, when we shall not be interrupted.” - -Her father listened, but said nothing. His imagination immediately set -before him the tuning and scraping, the clang of the piano, the shriek -of the fiddle, and he himself only two rooms off, endeavouring in vain -to collect his thoughts and do his work! Mr Waring’s work was not of the -first importance, but still it was his work, and momentous to him. He -bore, however, a countenance unmoved, if very grave, and even endured -without a word the young man’s entrance with them, the consultation -about where the piano was to stand, and tea afterwards in the loggia. He -did not himself want any tea; he left the young people to enjoy this -refreshment together while he retired to his bookroom. But with only -two rooms between, and with his senses quickened by displeasure, he -heard their voices, the laughter, the continual flow of talk, even the -little tinkle of the teacups--every sound. He had never been disturbed -by Frances’ tea; but then, except Tasie Durant, there had been nobody to -share it, no son from the bungalow, no privileged messenger sent by his -mother. Mrs Gaunt’s children, of whom she talked continually, had always -been a nuisance, except to the sympathetic soul of Frances. But who -could have imagined the prominence which they had assumed now? - -Young Gaunt did not go away until shortly before dinner; and Constance, -after accompanying him to the anteroom, went along the corridor singing, -to her own room, to change her dress. Though her room (Frances’ room -that was) was at the extremity of the suite, her father heard her light -voice running on in a little operatic air all the time she made her -toilet. Had it been described in a book, he thought to himself it would -have had a pretty sound. The girl’s voice, sweet and gay, sounding -through the house, the voice of happy youth brightening the dull life -there, the voice of innocent content betraying its own satisfaction with -existence--satisfaction in having a young fool to flirt with, and some -trumpery shops to buy unnecessary appendages in! At dinner, however, she -made fun of young Gaunt, and the morose father was a little mollified. -“It is rather dreadful for other people when there is an adoring mother -in the background to think everything you do perfection,” Constance -said. “I don’t think we shall make much of the violin.” - -“These are subjects on which you can speak with more authority than -I--both the violin and the mother,” said Waring. - -“Oh,” she cried, “you don’t think mamma was one of the adoring kind, I -hope! There may be things in her which might be mended; but she is not -like that. She kept one in one’s proper place. And as for the violin, I -suspect he plays it like an old fiddler in the streets.” - -“You have changed your mind about it very rapidly,” said Waring; but on -the whole he was pleased. “You seemed much interested both in the hero -and the music, a little while ago.” - -“Yes; was I not?” said Constance with perfect candour. “And he took it -all in, as if it were likely. These young men from India, they are very -ingenuous. It seems wicked to take advantage of them, does it not?” - -“More people are ingenuous than the young man from India. I intended to -speak to you very seriously as soon as he was gone--to ask you----” - -“What were my intentions?” cried Constance, with an outburst of the -gayest laughter. “Oh, what a pity I began! How sorry I am to have missed -that! Do you think his mother will ask me, papa? It is generally the -man, isn’t it, who is questioned? and he says his intentions are -honourable. Mine, I frankly allow, are not honourable.” - -“No; very much the reverse, I should think. But it had better be clearly -defined, for my satisfaction, Constance, which of you is true--the girl -who cried over her loneliness last night, or she who made love to -Captain Gaunt this morning----” - -“No, papa; only was a little nice to him, because he is lonely too.” - -“These delicacies of expression are too fine for me.---- Who made the -poor young fellow believe that she liked his society immensely, was much -interested, counted upon him and his violin as her greatest pleasures.” - -“You are going too far,” she said. “I think the fiddle will be fun. When -you play very badly and are a little conceited about it, you are always -amusing. And as for Captain Gaunt--so long as he does not complain----” - -“It is I who am complaining, Constance.” - -“Well, papa--but why? You told me last night to take what I had, since I -could not have what I want.” - -“And you have acted upon my advice? With great promptitude, I must -allow.” - -“Yes,” she said with composure. “What is the use of losing time? It is -not my fault if there is somebody here quite ready. It amuses him too. -And what harm am I doing? A girl can’t be asked--except for fun--those -disagreeable questions.” - -“And therefore you think a girl can do--what would be dishonourable in a -man.” - -“Oh, you are so much too serious,” cried Constance. “Are you always as -serious as this? You laughed when I told you about Fanny Gervoise. Is it -only because it is me that you find fault? And don’t you think it is a -little too soon for parental interference? The Gaunts would be much -surprised. They would think you were afraid for my peace of mind, -papa--as her parents were afraid for Miss Tasie.” - -This moved the stern father to a smile. He had thought that Constance -did not appreciate that joke; but the girl had more humour than he -supposed. “I see,” he said, “you will have your own way; but remember, -Constance, I cannot allow it to go too far.” - -How could he prevent it going as far as she pleased? she said to herself -with a little scorn, when she was alone. Parents may be medieval if they -will; but the means have never yet been invented of preventing a woman, -when she is so minded and has the power in her hands, from achieving her -little triumph over a young man’s heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -“Where is George? I scarcely ever see him,” said the General, in -querulous tones. “He is always after that girl of Waring’s. Why don’t -you try to keep him at home?” - -Mrs Gaunt did not say that she had done her best to keep him at home, -but found her efforts unsuccessful. She said apologetically, “He has so -very little to amuse him here; and the music, you know, is a great -bond.” - -“He plays like a beginner; and she, like a--like a--as well as a -professional, I don’t understand what kind of bond that can be.” - -“So much the greater a compliment is it to George that she likes his -playing,” responded the mother promptly. - -“She likes to make a fool of him, I think,” the General said; “and you -help her on. I don’t understand your tactics. Women generally like to -keep their sons free from such entanglements; and after getting him -safely out of India, where every man is bound to fall into mischief----” - -“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs Gaunt, “if it ever should come to that--think, -what an excellent connection. I wish it had been Frances; I do wish it -had been Frances. I had always set my heart on that. But the connection -would be the same.” - -“You knew nothing about the connection when you set your heart on -Frances. And I can’t help thinking there is something odd about the -connection. Why should that girl have come here, and why should the -other one be spirited away like a transformation scene?” - -“Well, my dear, it is in the peerage,” said Mrs Gaunt. “Great families, -we all know, are often very queer in their arrangements. But there can -be no doubt it is all right, for it is in the peerage. If it had been -Frances, I should have been too happy. With such a connection, he could -not fail to get on.” - -“He had much better get on by his own merits,” retorted the General with -a grumble. “Frances! Frances was not to be compared with this girl. But -I don’t believe she means anything more than amusing herself,” he added. -“This is not the sort of girl to marry a poor soldier without a -penny--not she. She will take her fun out of him, and then----” - -The General kissed the end of his fingers and tossed them into the air. -He was, perhaps, a little annoyed that his son had stepped in and -monopolised the most amusing member of the society. And perhaps he did -not think so badly of George’s chances as he said. - -“You may be sure,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly, “she will do nothing of -the kind. It is not every day that a girl gets a fine fellow like our -George at her feet. He is just a little too much at her feet, which is -always a mistake, I think. But still, General, you cannot but allow that -Lord Markham’s sister----” - -“I have never seen much good come of great connections,” said the -General; but though his tone was that of a sceptic, his mind was softer -than his speech. He, too, felt a certain elation in the thought that -the youngest, who was not the clever one of the family, and who had not -been quite so steady as might have been desired, was thus in the way of -putting himself above the reach of fate. For of course, to be -brother-in-law to a viscount was a good thing. It might not be of the -same use as in the days when patronage ruled supreme; but still it would -be folly to suppose that it was not an advantage. It would admit George -to circles with which otherwise he could have formed no acquaintance, -and make him known to people who could push him in his profession. -George was the one about whom they had been most anxious. All the others -were doing well in their way, though it was not a way which threw them -into contact with viscounts or fine society. George would be over all -their heads in that respect, and he was the one that wanted it most,--he -was the one who was most dependent on outside aid. - -“I don’t quite understand,” said Mrs Gaunt, “what Constance’ position -is. She ought to be the Honourable, don’t you think? The Honourable -Constance sounds very pretty. It would come in very nicely with Gaunt, -which is an aristocratic-sounding name. People may say what they like -about titles, but they are very nice, there is such individuality in -them. Mrs George might be anybody; it might be me, as your name is -George too. But the Honourable would distinguish it at once. When she -called here, there was only Miss Constance Waring written on her -father’s card; but then you don’t put Honourable on your card; and as -Lady Markham’s daughter----” - -“Women don’t count,” said the General, “as I’ve often told you. She’s -Waring’s daughter.” - -“Mr Waring may be a very clever man,” said Mrs Gaunt, indignantly; “but -I should like to know how Constance can be the daughter of a viscountess -in her own right without----” - -“Is she a viscountess in her own right?” - -This question brought Mrs Gaunt to a sudden pause. She looked at him -with a startled air. “It is not through Mr Waring, that is clear,” she -said. - -“But it is not in her own right--at least I don’t think so; it is -through her first husband, the father of that funny little creature” -(meaning Lord Markham). - -“General!” said Mrs Gaunt, shocked. Then she added, “I must make some -excuse to look at the Peerage this afternoon. The Durants have always -got their Peerage on the table. We shall have to send for one too, -if----” - -“If what? If your boy gets a wife who has titled connections, for that -is all. A wife! and what is he to keep her on, in the name of heaven?” - -“Mothers and brothers are tolerably close connections,” said Mrs Gaunt -with dignity. “He has got his pay, General; and you always intended, if -he married to your satisfaction---- Of course,” she added, speaking very -quickly, to forestall an outburst, “Lady Markham will not leave her -daughter dependent upon a captain’s pay. And even Mr Waring--Mr Waring -must have a fortune of his own, or--or a person like that would never -have married him; and he would not be able to live as he does, very -comfortably, even luxuriously----” - -“Oh, I suppose he has enough to live on. But as for pinching himself in -order to enable his girl to marry your boy, I don’t believe a word of -it,” exclaimed the General. Fortunately, being carried away by this wave -of criticism, he had forgotten his wife’s allusion to his own intentions -in George’s favour; and this was a subject on which she had no desire to -be premature. - -“Well, General,” she said, “perhaps we are going a little too fast. We -don’t know yet whether anything will come of it. George is rather a -lady’s man. It may be only a flirtation; it may end in nothing. We need -not begin to count our chickens----” - -“Why, it was you!” cried the astonished General. “I never should have -remarked anything about it, or wasted a moment’s thought on the -subject!” - -Mrs Gaunt was not a clever woman, skilled in the art of leaving -conversational responsibilities on the shoulders of her interlocutor; -but if a woman is not inspired on behalf of her youngest boy, when is -she to be inspired? She gave her shoulders the slightest possible shrug -and left him to his newspaper. They had a newspaper from England every -morning--the ‘Standard,’ whose reasonable Conservatism suited the old -General. Except in military matters, such questions as the advance of -Russia towards Afghanistan, or the defences of our own coasts, the -General was not a bigot, and preferred his politics mild, with as little -froth and foam as possible. His newspaper afforded him occupation for -the entire morning, and he enjoyed it in very pleasant wise, seated -under his veranda with a faint suspicion of lemon-blossom in the air -which ruffled the young olive-trees all around, and the blue breadths of -the sea stretching far away at his feet. The garden behind was fenced in -with lemon and orange trees, the fruit in several stages, and just a -little point of blossom here and there, not enough to load the air. Mrs -Gaunt had preserved the wild flowers that were natural to the place, and -accordingly had a scarlet field of anemones which wanted no cultivation, -and innumerable clusters of the sweet white narcissus filling her little -enclosure. These cost no trouble, and left Toni, the man-of-all-work, at -leisure for the more profitable culture of the olives. From where the -General sat, there was nothing visible, however, but the terraces -descending in steps towards the distant glimpse of the road, and the -light-blue margin, edged with spray, of the sea--under a soft and -cheering sun, that warmed to the heart, but did not scorch or blaze, and -with a soft air playing about his old temples, breathing freshness and -that lemon-bloom. Sometimes there would come a faint sound of voices -from some group of workers among the olives. The little clump of -palm-trees at the end of the garden--for nothing here is perfect without -a palm or two--cast a fantastic shadow, that waved over the newspaper -now and then. When a man is old and has done his work, what can he want -more than this sweet retirement and stillness? But naturally, it was not -all that was necessary to young Captain George. - -Mrs Gaunt went over to the Durants in the afternoon, as she so often -did, and found that family, as usual, on their loggia. It cost her a -little trouble and diplomacy to get a private inspection of the Peerage, -and even when she did so, it threw but little light upon her question. -Geoffrey Viscount Markham, tenth lord, was a name which she read with a -little flutter of her heart, feeling that he was already almost a -relation; and she read over the names of Markham Priory and Dunmorra, -his lodge in the Highlands, and the town address in Eaton Square, all -with a sense that by-and-by she might herself be directing letters from -one or other of these places. But the Peerage said nothing about the -Dowager Lady Markham subsequent to the conclusion of the first marriage, -except that she had married again, E. Waring, Esq.; and thus Mrs Gaunt’s -studies came to no satisfactory end. She introduced the subject, -however, in the course of tea. She had asked whether any one had heard -from Frances, and had received a satisfactory reply. - -“Oh yes; I have had two letters; but she does not say very much. They -had gone down to the Priory for Easter; and she was to be presented at -the first drawing-room. Fancy Frances in a Court train and feathers, at -a drawing-room! It does seem so very strange,” Tasie said. She said it -with a slight sigh, for it was she, in old times, who had expounded -Society to little Frances, and taught her what in an emergency it would -be right to do and say; and now little Frances had taken a stride in -advance. “I asked her to write and tell us all about it, and what she -wore.” - -“It would be white, of course.” - -“Oh yes, it would be white--a _débutante_. When _I_ went to -drawing-rooms,” said Mrs Durant, who had once, in the character of -chaplainess to an Embassy, made her courtesy to her Majesty, “young -ladies’ toilets were simpler than now. Frances will probably be in white -satin, which, except for a wedding dress, is quite unsuitable, I think, -for a girl.” - -“I wonder if we shall see it in the papers? Sometimes my sister-in-law -sends me a ‘Queen,’” said Mrs Gaunt, “when she thinks there is something -in it which will interest me; but she does not know anything about -Frances. Dear little thing, I can’t think of her in white satin. Her -sister, now----” - -“Constance would wear velvet, if she could--or cloth-of-gold,” cried -Tasie, with a little irritation. Her mother gave her a reproving glance. - -“There is a tone in your voice, Tasie, which is not kind.” - -“Oh yes; I know, mamma. But Constance is rather a trial. I know one -ought not to show it. She looks as if one was not good enough to tie her -shoes. And after all, she is no better than Frances; she is not half so -nice as Frances; but I mean there can be no difference of position -between sisters--one is just as good as the other; and Frances was so -fond of coming here.” - -“Do you think Constance gives herself airs? Oh no, dear Tasie,” said Mrs -Gaunt, “she is really not at all--when you come to know her. I am most -fond of Frances myself. Frances has grown up among us, and we know all -about her; that is what makes the difference. And Constance--is a little -shy.” - -At this there was a cry from the family. “I don’t think she is shy,” -said the old clergyman, whom Constance had insulted by walking out of -church before the sermon. - -“Shy!” exclaimed Mrs Durant, “about as shy as----” But no simile -occurred to her which was bold enough to meet the case. - -“It is better she should not be shy,” said Tasie. “You remember how she -drove those people from the hotel to church. They have come ever since. -They are quite afraid of her. Oh, there are some good things in her, -some _very_ good things.” - -“We are the more hard to please, after knowing Frances,” repeated Mrs -Gaunt. “But when a girl has been like that, used to the best society---- -By the way, Mr Durant, you who know everything, are sure to know--Is she -the Honourable? For my part I can’t quite make it out.” - -Mr Durant put on his spectacles to look at her, as if such a question -passed the bounds of the permissible. He was very imposing when he -looked at any one through those spectacles with an air of mingled -astonishment and superiority. “Why should she be an Honourable?” he -said. - -Mrs Gaunt felt as if she would like to sink into the abysses of the -earth--that is, through the floor of the loggia, whatever might be the -dreadful depths underneath. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said meekly. “I--I -only thought--her mother being a--a titled person, a--a viscountess in -her own right----” - -“But my _dear_ lady,” said Mr Durant, with a satisfaction in his -superior knowledge which was almost unspeakable, “Lady Markham is _not_ -a viscountess in her own right. Dear, no! She is not a viscountess at -all. She is plain Mrs Waring, and nothing else, if right was right. -Society only winks good-naturedly at her retaining the title, which she -certainly, if there is any meaning in the peerage at all, forfeits by -marrying a commoner.” - -Mrs Durant and Tasie both looked with great admiration at their head and -instructor as he thus spoke. “You may be sure Mr Durant says nothing -that he is not quite sure of,” said the wife, crushing any possible -scepticism on the part of the inquirer; and “Papa knows such a lot,” -added Tasie, awed, yet smiling, on her side. - -“Oh, is that all?” said Mrs Gaunt, greatly subdued. “But then, Lord -Markham--calls her his sister, you know.” - -“The nobility,” said Mr Durant, “are always very scrupulous about -relationships; and she _is_ his step-sister. He couldn’t qualify the -relationship by calling her so. A common person might do so, but not a -man of high breeding, like Lord Markham--that is all.” - -“I suppose you must be right,” said Mrs Gaunt. “The General said so too. -But it does seem very strange to me that of the same woman’s children, -and she a lady of title, one should be a lord, and the other have no -sort of distinction at all.” They all smiled upon her blandly, every one -ready with a new piece of information, and much sympathy for her -ignorance, which Mrs Gaunt, seeing that it was she that was likely to be -related to Lord Markham, and not any of the Durants, felt that she could -not bear; so she jumped up hastily and declared that she must be going, -that the General would be waiting for her. “I hope you will come over -some evening, and I will ask the Warings, and Tasie must bring her -music. I am sure you would like to hear George’s violin. He is getting -on so well, with Constance to play his accompaniments;” and before any -one could reply to her, Mrs Gaunt had hurried away. - -It is painful not to have time to get out your retort; and these -excellent people turned instinctively upon each other to discharge the -unflown arrows. “It is so very easy, with a little trouble, to -understand the titles, complimentary and otherwise, of our own -nobility,” said Mr Durant, shaking his head. - -“And such a sign of want of breeding not to understand them,” said his -wife. - -“The Honourable Constance would sound very pretty,” cried Tasie; “it is -such a pity.” - -“Especially, our friend thinks, if it was the Honourable Constance -Gaunt.” - -“That she could never be, my dear,” said the old clergyman mildly. “She -might be the Honourable Mrs Gaunt; but Constance, no--not in any case.” - -“I should like to know why,” Mrs Durant said. - -Perhaps here the excellent chaplain’s knowledge failed him; or he had -become weary of the subject; for he rose and said, “I have really no -more time for a matter which does not concern us,” and trotted away. - -The mother and daughter left alone together, naturally turned to a point -more interesting than the claims of Constance to rank. “Do you really -think, mamma,” said Tasie--“do you really, really think,--it is silly -to be always discussing these sort of questions--but do you believe that -Constance Waring actually--means anything?” - -“You should say does George Gaunt mean anything? The girl never comes -first in such a question,” said Mrs Durant, with that ingrained contempt -for girls which often appears in elderly women. Tasie was so -(traditionally) young, besides having a heart of sixteen in her bosom, -that her sympathies were all with the girl. - -“I don’t think in this case, mamma,” she said. “Constance is so much -more a person of the world than any of us. I don’t mean to say she is -worldly. Oh no! but having been in society, and so much _out_.” - -“I should like to know in what kind of society she has been,” said Mrs -Durant, who took gloomy views. “I don’t want to say a word against Lady -Markham; but society, Tasie, the kind of society to which your father -and I have been accustomed, looks rather coldly upon a wife living apart -from her husband. Oh, I don’t mean to say Lady Markham was to blame. -Probably she is a most excellent person; but the presumption is that at -least, you know, there were--faults on both sides.” - -“I am sure I can’t give an opinion,” cried Tasie, “for, of course, I -don’t know anything about it. But George Gaunt has nothing but his pay; -and Constance couldn’t be in love with him, could she? Oh no! I don’t -know anything about it; but I can’t think a girl like Constance----” - -“A girl in a false position,” said the chaplain’s wife, “is often glad -to marry any one, just for a settled place in the world.” - -“Oh, but not Constance, mamma! I am sure she is just amusing herself.” - -“Tasie! you speak as if she were the man,” exclaimed Mrs Durant, in a -tone of reproof. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -The subjects of these consultations were at the moment in the full -course of a sonata, and oblivious of everything else in the world but -themselves, their music, and their concerns generally. A fortnight had -passed of continual intercourse, of much music, of that propinquity -which is said to originate more matches than any higher influence. -Nothing can be more curious than the pleasure which young persons, and -even persons who are no longer young, find perennially in this condition -of suppressed love-making, this preoccupation of all thoughts and plans -in the series of continually recurring meetings, the confidences, the -divinations, the endless talk which is never exhausted, and in which the -most artificial beings in the world probably reveal more of themselves -than they themselves know--when the edge of emotion is always being -touched, and very often, by one of the pair at least overpassed, in -either a comic or a tragic way. It is not necessary that there should be -any real charm in either party, and what is still more extraordinary, it -is possible enough that one may be a person of genius, and the other not -far removed from a fool; that one may be simple as a rustic, and the -other a man or woman of the world. No rule, in short, holds in those -extraordinary yet most common and everyday conjunctions. There is an -amount of amusement, excitement, variety, to be found in them which is -in no other kind of diversion. This is the great reason, no doubt, why -flirtation never fails. It is dangerous, which helps the effect. For -those sinners who go into it voluntarily for the sake of amusement, it -has all the attractions of romance and the drama combined. If they are -intellectual, it is a study of human character; in all cases, it is an -interest which quickens the colour and the current of life: who can tell -why or how? It is not the disastrous love-makings that end in misery and -sin, of which we speak. It is those which are practised in society -every day, which sometimes end in a heart-break indeed, but often in -nothing at all. - -Constance was not unacquainted with the amusement, though she was so -young; and it is to be feared that she resorted to it deliberately for -the amusement of her otherwise dull life at the Palazzo, in the first -shock of her loneliness, when she felt herself abandoned. It was, of -course, the victim himself who had first put the suggestion and the -means of carrying it out into her hands. And she did not take it up in -pure wantonness, but actually gave a thought to him, and the effect it -might produce upon him, even in the very act of entering upon her -diversion. She said to herself that Captain Gaunt, too, was very dull; -that he would want something more than the society of his father and -mother; that it would be a kindness to the old people to make his life -amusing to him, since in that case he would stay, and in the other, not. -And as for himself, if the worst came to the worst, and he fell -seriously in love--as, indeed, seemed rather likely, judging from the -fervour of the beginning--even that, Constance calculated, would do him -no permanent harm. “Men have died,” she said to herself, “but not for -love.” And then there is that famous phrase about a liberal education. -What was it? To love her was a liberal education? Something of that -sort. Then it could only be an advantage to him; for Constance was aware -that she herself was cleverer, more cultivated, and generally far more -“up to” everything than young Gaunt. If he had to pay for it by a -disappointment, really everybody had to pay for their education in one -way or another; and if he were disappointed, it would be his own fault; -for he must know very well, everybody must know, that it was quite out -of the question she should marry him in any circumstances--entirely out -of the question; unless he was an absolute simpleton, or the most -presumptuous young coxcomb in the world, he _must_ see that; and if he -were one or the other, the discovery would do him all the good in the -world. Thus Constance made it out fully, and to her own satisfaction, -that in any case the experience could do him nothing but good. - -Things had gone very far during this fortnight--so far, that she -sometimes had a doubt whether they had not gone far enough. For one -thing, it had cost her a great deal in the way of music. She was a very -accomplished musician for her age, and poor George Gaunt was one of the -greatest bunglers that ever began to study the violin. It may be -supposed what an amusement this intercourse was to Constance, when it is -said that she bore with his violin like an angel, laughed and scolded -and encouraged and pulled him along till he believed that he could play -the waltzes of Chopin and many other things which were as far above him -as the empyrean is above earth. When he paused, bewildered, imploring -her to go on, assuring her that he could catch her up, Constance -betrayed no horror, but only laughed till the tears came. She would turn -round upon her music-stool sometimes and rally him with a free use of a -superior kind of slang, which was unutterably solemn, and quite unknown -to the young soldier, who laboured conscientiously with his fiddle in -the evenings and mornings, till General Gaunt’s life became a burden to -him--in a vain effort to elevate himself to a standard with which she -might be satisfied. He went to practise in the morning; he went in the -afternoon to ask if she thought of making any expedition? to suggest -that his mother wished very much to take him to see this or that, and -had sent him to ask would Miss Waring come? Constance was generally -quite willing to come, and not at all afraid to walk to the bungalow -with him, where, perhaps, old Luca’s carriage would be standing to drive -them along the dusty road to the opening of some valley, where Mrs -Gaunt, not a good climber, she allowed, would sit and wait for them till -they had explored the dell, or inspected the little town seated at its -head. Captain Gaunt was more punctilious about his mother’s presence as -_chaperon_ than Constance was, who felt quite at her ease roaming with -him among the terraces of the olive woods. It was altogether so idyllic, -so innocent, that there was no occasion for any conventional safeguards: -and there was nobody to see them or remark upon the prolonged -_tête-à-tête_. Constance came to know the young fellow far better than -his mother did, better than he himself did, in these walks and talks. - -“Miss Waring, don’t laugh at a fellow. I know I deserve it.--Oh yes, do, -if you like. I had rather you laughed than closed the piano. I had a -good long grind at it this morning; but somehow these triplets are more -than I can fathom. Let us have that movement again, will you? Oh, not if -you are tired. As long as you’ll let me sit and talk. I love music with -all my heart, but I love----” - -“Chatter,” said Constance. “I know you do. It is not a dignified word to -apply to a gentleman; but you know, Captain Gaunt, you do love to -chatter.” - -“Anything to please you,” said the young man. “That wasn’t how I -intended to end my sentence. I love to--chatter, if you like, as long as -you will listen--or play, or do anything; as long as----” - -“You must allow,” said Constance, “that I listen admirably. I am -thoroughly well up in all your subjects. I know the station as well as -if I lived there.” - -“Don’t say that,” he cried; “it makes a man beside himself. Oh, if -there was any chance that you might ever----! I think--I’m almost -sure--you would like the society in India--it’s so easy; everybody’s so -kind. A--a young couple, you know, as long as the lady is--delightful.” - -“But I am not a young couple,” said Constance, with a smile. “You -sometimes confuse your plurals in the funniest way. Is that Indian too? -Now come, Captain Gaunt, let us get on. Begin at the andante. One, -two--three! Now, let’s get on.” - -And then a few bars would be played, and then she would turn sharp round -upon the music-stool and take the violin out of his astonished hands. - -“Oh, what a shriek! It goes through and through one’s head. Don’t you -think an instrument has feelings? That was a cry of the poor ill-used -fiddle, that could bear no more. Give it to me.” She took the bow in her -hands, and leaned the instrument tenderly against her shoulder. “It -should be played like this,” she said. - -“Miss Waring, you can play the violin too?” - -“A little,” she said, leaning down her soft cheek against it, as if she -loved it, and drawing a charmingly sympathetic harmony from the ill-used -strings. - -“I will never play again,” cried the young man. “Yes, I will--to touch -it where you have touched it. Oh, I think you can do everything, and -make everything perfect you look at.” - -“No,” said Constance, shaking her head as she ran the bow softly, so -softly over the strings; “for you are not perfect at all, though I have -looked at you a great deal. Look! this is the way to do it. I am not -going to accompany you any more. I am going to give you lessons. Take it -now, and let me see you play that passage. Louder, softer--louder. Come, -that was better. I think I shall make something of you after all.” - -“You can make anything of me,” said the poor young soldier, with his -lips on the place her cheek had touched--“whatever you please.” - -“A first-rate violin-player, then,” said Constance. “But I don’t think -my power goes so high as that. Poor General, what does he say when you -grind, as you call it, all the morning?” - -“Oh, mother smooths him down--that is the use of a mother.” - -“Is it?” said Constance, with an air of impartial inquiry. “I didn’t -know. Come, Captain Gaunt, we are losing our time.” - -And then _tant bien que mal_, the sonata was got through. - -“I am glad Beethoven is dead,” said Constance, as she closed the piano. -“He is safe from that at least: he can never hear us play. When you go -home, Captain Gaunt, I advise you to take lodgings in some quite -out-of-the-way place, about Russell Square, or Islington, or somewhere, -and grind, as you call it, till you are had up as a nuisance; or -else----” - -“Or else--what, Miss Waring? Anything to please you.” - -“Or else--give it up altogether,” Constance said. - -His face grew very long; he was very fond of his violin. “If you think -it is so hopeless as that--if you wish me to give it up altogether----” - -“Oh, not I. It amuses me. I like to hear you break down. It would be -quite a pity if you were to give up, you take my scolding so -delightfully. Don’t give it up as long as you are here, Captain Gaunt. -After that, it doesn’t matter what happens--to me.” - -“No,” he said, almost with a groan, “it doesn’t matter what happens -after that--to me. It’s the Deluge, you know,” said the poor young -fellow. “I wish the world would come to an end first”--thus -unconsciously echoing the poet. “But, Miss Waring,” he added anxiously, -coming a little closer, “I may come back? Though I must go to London, it -is not necessary I should stay there. I may come back?” - -“Oh, I hope so, Captain Gaunt. What would your mother do, if you did not -come back? But I suppose she will be going away for the summer. -Everybody leaves Bordighera in the summer, I hear.” - -“I had not thought of that,” cried the young soldier. “And you will be -going too?’ - -“I suppose so,” said Constance. “Papa, I hope, is not so lost to every -sense of duty as to let me spoil my complexion for ever by staying -here.” - -“That would be impossible,” he said, with eyes full of admiration. - -“You intend that for a compliment, Captain Gaunt; but it is no -compliment. It means either that I have no complexion to lose, or that I -am one of those thick-skinned people who take no harm--neither of which -is complimentary, nor true. I shall have to teach you how to pay -compliments as well as how to play the violin.” - -“Ah, if you only would!” he cried. “Teach me how to make myself what you -like--how to speak, how to look, how----” - -“Oh, that is a great deal too much,” she said. “I cannot undertake all -your education. Do you know it is close upon noon? Unless you are going -to stay to breakfast----” - -“Oh, thanks, Miss Waring. They will expect me at home. But you will give -me a message to take back to my mother. I may come to fetch you to drive -with her to-day?” - -“It must be dreadfully dull work for her sitting waiting while we -explore.” - -“Oh, not at all. She is never dull when she knows I am enjoying -myself--that’s the mother’s way.” - -“Is it?” said Constance, with once more that air of acquiring -information. “I am not acquainted with that kind of mother. But do you -think, Captain Gaunt, it is right to enjoy yourself, as you call it, at -your mother’s cost?” - -He gave her a look of great doubt and trouble. “Oh, Miss Waring, I don’t -think you should put it so. My mother finds her pleasure in that--indeed -she does. Ask herself. Of course I would not impose upon her, not for -the world; but she likes it, I assure you she likes it.” - -“It is very extraordinary that any one should like sitting in that -carriage for hours with nothing to do. I will come with pleasure, -Captain Gaunt. I will sit with your mother while you go and take your -walk. That will be more cheerful for all parties,” Constance said. - -Young Gaunt’s face grew half a mile long. He began to expostulate and -explain; but Waring’s step was heard stirring in the next room, -approaching the door, and the young man had no desire to see the master -of the house with his watch in his hand, demanding to know why Domenico -was so late. Captain Gaunt knew very well why Domenico was so late. He -knew a way of conciliating the servants, though he had not yet succeeded -with the young mistress. He said hurriedly, “I will come for you at -three,” and rushed away. Waring came in at one door as Gaunt disappeared -at the other. The delay of the breakfast was a practical matter, of -which, without any reproach of medievalism, he had a right to complain. - -“If you must have this young fellow every morning, he may at least go -away in proper time,” he said, with his watch in his hand, as young -Gaunt had divined. - -“Oh, papa, twelve is striking loud enough. You need not produce your -watch at the same time.” - -“Then why have I to wait?” he said. There was something awful in his -tone. But Domenico was equal to the occasion, worthy at once of the -lover’s and of the father’s trust. At that moment, Captain Gaunt having -been got away while the great bell of Bordighera was still sounding, -the faithful Domenico threw open, perhaps with a little more sound than -was necessary, an ostentation of readiness, the dining-room door. - -The meal was a somewhat silent one. Perhaps Constance was pondering the -looks which she had not been able to ignore, the words which she had -managed to quench like so many fiery arrows before they could set fire -to anything, of her eager lover, and was pale and a little preoccupied -in spite of herself, feeling that things were going further than she -intended; and perhaps her father, feeling the situation too serious, and -remonstrance inevitable, was silenced by the thought of what he had to -say. It is so difficult in such circumstances for two people, with no -relief from any third party, without even that wholesome regard for the -servant in attendance, which keeps the peace during many a family -crisis--for with Domenico, who knew no English, they were as safe as -when they were alone--it is very difficult to find subjects for -conversation, that will not lead direct to the very heart of the matter -which is being postponed. Constance could not talk of her music, for -Gaunt was associated with it. She could not speak of her walk, for he -was her invariable companion. She could ask no questions about the -neighbourhood, for was it not to make her acquainted with the -neighbourhood that all those expeditions were being made? The great -bouquet of anemones which blazed in the centre of the table came from -Mrs Gaunt’s garden. She began to think that she was buying her amusement -too dearly. As for Waring, his mind was not so full of these references, -but he was occupied by the thought of what he had to say to this -headstrong girl, and by a strong sense that he was an ill-used man, in -having such responsibilities thrust upon him against his will. Frances -would not have led him into such difficulties. To Frances, young Gaunt -would have been no more interesting than his father; or so at least this -man, whose experience had taught him so little, was ready to believe. - -“I want to say something to you, Constance,” he began at length, after -Domenico had left the room. “You must not stop my mouth by remarks -about middle-age parents. I am a middle-age parent, so there is an end -of it. Are you going to marry George Gaunt?” - -“I--going to marry George Gaunt! Papa!” - -“You had better, I think,” said her father. “It will save us all a great -deal of embarrassment. I should not have recommended it, had I been -consulted at the beginning. But you like to be independent and have your -own way; and the best thing you can do is to marry. I don’t know how -your mother will take it; but so far as I am concerned, I think it would -save everybody a great deal of trouble. You will be able to turn him -round your finger; that will suit you, though the want of money may be -in your way.” - -“I think you must mean to insult me, papa,” said Constance, who had -grown crimson. - -“That is all nonsense, my dear. I am suggesting what seems the best -thing in the circumstances, to set us all at our ease.” - -“To get rid of me, you mean,” she cried. - -“I have not taken any steps to get rid of you. I did not invite you, in -the first place, you will remember; you came of your own will. But I -was very willing to make the best of it. I let Frances go, who suited -me--whom I had brought up--for your sake. All the rest has been your -doing. Young Gaunt was never invited by me. I have had no hand in those -rambles of yours. But since you find so much pleasure in his -society----” - -“Papa, you know I don’t find pleasure in his society; you know----” - -“Then why do you seek it?” said Waring, with that logic which is so -cruel. - -Constance, on the other side of the table, was as red as the anemones, -and far more brilliant in the glow of passion. “I have not sought it,” -she cried. “I have let him come--that is all. I have gone when Mrs Gaunt -asked me. Must a girl marry every man that chooses to be silly? Can I -help it, if he is so vain? It is only vanity,” she said, springing up -from her chair, “that makes men think a girl is always ready to marry. -What should I marry for? If I had wanted to marry---- Papa, I don’t wish -to be disagreeable, but it is _vulgar_, if you force me to say it--it is -common to talk to me so.” - -“I might retort,” said Waring. - -“Oh yes, I know you might retort. It is common to amuse one’s self. So -is it common to breathe and move about, and like a little fun when you -are young. I have no fun here. There is nobody to talk to, not a thing -to do. How do you suppose I am to get on? How can I live without -something to fill up my time?” - -“Then you must take the consequences,” he said. - -In spite of herself, Constance felt a shiver of alarm. She began to -speak, then stopped suddenly, looked at him with a look of mingled -defiance and terror, and--what was so unlike her, so common, so weak, as -she felt--began to cry, notwithstanding all she could do to restrain -herself. To hide this unaccountable weakness, she hastened off and hid -herself in her room, making as if she had gone off in resentment. Better -that, than that he should see her crying like any silly girl. All this -had got on her nerves, she explained to herself afterwards. The -consequences! Constance held her breath as they became dimly apparent to -her in an atmosphere of horror. George Gaunt no longer an eager lover, -whom it was amusing, even exciting to draw on, to see just on the eve of -a self-committal, which it was the greatest fun in the world to stop, -before it went too far--but the master of her destinies, her constant -and inseparable companion, from whom she could never get free, by whom -she must not even say that she was bored to death--gracious powers! and -with so many other attendant horrors. To go to India with him, to fall -into the life of the station, to march with the regiment. Constance’s -lively imagination pictured a baggage-waggon, with herself on the top, -which made her laugh. But the reality was not laughable; it was -horrible. The consequences! No; she would not take the consequences. She -would sit with Mrs Gaunt in the carriage, and let him take his walk by -himself. She would begin to show him the extent of his mistake from that -very day. To take any stronger step, to refuse to go out with him at -all, she thought, on consideration, not necessary. The gentler measures -first, which perhaps he might be wise enough to accept. - -But if he did not accept them, what was Constance to do? She had run -away from an impending catastrophe, to take refuge with her father. But -with whom could she take refuge, if he continued to hold his present -strain of argument? And unless he would go away of himself, how was she -to shake off this young soldier? She did not want to shake him off; he -was all the amusement she had. What was she to do? - -There glanced across her mind for a moment a sort of desperate gleam of -reflection from her father’s words: “You like to be independent; the -best thing you can do is to marry.” There was a kind of truth in it, a -sort of distorted truth, such as was likely enough to come through the -medium of a mind so wholly at variance with all established forms. -Independent--there was something in that; and India was full of novelty, -amusing, a sort of world she had no experience of. A tremor of -excitement got into her nerves as she heard the bell ring, and knew that -he had come for her. He! the only individual who was at all interesting -for the moment, whom she held in her hands, to do what she pleased with. -She could turn him round her little finger, as her father said: and -independence! Was it a Mephistopheles that was tempting her, or a good -angel leading her the right way? - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Frances remembered little of the journey after it was over, though she -was keenly conscious of everything at the time, if there can be any keen -consciousness of a thing which is all vague, which conveys no clear -idea. Through the darkness of the night, which came on before she had -left the coast she knew, with all those familiar towns gleaming out as -she passed--Mentone, Monaco on its headland, the sheltering bays which -keep so warm and bright those cities of sickness, of idleness, and -pleasure--the palms, the olives, the oranges, the aloe hedges, the roses -and heliotropes--there was a confused and breathless sweep of distance, -half in the dark, half in the light, the monotonous plains, the lines of -poplars, the straight highroads of France. Paris, where they stayed for -a night, was only like a bigger, noisier, vast railway station, to -Frances. She had no time, in the hurry of her journey, in the still -greater hurry of her thoughts, to realise that here was the scene of -that dread Revolution of which she had read with shuddering -excitement--that she was driven past the spot where the guillotine was -first set up, and through the streets where the tumbrels had rolled, -carrying to that dread death the many tender victims, who were all she -knew of that great convulsion of history. Markham, who was so good to -her, put his head out of the carriage and pointed to a series of great -windows flashing with light. “What a pity there’s no time!” he said. She -asked “For what?” with the most complete want of comprehension. “For -shopping, of course,” he said, with a laugh. For shopping! She seemed to -be unacquainted with the meaning of the words. In the midst of this -strange wave of the unknown which was carrying her away, carrying her to -a world more unknown still, to suppose that she could pause and think of -shopping! The inappropriateness of the suggestion bewildered Frances. -Markham, indeed, altogether bewildered her. He was very good to her, -attending to her comfort, watchful over her needs in a way which she -could not have imagined possible. Her father had never been unkind; but -it did not occur to him to take care of her. It was she who took care of -him. If there was anything forgotten, it was she who got the blame; and -when he wanted a book, or his writing-desk, or a rug to put over his -knees, he called to his little girl to hand it to him, without the -faintest conception that there was anything incongruous in it. And there -was nothing incongruous in it. If there is any one in the world whom it -is natural to send on your errands, to get you what you want, surely -your child is that person. Waring did not think on the subject, but -simply did so by instinct, by nature; and equally by instinct Frances -obeyed, without a doubt that it was her simplest duty. If Markham had -said, “Get me my book, Frances; dear child, just open that bag--hand me -so-and-so,” she would have considered it the most natural thing in the -world. What he did do surprised her much more. He tripped in and out of -his seat at her smallest suggestion. He pulled up and down the window -at her pleasure, never appearing to think that it mattered whether _he_ -liked it or not. He took her out carefully on his arm, and made her -dine, not asking what she would have, as her father might perhaps have -done, but bringing her the best that was to be had, choosing what she -should eat, serving her as if she had been the Queen! It contributed to -the dizzying effect of the rapid journey that she should thus have been -placed in a position so different from any that she had ever known. - -And then there came the last stage, the strange leaden-grey stormy sea, -which was so unlike those blue ripples that came up just so far--no -farther, on the beach at Bordighera. She began to understand what is -said in the Bible about the waves that mount up like mountains, when she -saw the roll of the Channel. She had always a little wondered what that -meant. To be sure, there were storms now and then along the Riviera, -when the blue edge to the sea-mantle disappeared, and all became a deep -purple, solemn enough for a king’s pall, as it has been the pall of so -many a brave man; but even that was never like the dangerous threatening -lash of the waves along those rocks, and the way in which they raised -their awful heads. And was that England, white with a faint line of -green, so sodden and damp as it looked, rising out of the sea? The heart -of Frances sank: it was not like her anticipations. She had thought -there would be something triumphant, grand, about the aspect of -England--something proud, like a monarch of the sea; and it was only a -damp, greyish-white line, rising not very far out of those sullen waves. -An east wind was blowing with that blighting greyness which here, in the -uttermost parts of the earth, we are so well used to: and it was cold. A -gleam of pale sun indeed shot out of the clouds from time to time; but -there was no real warmth in it, and the effect of everything was -depressing. The green fields and hedgerows cheered her a little; but it -was all damp, and the sky was grey. And then came London, with a roar -and noise as if they had fallen into a den of wild beasts, and throngs, -multitudes of people at every little station which the quick train -flashed past, and on the platform, where at last she arrived dizzy and -faint with fatigue and wonderment. But Markham always was more kind than -words could say. He sympathised with her, seeing her forlorn looks at -everything. He did not ask her how she liked it, what she thought of her -native country. When they arrived at last, he found out miraculously, -among the crowd of carriages, a quiet, little, dark-coloured brougham, -and put her into it. “We’ll trundle off home,” he said, “you and I, Fan, -and let John look after the things; you are so tired you can scarcely -speak.” - -“Not so much tired,” said Frances, and tried to smile, but could not say -any more. - -“I understand.” He took her hand into his with the kindest caressing -touch. “You mustn’t be frightened, my dear. There’s nothing to be -frightened about. You’ll like my mother. Perhaps it was silly of me to -say that, and make you cry. Don’t cry, Fan, or I shall cry too. I am the -foolishest little beggar, you know, and always do what my companions do. -Don’t make a fool of your old brother, my dear. There, look out and see -what a beastly place old London is, Fan.” - -“Don’t call me Fan,” she cried, this slight irritation affording her an -excuse for disburdening herself of some of the nervous excitement in -her. “Call me Frances, Markham.” - -“Life’s too short for a name in two syllables. I’ve got two syllables -myself, that’s true; but many fellows call me Mark, and you are welcome -to, if you like. No; I shall call you Fan; you must make up your mind to -it. Did you ever see such murky heavy air? It isn’t air at all--it’s -smoke, and animalculæ, and everything that’s dreadful. It’s not like -that blue stuff on the Riviera, is it?” - -“Oh no!” cried Frances, with fervour. “But I suppose London is better -for some things,” she added with a doubtful voice. - -“Better! It’s better than any other place on the face of the earth; it’s -the only place to live in,” said Markham. “Why, child, it is -paradise,”--he paused a moment, and then added, “with pandemonium next -door.” - -“Markham!” the girl cried. - -“I was wrong to mention such a place in your hearing. I know I was. -Never mind, Fan; you shall see the one, and you shall know nothing about -the other. Why, here we are in Eaton Square.” - -The door flashed open as soon as the carriage stopped, letting out a -flood of light and warmth. Markham almost lifted the trembling girl out. -She had got her veil entangled about her head, her arms in the cloak -which she had half thrown off. She was not prepared for this abrupt -arrival. She seemed to see nothing but the light, to know nothing until -she found herself suddenly in some one’s arms; then the light seemed to -go out of her eyes. Sight had nothing to do with the sensation, the -warmth, the softness, the faint rustle, the faint perfume, with which -she was suddenly encircled; and for a few moments she knew nothing more. - -“Dear, dear, Markham, I hope she is not delicate--I hope she is not -given to fainting,” she heard in a disturbed but pleasant voice, before -she felt able to open her eyes. - -“Not a bit,” said Markham’s familiar tones. “She’s overdone, and awfully -anxious about meeting you.” - -“My poor dear! Why should she be anxious about meeting me?” said the -other voice, a voice round and soft, with a plaintive tone in it; and -then there came the touch of a pair of lips, soft and caressing like the -voice, upon the girl’s cheek. She did not yet open her eyes, half -because she could not, half because she would not, but whispered in a -faint little tentative utterance, “Mother!” wondering vaguely whether -the atmosphere round her, the kiss, the voice, was all the mother she -was to know. - -“My poor little baby, my little girl! open your eyes. Markham, I want to -see the colour of her eyes.” - -“As if I could open her eyes for you!” cried Markham with a strange -outburst of sound, which, if he had been a woman, might have meant -crying, but must have been some sort of a laugh, since he was a man. He -seemed to walk away, and then came back again. “Come, Fan, that’s -enough. Open your eyes, and look at us. I told you there was nothing to -be frightened for.” - -And then Frances raised herself; for, to her astonishment, she was -lying down upon a sofa, and looked round her, bewildered. Beside her -stood a little lady, about her own height, with smooth brown hair like -hers, with her hands clasped, just as Frances was aware she had herself -a custom of clasping her hands. It began to dawn upon her that Constance -had said she was very like mamma. This new-comer was beautifully dressed -in soft black satin, that did not rustle--that was far, far too harsh a -word--but swept softly about her with the faintest pleasant sound; and -round her breathed that atmosphere which Frances felt would mean mother -to her for ever and ever,--an air that was infinitely soft, with a touch -in it of some sweetness. Oh, not scent! She rejected the word with -disdain--something, nothing, the atmosphere of a mother. In the curious -ecstasy in which she was, made up of fatigue, wonder, and the excitement -of this astounding plunge into the unknown, that was how she felt. - -“Let me look at you, my child. I can’t think of her as a grown girl, -Markham. Don’t you know she is my baby. She has never grown up, like -the rest of you, to me. Oh, did you never wish for me, little Frances? -Did you never want your mother, my darling? Often, often, I have lain -awake in the night and cried for you.” - -“Oh mamma!” cried Frances, forgetting her shyness, throwing herself into -her mother’s arms. The temptation to tell her that she had never known -anything about her mother, to excuse herself at her father’s expense, -was strong. But she kept back the words that were at her lips. “I have -always wanted this all my life,” she cried, with a sudden impulse, and -laid her head upon her mother’s breast, feeling in all the commotion and -melting of her heart a consciousness of the accessories, the rich -softness of the satin, the delicate perfume, all the details of the new -personality by which her own was surrounded on every side. - -“Now I see,” cried the new-found mother, “it was no use parting this -child and me, Markham. It is all the same between us--isn’t it, my -darling?--as if we had always been together--all the same in a moment. -Come up-stairs now, if you feel able, dear one. Do you think, Markham, -she is able to walk up-stairs?” - -“Oh, quite able; oh, quite, quite well. It was only for a moment. I -was--frightened, I think.” - -“But you will never be frightened any more,” said Lady Markham, drawing -the girl’s arm through her own, leading her away. Frances was giddy -still, and stumbled as she went, though she had pledged herself never to -be frightened again. She went in a dream up the softly carpeted stairs. -She knew what handsome rooms were, the lofty bare grandeur of an Italian -palazzo; but all this carpeting and cushioning, the softness, the -warmth, the clothed and comfortable look, bewildered her. She could -scarcely find her way through the drawing-room, crowded with costly -furniture, to the blazing fire, by the side of which stood the -tea-table, like, and yet how unlike, that anxious copy of English ways -which Frances had set up in the loggia. She was conscious, with a -momentary gleam of complacency, that her cups and saucers were better, -though! not belonging to an ordinary modern set, like these; but, alas, -in everything else how far short! Then she was taken up-stairs, -through--as she thought--the sumptuous arrangements of her mother’s -room, to another smaller, which opened from it, and in which there was -the same wealth of carpets, curtains, easy-chairs, and writing-tables, -in addition to the necessary details of a sleeping-room. Frances looked -round it admiringly. She knew nothing about the modern-artistic, though -something, a very little, about old art. The painted ceilings and old -gilding of the Palazzo--which she began secretly and obstinately to call -_home_ from this moment forth--were intelligible to her; but she was -quite unacquainted with Mr Morris’s papers and the art fabrics from -Liberty’s. She looked at them with admiration, but doubt. She thought -the walls “killed” the pictures that were hung round, which were not -like her own little gallery at home, which she had left with a little -pang to her sister. “Is this Constance’s room?” she asked timidly, -called back to a recollection of Constance, and wondering whether the -transfer was to be complete. - -“No, my love; it is Frances’ room,” said Lady Markham. “It has always -been ready for you. I expected you to come some time. I have always -hoped that; but I never thought that Con would desert me.” Her voice -faltered a little, which instantly touched Frances’ heart. - -“I asked,” she said, “not just out of curiosity, but because, when she -came to us, I gave her my room. Our rooms are not like these; they have -very few things in them. There are no carpets; it is warmer there, you -know; but I thought she would find the blue room so bare, I gave her -mine.” - -Lady Markham smiled upon her, and said, but with a faint, the very -faintest indication of being less interested than Frances was, “You have -not many visitors, I suppose?” - -“Oh, none!” cried Frances. “I suppose we are--rather poor. We are -not--like this.” - -“My darling, you don’t know how to speak to me, your own mother! What do -you mean, dear, by _we_? You must learn to mean something else by _we_. -Your father, if he had chosen, might have had--all that you see, and -more. And Constance---- But we will say nothing more to-night on that -subject. This is Con’s room, see, on the other side of mine. It was -always my fancy, my hope, some time to have my two girls, one on each -side.” - -Frances followed her mother to the room on the other side with great -interest. It was still more luxurious than the one appropriated to -herself--more comfortable, as a room which has been occupied, which -shows traces of its tenant’s tastes and likings, must naturally be; and -it was brighter, occupying the front of the house, while that of -Frances’ looked to the side. She glanced round at all the fittings and -decorations, which, to her unaccustomed eyes, were so splendid. “Poor -Constance!” she said under her breath. - -“Why do you say poor Constance?” said Lady Markham, with something sharp -and sudden in her tone. And then she, too, said regretfully, “Poor Con! -You think it will be disappointing to her, this other life which she has -chosen. Was it--dreary for you, my poor child?” - -Then there rose up in the tranquil mind of Frances a kind of -tempest-blast of opposition and resentment. “It is the only life I -know--it was--everything I liked best,” she cried. The first part of the -sentence was very firmly, almost aggressively said. In the second, she -wavered, hesitated, changed the tense--it was. She did not quite know -herself what the change meant. - -Lady Markham looked at her with a penetrating gaze. “It was--everything -you knew, my little Frances. I understand you, my dear. You will not be -disloyal to the past. But to Constance, who does not know it, who knows -something else---- Poor Con! I understand. But she will have to pay for -her experience, like all the rest.” - -Frances had been profoundly agitated, but in the way of happiness. She -did not feel happy now. She felt disposed to cry, not because of the -relief of tears, but because she did not know how else to express the -sense of contrariety, of disturbance that had got into her mind. Was it -that already a wrong note had sounded between herself and this unknown -mother, whom it had been a rapture to see and touch? Or was it only -that she was tired? Lady Markham saw the condition into which her nerves -and temper were strained. She took her back tenderly into her room. “My -dear,” she said, “if you would rather not, don’t change your dress. Do -just as you please to-night. I would stay and help you, or I would send -Josephine, my maid, to help you; but I think you will prefer to be left -alone and quiet.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances with fervour; then she added hastily, “If you do -not think me disagreeable to say so.” - -“I am not prepared to think anything in you disagreeable, my dear,” said -her mother, kissing her--but with a sigh. This sigh Frances echoed in a -burst of tears when the door closed and she found herself alone--alone, -quite alone, more so than she had ever been in her life, she whispered -to herself, in the shock of the unreasonable and altogether fantastic -disappointment which had followed her ecstasy of pleasure. Most likely -it meant nothing at all but the reaction from that too highly raised -level of feeling. - -“No; I am not disappointed,” Lady Markham was saying down-stairs. She -was standing before the genial blaze of the fire, looking into it with -her head bent and a serious expression on her face. “Perhaps I was too -much delighted for a moment; but she, poor child, now that she has -looked at me a second time, she is a little, just a little disappointed -in me. That’s rather hard for a mother, you know; or I suppose you don’t -know.” - -“I never was a mother,” said Markham. “I should think it’s very natural. -The little thing has been forming the most romantic ideas. If you had -been an angel from heaven----” - -“Which I am not,” she said with a smile, still looking into the fire. - -“Heaven be praised,” said Markham. “In that case, you would not have -suited me--which you do, mammy, you know, down to the ground.” - -She gave a half glance at him, a half smile, but did not disturb the -chain of her reflections. “That’s something, Markham,” she said. - -“Yes; it’s something. On my side, it is a great deal. Don’t go too fast -with little Fan. She has a deal in her. Have a little patience, and let -her settle down her own way.” - -“I don’t feel sure that she has not got her father’s temper; I saw -something like it in her eyes.” - -“That is nonsense, begging your pardon. She has got nothing of her -father in her eyes. Her eyes are like yours, and so is everything about -her. My dear mother, Con’s like Waring, if you like. This one is of our -side of the house.” - -“Do you really think so?” Lady Markham looked up now and laid her hand -affectionately upon his shoulder, and laughed. “But, my dear boy, you -are as like the Markhams as you can look. On my side of the house, there -is nobody at all, unless, as you say----” - -“Frances,” said the little man. “I told you--the best of the lot. I took -to her in a moment by that very token. Therefore, don’t go too fast with -her, mother. She has her own notions. She is as stanch as a -little--Turk,” said Markham, using the first word that offered. When he -met his mother’s eye, he retired a little, with the air of a man who -does not mean to be questioned; which naturally stimulated curiosity in -her mind. - -“How have you found out that she is stanch, Markham?” - -“Oh, in half-a-dozen ways,” he answered, carelessly. “And she will stick -to her father through thick and thin, so mind what you say.” - -Then Lady Markham began to bemoan herself a little gently, before the -fire, in the most luxurious of easy-chairs. - -“Was ever woman in such a position,” she said, “to be making -acquaintance, for the first time, at eighteen, with my own daughter--and -to have to pick my words and to be careful what I say?” - -“Well, mammy,” said Markham, “it might have been worse. Let us make the -best of it. He has always kept his word, which is something, and has -never annoyed you. And it is quite a nice thing for Con to have him to -go to, to find out how dull it is, and know her own mind. And now we’ve -got the other one too.” - -Lady Markham still rocked herself a little in her chair, and put her -handkerchief to her eyes. “For all that, it is very hard, both on her -and me,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -Lady Markham’s story was one which was very well known to Society--to -which everything is known--though it had remained so long a secret, and -was still a mystery to one of her children. Waring had been able to lose -himself in distance, and keep his position concealed from every one; but -it was clear that his wife could not do so, remaining as she did in the -world which was fully acquainted with her, and which required an -explanation of everything that happened. Perhaps it is more essential to -a woman than to a man that her position should be fully explained, -though it is one of the drawbacks of an established place and sphere, -which is seldom spoken of, yet is very real, and one of the greatest -embarrassments of life. So long as existence is without complications, -this matters little; but when these arise, those difficulties which so -often distract the career of a family, the inevitable explanations that -have to be made to the little interested ring of spectators, is often -the worst part of domestic trouble. Waring, whose temperament was what -is called sensitive--that is, impatient, self-willed, and -unenduring--would not submit to such a necessity. But a woman cannot -fly; she must stand in her place, if she has any regard for that place, -and for the reputation which it is common to say is more delicate and -easily injured than is that of a man--and make her excuse to the world. -Perhaps, as, sooner or later, excuses and explanations must be afforded, -it is the wiser plan to get over them publicly and at once; for even -Waring, as has been seen, though he escaped, and had a dozen years of -tranquillity, had at the last to submit himself to the questions of Mr -Durant. All that was over for these dozen years with Lady Markham. -Everybody knew exactly what her position was. Scandal had never -breathed upon her, either at the moment of the separation or afterwards. -It had been a foolish, romantic love-marriage between a woman of Society -and a man who was half rustic, half scholar. They had found after a time -that they could not endure each other--as anybody with a head on his -shoulders could have told them from the beginning, Society said. And -then he had taken the really sensible though wild and romantic step of -banishing himself and leaving her free. There were some who had supposed -this a piece of _bizarre_ generosity, peculiar to the man, and some who -thought it only a natural return to the kind of life that suited him -best. - -Lady Markham had, of course, been censured for this, her second -marriage; and equally, of course, was censured for the breach of it--for -the separation, which, indeed, was none of her doing; for retaining her -own place when her husband left her; and, in short, for every step she -had taken in the matter from first to last. But that was twelve years -ago, which is a long time in all circumstances, and which counts for -about a century in Society: and nobody thought of blaming her any -longer, or of remarking at all upon the matter. The present lords and -ladies of fashionable life had always known her as she was, and there -was no further question about her history. When, in the previous season, -Miss Waring had made her _début_ in Society, and achieved the success -which had been so remarkable, there was indeed a little languid question -as to who was her father among those who remembered that Waring was not -the name of the Markham family; but this was not interesting enough to -cause any excitement. And Frances, still thrilling with the discovery of -the other life, of which she had never suspected the existence, and -ignorant even now of everything except the mere fact of it, suddenly -found herself embraced and swallowed up in a perfectly understood and -arranged routine in which there was no mystery at all. - -“The first thing you must do is to make acquaintance with your -relations,” said Lady Markham next morning at breakfast. “Fortunately, -we have this quiet time before Easter to get over all these -preliminaries. Your aunt Clarendon will expect to see you at once.” - -Frances was greatly disturbed by this new discovery. She gave a covert -glance at Markham, who, though it was not his habit to appear so early, -had actually produced himself at breakfast to see how the little one was -getting on. Markham looked back again, elevating his eyebrows, and not -understanding at first what the question meant. - -“And there are all the cousins,” said the mother, with that plaintive -tone in her voice. “My dear, I hope you are not in the way of forming -friendships, for there are so many of them! I think the best thing will -be to get over all these duty introductions at once. I must ask the -Clarendons--don’t you think, Markham?--to dinner, and perhaps the -Peytons,--quite a family party.” - -“Certainly, by all means,” said Markham; “but first of all, don’t you -think she wants to be dressed?” - -Lady Markham looked at Frances critically from her smooth little head to -her neat little shoes. The girl was standing by the fire, with her head -reclined against the mantelpiece of carved oak, which, as a -“reproduction,” was very much thought of in Eaton Square. Frances felt -that the blush with which she met her mother’s look must be seen, though -she turned her head away, through the criticised clothes. - -“Her dress is very simple; but there is nothing in bad taste. Don’t you -think I might take her anywhere as she is? I did not notice her hat,” -said Lady Markham, with gravity; “but if that is right---- Simplicity is -quite the right thing at eighteen----” - -“And in Lent,” said Markham. - -“It is quite true; in Lent, it is better than the right thing--it is the -best thing. My dear, you must have had a very good maid. Foreign women -have certainly better taste than the class we get our servants from. -What a pity you did not bring her with you! One can always find room for -a clever maid.” - -“I don’t believe she had any maid; it is all out of her own little -head,” said Markham. “I told you not to let yourself be taken in. She -has a deal in her, that little thing.” - -Lady Markham smiled, and gave Frances a kiss, enfolding her once more in -that soft atmosphere which had been such a revelation to her last -night. “I am sure she is a dear little girl, and is going to be a great -comfort to me. You will want to write your letters this morning, my -love, which you must do before lunch. And after lunch, we will go and -see your aunt. You know that is a matter of--what shall we call it, -Markham?--conscience with me.” - -“Pride,” Markham said, coming and standing by them in front of the fire. - -“Perhaps a little,” she answered with a smile; “but conscience too. I -would not have her say that I had kept the child from her for a single -day.” - -“That is how conscience speaks, Fan,” said Markham. “You will know next -time you hear it. And after the Clarendons?” - -“Well--of course, there must be a hundred things the child wants. We -must look at your evening dresses together, darling. Tell Josephine to -lay them out and let me see them. We are going to have some people at -the Priory for Easter; and when we come back, there will be no time. -Yes, I think on our way home from Portland Place we must just look -into--a shop or two.” - -“Now my mind is relieved,” Markham said. “I thought you were going to -change the course of nature, Fan.” - -“The child is quite bewildered by your nonsense, Markham,” the mother -said. - -And this was quite true. Frances had never been on such terms with her -father as would have entitled her to venture to laugh at him. She was -confused with this new phase, as well as with her many other -discoveries: and it appeared to her that Markham looked just as old as -his mother. Lady Markham was fresh and fair, her complexion as clear as -a girl’s, and her hair still brown and glossy. If art in any way added -to this perfection, Frances had no suspicion of such a possibility. And -when she looked from her mother’s round and soft contour to the wrinkles -of Markham, and his no-colour and indefinite age, and heard him address -her with that half-caressing, half-bantering equality, the girl’s mind -grew more and more hopelessly confused. She withdrew, as was expected of -her, to write her letters, though without knowing how to fulfil that -duty. She could write (of course) to her father. It was of course, and -so was what she told him. “We arrived about six o’clock. I was -dreadfully confused with the noise and the crowds of people. Mamma was -very kind. She bids me send you her love. The house is very fine, and -full of furniture, and fires in all the rooms; but one wants that, for -it is much colder here. We are going out after luncheon to call on my -aunt Clarendon. I wish very much I knew who she was, or who my other -relations are; but I suppose I shall find out in time.” This was the -scope of Frances’ letter. And she did not feel warranted, somehow, in -writing to Constance. She knew so little of Constance: and was she not -in some respects a supplanter, taking Constance’s place? When she had -finished her short letter to her father, which was all fact, with very -few reflections, Frances paused and looked round her, and felt no -further inspiration. Should she write to Mariuccia? But that would -require time--there was so much to be said to Mariuccia. Facts were not -what _she_ would want--at least, the facts would have to be of a -different kind; and Frances felt that daylight and all the arrangements -of the new life, the necessity to be ready for luncheon and to go out -after, were not conditions under which she could begin to pour out her -heart to her old nurse, the attendant of her childhood. She must put off -till the evening, when she should be alone and undisturbed, with time -and leisure to collect all her thoughts and first impressions. She put -down her pen, which was not, indeed, an instrument she was much -accustomed to wield, and began to think instead; but all her thinking -would not tell her who the relatives were to whom she was about to be -presented; and she reflected with horror that her ignorance must betray -the secret which she had so carefully kept, and expose her father to -further and further criticism. - -There was only one way of avoiding this danger, and that was through -Markham, who alone could help her, who was the only individual in whom -she could feel a confidence that he would give her what information he -could, and understand why she asked. If she could but find Markham! She -went down-stairs, timidly flitting along the wide staircase through the -great drawing-room, which was vacant, and found no trace of him. She -lingered, peeping out from between the curtains of the windows upon the -leafless gardens outside in the spring sunshine, the passing carriages -which she could see through their bare boughs, the broad pavement close -at hand with so few passengers, the clatter now and then of a hansom, -which amused her even in the midst of her perplexity, or the drawing up -of a brougham at some neighbouring door. After a minute’s distraction -thus, she returned again to make further investigations from the -drawing-room door, and peep over the balusters to watch for her brother. -At last she had the good luck to perceive him coming out of one of the -rooms on the lower floor. She darted down as swift as a bird, and -touched him on the sleeve. He had his hat in his hand, as if preparing -to go out. “Oh,” she said in a breathless whisper, “I want to speak to -you; I want to ask you something,”--holding up her hand with a warning -hush. - -“What is it?” returned Markham, chiefly with his eyebrows, with a comic -affectation of silence and secrecy which tempted her to laugh in spite -of herself. Then he nodded his head, took her hand in his, and led her -up-stairs to the drawing-room again. “What is it you want to ask me? Is -it a state secret? The palace is full of spies, and the walls of ears,” -said Markham with mock solemnity, “and I may risk my head by following -you. Fair conspirator, what do you want to ask?” - -“Oh, Markham, don’t laugh at me--it is serious. Please, who is my aunt -Clarendon?” - -“You little Spartan!” he said; “you are a plucky little girl, Fan. You -won’t betray the daddy, come what may. You are quite right, my dear; but -he ought to have told you. I don’t approve of him, though I approve of -you.” - -“Papa has a right to do as he pleases,” said Frances steadily; “that is -not what I asked you, please.” - -He stood and smiled at her, patting her on the shoulder. “I wonder if -you will stand by me like that, when you hear me get my due? Who is -your aunt Clarendon? She is your father’s sister, Fan; I think the only -one who is left.” - -“Papa’s sister! I thought it must be--on the other side.” - -“My mother,” said Markham, “has few relations--which is a misfortune -that I bear with equanimity. Mrs Clarendon married a lawyer a great many -years ago, Fan, when he was poor; and now he is very rich, and they will -make him a judge one of these days.” - -“A judge,” said Frances. “Then he must be very good and wise. And my -aunt----” - -“My dear, the wife’s qualities are not as yet taken into account. She is -very good, I don’t doubt; but they don’t mean to raise her to the Bench. -You must remember when you go there, Fan, that they are _the other -side_.” - -“What do you mean by ‘the other side’?” inquired Frances anxiously, -fixing her eyes upon the kind, queer, insignificant personage, who yet -was so important in this house. - -Markham gave forth that little chuckle of a laugh which was his special -note of merriment. “You will soon find it out for yourself,” he -replied; “but the dear old mammy can hold her own. Is that all? for I’m -running off; I have an engagement.” - -“Oh, not all--not half. I want you to tell me--I want to know--I--I -don’t know where to begin,” said Frances, with her hand on the sleeve of -his coat. - -“Nor I,” he retorted with a laugh. “Let me go now; we’ll find an -opportunity. Keep your eyes, or rather your ears, open; but don’t take -all you hear for gospel. Good-bye till to-night. I’m coming to dinner -to-night.” - -“Don’t you live here?” said Frances, accompanying him to the door. - -“Not such a fool, thank you,” replied Markham, stopping her gently, and -closing the door of the room with care after him as he went away. - -Frances was much discouraged by finding nothing but that closed door in -front of her where she had been gazing into his ugly but expressive -face. It made a sort of dead stop, an emphatic punctuation, marking the -end. Why should he say he was not such a fool as to live at home with -his mother? Why should he be so _nice_ and yet so odd? Why had -Constance warned her not to put herself in Markham’s hands? All this -confused the mind of Frances whenever she began to think. And she did -not know what to do with herself. She stole to the window and watched -through the white curtains, and saw him go away in the hansom which -stood waiting at the door. She felt a vacancy in the house after his -departure, the loss of a support, an additional silence and sense of -solitude; even something like a panic took possession of her soul. Her -impulse was to rush up-stairs again and shut herself up in her room. She -had never yet been alone with her mother except for a moment. She -dreaded the (quite unnecessary, to her thinking) meal which was coming, -at which she must sit down opposite to Lady Markham, with that solemn -old gentleman, dressed like Mr Durant, and that gorgeous theatrical -figure of a footman, serving the two ladies. Ah, how different from -Domenico--poor Domenico, who had called her _carina_ from her childhood, -and who wept over her hand as he kissed it, when she was coming away. -Oh, when should she see these faithful friends again? - -“I want you to be quite at your ease with your aunt Clarendon,” said -Lady Markham at luncheon, when the servants had left the room. “She will -naturally want to know all about your father and your way of living. We -have not talked very much on that subject, my dear, because, for one -thing, we have not had much time; and because---- But she will want to -know all the little details. And, my darling, I want just to tell you, -to warn you. Poor Caroline is not very fond of me. Perhaps it is -natural. She may say things to you about your mother----” - -“Oh no, mamma,” said Frances, looking up in her mother’s face. - -“You don’t know, my dear. Some people have a great deal of prejudice. -Your aunt Caroline, as is quite natural, takes a different view. I -wonder if I can make you understand what I mean without using words -which I don’t want to use?” - -“Yes,” said Frances; “you may trust me, mamma; I think I understand.” - -Lady Markham rose and came to where her child sat, and kissed her -tenderly. “My dear, I think you will be a great comfort to me,” she -said. “Constance was always hot-headed. She would not make friends, when -I wished her to make friends. The Clarendons are very rich; they have no -children, Frances. Naturally, I wish you to stand well with them. -Besides, I would not allow her to suppose for a moment that I would keep -you from her--that is what I call conscience, and Markham pride.” - -Frances did not know what to reply. She did not understand what the -wealth of the Clarendons had to do with it; everything else she could -understand. She was very willing, nay, eager to see her father’s sister, -yet very determined that no one should say a word to her to the -detriment of her mother. So far as that went, in her own mind all was -clear. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -Mrs Clarendon lived in one of the great houses in Portland Place which -fashion has abandoned. It was very silent, wrapped in that stillness and -decorum which is one of the chief signs of an entirely well-regulated -house, also of a place in which life is languid and youth does not -exist. Frances followed her mother with a beating heart through the long -wide hall and large staircase, over soft carpets, on which their feet -made no sound. She thought they were stealing in like ghosts to some -silent place in which mystery of one kind or other must attend them; but -the room they were ushered into was only a very large, very still -drawing-room, in painfully good order, inhabited by nothing but a fire, -which made a little sound and flicker that preserved it from utter -death. The blinds were drawn half over the windows; the long curtains -hung down in dark folds. There were none of the quaintnesses, the modern -æstheticisms, the crowds of small picturesque articles of furniture -impeding progress, in which Lady Markham delighted. The furniture was -all solid, durable--what upholsterers call very handsome--huge mirrors -over the mantelpieces, a few large portraits in chalk on the walls, -solemn ornaments on the table; a large and brilliantly painted china -flower-pot enclosing a large plant of the palm kind, dark-green and -solemn, like everything else, holding the place of honour. It was very -warm and comfortable, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but at the same -time very severe and forbidding, like a place into which the common -occupations of life were never brought. - -“She never sits here,” said Lady Markham in a low tone. “She has a -morning-room that is cosy enough. She comes up here after dinner, when -Mr Clarendon takes a nap before he looks over his briefs; and he comes -up at ten o’clock for ten minutes and takes a cup of tea. Then she goes -to bed. That is about all the intercourse they have, and all the time -the drawing-room is occupied, except when people come to call. That is -why it has such a depressing look.” - -“Is she not happy, then?” said Frances wistfully, which was a silly -question, as she now saw as soon as she had uttered it. - -“Happy! Oh, probably just as happy as other people. That is not a -question that is ever asked in Society, my dear. Why shouldn’t she be -happy? She has everything she has ever wished for--plenty of money--for -they are very rich--her husband quite distinguished in his sphere, and -in the way of advancement. What could she want more? She is a lucky -woman, as women go.” - -“Still she must be dull, with no one to speak to,” said Frances, looking -round her with a glance of dismay. What she thought was, that it would -probably be her duty to come here to make a little society for her aunt, -and her heart sank at the sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, -with a sensation which Mariuccia’s kitchen at home, which only looked on -the court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the villagers, had never given -her. The silence was terrible, and struck a chill to her heart. Then all -at once the door opened, and Mrs Clarendon came in, taking the young -visitor entirely by surprise; for the soft carpets and thick curtains so -entirely shut out all sound, that she seemed to glide in like a ghost to -the ghosts already there. Frances, unaccustomed to English comfort, was -startled by the absence of sound, and missed the indication of the -footstep on the polished floor, which had so often warned her to lay -aside her innocent youthful visions at the sound of her father’s -approach. Mrs Clarendon coming in so softly seemed to arrest them in the -midst of their talk about her, bringing a flush to Frances’ face. She -was a tall woman, fair and pale, with cold grey eyes, and an air which -was like that of her rooms--the air of being unused, of being put -against the wall like the handsome furniture. She came up stiffly to -Lady Markham, who went to meet her with effusion, holding out both -hands. - -“I am so glad to see you, Caroline. I feared you might be out, as it was -such a beautiful day.” - -“Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to me cold, looking out. I am not very -energetic, you know--not like you. Have I seen this young lady before?” - -“You have not seen her for a long time--not since she was a child; nor I -either, which is more wonderful. This is Frances. Caroline, I told you I -expected----” - -“My brother’s child!” Mrs Clarendon said, fixing her eyes upon the girl, -who came forward with shy eagerness. She did not open her arms, as -Frances expected. She inspected her carefully and coldly, and ended by -saying, “But she is like you,” with a certain tone of reproach. - -“That is not my fault,” said Lady Markham, almost sharply; and then she -added: “For the matter of that, they are both your brother’s -children--though, unfortunately, mine too.” - -“You know my opinion on that matter,” said Mrs Clarendon; and then, and -not till then, she gave Frances her hand, and stooping kissed her on the -cheek. “Your father writes very seldom, and I have never heard a word -from you. All the same, I have always taken an interest in you. It must -be very sad for you, after the life to which you have been accustomed, -to be suddenly sent here without any will of your own.” - -“Oh no,” said Frances. “I was very glad to come, to see mamma.” - -“That’s the proper thing to say, of course,” the other said with a cold -smile. There was just enough of a family likeness to her father to -arrest Frances in her indignation. She was not allowed time to make an -answer, even had she possessed confidence enough to do so, for her aunt -went on, without looking at her again: “I suppose you have heard from -Constance? It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile herself with -the different kind of life. My brother’s quiet ways are not likely to -suit a young lady about town.” - -“Frances will be able to tell you all about it,” said Lady Markham, who -kept her temper with astonishing self-control. “She only arrived last -night. I would not delay a moment in bringing her to you. Of course, you -will like to hear. Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is of opinion -that on the whole the change will do Constance good.” - -“I don’t at all doubt it will do her good. To associate with my brother -would do any one good--who is worthy of it; but of course it will be a -great change for her. And this child will be kept just long enough to be -infected with worldly ways, and then sent back to him spoilt for his -life. I suppose, Lady Markham, that is what you intend?” - -“You are so determined to think badly of me,” said Lady Markham, “that -it is vain for me to say anything; or else I might remind you that Con’s -going off was a greater surprise to me than to any one. You know what -were my views for her?” - -“Yes. I rather wonder why you take the trouble to acquaint me with your -plans,” Mrs Clarendon said. - -“It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a feeling that as Edward’s only near -relation----” - -“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to you for your consideration,” the -other cried quickly. “Constance was never influenced by me; though I -don’t wonder that her soul revolted at such a marriage as you had -prepared for her.” - -“Why?” cried Lady Markham quickly, with an astonished glance. Then she -added with a smile: “I am afraid you will see nothing but harm in any -plan of mine. Unfortunately, Con did not like the gentleman whom I -approved. I should not have put any force upon her. One can’t nowadays, -if one wished to. It is contrary, as she says herself, to the spirit of -the times. But if you will allow me to say so, Caroline, Con is too like -her father to bear anything, to put up with anything that----” - -“Thank heaven!” cried Mrs Clarendon. “She is indeed a little like her -dear father, notwithstanding a training so different. And this one, I -suppose--this one you find like you?” - -“I am happy to think she is a little, in externals at least,” said Lady -Markham, taking Frances’ hand in her own. “But Edward has brought her -up, Caroline; that should be a passport to your affections at least.” - -Upon this, Mrs Clarendon came down as from a pedestal, and addressed -herself to the girl, over whose astonished head this strange dialogue -had gone. “I am afraid, my dear, you will think me very hard and -disagreeable,” she said. “I will not tell you why, though I think I -could make out a case. How is your dear father? He writes seldomer and -seldomer--sometimes not even at Christmas; and I am afraid you have -little sense of family duties, which is a pity at your age.” - -Frances did not know how to reply to this accusation, and she was -confused and indignant, and little disposed to attempt to please. -“Papa,” she said, “is very well. I have heard him say that he could not -write letters--our life was so quiet: there was nothing to say.” - -“Ah, my dear, that is all very well for strangers, or for those who care -more about the outside than the heart. But he might have known that -anything, everything would be interesting to me. It is just your quiet -life that I like to hear about. Society has little attraction for me. I -suppose you are half an Italian, are you? and know nothing about English -life.” - -“She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort of -parenthesis. - -“The only people I know are English,” said Frances. “Papa is not fond of -society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have -always tried to be like my own country-people, as well as I could.” - -“And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smiling look. - -Mrs Clarendon said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. -Then she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she said, “I should like -to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my -dear brother; but that can’t be done in a morning call. Will you leave -her with me for the day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? -Any time will suit me.” - -“She only arrived last night, Caroline. I suppose even you will allow -that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with -you, if that suits you?” - -“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs Clarendon, ostentatiously counting -on her fingers--“during which interval you will have full time---- Oh -yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother, of course, conventionally, has, -as you say, the first right.” - -“Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady Markham replied; and then -there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who -felt her innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over -which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused -and indignant, not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house -did nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of the moment: she seemed to -have no wish to set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during -which the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional -fall of ashes from the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, -loud and distinct, to fill up the interval, was half painful, half -ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly -introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain -irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life. - -At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady Markham -rose and spread her wings--or at least shook out her silken draperies, -which comes to the same thing. “As that is settled, we need not detain -you any longer,” she said. - -Mrs Clarendon rose too, slowly. “I cannot expect,” she replied, “that -you can give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much -occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock on Thursday. I -lunch at one; and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I -shall be glad to take you wherever you like. I suppose I may keep her to -dinner? Mr Clarendon will like to make acquaintance with his niece.” - -“Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Markham with a -smile. “I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.” - -“Yet it was on that ground that Constance abandoned you and ran away to -her father,” quoth the implacable antagonist. - -Lady Markham, calm as she was, grew red to her hair. “I don’t think -Constance has abandoned me,” she cried hastily; “and if she has, the -fault is---- But there is no discussion possible between people so -hopelessly of different opinions as you and I,” she added, recovering -her composure. “Mr Clarendon is well, I hope?” - -“Very well. Good morning, since you will go,” said the mistress of the -house. She dropped another cold kiss upon Frances’ cheek. It seemed to -the girl, indeed, who was angry and horrified, that it was her aunt’s -nose, which was a long one and very chilly, which touched her. She made -no response to this nasal salutation. She felt, indeed, that to give a -slap to that other cheek would be much more expressive of her sentiments -than a kiss, and followed her mother down-stairs hot with resentment. -Lady Markham, too, was moved. When she got into the brougham, she leant -back in her corner and put her handkerchief lightly to the corner of -each eye. Then she laughed, and laid her hand upon Frances’ arm. - -“You are not to think I am grieving,” she said; “it is only rage. Did -you ever know such a----? But, my dear, we must recollect that it is -natural--that she is on _the other side_.” - -“Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so cruel?” cried Frances. “Then, -mamma, I shall hate England, where I once thought everything was good.” - -“Everything is not good anywhere, my love; and Society, I fear, above -all, is far from being perfect,--not that your poor dear aunt Caroline -can be said to be in Society,” Lady Markham added, recovering her -spirits. “I don’t think they see anybody but a few lawyers like -themselves.” - -“But, mamma, why do you go to see her? Why do you endure it? You -promised for me, or I should never go back, neither on Thursday nor any -other time.” - -“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Frances, my dear! I hope you have not got those -headstrong Waring ways. Because she hates me, that is no reason why she -should hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. You are of her own blood, -and her near relation: and I never heard that _he_ took very much to any -of the young people on his side. And they are very rich. A man like -that, at the head of his profession, must be coining money. It would be -wicked of me, for any little tempers of mine, to risk what might be a -fortune for my children. And you know I have very little more than my -jointure, and your father is not rich.” - -This exposition of motives was like another language to Frances. She -gazed at her mother’s soft face, so full of sweetness and kindness, -with a sense that Lady Markham was under the sway of motives and -influences which had been left out in her own simple education. Was it -supreme and self-denying generosity, or was it--something else? The girl -was too inexperienced, too ignorant to tell. But the contrast between -Lady Markham’s wonderful temper and forbearance and the harsh and -ungenerous tone of her aunt, moved her heart out of the region of -reason. “If you put up with all that for us, I cannot see any reason why -we should put up with it for you!” she cried indignantly. “She cannot -have any right to speak to my mother so--and before me.” - -“Ah, my darling, that is just the sweetness of it to her. If we were -alone, I should not mind; she might say what she liked. It is because of -you that she can make me feel--a little. But you must take no notice; -you must leave me to fight my own battles.” - -“Why?” Frances flung up her young head, till she looked about a foot -taller than her mother. “I will never endure it, mamma; you may say what -you like. What is her fortune to me?” - -“My love!” she exclaimed; “why, you little savage, her fortune is -everything to you! It may make all the difference.” Then she laughed -rather tremulously, and leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her -stranger-child’s half-reluctant cheek. “It is very, very sweet of you to -make a stand for your mother,” she said, “and when you know so little of -me. The horrid people in Society would say that was the reason; but I -think you would defend your mother anyhow, my Frances, my child that I -have always missed! But look here, dear: you must not do it. I am old -enough to take care of myself. And your poor aunt Clarendon is not so -bad as you think. She believes she has reason for it. She is very fond -of your father, and she has not seen him for a dozen years; and there is -no telling whether she may ever see him again; and she thinks it is my -fault. So you must not take up arms on my behalf till you know better. -And it would be so much to your advantage if she should take a fancy to -you, my dear. Do you think I could ever reconcile myself, for any -_amour-propre_ of mine, to stand in my child’s way?” - -Once more, Frances was unable to make any reply. All the lines of -sentiment and sense to which she had been accustomed seemed to be -getting blurred out. Where she had come from, a family stood together, -shoulder by shoulder. They defended each other, and even revenged each -other; and though the law might disapprove, public opinion stood by -them. A child who looked on careless while its parents were assailed -would have been to Mariuccia an odious monster. Her father’s opinions on -such a subject, Frances had never known: but as for fortune, he would -have smiled that disdainful smile of his at the suggestion that she -should pay court to any one because he was rich. Wealth meant having few -wants, she had heard him say a thousand times. It might even have been -supposed from his conversation that he scorned rich people for being -rich, which of course was an exaggeration. But he could never, never -have wished her to endeavour to please an unkind, disagreeable person -because of her money. That was impossible. So that she made no reply, -and scarcely even, in her confusion, responded to the caress with which -her mother thanked her for the partisanship, which it appeared was so -out of place. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Frances had not succeeded in resolving this question in her mind when -Thursday came. The two intervening days had been very quiet. She had -gone with her mother to several shops, and had stood by almost passive -and much astonished while a multitude of little luxuries which she had -never been sufficiently enlightened even to wish for, were bought for -her. She was so little accustomed to lavish expenditure, that it was -almost with a sense of wrong-doing that she contemplated all these -costly trifles, which were for the use not of some typical fine lady, -but of herself, Frances, who had never thought it possible she could -ever be classed under that title. To Lady Markham these delicacies were -evidently necessaries of life. And then it was for the first time that -Frances learned what an evening dress meant--not only the garment -itself, but the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the ribbons, the fan, -a hundred little accessories which she had never so much as thought of. -When you have nothing but a set of coral or amber beads to wear with -your white frock, it is astonishing how much that matter is simplified. -Lady Markham opened her jewel-boxes to provide for the same endless roll -of necessities. “This will go with the white dress, and this with the -pink,” she said, thus revealing to Frances another delicacy of accord -unsuspected by her simplicity. - -“But, mamma, you are giving me so many things!” - -“Not your share yet,” said Lady Markham. And she added: “But don’t say -anything of this to your aunt Clarendon. She will probably give you -something out of her hoards, if she thinks you are not provided.” - -This speech checked the pleasure and gratitude of Frances. She stopped -with a little gasp in her eager thanks. She wanted nothing from her aunt -Clarendon, she said to herself with indignation, nor from her mother -either. If they would but let her keep her ignorance, her pleasure in -any simple gift, and not represent her, even to herself, as a little -schemer, trying how much she could get! Frances cried rather than smiled -over her turquoises and the set of old gold ornaments, which but for -that little speech would have made her happy. The suggestion put gall -into everything, and made the timid question in her mind as to Lady -Markham’s generous forbearance with her sister-in-law more difficult -than ever. Why did she bear it? She ought not to have borne it--not for -a day. - -On the Wednesday evening before the visit to Portland Place, to which -she looked with so much alarm, two gentlemen came to dinner at the -invitation of Markham. The idea of two gentlemen to dinner produced no -exciting effect upon Frances so as to withdraw her mind from the trial -that was coming. Gentlemen were the only portion of the creation with -which she was more or less acquainted. Even in the old Palazzo, a guest -of this description had been occasionally received, and had sat -discussing some point of antiquarian lore, or something about the old -books at Colla, with her father without taking any notice, beyond what -civility demanded, of the little girl who sat at the head of the table. -She did not doubt it would be the same thing to-night; and though -Markham was always _nice_, never leaving her out, never letting the -conversation drop altogether into that stream of personality or allusion -which makes Society so intolerable to a stranger, she yet prepared for -the evening with the feeling that dulness awaited her, and not pleasure. -One of the guests, however, was of a kind which Frances did not expect. -He was young, very young in appearance, rather small and delicate, but -at the same time refined, with a look of gentle melancholy upon a -countenance which was almost beautiful, with child-like limpid eyes, and -features of extreme delicacy and purity. This was something quite unlike -the elderly antiquarians who talked so glibly to her father about Roman -remains or Etruscan art. He sat between Lady Markham and herself, and -spoke in gentle tones, with a soft affectionate manner, to her mother, -who replied with the kindness and easy affectionateness which were -habitual to her. To see the sweet looks which this young gentleman -received, and to hear the tender questions about his health and his -occupations which Lady Markham put to him, awoke in the mind of Frances -another doubt of the same character as those others from which she had -not been able to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, this air of tender -interest, put on at will for the benefit of everybody with whom Lady -Markham spoke? Frances hated herself for the instinctive question which -rose in her, and for the suspicions which crept into her mind on every -side and undermined all her pleasure. The other stranger opposite to her -was old--to her youthful eyes--and called forth no interest at all. But -the gentleness and melancholy, the low voice, the delicate features, -something plaintive and appealing about the youth by her side, attracted -her interest in spite of herself. He said little to her, but from time -to time she caught him looking at her with a sort of questioning glance. -When the ladies left the table, and Frances and her mother were alone -in the drawing-room, Lady Markham, who had said nothing for some -minutes, suddenly turned and asked: “What did you think of him, -Frances?” as if it were the most natural question in the world. - -“Of whom?” said Frances in her astonishment. - -“Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? Sir Thomas could be of no particular -interest either to you or me.” - -“I did not know their names, mamma; I scarcely heard them. Claude is the -young gentleman who sat next to you?” - -“And to you also, Frances. But not only that. He is the man of whom, I -suppose, Constance has told you--to avoid whom she left home, and ran -away from me. Oh, the words come quite appropriate, though I could not -bear them from the mouth of Caroline Clarendon. She abandoned me, and -threw herself upon your father’s protection, because of----” - -Frances had listened with a sort of consternation. When her mother -paused for breath, she filled up the interval: “That little, gentle, -small, young man!” - -Lady Markham looked for a moment as if she would be angry; then she took -the better way, and laughed. “He is little and young,” she said; “but -neither so young nor even so small as you think. He is most wonderfully, -portentously rich, my dear; and he is very nice and good and intelligent -and generous. You must not take up a prejudice against him because he is -not an athlete or a giant. There are plenty of athletes in Society, my -love, but very, very few with a hundred thousand a-year.” - -“It is so strange to me to hear about money,” said Frances. “I hope you -will pardon me, mamma. I don’t understand. I thought he was perhaps some -one who was delicate, whose mother, perhaps, you knew, whom you wanted -to be kind to.” - -“Quite true,” said Lady Markham, patting her daughter’s cheek with a -soft finger; “and well judged: but something more besides. I thought, I -allow, that it would be an excellent match for Constance; not only -because he was rich, but _also_ because he was rich. Do you see the -difference?” - -“I--suppose so,” Frances said; but there was not any warmth in the -admission. “I thought the right way,” she added after a moment, with a -blush that stole over her from head to foot, “was that people fell in -love with each other.” - -“So it is,” said her mother, smiling upon her. “But it often happens, -you know, that they fall in love respectively with the wrong people.” - -“It is dreadful to me to talk to you, who know so much better,” cried -Frances. “All that _I_ know is from stories. But I thought that even a -wrong person, whom you chose yourself, was better than----” - -“The right person chosen by your mother? These are awful doctrines, -Frances. You are a little revolutionary. Who taught you such terrible -things?” Lady Markham laughed as she spoke, and patted the girl’s cheek -more affectionately than ever, and looked at her with unclouded smiles, -so that Frances took courage. “But,” the mother went on, “there was no -question of choice on my part. Constance has known Claude Ramsay all her -life. She liked him, so far as I knew. I supposed she had accepted him. -It was not formally announced, I am happy to say; but I made sure of it, -and so did everybody else--including himself, poor fellow--when, -suddenly, without any warning, your sister disappeared. It was unkind to -me, Frances,--oh, it was unkind to me!” - -And suddenly, while she was speaking, two tears appeared all at once in -Lady Markham’s eyes. - -Frances was deeply touched by this sight. She ventured upon a caress, -which as yet, except in timid return, to those bestowed upon her, she -had not been bold enough to do. “I do not think Constance can have meant -to be unkind,” she said. - -“Few people mean to be unkind,” said this social philosopher, who knew -so much more than Frances. “Your aunt Clarendon does, and that makes her -harmless, because one understands. Most of those who wound one, do it -because it pleases themselves, without meaning anything--or caring -anything--don’t you see?--whether it hurts or not.” - -This was too profound a saying to be understood at the first moment, and -Frances had no reply to make to it. She said only by way of apology, -“But Markham approved?” - -“My love,” said her mother, “Markham is an excellent son to me. He -rarely wounds me himself--which is perhaps because he rarely does -anything particular himself--but he is not always a safe guide. It makes -me very happy to see that you take to him, though you must have heard -many things against him; but he is not a safe guide. Hush! here are the -men coming up-stairs. If Claude talks to you, be as gentle with him as -you can--and sympathetic, if you can,” she said quickly, rising from her -chair, and moving in her noiseless easy way to the other side. Frances -felt as if there was a meaning even in this movement, which left herself -alone with a vacant seat beside her; but she was confused as usual by -all the novelty, and did not understand what the meaning was. - -It was balked, however, if it had anything to do with Mr Ramsay, for it -was the other gentleman--the old gentleman, as Frances called him in -her thoughts--who came up and took the vacant place. The old gentleman -was a man about forty-five, with a few grey hairs among the brown, and a -well-knit manly figure, which showed very well between the delicate -youth on the one hand and Markham’s insignificance on the other. He was -Sir Thomas, whom Lady Markham had declared to be of no particular -interest to any one; but he evidently had sense enough to see the charm -of simplicity and youth. The attention of Frances was sadly distracted -by the movements of Claude, who fidgeted about from one table to -another, looking at the books and the nick-nacks upon them, and staring -at the pictures on the walls, then finally came and stood by Markham’s -side in front of the fire. He did well to contrast himself with Markham. -He was taller, and the beauty of his countenance showed still more -strikingly in contrast with Markham’s odd little wrinkled face. Frances -was distracted by the look which he kept fixed upon herself, and which -diverted her attention in spite of herself away from the talk of Sir -Thomas, who was, however, very _nice_, and, she felt sure, most -interesting and instructive, as became his advanced age, if only she -could attend to what he was saying. But what with the lively talk which -her mother carried on with Markham, and to which she could not help -listening all through the conversation of Sir Thomas, and the movements -and glances of the melancholy young lover, she could not fix her mind -upon the remarks that were addressed to her own ear. When Claude began -to join languidly in the other talk, it was more difficult still. “You -have got a new picture, Lady Markham,” she heard him say; and a sudden -quickening of her attention and another wave of colour and heat passing -over her, arrested even Sir Thomas in the much more interesting -observation which presumably he was about to make. He paused, as if he, -too, waited to hear Lady Markham’s reply. - -“Shall we call it a picture? It is my little girl’s sketch from her -window where she has been living--her present to her mother; and I think -it is delightful, though in the circumstances I don’t pretend to be a -judge.” - -Where she has been living! Frances grew redder and hotter in the flush -of indignation that went over her. But she could not stand up and -proclaim that it was from her home, her dear loggia, the place she loved -best in the world, that the sketch was made. Already the bonds of -another life were upon her, and she dared not do that. And then there -was a little chorus of praise, which silenced her still more -effectually. It was the group of palms which she had been so simply -proud of, which--as she had never forgotten--had made her father say -that she had grown up. Lady Markham had placed it on a small easel on -her table; but Frances could not help feeling that this was less for any -pleasure it gave her mother, than in order to make a little exhibition -of her own powers. It was, to be sure, in her own honour that this was -done--and what so natural as that the mother should seek to do her -daughter honour? but Frances was deeply sensitive, and painfully -conscious of the strange tangled web of motives, which she had never in -her life known anything about before. Had the little picture been hung -in her mother’s bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her own, the girl would -have found the most perfect pleasure in it; but here, exhibited as in a -public gallery, examined by admiring eyes, calling forth all the incense -of praise, it was with a mixture of shame and resentment that Frances -found it out. It produced this result, however, that Sir Thomas rose, as -in duty bound, to examine the performance of the daughter of the house; -and presently young Ramsay, who had been watching his opportunity, took -the place by her side. - -“I have been waiting for this,” he said, with his air of pathos. “I have -so many things to ask you, if you will let me, Miss Waring.” - -“Surely,” Frances said. - -“Your sketch is very sweet--it is full of feeling--there is no colour -like that of the Riviera. It is the Riviera, is it not?” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances, eager to seize the opportunity of making it -apparent that it was not only where she had been living, as her mother -said. “It is from Bordighera, from our loggia, where I have lived all my -life.” - -“You will find no colour and no vegetation like that near London,” the -young man said. - -To this Frances replied politely that London was full of much more -wonderful things, as she had always heard; but felt somewhat -disappointed, supposing that his communications to her were to be more -interesting than this. - -“And the climate is so very different,” he continued. “I am very often -sent out of England for the winter, though this year they have let me -stay. I have been at Nice two seasons. I suppose you know Nice? It is a -very pretty place; but the wind is just as cold sometimes as at home. -You have to keep in the sun; and if you always keep in the sun, it is -warm even here.” - -“But there is not always sun here,” said Frances. - -“That is very true; that is a very clever remark. There is not always -sun here. San Remo was beginning to be known when I was there; but I -never heard of Bordighera as a place where people went to stay. Some -Italian wrote a book about it, I have heard--to push it, no doubt. -Could you recommend it as a winter-place, Miss Waring? I suppose it is -very dull, nothing going on?” - -“Oh, nothing at all,” cried Frances eagerly. “All the tourists complain -that there is nothing to do.” - -“I thought so,” he said; “a regular little Italian dead-alive place.” -Then he added after a moment’s pause: “But of course there are -inducements which might make one put up with that, if the air happened -to suit one. Are there villas to be had, can you tell me? They say, as a -matter of fact, that you get more advantage of the air when you are in a -dull place.” - -“There are hotels,” said Frances more and more disappointed, though the -beginning of this speech had given her a little hope. - -“Good hotels?” he said with interest. “Sometimes they are really better -than a place of one’s own, where the drainage is often bad, and the -exposure not all that could be desired. And then you get any amusement -that may be going. Perhaps you will tell me the names of one or two? for -if this east wind continues, my doctors may send me off even now.” - -Frances looked into his limpid eyes and expressive countenance with -dismay. He must look, she felt sure, as if he were making the most -touching confidences to her. His soft pathetic voice gave a _faux air_ -of something sentimental to those questions, which even she could not -persuade herself meant nothing. Was it to show that he was bent upon -following Constance wherever she might go? That must be the true -meaning, she supposed. He must be endeavouring by this mock-anxiety to -find out how much she knew of his real motives, and whether he might -trust to her or not. But Frances resented a little the unnecessary -precaution. - -“I don’t know anything about the hotels,” she said. “I have never -thought of the air. It is my home--that is all.” - -“You look so well, that I am the more convinced it would be a good place -for me,” said the young man. “You look in such thorough good health, if -you will allow me to say so. Some ladies don’t like to be told that; but -I think it the most delightful thing in existence. Tell me, had you any -trouble with drainage, when you went to settle there? And is the water -good? and how long does the season last? I am afraid I am teasing you -with my questions; but all these details are so important--and one is so -pleased to hear of a new place.” - -“We live up in the old town,” said Frances with a sudden flash of -malice. “I don’t know what drainage is, and neither does any one else -there. We have our fountain in the court--our own well. And I don’t -think there is any season. We go up among the mountains, when it gets -too hot.” - -“Your well in the court!” said the sentimental Claude, with the look of -a poet who has just been told that his dearest friend is killed by an -accident,--“with everything percolating into it! That is terrible -indeed. But,” he said, after a pause, an ethereal sense of consolation -stealing over his fine features--“there are exceptions, they say, to -every rule; and sometimes, with fine health such as you have, bad -sanitary conditions do not seem to tell--_when there has been no -stirring-up_. I believe that is at the root of the whole question. -People can go on, on the old system, so long as there is no stirring-up; -but when once a beginning has been made, it must be complete, or it is -fatal.” - -He said this with animation much greater than he had shown as yet; then -dropping into his habitual pathos: “If I come in for tea to-morrow--Lady -Markham allows me to do it, when I can, when the weather is fit for -going out--will you be so very kind as to give me half an hour, Miss -Waring, for a few particulars? I will take them down from your lips--it -is so much the most satisfactory way; and perhaps you would add to your -kindness by just thinking it over beforehand--if there is anything I -ought to know.” - -“But I am going out to-morrow, Mr Ramsay.” - -“Then after to-morrow,” he said; and rising with a bow full of tender -deference, went up to Lady Markham to bid her good-night. “I have been -having a most interesting conversation with Miss Waring. She has given -me so many _renseignements_,” he said. “She permits me to come after -to-morrow for further particulars. Dear Lady Markham, good-night and _à -revoir_.” - -“What was Claude saying to you, Frances?” Lady Markham asked with a -little anxiety, when everybody save Markham was gone, and they were -alone. - -“He asked me about Bordighera, mamma.” - -“Poor dear boy! About Con, and what she had said of him? He has a -faithful heart, though people think him a little too much taken up with -himself.” - -“He did not say anything about Constance. He asked about the climate and -the drains--what are drains?--and if the water was good, and what hotel -I could recommend.” - -Lady Markham laughed and coloured slightly, and tapped Frances on the -cheek. “You are a little satirical----! Dear Claude! he is very anxious -about his health. But don’t you see,” she added, “that was all a covert -way of finding out about Con? He wants to go after her; but he does not -want to let everybody in the world see that he has gone after a girl who -would not have him. I have a great deal of sympathy with him, for my -part.” - -Frances had no sympathy with him. She felt, on the other hand, more -sympathy for Constance than had moved her yet. To escape from such a -lover, Frances thought a girl might be justified in flying to the end of -the world. But it never entered into her mind that any like danger to -herself was to be thought of. She dismissed Claude Ramsay from her -thoughts with half resentment, half amusement, wondering that Constance -had not told her more; but feeling, as no such image had ever risen on -her horizon before, that she would not have believed Constance. However, -her sister had happily escaped, and to herself, Claude Ramsay was -nothing. Far more important was it to think of the ordeal of to-morrow. -She shivered a little even in her warm room as she anticipated it. -England seemed to be colder, greyer, more devoid of brightness in -Portland Place than in Eaton Square. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - - -Frances went to Portland Place next day. She went with great reluctance, -feeling that to be thus plunged into the atmosphere of the other side -was intolerable. Had she been able to feel that there was absolute right -on either side, it would not have been so difficult for her. But she -knew so little of the facts of the case, and her natural prepossessions -were so curiously double and variable, that every encounter was painful. -To be swept into the faction of the other side, when the first -impassioned sentiment with which she had felt her mother’s arms around -her had begun to sink inevitably into that silent judgment of another -individual’s ways and utterances which is the hindrance of reason to -every enthusiasm--was doubly hard. She was resolute indeed that not a -word or insinuation against her mother should be permitted in her -presence. But she herself had a hundred little doubts and questions in -her mind, traitors whose very existence no one must suspect but herself. -Her natural revulsion from the thought of being forced into partisanship -gave her a feeling of strong opposition and resistance against -everything that might be said to her, when she stepped into the solemn -house in Portland Place, where everything was so large, empty, and -still, so different from her mother’s warm and cheerful abode. The -manner in which her aunt met her strengthened this feeling. On their -previous meeting, in Lady Markham’s presence, the greeting given her by -Mrs Clarendon had chilled her through and through. She was ushered in -now to the same still room, with its unused look, with all the chairs in -their right places, and no litter of habitation about; but her aunt came -to her with a different aspect from that which she had borne before. She -came quickly, almost with a rush, and took the shrinking girl into her -arms. “My dear little Frances, my dear child, my brother’s own little -girl!” she cried, kissing her again and again. Her ascetic countenance -was transfigured, her grey eyes warmed and shone. - -Frances could not make any eager response to this warmth. She did her -best to look the gratification which she knew she ought to have felt, -and to return her aunt’s caresses with due fervour; but in her heart -there was a chill of which she felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity -which was very foreign to her nature. All through these strange -experiences, Frances felt herself insincere. She had not known how to -respond even to her mother, and a cold sense that she was among -strangers had crept in even in the midst of the bewildering certainty -that she was with her nearest relations and in her mother’s house. In -present circumstances, “How do you do, aunt Caroline?” was the only -commonplace phrase she could find to say, in answer to the effusion of -affection with which she was received. - -“Now we can talk,” said Mrs Clarendon, leading her with both hands in -hers to a sofa near the fire. “While my lady was here it was impossible. -You must have thought me cold, when my heart was just running over to -my dear brother’s favourite child. But I could not open my heart before -her,--I never could do it. And there is so much to ask you. For though I -would not let her know I had never heard, you know very well, my dear, I -can’t deceive you. O Frances, why doesn’t he write? Surely, surely, he -must have known I would never betray him--to _her_, or any of her race.” - -“Aunt Caroline, please remember you are speaking of----” - -“Oh, I can’t stand on ceremony with you! I can’t do it. Constance, that -had been always with her, that was another thing. But you, my dear, dear -child! And you must not stand on ceremony with me. I can understand you, -if no one else can. And as for expecting you to love her and honour her -and so forth, a woman whom you have never seen before, who has spoiled -your dear father’s life----” - -Frances had put up her hand to stay this flood, but in vain. With eyes -that flashed with excitement, the quiet still grey woman was strangely -transformed. A vivacious and animated person, when moved by passion, is -not so alarming as a reserved and silent one. There was a force of fury -and hatred in her tone and looks which appalled the girl. She -interrupted almost rudely, insisting upon being heard, as soon as Mrs -Clarendon paused for breath. - -“You must not speak to me so; you must not--you shall not! I will not -hear it.” - -Frances was quiet too, and there was in her also the vehemence of a -tranquil nature transported beyond all ordinary bounds. - -Mrs Clarendon stopped and looked at her fixedly, then suddenly changed -her tone. “Your father might have written to me,” she said--“he might -have written to _me_. He is my only brother, and I am all that remains -of the family, now that Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much mixed up -with it all, is gone. It was natural enough that he should go away. I -always understood him, if nobody else did; but he might have trusted his -own family, who would never, never have betrayed him. And to think that -I should owe my knowledge of him now to that ill-grown, -ill-conditioned---- O Frances, it was a bitter pill! To owe my knowledge -of my brother and of you and everything about you to Markham--I shall -never be able to forget how bitter it was.” - -“You forget that Markham is my brother, aunt Caroline.” - -“He is nothing of the sort. He is your half-brother, if you care to keep -up the connection at all. But some people don’t think much of it. It is -the father’s side that counts. But don’t let us argue about that. Tell -me how is your father? Tell me all about him. I love you dearly, for his -sake; but above everything, I want to hear about him. I never had any -other brother. How is he, Frances? To think that I should never have -seen or heard of him for twelve long years!” - -“My father is--very well,” said Frances, with a sort of strangulation -both in heart and voice, not knowing what to say. - -“‘Very well!’ Oh, that is not much to satisfy me with, after so long! -Where is he--and how is he living--and have you been a very good child -to him, Frances? He deserves a good child, for he was a good son. Oh, -tell me a little about him. Did he tell you everything about us? Did he -say how fond and how proud we were of him? and how happy we used to be -at home all together? He must have told you. If you knew how I go back -to those old days! We were such a happy united family. Life is always -disappointing. It does not bring you what you think, and it is not -everybody that has the comfort we have in looking back upon their youth. -He must have told you of our happy life at home.” - -Frances had kept the secret of her father’s silence from every one who -had a right to blame him for it. But here she felt herself to be bound -by no such precaution. His sister was on his side. It was in his defence -and in passionate partisanship for him that she had assailed the mother -to the child. Frances had even a momentary angry pleasure in telling the -truth without mitigation or softening. “I don’t know whether you will -believe me,” she said, “but my father told me nothing. He never said a -word to me about his past life or any one connected with him; neither -you nor--any one.” Though she had the kindest heart in the world, and -never had harmed a living creature, it gave Frances almost a little pang -of pleasure to deliver this blow. - -Mrs Clarendon received it, so to speak, full in the face, as she leaned -forward, eagerly waiting for what Frances had to say. She looked at the -girl aghast, the colour changing in her face, a sudden exclamation dying -away in her throat. But after the first keen sensation, she drew herself -together and regained her self-control. “Yes, yes,” she cried; “I -understand. He could not enter into anything about us without telling -you of--others. He was always full of good feeling--and so just! No -doubt, he thought if you heard our side, you should hear the other. But -when you were coming away--when he knew you must hear everything, what -message did he give you for me?” - -In sight of the anxiety which shone in her aunt’s eyes, and the eager -bend towards her of the rigid straight figure not used to any yielding, -Frances began to feel as if she were the culprit. “Indeed,” she said, -hesitating, “he never said anything. I came here in ignorance. I never -knew I had a mother till Constance came--nor any relations. I heard of -my aunt for the first time from--mamma; and then to conceal my -ignorance, I asked Markham; I wanted no one to know.” - -It was some minutes before Mrs Clarendon spoke. Her eyes slowly filled -with tears, as she kept them fixed upon Frances. The blow went very -deep; it struck at illusions which were perhaps more dear than anything -in her actual existence. “You heard of me for the first time from---- -Oh, that was cruel, that was cruel of Edward,” she cried, clasping her -hands together--“of me for the first time--and you had to ask Markham! -And I, that was his favourite sister, and that never forgot him, never -for a day!” - -Frances put her own soft young hands upon those which her aunt wrung -convulsively together in the face of this sudden pang. “I think he had -tried to forget his old life altogether,” she said; “or perhaps it was -because he thought so much of it that he could not tell me--I was so -ignorant! He would have been obliged to tell me so much, if he had told -me anything. Aunt Caroline, I don’t think he meant to be unkind.” - -Mrs Clarendon shook her head; then she turned upon her comforter with a -sort of indignation. “And you,” she said, “did you never want to know? -Did you never wonder how it was that he was there, vegetating in a -little foreign place, a man of his gifts? Did you never ask whom you -belonged to, what friends you had at home? I am afraid,” she cried -suddenly, rising to her feet, throwing off the girl’s hand, which had -still held hers, “that you are like your mother in your heart as well as -your face--a self-contained, self-satisfying creature. You cannot have -been such a child to him as he had a right to, or you would have known -all--all there was to know.” - -She went to the fire as she spoke and took up the poker and struck the -smouldering coals into a blaze with agitated vehemence, shivering -nervously, with excitement rather than cold. “Of course that is how it -is,” she said. “You must have been thinking of your own little affairs, -and not of his. He must have thought he would have his child to confide -in and rely upon--and then have found out that she was not of his nature -at all, nor thinking of him; and then he would shut his heart close--oh, -I know him so well! that is so like Edward--and say nothing, nothing! -That was always easier to him than saying a little. It was everything or -nothing with him always. And when he found you took no interest, he -would shut himself up. But there’s Constance,” she cried after a -pause--“Constance is like our side. He will be able to pour out his -heart, poor Edward, to her; and she will understand him. There is some -comfort in that, at least.” - -If Frances had felt a momentary pleasure in giving pain, it was now -repaid to her doubly. She sat where her aunt had left her, following -with a quiver of consciousness everything she said. Ah, yes; she had -been full of her own little affairs. She had thought of the mayonnaises, -but not of any spiritual needs to which she could minister. She had not -felt any wonder that a man of his gifts should live at Bordighera, or -any vehemence of curiosity as to the family she belonged to, or what -his antecedents were. She had taken it all quite calmly, accepting as -the course of nature the absence of relations and references to home. -She had known nothing else, and she had not thought of anything else. -Was it her fault all through? Had she been a disappointment to her -father, not worthy of him or his confidence? The tears gathered slowly -in her eyes. And when Mrs Clarendon suddenly introduced the name of -Constance, Frances, too, sprang to her feet with a sense of the -intolerable, which she could not master. To be told that she had failed, -might be bearable; but that Constance--Constance!--should turn out to -possess all that she wanted, to gain the confidence she had not been -able to gain, that was more than flesh and blood could bear. She sprang -up hastily, and began with trembling hands to button up to her throat -the close-fitting outdoor jacket which she had undone. Mrs Clarendon -stood, her face lit up with the ruddy blaze of the fire, shooting out -sharp arrows of words, with her back turned to her young victim; while -Frances behind her, in as great agitation, prepared to bring the -conference and controversy to a close. - -“If that is what you think,” she said, her voice tremulous with -agitation and pain, pulling on her gloves with feverish haste, “perhaps -it will be better for me to go away.” - -Mrs Clarendon turned round upon her with a start of astonishment. -Through the semi-darkness of that London day, which was not much more -than twilight through the white curtains, the elder woman looked round -upon the girl, quivering with indignation and resentment, to whom she -had supposed herself entitled to say what she pleased without fear of -calling forth any response of indignation. When she saw the tremor in -the little figure standing against the light, the agitated movement of -the hands, she was suddenly brought back to herself. It flashed across -her at once that the sudden withdrawal of Frances, whom she had welcomed -so warmly as her brother’s favourite child, would be a triumph for Lady -Markham, already no doubt very triumphant in the unveiling of her -husband’s hiding-place and the recovery of the child, and in the fact -that Frances resembled herself, and not the father. To let that enemy -understand that she, Waring’s sister, could not secure the affection of -Waring’s child, was something which Mrs Clarendon could not face. - -“Go--where?” she said. “You forget that you have come to spend the day -with me. My lady will not expect you till the evening; and I do not -suppose you can wish to expose your father’s sister to her remarks.” - -“My mother,” said Frances with an almost sob of emotion, “must be more -to me than my father’s sister. Oh, aunt Caroline,” she cried, “you have -been very, very hard upon me. I lived as a child lives at home till -Constance came, I had never known anything else. Why should I have asked -questions? I did not know I had a mother. I thought it was cruel, when I -first heard; and now you say it was my fault.” - -“It must have been more or less your fault. A girl has no right to be so -simple. You ought to have inquired; you ought to have given him no rest; -you ought----” - -“I will tell you,” said Frances, “what I was brought up to do: not to -trouble papa; that was all I knew from the time I was a baby. I don’t -know who taught me--perhaps Mariuccia, perhaps, only--everything. I was -not to trouble him, whatever I did. I was never to cry, nor even to -laugh too loud, nor to make a noise, nor to ask questions. Mariuccia and -Domenico and every one had only this thought--not to disturb papa. He -was always very kind,” she went on, softening, her eyes filling again. -“Sometimes he would be displeased about the dinner, or if his papers -were disturbed. I dusted them myself, and was very careful; but -sometimes that put him out. But he was very kind. He always came to the -loggia in the evening, except when he was busy. He used to tell me when -my perspective was wrong, and laugh at me, but not to hurt. I think you -are mistaken, aunt Caroline, about papa.” - -Mrs Clarendon had come a little nearer, and turned her face towards the -girl, who stood thus pleading her own cause. Neither of them was quick -enough in intelligence to see distinctly the difference of the two -pictures which they set before each other--the sister displaying her -ideal of a delicate soul wounded and shrinking from the world, finding -refuge in the tenderness of his child; the daughter making her simple -representation of the father she knew, a man not at all dependent on her -tenderness, concerned about the material circumstances of life, about -his dinner, and that his papers should not be disturbed--kind, indeed, -but in the easy, indifferent way of a father who is scarcely aware that -his little girl is blooming into a woman. They were not clever enough to -perceive this; and yet they felt the difference with a vague sense that -both views, yet neither, were quite true, and that there might be more -to say on either side. Frances got choked with tears as she went on, -which perhaps was the thing above all others which melted her aunt’s -heart. Mrs Clarendon gave the girl credit for a passionate regret and -longing for the father she loved; whereas Frances in reality was -thinking, not so much of her father, as of the serene childish life -which was over for ever, which never could come back again, with all its -sacred ignorances, its simple unities, the absence of all complication -or perplexity. Already she was so much older, and had acquired so much -confusing painful knowledge--that knowledge of good and evil, and sense -of another meaning lurking behind the simplest seeming fact and -utterance, which, when once it has entered into the mind, is so hard to -drive out again. - -“Perhaps it was not your fault,” said Mrs Clarendon at last. “Perhaps he -had been so used to you as a child, that he did not remember you were -grown up. We will say no more about it, Frances. We may be sure he had -his reasons. And you say he was busy sometimes. Was he writing? What was -he doing? You don’t know what hopes we used to have, and the great -things we thought he was going to do. He was so clever; at school and at -college, there was nobody like him. We were so proud of him! He might -have been Lord Chancellor. Charles even says so, and he is not partial, -like me; he might have been anything, if he had but tried. But all the -spirit was taken out of him when he married. Oh, many a man has been the -same. Women have a great deal to answer for. I am not saying anything -about your mother. You are quite right when you say that is not a -subject to be discussed with you. Come down-stairs; luncheon is ready; -and after that we will go out. We must not quarrel, Frances. We are each -other’s nearest relations, when all is said.” - -“I don’t want to quarrel, aunt Caroline. Oh no; I never quarrelled with -any one. And then you remind me of papa.” - -“That is the nicest thing you have said. You can come to me, my dear, -whenever you want to talk about him, to ease your heart. You can’t do -that with your mother; but you will never tire me. You may tell me about -him from morning to night, and I shall never be tired. Mariuccia and -Domenico are the servants, I suppose? and they adore him? He was always -adored by the servants. He never gave any trouble, never spoke crossly. -Oh, how thankful I am to be able to speak of him quite freely! I was his -favourite sister. He was just the same in outward manner to us both,--he -would not let Minnie see he had any preference; but he liked me the -best, all the same.” - -It was very grateful to Frances that this monologue should go on: it -spared her the necessity of answering many questions which would have -been very difficult to her; for she was not prepared to say that the -servants, though faithful, adored her father, or that he never gave any -trouble. Her recollection of him was that he gave a great deal of -trouble, and was “very particular.” But Mrs Clarendon had a happy way of -giving herself the information she wanted, and evidently preferred to -tell Frances a thousand things, instead of being told by her. And in -other ways she was very kind, insisting that Frances should eat at -lunch, that she should be wrapped up well when they went out in the -victoria, that she should say whether there was any shopping she wanted -to do. “I know my lady will look after your finery,” she said,--“that -will be for her own credit, and help to get you off the sooner; but I -hope you have plenty of nice underclothing and wraps. She is not so sure -to think of these.” - -Frances, to save herself from this questioning, described the numberless -unnecessaries which had been already bestowed upon her, not forgetting -the turquoises and other ornaments, which, she remembered with a quick -sensation of shame, her mother had told her not to speak of, lest her -aunt’s liberalities should be checked. The result, however, was quite -different. Mrs Clarendon grew red as she heard of all these -acquisitions, and when they returned to Portland Place, led Frances to -her own room, and opened to her admiring gaze the safe, securely fixed -into the wall, where her jewels were kept. “There are not many that can -be called family jewels,” she said; “but I’ve no daughter of my own, and -I should not like it to be said that you had got nothing from your -father’s side.” - -Thus it was a conflict of liberality, not a withholding of presents -because she was already supplied, which Frances had to fear. She was -compelled to accept with burning cheeks, and eyes weighed down with -shame and reluctance, ornaments which a few weeks ago would have seemed -to her good enough for a queen. Oh, what a flutter of pleasure there had -been in her heart when her father gave her the little necklace of -Genoese filigree, which appeared to her the most beautiful thing in the -world. She slipped into her pocket the cluster of emeralds her aunt -gave her, as if she had been a thief, and hid the pretty ring which was -forced upon her finger, under her glove. “Oh, they are much too fine for -me. They are too good for any girl to wear. I do not want them, indeed, -aunt Caroline!” - -“That may be,” Mrs Clarendon replied; “but I want to give them to you. -It shall never be said that all the good things came from her, and -nothing but trumpery from me.” - -Frances took home her spoils with a sense of humiliation which weighed -her to the ground. Before this, however, she had made the acquaintance -of Mr Charles Clarendon, the great Q.C., who came into the cold -drawing-room two minutes before dinner in irreproachable evening -costume--a well-mannered, well-looking man of middle age, or a little -more, who shook hands cordially with Frances, and told her he was very -glad to see her. “But dinner is a little late, isn’t it?” he said to his -wife. The drawing-room looked less cold by lamplight; and Mrs Clarendon -herself, in her soft velvet evening-gown with a good deal of lace--or -perhaps it was after the awakening and excitement of her quarrel with -Frances--had less the air of being like the furniture, out of use. The -dinner was very luxurious and dainty. Frances, as she sat between -husband and wife, observing both very closely without being aware of it, -decided within herself that in this particular her aunt Caroline again -reminded her of papa. Mr Clarendon was very agreeable at dinner. He gave -his wife several pieces of information indeed which Frances did not -understand, but in general talked about the things that were going on, -the great events of the time, the news, so much of it as was -interesting, with all the ease of a man of the world. And he asked -Frances a few civil and indeed kindly questions about herself. “You must -take care of our east winds,” he said; “you will find them very sharp -after the Riviera.” - -“I am not delicate,” she said; “I don’t think they will hurt me.” - -“No, you are not delicate,” he replied, with what Frances felt to be a -look of approval; “one has only to look at you to see that. But fine -elastic health like yours is a great possession, and you must take care -of it.” He added with a smile, a moment after: “We never think that when -we are young; and when we are old, thinking does little good.” - -“You have not much to complain of, Charles, in that respect,” said his -wife, who was always rather solemn. - -“Oh, nothing at all,” was his reply. And shortly after, dinner by this -time being over, he gave her a significant look, to which she responded -by rising from the table. - -“It is time for us to go up-stairs, my dear,” she said to Frances. - -And when the ladies reached the drawing-room, it had relapsed into its -morning aspect, and looked as chilly and as unused as before. - -“Your uncle is one of the busiest men in London,” said Mrs Clarendon -with a scarcely perceptible sigh. “He talked of your health; but if he -had not the finest health in the world, he could not do it; he never -takes any rest.” - -“Is he going to work now?” Frances asked with a certain awe. - -“He will take a doze for half an hour; then he will have his coffee. At -ten he will come up-stairs to bid me good-night; and then--I dare not -say how long he will sit up after that. He can do with less sleep than -any other man, I think.” She spoke in a tone that was full of pride, yet -with pathos in it too. - -“In that way, you cannot see very much of him,” Frances said. - -“I am more pleased that my husband should be the first lawyer in -England, than that he should sit in the drawing-room with me,” she -answered proudly. Then, with a faint sigh: “One has to pay for it,” she -added. - -The girl looked round upon the dim room with a shiver, which she did her -best to conceal. Was it worth the price, she wondered? the cold dim -house, the silence in it which weighed down the soul, the half-hour’s -talk (no more) round the table, followed by a long lonely evening. She -wondered if they had been in love with each other when they were young, -and perhaps moved heaven and earth for a chance hour together, and all -to come to this. And there was her own father and mother, who probably -had loved each other too. As she drove along to Eaton Square, warmly -wrapped in the rich fur cloak which aunt Caroline had insisted on adding -to her other gifts, these examples of married life gave her a curious -thrill of thought, as involuntarily she turned them over in her mind. If -the case of a man were so with his wife, it would be well not to marry, -she said to herself, as the inquirers did so many years ago. - -And then she blushed crimson, with a sensation of heat which made her -throw her cloak aside, to think that she was going back to her mother, -as if she had been sent out upon a raid, laden with spoils. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - - -There were voices in the drawing-room as Frances ran up-stairs, which -warned her that her own appearance in her morning dress would be -undesirable there. She went on with a sense of relief to her own room, -where she threw aside the heavy cloak, lined with fur, which her aunt -had insisted on wrapping her in. It was too grave, too ample for -Frances, just as the other presents she had received were too rich and -valuable for her wearing. She took the emerald brooch out of her pocket -in its little case, and thrust it away into her drawer, glad to be rid -of it, wondering whether it would be her duty to show it, to exhibit her -presents. She divined that Lady Markham would be pleased, that she would -congratulate her upon having made herself agreeable to her aunt, and -perhaps repeat that horrible encouragement to her to make what progress -she could in the affections of the Clarendons, because they were rich -and had no heirs. If, instead of saying this, Lady Markham had but said -that Mrs Clarendon was lonely, having no children, and little good of -her husband’s society, how different it might have been. How anxious -then would Frances have been to visit and cheer her father’s sister! The -girl, though she was very simple, had a great deal of inalienable good -sense; and she could not but wonder within herself how her mother could -make so strange a mistake. - -It was late before Lady Markham came up-stairs. She came in shading her -candle with her hand, gliding noiselessly to her child’s bedside. “Are -you not asleep, Frances? I thought you would be too tired to keep -awake.” - -“Oh no. I have done nothing to tire me. I thought you would not want me -down-stairs, as I was not dressed.” - -“I always want you,” said Lady Markham, stooping to kiss her. “But I -quite understand why you did not come. There was nobody that could have -interested you. Some old friends of mine, and a man or two whom Markham -brought to dine; but nothing young or pleasant. And did you have a -tolerable day? Was poor Caroline a little less grey and cold? But -Constance used to tell me she was only cold when I was there.” - -“I don’t think she was cold. She was--very kind; at least that is what -she meant, I am sure,” said Frances, anxious to do her aunt justice. - -Lady Markham laughed softly, with a sort of suppressed satisfaction. She -was anxious that Frances should please. She had herself, at a -considerable sacrifice of pride, kept up friendly relations, or at least -a show of friendly relations, with her husband’s sister. But -notwithstanding all this, the tone in which Frances spoke was balm to -her. The cloak was an evidence that the girl had succeeded; and yet she -had not joined herself to the other side. This unexpected triumph gave a -softness to Lady Markham’s voice. - -“We must remember,” she said, “that poor Caroline is very much alone. -When one is much alone, one’s very voice gets rusty, so to speak. It -sounds hoarse in one’s throat. You may think, perhaps, that I have not -much experience of that. Still, I can understand; and it takes some time -to get it toned into ordinary smoothness. It is either too expressive, -or else it sounds cold. A great deal of allowance is to be made for a -woman who spends so much of her life alone.” - -“Oh yes,” cried Frances, with a burst of tender compunction, taking her -mother’s soft white dimpled hand in her own, and kissing it with a -fervour which meant penitence as well as enthusiasm. “It is so good of -you to remind me of that.” - -“Because she has not much good to say of me? My dear, there are a great -many things that you don’t know, that it would be hard to explain to -you: we must forgive her for that.” - -And for a moment Lady Markham looked very grave, turning her face away -towards the vacancy of the dark room with something that sounded like a -sigh. Her daughter had never loved her so much as at this moment. She -laid her cheek upon her mother’s hand, and felt the full sweetness of -that contact enter into her heart. - -“But I am disturbing your beauty-sleep, my love,” she said; “and I want -you to look your best to-morrow; there are several people coming -to-morrow. Did she give you that great cloak, Frances? How like poor -Caroline! I know the cloak quite well. It is far too _old_ for you. But -that is beautiful sable it is trimmed with; it will make you something. -She is fond of giving presents.” Lady Markham was very quick--full of -the intelligence in which Mrs Clarendon failed. She felt the instinctive -loosening of her child’s hands from her own, and that the girl’s cheek -was lifted from that tender pillow. “But,” she said, “we’ll say no more -of that to-night,” and stooped and kissed her, and drew her covering -about her with all the sweetness of that care which Frances had never -received before. Nevertheless, the involuntary and horrible feeling that -it was clever of her mother to stop when she did and say no more, struck -chill to the girl’s very soul. - -Next day Mr Ramsay came in the afternoon, and immediately addressed -himself to Frances. “I hope you have not forgotten your promise, Miss -Waring, to give me all the _renseignements_. I should not like to lose -such a good chance.” - -“I don’t think I have any information to give you--if it is about -Bordighera, you mean. I am fond of it; but then I have lived there all -my life. Constance thought it dull.” - -“Ah yes, to be sure--your sister went there. But her health was perfect. -I have seen her go out in the wildest weather, in days that made me -shiver. She said that to see the sun always shining bored her. She liked -a great deal of excitement and variety--don’t you think?” he added after -a moment, in a tentative way. - -“The sun does not shine always,” said Frances, piqued for the reputation -of her home, as if this were an accusation. “We have grey days -sometimes, and sometimes storms, beautiful storms, when the sea is all -in foam.” - -He shivered a little at the idea. “I have never yet found the perfect -place in which there is nothing of all that,” he said. “Wherever I have -been, there are cold days--even in Algiers, you know. No climate is -perfect. I don’t go in much for society when I am at a health-place. It -disturbs one’s thoughts and one’s temper, and keeps you from fixing your -mind upon your cure, which you should always do. But I suppose you know -everybody there?” - -“There is--scarcely any one there,” she said, faltering, remembering at -once that her father was not a person to whom to offer introductions. - -“So much the better,” he said more cheerfully. “It is a thing I have -often heard doctors say, that society was quite undesirable. It disturbs -one’s mind. One can’t be so exact about hours. In short, it places -health in a secondary place, which is fatal. I am always extremely rigid -on that point. Health--must go before all. Now, dear Miss Waring, to -details, if you please.” He took out a little note-book, bound in -russia, and drew forth a jewelled pencil-case. “The hotels first, I beg; -and then the other particulars can be filled in. We can put them under -different heads: (1) Shelter; (2) Exposure; (3) Size and convenience of -apartments; (4) Nearness to church, beach, &c. I hope you don’t think I -am asking too much?” - -“I am so glad to see that you have not given him up because of Con,” -said one of Lady Markham’s visitors, talking very earnestly over the -tea-table, with a little nod and gesture to indicate of whom she was -speaking. “He must be very fond of you, to keep coming; or he must have -some hope.” - -“I think he is rather fond of me, poor Claude!” Lady Markham replied -without looking round. “I am one of the oldest friends he has.” - -“But Constance, you know, gave him a terrible snub. I should not have -wondered if he had never entered the house again.” - -“He enters the house almost every day, and will continue to do so, I -hope. Poor boy, he cannot afford to throw away his friends.” - -“Then that is almost the only luxury he can’t afford.” - -Lady Markham smiled upon this remark. “Claude,” she said, turning round, -“don’t you want some tea? Come and get it while it is hot.” - -“I am getting some _renseignements_ from Miss Waring. It is very good of -her. She is telling me all about Bordighera, which, so far as I can see, -will be a very nice place for the winter,” said Ramsay, coming up to the -tea-table with his little note-book in his hand. “Thanks, dear Lady -Markham. A little sugar, please. Sugar is extremely nourishing, and it -is a great pity to leave it out in diet--except, you know, when you are -inclining to fat. Banting is at the bottom of all this fashion of doing -without sugar. It is not good for little thin fellows like me.” - -“I gave it up long before I ever heard of Banting,” said the stout lady: -for it need scarcely be said that there was a stout lady; no tea-party -in England ever assembled without one. The individual in the present -case was young, and rebellious against the fate which had overtaken -her--not of the soft, smiling, and contented kind. - -“It does us real good,” said Claude, with his softly pathetic voice. “I -have seen one or two very sad instances where the fat did not go away, -you know, but got limp and flaccid, and the last state of that man was -worse than the first. Dear lady, I think you should be very cautious. To -make experiments with one’s health is really criminal. We are getting on -very nicely with the _renseignements_. Miss Waring has remembered a -great deal. She thought she could not tell me anything; but she has -remembered a great deal.” - -“Bordighera? Is that where Constance is?” the ladies said to each other -round the low tea-table where Lady Markham was so busy. She smiled upon -them all, and answered “Yes,” without any tinge of the embarrassment -which perhaps they hoped to see. - -“But of course as a resident she is not living among the people at the -hotels. You know how the people who live in a place hold themselves -apart; and the season is almost over. I don’t think that either tourists -or invalids passing that way are likely to see very much of Con.” - -In the meantime, Frances, as young Ramsay had said, had been honestly -straining her mind to “remember” what she could about the Marina and -the circumstances there. She did not know anything about the east wind, -and had no recollection of how it affected the place. She remembered -that the sun shone in at the windows all day; which of course meant, as -he informed her, a southern exposure; and that in all the hotel gardens, -as well as elsewhere, there were palms growing, and hedges of lemons and -orange trees; and that at the Angleterre--or was it the Victoria?--the -housekeeper was English; along with other details of a similar kind. -There were no balls; very few concerts or entertainments of any kind; no -afternoon tea-parties. “How could there be?” said Frances, “when there -were only ourselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants.” - -“Only themselves, the Gaunts, and the Durants,” Ramsay wrote down in his -little book. “How delightful that must be! Thank you so much, Miss -Waring. Usually one has to pay for one’s experience; but thanks to you, -I feel that I know all about it. It seems a place in which one could do -one’s self every justice. I shall speak to Dr Lull about it at once. I -have no doubt he will think it the very place for me.” - -“You will find it dull,” said Frances, looking at him curiously, -wondering was it possible that he could be sincere, or whether this was -his way of justifying to himself his intention of following Constance. -But nothing could be more steadily matter-of-fact than the young man’s -aspect. - -“Yes, no doubt I shall find it dull. I don’t so very much object to -that. At Cannes and those places there is a continual racket going on. -One might almost as well be in London. One is seduced into going out in -the evening, doing all sorts of things. I think your place is an ideal -place--plenty of sunshine and no amusements. How can I thank you enough, -Miss Waring, for your _renseignements_? I shall speak to Dr Lull without -delay.” - -“But you must recollect that it will soon be getting very hot; and even -the people who live there will be going away. Mr Durant sometimes takes -the duty at Homburg or one of those places; and the Gaunts come home to -England; and even we----” - -Here Frances paused for a moment to watch him, and she thought that the -pencil with which he was still writing down all these precious details, -paused too. He looked up at her, as if waiting for further information. -“Yes?” he said interrogatively. - -“Even we--go up among the mountains where it is cooler,” she said. - -He looked a little thoughtful at this; but presently threw her back into -perplexity by saying calmly: “That would not matter to me so much, since -I am quite sincere in thinking that when one goes to a health-place, one -should give one’s self up to one’s health. But unfortunately, or perhaps -I should say fortunately, Miss Waring, England is just as good as -anywhere else in the summer; and Dr Lull has not thought it necessary -this year to send me away. But I feel quite set up with your -_renseignements_,” he added, putting back his book into his pocket, “and -I certainly shall think of it for another year.” - -Frances had been so singled out for the purpose of giving the young -invalid information, that she found herself a little apart from the -party when he went away. They were all ladies, and all intimates, and -the unaccustomed girl was not prepared for the onslaught of this curious -and eager, though so pretty and fashionable mob. “What are those -_renseignements_ you have been giving him? Is he going off after Con? -Has he been questioning you about Con? We are all dying to know. And -what do you think she will say to him if he goes out after her?” cried -all, speaking together, those soft eager voices, to which Frances did -not know how to reply. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - - -Frances became accustomed to the presence of young Ramsay after this. He -appeared almost every day, very often in the afternoon, eager for tea, -and always disposed to inquire for further _renseignements_, though he -was quite certain that he was not to leave England till autumn at the -earliest. She began to regard him as a younger brother, or cousin at the -least--a perfectly harmless individual, with whom she could talk when he -wanted her with a gentle complacence, without any reference to her own -pleasure. As a matter of fact, it did not give her any pleasure to talk -to Claude. She was kind to him for his sake; but she had no desire for -his presence on her own account. It surprised her that he ever could -have been thought of as a possible mate for Constance. Constance was so -much cleverer, so much more advanced in every way than herself, that to -suppose she could put up with what Frances found so little attractive, -was a constant amazement to the girl. She could not but express this on -one of the occasions, not so very frequent as she had expected, on which -her mother and she were alone together. - -“Is it really true,” she said at the end of a long silence, “that there -was a question of a--marriage between Constance and Mr Ramsay?” - -“It is really quite true,” said her mother with a smile. “And why not? -Do you disapprove?” - -“It is not that I disapprove--I have no right to disapprove; it is only -that it seems so impossible.” - -“Why? I see nothing impossible in it. He is of suitable age; he is -handsome. You cannot deny that he is handsome, however much you may -dislike him, my dear.” - -“But I don’t dislike him at all; I like him very much--in a kind of -way.” - -“You have every appearance of doing so,” said Lady Markham with -meaning. “You talk to him more, I think, than to any one else.” - -“That is because----” - -“Oh, I don’t ask any reason, Frances. If you like his society that is -reason enough--the best of reasons. And evidently he likes you. He -would, no doubt, be more suitable to you than to Constance.” - -“Mamma! I don’t know what you mean.” Frances woke up suddenly from her -musing state, and looked at her mother with wide open startled eyes. - -“I don’t mean anything. I only ask you to point out wherein his -unsuitability lies. Young, handsome, _nice_, and very rich. What could a -girl desire more? You think, perhaps, as you have been so simply brought -up, that a heroine like Con should have had a Duke or an Earl at the -least. But people think less of the importance of titles as they know -Society better. Claude is of an excellent old family--better than many -peers. She would have been a very fortunate young woman with such an -establishment; but she has taken her own way. I hope you will never be -so hot-headed as your sister, Frances. You look much more practical and -reasonable. You will not, I think, dart off at a tangent without warning -or thought.” - -Frances looked her mother doubtfully in the face. Her feelings -fluctuated strangely in respect to this central figure in the new world -round her. To make acquaintance with your parents for the first time -when you have reached the critical age, and are no longer able to accept -everything with the matter-of-fact serenity of a child, is a curious -experience. Children, indeed, are tremendous critics, at the tribunal of -whose judgment we all stand unawares, and have our just place allotted -to us, with an equity which happily leads to no practical conclusions, -but which no tribunal on earth can equal for clear sight and remorseless -decision. Eighteen is not quite so abstract as eight; yet the absence of -familiarity, and that love which is instinctive, and happily quite above -all decisions of the judgment, makes, in such an extraordinary case as -that of Frances, the sudden call upon the critical faculties, the -consciousness that accompanies their exercise, and the underlying sense, -never absent, that all this is unnatural and wrong, into a complication -full of distress and uncertainty. A vague question whether it were -possible that such a conflict as that which had ended in Constance’s -flight, should ever arise between Lady Markham and herself, passed -through the mind of Frances. If it should do so, the expedient which had -been open to Constance would be to herself impossible. All pride and -delicacy of feeling, all sense of natural justice, would prevent her -from adopting that course. The question would have to be worked out -between her mother and herself, should it ever occur. Was it possible -that it could ever occur? She looked at Lady Markham, who had returned -to her usual morning occupation of writing letters, with a questioning -gaze. There had been a pause, and Lady Markham had waited for a moment -for a reply. Then she had taken up her pen again, and with a smiling nod -had returned to her correspondence. - -Frances sat and pondered with her face turned towards the writing-table, -at which her mother spent so much of her time. The number of letters -that were written there every morning filled her with amazement. Waring -had written no letters, and received only one now and then, which -Frances understood to be about business. She had looked very -respectfully at first on the sheaves which were every day taken away, -duly stamped, from that well-worn but much decorated writing-table. When -it had been suggested to her that she too must have letters to write, -she had dutifully compiled her little bulletin for her father, putting -aside as quite a different matter the full chronicle of her proceedings, -written at a great many _reprises_, to Mariuccia, which somehow did not -seem at all to come under the same description. It had, however, begun -to become apparent to Frances, unwillingly, as she made acquaintance -with everything about her, that Lady Markham’s correspondence was really -by no means of the importance which appeared at the first glance. It -seemed to consist generally in the conveyance of little bits of news, of -little engagements, of the echoes of what people said and did; and it -was replied to by endless shoals of little notes on every variety of -tinted, gilt, and perfumed paper, with every kind of monogram, crest, -and device, and every new idea in shape and form which the genius of the -fashionable stationer could work out. “I have just heard from Lady -So-and-so the funniest story,” Lady Markham would say to her son, -repeating the anecdote--which on many occasions Frances, listening, did -not see the point of. But then both mother and son were cleverer people -than she was. “I must write and let Mary St Serle and Louisa Avenel -know--it will amuse them so;” and there was at once an addition of two -letters to the budget. Frances did not think--all under her breath, as -it were, in involuntary unexpressed comment--that the tale was worth a -pretty sheet of paper, a pretty envelope--both decorated with Lady -Markham’s cipher and coronet--and a penny stamp. But so it was; and this -was one of the principal occupations evidently of a great lady’s life. -Lady Markham considered it very grave, and “a duty.” She allowed nothing -to interfere with her correspondence. “I have my letters to write,” she -said, as who should say, “I have my day’s work to do.” By degrees -Frances lost her respect for this day’s work, and would watch the -manufactory of one note after another with eyes that were unwillingly -cynical, wondering within herself whether it would make any difference -to the world if pen and ink were forbidden in that house. Markham, too, -spoke of writing his letters as a valid reason for much consumption of -time. But then, no doubt, Markham had land agents to write to, and -lawyers, and other necessary people. In this, Frances did not do justice -to her mother, who also had business letters to write, and did a great -deal in stocks, and kept her eyes on the money market. The girl sat and -watched her with a sort of fascination as her pen ran lightly over sheet -after sheet. Sometimes Lady Markham was full of tenderness and -generosity, and had the look of understanding everybody’s feelings. She -was never unkind. She never took a bad view of any one, or suggested -evil or interested motives, as even Frances perceived, in her limited -experience, so many people to do. But, on the other hand, there would -come into her face sometimes a look--which seemed to say that she might -be inexorable, if once she had made up her mind: a look before which it -seemed to Frances that flight like that of Constance would be the -easiest way. Frances was not sufficiently instructed in human nature to -know that anomalies of this kind are common enough; and that nobody is -always and in all matters good, any more than anybody is in all things -ill. It troubled her to perceive the junction of these different -qualities in her mother; and still more it troubled her to think what, -in case of coming to some point of conflict, she should do? How would -she get out of it? Would it be only by succumbing wholly, or had she the -courage in her to fight it out? - -“Little un,” said Markham, coming up to her suddenly, “why do you look -at the mother so? Are you measuring yourself against her, to see how -things would stand if it came to a fight?” - -“Markham!” Frances started with a great blush of guilt. “I did not know -you were here. I--never heard you come in.” - -“You were so lost in thought. I have been here these five minutes, -waiting for an opportunity to put in a word. Don’t you know I’m a -thought-reader, like those fellows that find pins? Take my advice, Fan, -and never let it come to a fight.” - -“I don’t know how to fight,” she said, crimsoning more and more; “and -besides, I was not thinking--there is nothing to fight about.” - -“Fibs, these last,” he said. “Come out and take a little walk with -me,--you are looking pale; and I will tell you a thing or two. Mother, I -am going to take her out for a walk; she wants air.” - -“Do, dear,” said Lady Markham, turning half round with a smile. “After -luncheon, she is going out with me; but in the meantime, you could not -do better--get a little of the morning into her face, while I finish my -letters.” She turned again with a soft smile on her face to send off -that piece of information to Louisa Avenel and Mary St Serle, closing an -envelope as she spoke, writing the address with such a preoccupied yet -amiable air--a woman who, but for having so much to do, would have had -no thought or ambition beyond her home. Markham waited till Frances -appeared in the trim little walking-dress which the mother had paid her -the high compliment of making no change in. They turned their faces as -usual towards the Park, where already, though Easter was very near, -there was a flutter of fine company in preparation for the more serious -glories of the Row, after the season had fairly set in. - -“Little Fan, you mustn’t fight,” were the first words that Markham said. - -She felt her heart begin to beat loud. “Markham! there is nothing to -fight about--oh, nothing. What put fighting in your head?” - -“Never mind. It is my duty to instruct your youth; and I think I see -troubles brewing. Don’t be so kind to that little beggar Claude. He is a -selfish little beggar, though he looks so smooth; and since Constance -won’t have him, he will soon begin to think he may as well have you.” - -“Markham!” Frances felt herself choking with horror and shame. - -“You have got my name quite pat, my dear; but that is neither here nor -there. Markham has nothing to do with it, except to put you on your -guard. Don’t you know, you little innocent, what is the first duty of a -mother? Then I can tell you: to marry her daughters well; brilliantly, -if possible, but at all events _well_--or anyhow to marry them; or else -she is a failure, and all the birds of her set come round her and peck -her to death.” - -“I often don’t understand your jokes,” said Frances, with a little -dignity, “and I suppose this is a joke.” - -“And you think it is a joke in doubtful taste? So should I, if I meant -it that way, but I don’t. Listen, Fan; I am much of that opinion -myself.” - -“That a mother--that a lady----? You are always saying horrible things.” - -“It is true, though--if it is best that a girl should marry--mind you, I -only say if--then it _is_ her mother’s duty. You can’t look out for -yourself--at least I am very glad you are not of the kind that do, my -little Fan.” - -“Markham,” said Frances, with a dignity which seemed to raise her small -person a foot at least, “I have never heard such things talked about; -and I don’t wish to hear anything more, please. In books,” she added, -after a moment’s interval, “it is the gentlemen----” - -“Who look out? But that is all changed, my dear. Fellows fall in -love--which is quite different--and generally fall in love with the -wrong person; but you see I was not supposing that you were likely to do -anything so wild as that.” - -“I hope not,” cried Frances hurriedly. “However,” she added, after -another pause, colouring deeply, but yet looking at him with a certain -courageous air, “if there was any question about being--married, which -of course there is not--I never heard that there was any other way.” - -“Brava, Fan! Come, now, here is the little thing’s own opinion, which is -worth a great deal. It would not matter, then, who the man was, so long -as _that_ happened, eh? Let us know the premises on either side.” - -“You are a great deal older than I am, Markham,” said Frances. - -“Granted, my dear--a great deal. And what then? I should be wiser, you -mean to say? But so I am, Fan.” - -“It was not _that_ I meant. I mean, it is you who ought--to marry. You -are a man. You are the eldest, the chief one of your family. I have -always read in books----” - -Markham put up his hand as a shield. He stopped to laugh, repeating over -and over again that one note of mirth with which it was his wont to -express his feelings. “Brava, Fan!” he repeated when he could speak. -“You are a little Trojan. This is something like carrying the war into -the enemy’s country.” He was so much tickled by the assault, that the -water stood in his eyes. “What a good thing we are not in the Row, where -I should have been delivered over to the talk of the town. Frances, my -little dear, you are the funniest of little philosophers.” - -“Where is the fun?” said Frances gravely. “And I am not a philosopher, -Markham; I am only--your sister.” - -At this the little man became serious all at once, and took her hand and -drew it within his arm. They were walking up Constitution Hill, where -there are not many spectators. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “and as nice a -little sister as a man could desire;” and walked on, holding her arm -close to him with an expressive clasp which spoke more than words. The -touch of nature and the little suggestive proffer of affection and -kindred which was in the girl’s words, touched his heart. He said -nothing till they were about emerging upon the noise and clamour of the -world at the great thoroughfare which they had to cross. Then “After -all,” he said, “yours is a very natural proposition, Fan. It is I who -ought to marry. Many people would say it is my duty; and perhaps I might -have been of that opinion once. But I’ve a great deal on my conscience, -dear. You think I’m rather a good little man, don’t you? fond of ladies’ -society, and of my mother and little sister, which is such a good -feature, everybody says? Well, but that’s a mistake, my dear. I don’t -know that I am at all a fit person to be walking about London streets -and into the Park with an innocent little creature, such as you are, -under my arm.” - -“Markham!” she cried, with a tone which was half astonished, half -indignant, and her arm thrilled within his--not, perhaps, with any -intention of withdrawing itself; but that was what he thought. - -“Wait,” he said, “till I have got you safely across the Corner--there is -always a crowd--and then, if you are frightened, and prefer another -chaperon, we’ll find one, you may be sure, before we have gone a dozen -steps. Come now; there is a little lull. Be plucky, and keep your head, -Fan.” - -“I want no other chaperon, Markham; I like you.” - -“Do you, my dear? Well, you can’t think what a pleasure that is to me, -Fan. You wouldn’t, probably, if you knew me better. However, you must -stick to that opinion as long as you can. Who, do you think, would marry -me if I were to try? An ugly little fellow, not very well off, with -several very bad tendencies, and--a mother.” - -“A mother, Markham!” - -“Yes, my dear; to whom he is devoted--who must always be the first to -him. That’s a beautiful sentiment, don’t you think? But wives have a way -of not liking it. I could not force her to call herself the Dowager, -could I, Fan? She is a pretty woman yet. She is really younger than I -am. She would not like it.” - -“I think you are only making fun of me, Markham. I don’t know what you -mean. What could mamma have to do with it? If she so much wanted -Constance to marry, surely she must want you still more, for you are so -much older; and then----” - -“There is no want of arguments,” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. -“Conviction is what is wanted. There might have been times when I should -have much relished your advice; but nobody would have had me, -fortunately. No; I must not give up the mother, my dear. Don’t you know -I was the cause of all the mischief--at least of a great part of the -mischief--when your father went away? And now, I must make a mess of it -again, and put folly into Con’s head. The mother is an angel, Fan, or -she would not trust you with me.” - -It flashed across Frances’ memory that Constance had warned her not to -let herself fall into Markham’s hands; but this only bewildered the girl -in the softening of her heart to him, and in the general bewilderment -into which she was thus thrown back. “I do not believe you can be bad,” -she said earnestly; “you must be doing yourself injustice.” - -By this time they were in the Row in all the brightness of the crowd, -which, if less great than at a later period, was more friendly. Markham -had begun to pull off his hat to every third lady he met, to put out his -hand right and left, to distribute nods and greetings. “We’ll resume the -subject some time or other,” he said with a smile aside to Frances, -disengaging her arm from his. The girl felt as if she had suddenly lost -her anchorage, and was thrown adrift upon this sea of strange faces; and -thrown at the same time back into a moral chaos, full of new -difficulties and wonders, out of which she could not see her way. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -A day or two after, they all went to the Priory for Easter. - -The Priory was in the Isle of Wight, and it was Markham’s house. It was -not a very great house, nor was it medieval and mysterious, as an -unsophisticated imagination naturally expected. Its name came, it was -said (or hoped), from an old ecclesiastical establishment once planted -there; but the house itself was a sort of Strawberry-Hill Gothic, with a -good deal of plaster and imitated ornament of the perpendicular -kind,--that is to say, the worst of its kind, which is, unfortunately, -that which most attracts the imitator. It stood on a slope above the -beach, where the vegetation was soft and abundant, recalling more or -less to the mind of Frances the aspect of the country with which she -was best acquainted--the great bosquets of glistering green laurel and -laurestine simulating the daphnes and orange-trees, and the grey downs -above recalling in some degree the scattered hill-tops above the level -of the olives; though the great rollers of the Atlantic which thundered -in upon the beach were not like that rippling blue which edged the -Riviera in so many rims of delicate colour. The differences, however, -struck Frances less than the resemblance, for which she had scarcely -been prepared, and which gave her a great deal of surprised pleasure at -the first glance. This put temporarily out of her mind all the new and -troublesome thoughts which her conversation with Markham had called -forth, and which had renewed her curiosity about her step-brother, whom -she had begun to receive into the landscape around her with the calm of -habit and without asking any questions. Was he really bad, or rather, -not good?--which was as far as Frances could go. Had he really been the -cause, or partly the cause, of the separation between her father and -mother? She was bewildered by these little breaks in the curtain which -concealed the past from her so completely--that past which was so well -known to the others around, which an invincible delicacy prevented her -from speaking of or asking questions about. All went on so calmly around -her, as if nothing out of the ordinary routine had ever been; and yet -she was aware not only that much had been, but that it remained so -distinctly in the minds of those smiling people as to influence their -conduct and form their motives still. Though it was Markham’s house, it -was his mother who was the uncontested sovereign, not less, probably -more, than if the real owner had been her husband instead of her son. -And even Frances, little as she was acquainted with the world, was aware -that this was seldom the case. And why should not Markham at his age, -which to her seemed at least ten years more than it was, be married, -when it was already thought important that Constance should marry? These -were very bewildering questions, and the moment to resume the subject -never seemed to come. - -There was a party in the house, which included Claude Ramsay, and Sir -Thomas, the elder person in whom Lady Markham had thought there could -be nothing particularly interesting. He was a very frequent member of -the family party, all the same; and now that they were living under the -same roof, Frances did not find him without interest. There was also a -lady with two daughters, whose appearance was very interesting to the -girl. They reminded her a little of Constance, and of the difficulty she -had found in finding subjects on which to converse with her sister. The -Miss Montagues knew a great many people, and talked of them continually; -but Frances knew nobody. She listened with interest, but she could add -nothing either to their speculations or recollections. She did not know -anything about the contrivances which brought about the marriage between -Cecil Gray and Emma White. She was utterly incompetent even to hazard an -opinion as to what Lady Milbrook would do _now_; and she did not even -understand about the hospitals which they visited and “took an interest” -in. She tried very hard to get some little current with which she could -make herself acquainted in the river of their talk; but nothing could -be more difficult. Even when she brought out her sketch-book and opened -ground upon that subject--about which the poor little girl modestly -believed she knew by experience a very little--she was silenced in five -minutes by their scientific acquaintance with washes, and glazing, and -body colour, and the laws of composition. Frances did not know how to -compose a picture. She said: “Oh no; I do not make it up in my head at -all; I only do what I see.” - -“You mean you don’t formulate rules,” said Maud. “Of course you don’t -mean that you merely imitate, for that is tea-board style; and your -drawings are quite pretty. I like that little bit of the coast.” - -“How well one knows the Riviera,” said Ethel; “everybody who goes there -has something to show. But I am rather surprised you don’t keep to one -style. You seem to do a little of everything. Don’t you feel that -flower-painting rather spoils your hand for the larger effects?” - -“It wants such a very different distribution of light and shade,” said -the other sister. “You have to calculate your tones on such a different -scale. If you were working at South Kensington or any other of the good -schools----” - -“I should not advise her to do that--should you, Maud?--there is such a -long elementary course. But I suppose you did your freehand, and all -that, in the schoolroom?” - -Frances did not know how to reply. She put away her little sketch with a -sense of extreme humiliation. “Oh, I am afraid I am not fit to talk -about it at all,” she said. “I don’t even know what words to use. It has -been all imitation, as you say.” - -The two young ladies smiled upon her, and reassured her. “You must not -be discouraged. I am sure you have talent. It only wants a little hard -work to master the principles; and then you go on so much easier -afterwards,” they said. It puzzled Frances much that they did not -produce their own sketches, which she thought would have been as good as -a lesson to her; and it was not till long after that it dawned upon her -that in this particular Maud and Ethel were defective. They knew how to -do it, but could not do it; whereas she could do it without knowing how. - -“How is it, I wonder,” said one of them, changing the subject after a -little polite pause, which suggested fatigue, “that Mrs Winterbourn is -not here this year?” - -They looked at her for this information, to the consternation of -Frances, who did not know how to reply. “You know I have not been -long--here,” she said: she had intended to say at home, but the effort -was beyond her--“and I don’t even know who Mrs Winterbourn is.” - -“Oh!” they both cried; and then for a minute there was nothing more. -“You may think it strange of us to speak of it,” said Maud at length; -“only, it always seemed so well understood; and we have always met her -here.” - -“Oh, she goes everywhere,” cried Ethel. “There never was a word breathed -against---- Please don’t think _that_, from anything we have said.” - -“On the contrary, mamma always says it is so wise of Lady Markham,” said -Maud; “so much better that he should always meet her here.” - -Frances retired into herself with a confusion which she did not know how -to account for. She did not in the least know what they meant, and yet -she felt the colour rise in her cheek. She blushed for she knew not -what; so that Maud and Ethel said to each other, afterwards: “She is a -little hypocrite. She knew just as well as either you or I.” - -Frances, however, did not know; and here was another subject about which -she could not ask information. She carried away her sketch-book to her -room with a curious feeling of ignorance and foolishness. She did not -know anything at all--neither about her own surroundings, nor about the -little art which she was so fond of, in which she had taken just a -little pride, as well as so much pleasure. She put the sketches away -with a few hasty tears, feeling troubled and provoked, and as if she -could never look at them with any satisfaction, or attempt to touch a -pencil again. She had never thought they were anything great; but to be -made to feel so foolish in her own little way was hard. Nor was this -the only trial to which she was exposed. After dinner, retiring, which -she did with a sense of irritation which her conscience condemned, from -the neighbourhood of Ethel and Maud, she fell into the hands of Sir -Thomas, who also had a way of keeping very clear of these young ladies. -He came to where Frances was standing in a corner, almost out of sight. -She had drawn aside one edge of the curtain, and was looking out upon -the shrubbery and the lawn, which stood out against the clear background -of the sea--with a great deal of wistfulness, and perhaps a secret tear -or two in her eyes. Here she was startled by a sudden voice in her ear. -“You are looking out on the moonlight,” Sir Thomas said. It took her a -moment before she could swallow the sob in her throat. - -“It is very bright; it is a little like--home.” This word escaped her in -the confusion of her thoughts. - -“You mean the Riviera. Did you like it so much? I should have -thought---- But no doubt, whatever the country is which we call home, it -seems desirable to us.” - -“Oh, but you can’t know how beautiful it is,” cried Frances, roused from -her fit of despondency. “Perhaps you have never been there?” - -“Oh yes, often. Does your father like it as well as you do, Miss Waring? -I should have supposed, for a man----” - -“Yes,” said Frances, “I know what you mean. They say there is nothing to -do. But my father is not a man to want to do anything. He is fond of -books; he reads all day long, and then comes out into the loggia with -his cigarette--and talks to me.” - -“That sounds very pleasant,” said Sir Thomas with a smile, taking no -notice of the involuntary quaver that had got into the girl’s voice. -“But I wonder if perhaps he does not want a little variety, a little -excitement? Excuse me for saying so. Men, you know, are not always so -easily contented as the better half of creation; and then they are -accustomed to larger duties, to more action, to public affairs.” - -“I don’t think papa takes much interest in all that,” said Frances with -an air of authority. “He has never cared for what was going on. The -newspapers he sometimes will not open.” - -“That is a great change. He used to be a hot politician in the old -days.” - -“Did you know my father?” she cried, turning upon him with a glow of -sudden interest. - -“I knew him very well--better than most people. I was one of those who -felt the deepest regret----” - -She stood gazing at him with her face lifted to him with so profound an -interest and desire to know, that he stopped short, startled by the -intensity of her look. “Miss Waring,” he said, “it is a very delicate -subject to talk to their child upon.” - -“Oh, I know it is. I don’t like to ask--and yet it seems as if I ought -to know.” Frances was seized with one of those sudden impulses of -confidence which sometimes make the young so indiscreet. If she had -known Sir Thomas intimately, it would not have occurred to her; but as a -stranger, he seemed safe. “No one has ever told me,” she added in the -heat of this sudden overflow, “neither how it was or why it was--except -Markham, who says it was his fault.” - -“There were faults on all sides, I think,” said Sir Thomas. “There -always are in such cases. No one person is able to carry out such a -prodigious mistake. You must pardon me if I speak plainly. You are the -only person whom I can ask about my old friend.” - -“Oh, I like you to speak plainly,” cried Frances. “Talk to me about him; -ask me anything you please.” The tears came into her voice, and she put -her hands together instinctively. She had been feeling very lonely and -home-sick, and out of accord with all her surroundings. To return even -in thought to the old life and its associations brought a flood of -bitter sweetness to her heart. - -“I can see at least,” said Sir Thomas, “that he has secured a most -loving champion in his child.” - -This arrested her enthusiasm in a moment. She was too sincere to accept -such a solution of her own complicated feelings. Was she the loving -champion which she was so suddenly assumed to be? She became vaguely -aware that the things which had rushed back upon her mind and filled -her with longing were not the excellences of her father, but rather the -old peace and ease and ignorance of her youthful life, which nothing -could now restore. She could not respond to the confidence of her -father’s friend. He had kept her in ignorance; he had deceived her; he -had not made any attempt to clear the perplexities of her difficult -path, but left her to find out everything, more perhaps than she yet -knew. Sir Thomas was a little surprised that she made him no reply; but -he set it down to emotion and agitation, which might well take from so -young and innocent a girl the possibility of reply. - -“I don’t know whether I am justified in the hope I have been -entertaining ever since you came,” he said. “It is very hard that your -father should be banished from his own country and all his duties -by--what was, after all, never a very important cause. There has been no -unpardonable wrong on either side. He is terribly sensitive, you know. -And Lady Markham--she is a dear friend of mine; I have a great affection -for her----” - -“If you please,” said Frances quickly, “it is not possible for me to -listen to any discussion of mamma.” - -“My dear Miss Waring,” he cried, “this is better and better. You are -then a partisan on both sides?” - -Poor little Frances felt as if she were at least hemmed in on both -sides, and without any way of escape. She looked up in his face with an -appeal which he did not understand, for how was it possible to suppose -that she did not know all about a matter which had affected her whole -life? - -“Don’t you think,” said Sir Thomas, drawing very close to her, stooping -over her, “that if we two were to lay our heads together, we might bring -things to a better understanding? Constance, to whom I have often spoken -on the subject, knew only one side--and that not the difficult side. -Markham was mixed up in it all, and could never be impartial. But you -know both, and your father best. I am sure you are full of sense, as -Waring’s daughter ought to be. Don’t you think----” - -He had taken both Frances’ hands in his enthusiasm, and pressed so -closely upon her that she had to retreat a step, almost with alarm. And -he had his back to the light, shutting her out from all succour, as she -thought. It was all the girl could do to keep from crying out that she -knew nothing,--that she was more ignorant than any one; and when there -suddenly came from behind Sir Thomas the sound of many voices, without -agitation or special meaning, her heart gave a bound of relief, as if -she had escaped. He gave her hands a vehement pressure and let them -drop; and then Claude Ramsay’s voice of gentle pathos came in. “Are you -not afraid, Miss Waring, of the draught? There must be some door or -window open. It is enough to blow one away.” - -“You look like a couple of conspirators,” said Markham. “Fan, your -little eyes are blinking like an owl’s. Come back, my dear, into the -light.” - -“No,” said Claude; “the light here is perfect. I never can understand -why people should want so much light only to talk by. Will you sit here, -Miss Waring? Here is a corner out of the draught. I want to say -something more about Bordighera--one other little _renseignement_, and -then I shall not require to trouble you any more.” - -Frances looked at Markham for help, but he did not interfere. He looked -a little grave, she thought; but he took Sir Thomas by the arm, and -presently led him away. She was too shy to refuse on her own account -Claude’s demand, and sat down reluctantly on the sofa, where he placed -himself at her side. - -“Your sister,” he said, “never had much sympathy with me about draughts. -She used to think it ridiculous to take so much care. But my doctrine -always is, take care beforehand, and then you don’t need to trouble -yourself after. Don’t you think I am right?” - -She understood very well how Constance would receive his little -speeches. In the agitation in which she was, gleams of perception coming -through the chaos, sudden visions of Constance, who had been swept out -of her mind by the progress of events, and of her father, whom her late -companion had been talking about--as if it would be so easy to induce -him to change all his ways, and do what other people wished!--came back -to her mind. They seemed to stand before her there, both appearing out -of the mists, both so completely aware of what they wanted to do--so -little likely to be persuaded into some one else’s mode of thought. - -“I think Constance and you were not at all likely to think the same,” -she said. - -Ramsay looked at her with a glance which for him was hasty and almost -excited. “No?” he said in an interrogative tone. “What makes you think -so? Perhaps when one comes to consider, you are right. She was always so -well and strong. You and I, perhaps, do you think, are more alike?” - -“No,” said Frances, very decidedly. “I am much stronger than Constance. -She might have some patience with--with--what was fanciful; but I should -have none.” - -“With what was fanciful? Then you think I am fanciful?” said Claude, -raising himself up from his feeble attitude. He laughed a little, quite -undisturbed in temper by this reproach. “I wish other people thought -so; I wish they would let me stay comfortably at home, and do what -everybody does. But, Miss Waring, you are not so sympathetic as I -thought.” - -“I am afraid I am not sympathetic,” said Frances, feeling much ashamed -of herself. “Oh, Mr Ramsay, forgive me; I did not mean to say anything -so disagreeable.” - -“Never mind,” said Claude. “When people don’t know me, they often think -so. I am sorry, because I thought perhaps you and I might agree better. -But very likely it was a mistake. Are you feeling the draught again? It -is astonishing how a draught will creep round, when you think you are -quite out of the way of it. If you feel it, you must not run the risk of -a cold, out of consideration for me.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - - -“She thinks I am fanciful,” he said. - -He was sitting with Lady Markham in the room which was her special -sanctuary. She did not call it her boudoir--she was not at all inclined -to _bouder_; but it answered to that retirement in common parlance. -Those who wanted to see her alone, to confide in her, as many people -did, knocked at the door of this room. It opened with a large window -upon the lawn, and looked down through a carefully kept opening upon the -sea. Amid all the little luxuries appropriate to my lady’s chamber, you -could see the biggest ships in the world pass across the gleaming -foreground, shut in between two _massifs_ of laurel, making a delightful -confusion of the great and the small, which was specially pleasant to -her. She sat, however, with her back to this pleasant prospect, holding -up a screen, to shade her delicate cheek from the bright little fire, -which, though April was far advanced, was still thought necessary so -near the sea. Claude had thrown himself into another chair in front of -the fireplace. No warmth was ever too much for him. There was the usual -pathos in his tone, but a faint consciousness of something amusing was -in his face. - -“Did she?” said Lady Markham with a laugh. “The little impertinent! But -you know, my dear boy, that is what I have always said.” - -“Yes--it is quite true. You healthy people, you are always of opinion -that one can get over it if one makes the effort; and there is no way of -proving the contrary but by dying, which is a strong step.” - -“A very strong step--one, I hope, that you will not think of taking. -They are both very sincere, my girls, though in a different way. They -mean what they say; and yet they do not mean it, Claude. That is, it is -quite true; but does not affect their regard for you, which, I am sure, -without implying any deeper feeling, is strong.” - -He shook his head a little. “Dear Lady Markham,” he said, “you know if I -am to marry, I want, above all things, to marry a daughter of yours.” - -“Dear boy!” she said, with a look full of tender meaning. - -“You have always been so good to me, since ever I can remember. But what -am I to do if they--object? Constance--has run away from me, people say: -run away--to escape _me_!” His voice took so tragically complaining a -tone, that Lady Markham bit her lip and held her screen higher to -conceal her smile. Next moment, however, she turned upon him with a -perfectly grave and troubled face. - -“Dear Claude!” she cried, “what an injustice to poor Con. I thought I -had explained all that to you. You have known all along the painful -position I am in with their father, and you know how impulsive she is. -And then, Markham---- Alas!” she continued with a sigh, “my position is -very complicated, Claude. Markham is the best son that ever was; but -you know I have to pay a great deal for it.” - -“Ah!” said Claude; “Nelly Winterbourn and all that,” with a good many -sage nods of his head. - -“Not only Nelly Winterbourn--there is no harm in her, that I know--but -he has a great influence with the girls. It was he who put it into -Constance’s head to go to her father. I am quite sure it was. He put it -before her that it was her duty.” - -“O--oh!” Claude made this very English comment with the doubtful tone -which it expresses; and added, “Her duty!” with a very unconvinced air. - -“He did so, I know. And she was so fond of adventure and change. I -agreed with him partly afterwards that it was the best thing that could -happen to her. She is finding out by experience what banishment from -Society, and from all that makes life pleasant, is. I have no doubt she -will come back--in a very different frame of mind.” - -Claude did not respond, as perhaps Lady Markham expected him to do. He -sat and dandled his leg before the fire, not looking at her. After some -time, he said in a reflective way, “Whoever I marry, she will have to -resign herself to banishment, as you call it--that has been always -understood. A warm climate in winter--and to be ready to start at any -moment.” - -“That is always understood--till you get stronger,” said Lady Markham in -the gentlest tone. “But you know I have always expected that you would -get stronger. Remember, you have been kept at home all this year--and -you are better; at all events you have not suffered.” - -“Had I been sent away, Constance would have remained at home,” he said. -“I am not speaking out of irritation, but only to understand it fully. -It is not as if I were finding fault with Constance; but you see for -yourself she could not stand me all the year round. A fellow who has -always to be thinking about the thermometer is trying.” - -“My dear boy,” said Lady Markham, “everything is trying. The thermometer -is much less offensive than most things that men care for. Girls are -brought up in that fastidious way: you all like them to be so, and to -think they have refined tastes, and so forth; and then you are surprised -when you find they have a little difficulty---- Constance was only -fanciful, that was all--impatient.” - -“Fanciful,” he repeated. “That was what the little one said. I wish she -were fanciful, and not so horribly well and strong.” - -“My dear Claude,” said Lady Markham quickly, “you would not like that at -all! A delicate wife is the most dreadful thing--one that you would -always have to be considering; who could not perhaps go to the places -that suited you; who would not be able to go out with you when you -wanted her. I don’t insist upon a daughter of mine: but not that, not -that, for your own sake, my dear boy!” - -“I believe you are right,” he said, with a look of conviction. “Then I -suppose the only thing to be done is to wait for a little and see how -things turn out. There is no hurry about it, you know.” - -“Oh, no hurry!” she said, with uneasy assent. “That is, if you are not -in a hurry,” she added after a pause. - -“No, I don’t think so. I am rather enjoying myself, I think. It always -does one good,” he said, getting up slowly, “to come and have it out -with you.” - -Lady Markham said “Dear boy!” once more, and gave him her hand, which he -kissed; and then his audience was over. He went away; and she turned -round to her writing-table to the inevitable correspondence. There was a -little cloud upon her forehead so long as she was alone; but when -another knock came at the door, it cleared by magic as she said “Come -in.” This time it was Sir Thomas who appeared. He was a tall man, with -grey hair, and had the air of being very carefully brushed and dressed. -He came in, and seated himself where Claude had been, but pushed back -the chair from the fire. - -“Don’t you think,” he said, “that you keep your room a little too warm?” - -“Claude complained that it was cold. It is difficult to please -everybody.” - -“Oh, Claude. I have come to speak to you, dear Lady Markham, on a very -different subject. I was talking to Frances last night.” - -“So I perceived. And what do you think of my little girl?” - -“You know,” he said, with some solemnity, “the hopes I have always -entertained that some time or other our dear Waring might be brought -among us once more.” - -“I have always told you,” said Lady Markham, “that no difficulties -should be raised by me.” - -“You were always everything that is good and kind,” said Sir Thomas. “I -was talking to his dear little daughter last night. She reminds me very -much of Waring, Lady Markham.” - -“That is odd; for everybody tells me--and indeed I can see it -myself--that she is like me.” - -“She is very like you; still, she reminds me of her father more than I -can say. I do think we have in her the instrument--the very instrument -that is wanted. If he is ever to be brought back again----” - -“Which I doubt,” she said, shaking her head. - -“Don’t let us doubt. With perseverance, everything is to be hoped; and -here we have in our very hands what I have always looked for--some one -devoted to him and very fond of you.” - -“Is she very fond of me?” said Lady Markham. Her face softened--a little -moisture crept into her eyes. “Ah, Sir Thomas, I wonder if that is true. -She was very much moved by the idea of her mother--a relation she had -never known. She expected I don’t know what, but more, I am sure, than -she has found in me. Oh, don’t say anything. I am scarcely surprised; I -am not at all displeased. To come with your heart full of an ideal, and -to find an ordinary woman--a woman in Society!” The moisture enlarged in -Lady Markham’s eyes--not tears, but yet a liquid mist that gave them -pathos. She shook her head, looking at him with a smile. - -“We need not argue the question,” said Sir Thomas, “for I know she is -very fond of you. You should have heard her stop me when she thought I -was going to criticise you. Of course, had she known me better she would -have known how impossible that was.” - -Lady Markham did not say “Dear Sir Thomas!” as she had said “Dear boy!” -but her look was the same as that which she had turned upon Claude. She -was in no doubt as to what his account of her would be. - -“She can persuade him, if anybody can,” he said. “I think I shall go and -see him as soon as I can get away--if you do not object. To bring our -dear Waring back, to see you two together again, who have always been -the objects of my warmest admiration----” - -“You are too kind. You have always had a higher opinion of me than I -deserve,” she said. “One can only be grateful. One cannot try to -persuade you that you are mistaken. As for my--husband”--there was the -slightest momentary pause before she said the name--“I fear you will -never get him to think so well of me as you do. It is a great -misfortune; but still it sometimes happens that other people think more -of a woman than--her very own.” - -“You must not say that. Waring adored you.” - -She shook her head again. “He had a great admiration,” she said, “for a -woman to whom he gave my name. But he discovered that it was a mistake; -and for me in my own person he had no particular feeling. Think a -little whether you are doing wisely. If you should succeed in bringing -us two together again----” - -“What then?” - -She did not say any more: her face grew pale, as by a sudden touch or -breath. When such a tie as marriage is severed, if by death or by any -other separation, it is not a light thing to renew it again. The thought -of that possibility--which yet was not a possibility--suddenly realised, -sent the blood back to Lady Markham’s heart. It was not that she was -unforgiving, or even that she had not a certain remainder of love for -her husband. But to resume those habits of close companionship after so -many years--to give up her own individuality, in part at least, and live -a dual life--this thought startled her. She had said that she would put -no difficulties in the way. But then she had not thought of all that was -involved. - -The next visitor who interrupted her retirement came in without the -preliminary of knocking. It was Markham who thus made his appearance, -presenting himself to the full daylight in his light clothes and -colourless aspect; not very well dressed, a complete contrast to the -beautiful if sickly youth of her first visitor, and to the size and -vigour of the other. Markham had neither beauty nor vigour. Even the -usual keenness and humorous look had gone out of his face. He held a -letter in his hand. He did not, like the others, put himself into the -chair where Lady Markham, herself turned from the light, could mark -every change of countenance in her interlocutor. He went up to the fire -with the ease of the master of the house, and stood in front of it as an -Englishman loves to do. But he was not quite at his ease on this -occasion. He said nothing until he had assumed his place, and even stood -for a whole minute or more silent before he found his voice. Lady -Markham had turned her chair towards him at once, and sat with her head -raised and expectant, watching him. For with Markham, never very -reticent of his words, this prolonged pause seemed to mean that there -was something important to say. But it did not appear when he spoke. He -put the forefinger of one hand on the letter he held in the other. “I -have heard from the Winterbourns,” he said. “They are coming to-morrow.” - -Lady Markham made the usual little exclamation “Oh!”--faintly breathed -with the slightest catch, as if it might have meant more. Then, after a -moment--“Very well, Markham: they can have their usual rooms,” she said. - -Again there was a little pause. Then--“He is not very well,” said -Markham. - -“Oh, that is a pity,” she replied with very little concern. - -“That’s not strong enough. I believe he is rather ill. They are leaving -the Crosslands sooner than they intended because there’s no doctor -there.” - -“Then it is a good thing,” said Lady Markham, “that there is such a good -doctor here. We are so healthy a party, he is quite thrown away on us.” - -Markham did not find that his mother divined what he wanted to say with -her usual promptitude. “I am afraid Winterbourn is in a bad way,” he -said at length, moving uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoiding -her eye. - -“Do you mean that there is anything serious--dangerous? Good heavens!” -cried Lady Markham, now fully roused, “I hope she is not going to bring -that man to die here.” - -“That’s just what I have been thinking. It would be decidedly awkward.” - -“Oh, awkward is not the word,” cried Lady Markham, with a sudden vision -of all the inconveniences: her pretty house turned upside down--though -it was not hers, but his--a stop put to everything--the flight of her -guests in every direction--herself detained and separated from all her -social duties. “You take it very coolly,” she said. “You must write and -say it is impossible in the circumstances.” - -“Can’t,” said Markham. “They must have started by this time. They are to -travel slowly--to husband his strength.” - -“To husband----! Telegraph, then! Good heavens! Markham, don’t you see -what a dreadful nuisance--how impossible in every point of view.” - -“Come,” he said, with a return of his more familiar tone. “There’s no -evidence that he means to die here. I daresay he won’t, if he can help -it, poor beggar! The telegraph is as impossible as the post. We are in -for it, mammy. Let’s hope he’ll pull through.” - -“And if he doesn’t, Markham!” - -“That will be--more awkward still,” he said. Markham was not himself: he -shuffled from one foot to another, and looked straight before him, never -glancing aside with those keen looks of understanding which made his -insignificant countenance interesting. His mother was, what mothers too -seldom are, his most intimate friend; but he did not meet her eye. His -hands were thrust into his pockets, his shoulders up to his ears. At -last a faint and doubtful gleam broke over his face. He burst into a -sudden chuckle--one of those hoarse brief notes of laughter which were -peculiar to him. “By Jove! it would be poetic justice,” he said. - -Lady Markham showed no inclination to laughter. “Is there nothing we can -do?” she cried. - -“Think of something else,” said Markham, with a sudden recovery. “I -always find that the best thing to do--for the moment. What was Claude -saying to you--and t’other man?” - -“Claude! I don’t know what he was saying. News like this is enough to -drive everything else out of one’s head. He is wavering between Con and -Frances.” - -“Mother, I told you. Frances will have nothing to say to him.” - -“Frances--will obey the leading of events, I hope.” - -“Poor little Fan! I don’t think she will, though. That child has a great -deal in her. She shows her parentage.” - -“Sir Thomas says she reminds him much of her--father,” Lady Markham -said, with a faint smile. - -“There is something of Waring too,” said her son, nodding his head. - -This seemed to jar upon the mother. She changed colour a little; and -then added, her smile growing more constrained: “He thinks she may be a -powerful instrument in--changing his mind--bringing him, after all these -years, back”--here she paused a little, as if seeking for a phrase; then -added, her smile growing less and less pleasant--“to his duty.” - -Then Markham for the first time looked at her. He had been paying but -partial attention up to this moment, his mind being engrossed with -difficulties of his own; but he awoke at this suggestion, and looked at -her with something of his usual keenness, but with a gravity not at all -usual. And she met his eye with an awakening in hers which was still -more remarkable. For a moment they thus contemplated each other, not -like mother and son, nor like the dear and close friends they were, but -like two antagonists suddenly perceiving, on either side, the coming -conflict. For almost the first time there woke in Lady Markham’s mind a -consciousness that it was possible her son, who had been always her -champion, her defender, her companion, might wish her out of his way. -She looked at him with a rising colour, with all her nerves thrilling, -and her whole soul on the alert for his next words. These were words -which he would have preferred not to speak; but they seemed to be forced -from his lips against his will, though even as he said them he explained -to himself that they had been in his mind to say before he knew--before -the dilemma that might occur had seemed possible. - -“Yes?” he said. “I understand what he means. I--even I--had been -thinking that something of the sort--might be a good thing.” - -She clasped her hands with a quick passionate movement. “Has it come to -this--in a moment--without warning?” she cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - - -The Winterbourns came next day: he to the best room in the house, a -temperature carefully kept up to sixty-five degrees, and the daily -attentions of the excellent doctor, who, Lady Markham declared, was -thrown away upon her healthy household. Mr Winterbourn was a man of -fifty, a confirmed invalid, who travelled with a whole paraphernalia of -medicaments, and a servant who was a trained nurse, and very skilful in -all the lower branches of the medical craft. Mrs Winterbourn, however, -was not like this. She was young, pretty, lively, fond of what she -called “fun,” and by no means bound to her husband’s sick-room. -Everybody said she was very kind to him. She never refused to go to him -when he wanted her. Of her own accord, as part of her usual routine, she -would go into his room three or even four times a-day to see if she -could do anything. She sat with him always while Roberts the man-nurse -had his dinner. What more could a woman do? She had indeed, it was -understood, married him against her will; but that is an accident not to -be avoided, and she had always been a model of propriety. They were -asked everywhere, which, considering how little adapted he was for -society, was nothing less than the highest proof of how much she was -thought of; and the most irreproachable matrons did not hesitate to -invite Lord Markham to meet the Winterbourns. It was a wonderful, quite -an ideal friendship, everybody said. And it was such a comfort to both -of them! For Markham, considering the devotion he had always shown to -his mother, would probably find it very inconvenient to marry, which is -the only thing which makes friendship between a man and a woman -difficult. A woman does not like her devoted friend to marry: that is -the worst of those delicate relationships, and it is the point upon -which they generally come to shipwreck in the end. As a matter of -course, any other harm of a grosser kind was not so much as thought of -by any one who knew them. There were people, however, who asked -themselves and each other, as a fine problem, one of those cases of -complication which it pleases the human intellect to resolve, what would -happen if Winterbourn died?--a thing which he was continually -threatening to do. It had been at one time quite a favourite subject of -speculation in society. Some said that it would not suit Markham at -all,--that he would get out of it somehow; some, that there would be no -escape for him; some, that with such a fine jointure as Nelly would -have, it would set the little man up, if he could give up his “ways.” -Markham had not a very good reputation, though everybody knew that he -was the best son in the world. He played, it was said, more and -otherwise than a man of his position ought to play. He was often -amusing, and always nice to women, so that society never in the least -broke with him, and he had champions everywhere. But the mere fact that -he required champions was a proof that all was not exactly as it ought -to be. He was a man with a great many “ways,” which of course it is -natural to suppose would be bad ways, though, except in the matter of -play, no one knew very well what they were. - -Winterbourn, however, had never been so bad as he was on this occasion, -when he was almost lifted out of the carriage and carried to his room, -his very host being allowed no speech of him till next morning, after he -was supposed to have got over the fatigue of the journey. The doctor, -when he was summoned, shook his head and looked very grave; and it may -be imagined what talks went on among the guests when no one of the -family was present to hear. These talks were sometimes carried on before -Frances, who was scarcely realised as the daughter of the house. Even -Claude Ramsay forgot his own pressing concerns in consideration of the -urgent question of the moment, and Sir Thomas ceased to think of Waring. -Frances gleaned from what she heard that they were all preparing for -flight. “Of course, in case anything dreadful happens, dear Lady -Markham,” they said, “will no doubt go too.” - -“What a funny thing,” said one of the Miss Montagues, “if it should -happen in this house.” - -“Funny, Laura! You mean dreadful,” cried her mother. “Do choose your -words a little better.” - -“Oh, you know what I mean, mamma!” cried the young lady. - -“You must think it dreadful indeed,” said Mrs Montague, addressing -Frances, “that we should discuss such a sad thing in this way. Of -course, we are all very sorry for poor Mr Winterbourn; and if he had -been ill and dying in his own house---- But one’s mind is occupied at -present by the great inconvenience--oh, more than that--the horror -and--and embarrassment to your dear mother.” - -“All that,” said Sir Thomas with a certain solemnity. Perhaps it was the -air of unusual gravity with which he uttered these two words which -raised the smallest momentary titter,--no, not so much as a titter--a -faintly audible smile, if such an expression may be used,--chiefly among -the young ladies, who had perhaps a clearer realisation of the kind of -embarrassment that was meant than was expected of them. But Frances had -no clue whatever to it. She replied warmly-- - -“My mother will not think of the inconvenience. It is surely those who -are in such trouble themselves who are the only people to think about. -Poor Mrs Winterbourn----” - -“Who is it that is speaking of me in such a kind voice?” said the sick -man’s wife. - -She had just come into the room; and she was very well aware that she -was being discussed by everybody about--herself and her circumstances, -and all those contingencies which were, in spite of herself, beginning -to stir her own mind, as they had already done the minds of all around. -That is one thing which in any crisis people in society may be always -sure of, that their circumstances are being fully talked over by their -friends. - -“I hope we have all kind voices when we speak of you, my dear Nelly. -This one was Frances Waring, our new little friend here.” - -“Ah, that explains,” said Mrs Winterbourn; and she went on, without -saying more, to the conservatory, which opened from the drawing-room in -which the party was seated. They were silenced, though they had not -been saying anything very bad of her. The sudden appearance of the -person discussed always does make a certain impression. The gentlemen of -the group dispersed, the ladies began to talk of something else. -Frances, very shy, yet burdened with a great desire to say or do -something towards the consolation of those who were, as she had said, in -such trouble, went after Mrs Winterbourn. She had seated herself where -the big palms and other exotic foliage were thickest, out of sight of -the drawing-room, close to the open doorway that led to the lawn and the -sea. Frances was a little surprised that the wife of a man who was -thought to be dying should leave his bedside at all; but she reflected -that to prevent breaking down, and thus being no longer of any use to -the patient, it was the duty of every nurse to take a certain amount of -rest and fresh air. She felt, however, more and more timid as she -approached. Mrs Winterbourn had not the air of a nurse. She was dressed -in her usual way, with her usual ornaments--not too much, but yet enough -to make a tinkle, had she been at the side of a sick person, and -possibly to have disturbed him. Two or three bracelets on a pretty arm -are very pretty things; but they are not very suitable for a sick-nurse. -She was sitting with a book in one hand, leaning her head upon the -other, evidently not reading, evidently very serious. Frances was -encouraged by the downcast face. - -“I hope you will not think me very bold,” she said, the other starting -and turning round at the sound of her voice. “I wanted to ask if I could -help you in any way. I am very good for keeping awake, and I could get -you what you wanted. Oh, I don’t mean that I am good enough to be -trusted as nurse; but if I might sit up with you--in the next room--to -get you what you want.” - -“What do you mean, child?” the young woman said in a quick, startled, -half-offended voice. She was not very much older than Frances, but her -experiences had been very different. She thought offence was meant. Lady -Markham had always been kind to her, which was, she felt, somewhat to -Lady Markham’s own advantage, for Nelly knew that Markham would never -marry so long as her influence lasted, and this was for his mother’s -good. But now it was very possible that Lady Markham was trembling, and -had put her little daughter forward to give a sly stroke. Her tone -softened, however, as she looked up in Frances’ face. It was perhaps -only that the girl was a little simpleton, and meant what she said. “You -think I sit up at night?” she said. “Oh no. I should be of no use. Mr -Winterbourn has his own servant, who knows exactly what to do; and the -doctor is to send a nurse to let Roberts get a little rest. It is very -good of you. Nursing is quite the sort of thing people go in for now, -isn’t it? But, unfortunately, poor Mr Winterbourn can’t bear amateurs, -and I should do no good.” - -She gave Frances a bright smile as she said this, and turned again -towards the scene outside, opening her book at the same time, which was -like a dismissal. But at that moment, to the great surprise of Frances, -Markham appeared without, strolling towards the open door. He came in -when he saw his little sister, nodding to her with a look which stopped -her as she was about to turn away. - -“I am glad you are making friends with Frances,” he said. “How is -Winterbourn now?” - -“I wish everybody would not ask me every two minutes how he is now,” -cried the young wife. “He doesn’t change from one half-hour to another. -Oh, impatient; yes, I am impatient. I am half out of my senses, what -with one thing and another; and here is your sister--your sister--asking -to help me to nurse him! That was all that was wanting, I think, to -drive me quite mad!” - -“I am sure little Fan never thought she would produce such a terrible -result. Be reasonable, Nelly.” - -“Don’t call me Nelly, sir; and don’t tell me to be reasonable. Don’t you -know how they are all talking, these horrible people? Oh, why, why did I -bring him here?” - -“Whatever was the reason, it can’t be undone now,” said Markham. “Come, -Nelly! This is nothing but nerves, you know. You can be yourself when -you please.” - -“Do you know why he talks to me like that before you?” said Mrs -Winterbourn, suddenly turning upon Frances. “It is because he thinks -things are coming to a crisis, and that I shall be compelled----” Here -the hasty creature came to a pause and stared suddenly round her. “Oh, I -don’t know what I am saying, Geoff! They are all talking, talking in -every corner about you and me.” - -“Run away, Fan,” said her brother. “Mrs Winterbourn, you see, is not -well. The best thing for her is to be left in quiet. Run away.” - -“It is you who ought to go away, Markham, and leave her to me.” - -“Oh!” said Markham, with a gleam of amusement, “you set up for that too, -Fan! But I know better how to take care of Nelly than you do. Run away.” - -The consternation with which Frances obeyed this request it would be -difficult to describe. She had not understood the talk in the -drawing-room, and she did not understand this. But it gave her ideas a -strange shock. A woman whose husband was dying, and who was away from -him--who called Markham by his Christian name, and apparently preferred -his ministrations to her own! She would not go back as she came, to -afford the ladies in the drawing-room a new subject for their comments, -but went out instead by the open door, not thinking that the only path -by which she could return indoors led past the window of her mother’s -room, which opened on the lawn round the angle of the house. Lady -Markham was standing there looking out as Frances came in sight. She -knocked upon the window to call her daughter’s attention, and opening it -hurriedly, called her in. “Have you seen Markham?” she said, almost -before Frances could hear. - -“I have left him, this moment.” - -“_You_ have left him. Is he alone, then? Who is with him? Is Nelly -Winterbourn there?” - -Frances could not tell why it was that she disliked to answer. She made -a little assenting movement of her head. - -“It ought not to be,” cried Lady Markham--“not at this moment--at any -other time, if they like, but not now. Don’t you see the difference? -Before, nothing was possible. Now--when at any moment she may be a free -woman, and Markham---- Don’t you see the difference? They should not, -they should not, be together now!” - -Frances stood before her mother, feeling that a claim was made upon her -which she did not even understand, and feeling also a helplessness which -was altogether foreign to her ordinary sensations. She did not -understand, nor wish to understand--it was odious to her to think even -what it could mean. And what could she do? Lady Markham was agitated and -excited--not able to control herself. - -“For I have just seen the doctor,” she cried, “and he says that it is a -question not even of days, but of hours. Good heavens, child! only think -of it,--that such a thing should happen here; and that -Markham--_Markham!_--should have to manage everything. Oh, it is -indecent--there is no other word for it. Go and call him to me. We must -get him to go away.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, “how can I go back? He told me to go and leave -them.” - -“He is a fool,” cried Lady Markham, stamping her foot. “He does not see -how he is committing himself; he does not mind. Oh, what does it matter -what he said to you! Run at once and bring him to me. Say I have -something urgent to tell him. Say--oh, say anything! If Constance had -been here, she would have known.” - -Frances was very sensible to the arrow thus flung at her in haste, -without thought. She was so stung by it, that she turned hastily to do -her mother’s commission at all costs. But before she had taken -half-a-dozen steps, Markham himself appeared, coming leisurely, easily, -with his usual composure, round the corner. “What’s wrong with you, -little un?” he asked. “You are not vexed at what I said to you, Fan? I -couldn’t help it, my dear.” - -“It isn’t that, Markham. It is--mamma.” - -And then Lady Markham, too much excited to wait, came out to join them. -“Do you know the state of affairs, Markham? Does she know? I want you to -go off instantly, without losing a moment, to Southampton, to fetch Dr -Howard. Quick! There is just time to get the boat.” - -“Dr Howard? What is wrong with the man here?” - -“He is afraid of the responsibility--at least I am, Markham. Think--in -your house! Oh yes, my dear, go without delay.” - -Markham paused, and looked at her with his keen little eyes. “Mother, -why don’t you say at once you want to get me out of the way?” - -“I do. I don’t deny it, Markham. But this too. We ought to have another -opinion. Do, for any favour, what I ask you, dear; oh, do it! Oh yes, I -would rather you sent him here, and did not come back with him. But come -back, if you must; only, go, go now.” - -“You think he will be--dead before I could get back? I will telegraph -for Dr Howard, mother; but I will not go away.” - -“You can do no good, Markham--except to make people talk. Oh, for -mercy’s sake, whatever you may do afterwards, go now.” - -“I will go and telegraph--with pleasure,” he said. - -Lady Markham turned and took Frances’ arm, as he left them. “I think I -must give in now altogether,” she cried. “All is going wrong with me. -First Con, and then my boy. For now I see what will happen. And you -don’t know, you can’t think what Markham has been to me. Oh, he has been -everything to me! And now--I know what will happen now.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, trembling. She wanted to say that little as she -herself was, she was one who would never forsake her mother. But she was -so conscious that Lady Markham’s thoughts went over her head and took no -note of her, that the words were stifled on her lips. “He said to me -once that he could never--leave you,” she said, faltering, though it was -not what she meant to say. - -“He said to you once----? Then he has been thinking of it; he has been -discussing the question?” Lady Markham said with bitterness. She leant -heavily upon Frances’ arm, but not with any tender appreciation of the -girl’s wistful desire to comfort her. “That means,” she said, “that I -can never desert him. I must go now and get rid of all this excitement, -and put on a composed face, and tell the people that they may go away if -they like. It will be the right thing for them to go away. But I can’t -stay here with death in the house, and take a motherly care of--of that -girl, whom I never trusted--whom Markham---- And she will marry him -within the year. I know it.” - -Frances made a little outcry of horror, being greatly disturbed--“Oh no, -no!” without any meaning, for she indeed knew nothing. - -“No! How can you say No?--when you are quite in ignorance. I can’t tell -you what Markham would wish--to be let alone, most likely, if they would -let him alone. But she will do it. She always was headstrong; and now -she will be rich. Oh, what a thing it is altogether--like a thunderbolt -out of a clear sky. Who could have imagined, when we came down here so -tranquilly, with nothing unusual---- If I thought of any change at all, -it was perhaps that Claude--whom, by the way, you must not be rude to, -Frances--that Claude might perhaps---- And now, here is everything -unsettled, and my life turned upside down.” - -What did she hope that Claude would have done? Frances’ brain was all -perplexed. She had plunged into a sudden sea of troubles, without -knowing even what the wild elements were that lashed the placid waters -into fury and made the sky dark all around. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - - -The crisis, however, was averted--“mercifully,” as Lady Markham said. Dr -Howard from Southampton--whom she had thought of only by chance, on the -spur of the moment, as a way of getting rid of Markham--produced some -new lights; and in reality was so successful with the invalid, that he -rallied, and it became possible to remove him by slow stages to his own -house, to die there, which he did in due course, but some time after, -and decorously, in the right way and place. Frances felt herself like a -spectator at a play during all this strange interval, looking on at the -third act of a tragedy, which somehow had got involved in a drawing-room -comedy, with scenes alternating, and throwing a kind of wretched -reflection of their poor humour upon the tableaux of the darker drama. -She thought that she never should forget the countenance of Nelly -Winterbourn as she took her seat beside her husband in the invalid -carriage in which he was conveyed away, and turned to wave a farewell to -the little group which had assembled to watch the departure. Her face -was quivering with a sort of despairing impatience, wretchedness, -self-pity, the miserable anticipations of a living creature tied to one -who was dead--nerves and temper and every part of her being wrought to a -feverish excitement, made half delirious by the prospect, the -possibility, of escape. A wretched sort of spasmodic smile was upon her -lips as she waved her hand to the spectators--those spectators all on -the watch to read her countenance, who, she knew, were as well aware of -the position as herself. Frances was learning the lesson thus set -practically before her with applications of her own. She knew now to a -great extent what it all meant, and why Markham disappeared as soon as -the carriage drove away; while her mother, with an aspect of intense -relief, returned to her guests. “I feel as if I could breathe again,” -Lady Markham said. “Not that I should have grudged anything I could do -for poor dear Nelly; but there is something so terrible in a death in -one’s house.” - -“I quite enter into your feelings, dear--oh, quite!” said Mrs Montague; -“most painful, and most embarrassing besides.” - -“Oh, as for that!” said Lady Markham. “It would have been indeed a great -annoyance and vexation to break up our pleasant party, and put out all -your plans. But one has to submit in such cases. However, I am most -thankful it has not come to that. Poor Mr Winterbourn may last yet--for -months, Dr Howard says.” - -“Dear me; do you think that is to be desired?” said the other, “for poor -Nelly’s sake.” - -“Poor Nelly!” said the young ladies. “Only fancy months! What a terrible -fate!” - -“And yet it was supposed to be a great match for her, a penniless girl!” - -“It was a great match,” said Lady Markham composedly. “And dear Nelly -has always behaved so well. She is an example to many women that have -much less to put up with than she has. Frances, will you see about the -lawn-tennis? I am sure you want to shake off the impression, you poor -girls, who have been _so_ good.” - -“Oh, dear Lady Markham, you don’t suppose we could have gone on laughing -and making a noise while there was such anxiety in the house. But we -shall like a game, now that there is no impropriety----” - -“And we are all so glad,” said the mother, “that there was no occasion -for turning out; for our visits are so dovetailed, I don’t know where we -should have gone--and our house in the hands of the workmen. I, for one, -am very thankful that poor Mr Winterbourn has a little longer to live.” - -Thus, after this singular episode, the ordinary life of the household -was resumed; and though the name of poor Nelly recurred at intervals for -a day or two, there were many things that were of more importance--a -great garden-party, for instance, for which, fortunately, Lady Markham -had not cancelled the invitations; a yachting expedition, and various -other pleasant things. The comments of the company were diverted to -Claude, who, finding Frances more easily convinced than the others that -draughts were to be carefully avoided, sought her out on most occasions, -notwithstanding her plain-speaking about his fancifulness. - -“Perhaps you were right,” he said, “that I think too much about my -health. I shouldn’t wonder if you were quite right. But I have always -been warned that I was very delicate; and perhaps that makes one rather -a bore to one’s friends.” - -“Oh, I hope you will forgive me, Mr Ramsay! I never meant----” - -“There is poor Winterbourn, you see,” said Claude, accepting the broken -apology with a benevolent nod of his head and the mild pathos of a -smile. “He was one of your rash people, never paying any attention to -what was the matter with him. He was quite a well-preserved sort of man -when he married Nelly St John; and now you see what a wreck! By Jove, -though, I shouldn’t like my wife, if I married, to treat me like Nelly. -But I promise you there should be no Markham in my case.” - -“I don’t know what Markham has to do with it,” said Frances with sudden -spirit. - -“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, “perhaps you -don’t know; and so much the better. Never mind about Markham. I should -expect my wife to be with me when I am ill; not to leave me to servants, -to give me my--everything I had to take; and to cheer me up, you know. -Do you think there is anything unreasonable in that?” - -“Oh no, indeed. Of course, if--if--she was fond of you--which of course -she would be, or you would not want to marry her.” - -“Yes,” said Claude. “Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.” - -“I mean,” said Frances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance in -this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, _of course_--there would -be no question of reasonableness. She would just do it by nature. One -never asks if it is reasonable or not.” - -“Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. There is Con, -for instance.” - -“Mr Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about my sister. -Constance, if she were in such a position, would do--what was right.” - -“For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is right--at -least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what you mean by -right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.” - -Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “Are you going to -be married, Mr Ramsay?” in a tone which was half indignant, half amused. - -At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “That is a -question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am, if I -can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving me -_renseignements_, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, as you -say, never ask whether it is reasonable----” - -“Then,” said Frances, recovering something of the sprightliness which -had distinguished her in old days, “you don’t want to marry any one in -particular, but just a wife?” - -“What else could I marry?” he asked in a peevish tone. Then, with a -change of his voice,--“I don’t want to conceal anything from you; and -there is no doubt you must have heard: I was engaged to your sister Con; -but she ran away from me,” he added with pathos. “You must have heard -that.” - -“I do not wonder that you were very fond of her,” cried Frances. “I see -no one so delightful as--she would be if she were here.” - -She had meant to make a simple statement, and say, “No one so delightful -as she;” but paused, remembering that the circumstances had not been to -Constance’s advantage, and that here she would have been in her proper -sphere. - -As for Claude, he was somewhat embarrassed. He said, “Fond is perhaps -not exactly the word. I thought she would have suited me--better than -any one I knew.” - -“If that was all,” said Frances, “you would not mind very much; and I do -not wonder that she came away, for it would be rather dreadful to be -married because a gentleman thought one suited him.” - -“Oh, I don’t mean that would be so--in every case,” cried Claude, with -sudden earnestness. - -“In any case, I think you should never tell the girl’s sister, Mr -Ramsay; it is not a very nice thing to do.” - -“Miss Waring--Frances!--I was not thinking of you as any girl’s sister; -I was thinking of you----” - -“I hope not at all; for it would be a great pity to waste any more -thoughts on our family,” said Frances. “I have sometimes been a little -vexed that Constance came, for it changed all my life, and took me away -from every one I knew. But I am glad you have told me this, for now I -understand it quite.” She did not rise from where she was seated and -leave him, as he almost hoped she would, making a little quarrel of it, -but sat still, with a composure which Claude felt was much less -complimentary. “Now that I know all about it,” she said, after a little -interval, with a laugh, “I think what you want would be very -unreasonable--and what no woman could do.” - -“You said the very reverse five minutes ago,” he said sulkily. - -“Yes--but I didn’t know what the--what the wages were,” she said with -another laugh. “It is you who are giving me _renseignements_ now.” - -Claude took his complaint next morning to Lady Markham’s room. “She -actually chaffed me--chaffed me, I assure you; though she looks as if -butter would not melt in her mouth.” - -“That is a little vulgar, Claude. If you talk like that to a girl, what -can you expect? Some, indeed, may be rather grateful to you, as showing -how little you look for; but you know I have always told you what you -ought to try to do is to inspire a _grande passion_.” - -“That is what I should like above all things to do,” said the young man; -“but----” - -“But--it would cost too much trouble?” - -“Perhaps; and I am not an impassioned sort of man. Lady Markham, was it -really from me that Constance ran away?” - -“I have told you before, Claude, that was not how it should be spoken -of. She did not run away. She took into her head a romantic idea of -making acquaintance with her father, in which Markham encouraged her. Or -perhaps it was Markham that put it into her head. It is possible--I -can’t tell you--that Markham had already something else in his own head, -and that he had begun to think it would be a good thing to try if other -changes could be made.” - -“What could Markham have in his head? and what changes----” - -“Oh,” she cried, “how can you ask me? I know how you have all been -talking. You speculate, just as I do.” - -“I don’t think so, Lady Markham,” said Claude. “I am sure Markham would -find all that sort of thing a great bore. Of course I know what you -mean. But I don’t think so. I have always told them my opinion. Whatever -may happen, Markham will stick to you.” - -“Poor Markham!” she said, with a quick revulsion of feeling. “After all, -it is a little hard, is it not, that he should have nothing brighter -than that to look to in his life?” - -“Than you?” said Claude. “If you ask my opinion, I don’t think so. I -think he’s a lucky fellow. An old mother, I don’t deny, might be a -bore. An old lady, half blind, never hearing what you say, sitting by -the fire--like the mothers in books, or the Mrs Nickleby kind. But you -are as young and handsome and bright as any of them--keeping everything -right for him, asking nothing. Upon my word, I think he is very well -off. I wish I were in his place.” - -Lady Markham was pleased. Affectionate flattery of this kind is always -sweet to a woman. She laughed, and said he was a gay deceiver. “But, my -dear boy, you will make me think a great deal more of myself than I have -any right to think.” - -“You ought to think more of yourself. And so you really do not think -that Con----? In many ways, dear Lady Markham, I feel that -Con--understood me better than any one else--except you.” - -“I think you are right, Claude,” she said, with a grave face. - -“I am beginning to feel quite sure I am right. When she writes, does she -never say anything about me?” - -“Of course, she always--asks for you.” - -“Is that all? Asking does not mean much.” - -“What more could she say? Of course she knows that she has lost her -place in your affection by her own rashness.” - -“Not lost, Lady Markham. It is not so easy to do that.” - -“It is true. Perhaps I should have said, fears that she has -forfeited--your respect.” - -“After all, she has done nothing wrong,” he said. - -“Nothing wrong; but rash, headstrong, foolish. Oh yes, she has been all -that. It is in the Waring blood!” - -“I think you are a little hard upon her, Lady Markham. By the way, don’t -you think yourself, that with two daughters to marry, and--and all that: -it would be a good thing if Mr Waring--for you must have got over all -your little tiffs long ago--don’t you think that it would be a good -thing if he could be persuaded to--come back?” - -She had watched him with eyes that gleamed from below her dropped -eyelids. She said now, as she had done to Sir Thomas, “I should put no -difficulties in the way, you may be sure.” - -“It would be more respectable,” said Claude. “If getting old is good for -anything, you know, it should make up quarrels; don’t you think so? It -would be a great deal better in every way. And then Markham----” - -“Markham,” she said, “you think, would then be free?” - -“Well--then it wouldn’t matter particularly about Markham, what he did,” -the young man said. - -Lady Markham had borne a great many such assaults in her life as if she -felt nothing: but as a matter of fact she did feel them deeply; and when -a probable new combination was thus calmly set before her, her usual -composure was put to a severe test. She smiled upon Claude, indeed, as -long as he remained with her, and allowed him no glimpse of her real -feelings; but when he was gone, felt for a moment her heart fail her. -She had, even in the misfortunes which had crossed her life, secured -always a great share of her own way. Many people do this even when they -suffer most. Whether they get it cheerfully or painfully, they yet get -it, which is always something. Waring, when, in his fastidious -impatience and irritation, because he did not get his, he had flung -forth into the unknown, and abandoned her and her life altogether, did -still, though at the cost of pain and scandal, help his wife to this -triumph, that she departed from none of her requirements, and remained -mistress of the battlefield. She had her own way, though he would not -yield to it. But as a woman grows older, and becomes less capable of -that pertinacity which is the best means of securing her own way, and -when the conflicting wills against hers are many instead of being only -one, the state of the matter changes. Constance had turned against her, -when she was on the eve of an arrangement which would have been so very -much for Con’s good. And Frances, though so submissive in some points, -would not be so, she felt instinctively, on others. And Markham--that -was the most fundamental shock of all--Markham might possibly in the -future have prospects and hopes independent altogether of his mother’s, -in antagonism with all her arrangements. This, which she had not -anticipated, went to her heart. And when she thought of what had been -suggested to her with so much composure--the alteration of her whole -life, the substitution of her husband, from whom she had been so long -parted, who did not think as she did nor live as she did for her son, -who, with all his faults, which she knew so well, was yet in sympathy -with her in all she thought and wished and knew--this suggestion made -her sick and faint. It had come, though not with any force, even from -Markham himself. It had come from Sir Thomas, who was one of the oldest -of her friends; and now Claude set it before her in all the forcible -simplicity of commonplace: it would be more respectable! She laughed -almost violently when he left her, but it was a laugh which was not far -from tears. - -“Claude has been complaining of you,” she said to Frances, recovering -herself with an instantaneous effort when her daughter came into the -room; “but I don’t object, my dear. Unless you had found that you could -like him yourself, which would have been the best thing, perhaps--you -were quite right in what you said. So far as Constance is concerned, it -is all that I could wish.” - -“Mamma,” said Frances, “you don’t want Constance--you would not let -her--accept _that_?” - -“Accept what? My love, you must not be so emphatic. Accept a life full -of luxury, splendour even, if she likes--and every care forestalled. My -dear little girl, you don’t know anything about the world.” - -Frances pondered for some time before she replied. “Mamma,” she said -again, “if such a case arose--you said that the best thing for me would -have been to have liked--Mr Ramsay. There is no question of that. But if -such a case arose----” - -“Yes, my dear”--Lady Markham took her daughter’s hand in her own, and -looked at her with a smile of pleasure--“I hope it will some day. And -what then?” - -“Would you--think the same about me? Would you consider the life full of -luxury, as you said--would you desire for me the same thing as for -Constance?” - -Lady Markham held the girl’s hand clasped in both of hers; the soft -caressing atmosphere about her enveloped Frances. “My dear,” she said, -“this is a very serious question. You are not asking me for curiosity -alone?” - -“It is a very serious question,” Frances said. - -And the mother and daughter looked at each other closely, with more -meaning, perhaps, than had as yet been in the eyes of either, -notwithstanding all the excitement of interest in their first meeting. -It was some time before another word was said. Frances saw in her mother -a woman full of determination, very clear as to what she wanted, very -unlikely to be turned from it by softer impulses, although outside she -was so tender and soft; and Lady Markham saw in Frances a girl who was -entirely submissive, yet immovable, whose dove’s eyes had a steady soft -gaze, against which the kindred light of her own had no power. It was a -mutual revelation. There was no conflict, nor appearance of conflict, -between these two, so like each other--two gentle and soft-voiced women, -both full of natural courtesy and disinclination to wound or offend; -both seeing everything around them very clearly from her own, perhaps -limited, point of view; and both feeling that between them nothing but -the absolute truth would do. - -“You trouble me, Frances,” said Lady Markham at length. “When such a -case arises, it will be time enough. In the abstract, I should of course -feel for one as I feel for the other. Nay, stop a little. I should wish -to provide for you, as for Constance, a life of assured comfort,--well, -if you drive me to it--of wealth and all that wealth brings. Assuredly -that is what I should wish.” She gave Frances’ hand a pressure which was -almost painful, and then dropped it. “I hope you have no fancy for -poverty theoretically, like your patron saint,” she added lightly, -trying to escape from the gravity of the question by a laugh. - -“Mother,” said Frances, in a voice which was tremulous and yet steady, -“I want to tell you--I think neither of poverty nor of money. I am more -used, perhaps, to the one than the other. I will do what you wish in -everything--everything else; but----” - -“Not in the one thing which would probably be the only thing I asked of -you,” said Lady Markham, with a smile. She put her hands on Frances’ -shoulders and gave her a kiss upon her cheek. “My dear child, you -probably think this is quite original,” she said; “but I assure you it -is what almost every daughter one time or other says to her parents: -Anything _else_--anything, but---- Happily there is no question between -you and me. Let us wait till the occasion arises. It is always time -enough to fall out.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - - -Nothing happened of any importance before their return to Eaton Square. -Markham, hopping about with a queer sidelong motion he had, his little -eyes screwed up with humorous meaning, seemed to Frances to recover his -spirits after the Winterbourn episode was over, which was the -subject--though that, of course, she did not know--of half the -voluminous correspondence of all the ladies and gentlemen in the house, -whose letters were so important a part of their existence. Before a week -was over, all Society was aware of the fact that Ralph Winterbourn had -been nearly dying at Markham Priory; that Lady Markham was in “a state” -which baffled description, and Markham himself so changed as to be -scarcely recognisable; but that, fortunately, the crisis had been tided -over, and everything was still problematical. But the problem was so -interesting, that one perfumed epistle after another carried it to -curious wits all over the country, and a new light upon the subject was -warmly welcomed in a hundred Easter meetings. What would Markham do? -What would Nelly do? Would their friendship end in the vulgar way, in a -marriage? Would they venture, in face of all prognostications, to keep -it up as a friendship, when there was no longer any reason why it should -not ripen into love? Or would they, frightened by all the inevitable -comments which they would have to encounter, stop short altogether, and -fly from each other? - -Such a “case” is a delightful thing to speculate upon. At the Priory, it -could only be discussed in secret conclave; and though no doubt the -experienced persons chiefly concerned were quite conscious of the -subject which occupied their friends’ thoughts, there was no further -reference made to it between them, and everything went on as it had -always done. The night before their return to town, Markham, in the -solitude of the house, from which all the guests had just departed, -called Frances outside to bear him company while he smoked his -cigarette. He was walking up and down on the lawn in the grey stillness -of a cloudy warm evening, when there was no light to speak of anywhere, -and yet a good deal to be seen through the wavering greyness of sky and -sea. A few stars, very mild and indistinct, looked out at the edges of -the clouds here and there; the great water-line widened and cleared -towards the horizon; and in the far distance, where a deeper greyness -showed the mainland, the gleam of a lighthouse surprised the dark by -slow continual revolutions. There was no moon: something softer, more -seductive than even the moon, was in this absence of light. - -“Well--now they’re gone, what do you think of them, Fan? They’re very -good specimens of the English country-house party--all kinds: the -respectable family, the sturdy old fogy, the rich young man without -health, and the muscular young man without money.” There had been, it is -needless to say, various other members of the party, who, being quite -unimportant to this history, need not be mentioned here. “What do you -think of them, little un? You have your own way of seeing things.” - -“I--like them all well enough, Markham,” without enthusiasm Frances -replied. - -“That is comprehensive at least. So do I, my dear. It would not have -occurred to me to say it; but it is just the right thing to say. They -pull you to pieces almost before your face; but they are not -ill-natured. They tell all sorts of stories about each other----” - -“No, Markham; I don’t think that is just.” - -“----Without meaning any harm,” he went on. “Fan, in countries where -conversation is cultivated, perhaps people don’t talk scandal--I only -say perhaps--but here we are forced to take to it for want of anything -else to say. What did your Giovannis and Giacomos talk of in your -village out yonder?” Markham pointed towards the clear blue-grey line of -the horizon, beyond which lay America, if anything; but he meant -distance, and that was enough. - -“They talked--about the olives, how they were looking, and if it was -going to be a bad or an indifferent year.” - -“And then?” - -“About the _forestieri_, if many were coming, and whether it would be a -good season for the hotels; and about tying up the palms, to make them -ready for Easter,” said Frances, resuming, with a smile about her lips. -“And about how old Pietro’s son had got such a good appointment in the -post-office, and had bought little Nina a pair of earrings as long as -your finger; for he was to marry Nina, you know.” - -“Oh, was he? Go on. I am very much interested. Didn’t they say Mr -Whatever-his-name-is wanted to get out of it, and that there never would -have been any engagement, had not Miss Nina’s mother----?” - -“Oh Markham,” cried Frances in surprise, “how could you possibly know?” - -“I was reasoning from analogy, Fan. Yes, I suppose they do it all the -world over. And it is odd--isn’t it?--that, knowing what they are sure -to say, we ask them to our houses, and put the keys of all our skeleton -cupboards into their hands.” - -“Do you think that is true, that dreadful idea about the skeleton? I am -sure----” - -“What are you sure of, my little dear?” - -“I was going to say, oh Markham, that I was sure, _at home_, we had no -skeleton; and then I remembered----” - -“I understand,” he said kindly. “It was not a skeleton to speak of, Fan. -There is nothing particularly bad about it. If you had met it out -walking, you would not have known it for a skeleton. Let us say a -mystery, which is not such a mouth-filling word.” - -“Sir Thomas told me,” said Frances, with some timidity; “but I am not -sure that I understood. Markham! what was it really about?” - -Her voice was low and diffident, and at first he only shook his head. -“About nothing,” he said; “about--me. Yes, more than anything else, -about me. That is how---- No, it isn’t,” he added, correcting himself. -“I always must have cared for my mother more than for any woman. She has -always been my greatest friend, ever since I can remember anything. We -seem to have been children together, and to have grown up together. I -was everything to her for a dozen years, and then--your father came -between us. He hated me--and I tormented him.” - -“He could not hate you, Markham. Oh no, no!” - -“My little Fan, how can a child like you understand? Neither did I -understand, when I was doing all the mischief. Between twelve and -eighteen I was an imp of mischief, a little demon. It was fun to me to -bait that thin-skinned man, that jumped at everything. The explosion was -fun to me too. I was a little beast. And then I got the mother to myself -again. Don’t kill me, my dear. I am scarcely sorry now. We have had very -good times since, I with my parent, you with yours--till that day,” he -added, flinging away the end of his cigarette, “when mischief again -prompted me to let Con know where he was, which started us all again.” - -“Did you always know where we were?” she asked. Strangely enough, this -story did not give her any angry feeling towards Markham. It was so far -off, and the previous relations of her long-separated father and mother -were as a fairy tale to her, confusing and almost incredible, which she -did not take into account as matter of fact at all. Markham had -delivered these confessions slowly, as they turned and re-turned up and -down the lawn. There was not light enough for either to see the -expression in the other’s face, and the veil of the darkness added to -the softening effect. The words came out in short sentences, interrupted -by that little business of puffing at the cigarette, letting it go out, -stopping to strike a fusee and relight it, which so often forms the -byplay of an important conversation, and sometimes breaks the force of -painful revelations. Frances followed everything with an absorbed but -yet half-dreamy attention, as if the red glow of the light, the -exclamation of impatience when the cigarette was found to have gone out, -the very perfume of the fusee in the air, were part and parcel of it. -And the question she asked was almost mechanical, a part of the business -too, striking naturally from the last thing he had said as sparks flew -from the perfumed light. - -“Not where,” he said. “But I might have known, had I made any attempt to -know. The mother sent her letters through the lawyer, and of course we -could have found out. It was thrust upon me at last by one of those -meddling fools that go everywhere. And then my old demon got possession -of me, and I told Con.” Here he gave a low chuckle, which seemed to -escape him in spite of himself. “I am laughing,” he said--“pay -attention, Fan--at myself. Of course I have learned to be sorry -for--some things--the imp has put me up to; but I can’t get the better -of that little demon--or of this little beggar, if you like it better. -It’s queer phraseology, I suppose; but I prefer the other form.” - -“And what,” said Frances in the same dreamy way, drawn on, she was not -conscious how, by something in the air, by some current of thought which -she was not aware of--“what do you mean to do now?” - -He started from her side as if she had given him a blow. “Do now?” he -cried, with something in his voice that shook off the spell of the -situation, and aroused the girl at once to the reality of things. She -had no guidance of his looks, for, as has been said, she could not see -them; but there was a curious thrill in his voice of present alarm and -consciousness, as if her innocent question struck sharply against some -fact of very different solidity and force from those far-off shadowy -facts which he had been telling her. “Do now? What makes you think I am -going to do anything at all?” - -His voice fell away in a sort of quaver at the end of these words. - -“I do not think it; I--I--don’t think anything, Markham; I--don’t--know -anything.” - -“You ask very pat questions all the same, my little Fan. And you have -got a pair of very good eyes of your own in that little head. And if you -have got any light to throw upon the subject, my dear, produce it; for -I’ll be bothered if I know.” - -Just then, a window opened in the gloom. “Children,” said Lady Markham’s -voice, “are you there? I think I see something like you, though it is so -dark. Bring your little sister in, Markham. She must not catch cold on -the eve of going back to town.” - -“Here is the little thing, mammy. Shall I hand her in to you by the -window? It makes me feel very frisky to hear myself addressed as -children,” he cried, with his chuckle of easy laughter. “Here, Fan; run -in, my little dear, and be put to bed.” - -But he did not go in with her. He kept outside in the quiet cool and -freshness of the night, illuminating the dim atmosphere now and then -with the momentary glow of another fusee. Frances from her room, to -which she had shortly retired, heard the sound, and saw from her windows -the sudden ruddy light a great many times before she went to sleep. -Markham let his cigar go out oftener than she could reckon. He was too -full of thought to remember his cigar. - -They arrived in town when everybody was arriving, when even to Frances, -in her inexperience, the rising tide was visible in the streets, and the -air of a new world beginning, which always marks the commencement of the -season. No doubt it is a new world to many virgin souls, though so stale -and weary to most of those who tread its endless round. To Frances -everything was new; and a sense of the many wonderful things that -awaited her got into the girl’s head like ethereal wine, in spite of -all the grave matters of which she was conscious, which lay under the -surface, and were, if not skeletons in the closet, at least very serious -drawbacks to anything bright that life could bring. Her knowledge of -these drawbacks had been acquired so suddenly, and was so little dulled -by habit, that it dwelt upon her mind much more than family mysteries -usually dwell upon a mind of eighteen. But yet in the rush and -exhilaration of new thoughts and anticipations, always so much more -delicately bright than any reality, she forgot that all was not as -natural, as pleasant, as happy as it seemed. If Lady Markham had any -consuming cares, she kept them shut away under that smiling countenance, -which was as bright and peaceful as the morning. If Markham, on his -side, was perplexed and doubtful, he came out and in with the same -little chuckle of fun, the same humorous twinkle in his eyes. When these -signs of tranquillity are so apparent, the young and ignorant can easily -make up their minds that all is well. And Frances was to be -“presented”--a thought which made her heart beat. She was to be put into -a court-train and feathers,--she who as yet had never worn anything but -the simple frock which she had so pleased herself to think was purely -English in its unobtrusiveness and modesty. She was not quite sure that -she liked the prospect; but it excited her all the same. - -It was early in May, and the train and the court plumes were ready, -when, going out one morning upon some small errand of her own, Frances -met some one whom she recognised, walking slowly along the long line of -Eaton Square. She started at the sight of him, though he did not see -her. He was going along with a strange air of reluctance, yet anxiety, -glancing up at the houses, no doubt looking for Lady Markham’s house, so -absorbed that he neither saw Frances nor was disturbed by the startled -movement she made, which must have caught a less preoccupied eye. She -smiled to herself, after the first start, to see how entirely bent he -was upon finding the house, and how little attention he had to spare for -anything else. He was even more worn and pale, or rather grey, than he -had been when he returned from India, she thought; and there was in him -a slackness, a letting-go of himself, a weary look in his step and -carriage, which proved, Frances thought, that the Riviera had done -George Gaunt little good. - -For it was certainly George Gaunt, still in his loose grey Indian -clothes, looking like a man dropped from another hemisphere, -investigating the numbers on the doors as if he but vaguely comprehended -the meaning of them. But that there was in him that unmistakable air of -soldier which no mufti can quite disguise, he might have been the -Ancient Mariner in person, looking for the man whose fate it is to leave -all the wedding-feasts of the world in order to hear that tale. What -tale could young Gaunt have to tell? For a moment it flashed across the -mind of Frances that he might be bringing bad news, that “something -might have happened,”--that rapid conclusion to which the imagination is -so ready to jump. An accident to her father or Constance? so bad, so -terrible, that it could not be trusted to a letter, that he had been -sent to break the news to them? - -She had passed him by this time, being shy, in her surprise, of -addressing the stranger all at once; but now she paused, and turned with -a momentary intention of running after him and entreating him to tell -her the worst. But then Frances recollected that this was impossible; -that with the telegraph in active operation, no one would employ such a -lingering way of conveying news; and went on again, with her heart -beating quicker, with a heightened colour, and a restrained impatience -and eagerness of which she was half ashamed. No, she would not turn back -before she had done her little business. She did not want either the -stranger himself or any one else to divine the flutter of pleasant -emotion, the desire she had to see and speak with the son of her old -friends. Yes, she said to herself, the son of her old friends--he who -was the youngest, whom Mrs Gaunt used to talk of for hours, whose -praises she was never weary of singing. - -Frances smiled and blushed to herself as she hurried--perceptibly -hurried--about her little affairs. Kind Mrs Gaunt had always had a -secret longing to bring these two together. Frances would not turn -back; but she quickened her pace, almost running--as near running as was -decorous in London--to the lace-shop, to give the instructions which she -had been charged with. No doubt, she said to herself, she would find him -there when she got back. She had forgotten, perhaps, the fact that -George Gaunt had given very little of his regard to her when he met her, -though she was his mother’s favourite, and had no eyes but for -Constance. This was not a thing to dwell in the mind of a girl who had -no jealousy in her, and who never supposed herself to be half as worthy -of anybody’s attention as Constance was. But, anyhow, she forgot it -altogether, forgot to ask herself what in this respect might have -happened in the meantime; and with her heart beating full of innocent -eagerness, pleasure, and excitement, full of the hope of hearing about -everybody, of seeing again through his eyes the dear little well-known -world, which seemed to lie so far behind her, hastened through her -errands, and turned quickly home. - -To her great surprise, as she came back, turning round the corner into -the long line of pavement, she saw young Gaunt once more approaching -her. He looked even more listless and languid now, like a man who had -tried to do some duty and failed, and was escaping, glad to be out of -the way of it. This was a great deal to read in a man’s face; but -Frances was highly sympathetic, and divined it, knowing in herself many -of those devices of shy people, which shy persons divine. Fortunately -she saw him some way off, and had time to overcome her own shyness and -take the initiative. She went up to him fresh as the May morning, -blushing and smiling, and put out her hand. “Captain Gaunt?” she said. -“I knew I could not be mistaken. Oh, have you just come from Bordighera? -I am so glad to see any one from home!” - -“Do you call it home, Miss Waring? Yes, I have just come. I--I--have a -number of messages, and some parcels, and---- But I thought you might -perhaps be out of town, or busy, and that it would be best to send -them.” - -“Is that why you are turning your back on my mother’s house? or did you -not know the number? I saw you before, looking--but I did not like to -speak.” - -“I--thought you might be out of town,” he repeated, taking no notice of -her question; “and that perhaps the post----” - -“Oh no,” cried Frances, whose shyness was of the cordial kind. “Now you -must come back and see mamma. She will want to hear all about Constance. -Are they all well, Captain Gaunt? Of course you must have seen them -constantly--and Constance. Mamma will want to hear everything.” - -“Miss Waring is very well,” he said with a blank countenance, from which -he had done his best to dismiss all expression. - -“And papa? and dear Mrs Gaunt, and the colonel, and everybody? Oh, there -is so much that letters can’t tell. Come back now with me. My mother -will be so glad to see you, and Markham; you know Markham already.” - -Young Gaunt made a feeble momentary resistance. He murmured something -about an engagement, about his time being very short; but as he did so, -turned round languidly and went with her, obeying, as it seemed, the -eager impulse of Frances rather than any will of his own. - - END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. - - PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - - * * * * * - - - - - 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 -(Complete), by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST *** - -***** This file should be named 61445-0.txt or 61445-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/4/4/61445/ - -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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