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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1228db4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63902 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63902) diff --git a/old/63902-0.txt b/old/63902-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index d4af290..0000000 --- a/old/63902-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3801 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The -Fugitives; vol. 2/3, by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The Fugitives; vol. 2/3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 28, 2020 [EBook #63902] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -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) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY -JANE) AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 2/3 *** - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER - - AND - - THE FUGITIVES - - - “Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?” - “I do.” - --_Much Ado about Nothing._ - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER - - AND - - THE FUGITIVES - - - BY - - MRS OLIPHANT - - - IN THREE VOLUMES - - VOL. II. - - - WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - MDCCCXC - - - - -CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. - - -THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER (CONTINUED)-- - -CHAP. PAGE - - XI. A NEW AGENCY, 3 - - XII. HALF-MARRIED, 27 - -XIII. THE WEDDING-DAY, 54 - - XIV. IN PRISON, 87 - - XV. DELIVERANCE, 110 - -THE FUGITIVES, 145 - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER - - (_CONTINUED_) - - - - - THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -A NEW AGENT. - - -The reader accustomed to the amenities of the highest social circles, -such as those which we are now compelled temporarily to leave, will no -doubt sensibly feel the shock of the descent from the mansion of the -Duke, and his sublime society, to a sphere and condition of life far -removed from these summits of existence. It is seldom that life can be -carried on solely upon those high levels; the necessities of every day -call for the aid of the more humbly born and placed, so that not even -dukes can suffice to themselves. We must then, without further apology, -proceed at once to a room as different as it is possible to conceive -from the halls of Billings--a small sitting-room in a small -rectory-house in the heart of London, belonging to one of the old parish -churches which have been abandoned there by the tide of habitation and -life. The church was close by, a fine one in its way, one of Wren’s -churches, adapted for a large Protestant congregation more solicitous -about the sermon than is usual nowadays--but left now without any -congregation at all. The rectory, a house of very moderate dimensions, -jammed in among warehouses and offices, had little air and less light in -the gloomy November days. The Rector and his wife had just returned -from their yearly holiday, and it was not a cheerful thing to come back -to the fog, and the damp, and the gas-lamps, and all the din of the -great carts that lumbered round the corner continually, and loaded and -unloaded themselves within two steps of the clergyman’s door. How was he -to write his sermons or meditate over his work in the midst of these -noises? his wife often asked indignantly. But, to be sure, the fifty -people or so who quite crowded St Alban’s when they all turned out, were -not very critical. Down in these regions there is not a Little Bethel -always handy, and the inhabitants must take what they can get and be -thankful: which it would be a good thing, Mrs Marston thought, if they -could be oftener obliged in other places to do. - -Mr Marston was in his study. It was a small room on one side of the -door, chosen for its handiness that the parish people might be -introduced without trouble, to the Rector: but there were but few that -ever troubled him. At the present moment his verger had just brought him -the parish news, with an intimation of the fact that a marriage was to -take place to-morrow at eleven o’clock, at which Mr Sayers, who had -taken the duty in his absence, hoped the Rector himself would officiate. -The one parish duty that was occasionally necessary in St Alban’s was to -perform marriages, and accordingly the Rector was not surprised. He had -the gas lighted, though it was still early in the afternoon, that he -might look at the book in which the notice of the banns was kept, in -order to make sure that all had been done in order. The gas was lighted, -but the blind was not drawn down, and the upper part of the window was -full of a grey and dingy London sky, without colour in it at all, a -sort of paleness merely, against which the leafless branches of the poor -little tree which flourished in the little grass-plot stood out with a -desolate distinction. Inside the room was unpleasantly warm. The Rector -sat with his back to the fire; he read the entry of the banns in the -book, and saw that all was right. Then after he had closed the book and -put it away, a sudden thought struck him, and he opened it again. Where -had he seen that name before? It was a strange name, a name not at all -like the parish of St Alban’s, E.C. What could she want here, a person -with a name like that? He put down the book the second time, but again -turned back and opened it once more. Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin -Altamont! One does not often hear such names strung one after another. -Was it perhaps some player-lady keeping the fine names of her _rôles_ -in the theatre? Or was it--could it be?---- Mr Marston could not shake -off the impression thus made upon him. He had two churchings to-morrow -which ought to have occupied him still more, for new members of the -congregation were the most interesting things in the world to the -Rector. But he was haunted by the other intimation, and the churchings -sank into insignificance. He pondered for a long time, disturbed by the -questions which arose in his mind, and at length, not feeling capable of -containing them longer, he took the book in his hand and went across the -hall, which was still in the afternoon gloom, to his wife, whose little -drawing-room on the other side was lighted by the flickering firelight, -and not much more. She was very glad to see him come in. “Did you think -it was tea-time?” she said. “I am sure I don’t wonder, but it’s only -three o’clock. Dear, dear, to think of the fine sunset we were looking -at an hour later than this yesterday. But London is getting worse and -worse.” - -“Why don’t you have the gas lighted?” the Rector asked in a querulous -tone. “I have brought something to show you, but there is no light to -see it by.” - -“You shall have the light in a moment,” cried Mrs Marston; “that is the -one good thing of gas. It spoils your picture-frames and kills your -flowers; but you can have it instantly, and always clean and no trouble. -There!” - -The gas leaping up dazzled them for a moment, and then Mr Marston opened -his book and pointed his finger to the entry. “Look here, Mary--look at -that; did you ever see a name like that before? What do you suppose it -can mean?” - -Mrs Marston had to put on her spectacles first, and they had always to -be looked for before they could be put on. She had just adopted -spectacles, and did not like them, nor to have to make, even to herself, -the confession that she wanted them: and they were always out of the -way. The Rector was short-sighted, and had the exemption which such -persons enjoy. He looked upon the magnifying spectacles of his wife with -contempt, and it was always irritating to him to see her hunting about, -saying, “Where have I put my glasses?” as was her wont. “Can’t you tie -them round your neck,” he said, “or keep them in your pocket--or -something?” When, however, they were found at last, he spread the book -out upon the table and, with his finger on the place, waited while she -read. Their two heads stooping over the book under the gas, with the -pale sky looking in at the window, made a curious picture, he eager, -she still fumbling a little to get on her spectacles without further -comment. “‘Reginald Winton,’” she read hesitating, “‘bachelor, of this -parish.’ I never certainly heard of any one of that name in this parish: -stay, it might be the new care-taker perhaps at Mullins and -Makings--or----” - -“That’s not the name,” cried the Rector. He would have liked to pinch -her, but refrained. “This is no care-taker, you may be sure; but it is -the other name--look at the other name. Where have you seen it before? -and what is the meaning of it?” Mr Marston cried with excitement. He had -worked himself up to this pitch, and he forgot that she was quite -unprepared. She read, stumbling a little, for the handwriting was -crabbed, “‘Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont, -spinster, of the parish of Billings.’ Dear, dear,” was good Mrs -Marston’s first comment--“I hope she has names enough and syllables -enough for one person.” - -“And is that all that strikes you?” her husband said. - -“Well--it is an odd name--is that what you mean, William? Very silly, I -think, to give a girl all that to sign. I suppose if she uses it all, it -will be only in initials. She will sign, you know, Jane Angela, or very -likely only Angela, which is much prettier than Jane; Angela P. P. -F.--or F. M.--Altamont, that is how it will be. Angela Altamont; it is -like a name in a novel.” - -“Ah, now we are coming to it at last!” cried the Rector; “names in -novels, when they are founded on anything, generally follow the names of -the aristocracy. Now here’s the question: Is this a secret marriage, and -the bride some poor young lady who doesn’t know what she is doing, some -girl running away with her brother’s tutor or some fiddler or other, to -her own ruin, poor thing, without knowing what she is about?” - -“Dear me, William! what an imagination you have got!” said Mrs Marston, -and she sat down in her surprise and drew the book towards her; but then -she added, “Why should they come to St Alban’s in that case? There are -no musicians living in this parish. And poor people do give their -children such grand names nowadays. That poor shirtmaker in Cotton Lane, -don’t you remember? her baby is Ethel Sybil Celestine Constantia--you -recollect how we laughed?” - -“Family Herald,” said the Rector with a careless wave of his hand, “and -all Christian names, which makes a great difference. It was her last -batch of heroines, poor soul; but do you think a poor needlewoman would -think of Pendragon and Plantagenet? No; mark my words, Mary, this is -some great person; this is some poor deceived girl, throwing away -everything for what she thinks love. Poor thing, poor thing! and all the -formalities complied with, so that I have no right to stop it. Sayers is -an idiot!” cried Mr Marston. “I should have inquired into it at once had -I been at home, with a name before my eyes like that.” - -“Dear me!” said Mrs Marston; there is not much in it, but she repeated -the exclamation several times. “After all,” she said, “it must be true -love, or she would not go that length; and who knows, William, whether -that is not better than all their grandeur? Dear, dear me! I wish we -knew a little about the circumstances. If the gentleman is of this -parish couldn’t you send for him and inquire into it?” The Rector was -pacing up and down the room in very unusual agitation. It was such a -crisis as in his peaceful clerical life had never happened to him -before. - -“You know very well he is not of this parish,” Mr Marston said. “I -suppose he must have slept here the requisite number of nights; and -besides, he knows I have no right to interfere. The banns are all in -order. I can’t refuse to marry them, and what right have I to send for -the man or to question him? No doubt he would have some plausible story. -It is not to be expected, especially if it is the sort of thing I think -it is, that he should tell me.” - -“Dear, dear!” repeated Mrs Marston. “A clergyman should have more power; -what is the good of being a clergyman if you cannot stop a marriage in -your own church? I call that tyranny. Do you mean to tell me you will be -compelled to marry them, whether you approve of it or not?” - -“Well, Mary, it is not usual to ask the clergyman’s consent, is it?” he -said with a laugh, momentarily tickled by the suggestion. But this did -not throw any light upon what was to be done, or upon the question -whether anything was to be done; and with a mind quite unsatisfied he -retired again to the study, seeing that it was out of all reason to ring -the bell at half-past three for tea. He drew down his blind with a sigh -as he went back to his room, shutting out the colourless paleness which -did duty for sky, and resigning himself to the close little room though -it was too warm. Mr Marston tried his best to compose himself, to take -up his work, such as it was, to put away from his mind the remembrance -of a world which was not wrapt in fog, and where wholesome breezes were -blowing. St Alban’s was a good living; it had endowments enough to -furnish two or three churches, and to get it had been a wonderful thing -for him; but sometimes he asked himself whether two hundred a-year and a -country parish with cottages in it instead of warehouses would not have -been better. However, all that was folly, and here was something -exciting to amuse his mind with, which was always an advantage. He had -laid down his book (for he thought it right to keep up his reading) for -the fourth or fifth time, to ask himself whether sending for the -bridegroom, as his wife suggested, or going out in search of him, might -not be worth his while, when Mrs Marston came suddenly bursting into the -study with, in her turn, a big volume in her arms. The Rector looked up -in surprise and put away his theology. She came in, he said to himself, -like a whirlwind; which was not, however, a metaphor at all adapted to -describe the movements of a stout and comfortable person of fifty, with -a great respect for her furniture. But she did enter with an assured, -not to say triumphant air, carrying her book, which she plumped down -before him on the table, sweeping away some of his papers. “There!” she -cried, breathless and excited. The page was blazoned with a big coat of -arms. It was in irregular lines like poetry, and ah, how much dearer -than poetry to many a British soul! It was, need we say, a Peerage, an -old Peerage, without any of the recent information, but still not too -old for the purpose. “There!” said Mrs Marston, again flourishing her -forefinger. The Rector, bewildered, looked and read. He read and he grew -pale with awe and alarm. He looked up in his wife’s face with a gasp of -excitement. He was too much impressed even to say, “I told you so,” -for, to be sure, a duke’s daughter was a splendour he had not conceived. -But his wife was more demonstrative in the delight of her discovery. -“There!” she cried, for the third time. “I felt sure, of course, it must -be in the Peerage, if it was what you thought; and there it is at full -length, ‘Lady Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont.’ -It fairly took away my breath. To think you should have made such a good -guess! and me talking about Mrs Singer’s baby! Why, I suppose it is one -of the greatest families in the country,” Mrs Marston said. - -“There is no doubt about that,” said the Rector. “I have heard the -present Duke was not rich, but that would make it all the worse. Poor -young lady! poor misguided--for of course she can know nothing about -life nor what she is doing. And I wonder who the man is. He must be a -scoundrel,” said Mr Marston, hotly, “to take advantage of the ignorance -of a girl.” - -“My dear,” said Mrs Marston, “all that may be quite true that you say, -but if you reckon up you will see that she must be twenty-eight. -Twenty-eight is not such a girl. And Reginald Winton is quite a nice -name.” - -“Just the sort of name for a tutor, or a music-master, or something of -that sort,” said the Rector, contemptuously. He had been a tutor himself -in his day, but that did not occur to him at the moment. He got up from -his chair and would have paced about the room as he did in his wife’s -quarters had the study been big enough; but failing in this, he planted -himself before the fire, to the great danger of his coat-tails and -increase of his temperature, but in his excitement he paid no attention -to that. “And now the question is, what is to be done?” he said. - -“I thought you told me there was nothing to be done. I shall come to -church myself to-morrow, William, and if you think I could speak to the -poor young lady----: perhaps if she had a woman to talk to--most likely -she has no mother. That’s such an old book, one can’t tell; but I don’t -think a girl would do this who had a mother. Poor thing! Do you think if -I were there a little before the hour and were to talk to her, and try -to get into her confidence, and say how wrong it was----” - -“Talk to a bride at the altar!” said the Rector; the indecorum of the -idea shocked him beyond description. “No, no, something must be done at -once--there is no time to be lost. I must write to the Duke.” - -“To the Duke!” This suggestion took away Mrs Marston’s breath. - -“I hope,” said her husband, raising his head, “that we both know a duke -is but a man: and I am a clergyman, and I want nothing from him, but to -do him a service. It would be wicked to hesitate. The question is, where -is he to be found, and how can we reach him in time? He is not likely to -be in town at this time of the year; nobody is in town I suppose except -you and me, and a few millions more, Mary; but that doesn’t help us--the -question is, where is he likely to be? Thank heaven there is still time -for the post!” Mr Marston cried, and threw himself upon his chair, and -pulled his best note-paper out of his drawer. - -But, alas! the question of where the Duke was puzzled them both. -Grosvenor Square; Billings Castle, ----shire; Hungerford Place, in the -West Riding; Cooling, N.B.; Caerpylcher, North Wales. As his wife read -them out one after another, with a little hesitation about the -pronunciation, the Rector wrung his hands. The consultation which the -anxious pair held on the subject ran on to the very limits of the -post-hour, and would take too long to record. Now that it had come to -this, Mrs Marston was inclined to hold her husband back. “After all, if -it was a real attachment,” she said, between the moments of discussing -whether it was in his seat in Scotland, or in Wales, or at his chief and -most ducal of residences that a duke in November was likely to be. -“After all, it might be really for her happiness--and what a dreadful -shock for them, poor things, if they came to be married, thinking they -had settled everything so nicely, and walked into the arms of her -father!” Her heart melted more and more as she thought of it. No doubt, -poor girl, she had been deprived early of a mother’s care; and, on the -other hand, at twenty-eight a girl ought to know her own mind. She -could not be expected to give in to her father for ever. And if it -should be that this was a real attachment, and the poor young lady’s -happiness was concerned---- - -The Rector made short work of these arguments. He pooh-poohed the real -attachment in a way which made Mrs Marston angry. What could she know of -poverty? he asked; and how was a duke’s daughter to scramble for herself -in the world? As for love, it was great nonsense in most cases. The -French system was just as good as the English. People got to like each -other by living together, and by having the same tastes and habits. How -could a fiddler or a tutor have the same habits as Lady Jane, “or Lady -Angela, if you like it better?” He went on, as Mrs Marston said, like -this, till she could have boxed his ears for him. And the fact was that -he had to pay an extra penny on each of his letters to get them off by -the post; for he wrote several letters--to Billings, to Hungerford, and -to Grosvenor Square. Scotland and Wales were hopeless; there was no -chance whatever that from either of these places his Grace could arrive -in time. Indeed, it would be something very like a miracle if he arrived -now. But the Rector felt that he had done his duty, which is always a -consolation. He retired to rest late and full of excitement, feeling -that no one could tell what the morrow might bring forth--a sentiment, -no doubt, which is always true, but which commends itself more to the -mind in a season when out-of-the-way events are likely. Mrs Marston had -been a little cool towards him all the evening, resenting much that he -had said. But it was not till all modes of communicating with the outer -world were hopeless that she took her revenge and planted a thorn in his -pillow. “If you had not been so disagreeable,” she said, “I would have -advised you not to trust to the post, but to telegraph. I dare say the -Duke would have paid you back the few shillings; then he would have been -sure to get the news in time. At present I think it very unlikely. And I -am sure, for the young people’s sake, I should be sorry. But I should -have telegraphed,” Mrs Marston said. And the Rector, strange to say, had -never thought of that. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -HALF-MARRIED. - - -Next morning everything was in movement early in St Alban’s, E.C. Orders -had been sent to the verger to have special sweepings-out and settings -in order, a thing which took that functionary much by surprise. For the -marriage: but then marriages were not so uncommon at St Alban’s--less -uncommon than anything else. Churchings were more rare events, and -demanded more consideration: for probably the married pair once united -would never trouble St Alban’s more; whereas there was always a chance -that babies born in the neighbourhood might grow up in it, and promote -the good works of the parish, or be candidates for its charities, which -was also very desirable--for the charities were large and the qualified -applicants few. But it was for the marriage that all this fuss was to be -made. “It must be a swell wedding,” the verger said to his wife. “You -had better put on your Sunday bonnet and hang about. Sometimes they want -a witness to sign the book, and there’s half-crowns going.” Accordingly -all was expectation in the neighbourhood of the church. The best -altar-cloth was displayed, and the pinafores taken off the cushions in -the pulpit and reading-desk, and the warming apparatus lighted, though -this was an expense. Mr Marston felt justly that when there was a -possibility of a duke and a certainty of a duke’s daughter, extra -preparations were called for. He came over himself early to see that all -was ready. There was no concealing his excitement. “Has any one been -here?” he asked, almost before he was within hearing of the verger. -Simms answered “No”--but added, “Them churchings, Rector. You’ll take -’em after the wedding, sir?” “Oh, the churchings,” said the Rector: “are -the women here?--oh, after the wedding, of course.” But then a sudden -thought struck him. “Now I think of it, Simms,” he said, “perhaps we’d -better have them first--at least, keep them handy, ready to begin, if -necessary--for there is some one coming to the marriage who--may be -perhaps a little late----” “Oh, if you knows the parties, sir,” said the -verger. And just at that moment Mrs Marston came in, in her best bonnet -and a white shawl. She came in by the vestry door, which she had a way -of doing, though it was uncanonical, and she darted a look at her -husband as she passed through and went into her own pew, which was quite -in the front, near to the reading-desk. The white shawl convinced Simms -without further words. Unless she knew the parties Mrs Marston never -would have appeared like this. Respectability was thus given to the -whole business, which beforehand had looked, Simms thought, of a -doubtful description; for certainly there was nobody in the parish of -the name of Winton, even if the bridegroom had not looked “too swell” to -suit the locality. But if they were the Rector’s friends! - -They arrived a few moments after eleven o’clock, in two very private, -quiet-looking carriages, of which nobody could be quite sure whether -they were humble broughams, of the kind which can be hired, or private -property. The bridegroom was first, with one man accompanying him, who -looked even more “swell” than himself. The bride came a little after in -the charge of a respectable elderly woman-servant, and one other lady -whose dress and looks were such as had never been seen before in St -Alban’s. Mrs Simms was not learned in dress, but she knew enough to know -that the simplicity of this lady’s costume was a kind of simplicity more -costly and grand than the greatest finery that had ever been seen within -the parish of St Alban’s. The bride herself was wrapped in a large -all-enveloping grey cloak. The maid who was with her even looked like a -duchess, and was far above any gossip with Mrs Simms. Altogether it was -a mysterious party. There was a little room adjoining the vestry to -which the ladies were taken to wait till all was ready, while the -gentlemen stood in the church, somewhat impatient, the bridegroom -looking anxiously from time to time at his watch. But now came the -strangest thing of all. The Rector, who had ordered the church to be -warmed and the cushions to be uncovered on purpose for them--he who had -known enough about their arrangements to calculate that some one might -arrive late--the Rector, now that they were here, took no notice. Simms -hurried in to inform him that they had come, but he took no notice; then -hurried back a second time to announce that “the gentlemen says as -they’re all here and quite ready;” but still Mr Marston never moved. He -had his watch on the table, and cast a glance upon it from time to time, -and he was pale and nervous sitting there in his surplice. The clergyman -all ready and the bridal party all ready, and a quarter after eleven -chiming! - -“We’ll take the churchings, Simms,” said the Rector, in a voice that was -scarcely audible. - -“The churchings, sir!” cried the verger, not believing his ears. Of all -the things to keep a wedding-party waiting for! But what could Simms do? -To obey the Rector was his first duty. He went with his mind in a state -of consternation to fetch the two poor women from the pews where they -sat waiting, wrapping themselves in their shawls, rather pleased with -the idea of seeing a wedding before their own little service. But they, -too, were thunderstruck when they heard they were to go up first. “Are -you sure you ain’t making a mistake?” one of them said; and as he walked -up the aisle, followed by these two humble figures, the elder gentleman, -who wore an eyeglass in his eye, almost assaulted Simms. He said, -“Holloa! hi! what are you after there?” as if he had been in the street -and not in a church. - -Simms paused, and came closer than Lord Germaine, who was Winton’s -attendant, thought agreeable. He curved his hand round one side of his -mouth, and under its shelter whispered, “Two ladies, sir, to be -churched----” - -“Churched! what’s that?” cried Lord Germaine, with a sort of fright--and -then he recollected himself, and laughed. “But, my good fellow,” he -said, “not before the marriage. Take my compliments to the -clergyman--Lord Ger---- I mean just my compliments, you know,” he added -hurriedly, “and tell him that we are all waiting, really all here and -waiting. He can’t keep a bride and bridegroom waiting for--two -ladies”--and then he glanced through his eyeglass at the two poor women, -who dropped a humble curtsey without meaning it--“who can be churched, -you know quite well, my good fellow, after twelve o’clock.” - -“I’ll tell the Rector, sir,” said Simms--but he took his charges to the -altar-steps all the same, for the Rector was a man who liked to be -obeyed. Then he went in and delivered his message. - -The Rector was sitting gazing at his watch with a very anxious and -troubled face. “Has any one come?” he said. - -“Please, sir, they be all here,” said Simms. “You’ll not keep the bride -and bridegroom waiting, surely, the gentleman says.” - -“I hope I am a better judge as to my duty than the gentleman,” said the -Rector, tartly; and without another word he marched into the chancel, -and advancing to the altar-rails, signed to the two women to take their -places. During the interval the bride had been brought from the -waiting-room and divested of her cloak. She was dressed simply in -white, with a large veil over her little bonnet. Lord Germaine had given -her his arm and was leading her to her place, when the voice of the -Rector announced that the other service had begun. The bridal party -looked at each other in consternation, but what could they do? Lord -Germaine, though he was one of the careless, had not courage enough to -interrupt a service in church. They stood waiting, the strangest group. -Lady Jane, when she divined what it was, did her best to pay a little -attention, to follow the prayers and lessons, which were so curiously -out of keeping with the circumstances. Winton, standing by her, crimson -with anger and impatience, could scarcely keep still. He held his watch -in his hand with feverish anxiety. Lord Germaine, adjusting his glass -more firmly in his eye, regarded the Rector as if he was a curious -animal. Lady Germaine, after carefully examining the whole group for a -moment, fell, as it was evident to see, into convulsions of secret -laughter. If it had not been so serious, it would have been highly -comic. And as for the poor women kneeling at the altar, the service so -far did them very little good. They were shocked to the very soul to -think of standing in the way of a bride; they could not resist giving -little glances from the corners of their eyes to see her, or at least -the white train of her dress falling upon the carpet on the altar-steps, -which was all that was within their range of vision as they knelt with -their hands over their faces. They were very well meaning, both of them, -and had really intended to do their religious duty--but there are some -things which are too great a trial for even flesh and blood. - -All this time was Mrs Marston’s opportunity if she could have availed -herself of it. She sat in her place in her front pew, in a tremble, -meaning every moment to put force upon herself to do her duty. All the -time she was reminding herself that she was a clergyman’s wife; that she -ought not to be timid; that it was her duty to speak. But how much -easier it had been last night in intention than it was to-day in -reality! For one thing, she had not foreseen the presence of Lady -Germaine. She had thought only of the poor girl, who probably had no -mother, to whom it would make all the difference in the world to have a -woman to speak to. But the presence of the other lady confounded the -Rector’s wife. She sat and looked on in a tremor of anxiety and -timidity, unable to move, yet with her heart pricking and urging her. -And so pretty and modest as the bride looked, poor thing; and surely he -was fond of her. He would not look at her like that if it was an -interested marriage. But when she saw the laughter which “the other -lady” could not suppress, horror overcame all other sentiments in Mrs -Marston’s mind. To laugh in church; to laugh at one of the church -services! She had gone down on her knees, but neither did she, it is to -be feared, give very much attention to the prayers. And even the -Rector’s mind was disturbed. He stumbled twice in what he was saying; -his eyes were not upon the book, but upon the door, watching for some -one to come; and, good heavens! how slowly the time went! After all, it -was not much more than the half-hour when the two poor women, scarcely -knowing what had passed, got up from their knees. He had read more -quickly instead of more slowly in the confusion of his mind. Twenty -minutes yet! and the two poor mothers going down the altar-steps, -stealing into the first vacant seat to sate their eyes with the ceremony -to follow, and the other little group ranged before him, Simms putting -them in their places very officiously, and no help for it, and no sign -of any one coming. Well, a man can do no more than his duty! The Rector -came forward with the sentiments of a martyr, and opened his book and -cleared his voice. He was so much excited and nervous that he could -hardly keep his articulation clear. He had to clear his voice a great -many times in the first address; the figures before him swam in his -eyes. He had an impression of a sweet but pale face, very solemn and -tremulous, yet calm, and of a man who did not look like an adventurer. -It occurred to him, even as he read, that if he had not known anything -about them, he would have been interested in this young pair. Was no one -coming, then? He hardly knew how he began. Three-quarters chiming, and -nothing more that he could do to gain time! He went on, stumbling, -partly from agitation, partly for delay, lifting his eyes between every -two words, committing more indecorum in the course of five minutes than -he had done before in all his clerical life. When he came to the words -“if any man can show any just cause,” it came into his head what a -mockery it was. He made almost a dead stop, and looked round in a sort -of anguish--“any man!”--why, there was not a creature--there was nobody -but Simms, waiting behind obsequious, thoughtful of the half-crowns, and -Mrs Simms staring, and the two poor women who had been churched. Who of -all these was likely to make any objection? And everything perfectly -quiet; not a sound outside except the ordinary din. Then he put on his -most solemn aspect and looked fully, severely, in the face of the -bridal pair. “I require--and charge you both--as ye will answer--at the -dreadful day of judgment.” Tremendous words; and he gave them forth one -by one, pausing at every breathing-place. Surely there never was such an -officiating clergyman. Lord Germaine kept that eyeglass full upon him, -gravely studying the unknown phenomena of a new species. Lady Germaine, -entirely overmastered by the _fou rire_ which had seized her during the -churching, and fully believing that it was all eccentricity of the most -novel kind, crushed her handkerchief into her mouth, and stood behind -Winton that her half-hysterical seizure of mirth might not be perceived. -And now even that adjuration was over. Slow as you can say the words, -there are still but a few of them to say. The Rector was in despair. A -little more, and they would be bound beyond any man’s power to unloose -them. He had to begin, “Wilt thou have this woman----” At this point he -stopped short altogether; his eager ears became conscious of something -strange among the outside noises with which he was so familiar. He made -a sign to Simms, an angry, anxious gesture, pointing to the door. Lady -Germaine was almost beside herself; the little handkerchief now was not -enough; a moment more, she felt, and her laugh must peal through the -church. - -But it did not--another moment something else pealed through the church, -a loud voice calling “Stop!” and Lady Germaine’s disposition to laugh -was over in an instant. She gave a little cry instead, and came close to -Lady Jane to support her. Lord Germaine dropped his eyeglass from his -eye. He said, “Go on, sir; go on, sir; do your duty,” imperatively. As -for Winton, he turned half round with a start, then, bewildered, -pronounced his assent to the question which had been but half asked him. -“I will,” he said, “I will!” “Go on, sir,” cried Lord Germaine: “go on, -sir.” In the meantime some one was hurrying up the aisle, pale, -breathless, in a whirl of passion. Even in the excitement and horror of -the moment Mrs Marston could not help giving a second look to see what -like a duke was in the flesh. The new-comer was white with fatigue and -fury. He came up to the very altar-steps where those two poor women had -been kneeling, and thrust Mrs Simms and the alarmed verger almost -violently out of the way. “Stop!” he cried, “stop! I forbid -it--stop--Jane!” and clutched his daughter by the arm. Lady Germaine in -her excitement gave a loud shriek and grasped the bride tighter, holding -her round the waist, while Winton, in a kind of frenzy, seized her -ungloved hand, which was ready to be put into his. Lady Jane thus seized -on every side awoke only then out of the abstraction of that solemn and -prayerful seriousness in which she had been about to perform the -greatest act of her life. She had not noted the breaks and pauses in the -service, she had not thought of anything extraneous, noises or voices. -All that had occupied her was the solemnity of the moment, the great -thing she was doing, the oath she was about to take. Even now, when so -rudely awakened, she was not sure that the hand of the bridegroom -seeking hers was not in the course of the service. She gave it to him, -notwithstanding the grasp upon her arm. “Go on, sir!” shouted Lord -Germaine; “do your duty.” But the Rector could not help for the moment a -little sense of triumph. He made a step backwards and closed his book. -And at this moment there was the little rustle in the throat of the -church tower, and one, two, three,--noon struck, filling the church with -successive waves of sound. - -The Duke had begun, “Jane!” and Winton had cried out, echoing his -friend, to the Rector to “go on, go on,” when this sound suddenly fell -upon them all, ringing slowly, steadily, like a doom bell. Something in -the sound stilled every one, even the angry and unhappy young man, who -saw his marriage broken and his hopes made an end of in a moment. Lady -Germaine took her hand away from Jane’s waist and sank down upon the -vacant bench and burst out into sobbing,--she who felt that she must -laugh five minutes before; and Mrs Marston cried in her pew, and the two -poor women looked on with so much sympathy. The Duke’s hand dropped from -his daughter’s arm. The only thing that did not alter was the attitude -of the two chief figures. They stood with clasped hands before the -altar-rails. Even now Lady Jane only half understood what had happened. -It began to dawn upon her as she saw the closed book, and felt the -silence and the sound of the clock. She turned round to Winton with a -questioning look, then smiled and gave a little, the slightest, pressure -of the hand she held. In this way they stood while the clock struck, no -one saying a word. Then there arose several voices together. - -“I thank heaven I arrived in time!” the Duke exclaimed. “Jane, let there -be no further scene, but leave off this silly pantomime, and come home -at once with me.” - -“Your bishop shall hear of this, sir!” said Lord Germaine, shaking his -fist, in spite of himself, at the Rector. - -Winton, on his side, was too sick at heart to find any words. He said, -“It is over,” with a voice of anguish; then added, “but we are pledged -to each other--pledged all the same.” - -“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke. - -“We are pledged to each other,” Winton repeated. He took the ring out of -his pocket, where it lay ready, and put it on her finger, trembling. -“She is my wife,” he said, half turning round, appealing to the group. - -Lady Jane withdrew her right hand, putting it within his arm. She held -up that which had the ring upon it, and put her lips to it. “I don’t -know what this means,” she said, tremulous and yet clear, “but I am his -wife.” - -“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke. They were all speaking -together. The pair who were not wedded turned round arm in arm as they -might have done had the ceremony been completed. Once more the Duke -caught hold of his daughter roughly. “Jane, leave this man! I command -you to leave him! Come home at once!” he cried. “Mr Winton, if you have -any sense of honour, you will give her up at once. My God! will you -compromise my daughter and pretend to love her? Jane, will you make your -family a laughing-stock? Come, come! You will cover us with shame. You -will kill your mother.” He condescended to plead with her, so intense -was his feeling. “Jane, for the love of heaven----” - -Lady Germaine rose up from the bench on which she had flung herself. -“Oh, Duke!” she cried, “don’t you see things have gone too far? Leave -her with me. She will not be compromised with me. Have pity upon your -own child! Don’t you see, don’t you see that it is too late to stop it -now?” - -“Lady Germaine!” cried the Duke, “I hope you can forgive yourself for -your share in this, but I cannot forgive you. Certainly my daughter -shall not go with you. There is but one house to which she can go--her -father’s.” He tightened his hold on her arm as he spoke. “Jane!--this -scene is disgraceful to all of us. Put a stop to it at once. Come home; -it is the only place for you now.” - -Then there was a pause, and they all looked at each other with a mute -consultation. The little ring of spectators stood and listened. Mrs -Marston, with the tears scarcely dried from her eyes, watched them with -fluttered eagerness, expecting the moment when the Duke should come and -thank her for the warning he had received. She was compunctious for the -sake of the young people; but yet to have the thanks of the Duke---- The -Rector had made haste to get out of his surplice, and now came out with -a little importance and the same idea in his mind. - -Lady Jane was the first to speak. She said, “It is cruel for us all; but -perhaps my father is right, things being as they are. I cannot go with -you, Reginald, to our own house.” - -Winton’s voice came with a burst, half-groan, half-sob, uncontrollable. -“God help us! I don’t suppose you can, my darling--till to-morrow.” - -“Till to-morrow! Then I will go home to my father’s now. Oh no,” she -said, shrinking back a little, “not with you. Reginald will take me -home.” - -“Let go my daughter, sir!” the Duke said. “He shall not touch you. He -shall not come near you. What! do you persist? Give her up, Winton; do -you hear me? She says she will come home.” - -“Father,” said Lady Jane very low, “it is you who are forgetting our -dignity. I will go home, if Reginald takes me; but not with you. I -suppose no one doubts our honour. It is not the time for delay now, -after you have done all this. Reginald will take me home.” - -What the Duke said further it is scarcely necessary to record. He had to -stand by at last, half stupefied, and watch them walk down the aisle arm -in arm, bride and bridegroom, to the evidence of everybody’s senses. He -followed himself as in a dream, and got in, cowed, but vowing vengeance, -into the cab, which was all his Grace could find to reach St Alban’s in -from the railway,--and in that followed the brougham which conveyed his -daughter and her--not husband, and yet not lover--to Grosvenor Square. -But when he had once got her there! - -The Rector and his wife stood open-mouthed to see the pageant thus melt -away. The Duke, to whom they had done so great a favour, took no more -notice of them than of the two poor women, who vaguely felt themselves -in fault somehow, and still kept crying, looking after the bride. Not a -word to the poor clergyman, who had almost done wrong for his sake--not -a look even, not the faintest acknowledgment, any more than if he had -nothing to do with it! Simms and his wife stood gaping, too, at the -church door, looking after the party which had been far too much -preoccupied to think of half-crowns. “This is how people are treated -after they have done their best. I always told you not to meddle,” Mrs -Marston said, which was very ungenerous, as well as untrue. But the -Rector said nothing. He was mortified to the bottom of his heart. But -when the excitement had a little died away, he said to himself with -vindictive pleasure that he hoped they were having a pleasant day, those -fine people in Grosvenor Square. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -THE WEDDING-DAY. - - -It was not a pleasant day in Grosvenor Square. When the Duke arrived in -his cab the door was opened to him by the humble person who had care of -the house while the family were out of town,--an old servant, to whom -this charge was a sort of pensioning off. She was very much fluttered, -and informed him in an undertone that Lady Jane had arrived a few -minutes before “with a gentleman.” “Her ladyship is in the library, your -Grace, and the gentleman with her,” the old woman said, curtseying and -trembling--for though Lady Jane’s garb was very simple for a bride, -still it was a white dress, and in the middle of winter it is well known -that ladies do not go about their ordinary business in such garments. -The Duke considered a moment and then decided that he would not see his -daughter till her companion was gone. He was tremulous with rage and -discomfiture, yet with the sense that vengeance was in his hands. This -feeling made him conclude that it was more wise not to see Winton, not -to run the risk of losing his temper or betraying his intentions, but to -remain on the watch till he withdrew, and in the meantime to arrange his -own plans. He told the old housekeeper to let him know when the -gentleman was gone, and in the meantime hurried up-stairs to his -daughter’s room, and examined it carefully. Lady Jane had two rooms -appropriated to her use, with a third communicating with them in which -her maid slept. This was a large area to put under lock and key, which -was her father’s determination: but in the ferment of his excited mind -and temper he felt no derogation in the half-stealthy examination he -made of the shut-up rooms, their windows and means of communication, the -locks on the door, and all the arrangements that would be necessary to -shut them off entirely from the rest of the house. With his own hands he -removed the keys, locking all the doors but one, and leaving the key on -the outside of that to shut off all entrance to the prison. - -While he was thus occupied the pair so strangely severed stood together -in the library waiting for his appearance, and getting a certain bitter -sweetness out of the last hour they were to spend together. They were -not aware that it was, in any serious sense of the words, their last -hour. “Till to-morrow” was the limit they gave themselves. To-morrow no -further interruption would be possible, the incomplete service would be -resumed, and all would be well. Even the Duke, unreasonable as he might -be, would not think it practicable, when in his sober senses, to -endeavour to sunder those who had been almost put together in the -presence of God. They believed, notwithstanding the tantalising misery -of this interruption, that it could not be but for a few hours; and -though Winton’s impatience and indignation were at first almost frenzy, -Lady Jane recovered her courage before they reached the house, and did -her best to soothe him. She drew good even out of the evil. To-morrow -all would be completed in her father’s presence. When once convinced -that matters had gone too far to be arrested, how could he refuse to -lend his sanction to what must be, whether with his sanction or not? -She pleased herself with this solution of all their difficulties. “My -mother will come, I am sure,” she said, “as soon as the train can bring -her. I shall have her with me, which will be far, far better than Lady -Germaine, and there will be no further need of concealment, which is -odious, is it not, Reginald? There is a soul of goodness in things -evil,” she said. As for Winton, he was past speaking: the -disappointment, and those passions that rage in the male bosom, were too -much for him--fury and indignation, and pride in arms, and the sense of -defeat, which was intolerable. But he permitted himself to be subdued, -to yield to her who had put so much force upon herself, and conquered so -many natural repugnances and womanly traditions for him. Lady Jane would -not even let it appear that she felt the shame of being thus dragged -back to her father’s house. “To-morrow,” she said, “to-morrow,” with a -thousand tender smiles. When it became apparent that the Duke did not -mean to make an appearance, she turned that to their advantage with -soothing sophistry. “He has nothing to say now,” she cried, “don’t you -see, Reginald? You cannot expect him to come and offer us his consent; -if he withdraws his opposition, that is all we can desire. Had he meant -to persevere, he would have come to us at once, and ordered you away, -and made another struggle. That is what I have been fearing. And now in -return for his forbearance you must go. Oh, do you think I wish you to -go? but it is best, it will be most honourable. What could be done in -the circumstances but that you should bring me home? Yes, till your -house is mine this is still home--till to-morrow,” she cried, smiling -upon him. Winton paced up and down the gloomy closed-up room in an -agony of uncertainty, bewilderment, and dismay. - -“My home _is_ yours!” he cried; “and what sort of place is this to bring -you to, my darling, without a soul to take care of you or look after -your comfort, without a fire even, or a servant:--on this day! It is -intolerable! And how, how can I go and leave you, on our wedding-day? It -is more than flesh and blood can bear. Jane, I have a foreboding; I -can’t be hopeful like you. If you submitted to the force of -circumstances in that wretched church, there is no force of any kind -here. Don’t send me away; come with me, my love, my dearest. The way is -clear, there is nothing but that old woman----” - -“There is our honour,” said Lady Jane. “I pledged it to my father. And -if I went with you, it would only be to separate again. Surely I am -better at home than at Lady Germaine’s:--till to-morrow--till -to-morrow,” she repeated softly. The library was next the door, it was -close to the open street, the free air out-of-doors. The temptation, -though she rejected it, was great upon Lady Jane too. There was a moment -in which, though she did not allow it, she wavered. The next moment, -with more fortitude than ever, she recovered the mastery of herself. It -was she at last who, tenderly persuading and beseeching, induced him to -go away. She went to the door with him and almost put him out with -loving force. “You will come back for me to-morrow--to-morrow! it is not -long till to-morrow,” she said, waving her hand to her distracted -bridegroom as he hurried away. It was well that there was nobody in -town--nobody in Grosvenor Square--except a passing milk-boy, to see the -Duke’s daughter standing in the doorway like the simplest maiden, in her -white dress, a wonderful vision for a murky London day, taking farewell -of her love. She closed the door after him with her own hand, while poor -old Mrs Brown, in such a flutter as she had never before experienced in -her life, came bobbing out from the corner in which she had been keeping -watch. “Oh, my lady! my lady!” the old woman said. She had scarcely been -high enough up in the hierarchy of service below-stairs to have come to -speech of Lady Jane at all, and now to think that she was all the -attendance possible for that princess royal! Lady Jane, it may be -supposed, was in no light-hearted mood, but she stopped with a smile to -reassure the old servant. - -“Nurse Mordaunt is with me,” she said; “she will, no doubt, be here -directly, Mrs Brown. You must not vex yourself about me. It will only be -till to-morrow. If you will have a fire lighted in my room, I will go -there. - -“Yes, my lady; oh, my lady! but I’m afraid there’s some sad trouble,” -said the old housekeeper. - -Lady Jane was far too high-bred to reject this sympathy, but it was -almost more than in her valour she could bear. Her eyes filled in spite -of herself. “It is only an extraordinary accident,” she said. “But -Mordaunt will tell you when she comes.” She was glad to escape into the -library that she might not break down. Turning round to re-enter alone -that huge, cold, uninhabited place, her mind was seized with a spasm of -terror. The blinds were drawn down, the fireplace was cold, it was like -a room out of which the dead had been newly carried, not a place to -receive a woman in the most living moment of life--on her wedding-day! -She had borne herself very bravely as long as her lover was -there--almost too bravely, trying to make him believe that it was -nothing, that she had scarcely any feeling on the subject. But when she -saw him go, the clouds and darkness closed in upon Lady Jane, her lips -quivered sadly as she spoke to Mrs Brown. When she was alone, her -swelling heart and throbbing forehead were relieved by a sudden passion -of tears. Would it be nothing as she had made believe? or was it a -parting, an ending, a severance from Reginald and hope? A black moment -passed over her--blacker than anything that Winton felt, as, distracted -and furious, burning with intentions of vengeance, and a sense of injury -in which there was some relief from the misery of the situation, he -hurried along towards the Germaines’ house. There, at least, he could -plan and arrange, and talk out his fury and wretchedness. But Lady Jane -had no such solace. When she had yielded to that bitter _accès_ of -tears, and felt herself pass under the cloud, she had to gather herself -together again all unaided, and recover her composure as best she could. -That sensation of overwhelming cold which so often accompanies a mental -crisis made her shiver. She drew her cloak closely round her, and went -slowly up-stairs through the hollow silence of the great house, pausing -now and then to take breath in her nervous exhaustion, and looking -anxiously for the appearance of her father. Did he not mean to come to -her at all? Lady Jane had no idea that she was going with all those -hesitations and pauses straight into a prison. Such a thought had never -occurred to her. She believed still in reason and loving-kindness and -truth. Her father, when he saw it impossible, would after all yield, she -thought. Her mother would come to succour her in this extraordinary -emergency. “There is a soul of goodness in things evil,” she murmured -again to herself, but not so bravely as she had said it to her lover. -The house was so cold, such an echoing solitude, no living thing -visible, and she alone in it, left to wear through the weary hours as -she could--on her wedding-day! - -Thus with tired and lingering steps, and despondency taking possession -of her soul, Lady Jane went softly up-stairs, longing to divest herself -of her wedding-gown and hide her humiliation, looking vainly for her -father, whose appearance in this wilderness, even if it were only to -upbraid and denounce her, would still have had a certain consolation in -it. The Duke, unseen, watched her progress with a vindictive pleasure in -the downcast air and slow, languid step. He watched her to her very door -with an eagerness not to be described. At the last moment she might turn -round, she might still leave the house, she might escape. In no case -could he have used violence to his daughter. To level thunderbolts of -speech was one thing, to use force was quite another. To lift his hand -was impossible. If she turned round and fled down the stairs and out at -the door, she must do so: there was no way in which he could stop her: -if any third person were present, even Mrs Brown, he would be obliged to -keep a watch upon himself, to demand no more obedience than she would -give, to treat her as a reasonable being. All this the Duke felt, -spying upon her steps as she went slowly up, following her, his -footsteps falling noiselessly on the thick carpets. He heard her sigh, -but this made no difference. To any one else this sigh of the widowed -bride, alone in this dismal empty house on the day that was to have -been, that almost was, her wedding-day, would have contained something -touching. But it did not touch the Duke. He followed at a distance, -keeping out of sight, determined to give her no opportunity to appeal to -him. When he heard her door close, a certain glow of satisfaction came -over his face. He went forward quickly, and turned the key in the lock -and put it in his pocket. He heard her moving about in the room, and he -could hear that she stopped short at the noise and stood listening to -know what it was. But all was quiet again, and Lady Jane suspected -nothing. She had begun to look in her wardrobe for something to put on -instead of her white dress. She thought it was some jar of one of the -doors as she opened them. And he stole down-stairs again, unnoticed and -unobserved. Who was there to notice him? no one in the house, except his -daughter locked into the room, and Mrs Brown with her little niece -down-stairs. The Duke withdrew into the library, where he had sat and -pondered for many a day, but never as now. The old housekeeper had -bestirred herself and had lighted a fire and set out a table with two -places for luncheon. She at least could do her duty if no one else did. -Mrs Brown, indeed, felt as a neglected general has often done when the -moment arrived in which he could distinguish himself. She had never had -this opportunity. Now, at last, in the end of her life it had come to -her. His Grace, who was so particular, should for once in his life know -what it was to eat a chop, an English chop, in its perfection. She had -sent out her handmaiden to fetch them, and lit the fire herself in her -devotion. This is an extent of enthusiasm to which few people would go. -And Lady Jane, sweet creature, who was evidently in trouble somehow with -her papa, who had sent that nice young gentleman off as fast as ever she -could, that the Duke and he might not meet, poor thing! what would be so -good for her as a chop? The old housekeeper betook herself to her work -with the warmest sense at once of benevolence and of power--power to -ameliorate and soften the hardness of destiny, and to win fame and -honour to herself. What enterprise could have a finer motive? Of the -three people in the house, she was the happy one, as happens not -unfrequently among all the twists and entanglements of fate. - -Before, however, Mrs Brown had begun to cook her chops, Nurse Mordaunt, -Lady Jane’s devoted attendant since her childhood, arrived in much -anxiety and distress. Nurse had been detained by various matters, by -Lady Germaine, and by the delay in getting her ladyship’s things, which -had been left that morning at Lady Germaine’s house. With a heavy heart -nurse had effaced the direction of Lady Jane Winton from the box. She -had never herself approved of such a marriage any more than the Duke -did. It injured her pride sadly to think of “My Lady” marrying a -commoner at all, and marrying him secretly at a poky little church in -the city! But that she should be married and not married, half a wife, -“dragged from the altar,” was something which no one could contemplate -with calmness. Nurse was more shamed, distracted, broken-hearted than -any of the party. “Oh, don’t ask me,” she answered, shaking her head, -when Mrs Brown humbly, with every respect, begged to know what had -happened. “It is as bad as a revolution--it’s worse than the Chartists; -even Radicals respect the marriage vow,” nurse cried in her dismay. “I -don’t approve of it, and never did, and never will. Up to the church -door I’d have done anything to stop it. But bless us! if you don’t keep -the altar sacred, what have you got to trust to?” She caused the boxes -to be brought into the hall with their erased addresses. There was -nobody to carry them anywhere,--none of the attendance about to which -Mrs Mordaunt was accustomed. “Fetch one of the men,” she had said at -first, but then she remembered there was no man in Grosvenor Square at -this time of the year. “Drat it! as if things were not bad enough -already; no servants, no comfort, nobody but Mrs Brown to look to -everything!” Mrs Mordaunt was too much broken down to go to her young -lady at once. She condescended to go into the kitchen, where it was at -least warm, to eat one of the chops and to rest a little before she went -up-stairs. And her arrival was scarcely over before it was followed by -another more urgent and important. The old housekeeper almost fainted -when, opening the door in answer to the impatient summons of another -arrival, she saw the Duchess herself get out of a hackney-cab. “Bless -us!” the old woman cried; if the Queen had come next she could not have -been more surprised. - -The Duchess, it need not be said, was in the secret of all those -arrangements which were to make Lady Jane into Reginald Winton’s wife. -She had a cold that day, partly real, partly no doubt emotional, but -enough to make her keep her room in the morning, leaving her guests to -the care of her sister, who was at Billings on a visit. She got up, as -may be supposed, with a great deal of agitation from her broken rest, -thinking of her Jane, how she would be preparing for her marriage, with -nobody but Lady Germaine to comfort and support her. Lady Germaine was -very kind: she had taken charge of the whole business; she and her -husband had gone to town on purpose to facilitate everything; but still -it was dreadful to the Duchess to think that her child should have no -one but Lady Germaine to lean upon at such a moment of her life. In her -own room, in the stillness of the morning, the thoughts of the mother -were bent upon this subject, which she went over and over, thinking of -everything. She figured to herself how her child would wake, and -realise what a fateful morning it was, and wish for her mother. How she -would say her prayers with all the fervour of such a crisis, and linger -upon the contemplation of the past, and the sweet but awful thought of -the future. Though her husband and his reign were so near, Jane would -think of her home, of the parents who loved her, and shed some tears to -think that the most momentous act of her life was taking place away from -them, in opposition to one of them. The Duchess, who was very much -overcome, at once by what she knew and what she did not know, by -imagination and by fact, shed more tears herself at this point, and she -had to dry them hastily to look up with an unconcerned face when her -maid came into the room bringing a piece of news which in a moment -startled her into activity and alarm. The Duke had gone suddenly off to -town by the early train. After he had read his letters he had seemed -agitated, but said nothing to Bowles (who was his Grace’s valet) except -that business called him to town. And he had been gone an hour when the -news was brought to his wife. The reader may suppose how short a time -elapsed before the anxious mother followed him. She went out quietly in -a close carriage, nobody knowing, and got the next train, arriving in -London two hours later than that by which her husband had travelled. He -was sitting down with a little shrug of his shoulders, but not without -appetite, to Mrs Brown’s chops, when she drove up to the door, and -suddenly came in upon him, pale and full of anguish. Her eye ran round -the room questioning before she said a word:--then she loosened her -cloak and sat down upon the nearest seat with a sigh of relief. - -“What have you done with Jane?” she was about to say: but then it -appeared to her that Jane must have escaped, that everything was -accomplished. She could have wept or laughed in the extreme blessedness -of this relief, but she dared not do either. She looked at him instead, -as he sat looking suspiciously at her. “It made me very anxious to hear -of your going,” she said. “I feared something might be wrong. I am going -back directly, and nobody knows I am out of my room: but I felt that I -must hear----” - -“What?” he asked with watchful suspicion; it was a terrible ordeal to go -through. The Duchess did all a woman could to take the meaning out of -her own face and put upon it an aspect of affectionate concern alone. “I -did not know what to think,” she said; “I was very anxious: but it -cannot be anything very bad, I hope, since I find you----” How hard it -is to say what is not the truth! While she uttered these commonplace -words her eyes were watching him, keenly questioning everything about -him. At last her heart seemed to stand still. She perceived the two -covers laid on the table. “You have some one with you,” she said, with a -catching of her breath. - -He looked at her still more keenly. “I have Jane with me,” he said. - -“Jane!” It was all her mother could do not to break down altogether, and -show her anguish and disappointment in passionate tears; but her heart -was leaping in her throat, and she could not speak. - -“That is to say,” he added slowly, with unspeakable enjoyment in the -sense of having got the better of the women altogether, and holding them -in his hand, “she is in the house. I arrived in time to save her from -becoming the victim--of a villain. I shall keep her safe now I have got -her,” the Duke said, with an ineffable flourish of his hand. - -“The victim--of a villain? What do you mean by such words? They sound as -if you had got them out of a novel,” the Duchess said; but her heart was -beating so that she could scarcely hear herself speak. - -“Then you knew nothing about it?” said her husband calmly. - -The Duchess got up from her seat. She was too much agitated to be able -to keep still. “I knew, if that is what you mean, that she was to -marry--the man she loved--to-day. What have you done? Have you parted -your own child from her happiness and her life?” - -He rose too. He had kept up his calm demeanour as long as he could. Now -his rage got the better of him. “So you were in the plot!” he cried, -“you! I felt it, and yet I could not believe it. You who ought to have -been the first to carry out my will and respect my decision.” - -“Augustus,” said his wife, very pale, standing up before him, her hand -upon the back of a tall chair, her head erect, “this must not go too -far. Jane has not one but two parents, and she has always had her -mother’s sanction. You are aware of that.” - -“Her mother’s sanction!” cried the Duke, with a tremendous laugh of -passion. “That is a mighty advantage, truly. Her mother! what has her -mother to do with it? Nothing! These are pretty heroics, and do very -nicely to say to the ignorant; but you know very well that, save as my -agent, you have no more to do with Jane or her marriage--no more----” - -“It may be so in law,” said the Duchess, recovering her composure, “but -it is certainly not so in nature; nor have I ever considered myself your -agent, in respect to my child. I have yielded to you in a hundred -ways--and so much the worse for you that I have done so; but, as regards -Jane, I have never thought it my duty to yield--and never will; such a -suggestion is intolerable,” she said, with a touch of feminine passion. -“My right and my authority are the same as yours--neither of them -absolute--for she is old enough to judge for herself.” - -“Ah, poor girl!” he said, with a knowledge that it was the most -irritating thing he could say, and at the same time a coarse sort of -pleasure in insulting the women, though they were so near to him; “that -is at the bottom of everything. You made her believe it was her last -chance. She was determined anyhow to have a husband.” - -The Duchess grew scarlet, but she was sufficiently enlightened by -experience to restrain the angry reply that almost forced its way from -her lips. She looked at him with a silent indignation not unmingled with -pity, then turned her head away. Poor Mrs Brown! Her chops, that had -been so good, so hot, stood neglected on the table. Her opportunity was -over. It was no fault of hers that she had not distinguished herself. So -many another disappointed genius has done its best, and some accident -has stepped in and balked its highest effort. Had the Duchess delayed -but half an hour, his Grace, after so much French cookery, would have -experienced the wholesome pleasure of at least one British chop, and -probably in consequence would have promoted Mrs Brown to a post near his -person. But it was not to be. There was no luncheon eaten that day in -Grosvenor Square. The discussion was prolonged for some time, and then -the Duchess was heard to go hastily up-stairs. She went to her -daughter’s room with tears of hot passion in her eyes and an intolerable -pang in her heart, and knocking softly, called to Jane with a voice -which she could scarcely keep from breaking. “My darling!” she cried, -“my sweet, my own girl!” with something heartrending in her accents. All -had been still before; but now there was a stir in reply. - -“Oh, mother dear, come in, come in! How I have longed for you!” Lady -Jane cried; and then there was a little pause of expectation, breathless -with a strange suspicion on one side, and such miserable humiliation and -anguish on the other, as can scarcely be put into words. - -“I cannot come in, my dear love. Oh, my darling, you must be patient. I -must go back directly to all those people in the house. You know it -would never do----” Here the Duchess, unable to keep up the farce, began -all at once to cry and sob piteously outside the door. - -Lady Jane, fully roused, hurried to it and turned the handle vainly, and -shook the heavy door. “I cannot open it,” she cried wildly. “Mother, -mother! what does this mean? Cannot you come in? What can take you away -from me when I want you--the people in the house? Oh, mother, I want -you, I want you!” she cried as she had never done in her life before. -And then there was such a scene as might be put into a comedy and made -very ridiculous, and which yet was very heartrending as it happened, and -overpowered these two women with a consternation, a sense of -helplessness, a bitter perception of the small account they were of, -which paralysed their very souls--not only that he had the power to do -it, but also the heart: he with whom they had lived in the closest ties, -whom they had loved and served, for whom they had been ready to do all -that he pleased, one for the greater part of her life, the other since -ever she had been born. What did it matter, any one would have said, the -power such a man had over his wife and his daughter? He would never use -it to make them unhappy. But there are capabilities of human misery in -families which no one can fathom, which may seem to make it doubtful by -moments how far the family relation is so blessed as it is thought to -be. The Duke felt that now, for the first time, he had these women under -his thumb, so to speak. He had them so bound that they could not resist, -could not move, could not even call for help from any one without -betraying the secrets of the family. He kept possession of his library, -and, with the key in his pocket, had a moment of triumph. They had -united against him; but now they should feel his power. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -IN PRISON. - - -The scenes that followed were at times not only so exciting, but so -tranquil, that we shrink from attempting to depict them. If there had -been anything wanted to confirm the determination of the Duke to hold to -the position he had taken up, it would have been the arrival of the -Duchess, and the prodigious step he took in refusing her admittance to -her daughter. After that there was nothing too much for him. He had -burnt his ships. When Lord and Lady Germaine arrived next morning to -bring away the bride, with some trembling on the part of the lady, but -a contemptuous certainty on that of the gentleman, that “the old -duffer,” though he had let his temper out, was not such a fool as all -that--they were refused admittance peremptorily. After they had parleyed -for some time with the man at the door,--a personage whom the Duke, -roused into energy by the position in which he found himself, had -engaged on the previous day, and who was invulnerable to all assaults -and persuasions,--the Duchess herself came to them, extremely pale, and -with difficulty preserving her composure. She had remained all night -notwithstanding the misery of the circumstances altogether, and though -she did not admit it in words, her quick-witted visitors easily -perceived that she herself had not been permitted to see her daughter. -“You will think it is medieval,” she said with a faint smile. “The Duke -is very determined when he thinks it worth while.” - -“I suppose,” said Lady Germaine, touched by the aspect of the suffering -woman, “that one does not have the blood of Merlin in one’s veins for -nothing.” - -“Merlin,” said Lord Germaine, who was very slangy, “was the old swell -who was seducted by Miss Vivien. I don’t think it would have been hard -work to get over him.” - -The Duchess stood in the doorway pale, supporting with difficulty any -levity on the subject, yet ready to put as brave a face upon it as -possible. “Give Reginald my love, and tell him it is impossible this can -last for ever,” she said. “I am sorry for him to the bottom of my heart, -and sorry for my child, but at present I cannot help even her.” - -Lady Germaine stepped within the guarded door to take the Duchess’s -hand and kiss her. “And we are so sorry for you, so indignant----” - -“Hush!” the Duchess said. “It is my fault; I should have had the courage -of my convictions. I should have gone with my child myself; the error -was mine.” - -Lady Germaine was half disposed to reply, “Oh, if you think we neglected -any precaution----” But she had not the heart to be offended. - -The pair drove away after a while considerably discomfited. “I did not -think the old duffer had so much spirit,” Lord Germaine said with secret -admiration. “I say, Nell, if you tried to marry Dolly against my will, I -wonder if I should be up to that?” - -“If there was any chance of it I should lock you up first,” said his -dutiful wife. - -“And on the edge of a smash, the greatest smash that has been since---- -Billings will have to be sold up, and all that is in it,” Lord Germaine -said thoughtfully. - -Lady Germaine showed neither surprise nor pain at this piece of news. -“What a chance for Reginald!” she said. “He can buy in all their best -things and do up Jane’s rooms at Winton like her old ones at home.” And -then she laughed and added, “He wouldn’t have those old things in his -house. Taste had not been invented when their Graces were married.” - -It was in this mood of partial hilarity that they reached their own -door, where poor Winton was waiting. However sympathetic friends may be, -the way in which they take our troubles is very different from the way -in which we ourselves take them. The Germaines, though they threw -themselves so warmly into his affairs, and had given themselves so much -trouble, had to change their aspect suddenly, to put up shutters and -draw down blinds metaphorically, as they approached the actual sufferer. -But into his misery and rage it is unnecessary to enter. He said, as was -natural, a great many things that it would have been better not to say, -and for some time after he besieged the house. He went in person, he -wrote, he communicated by means of his solicitors with the solicitors of -the Duke, whose mouths watered over the settlements he had made, which -the authorities on his own side thought ridiculous, and professed their -eagerness to do their best, but would not flatter him with any hopes of -success. “No man in his senses would reject a son-in-law like you, Mr -Winton, especially in the circumstances,” the senior partner said; “but -the Duke is the Duke, and there is nothing more to be said. We have -found him very impracticable, extremely impracticable in his own -affairs; things are looking bad for the family altogether. There is -Lord Hungerford now has some sense. He made a capital marriage -himself--you should get him on your side.” - -Winton found no great difficulty in getting Hungerford on his side. That -young nobleman was so much excited on the subject, that he even took it -upon him to speak to his father and show him how ridiculous it was. - -“You can’t make a house in Grosvenor Square like a castle in the -Apennines,” Hungerford cried; “for heaven’s sake, sir, don’t make us -ridiculous!” Lady Hungerford on her side enjoyed the whole affair -immensely. “I never realised before that I had really married into a -great house,” she said. “It’s like the ‘Family Herald.’ It’s like the -sort of nobility we understand among the lower classes, don’t you know? -not your easygoing, like-other-people kind.” And she offered to take -lessons of a locksmith so that she might be able to break open Jane’s -prison. - -To tell the truth, even suggestions of this kind, which were partially -comic and wholly theatrical, came to be entertained by Winton before his -trial was over. One of his friends seriously advised him to get an -Italian servant, used to conspiracies, smuggled into the house, in order -to deliver the captive. Another thought that rope-ladders and a midnight -descent from the window might be practicable; but a rope-ladder from a -second-floor window in Grosvenor Square would not be easy to manage, and -a wag intervened and suggested a fire-escape, which turned the whole -into ridicule. This was one of the aspects of the case, indeed, which -aggravated everything else. The whole situation, being so serious and -painful to two or three people, was, to the rest of the world, -irresistible from the comic side. People drove through Grosvenor Square -on purpose to look up at the second-floor windows: and as the -instruments began to tune up, and the feast to be set in order for the -first arrivals of society, the importance of the strange event grew -greater and greater. A new Home Secretary, and all the consequent -changes in the Cabinet, faded into nothing in comparison. “Have you -heard that Jane Altamont was half-married to Regy Winton some time in -the winter, and that odious old Duke dragged her from the very altar, -and has kept her ever since under lock and key?” Very likely it was Lady -Germaine who first put the story about, but it was taken up by everybody -with all the interest and excitement which such a tale warranted. -Further details were given that were almost incredible; to wit, that -the Duchess herself, though living in the same house, was not allowed to -see her daughter, and that Lady Jane for two months had only breathed -the fresh air through her window, and had never left the suite of rooms -in which she was confined; worse than if she had been in jail, everybody -said. But not even this was the point which most roused the popular -indignation (if we may call the indignation of the drawing-rooms -popular). Half-married! that was the terrible thought. - -The Duke paid one or two visits before the opening of Parliament. It may -be supposed that to none but very great houses indeed would his Grace -pay such an honour: and though he was not very quick to observe in -general matters, yet his sense of his own importance was so keen that it -answered for intelligence, so far as he himself was concerned. He saw -that the ladies regarded him with a sort of alarm, that even the -gentlemen after dinner showed a curiosity which was not certainly the -awed and respectful interest which he thought it natural he should -excite. And it was not long before his hostess, who was, he could not -deny, his equal, of his own rank, and of unexceptionable antecedents, -made the matter clear to him. “Duke,” she said, “of course you know I -wouldn’t for the world meddle in any one’s private affairs. But there is -such a strange story going about---- Dear Jane! We had hoped to see her -with you as well as Margaret” (Margaret was the Duchess, and a very -intimate friend of this other great, great lady); “and now neither of -them has come. But it is not possible--don’t think for a moment that I -believe it!--that this story can be true.” - -“If your Grace will kindly explain what the story is?” Our Duke, liking -due respect himself, always gave their titles to other people, according -to the golden rule. - -“I don’t like even to put it into words; that you stopped her -marriage--at the altar itself; that the dear girl is neither married nor -single; that---- But I give you pain.” - -“The statement is calculated to give me pain; but the facts, as of -course your Grace knows very well, are true. I arrived in time to -prevent my daughter from making a marriage which I disapproved.” - -“Oh, we are all liable to that,” said the great lady, letting her eyes -dwell regretfully, yet with maternal pride, upon a daughter who had been -so abandoned as to marry a clergyman, but who had produced a baby, for -whose sake the parents had forgiven its father. “Who can guard against -such a misfortune? But Beatrice, poor thing, is very happy,” she added -with a sigh. - -The Duke made her a little bow. It said a great deal. It said, if you -are so lost to every sense of what is becoming as to take it in that -way--but I should never have allowed it! He to utter sentences of this -kind, who had made himself the talk of society! “But, Duke,” she said -with spirit, taking up Nurse Mordaunt’s argument, “if the altar is not -held sacred, what will become of us? They say you stopped her when she -was saying the very words----” - -“The subject is not a very agreeable one,” said the Duke; “I cannot take -it upon me to recollect at what point they were in the service---- but -at all events, your Grace may be assured it was not too late.” - -“Oh, but it must have been too late,” cried the indignant matron. “I -heard he had said ‘I will.’ I heard he had put the ring on her finger. I -could not have believed it was true had not you said so. But you cannot -let it rest like that. Half-married! it’s wicked, you know,” her Grace -cried. - -And the other Duke, the gracious host, permitted himself, in a moment of -expansion, to say something of the same sort. “I wouldn’t interfere with -your affairs for the world,” he said; “but I hope, Billingsgate, you -don’t mean to let that sweet girl of yours lie under such a stigma----” - -“A stigma! My daughter! There is no stigma,” cried the head of the -Altamonts, growing scarlet. - -“Well, I don’t want to be a meddler: but the women say so. They are all -in a fuss about it; one hears of nothing else wherever one goes. You -will have to give in sooner or later,” said the other Duke. - -“Never!” said his Grace of Billingsgate, and he hastened his departure -from his friend’s abode. But the next house he went to the same result -was produced. There was a putting together of feminine heads, a -whispering, a direction of glances towards him, from eyes which once had -looked upon him only with awe; and after a little hesitation and beating -about the bush, the same outburst of remark. Half-married! The most -important lady in the company took him to task very seriously. “What is -to become of her? you should think of that. At present she has you to -protect her reputation. But suppose anything were to happen to you? We -are all mortal; and think of dear Jane with such a scandal against her. -People will say it is the man who has drawn back: they will say all -sorts of things; for it is inconceivable that a girl’s father, her own -father, should play with her reputation like that.” - -“Her reputation!” the Duke cried, almost with a shriek of indignation. -“My child’s reputation! Who would dare----” - -“Oh, nobody would dare,” said his assailant--“but everybody would -understand. People would make sure that there were reasons. -Half-married! There is not one of us that doesn’t feel it. Such a thing -was never heard of. Oh, you must not think you will escape it by going -away. Wherever you go you will hear the same thing. The news has gone -everywhere. Didn’t you see it in the ‘Universe’ at full length? Of -course nobody could mistake the Duke of B---- G----. Oh, I hope you will -think it over seriously, before it is too late.” - -The Duke, more angry than ever, went back to Grosvenor Square. He was -determined to face it out. Country houses are proverbially glad of a -piece of gossip to give their dull life an interest. He began to go out -into society, as much as there was at that early season, and present a -bold front to the world. His home was dull enough, with Lady Jane locked -into her room and watched, lest by craft or force she should make her -escape; her mother obstinately refusing to go out, or accompany him -anywhere; his very servants looking at him reproachfully. The butler, -who had been with him for about thirty years, and whose knowledge of -wine and of the cellars at Billings was inexhaustible, threw up his -situation; and so did the housekeeper, who was Jarvis’s wife. “I don’t -hold with no such goings-on,” Mrs Jarvis said. And when he dined with -the leader of his party (which was in opposition) Mrs Coningsby did not -wait till the conclusion of the dinner, but cried, “Duke, it cannot be -true about Lady Jane!” before he had eaten his soup. This lady treated -the subject lightly, which was more odious to him than the other way. -“Oh no, it can’t be true,” she said; “we all know that they say you -dragged her from church by the hair of her head, and snatched her hand -away when the bridegroom was putting on the ring. Mr Coningsby was in a -dreadful way about it. He said it would be such a cry at the elections; -but I told him, Nonsense! the Duke is far too fine a gentleman, I said.” -This was more difficult to answer than the other mode of assault. The -Duke became all manner of colours as he listened. “And the elections are -so near,” the lady said. “Of course the Government will not care how -false it is; they will placard it on all the walls, with a picture as -large as life. They will turn all the clergy against us. Of course, dear -Duke, of course, to people who know you so well as I do--you need not -tell _me_ that it is not true.” The Duke sat grim, and heard all this, -and did not say a word. There was a flutter in the drawing-room as he -came in: everybody looked at him as if he had been a wild beast. -“Dragged her out by the hair of her head!” he heard whispered on every -side of him, and though Mrs Coningsby still affected not to believe, the -bishop’s wife contemplated him with terrible gravity. “Oh, I hope you -will talk it over with the bishop,” she said. “He is so anxious about -it. Lady Jane was always such a favourite. I do hope you will take the -bishop’s advice. After a certain part of the service, I have always -understood it was a sin to interfere.” Later in the evening he was -mobbed by half-a-dozen ladies--there is no other word for it--mobbed and -overwhelmed with one universal cry. Half-married! Poor Lady Jane! Dear -Lady Jane! They pressed round him, each with her protestation, a soft, -yet urgent babel of voices. The poor Duke escaped at last, not knowing -how he got away. It seemed to his Grace that he had escaped out of a -mob, and that his coat must be torn and his linen frayed with the -conflict. He was astonished beyond all description; but he was likewise -appalled by the discovery that even he was not above the reach of public -opinion. It affected him against his will. He felt ashamed, uneasy, -confused even on the points where he was most sure. - -And when he came home, he went to his wife’s boudoir, where she sat -alone, to bid her good-night, which was a form he always observed, -though this event had separated them entirely. She was permitted now to -see Jane once a-day; but as she would give no promise that she would not -help her daughter to leave the house, this was the utmost that he had -granted her. She was seated alone, reading, pale and weary. She scarcely -raised her eyes when he came in, though she put down her book. The fire -was low, and there was no light in the room except the reading-lamp. The -Duke could not help feeling the difference from former times. A -temptation came upon him to throw himself upon her sympathy, and tell -her how he had been persecuted. He would have done so had it been on any -other subject, but he remembered in time that on this he had no sympathy -to expect from his wife. So he stood for a minute or two before the -fire, feeling chilled, silenced, an injured man. “No, I have not had a -pleasant evening,” he said shortly; “how should my evening be pleasant -when every one remarks your absence? I am asked if you are ill; I am -asked----” - -“Other questions, I imagine, that are still more difficult to answer.” - -“And whose fault is it?” he cried, with vehemence. “If you had taken the -steps you ought to have taken, and supported my authority, as was your -duty, there would have been no such questions to ask.” - -The Duchess turned away with some impatience; she made no reply: the -question had been often enough discussed in all its bearings. If she had -now thrown herself at his feet and begged his pardon and forbearance, -what a relief it would have been to him! He would have yielded and -saved his position, and recovered the pose of a magnanimous superior. -But the Duchess had no intention of the kind. After a while, during -which they did not look at each other, she seated gazing into the fire, -he standing staring into the vacant air, he took up his candlestick with -an air of impatience. “Good night, then,” he said, with in his turn an -air of impatience. - -“Good night,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -DELIVERANCE. - - -Lady Jane had been for two months the solitary inhabitant of those two -rooms on the second floor. Yet not altogether solitary--Nurse Mordaunt -had been allowed to join her, and had been the faithful companion of her -captivity. She was a better companion than a younger maid would have -been, for she had been a kind of second mother to Lady Jane, and knew -all her life and everything that concerned her, besides being a person -of great and varied experience, who had anecdotes and tales to -illustrate every vicissitude of life. Nurse Mordaunt was acquainted -even with parallel instances to place beside Lady Jane’s own position. -She knew every kind of thing that had ever happened “in families,” by -which familiar expression she meant great families like those to which -she had been accustomed all her life. Little families without histories -she knew nothing of. The profound astonishment which overwhelmed Lady -Jane when she found herself a prisoner it would be impossible to -describe. She felt once more as she had felt when her father insulted -her womanly delicacy and sent the blood of shame tingling to her cheeks, -shame not so much for herself as for him. Was it possible that her -father, the head of so great a house, the descendant of so many noble -ancestors, and again her father, the man to whom she had looked up with -undoubting confidence and admiration all her life--that at the end he -was no true gentleman at all, but only a sham gentleman, the shadow -without any substance, the symbol, with all meaning gone out of it? Do -not suppose that Lady Jane put this deliberately into words. Ah, no! the -thoughts we put into words do not sting us like those that glance into -our souls like an arrow, darting, wounding before we have time to put up -any shield or defence to keep them out. Deeper even than her separation -at such a moment from her lover, more bitter than her thoughts of his -disappointment, of his rage and misery, was this empoisoned thought: her -father, a great peer, a noble gentleman--yet thus suddenly showing -himself not noble at all, not true, a tyrant, without any understanding -even of the creatures whom he could oppress. Lady Jane was sad enough on -her own account and on Winton’s, it may well be believed: but of this -last wound she felt that she never could be healed. Imagine those -traditions of her rank in which she had been brought up, her proud yet -so earnest and humble sense of its obligations, the martyrdom which in -her youth she had been so ready to accept--all come down to this, that -she was a prisoner in her father’s house, locked up like a naughty -child,--she who had been trained to be the princess royal, the -representative of an ideal race! Ah, if it had but been a revolution, a -rebellion, democracy rampant, such an imprisonment as she had once been -taught to think likely! but to sink down from the grandeur of that -conception to the pettiness and bathos of this! She tried to smile to -herself sometimes, in the long days which passed so slowly, at her own -ludicrous anticipations, and at the entire futility, after all, of this -suffering to which she was being exposed. But she had not a lively -sense of humour, and could not laugh at those young dreams, which, after -all, were the highest of her life. And somehow the sense that the -present troubles could produce no possible result of the kind intended, -made her almost more impatient of them than if they had been more -dangerous. That her father could think to subdue her by such means, that -he could expect to convince her by so miserable an argument, that he -could suppose it possible that she would change for this, abandon what -she had resolved upon at the expense of all her prejudices and so many -of her better feelings, because of being shut up in two rooms for two -months, or two years, or any time he might choose to keep her there! If -she had not thought her filial duty a sufficient reason, would she be -convinced by a lock and key? Lady Jane smiled with high and silent -disdain at so extraordinary a mistake. But it was unworthy, it was -lowering to her moral dignity to be exposed to so vexatious and petty an -ordeal. At a State prison, with the block at the end, she had been -prepared to smile serenely, carrying her high faith and constancy -through even the death ordeal. But confinement in her own room was -laughable, not heroic; it made her blush that she should be exercised in -so miserable a way--in a way so impossible to bring about any result. - -Nurse Mordaunt was an excellent companion, but after a while she began -to droop and pine. She wanted the fresh air; she wanted to see her -grandchildren; she wanted, oh, imperiously beyond description! a talk, a -gossip, a little human intercourse with some one of her own kind. Lady -Jane was a darling--the sweetest of ladies; but it was a different -thing talking to that angel and chatting familiarly over things in -general with Mrs Jarvis. Nurse no more than other mortals could be kept -continuously on the higher level. She longed to unbend, to be at her -ease, to feel herself, as the French say, _chez elle_, in which -expression there is almost a more intimate well-being than in that of -being at home, which we English think so much superior. Her health -suffered, which Lady Jane would not allow that hers did; and at last, -Nurse Mordaunt made such strenuous representations on the subject to the -new servant, whose business it was to watch over the prisoners, that she -was allowed to go out. She was allowed to go out and the Duchess to come -in, two proceedings altogether contradictory of the spirit of the -confinement, and which were, indeed, a confession of failure, though the -Duke himself was unaware of it. This made a great change to the -prisoner, whose cheeks, though still pale, got a little tinge of colour -and hope in consequence. It did more for her than merely to bring her -her mother’s society, though that was much. It brought her also other -news of the outer world--news of Winton more definite than the distant -sight of him riding or walking through the Square, which he did -constantly. Now, at last, she received the budget of letters, of which -her mother’s hands were full. Lady Jane smiled and cried a little at the -entreaties her lover addressed to her to be steadfast--not to give him -up. “I wonder what they all think,” she said; “is this an argument -likely to convince one’s reason, mother, or to persuade one for love’s -sake?” She looked round upon her prison--her pretty chamber furnished -with every luxury--and laughed a little. “Is it my head or my heart -that is appealed to?” she said. This, perhaps, was too clear-sighted for -the angelic point of view from which the world in general expected Lady -Jane to view most matters. But, in fact, though she had more poetry in -her than her mother, Lady Jane had come into possession of part of her -mother’s fortune, so to speak, her sense; and that is a quality which -will assert itself. Now the Duchess, in the excitement of standing by -helpless while her daughter suffered, had come to regard the matter more -melodramatically than Lady Jane did, to suffer her feelings to get the -mastery, and to imagine a hundred sinkings of the heart and depressions -of the spirit to which the captive must be liable. She recognised the -change instinctively, for it was one which had taken place long ago in -herself. She, too, had been brought to see the paltriness of many -things that looked imposing, the futility of _les grands moyens_. Lady -Jane’s development had been slow. At twenty-eight she had been less -experienced than many a girl of eighteen. But now her eyes were opened. -Even her lover, who thought it possible that she might yield under such -persuasion, was subject to almost a passing shade of that high but -gentle disdain with which she contemplated the vulgar force to which she -was subjected; for it was vulgar, alas! though a duke was the -originator: and unspeakably weak though it was--what the French call -_brutal_--everything, in short, that a mode of action destined to affect -a sensitive, proud, and clear-seeing soul ought not to be. - -The new _régime_ had continued but a short time when Nurse Mordaunt -returned one day from her walk with heightened colour and great -suppressed excitement. Something, it was evident, was in her mind quite -beyond the circle of her usual thoughts; but she talked less, not more, -than usual, and left her lady free to read over and over the last -letters, and to refresh her heart with all the raptures of her lover’s -delight in having again found the means of communicating with her after -the misery of six weeks of silence and complete separation. Something he -said of a speedy end of all difficulties, which Lady Jane took but -little thought of, being far more interested in the reunion with -himself, which his letters brought about. A speedy end: no doubt an end -would come some time; but at present the prisoner was not so sanguine as -those outside. She did not know the gallant stand which the ladies were -making, or the social state of siege which had been instituted in -respect to the Duke; and she sighed, but smiled, at Winton’s hope. All -went on as usual during the long, long evening. It was long, though it -was provided with everything calculated to make it bearable--books and -the means of writing, writing to _him_--which was far more amusing and -absorbing than any other kind of composition. Her fire was bright, her -room full of luxurious comfort--a piano in it, and materials for a dozen -of those amateur works with which time can be cheated out of its length. -But she sighed and wearied, as was natural, notwithstanding the -happiness of having her lover’s letters, and of having talked with her -mother, and of knowing as she did that some time or other this must come -to an end. “After all, nurse,” she said with a little laugh, as she -prepared for bed, “to be in prison is not desirable. I should like to -have a run in the woods at Billings, or even a walk in Rotten Row.” - -“Yes, dear,” said nurse, leaning over her, “your ladyship shall do -better than that. Oh yes, my sweet, better days are coming. Don’t you -let down your dear heart.” - -“No; that would not do much good,” Lady Jane said with a sigh: but she -did not remark, which was strange, that nurse was full of a secret, and -that a delightful secret, exultingly dwelt upon, and ready to burst out -at the least encouragement. Or perhaps she did perceive it, but was too -tired to draw it forth. And she gave no encouragement to further -disclosure, but went to her rest sighing, with a longing to be free, -such as since the first days of her imprisonment she had not felt -before. And she could not sleep that night. Lady Jane was not of a -restless nature. She did not toss about upon her pillows and make it -audible that she was sleepless: and she had much to occupy her thoughts, -so many things that were pleasant, as well as much that it hurt her to -contemplate. She put the hurtful things away and thought of the sweet, -and lay there in the darkness of the winter’s night, lighted and calmed -by sweet thought. When it was nearly morning, at the darkest and -chilliest moment of all, there came a rustling and soft movement, which, -however, did not alarm her, since it came from Nurse Mordaunt’s room. -Then she perceived dimly, in the faint light from an uncurtained window, -a muffled figure, with which indeed she was very familiar, being no -other than that of nurse herself in a dressing-gown and nightcap, with a -shawl huddled about her throat and shoulders, stealing round the room. -What was nurse doing at this mysterious hour? But Lady Jane was not -afraid. She was rather glad of the incident in the long monotony of the -night. She turned her head noiselessly upon her pillow to watch. But -the surprise of Lady Jane was great at the further operations of her -attendant. Nurse arranged carefully and noiselessly a small screen -between the door and the bed, then with great precaution struck a light -and began with much fumbling and awkwardness to operate upon the door. -What was she doing? The light, throwing a glimmer upward from behind the -screen, revealed her face full of anxiety, bent forward towards the lock -of the door, upon which many scratches and ineffectual jars as of tools -badly managed soon became audible. The candle threw a portentous waving -shadow, over the further wall and roof, of the old woman’s muffled -figure, and betrayed a succession of dabs and misses at the door which -Lady Jane for a long time could not understand. What did it mean? The -noise increased as nurse grew nervous over her failure. She hurt her -fingers, she pursed her mouth, she contracted her brows; it was work -that demanded knowledge and delicate handling, but she had neither. When -Lady Jane raised herself noiselessly on her arm, and said in her soft -voice, “What are you doing, nurse?” the poor woman dropped the tools -with a dull thump on the floor, and almost went down after them in her -vexation. “Oh, my lady, I can’t! I can’t do it, I’m that stupid!” She -wept so that Lady Jane could scarcely console her, or understand her -explanation. At last it came out by degrees that the tools had been -given her, with many injunctions and instructions, to break open the -lock of the door. “By whom?” Lady Jane demanded, with a deep blush and -sparkling eyes. Why she should have felt so keen a flash of indignation -at her lover for thinking of such an expedient is inscrutable, but at -the moment it seemed to her that she could never forgive Winton for such -an expedient. But it was Lady Germaine who was the offender, and Lady -Jane was pacified. She bound up nurse’s finger, and sent her off -summarily to bed. Then, it must be allowed, she herself looked upon the -tools long and anxiously with shining eyes. It seemed to her that it -would be fighting her father with his own weapons. It would be as -unworthy of her to get her freedom that way, as it was of him to make a -prisoner of her. Would it be so? Lady Jane’s heart began to beat, and -her brow to throb. Would it be so? The mere idea that she held her -freedom in her hand filled her whole being with excitement. She locked -them away into a little cabinet which stood near her bed. She was too -tremulous, too much excited by the mere possibility, to be able to think -at all. - -That night had been a very exciting one for the Duke. Again he had been -the centre of a demonstration. It did not seem to him that he could turn -anywhere without hearing these words, “Half-married,” murmuring about. -This time it was at the house of the Lord Chancellor that the _émeute_ -occurred. A very distinguished lady was the chief guest: not indeed the -most distinguished personage in the realm, but yet so near as to draw -inspiration from that fountain-head. She said, “We could not believe -it,” as Mrs Coningsby had said; but naturally with far more force. “I am -afraid you are not of your age, Duke.” - -“There is little that is desirable in the age, madam, that any one -should be of it,” his Grace replied with dignity. Here he felt himself -on safe ground. - -“Ah, but we cannot help belonging to it: and it is for persons of rank -to show that they can lead it, not to be driven back into antiquity. -All that is over,” said the gracious lady. The Duke bowed to the ground -as may be supposed. “Lady Jane I hope will appear at the Drawing-Room -_on her marriage_,” his distinguished monitress said as she passed on. -The emphasis was unmistakable. And how that silken company enjoyed it! -They had all gathered as close as possible, and lent their keenest ear. -And there was a whisper ran round that this was indeed the way in which -royalty should take its place in society. As for the Duke, he stumbled -out of these gilded halls, more confused and discomfited than ever duke -was. He did not sleep much more than Lady Jane did all that long and -dark night. What was he to do? Must he _Give In_? These words seemed to -be written upon the book of fate. Relinquish his prejudices, his -principles, all the traditions of his race--retrace his steps, own -himself in error, undo what he had done? No! no! no! a thousand times -no! But then there seemed to come round him again that rush of velvet -feet, that sheen of jewelled brows, the look with which the central -figure waved her lily hand---- The Duke felt his forehead bedewed with -drops of anguish. How could he stand out against that? he, the most -loyal of subjects, and one whose example went so far? If he set himself -in opposition, who could be expected to obey? He thought of nothing else -all night, and it was the first thing which occurred to him when he woke -in the morning. What to do? He was tired of it all, all, and tired of -other things too, if he could have been brought to confess it. His heart -was sore, and his soul fatigued beyond measure. He had not even his wife -to lean the weight of his cares upon, and everything was going wrong. -He could now at last feel the sweep of the current moving towards -Niagara. It bore him along, it carried him off his feet. Ruin at hand: -he would not allow himself even now to believe in it--but in his heart -was aware that it was ruin. And this other matter in the foreground, -occupying the thoughts which had so many other claims upon them! The -reader will feel with us that the subject is too sacred, otherwise there -is enough to fill a volume of the Duke’s self-communings, and perplexed, -distressful thoughts. He got up in the morning, still half-dazed, not -knowing what to do. But in his heart the Duke was aware he was beaten. -There was no more fight in him. He swallowed his breakfast dolefully, -and sat down in his vast, cheerless library by himself to settle what he -was to do, when--But for this we must go back a little in the record of -the family affairs. - -Lady Jane had begun the day with a sense of underlying excitement, which -she covered with her usual calm, but which was not her usual calm. She -had the means of escape in her power. She said nothing to nurse, who, -subdued by her failure, and crushed by her lady’s first flash of -indignation, effaced herself as much as possible, and left Lady Jane in -the room which looked out upon the Square, which was her dressing-room -(nominally) and sitting-room, undisturbed. Lady Jane could not forget -that the tools were in that little carved cabinet, which, never in the -course of its existence, had held anything of such serious meaning -before. She could not keep them out of her mind. To use them might be -unworthy of her, a condescension, putting herself on the same level as -her tyrant; but after all, to think that the means were in her power! -Lady Jane was very well aware that, once outside that door, her -captivity was over. It was a thing that could not be repeated. Once upon -the staircase, in the passage, and all the world was free to her. When -you think of that after two months’ imprisonment, it is hard to keep the -excitement out of your pulses. At last it overcame her so much that she -got up, half-stealthily, timidly, and went to the door to examine the -lock, and see whether, by the light of nature, she could make out what -was to be done. It had been closed not long before to permit of the exit -of the maid who carried their meals to the prisoners. The tools were in -the cabinet, and in all likelihood Lady Jane would be as maladroit with -those poor small white hands of hers as nurse had been. She went to the -door and examined the lock closely. All at once something occurred to -her which made her heart jump. She took hold of the handle, it turned in -her hand. Another moment and she flung it open with a little cry of -terror and triumph. Open! and she free, out of her prison. It was but -one step, but that step was enough. Her amazement was so great that it -turned to something like consternation. She stepped out on to the -landing, which was somewhat dark on this February morning: and there she -paused. She was a woman born to be a heroine, one of the Quixotic race. -She paused a moment, holding her head high, and reflected. This must -have been an accident: for once the jailer had made a mistake, had slept -upon his post, had turned the key amiss. Was it good enough to take -advantage of a mistake, to save herself by the slip of a servant? She -hesitated, this spiritual descendant of the great Spanish cavalier, -that noblest knight. But then Lady Jane’s sense came in. She was aware -that now, at this moment, she was delivered,--that no force in the world -could put her again within that door. She gathered the long skirt of her -black gown in her hand, and slowly, stately, not like a fugitive, like -the princess she was, went down-stairs. - -The Duke was in his library thinking what to do, and the Duchess--in her -morning-room, with her heart greatly fluttered by that little royal -speech, which had been reported to her already--sat with, strange to -say, only half a thought of Jane, looking in the face that other dark -and gloomy thing,--the ruin that was approaching. She had palpable -evidence of it before her, and knew that it was now a matter of weeks, -perhaps of days, so that though her heart, like an agitated sea after -the storm, was still heaving with the other emotion, her thoughts for -the moment had abandoned Jane. But the Duke’s mind was full of his -daughter. He would have to _Give In_! Look at it how he would, he saw no -escape for that. “The women,” as Lord Germaine in his slangy way -prophesied, “had made it too hot for him,” and royalty itself--clearly -he could not put his head out of his door, or appear in the society of -his peers again, till this was done. But how was it to be done? To make -his recantation in the eye of day, in the sight even of his household, -was more than he could calmly contemplate. It was no longer, What was he -to do? but, How was he to do it? that was in his mind. He had got up, -unable to keep still, and feeling that some step must be taken at once. -When---- - - * * * * * - -We had already got this length on a previous page. At this memorable -crisis, when all the world seemed to his consciousness to be standing -still to see what he would do, the door of the library was pushed slowly -open from without. The doors in Grosvenor Square did not squeak and -mutter like the wizards in the Old Testament, as our doors so often do, -but rolled slowly open, majestically, without sound. This was what -happened while the Duke stood still, something within him seeming to -give way, his heart fluttering as if what he expected was a visitor from -the unseen. He stood with his eyes opening wide, his lips apart. Was it -a deputation from Mayfair? was it the royal lady herself? was it---- It -was something more overwhelming, more miraculous than any of these. It -was Lady Jane. The reader is already aware who was coming, but the Duke -was not aware. He gasped at her with speechless astonishment, as if she -had been indeed a visitor from the unseen. - -She was very pale after her long incarceration, and the hollow, alas! -very visible on her delicate cheek. She was dressed in a long, soft -cashmere gown, black, with an air of having fitted her admirably once, -but which now was too loose for her, as could be seen. But though she -was thin and pale, she held her head high, and there was a sort of smile -in the look with which she regarded her father. Hers was indeed the -triumph. She was too high-minded, too proud to fly. She came into the -room, and closed the door with a sort of indignant stateliness. “I have -come to tell you,” she said, “that by some accident or misadventure my -door was found unlocked this morning, and I have left my prison.” She -held her head high, and he bowed and crouched before her. But yet, had -she but known, her own relief and ecstasy of freedom was nothing to her -father’s. It was as if the load of a whole universe had been taken off -his shoulders. - -“This is Martin’s fault,” he said; “the fellow shall be dismissed at -once. Jane, you will believe me or not as you please, but I had meant to -come myself and open the door to you to-day.” - -He dropped down into a chair all weak and worn, and held his head in his -hands: his nerves now more shattered than her own. It was all he could -do to keep himself from bursting like a woman into tears. - -“You surely do not imagine that I could doubt what you say? I am glad, -very glad, that it was so----” she said, her voice melting. He was her -father still, and she was not guiltless towards him. “I wish that I had -waited till you came,” she said. - -“Yes;” he seized eagerly upon this little advantage. “I wish that you -had waited till I came: but it was not to be expected. I do not say that -it was to be expected.” Then he hoisted himself by his hands pressing -upon the table, and looked at her. “Bless me,” he said, “how thin you -are, and how pale!--is this--is this my doing? Gracious! shut up so -long, poor girl!--I suppose you must hate me, Jane?” - -Lady Jane went up to him holding out her hands. “Father, I have sinned -against you too. Forgive me!” she cried, too generous not to take upon -herself the blame; and so the father and daughter kissed each other, he -crying like a child, she like a mother supporting him. Such a moment had -never been in the Duke’s long life before. - -And we are bound to allow that neither the Duchess, who was his faithful -wife, nor Winton, always ready to appreciate the noble sentiments of -Lady Jane, could ever understand the fulness of this reconciliation. It -is to be hoped that the reader will comprehend better. They were too -resentful and indignant to resume their old relations in a moment as if -nothing had happened, which Lady Jane did with perhaps more tenderness -than before. But into this question there is no time to enter. When Lady -Jane went in softly, as if she had left her mother half an hour before, -into the morning-room, the Duchess flung away her papers with a great -cry, and rushed upon her daughter, clasping her almost fiercely, looking -over her shoulder with all the ferocity of a lioness in defence of her -offspring. She would have ordered the carriage at once to take Lady Jane -away, or even have gone with her on the spot, on foot or in a cab, to a -place of safety: but Lady Jane would not hear of any such proceeding. -She calmed her mother, as she had soothed her father, and in an hour’s -time Winton was in that little room, which suddenly was turned into -Paradise. He had been carrying about with him all this time a special -licence ready for use, and as everything can be done at a moment’s -notice in town, even in February, Lady Jane Altamont, attended by a -small but quite sufficient train, and before a whole crowd of excited -witnesses, was married next morning at St George’s, Hanover Square, like -everybody else of her degree. Needless to say that there was in the -‘Morning Post’ next morning, as well as in most of the other papers, an -account of the ceremony, with a delicate hint of difficulties, -unnecessary to enter into, which had gone before. This was read by many -who understood, and by a great many more who did not understand; but -nowhere with greater excitement than in the rectory-house of St -Alban’s, E.C., where Mrs Marston took the fashionable paper, poor lady, -because in that wilderness she was so out of the way of everything. She -rushed in upon her husband in his study (who had just seen it in the -‘Standard’ with feelings which are indescribable) with the broadsheet in -her hand. “Listen to this, William,” she cried solemnly; “didn’t I tell -you it was none of our business to meddle! and your fine Duke, whom you -were so anxious to be serviceable to, and that never said thank you---- -But I told you what you had to expect,” Mrs Marston cried. - - - - - -THE FUGITIVES. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -Helen Goulburn was sitting alone in the great drawing-room of her -father’s country-house on an evening in October. It had been very sultry -during the day, and the great heat had ended in a thunderstorm and -torrents of rain. Now all the tumult and commotion of the elements were -over. The night was cool and fresh. The great windows were open to the -unseen garden, from which a sweetness of honeysuckle and mignonnette -and late roses came in upon every breath of the fitful night air. The -room was an immense room, far too large for a solitary occupant. She and -her lamp and her white dress made a lightness in one corner; the rest of -the huge drawing-room was faintly lighted with candles, of which there -were regiments about on the walls, reflected vaguely from mirrors here -and there, on tables and consoles and cabinets,--but yet not enough to -give anything like light to the vast shadowy room, which was full of -everything that is rich and rare--of everything at least that the -highest price could buy or the best workmen produce. The windows, a long -line of them, all draped in that shadowy whiteness, stood open, as has -been said. Most girls of Helen’s age would have been afraid to sit all -alone, with so many windows opening on to a lawn, which in its turn -swept downwards into the park, at so late an hour. Sometimes the lace -curtains swayed in the night wind as if put aside by a shadowy hand. It -was difficult to keep the imagination from developing some stealthy -figure half hidden in the drapery, some one coming in, out of the -darkness outside. The house was full of wealth, and the temptations to a -sudden raid might have been many. When the branches swayed in the night -air, bringing down a shower of raindrops, or some twig cracked, or one -of the mysterious noises of which darkness is always full, broke the -absolute quiet--any one of those sounds, which yet were scarcely -definite sounds at all, might have conveyed a tremor to the lonely -occupant of all this mystic space and solitude. But Helen sat unmoved. -She was used to the vacant bigness of the great house, often inhabited -by only herself and her little sister, and a crowd of servants. She had -been in the hands of a governess till very lately, and in the routine of -lessons and the certainty that a schoolgirl was not likely to be -interrupted by visitors, had escaped all consciousness of the isolation -of the great house. It was the most splendid in the county, surrounded -by a beautiful park, embosomed in great trees. When Mr Goulburn bought -it from the decaying proud family to whom its glories belonged, Fareham -was already a noble place; and he had added greatly to it, had built out -a room here and a room there, and enlarged it with every extravagance of -convenience that lavish wealth could think of. He had built and -decorated in the most costly way the splendid room in which his daughter -was sitting; he had fitted out for her a suite of rooms worthy of a -princess; the very servants were lodged as half the well-to-do people in -England would have been glad to be lodged. Outside, in the darkness of -the summer night, full of dew and rain and soft fragrance, were acres of -flower-beds and conservatories, tended by a regiment of gardeners. - -But notwithstanding all this splendour, the county looked very shyly on -the new member of its sacred and select society. He had brought very -good introductions, and he gave such dinners as were not to be had -within a hundred miles. The Duke called, an honour scarcely less than -royal condescension; but the surrounding gentry showed no enthusiasm in -following that example. Helen was then still in the school-room, which -furnished the ladies with a very good excuse; but even after the ball, -which was given on the occasion of her coming out, and which certified -that event to all the world, no genial circle of neighbours collected -round her. Even her youth, her solitude, her motherless and friendless -condition, did not call forth the sympathy of the county people. Never -was girl more solitary. Her governess, who it had been arranged was to -stay with her as chaperon, had married suddenly the widowed vicar of the -parish, and deserted her not long before the period of which we speak: -and she was left alone, the mistress of the wealthiest, most barren, and -splendid house in all the district. She had crowds of servants to do -whatever she bade--carriages, horses, whatever, as the servants’ hall -said, heart could desire--but no friends. Little Jane, her little -sister, was the offspring of a marriage which her father had made -“abroad,” and of which, except this child, no trace existed. It was -only on his return with the baby, six years before, that his -extraordinary wealth had shown itself. Before that period Helen had been -left at a school in the country--but not in this part of the -country--where she had been happy enough with her companions. But when -her father returned from “abroad,” everything had been changed for her. -An _ayah_ had brought the baby home, and Helen had first become aware of -the existence of a little sister when she saw a big pair of dark eyes -gleaming out of the palest of little faces over the dusky nurse’s -shoulder. She had been taken away from her school from that day, and -ever since had lived the life of a princess, waited upon by innumerable -servants, and living in luxurious houses. But her father had always -lived the life of a bachelor, notwithstanding his possession of these -two daughters. His friends had been all men. There were great dinners -now and then; and occasionally Helen had seen through an open door a -glimpse of a long splendid table laden with plate and crystal, and -baskets of fruit and flowers, where her father’s friends were being -entertained. But no ladies had come to the house, nor, after the -childish companions of her school, had she had any friends in her new -magnificence, except Miss Temple, who had been very good to her, and -whose departure had brought a poignant sensation of loss into the girl’s -mind. It was almost the only keen feeling she had ever known. She had -come into society with something of the bewildered, uncertain vision of -a creature bred in the darkness, who is dazzled and confused rather than -delighted by the light. The people who came to the ball had been as -figures in a dream to her. The whole scene was like something in the -theatre. She was scarcely aware that she was herself not a spectator, -but an actor in it, walking about mechanically among the guests, making -her mechanical curtsey when her father brought up now one strange face, -now another. - -And after that one ball, silence had fallen again upon Fareham. The -porter at the lodge received sheaves of cards, and some carriages even -penetrated through the grand avenue to the hall door; but no one entered -the house. Doubtless there were some hearts in those carriages in which -there vibrated some touch of pity for the millionaire’s shy, motherless, -inexperienced daughter. But the county was wonderfully intact, and its -gentry had made up their minds to discourage the advent of Money among -them. A few years of perseverance would no doubt have made an end of -that irrational notion; but in the meantime they distrusted Mr -Goulburn. He was far too rich; it was insolent of a man who, so far as -any one knew, was nobody, to be richer than all the squires put -together. A ball in such a house might be tolerated. It was like a -public ball; you took your own party (for in this respect the -invitations were most liberal), and, save that one of your men had to -sacrifice himself to ask the girl of the house to dance once, you kept -yourselves to yourselves, as you did at the ball for the hospital or any -other subscription assembly. This was what the county people said. And -as for Helen, she was often dull, but she had not learned to blame -anybody for her dulness. She thought it a law of nature--it was no one’s -fault. - -All this explanation is to show how it was that Helen found nothing -unusual in her own position, alone in this great dim room, with all the -windows open. The windows always were open, except in the depth of -winter. The darkness without had no dangers for her; it never occurred -to her that any strange apparition might disturb her solitude. She liked -the stillness, the night air, the fragrance from the garden. Though she -usually went to bed early, yet on this night she was not sleepy. She was -reading a novel; that was one of the luxuries which her father provided -regularly. She had not read many books that were worth reading, but of -novels all kinds. When the butler came softly into the room, with the -intention of closing up the house for the night, she stopped him. - -“Are you going to sit up to-night, Brownlow?” she said. - -“Yes, Miss Goulburn, as usual on Saturdays, till the last train comes -in,” the man replied. - -“Then leave the windows open a little longer.” - -“Yes, Miss Goulburn,” he said. But he did not go away forthwith; he -extinguished the candles on the distant tables and in the sconces, -moving like a shadow (though he was very substantial) in that elegant -desert of costly furniture, until finally Helen’s figure in her white -dress, lit up by her lamp, became the one definite point in the -darkness. She was at some distance from the windows, in the winter -corner near the fireplace, now all dark. Everything was dark except that -one spot. The soft and almost stealthy closing of the door was all that -testified to Brownlow’s departure; he had become invisible before. In -the great stillness his soft and regular step, subdued and respectful, -as a good servant’s ought to be, yet stately, was heard retiring, thick -though the carpets were and closely fitting every door. He went away -through those softly carpeted corridors and across the great marble hall -to his own part of the house. And once more absolute silence and -solitude abode with Helen. The night air came in softly, swaying the -curtains; sometimes a bough creaked, a long tendril of some creeping -plant shook out a few rain-drops, a moth dashed against the panes. No -other sound in heaven or earth. And Helen in her white dress gave a -heart to the darkness. All alone, no one near her, yet not afraid! - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -What was it that stirred? - -Scarcely a sound at all--not half so definite as the cracking of the -twigs, the boom of the night moth against the window; yet it affected -Helen as those sounds never did. When it had occurred twice she raised -her head. It was nothing, and yet---- Again! What was it? Though you -would not call it a sound, it made the air thrill as no sound of the -inanimate ever does. She looked up, but the light of her own lamp -blinded her. She could scarcely see beyond its charmed circle. Then a -slight jar succeeded to the soft pressure, as of a human foot upon the -turf. A sound that conveys purpose and energy, how different is it from -the aimless noises of nature! She rose up in great, though restrained -alarm, with a cry almost on her lips. Then Helen reflected that all the -servants were far away, that a scream would not help her much; and -though her heart beat wildly, almost taking from her both sight and -hearing, she still could, after a sort, both hear and see. She stood up, -closely drawn against the wall, looking out with puckered eyelids. Then -a hand stole between the curtains of the nearest window: they were -pushed aside, and a dark figure showed itself, at first -indistinguishable, a something merely, an emblem of mystery and danger. -Helen’s scream got vent, but in a low cry only of fright and dismay. -Then all at once the fluttering of her heart stopped, her pulses -regained their steadiness. - -“Papa!” she said, “oh, how you have frightened me! Why didn’t you come -in the other way?” It was a great relief, for her terror had been all -the greater that she had never experienced any visionary alarms before, -and her imagination was unprepared. She put out her hand to the bell, “I -will ring for Brownlow----” - -Her father did not leave her time even for another word. He sprang -forward and caught her arm. “Don’t do anything of the kind,” he said. “I -want no Brownlow. I am going again immediately. I want no one. I don’t -wish it to be known that I have been here.” - -It was certainly her father, but not the placid, prosperous, moneyed man -she knew. His coat, which was of a rough kind she had never seen him -wear before, was beaded with rain. His face was pale and haggard; his -dress bore traces of mud, as if he had scrambled over ditches; his boots -were wet and clogged with the damp soil. She looked at him with a terror -she could not express, and he looked at her with a somewhat stern -inquiry in his eyes. - -“But you are wet: you want--dinner--something?” she faltered. “Shall I -run and bid them bring----” - -He shook her slightly, still holding her arm. “Are you good for -anything?” he said. “Have you any stuff in you? Now is the time to test -it. Go and get that white rag off. Put on your darkest dress, and come -with me.” - -“Come with you? To-night, papa?” - -He gave her a slight shake again. “It will neither be to-night or any -other night if you make so much noise. What are you capable of, Helen? -Are you able to be quick, and silent, and brave? Can I rely upon -you?--if not, say so; but make up your mind, for there is not a moment -to lose.” - -She grew whiter than her white dress, and looked at him with gleaming, -wide-open eyes. She had read of appeals like this, but she could not -remember how the heroines responded. She said, faltering, “I can be -quick, and quiet, papa.” - -“That is all that is necessary; but we have not a moment’s time to lose. -No one must know that I have been here. I shall go out again outside the -window and wait for you. Go up to my room, to the little Italian cabinet -near my bed, on the right hand. You know it, and you know how to open -the secret drawer? Here is the key: bring me a little portfolio, a sort -of letter-case you will find in it. Stop; that is not all. Change your -dress and put on thick boots, and a cloak, and a veil. Then go and -bring Janey----” - -“Janey! papa? She has been in bed for hours.” - -“Did I say she was not in bed? Take up the child out of her bed, wrap -her in something, and bring her down-stairs. You can surely carry that -little thing down-stairs. After that I’ll take charge of her myself.” - -“But, papa, Janey! she is so little. If I wake her she will cry.” - -“Not she! But why wake her at all? Lift her, and wrap her in something -warm; she need not be awoke. My poor little Janey! I can’t go without my -Janey,” he said to himself. - -Helen scarcely knew what she was saying in her consternation and -surprise. “If you are going anywhere, papa, and want to take Janey--at -this hour--would it not be best to order the brougham?” - -“Would it not be best to order a coach and six, with half-a-dozen fools -to draw it?” he said savagely. Just then some far-off sounds were -audible, some one moving in the silence of the house. Mr Goulburn made a -hurried step towards the window. Then paused and said in a half-whisper, -which he seemed to try to make kind, “Let me see what mettle you are -made of, Helen. Do what I have told you without betraying -yourself--without attracting any one’s attention. Show what you are good -for, once in your life.” - -He disappeared, and Helen stood for a moment like one in a dream. Was it -a dream? and would she awake?--or had the rest of her life been a dream -to which this was the awaking? She felt that her father was watching her -from behind the white mist of the curtains, and that she dared not -delay. She went up-stairs mechanically. The huge house lay silent like -an enchanted palace. On Saturdays it was always possible that the master -might not return until the late train, and it was common for the great -household of servants, badly ruled and prodigal, to hold a sort of -domestic saturnalia on that night. Faint sounds of fun and frolic were -to be heard from the servants’ hall--very faint, for Brownlow had a -sense of his responsibilities--and all the guardians of the place were -out of the way. Helen went up, unseen and solitary, to her father’s room -and her own. She did what he had told her--changed her own dress, and -took the Russia leather letter-case, which was full apparently of -papers, out of the secret drawer of the cabinet. But there she paused; -the other part of the mission was more difficult; and Helen stood still -again, with a beating heart, outside the door of little Janey’s nursery, -where the nurse certainly ought to be, even if all the other servants -were off duty. What should she do if the nurse were there? Her mission -was difficult enough without that. When Helen went in, however, to the -luxurious rooms appropriated to her little sister, no nurse was visible. -The child of the millionaire slept, unwatched, like the child of the -poorest clerk. A faint night-light burnt in the inner room. There were -acres of stairs and corridors between little Janey and the highly paid -functionary who was supposed to be devoted to her body and soul. She -might have died of fright before any one could have heard her cry. Helen -stood, breathless, at the foot of the little bed in which Janey lay fast -asleep. She thought she had never realised before what perfect rest was, -or the beauty of the child who lay with her pretty round arms thrown -above her head, rosy with sleep and warmth, her soft breathing making a -little murmurous cadence in the stillness. How can I have the heart to -wake her? Helen said to herself; a new sentiment, half tenderness, half -fear, seemed to awaken in her heart. To wake the little one to this -hurried incomprehensible night journey seemed terrible--yet somehow -Helen felt a reluctant conviction that Janey would adapt herself to the -adventure better than she herself should. The child’s sleep, however, -was so profound, and there was something so contrary to all the -prejudices of education in waking her up at that hour, that only the -thought of her father’s severe and haggard countenance kept Helen to her -errand. She had even turned away to go back to him--to say that she -could not do it--when the greater evil of having to return again, and -of, perhaps, meeting nurse next time, prevailed. She got a warm little -pelisse, with many capes--a piquant little Parisian garment, which had -tantalised all the mothers in the district--out of its drawer, and put -the little shoes ready. Then she bent over her small sister and called -her. “Janey, wake up, wake up; papa wants you. Wake up; we are to go -with him if you are quiet and don’t cry.” - -The child sat up in her bed, awake all at once, with big, dark eyes, -opening like windows in her pale face. “I am not doing to cry,” she -said, and stared at her sister through the gloom, which was faintly -illuminated by the night-lamp. Janey was, as Helen had anticipated, much -more at home in the emergency than she was. She woke up in a moment, as -children do, not with a margin of bewilderment and confusion such as is -common to us--but wide awake, with all her little intelligence fresh -and on the alert. - -“What is it? what is it, Helen?” - -“I don’t know; but you are to go down to papa. You are to be quiet; you -are not to cry. We are going with him.” - -“Where? where?” - -“I don’t know,” said Helen, ready to weep with the strange and wild -confusion, the sense of misery and wretchedness which was involved to -her in this overthrowal of all habits, this sudden secrecy and adventure -in the dark. But little Janey clapped her hands. It was a delightful -novelty to the child. She pulled on her stockings on her own small pink -feet, her eyes dancing with pleasure and excitement. No need to carry -her down asleep, as Helen with terror and doubt of her own powers had -feared. - -“You must be quiet; you must be quiet--not to let the servants know,” -the elder sister whispered. - -“I am doing to be quiet,” said the little girl, delighted with the -mystery. She thrust her big doll into her bed, and covered it carefully, -while Helen, not knowing what she did, picked up various fugitive -articles, half-consciously, and put them into the pockets of the ulster -which she had put on. - -“Be dood, baby, and keep my little bed warm till I come back,” sang -little Janey. - -“Oh, hush, hush! you are to be quiet--you are to be quiet,” Helen said. - -They crept down the great stairs like two ghosts, fantastic little -shadows, so unlike anything that could have been expected on that grand -staircase at that hour. But they met no one. The sounds from the -servants’ hall were a little more audible as the evening went on. The -master was absent, the master’s daughter too shy and timid, even had she -heard them, to take any notice. The hours of licence were approaching -when even Mr Brownlow relaxed the bonds of discipline. As these sounds -reached them, little Janey clasped her sister’s hand tighter. But it was -the sense of a mischievous escapade, not of a mysterious calamity, which -was in her mind. - -“What will Nursey say?” the child said with a low laugh. - -Even the whisper frightened Helen. The lights flared in all those vacant -passages, but gloom lurked in every corner; the great rooms were all -dark and empty: not a living being, not a sound of habitation was in the -magnificent costly place, except the squeak of the footman’s violin, the -far-off laughter of the servants--so much for so little! Amid all the -confusion and terror of the moment, Helen always recollected the vacant -lighted staircase, the hall with its marble pillars, the vast darkness -of the dining-room standing open--not a creature near, except those two -helpless creatures equipped for flight; but on the other hand, the -servants’ merry-making, and the squeak of the fiddle painfully -scratching out a popular tune. They paused to listen for one moment, -holding their breath. Then they went into the drawing-room, where -Helen’s lamp was still burning close to the wall, making the darkness -visible. Her book was still lying open on the table. She had left the -heroine at a painful crisis, but it was not so terrible as this. - -Helen closed the door behind her with great precautions, and Janey, a -little frightened at the dark, clung to her closely. - -“Where is papa? I don’t see papa,” cried the child. - -“Oh, hush, hush!” said Helen, frightened by the sound of her voice. - -He was standing behind the curtains waiting for them. - -“How long you have been!” he said to her in a low, stern voice; but he -opened his arms to the child. “My little Janey--my little darling!” he -said, bending down on his knees to bring himself within her reach. Janey -clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him, with open-mouthed -childish kisses. - -“Where are you doing to take me, papa?” she said, her dark eyes dancing -with excitement. He raised himself up, holding her closely clasped to -his breast, and carried her out into the night. - -What a strange night-walk it was--through the country lanes, all heavy -and muddy after the storm, and dark as the darkest midnight; brushing -against the rustling, thorny hedges, stumbling over heaps of stones, -through the pools at the roadside, and upon the slippery grass; here and -there crossing a stile at haphazard, with no guide but instinct; here -stealing past a cottage, shrinking from the lamps of the doctor’s gig, -which threw a suspicious light upon them. Helen, following, dragging her -weary feet through the muddy ways, holding up the long skirts not -intended for such usage in her arms, her veil over her face, felt -herself shrink, too, when the light flashed upon them. But who could -have supposed that it was the master of Fareham and his children that -were out there in the muddy lanes? Once at the turnpike, where they were -all as well known as the day, her father, whom she always saw before -her, a vague, dark shadow with the child in his arms, replied in a -gruff feigned voice, with a fictitious country accent, which gave Helen -a sharp shock, to the good-night of the gatekeeper. To avoid notice was -one thing, to tell a practical lie was another. This, in the midst of -her confused wretchedness, gave her a painful prick of sensation. Janey -in her excitement had begun to prattle at first, but had been summarily -silenced by her father, and now drooped upon his shoulder fast asleep, -her face half hidden in the rough collar of his coat. Between the other -two not a word passed. Helen was too miserable and too much bewildered -to ask any questions; she followed submissively. - -The little station was within about a mile of Fareham, but a mile is -long when trudged through mud and rain by unaccustomed feet, in a gloomy -night, and with a heavy heart. A late train going express to town which -otherwise would have scorned this little station, had been arranged to -stop there for the convenience of the man of business, the well-known Mr -Goulburn, whose affairs were on too colossal a scale to be managed by -the ordinary means of communication open to everybody. Sometimes he had -special parcels to send by the guard: sometimes a clerk who had “run -down” for some special directions, or an associate acting with him on -some great city board, whose time was too valuable to permit the loss of -a moment, took advantage of this train; and sometimes he himself, -jumping into a dogcart the moment the latest guest had departed after a -sumptuous dinner, had rushed up to town by it. The station-master and -the porters were like his own servants, and the whole place all but kept -for his convenience. He crept up to it now, keeping carefully in the -shadow, out of the glare of its poor paraffin lamps. - -“Keep yourself muffled up, and your veil down, and go and get the -tickets,” Mr Goulburn said, in the low and peremptory tone in which he -had throughout addressed Helen. She went without a word; she who had -never in her life done any such thing for herself. The clerk peered at -her through his wicket; the solitary porter stared as she stood alone on -the little platform. She was left there by herself until the train came -up, and the three persons who formed the _personnel_ of the station had -nothing to do but to stare at her, and ask about the luggage which she -did not possess. When the train stopped with its usual little fret and -commotion, Mr Goulburn suddenly came forward and plunged into an empty -carriage. His high coat-collar, the slouch of his hat, and finally, the -figure of the child asleep upon his shoulder concealed him effectually. -Helen could not help wondering whether she were as effectually -disguised, and the thought once more gave her a sharp pinch of pain. Why -were they hiding themselves? There was not a word spoken while the train -rushed on, tearing through that darkness which they had just traversed -so slowly and painfully. Only once, and that when they were but just -started, did any communication pass between the father and daughter. -They both looked out towards the home they had left, though it was -invisible as they left the little station. Upon the road close by the -lights of a carriage were visible, slowly approaching. It was the -carriage which, when Mr Goulburn was absent, was despatched to meet the -last train on Saturday nights. The last train from London was not due -for half an hour, and the coachman came along at a leisurely pace, -slowly climbing the road to meet his master, who was flying, disguised -and shameful, in the other direction. The contrast was so strange that -he looked at Helen, and their eyes met. Something piteous was in his -look. It contained a whole world of misery, of consciousness, of appeal -which was almost humorous, amidst the profundity of pain. She had asked -no questions, she had scarcely ventured to form to herself an idea of -what the cause of this flight could be, but for the first time her heart -was touched. - -“Does she not tire you, lying on your shoulder? I could take her a -little, papa,” she said. She could think of no other way of showing her -sympathy. He shook his head and pressed the child closer to him. Was it -that the touch of her innocence made him feel less guilty? Was it that -to convince himself of the strength of the natural affection in him made -him think himself a better man? or was it only the one real and true -sentiment which may still preserve the least worthy from perdition? -Helen looked somewhat wistfully at her little sister, lying in all the -_abandon_ of childish sleep, helpless yet omnipotent, across her -father’s breast. She had never been a favourite like little Janey. No -passion of parental affection had ever been lavished upon her, and, in -consequence, she knew her father better, and perhaps secretly trusted -him less, than children ought to do--though she had never said this even -to herself. But for the moment, she sitting alone opposite to them, -carried off from all her anchors, swept into some wild sea of the -unknown, looked at them wistfully, and envied the father and the child. - -In a few hours more Helen understood much more perfectly what the -metaphor meant which we have just employed. At midnight they embarked in -a steamer which, after feeling its way down the river through a thousand -dangers, plunged into the Channel just as daybreak made the rough waves -and flying foam visible. It was a small, old, almost worn-out boat, and -the voyage was one of the longer and cheaper ones which tempt the -passengers from the ordinary routes, to their profound suffering and -repentance. Helen had never been at sea before. She lay trembling while -the vessel creaked and plunged, not knowing what to reply to Janey’s -inquiry why the ship went up and down. Why, indeed? It seemed to do so -on purpose, tossing them up one moment and down the other with that -sickening repetition which helps to make up the agony of a voyage to -the inexperienced. In the morning, in the perplexing and painful -daylight of which Helen felt afraid, she did not know why, they landed -on foreign soil. Her father had changed during the night, she could not -tell how. Was it possible that already on the previous evening he had -worn the large whiskers and carefully smoothed hair which seemed to have -grown lighter, redder, than it used to be? She scarcely knew him when he -came on deck, and he gave her an uneasy look when he met her eye. She -did not, however, suspect the truth as yet, nor did she in the least -understand his disguise. She was only full of alarm and wonder, not -knowing what to think. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -“Where are we going, papa?” Helen had walked some way, bewildered and -wondering, through the foreign streets, confused by the strange language -round her, the unfamiliar look of everything, the strangeness of her -situation altogether. They had set out walking, and seemed, she thought, -to be going on vaguely from street to street without any aim, passing -hotel after hotel, at any of which she would have been glad to rest and -collect her thoughts after the rough voyage and all the agitations of -the night. “Where are you doing to take us, papa?” said little Janey, -running along by his side. The child was pale, too, and her pretty, -costly clothes had already acquired that look of crumpled finery which -garments too good for common use so easily assume. Helen, too, had found -it very difficult to manage her dress, with its train, made for no -greater exertion than to sweep over the velvet lawns at Fareham. It had -dropped from her hand now and then. It had got crushed and crumpled and -a little soiled with the wet deck. It looked like a dress that had been -worn all night. The signs of the night journey and rough sea were -unmistakable upon them. Mr Goulburn made no reply. He murmured something -to soothe the little girl, but made no answer to Helen. Their questions, -however, seemed to rouse him to action. He went into a shop which was -full of _articles de voyage_, and there bought a large second-hand -portmanteau, considerably battered, and one of those iron-bound trunks -which are used by Continental travellers. Then he put a purse into -Helen’s hand, and took her to the door of another shop, in which were -exhibited all kinds of feminine apparel. “Buy what is wanted for -yourself and _her_,” he said. Helen had scarcely ever in her life so -much as entered a shop alone, but necessity overcomes everything, even -the shy inexperience of a girl. She went in submissively, trembling to -face the brisk saleswoman, all her schoolroom French deserting her in -this earliest emergency. Nevertheless, she managed to do what was -absolutely essential. As for Janey, she proved herself much more a woman -of the world than her elder sister. The whole adventure was a frolic to -Janey--a frolic which the voyage had unpleasantly interrupted, but -which had now regained its jollity and excitement. She made her choice -among the different dresses exhibited to them with unfailing -promptitude. “I am doing to have this,” she said in her childish -peremptory tone, to the great delight of the shopwomen, who gathered -round her, offering her their wares. The little English child, -recovering all the vivacity of her childish spirits, and excited by the -laughter and flatteries, though she did not understand them, of the -French milliners, was an amusing little figure, and the scene like a -scene in a comedy. Janey inspected all the garments, feeling the texture -with her baby fingers, assuming a hundred little airs of importance. She -chattered without ceasing, a perpetual flood of remarks, while the women -laughed and admired. - -“What does she say?” they asked the one among them who partially -justified the “_Ici on parle Anglais_,” in the shop-window. - -“Elle est délicieuse,” the shopwoman said; “elle est jolie comme un -cœur: et d’un goût!” - -Janey did not understand a word, but all the same knew she was being -applauded, and her little head was turned by the notice bestowed upon -her. “We came without any boxes or frocks or anything, and papa is doing -to let me buy whatever I like,” said Janey. - -The women were curious beyond description when this was rapidly reported -to them by the one who understood. All this strange little scene went on -while Helen, still half dazed, stammered out her orders in her -faltering, imperfect French, and accepted timidly what was offered to -her. The colour came to her cheeks, and a painful prick of life to her -being, when she heard her little sister’s indiscreet explanation. “We -left all our things behind--by mistake,” she said, trembling, a -tingling, smarting blush dyeing her face. The timid falsehood redoubled -her own confusion, but it did not do much more. It changed, Helen -thought, the looks of the women. They followed her about, she fancied, -trying to elicit further revelations from Janey, pressing every kind of -outfit upon her; watching her as if---- What did they imagine? Did they -think she would steal something? Helen’s heart swelled so in her -simplicity that she thought it would burst. She held Janey’s hand -closely in her own, and squeezed it tight. “Don’t talk so, don’t talk -so,” she whispered. And then asked herself, with an indescribable pang, -why should not the child talk? A grey light of knowledge, a vague, -miserable twilight of consciousness, like the first lightening of a -gloomy dawn, was stealing over her. When she had made her -purchases--two frocks for Janey, the simplest which that little heroine -could be prevailed on to accept, and a plain dark dress for herself, and -a supply of underclothing,--she found her father at the door, with the -box he had bought upon a cab. This was how they were provided with the -luggage which is indispensable to respectability. Helen could not but -look at him with different eyes, now that she felt herself a party to -this fraud, which she began to be conscious of, without knowing what it -meant. What did it mean? Almost involuntarily unawares had not she -herself made a false statement in explanation of the extraordinary -straits in which they were placed? She watched her father, and found him -altered, she could scarcely tell how. His hair had changed its colour; -his beard had grown miraculously in a single night. What did it mean? -Her heart ached with the question, but she did not know how to reply. - -He took them to the railway after this--to the railway again, after all -their past fatigue. He was not negligent, however, of their comfort, but -made them eat at the buffet, and took a _coupé_ for them, filling it -with all the picture-books and papers he could find, with baskets of -fruit and chocolate and bonbons. “Here is a corner where my little Janey -can go to sleep,” he said, putting the child tenderly into it when the -train had started. Janey jumped upon his knee, and began to chatter and -give him an account of her own achievements at the shop. - -“They understood me,” said the little thing, “better than Helen. I can’t -speak French, but they understood me better than Helen. Papa, do you -hear? they understood me----” Here she paused and gave a sudden cry. -She had a pretty way of calling the attention of the careless listener, -drawing his face round with her little hand upon his chin. “Papa!” she -said, in great alarm, “you have dot hair on your chin, and it moves. Oh! -papa!” - -His face grew crimson. He turned the child down from his knee, giving -her a sudden sharp blow on the cheek with his open hand--a blow which -was nothing, yet like a revolution of earth and heaven to Janey, and to -Helen too. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he turned to Helen, -who was watching him, pale with terror and wonder and indignation. -“Well!” he said, defiantly; “out with it! You are a spy upon me too. Let -me hear what you have got to say.” - -“I have nothing to say, papa,” said Helen, trembling. She looked at him -wistfully, with miserable insight in her eyes. She saw now that it was -all false--hair and complexion and even expression. It seemed to her, as -she looked at him, that it was not her father at all; that it was some -strange masquerader of whose identity she never could be sure again. -There had been no special devotion between Helen and her father; he had -been kind but careless, and she too had been careless, though -affectionate enough; but the miserable pang with which she seemed to -lose her hold of him, and with him of everything solid and steadfast in -the world, was more terrible than anything she had ever felt before. Her -life seemed to be rent up by the roots. Janey, whimpering and -astonished, took refuge in her corner, and by-and-by, worn out, dropped -happily asleep. But Helen could not sleep. Worn out too, but watchful, -she sat upright by her father’s side, not venturing to look at him, -seeing the long, flat, level lines of the country fly past the -carriage-windows with a tedium that made her eyes ache. And he too sat -bolt-upright, not looking at her. She had found him out; and he -perceived that she had found him out; but yet she had not got a step -farther, or discovered any real clue to the meaning of the flight which -she shared. - -They travelled all that night, the second since they left home, Janey -sleeping in her corner, but Helen sitting sleepless, though worn to -death; and next day in the forenoon stopped at a sleepy little French -town, by a slow, pale, chalk river, amid interminable lines of poplars. -Words could not tell the weariness which possessed Helen, the -overmastering desire she felt to lay herself down anywhere, it did not -matter where; while at the same time the routine of the continued -movement had got into her brain, and it seemed to have become natural -to go on and on, watching those long lines of distance, those flying -plains, monotonous and endless, those rivers and fields. When the train -stopped with a jar, and with cramped limbs they stepped out and stood -upon the ordinary soil, the stoppage itself was a shock to Helen’s -nerves. It was midday of a bright October day when they drove over the -stony pavement in a jumbling omnibus, and rattled into a large square -inhabited by a cathedral and town-hall of imposing architecture, with -two little soldiers in red uniforms lounging under an archway, and two -people crossing the sunshine, going in different directions. The white -houses, tall and trim, with their green _persiennes_, the great tower of -the church cutting the blue sky, the two figures crossing the sunshine -printed themselves vaguely on Helen’s mind. She could not see anything -plainly for that vision of her father always before her who was not her -father. She did not like to look at him, yet saw his changed countenance -and false beard all the time with that sense of the insupportable which -only our own flesh and blood ever give us. She could not forget it as -Janey forgot, from whose little mind the incident of the night had fled -like last year’s snow. Janey ran into the bare, carpetless room at the -inn, and climbed up upon the wooden chair at the window, and called to -papa--“Why do they have all the curtains drawn at the windows, and why -is there nobody in the street, and why are the soldiers so little, and -what have they dot red trousers for?” cried Janey. The blow had gone -from her recollection. She thought no more of that novelty of the beard. -She had slept all night, and she was no longer tired, though she was -pale. - -“Do you mean to stay here, papa?” said Helen. It is dreadful to sit at -table with any one and not to speak. She could not bear it; if he would -not say anything to her, she must talk to him. - -“It does not look a very interesting place, you mean? No -picture-galleries or fine things to see. That is a pity; but if you do -not object to it too much, it suits me to stay here for a little while.” - -“I do not object at all, papa,” said poor Helen, ready to cry, -“only--only----” She looked at him with wistful eyes. - -“Only what? If you don’t object to me and everything about me, you -should try not to look as if you did. Understand, once for all, that _I_ -understand my own motives and you don’t. And I don’t mean to be forced -to explain by any one, much less my own child.” - -“Papa,” said Janey, “you souldn’t be cross. You dave me a slap last -night, but I never was cross. I did not look like this,” and she -covered her innocent forehead with the most portentous of frowns. “I -forgave you,” said the child, mastering the “g” with an effort, and -looking up at him with a countenance clear as the day, not like the -troubled face of Helen. The man was more touched than words could say. -He caught her up in his arms. - -“Yes, my little darling,” he said, “I did; God forgive me! I gave this -dear little cheek a tap. I may have done other things as wrong, but none -that I regretted so much. But you forgive your poor old father, Janey? I -would not hurt you, my pet, not a hair of your pretty head, for the -world.” - -“I knew you would be sorry, papa,” said the little girl, with the air of -a little queen. Then she lifted up her tiny forefinger, with serious yet -mischievous warning, “But you sould never be cross,” she said. - -How different was Helen’s state from the innocent, tender play of the -child! She sat immovable and looked on at this pretty scene, seeing her -father’s countenance change, the hard lines melt, a tender light come -over it. He kissed his little Janey with a kind of reverential passion. -“I will try, my little love,” he said, as humble as a child. And while -he kissed her half weeping, and she clung with both her little arms -round his neck, Helen felt herself rigid as stone. She could not be -touched even by that which was most pathetic in this little episode--the -real emotion of the man whose conscience was certainly not void of -greater offences, yet whose heart melted at the pretty majesty of his -child’s reproof, her innocent counsel and authority. Helen sat and -looked on like some one entirely outside, a world apart from this -tender union. She did not share the emotion of it, nor the sweetness. -Her heart seemed made of lead; her eyes were dry as summer dust. She -turned away from them, not to see the innocent rapture of the father and -child. The bare little _salle à manger_, with its long table thinly -covered; the bare board; the windows with their close white curtains; -the all-prevailing odour of soup and cigars; the clashing of the -ostler’s pails outside; the high-pitched voices; the language only half -comprehensible,--made up a scene for her which she never forgot. Their -strange meal was over--a dozen unknown dishes--and they had been left -with a plate of fruit on the table and a bottle of _vin du pays_, which -Helen thought so sour. She was wearied to death, but she no longer felt -that devouring desire to lie down and go to sleep. The pain had roused -her; it seemed to her for the moment as if she could never sleep again. - -Then she went up-stairs to the little bare bedroom above, where two -white beds stood side by side, two windows with the same white, closely -fixed curtains, a carpetless, curtainless room, with everything as bare -and wooden, as clean and white, as could be desired. She had to open the -new trunk and take out all their new things, which did not belong to -her, which belonged to a fugitive, the daughter of a man who had fled -from his own country and home in disguise, and at the dead of night. It -seemed to her that she could never tolerate this livery of shame, or -think of it save with a burning as of disgrace upon her countenance. -Perhaps it was partly because she was so worn out that she took -everything so tragically. She went out afterwards to see the town, -following her father, who led little Janey by the hand, delighted by -all her demands. The little girl prattled without ceasing, asking -questions about everything. “Why are they such little soldiers?” she -said; “they are like the little men in my Swiss village; and why have -they dot red trousers instead of red coats? Is it with walking in the -enemy’s blood, papa? like the Bible,” said Janey. - -“Hush, hush! there cannot be anything like that in the Bible, Janey.” - -“Ah! that is because you don’t read the lessons. You should read the -lessons every day,” said Janey, delighted with her _rôle_ of counsellor, -“like nurse, papa! How funny it would be when nurse went up-stairs and -found only dolly in my little bed, and Janey gone away!” She laughed, -and then looked at him with a look of examination more keen than that -timid, wistful look of Helen’s. “But I like this,” she added; “it is -funny. Why do the little children wear caps? And what funny little -shoes, that make such a noise! And why do they all speak French, papa? -Who taught them to speak French?” Janey, in her fresh wonder, put all -the threadbare questions that everybody has put before. She skipped upon -the rough stones by her father’s side, holding his hand tight; and the -three people who were in the great square (besides the soldiers) looked -upon the pair with kindly eyes, and pointed out to each other that the -newly arrived _Anglais_ worshipped his child. They have the domestic -instinct above all--they adore their infants. “But _tiens_,” they said; -“is it madame the young wife who follows with a look so _maussade_?” - -The sympathies of these spectators were all with the father and the -child. Helen followed like a creature in a dream. The great, silent, -empty, open cathedral, with its altars all dressed in artificial -lilies, and the scent of incense still in the air, came into her silent -picture-gallery with all its details distinct, yet strange; and the long -line of boulevard with its trees, and the white houses with their veiled -windows, and the clanking of the _sabots_, and the little soldiers in -the archway. They gave her no pleasure as of a novel sight, but they -completed the vague, feverish world around her, so dim to her mental -perception, yet keenly clear to her outward eye in the sharp blueness of -the sky, the more vivid tints of an atmosphere without smoke. They went -over all the town thus, mounting to the ramparts, going through all the -narrow streets: Janey dancing along with her hand in her father’s, Helen -following, silent, like a creature walking in her sleep, taking in all -the novel scene only as a background to the pain of her soul. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The little city of Sainte-Barbe was the quaintest and most slumbrous of -little French towns, and that is saying a great deal. The walls were -intact and in good order, supplying the inhabitants with pleasant walks, -which few people took advantage of. Their pretence at defence was -antiquated and useless, but then there was nothing to defend nor any -enemy intending to attack. From the ramparts you looked out upon a great -plain bounded towards the north with hills, and dropping southwards into -those low swelling slopes and hillocks which form the best vineyards. -Sainte-Barbe was on the edge of a rich wine country verging upon the -Côte d’Or; but there were no vineyards close to the town, which rose up, -with its cluster of towers, its high walls and peaked roofs, out of the -plain. It is to be supposed that in former days it had been a centre of -more important life, for the cathedral was large enough for a -metropolis, and the great town-hall, with its fine belfry, looked like -one of the warlike municipalities of the middle ages. These two great -buildings stood and sunned themselves, resting from whatever labours -they might once have known, in a sort of dull beatitude--the one with -half-a-dozen erratic worshippers coming and going, the other with three -little red-legged soldiers under its grand gateway. Now and then a -tourist who had heard of these buildings stopped for a few hours on his -way from Italy to Paris to see them; but the fame of them was fast -fading out, now that nobody thinks of posting from Paris to Dijon, and -it was the rarest thing in the world to see a stranger in the streets. -For the first week the townsfolk said among themselves, “Tiens! voilà -les Anglais!” when Mr Goulburn and his daughters appeared; but at the -end of that time became familiar with the appearance of them. It was a -curious life which they led at the Lion d’Or--in a quaint discomfort, -which may be amusing to tourists in high spirits, but to the timid and -troubled English girl was the strangest travesty of existence. The -mixture of small discomforts with great troubles is perhaps the -combination above all others which procures most entire and complete -confusion in life. And the want of a room to sit in other than that -wooden bedroom, where every movement of a chair jarred upon the bare -planks, began after a while to mingle in Helen’s mind with all the -painful circumstances of their flight, so that she scarcely knew what it -was that made her so wretched, so disjoined from all her past. Twice a -day the little party ate in company with some of the best people in -Sainte-Barbe. M. le Notaire, who was unmarried, an old bachelor, and M. -le Maire, who was a widower, took their meals regularly at the Lion -d’Or. They tied their napkins round their bottle of wine when they left -after one meal, and tucked them under their chins when they next sat -down. On Sunday there was an officer who came in his uniform, with his -sword clanking, who impressed Janey with great awe, accompanied by his -wife and their little boy and _bonne_, who sat down next her charge and -dined too, cutting the child’s meat for him, and having a little wine -poured out for her by her mistress from the family bottle. Janey could -not eat her own dinner, so absorbed was she in watching this party. She -pulled Helen’s dress to call her attention a dozen times in a minute. -“Oh! what would nurse say?” she cried, with big eyes of astonishment. -“Look, Helen! he has some of that that you would not let me have, and he -is so little--much more little than me. And he has dot wine: and oh, -look! he has put his knife in his mouth--he will kill himself. And now -he has his hand in, the nasty little boy!” - -“Cela amuse mademoiselle de voir manger mon petit,” said the lady across -the table in a tone of offence. - -Helen blushed as if she had been caught in a mortal sin. “Oh no, -madame--only--elle ne sait pas----” she murmured in apology. - -“He has dot his knife in his mouth, and that will kill him,” said Janey. -“She ought to tell him. Oh, little boy, little boy! _couteau--bouche!_” -she cried, with the anxiety of her age to put everything right. - -Mr Goulburn tried to apologise. “My little girl thinks it is her -business to set everybody right. She takes it upon her to regulate my -conduct and manners. I hope you will forgive the little impertinent. -Besides, she is astonished to see the _bonne_ by your side, madame, at -table. It is contrary to our English usage. Forgive her,” he said. - -“Oh, _de rien_, monsieur,” said the French lady, politely. “We all know -that England is the most aristocratic of countries. Do not apologise; -there is great good in that--the _canaille_ are kept in their place.” - -“The _canaille_ are in all places, madame,” said M. le Maire. “They are -among us when we least suspect it. Persons of the best manners, the most -irreproachable in appearance----” - -“Ah, if M. le Maire takes the point of view of the highest morals! It -is well known that the blessed apostles were but fishermen and -labourers,” said the lady; “but we could not now invite a sailor -smelling of the sea, or a ploughman fresh from the fields, to eat with -us. There are lines of demarcation.” - -“Madame,” said the Maire, “I have been warned from the police of a -person completely _comme il faut_, handsome, young, tall, well brought -up, a hero of romance--you would be enchanted with his description,--who -has done everything that a man can do of perfidious and wicked--if he -should pay us a visit here----” - -“Ah, monsieur, what a dreadful idea! But perhaps it is evil companions, -bad influences--and then, when one is young, everything may be -recovered.” - -“With _le beau sexe_ youth is always the first of virtues,” said the -Notaire. - -“Listen--they are not always young; madame should have seen the -journals of England a little time ago--monsieur here could tell us, no -doubt. A great company of merchants in London has lately made -bankruptcy. Impossible to tell you what ruin they have produced. The -great, the small, widows and orphans, poor officers in retreat, little -functionaries, priests--what in England they call clergymen--all ruined, -without a penny, without bread!” said the Maire, throwing up his hands. -“_Mon Dieu!_ even to hear of it makes one suffer. And figure to yourself -the chief--he who was first in this _compagnie_, a man rich as the -Indies, living _en prince_, and for whom nothing was too good, has taken -flight, instead of ending his life with a pistol-shot, as would have -been done in France--has taken flight, with enormously of money in his -pockets! You have seen it, perhaps, in the journals. Such things happen -only in England. _Mon Dieu!_ he has saved himself with the money of -others. And one talks of _canaille_!” the Maire concluded, wiping his -forehead. He was warm with indignation, feeling the force of his own -eloquence. - -Helen did not understand all this--or nearly all; but she caught a word -now and then, and her father’s face filled her with alarm. It had been -smiling enough at first, though with that drawn and artificial smile -which she had only remarked of late; but by degrees Mr Goulburn’s head -had dropped, he stooped over his plate, fixing his attention on that, -yet now and then directed a furtive glance from under his eyebrows at -the speaker. And his face grew ghastly pale, yet he took out his -handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. His hands trembled as he -raised his glass to his lips. The _vin du pays_ was not likely to -inspire much courage, but he drank a large quantity, large enough to -make the Maire and the Notaire stare. All this Helen remarked, though -perhaps no one else did. He did everything he could to preserve -appearances; but her attention was roused, and she was on the alert and -saw everything, and almost more than everything. What had he to do with -this story of disgrace and ruin? Some one came in at this moment, a -stranger, who was placed in a seat on her other hand; but she was so -intent upon her father that she did not even see who it was. There was a -pause, which seemed terrible to her--and to him; but which to the others -was a most natural and simple, nay, flattering moment of silence after -the Maire’s impressive remarks. - -“You say such things happen only in England; is no one ever bankrupt in -France?” Mr Goulburn said at last. - -“Alas!” said M. le Maire, “misfortune comes in all countries. But a -French _commerçant_ bears it--not so well as your countrymen, monsieur. -I have known men who have undergone that and now hold up their heads -again; and I have known men, _ma foi!_ who could not bear it, who -thought of nothing but a pistol-shot. One follows the customs of one’s -country. I have heard that Englishmen grow fat upon it. Pardon! you -understand that is a pleasantry. No one can have more respect for the -English than I.” - -“It is a pleasantry, M. le Maire, which an Englishman hears with very -little pleasure,” said Mr Goulburn. Helen looking at him with her -anxious eyes, felt that her father was glad of some cause for seeming -angry, and caught at this justification of his own excitement. But while -her mind was intent upon him, watching him with an eager anxiety and -curiosity beyond words, she started to hear herself addressed on the -other side. “Is it possible that it is Miss Goulburn? Can I be mistaken? -a pleasant voice said in English. She turned round quickly, and found a -fair-haired and very sunburnt young man, whom she did not at first -recognise, and upon whom she looked with suspicion and alarm. Her fears -had been excited, she could scarcely tell how or why. Every one who knew -her seemed a possible enemy. Were they not fugitives, whatever might be -the cause? - -“You do not remember me,” said the new-comer; “which, perhaps, is not -wonderful. I left Fareham four years ago, Miss Goulburn; but I think I -cannot be mistaken in you. You were only a child then; and now!--but -still I think it is you: and perhaps you will remember my name--Charley -Ashton? I went to India----” - -“Yes, I recollect. Are you going home now to--to Fareham?” Helen said, -with fright in her eyes. - -“That we should meet here of all places in the world! Yes, I am on my -way home; and there is all about the cathedral in Murray, and besides, -there is a bit of engineering I wanted to see, and I had a day to -spare,--what a lucky chance for me! You, I suppose, are making the grand -tour, as it used to be called. Travelling, like necessity, makes one -acquainted with strange quarters. This is not much like Fareham, is it?” -he said, with a laugh. That careless, happy laugh, without thought of -evil! Helen looked at, admiring it as an old man might have done. - -“No; we are only here--for a little while.” - -She knew by instinct that this would be their last night at -Sainte-Barbe, and that she must not encourage any renewal of -acquaintance. The young man gazed at her with such a look of kindly -inquiry, almost tender in the sympathy that mingled with it, that Helen -felt the tears come to her eyes. He divined that there was something to -be sorry for, and he was ready to be sorry and to sympathise, whatever -the trouble might be--though the troubles, he said to himself with a -smile, of the rich man’s daughter were not likely to be very hard to -bear. - -“That is like my luck,” he said; “unless you are going back to England, -which would be the best of all. Then I should ask leave to follow in -your wake. There is no one now to care much when I get home; a day or -two sooner or later doesn’t matter. My mother is not there now to mind. -And to tell the truth, Miss Goulburn,” said young Ashton, “I am just as -glad to put off the first plunge. Poor old father! I daresay he’ll be -glad to see me; but to find _her_ not only gone, but with another in her -place!” - -“Poor Mr Ashton was so lonely,” said Helen, coming out of her own -troubles for one moment, “and Miss Temple is so kind: it does you good -to speak to her. She never meant any harm. She was so sorry for him--do -not be angry with Miss Temple. I think I love her,” the girl said, the -tears slowly gathering in her eyes, “better--oh yes, a great deal better -than any one--than any other woman in the world.” - -“Do you?” he said, touched by the sight. Charley Ashton did not know how -many other troubles in poor Helen’s heart found grateful outlet in those -tears. They dropped upon her dress and frightened her lest any one else -should see them, but the young man was altogether melted by Helen’s -emotion. “That shall be my best reason for loving--at least for liking -her too,” he said. “Thank you for showing me how much you care for her. -What a lucky inspiration I had to come to Sainte-Barbe! I had been just -thinking of you, wondering if you would be much changed--if, perhaps, I -should find you at Fareham.” - -“I think I am very much changed,” she said, sadly shaking her -head--while he looked at her, smiling, with a look of subdued yet tender -admiration. He did not venture to look all he felt, yet he could not -keep it from appearing. - -“Yes, I think you are changed,” he said, with a confused laugh. She was -thinking of the last week, he of the last five years. He had admired her -then as a child--for Helen had been tall and precocious. Now he could -not tell her how much more he admired her as a woman, and Helen was too -sadly preoccupied to interpret justly the lingering glance that dwelt -upon her. She had never had any lover, nor was she at all aware that the -vicar’s son had any special recollection of her; that he should -recognise her at all, filled her with surprise. But at the same time the -sense of something sympathetic by her side, of some one who was young -like herself, and English, and looked kindly at her, gave the girl a -sense of consolation. He laughed, but certainly he meant nothing unkind. -The moment after, young Ashton gave Helen, all unawares, a sudden blow -which forced her back upon herself. He said with a little eagerness, but -calmly, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world, “Do you -go back soon to Fareham? I have come home on sick leave. I shall have -only a little while at home. I hope I shall see you while I am there.” - -“Oh!” said Helen, trembling all over with the shock, “I do not -know--papa has never told me. Perhaps--we may not be back for a long -time; perhaps--not at all. I don’t know.” - -“Not back at all! Has Mr Goulburn sold it?” young Ashton said, and his -changed countenance grew long. He was as much disappointed as she was -startled; and for a moment both looked, though from very different -reasons, as though not at all indisposed to mingle their tears. - -“I don’t know,” said Helen. She looked away from him, her voice -shook,--there was trouble indescribable in her face. And he remembered -that he had been gone for four years; that he had not heard very much -about them for some time back; that many changes might happen, -especially in the fortunes of a man in business, however great he might -be, and apparently beyond the assaults of fortune. What could young -Ashton say or do to show his sympathy? He did not even know how far he -might inquire. - -“I beg your pardon,” he said. Helen looked up at him timidly, and gave -him a little nod of assent, and a faint smile. She granted him his -pardon freely. She thanked him for the feeling in his face, but she said -nothing more. The secret was not hers, and she did not even know what -the secret was. Meanwhile her father had begun to see what was going on. -He had looked furtively from the corner of his eyes at the stranger, and -had ended by remembering who he was; and he did not know what young -Ashton knew, where he had come from, what he might be doing there. When -he saw that Helen was fully engaged in conversation, he got up softly -and walked away. The sight of a face he had once known made his heart -beat wildly, and filled him with a sickening sensation. He went out by a -door behind, so as never to come within the stranger’s range of vision. -What did he want here? and what would the girl tell him? Would she have -the sense to hold her tongue? though, indeed, the very sight of her -would be enough if young Ashton knew. He began, without a moment’s -delay, to put back his clothes into his portmanteau, and prepare again -for flight. Who would have thought that such a thing could happen here? -Had the danger been greater, he would have understood. For the sudden -appearance of pursuers in search of him, he was always prepared, but -not for the ludicrous simplicity of a peril like this; a neighbour’s -son! What evil genius had brought him here? It seemed a very long time -before Helen came up-stairs. It had relieved her to see her father -disappear, and she had yielded to the pleasure of talking to her -contemporary, her old friend (as she thought). But after all, in about -ten minutes she had held out her hand to him timidly, rising up as she -did so, to go away. “But I shall see you to-morrow?” he said. She only -smiled faintly and said, “Perhaps,” but even as she said so shook her -head. In her heart she felt certain that they would leave Sainte-Barbe -that night. - -And so they did. In France all the great trains go by night; there was -one very late which called at Sainte-Barbe, on the way to Paris. The -clatter and clang of the omnibus which met this train disturbed the -whole town at midnight so much, that M. le Maire had set every kind of -machinery in motion to have it discontinued; but as the convenience of -the two extremities of the railway, Marseilles and Paris, forbade this, -the authorities paid no attention to the protest of Sainte-Barbe. The -few guests in the Lion d’Or felt a double grievance this night, in that -the omnibus, after making its usual noisy circuit from the stables, -waited, pawing and champing for five minutes, under the _porte cochère_, -having baggage placed upon it, and carrying away travellers at that -hour. Who could they be? Oh, _les Anglais_: that went without saying. -Certainly _les Anglais_; they were the sort of people who would do such -a thing simply because it was unlike the rest of the world--though it -was the action of a fiend, the landlady exclaimed afterwards, to take -such an infant from her rest at such an hour. Young Ashton was still -astir, smoking his cigar out of the window with a quite unnecessary -regard for the feelings of his hosts, when the omnibus turned out of the -great doorway. He thought he saw a pale face look up at his window in -the uncertain glimmer of the moon, which was dim with flying clouds, and -he let his cigar drop on the head of an ostler below in consternation. -Could it be that they had gone away? “Gone away, because I am here!” -this young man said to himself. But it seemed a thing too impossible to -be true. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -It was scarcely daylight of the ruddy but chill October morning, when -the travellers set out from the station at which they had been dropped. -They had been left there to wait for the diligence, which only left on -the arrival of another train from Paris. All had been black and silent -at the little station of Montdard, when they were shot out, to the -dismay of two or three half-awakened officials, who regarded them with -alarm and suspicion. It was very rarely indeed that any one arrived in -the middle of the night at Montdard, except from Paris, the train from -which did not come in till five o’clock. What were they to do in the -meantime? Mr Goulburn had got little Janey in his arms fast asleep. With -her dangling feet, and her pale little head thrown back on his shoulder, -she looked more like a sick young woman, long and wasted, than a child. -Helen followed closely as a shadow, asking no questions, following every -indication of her father’s will, silent and watchful, cold and -miserable. The gloom around and the suspicious looks of the railway men, -and the cold that went to her heart, all began to be familiar. It did -not even occur to her to think of the existence which had ended about -ten days ago, the life of warmth and luxury and softness, which knew no -disturbance, which was waited upon by assiduous servants, and spent in -such careful guardianship. She thought of it no more. What she wished -for was not her draped and curtained room at Fareham, with its carpets -in which the feet sank, but a comfortable bench somewhere, or -rush-bottomed chair in a corner out of the wind, where she could get her -ulster more closely about her, and put a shawl over Janey’s feet; or, as -the very climax of comfort, another white-curtained wooden room with two -little beds, where she could lie down with Janey next to her. Helen in -her heart had bidden farewell to Fareham for ever and ever. She did not -know even where they were going; and it gave her a gleam of comfort to -hear her father explain to the sleepy yet vigilant porter in his blouse, -that he was going to Latour, where there was to be a sale of the woods -on the property of the late Count Bernard de Vieux-bois. Mr Goulburn -explained that he had heard of this only at the last moment, and that, -as he had no time to lose, he had been obliged to bring his daughters -with him, though the journey was so fatiguing for the little one. The -French heart is very open to children, and the man with the blouse -managed to open the door of a dismal _salle_, where at least _la petite_ -would be sheltered from the cold wind. How kind they are to Janey! Helen -thought. The rough peasant-porter with his bristly beard, a man who -might have figured in a revolutionary riot, and probably had done so, -one time or another, caressed a floating lock of her fair hair which -fell from her father’s shoulder with his rough hand, with the softest -look of reverence and pity. “_Pauvre petite!_”--he brought an old -braided overcoat, fine, but faded, from an inner room to lay on her -feet--“It would have been better to leave her _à la maison_,” he said. -_À la maison!_ People who know no better, say the French have no word -that means home; but Helen felt this word go through and through her -like a sword. Where was the house to which Janey belonged, where she -could find her little bed and her little corner by right? As for Mr -Goulburn, he put himself on the bench against the wall in the most -painfully constrained attitude to make Janey comfortable. His face, as -he looked down upon the child, was lighted up with the most trembling -tenderness. He had wronged many people and deprived many children of -bread, but he loved his own with a passionate devotion. He could not -separate himself from his child. Helen, so watchful beside him, saw it -all with an ache of wonder in her heart. She did not understand, -perhaps, that clinging of a guilty man to the one thing innocent and -sweet in his life. She was sorry for her poor little sister thus dragged -about the world, and perhaps a little sorry for herself. If it was -necessary for him to fly from one place to another, why should little -Janey be made to fly too? And Helen turned her thoughts back upon the -Lion d’Or with unspeakable regret. It was not an attractive place, but -still it was shelter and safety. What thoughts were going on in her -father’s mind, who could say? There were other places of refuge which -would have been safer than France, but he had little time to choose. It -was not much more than chance which had determined the route they took -in leaving England, and he had remembered Sainte-Barbe as the most -unfrequented place he had ever seen. But the village which he had chosen -must surely be out of the world if ever village was. Among the hills of -Burgundy, above the vineyards, beyond the reach of commerce, in the -country where the old Gauls fought, and where even the Prussians had not -penetrated--what could be more safe? and yet who could guarantee its -safety? “We should have been better in Spain,” he was saying to himself. - -The diligence started at five o’clock for Latour. It was speedily -filled, in the little interior, with five or six young peasant-women in -their white caps, each with a baby, little foundlings, or the children -of poor shopkeepers and workpeople in Paris, brought to the country to -be reared--the healthy hills of _la Haute Bourgogne_ being much approved -for that purpose. The travellers managed with great difficulty to get -possession for themselves of the _banquette_, a covered seat like a sort -of phaeton, with leathern curtains capable of closing in front, which -occupies the place behind the coachman in these rural vehicles. They had -ten long leagues to traverse before they got to their journey’s end. -Poor little Janey, very pale and shivering, lost for the first time her -childish adaptability, and whimpered pitifully, with cold feet, and the -wretchedness of her disturbed rest; and a more melancholy and jaded -party never confronted the morning mists. They rattled along as in a -dream, seeing the country gradually unfold itself, now just visible in -the faint grey of the dawn, anon developing into clearer light, the -hills rising black against the yellow east, then showing their grass -slopes and broken bits of cliff as the sun struck here and there a long -golden dart driving away the shadows. A crisp sprinkling of hoarfrost -was upon the fields, and the roads were hard, and resounded under the -horses’ feet, which made sound enough, with all the jingling of the rude -harness, and all the creaking of the springless coach, for a whole -cavalcade. In front of the _banquette_, beside the coachman, sat a large -priest and a man wrapped in the thick blue overcoat with its braided -collar which the French peasant loves. The talk of these two was all of -the old Count de Vieux-bois’s woods. The hills between which the road -passed were entirely bare of trees, and Count Bernard had been the -subject of much pleasantry, the priest said, when he planted his lands -with an unprofitable crop of forest. But time had proved Count Bernard -to be right. These voices went on dreamily in Helen’s ear, making a sort -of drowsy song to the accompaniment of the wheels and the horses’ hoofs. -But Mr Goulburn listened closely to all the heavy talk. The impulse of -trade was strong in him, and the idea of turning over money now in his -present downfall and fugitive condition roused him. He had seized upon -the pretext, catching it up at the moment of necessity from an -advertisement in one of the papers, to give an excuse for his hurried -journey. But the idea pleased him the more he dwelt upon it. He listened -with the greatest attention to all that was being said; he recovered the -activity and energy of mind that was natural to him. To outwit fate in -such a way would be in itself a kind of triumph. He did not disturb -little Janey’s head, which lay on his shoulder, but he withdrew his arm -from her as his thoughts quickened. A man of business is always a man of -business, however direful may be the plight in which he finds himself. -Pale, uncared for, haggard as he looked in the morning light, his -bosom’s lord sat more lightly upon its throne than it had done since he -left England. So far even as appearances went, there was this good in Mr -Goulburn’s false decorations of hair, that they did not grow in the -night. - -They passed through a number of villages, changing horses with much -noise and clangour here and there--a proceeding which cheered up Janey -almost as much as the thoughts of a bargain did her father; and through -one quaint and wonderful town, all walled and embattled, where the -lanterns still hung across the streets as in the days when aristocrats -were hanged by that easy method of getting rid of an undesirable -intruder; and by dreary old _châteaux_, grey and homely, without any -softening of trees or park to link them to the surrounding country. -By-and-by, after a long, long waste of road, they came upon the masses -of trees which had hung upon the horizon like clouds, and which showed -where Count Vieux-bois’s estates began. Beautiful feathery larches, big -pines, and sturdy oaks clothed the slopes, and changed the whole -character of the country. And after a while the diligence rattled into -a long village street with a church at one end and a quaint old castle -at the other, more imposing than anything they had yet seen. The street -was irregular, now broad, now narrow, widening out in the centre into a -kind of place or square, in which there were two or three white houses, -several storeys high, with green _persiennes_ half closed. The rest of -the place consisted of cottages, mostly thatched and humble, with a -little post-office, and a cavernous shop in which were all kinds of -possible and impossible goods. The “general merchant” of France is -different from him of England, just as _sabots_ and blouses are -different from country-made shoes and fustian coats. And at Latour the -_sabots_ and the blouses were universal. M. le Curé himself wore a pair -over his shoes in bad weather, leaving them at the door of every house -he visited. The diligence stopped with a jarring shock and noise, -suddenly drawn up before the humble door of another Lion d’Or, a popular -sign in the district. But this one was little more than an _auberge_, a -village public-house, with its description posted up in straggling -letters, _ICI on loge à Pied et à CHEVAL_. There was no _porte cochère_, -no courtyard to mark the importance of the hotel, but only a _salle à -manger_ looking out upon the pavement, low-roofed and dark, and smelling -as usual, but worse than usual, of bad cigars and the _pot au feu_. - -There were several men seated at the long table eating their breakfast -when Helen and little Janey followed their father into the room; one or -two others who had finished their meal were smoking their cigars--they -were all talking in high voices, harsh to unaccustomed ears. The farther -end, the only unoccupied place, was far from the window, and in a kind -of twilight. Little Janey grasped her father’s hand tight till the -little soft fingers almost hurt him. “Oh, take me away,” she cried, -“take me away! I won’t do there. Take me home, papa--take me to my own -home.” - -He took her in his arms and carried her to the quiet corner. “My little -pet,” he said, “I wish I could; but it’s a long, long way off, Janey. -You must try and be contented here.” - -“Oh, papa,” said the child, “I want to do home! I want to do home! I -don’t like it here. I don’t like--nothing at all but--home.” - -“Janey, Janey!--speak to her, Helen. You will like it better after: the -people are always very kind to you. And you are tired, my little love. -You will like it better when you know----” - -“I want to do home!” cried Janey; but the sudden odour of the soup put -under her nose wrought a revolution in her mind. “And I am so hungry,” -she said, her tears drying up. She raised her head from her father’s -shoulder where she had been past all consolation the moment before--and -slid down from his knee. Ah! why is six so much more easy to console -than eighteen? or eighteen than fifty? might be said in other -circumstances. But in the present case the father and the little child -had both regained their spirits, and it was only Helen whose heart lay -like a lump of lead in her breast. - -That evening Mr Goulburn called her into the small room which he was to -occupy, with an air of some embarrassment. There had been no -sitting-room possible at Sainte-Barbe, yet it was practicable to occupy -a corner in the _salle à manger_, when all was quiet there. But in the -Lion d’Or at Latour it was never quiet. In the evening the villagers -came in to consume slowly their sour _piquette_, or bitter _chope_, and -fill the place with clouds of smoke; and the two crowded yet scantily -furnished bedrooms, in which the strangers were lodged, were the only -places in which they could talk. Mr Goulburn called Helen into his room. -He was embarrassed, and did not know how to begin. Helen’s look of -inquiry seemed to paralyse him. He stammered and hesitated and cleared -his throat. At length he said, with the rapidity of one who is anxious -to get over a painful operation, “I wanted to speak to you, Helen. There -is one little matter: unnecessary to enter into my reasons for it. While -we are here, I mean to call myself by my mother’s name, Harford, instead -of Goulburn.” - -“Papa!” her pale countenance was suffused with the most violent colour. -Pale, worn out, and weary as her looks had been a moment since, she was -of the colour of passion now. - -“I mean what I say,” he said sharply, his own disguised face catching -fire at hers. There was a touch of shame in his anger, yet his eyes -blazed into a sudden burst of fury, which again was partly put on to -hide the shame. “I do not see that I need enter into all my reasons to -you. I am satisfied that it is expedient, or I would not do it; and that -ought to be enough for my child.” - -“It is not enough, it is not enough, papa,” said Helen. “I cannot call -myself out of my name.” - -“Then you will do what you please,” he said; “but I shall employ the -name I have told you; you can do what you please: but in that case you -shall not be owned as a daughter of mine.” - -The world seemed to go round and round with Helen,--the poor little -world so bare and poverty-stricken, the walls with their blue and white -striped paper, the bare boards and white-curtained windows. She looked -at him piteously, seeing his face blurred and magnified through the two -tears of pain and passion in her eyes. “Why is it?” she said with a -pathetic appeal; “oh, tell me why it is! If I knew why, perhaps I could -bear it better. Oh, papa, tell me why!” - -His first impulse was to silence her imperiously and send her away, but -a better inspiration followed. “Did you never hear of men in business -who were ruined, Helen? Did you never read of destruction coming in a -single day? I was a rich man a fortnight since, and never dreamt that -such a calamity--was possible. It came upon me all at once. Misfortune -of the most complete kind--ruin. I had nothing for it but to take you -and the child and hurry away.” - -“Oh, is that all, papa? are you sure that is all? Not--what they were -speaking of last night?--not--oh, forgive me!--I did not understand; -only the loss of your money--no more that that, papa?” - -A painful contraction, almost a grimace, went over his face. The rage -which he had partially assumed before was now real, but he did not show -it. He clenched his fist at her, but kept it in his pocket, and put on a -smile which looked something between a grin and a snarl. “Most people -would think it was quite enough--and more than enough. Now you know my -secret. I did not want--to make you unhappy,” he said. - -“Oh, unhappy! it is the contrary; if you knew how happy you have made -me!” said Helen, with the first real smile that had visited them for -days in her wet eyes. “You have taken off the weight _here_--oh, it is -all gone, and I can breathe. You have lost your money, poor papa! I am -so sorry, and yet I can’t help being glad. After all, what does it -matter? We have enough, and we are together. Oh, if you knew the things -that have been going through my wicked, wretched heart! Papa, will you -forgive me?” the girl cried, growing pale and clasping her hands. “Oh, I -ought to ask your pardon on my knees!” - -“We will dispense with that formula,” said her father, with a chilly -smile which froze her fervour; “perhaps this will teach you to refrain -from hasty judgment. There can scarcely be a case, let me entreat you to -believe, in which I shall not be the best judge of us two.” - -“Yes, papa,” she said submissively: then added with a timid look, “but -would it not have been better to have stayed and met it in the face, -whatever it was? To be unfortunate is not any harm. What could ruin do -to us, but to make us poor? Papa----” - -A sharp laugh from him cut her short; he could have struck her as he -struck Janey when she found out his disguise, but he did not dare to -treat the elder sister so, and she was more easily managed in the other -way. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you are doing precisely what you -have just promised not to do. We have agreed that I am the best judge, -and the judge I mean to be, in my own concerns. Therefore go to bed, and -recollect that to-morrow you are Miss Harford--and know nothing about -that other name.” - -She shrank a little away, looking at him with piteous eyes. “Yes, papa,” -she said; “but----” and stood looking with a beseeching, tender -entreaty. She clasped her hands, but she did not say anything, though -every moving line of her face, the glimmer of moisture in her eyes, the -quiver in her lips, all spoke. In his impatience he stamped his foot on -the floor. - -“By Jove! you will drive me mad,” he cried, “with your fancies and your -hesitations. Do what I tell you--hold your tongue, if you are so -scrupulous about an innocent social pretence. What does it matter to -those French clowns what name I call myself by? Will they be any the -wiser? And I hold that a man has as much right to his mother’s name as -his father’s. It is the same thing. There, Helen, I forgive your -nonsense, because you are tired out, poor child! Go to bed.” - -“Yes, papa,” she said, but still she did not budge. All this time the -voices and noises were going on below, sounds of disputation, quick -fire of talk, more vivacious and louder in tone than anything English; -outside and in, there were sounds of conversation going on. All this -babel of sound continued while these two quiet English persons had their -explanation, which meant so much; the rest meant nothing. When Helen -thought of it after, she always remembered the discussion in the _salle -à manger_, and the clatter of words which Jeannette on the top storey -flung down to her mistress below-stairs. - -But as for herself she had said her say. Her father bade her good night -in a peremptory tone, dismissing her beyond appeal. But he was very -kind, and kissed her, though she was conscious of a thrill and tremor -about him when he did so, which she could not understand to be -suppressed rage. But as it was, Helen retired with a weight gone from -her heart, as she said--yet not such a complete relief as she had felt -at the first moment. Only ruin, only poverty! these were nothing. But -then--people were sorry for men who had lost all their money, nobody was -cruel to them, or thought it their fault; it was nothing to be ashamed -of; the best people in the world (she reflected) have been poor; -therefore why, _why_ had he fled from home? Why had he not faced the -worst? Better even, Helen thought, to have endured a little vexation, to -have given up everything, than to have become fugitives, and worn -disguises, and feared a friendly face, and changed their name. The -weight came back as these strange details recurred to her mind. That -false beard! would any deprivation, any scorn of cruel creditors, any -misfortune have been so bad, so debasing, so shameful as _that_? And why -should Charley Ashton’s honest face have so appalled him? Ah! Charley -Ashton could meet the gaze of all the world and never flinch; he would -not disguise himself, nor hide himself, whatever might be the danger. -Helen tried to represent to herself that she was not the judge, as he -had said--that her father must know best; but there is nothing so -difficult to believe as this, especially when reason seems all on our -side. - -The pain was gnawing again when she lay down by Janey’s side. Poverty: -but we are not poor! Helen said to herself, almost leaping up in her -bed. They had spent a great deal of money and spared nothing; indeed -there had never been any attempt to spare anything. It was not an art -they understood. But, happily, sleep began to steal upon her young -eyes, even in the midst of her agitation. The night before had been one -long vigil; she could not be kept awake, even by the misery of these -thoughts. - - -END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. - - -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY JANE) -AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 2/3 *** - -***** This file should be named 63902-0.txt or 63902-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/9/0/63902/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: The Duke's Daughter (aka Lady Jane) and The Fugitives; vol. 2/3 - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 28, 2020 [EBook #63902] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -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) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY -JANE) AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 2/3 *** -</pre><hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="" /></a> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"><span class="ltspc">THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER</span><br /><br /> -<small>AND</small><br /><br /> -<span class="ltspc">THE FUGITIVES</span></p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Lady, you come hither to be married to this count?”<br /></span> -<span class="i0">“I do.”<br /></span> -<span class="i10">—<i>Much Ado about Nothing.</i><br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<hr /> - -<h1><span class="smcap"><span class="ltspc">The Duke’s Daughter</span></span><br /> -<br /> -<small>AND</small><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap"><span class="ltspc">The Fugitives</span></span></h1> - -<p class="c">BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -IN THREE VOLUMES<br /> -<br /> -VOL. II.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -MDCCCXC<br /> -</p> - -<h2>CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#THE_DUKES_DAUGHTER">THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER (<small>CONTINUED</small>)—</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="rt"><small>CHAP.</small></td><td> </td> -<td><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">A NEW AGENCY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_3">3</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">HALF-MARRIED</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_27">27</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">THE WEDDING-DAY</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_54">54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">IN PRISON</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_87">87</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">DELIVERANCE</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_110">110</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" colspan="2"><a href="#THE_FUGITIVES">THE FUGITIVES</a>, </td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<h1><a name="THE_DUKES_DAUGHTER" id="THE_DUKES_DAUGHTER"></a>THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER<br /><br /> -(<i>CONTINUED</i>)</h1> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>THE DUKE’S DAUGHTER.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>A NEW AGENT.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> reader accustomed to the amenities of the highest social circles, -such as those which we are now compelled temporarily to leave, will no -doubt sensibly feel the shock of the descent from the mansion of the -Duke, and his sublime society, to a sphere and condition of life far -removed from these summits of existence. It is seldom that life can be -carried on solely upon those high levels; the necessities of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> every day -call for the aid of the more humbly born and placed, so that not even -dukes can suffice to themselves. We must then, without further apology, -proceed at once to a room as different as it is possible to conceive -from the halls of Billings—a small sitting-room in a small -rectory-house in the heart of London, belonging to one of the old parish -churches which have been abandoned there by the tide of habitation and -life. The church was close by, a fine one in its way, one of Wren’s -churches, adapted for a large Protestant congregation more solicitous -about the sermon than is usual nowadays—but left now without any -congregation at all. The rectory, a house of very moderate dimensions, -jammed in among warehouses and offices, had little air and less light in -the gloomy November days. The Rector and his wife had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> just returned -from their yearly holiday, and it was not a cheerful thing to come back -to the fog, and the damp, and the gas-lamps, and all the din of the -great carts that lumbered round the corner continually, and loaded and -unloaded themselves within two steps of the clergyman’s door. How was he -to write his sermons or meditate over his work in the midst of these -noises? his wife often asked indignantly. But, to be sure, the fifty -people or so who quite crowded St Alban’s when they all turned out, were -not very critical. Down in these regions there is not a Little Bethel -always handy, and the inhabitants must take what they can get and be -thankful: which it would be a good thing, Mrs Marston thought, if they -could be oftener obliged in other places to do.</p> - -<p>Mr Marston was in his study. It was a small room on one side of the -door,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> chosen for its handiness that the parish people might be -introduced without trouble, to the Rector: but there were but few that -ever troubled him. At the present moment his verger had just brought him -the parish news, with an intimation of the fact that a marriage was to -take place to-morrow at eleven o’clock, at which Mr Sayers, who had -taken the duty in his absence, hoped the Rector himself would officiate. -The one parish duty that was occasionally necessary in St Alban’s was to -perform marriages, and accordingly the Rector was not surprised. He had -the gas lighted, though it was still early in the afternoon, that he -might look at the book in which the notice of the banns was kept, in -order to make sure that all had been done in order. The gas was lighted, -but the blind was not drawn down, and the upper part of the window was -full of a grey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> and dingy London sky, without colour in it at all, a -sort of paleness merely, against which the leafless branches of the poor -little tree which flourished in the little grass-plot stood out with a -desolate distinction. Inside the room was unpleasantly warm. The Rector -sat with his back to the fire; he read the entry of the banns in the -book, and saw that all was right. Then after he had closed the book and -put it away, a sudden thought struck him, and he opened it again. Where -had he seen that name before? It was a strange name, a name not at all -like the parish of St Alban’s, E.C. What could she want here, a person -with a name like that? He put down the book the second time, but again -turned back and opened it once more. Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin -Altamont! One does not often hear such names strung one after another. -Was it perhaps some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> player-lady keeping the fine names of her <i>rôles</i> -in the theatre? Or was it—could it be?—— Mr Marston could not shake -off the impression thus made upon him. He had two churchings to-morrow -which ought to have occupied him still more, for new members of the -congregation were the most interesting things in the world to the -Rector. But he was haunted by the other intimation, and the churchings -sank into insignificance. He pondered for a long time, disturbed by the -questions which arose in his mind, and at length, not feeling capable of -containing them longer, he took the book in his hand and went across the -hall, which was still in the afternoon gloom, to his wife, whose little -drawing-room on the other side was lighted by the flickering firelight, -and not much more. She was very glad to see him come in. “Did you think -it was tea-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span>time?” she said. “I am sure I don’t wonder, but it’s only -three o’clock. Dear, dear, to think of the fine sunset we were looking -at an hour later than this yesterday. But London is getting worse and -worse.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you have the gas lighted?” the Rector asked in a querulous -tone. “I have brought something to show you, but there is no light to -see it by.”</p> - -<p>“You shall have the light in a moment,” cried Mrs Marston; “that is the -one good thing of gas. It spoils your picture-frames and kills your -flowers; but you can have it instantly, and always clean and no trouble. -There!”</p> - -<p>The gas leaping up dazzled them for a moment, and then Mr Marston opened -his book and pointed his finger to the entry. “Look here, Mary—look at -that; did you ever see a name like that before? What do you suppose it -can mean?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>Mrs Marston had to put on her spectacles first, and they had always to -be looked for before they could be put on. She had just adopted -spectacles, and did not like them, nor to have to make, even to herself, -the confession that she wanted them: and they were always out of the -way. The Rector was short-sighted, and had the exemption which such -persons enjoy. He looked upon the magnifying spectacles of his wife with -contempt, and it was always irritating to him to see her hunting about, -saying, “Where have I put my glasses?” as was her wont. “Can’t you tie -them round your neck,” he said, “or keep them in your pocket—or -something?” When, however, they were found at last, he spread the book -out upon the table and, with his finger on the place, waited while she -read. Their two heads stooping over the book under the gas, with the -pale sky looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> in at the window, made a curious picture, he eager, -she still fumbling a little to get on her spectacles without further -comment. “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Reginald Winton,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> she read hesitating, “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>bachelor, of this -parish.’ I never certainly heard of any one of that name in this parish: -stay, it might be the new care-taker perhaps at Mullins and -Makings—or——”</p> - -<p>“That’s not the name,” cried the Rector. He would have liked to pinch -her, but refrained. “This is no care-taker, you may be sure; but it is -the other name—look at the other name. Where have you seen it before? -and what is the meaning of it?” Mr Marston cried with excitement. He had -worked himself up to this pitch, and he forgot that she was quite -unprepared. She read, stumbling a little, for the handwriting was -crabbed, “<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont, -spinster, of the parish of Billings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span>’ Dear, dear,” was good Mrs -Marston’s first comment—“I hope she has names enough and syllables -enough for one person.”</p> - -<p>“And is that all that strikes you?” her husband said.</p> - -<p>“Well—it is an odd name—is that what you mean, William? Very silly, I -think, to give a girl all that to sign. I suppose if she uses it all, it -will be only in initials. She will sign, you know, Jane Angela, or very -likely only Angela, which is much prettier than Jane; Angela P. P. -F.—or F. M.—Altamont, that is how it will be. Angela Altamont; it is -like a name in a novel.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, now we are coming to it at last!” cried the Rector; “names in -novels, when they are founded on anything, generally follow the names of -the aristocracy. Now here’s the question: Is this a secret marriage, and -the bride some poor young lady who doesn’t know what she is doing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> some -girl running away with her brother’s tutor or some fiddler or other, to -her own ruin, poor thing, without knowing what she is about?”</p> - -<p>“Dear me, William! what an imagination you have got!” said Mrs Marston, -and she sat down in her surprise and drew the book towards her; but then -she added, “Why should they come to St Alban’s in that case? There are -no musicians living in this parish. And poor people do give their -children such grand names nowadays. That poor shirtmaker in Cotton Lane, -don’t you remember? her baby is Ethel Sybil Celestine Constantia—you -recollect how we laughed?”</p> - -<p>“Family Herald,” said the Rector with a careless wave of his hand, “and -all Christian names, which makes a great difference. It was her last -batch of heroines, poor soul; but do you think a poor needlewoman would -think of Pen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span>dragon and Plantagenet? No; mark my words, Mary, this is -some great person; this is some poor deceived girl, throwing away -everything for what she thinks love. Poor thing, poor thing! and all the -formalities complied with, so that I have no right to stop it. Sayers is -an idiot!” cried Mr Marston. “I should have inquired into it at once had -I been at home, with a name before my eyes like that.”</p> - -<p>“Dear me!” said Mrs Marston; there is not much in it, but she repeated -the exclamation several times. “After all,” she said, “it must be true -love, or she would not go that length; and who knows, William, whether -that is not better than all their grandeur? Dear, dear me! I wish we -knew a little about the circumstances. If the gentleman is of this -parish couldn’t you send for him and inquire into it?” The Rector was -pacing up and down the room in very unusual agitation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> It was such a -crisis as in his peaceful clerical life had never happened to him -before.</p> - -<p>“You know very well he is not of this parish,” Mr Marston said. “I -suppose he must have slept here the requisite number of nights; and -besides, he knows I have no right to interfere. The banns are all in -order. I can’t refuse to marry them, and what right have I to send for -the man or to question him? No doubt he would have some plausible story. -It is not to be expected, especially if it is the sort of thing I think -it is, that he should tell me.”</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear!” repeated Mrs Marston. “A clergyman should have more power; -what is the good of being a clergyman if you cannot stop a marriage in -your own church? I call that tyranny. Do you mean to tell me you will be -compelled to marry them, whether you approve of it or not?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Well, Mary, it is not usual to ask the clergyman’s consent, is it?” he -said with a laugh, momentarily tickled by the suggestion. But this did -not throw any light upon what was to be done, or upon the question -whether anything was to be done; and with a mind quite unsatisfied he -retired again to the study, seeing that it was out of all reason to ring -the bell at half-past three for tea. He drew down his blind with a sigh -as he went back to his room, shutting out the colourless paleness which -did duty for sky, and resigning himself to the close little room though -it was too warm. Mr Marston tried his best to compose himself, to take -up his work, such as it was, to put away from his mind the remembrance -of a world which was not wrapt in fog, and where wholesome breezes were -blowing. St Alban’s was a good living; it had endowments enough to -furnish two or three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> churches, and to get it had been a wonderful thing -for him; but sometimes he asked himself whether two hundred a-year and a -country parish with cottages in it instead of warehouses would not have -been better. However, all that was folly, and here was something -exciting to amuse his mind with, which was always an advantage. He had -laid down his book (for he thought it right to keep up his reading) for -the fourth or fifth time, to ask himself whether sending for the -bridegroom, as his wife suggested, or going out in search of him, might -not be worth his while, when Mrs Marston came suddenly bursting into the -study with, in her turn, a big volume in her arms. The Rector looked up -in surprise and put away his theology. She came in, he said to himself, -like a whirlwind; which was not, however, a metaphor at all adapted to -describe the move<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span>ments of a stout and comfortable person of fifty, with -a great respect for her furniture. But she did enter with an assured, -not to say triumphant air, carrying her book, which she plumped down -before him on the table, sweeping away some of his papers. “There!” she -cried, breathless and excited. The page was blazoned with a big coat of -arms. It was in irregular lines like poetry, and ah, how much dearer -than poetry to many a British soul! It was, need we say, a Peerage, an -old Peerage, without any of the recent information, but still not too -old for the purpose. “There!” said Mrs Marston, again flourishing her -forefinger. The Rector, bewildered, looked and read. He read and he grew -pale with awe and alarm. He looked up in his wife’s face with a gasp of -excitement. He was too much impressed even to say, “I told you so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span>” -for, to be sure, a duke’s daughter was a splendour he had not conceived. -But his wife was more demonstrative in the delight of her discovery. -“There!” she cried, for the third time. “I felt sure, of course, it must -be in the Peerage, if it was what you thought; and there it is at full -length, ‘Lady Jane Angela Pendragon Plantagenet Fitz-Merlin Altamont.’ -It fairly took away my breath. To think you should have made such a good -guess! and me talking about Mrs Singer’s baby! Why, I suppose it is one -of the greatest families in the country,” Mrs Marston said.</p> - -<p>“There is no doubt about that,” said the Rector. “I have heard the -present Duke was not rich, but that would make it all the worse. Poor -young lady! poor misguided—for of course she can know nothing about -life nor what she is doing. And I wonder who the man is. He must be a -scoundrel,” said Mr Marston,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> hotly, “to take advantage of the ignorance -of a girl.”</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mrs Marston, “all that may be quite true that you say, -but if you reckon up you will see that she must be twenty-eight. -Twenty-eight is not such a girl. And Reginald Winton is quite a nice -name.”</p> - -<p>“Just the sort of name for a tutor, or a music-master, or something of -that sort,” said the Rector, contemptuously. He had been a tutor himself -in his day, but that did not occur to him at the moment. He got up from -his chair and would have paced about the room as he did in his wife’s -quarters had the study been big enough; but failing in this, he planted -himself before the fire, to the great danger of his coat-tails and -increase of his temperature, but in his excitement he paid no attention -to that. “And now the question is, what is to be done?” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span></p> - -<p>“I thought you told me there was nothing to be done. I shall come to -church myself to-morrow, William, and if you think I could speak to the -poor young lady——: perhaps if she had a woman to talk to—most likely -she has no mother. That’s such an old book, one can’t tell; but I don’t -think a girl would do this who had a mother. Poor thing! Do you think if -I were there a little before the hour and were to talk to her, and try -to get into her confidence, and say how wrong it was——”</p> - -<p>“Talk to a bride at the altar!” said the Rector; the indecorum of the -idea shocked him beyond description. “No, no, something must be done at -once—there is no time to be lost. I must write to the Duke.”</p> - -<p>“To the Duke!” This suggestion took away Mrs Marston’s breath.</p> - -<p>“I hope,” said her husband, raising his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> head, “that we both know a duke -is but a man: and I am a clergyman, and I want nothing from him, but to -do him a service. It would be wicked to hesitate. The question is, where -is he to be found, and how can we reach him in time? He is not likely to -be in town at this time of the year; nobody is in town I suppose except -you and me, and a few millions more, Mary; but that doesn’t help us—the -question is, where is he likely to be? Thank heaven there is still time -for the post!” Mr Marston cried, and threw himself upon his chair, and -pulled his best note-paper out of his drawer.</p> - -<p>But, alas! the question of where the Duke was puzzled them both. -Grosvenor Square; Billings Castle, ——shire; Hungerford Place, in the -West Riding; Cooling, N.B.; Caerpylcher, North Wales. As his wife read -them out one after another, with a little hesitation about the -pro<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span>nunciation, the Rector wrung his hands. The consultation which the -anxious pair held on the subject ran on to the very limits of the -post-hour, and would take too long to record. Now that it had come to -this, Mrs Marston was inclined to hold her husband back. “After all, if -it was a real attachment,” she said, between the moments of discussing -whether it was in his seat in Scotland, or in Wales, or at his chief and -most ducal of residences that a duke in November was likely to be. -“After all, it might be really for her happiness—and what a dreadful -shock for them, poor things, if they came to be married, thinking they -had settled everything so nicely, and walked into the arms of her -father!” Her heart melted more and more as she thought of it. No doubt, -poor girl, she had been deprived early of a mother’s care; and, on the -other hand, at twenty-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span>eight a girl ought to know her own mind. She -could not be expected to give in to her father for ever. And if it -should be that this was a real attachment, and the poor young lady’s -happiness was concerned——</p> - -<p>The Rector made short work of these arguments. He pooh-poohed the real -attachment in a way which made Mrs Marston angry. What could she know of -poverty? he asked; and how was a duke’s daughter to scramble for herself -in the world? As for love, it was great nonsense in most cases. The -French system was just as good as the English. People got to like each -other by living together, and by having the same tastes and habits. How -could a fiddler or a tutor have the same habits as Lady Jane, “or Lady -Angela, if you like it better?” He went on, as Mrs Marston said, like -this, till she could have boxed his ears<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> for him. And the fact was that -he had to pay an extra penny on each of his letters to get them off by -the post; for he wrote several letters—to Billings, to Hungerford, and -to Grosvenor Square. Scotland and Wales were hopeless; there was no -chance whatever that from either of these places his Grace could arrive -in time. Indeed, it would be something very like a miracle if he arrived -now. But the Rector felt that he had done his duty, which is always a -consolation. He retired to rest late and full of excitement, feeling -that no one could tell what the morrow might bring forth—a sentiment, -no doubt, which is always true, but which commends itself more to the -mind in a season when out-of-the-way events are likely. Mrs Marston had -been a little cool towards him all the evening, resenting much that he -had said. But it was not till all modes of communi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span>cating with the outer -world were hopeless that she took her revenge and planted a thorn in his -pillow. “If you had not been so disagreeable,” she said, “I would have -advised you not to trust to the post, but to telegraph. I dare say the -Duke would have paid you back the few shillings; then he would have been -sure to get the news in time. At present I think it very unlikely. And I -am sure, for the young people’s sake, I should be sorry. But I should -have telegraphed,” Mrs Marston said. And the Rector, strange to say, had -never thought of that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>HALF-MARRIED.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> morning everything was in movement early in St Alban’s, E.C. Orders -had been sent to the verger to have special sweepings-out and settings -in order, a thing which took that functionary much by surprise. For the -marriage: but then marriages were not so uncommon at St Alban’s—less -uncommon than anything else. Churchings were more rare events, and -demanded more consideration: for probably the married pair once united -would never trouble St Alban’s more; whereas there was always a chance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> -that babies born in the neighbourhood might grow up in it, and promote -the good works of the parish, or be candidates for its charities, which -was also very desirable—for the charities were large and the qualified -applicants few. But it was for the marriage that all this fuss was to be -made. “It must be a swell wedding,” the verger said to his wife. “You -had better put on your Sunday bonnet and hang about. Sometimes they want -a witness to sign the book, and there’s half-crowns going.” Accordingly -all was expectation in the neighbourhood of the church. The best -altar-cloth was displayed, and the pinafores taken off the cushions in -the pulpit and reading-desk, and the warming apparatus lighted, though -this was an expense. Mr Marston felt justly that when there was a -possibility of a duke and a certainty of a duke’s daughter, extra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> -preparations were called for. He came over himself early to see that all -was ready. There was no concealing his excitement. “Has any one been -here?” he asked, almost before he was within hearing of the verger. -Simms answered “No”—but added, “Them churchings, Rector. You’ll take -’em after the wedding, sir?” “Oh, the churchings,” said the Rector: “are -the women here?—oh, after the wedding, of course.” But then a sudden -thought struck him. “Now I think of it, Simms,” he said, “perhaps we’d -better have them first—at least, keep them handy, ready to begin, if -necessary—for there is some one coming to the marriage who—may be -perhaps a little late——” “Oh, if you knows the parties, sir,” said the -verger. And just at that moment Mrs Marston came in, in her best bonnet -and a white shawl. She came in by the vestry door, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> she had a way -of doing, though it was uncanonical, and she darted a look at her -husband as she passed through and went into her own pew, which was quite -in the front, near to the reading-desk. The white shawl convinced Simms -without further words. Unless she knew the parties Mrs Marston never -would have appeared like this. Respectability was thus given to the -whole business, which beforehand had looked, Simms thought, of a -doubtful description; for certainly there was nobody in the parish of -the name of Winton, even if the bridegroom had not looked “too swell” to -suit the locality. But if they were the Rector’s friends!</p> - -<p>They arrived a few moments after eleven o’clock, in two very private, -quiet-looking carriages, of which nobody could be quite sure whether -they were humble broughams, of the kind which can be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> hired, or private -property. The bridegroom was first, with one man accompanying him, who -looked even more “swell” than himself. The bride came a little after in -the charge of a respectable elderly woman-servant, and one other lady -whose dress and looks were such as had never been seen before in St -Alban’s. Mrs Simms was not learned in dress, but she knew enough to know -that the simplicity of this lady’s costume was a kind of simplicity more -costly and grand than the greatest finery that had ever been seen within -the parish of St Alban’s. The bride herself was wrapped in a large -all-enveloping grey cloak. The maid who was with her even looked like a -duchess, and was far above any gossip with Mrs Simms. Altogether it was -a mysterious party. There was a little room adjoining the vestry to -which the ladies were taken to wait till all was ready, while the -gentlemen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> stood in the church, somewhat impatient, the bridegroom -looking anxiously from time to time at his watch. But now came the -strangest thing of all. The Rector, who had ordered the church to be -warmed and the cushions to be uncovered on purpose for them—he who had -known enough about their arrangements to calculate that some one might -arrive late—the Rector, now that they were here, took no notice. Simms -hurried in to inform him that they had come, but he took no notice; then -hurried back a second time to announce that “the gentlemen says as -they’re all here and quite ready;” but still Mr Marston never moved. He -had his watch on the table, and cast a glance upon it from time to time, -and he was pale and nervous sitting there in his surplice. The clergyman -all ready and the bridal party all ready, and a quarter after eleven -chiming!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<p>“We’ll take the churchings, Simms,” said the Rector, in a voice that was -scarcely audible.</p> - -<p>“The churchings, sir!” cried the verger, not believing his ears. Of all -the things to keep a wedding-party waiting for! But what could Simms do? -To obey the Rector was his first duty. He went with his mind in a state -of consternation to fetch the two poor women from the pews where they -sat waiting, wrapping themselves in their shawls, rather pleased with -the idea of seeing a wedding before their own little service. But they, -too, were thunderstruck when they heard they were to go up first. “Are -you sure you ain’t making a mistake?” one of them said; and as he walked -up the aisle, followed by these two humble figures, the elder gentleman, -who wore an eyeglass in his eye, almost assaulted Simms. He said, -“Holloa! hi! what are you after<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> there?” as if he had been in the street -and not in a church.</p> - -<p>Simms paused, and came closer than Lord Germaine, who was Winton’s -attendant, thought agreeable. He curved his hand round one side of his -mouth, and under its shelter whispered, “Two ladies, sir, to be -churched——”</p> - -<p>“Churched! what’s that?” cried Lord Germaine, with a sort of fright—and -then he recollected himself, and laughed. “But, my good fellow,” he -said, “not before the marriage. Take my compliments to the -clergyman—Lord Ger—— I mean just my compliments, you know,” he added -hurriedly, “and tell him that we are all waiting, really all here and -waiting. He can’t keep a bride and bridegroom waiting for—two -ladies”—and then he glanced through his eyeglass at the two poor women, -who dropped a humble curtsey without meaning it—“who can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> be churched, -you know quite well, my good fellow, after twelve o’clock.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell the Rector, sir,” said Simms—but he took his charges to the -altar-steps all the same, for the Rector was a man who liked to be -obeyed. Then he went in and delivered his message.</p> - -<p>The Rector was sitting gazing at his watch with a very anxious and -troubled face. “Has any one come?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, they be all here,” said Simms. “You’ll not keep the bride -and bridegroom waiting, surely, the gentleman says.”</p> - -<p>“I hope I am a better judge as to my duty than the gentleman,” said the -Rector, tartly; and without another word he marched into the chancel, -and advancing to the altar-rails, signed to the two women to take their -places. During the interval the bride had been brought from the -waiting-room and divested of her cloak.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> She was dressed simply in -white, with a large veil over her little bonnet. Lord Germaine had given -her his arm and was leading her to her place, when the voice of the -Rector announced that the other service had begun. The bridal party -looked at each other in consternation, but what could they do? Lord -Germaine, though he was one of the careless, had not courage enough to -interrupt a service in church. They stood waiting, the strangest group. -Lady Jane, when she divined what it was, did her best to pay a little -attention, to follow the prayers and lessons, which were so curiously -out of keeping with the circumstances. Winton, standing by her, crimson -with anger and impatience, could scarcely keep still. He held his watch -in his hand with feverish anxiety. Lord Germaine, adjusting his glass -more firmly in his eye, regarded the Rector as if he was a curious -animal. Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> Germaine, after carefully examining the whole group for a -moment, fell, as it was evident to see, into convulsions of secret -laughter. If it had not been so serious, it would have been highly -comic. And as for the poor women kneeling at the altar, the service so -far did them very little good. They were shocked to the very soul to -think of standing in the way of a bride; they could not resist giving -little glances from the corners of their eyes to see her, or at least -the white train of her dress falling upon the carpet on the altar-steps, -which was all that was within their range of vision as they knelt with -their hands over their faces. They were very well meaning, both of them, -and had really intended to do their religious duty—but there are some -things which are too great a trial for even flesh and blood.</p> - -<p>All this time was Mrs Marston’s oppor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>tunity if she could have availed -herself of it. She sat in her place in her front pew, in a tremble, -meaning every moment to put force upon herself to do her duty. All the -time she was reminding herself that she was a clergyman’s wife; that she -ought not to be timid; that it was her duty to speak. But how much -easier it had been last night in intention than it was to-day in -reality! For one thing, she had not foreseen the presence of Lady -Germaine. She had thought only of the poor girl, who probably had no -mother, to whom it would make all the difference in the world to have a -woman to speak to. But the presence of the other lady confounded the -Rector’s wife. She sat and looked on in a tremor of anxiety and -timidity, unable to move, yet with her heart pricking and urging her. -And so pretty and modest as the bride looked, poor thing; and surely he -was fond of her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> He would not look at her like that if it was an -interested marriage. But when she saw the laughter which “the other -lady” could not suppress, horror overcame all other sentiments in Mrs -Marston’s mind. To laugh in church; to laugh at one of the church -services! She had gone down on her knees, but neither did she, it is to -be feared, give very much attention to the prayers. And even the -Rector’s mind was disturbed. He stumbled twice in what he was saying; -his eyes were not upon the book, but upon the door, watching for some -one to come; and, good heavens! how slowly the time went! After all, it -was not much more than the half-hour when the two poor women, scarcely -knowing what had passed, got up from their knees. He had read more -quickly instead of more slowly in the confusion of his mind. Twenty -minutes yet! and the two poor mothers going down the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> altar-steps, -stealing into the first vacant seat to sate their eyes with the ceremony -to follow, and the other little group ranged before him, Simms putting -them in their places very officiously, and no help for it, and no sign -of any one coming. Well, a man can do no more than his duty! The Rector -came forward with the sentiments of a martyr, and opened his book and -cleared his voice. He was so much excited and nervous that he could -hardly keep his articulation clear. He had to clear his voice a great -many times in the first address; the figures before him swam in his -eyes. He had an impression of a sweet but pale face, very solemn and -tremulous, yet calm, and of a man who did not look like an adventurer. -It occurred to him, even as he read, that if he had not known anything -about them, he would have been interested in this young pair. Was no one -coming, then?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> He hardly knew how he began. Three-quarters chiming, and -nothing more that he could do to gain time! He went on, stumbling, -partly from agitation, partly for delay, lifting his eyes between every -two words, committing more indecorum in the course of five minutes than -he had done before in all his clerical life. When he came to the words -“if any man can show any just cause,” it came into his head what a -mockery it was. He made almost a dead stop, and looked round in a sort -of anguish—“any man!”—why, there was not a creature—there was nobody -but Simms, waiting behind obsequious, thoughtful of the half-crowns, and -Mrs Simms staring, and the two poor women who had been churched. Who of -all these was likely to make any objection? And everything perfectly -quiet; not a sound outside except the ordinary din. Then he put on his -most solemn aspect<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> and looked fully, severely, in the face of the -bridal pair. “I require—and charge you both—as ye will answer—at the -dreadful day of judgment.” Tremendous words; and he gave them forth one -by one, pausing at every breathing-place. Surely there never was such an -officiating clergyman. Lord Germaine kept that eyeglass full upon him, -gravely studying the unknown phenomena of a new species. Lady Germaine, -entirely overmastered by the <i>fou rire</i> which had seized her during the -churching, and fully believing that it was all eccentricity of the most -novel kind, crushed her handkerchief into her mouth, and stood behind -Winton that her half-hysterical seizure of mirth might not be perceived. -And now even that adjuration was over. Slow as you can say the words, -there are still but a few of them to say. The Rector was in despair. A -little more, and they would be bound beyond any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> man’s power to unloose -them. He had to begin, “Wilt thou have this woman——” At this point he -stopped short altogether; his eager ears became conscious of something -strange among the outside noises with which he was so familiar. He made -a sign to Simms, an angry, anxious gesture, pointing to the door. Lady -Germaine was almost beside herself; the little handkerchief now was not -enough; a moment more, she felt, and her laugh must peal through the -church.</p> - -<p>But it did not—another moment something else pealed through the church, -a loud voice calling “Stop!” and Lady Germaine’s disposition to laugh -was over in an instant. She gave a little cry instead, and came close to -Lady Jane to support her. Lord Germaine dropped his eyeglass from his -eye. He said, “Go on, sir; go on, sir; do your duty,” imperatively. As -for Winton, he turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> half round with a start, then, bewildered, -pronounced his assent to the question which had been but half asked him. -“I will,” he said, “I will!” “Go on, sir,” cried Lord Germaine: “go on, -sir.” In the meantime some one was hurrying up the aisle, pale, -breathless, in a whirl of passion. Even in the excitement and horror of -the moment Mrs Marston could not help giving a second look to see what -like a duke was in the flesh. The new-comer was white with fatigue and -fury. He came up to the very altar-steps where those two poor women had -been kneeling, and thrust Mrs Simms and the alarmed verger almost -violently out of the way. “Stop!” he cried, “stop! I forbid -it—stop—Jane!” and clutched his daughter by the arm. Lady Germaine in -her excitement gave a loud shriek and grasped the bride tighter, holding -her round the waist, while Winton, in a kind of frenzy, seized<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> her -ungloved hand, which was ready to be put into his. Lady Jane thus seized -on every side awoke only then out of the abstraction of that solemn and -prayerful seriousness in which she had been about to perform the -greatest act of her life. She had not noted the breaks and pauses in the -service, she had not thought of anything extraneous, noises or voices. -All that had occupied her was the solemnity of the moment, the great -thing she was doing, the oath she was about to take. Even now, when so -rudely awakened, she was not sure that the hand of the bridegroom -seeking hers was not in the course of the service. She gave it to him, -notwithstanding the grasp upon her arm. “Go on, sir!” shouted Lord -Germaine; “do your duty.” But the Rector could not help for the moment a -little sense of triumph. He made a step backwards and closed his book. -And at this moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> there was the little rustle in the throat of the -church tower, and one, two, three,—noon struck, filling the church with -successive waves of sound.</p> - -<p>The Duke had begun, “Jane!” and Winton had cried out, echoing his -friend, to the Rector to “go on, go on,” when this sound suddenly fell -upon them all, ringing slowly, steadily, like a doom bell. Something in -the sound stilled every one, even the angry and unhappy young man, who -saw his marriage broken and his hopes made an end of in a moment. Lady -Germaine took her hand away from Jane’s waist and sank down upon the -vacant bench and burst out into sobbing,—she who felt that she must -laugh five minutes before; and Mrs Marston cried in her pew, and the two -poor women looked on with so much sympathy. The Duke’s hand dropped from -his daughter’s arm. The only thing that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> did not alter was the attitude -of the two chief figures. They stood with clasped hands before the -altar-rails. Even now Lady Jane only half understood what had happened. -It began to dawn upon her as she saw the closed book, and felt the -silence and the sound of the clock. She turned round to Winton with a -questioning look, then smiled and gave a little, the slightest, pressure -of the hand she held. In this way they stood while the clock struck, no -one saying a word. Then there arose several voices together.</p> - -<p>“I thank heaven I arrived in time!” the Duke exclaimed. “Jane, let there -be no further scene, but leave off this silly pantomime, and come home -at once with me.”</p> - -<p>“Your bishop shall hear of this, sir!” said Lord Germaine, shaking his -fist, in spite of himself, at the Rector.</p> - -<p>Winton, on his side, was too sick at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> heart to find any words. He said, -“It is over,” with a voice of anguish; then added, “but we are pledged -to each other—pledged all the same.”</p> - -<p>“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke.</p> - -<p>“We are pledged to each other,” Winton repeated. He took the ring out of -his pocket, where it lay ready, and put it on her finger, trembling. -“She is my wife,” he said, half turning round, appealing to the group.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane withdrew her right hand, putting it within his arm. She held -up that which had the ring upon it, and put her lips to it. “I don’t -know what this means,” she said, tremulous and yet clear, “but I am his -wife.”</p> - -<p>“Let go my daughter, sir!” cried the Duke. They were all speaking -together. The pair who were not wedded turned round arm in arm as they -might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> done had the ceremony been completed. Once more the Duke -caught hold of his daughter roughly. “Jane, leave this man! I command -you to leave him! Come home at once!” he cried. “Mr Winton, if you have -any sense of honour, you will give her up at once. My God! will you -compromise my daughter and pretend to love her? Jane, will you make your -family a laughing-stock? Come, come! You will cover us with shame. You -will kill your mother.” He condescended to plead with her, so intense -was his feeling. “Jane, for the love of heaven——”</p> - -<p>Lady Germaine rose up from the bench on which she had flung herself. -“Oh, Duke!” she cried, “don’t you see things have gone too far? Leave -her with me. She will not be compromised with me. Have pity upon your -own child! Don’t you see, don’t you see that it is too late to stop it -now?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Lady Germaine!” cried the Duke, “I hope you can forgive yourself for -your share in this, but I cannot forgive you. Certainly my daughter -shall not go with you. There is but one house to which she can go—her -father’s.” He tightened his hold on her arm as he spoke. “Jane!—this -scene is disgraceful to all of us. Put a stop to it at once. Come home; -it is the only place for you now.”</p> - -<p>Then there was a pause, and they all looked at each other with a mute -consultation. The little ring of spectators stood and listened. Mrs -Marston, with the tears scarcely dried from her eyes, watched them with -fluttered eagerness, expecting the moment when the Duke should come and -thank her for the warning he had received. She was compunctious for the -sake of the young people; but yet to have the thanks of the Duke—— The -Rector had made haste to get out of his surplice, and now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> came out with -a little importance and the same idea in his mind.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane was the first to speak. She said, “It is cruel for us all; but -perhaps my father is right, things being as they are. I cannot go with -you, Reginald, to our own house.”</p> - -<p>Winton’s voice came with a burst, half-groan, half-sob, uncontrollable. -“God help us! I don’t suppose you can, my darling—till to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Till to-morrow! Then I will go home to my father’s now. Oh no,” she -said, shrinking back a little, “not with you. Reginald will take me -home.”</p> - -<p>“Let go my daughter, sir!” the Duke said. “He shall not touch you. He -shall not come near you. What! do you persist? Give her up, Winton; do -you hear me? She says she will come home.”</p> - -<p>“Father,” said Lady Jane very low, “it is you who are forgetting our -dignity. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> will go home, if Reginald takes me; but not with you. I -suppose no one doubts our honour. It is not the time for delay now, -after you have done all this. Reginald will take me home.”</p> - -<p>What the Duke said further it is scarcely necessary to record. He had to -stand by at last, half stupefied, and watch them walk down the aisle arm -in arm, bride and bridegroom, to the evidence of everybody’s senses. He -followed himself as in a dream, and got in, cowed, but vowing vengeance, -into the cab, which was all his Grace could find to reach St Alban’s in -from the railway,—and in that followed the brougham which conveyed his -daughter and her—not husband, and yet not lover—to Grosvenor Square. -But when he had once got her there!</p> - -<p>The Rector and his wife stood open-mouthed to see the pageant thus melt -away. The Duke, to whom they had done<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> so great a favour, took no more -notice of them than of the two poor women, who vaguely felt themselves -in fault somehow, and still kept crying, looking after the bride. Not a -word to the poor clergyman, who had almost done wrong for his sake—not -a look even, not the faintest acknowledgment, any more than if he had -nothing to do with it! Simms and his wife stood gaping, too, at the -church door, looking after the party which had been far too much -preoccupied to think of half-crowns. “This is how people are treated -after they have done their best. I always told you not to meddle,” Mrs -Marston said, which was very ungenerous, as well as untrue. But the -Rector said nothing. He was mortified to the bottom of his heart. But -when the excitement had a little died away, he said to himself with -vindictive pleasure that he hoped they were having a pleasant day, those -fine people in Grosvenor Square.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE WEDDING-DAY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not a pleasant day in Grosvenor Square. When the Duke arrived in -his cab the door was opened to him by the humble person who had care of -the house while the family were out of town,—an old servant, to whom -this charge was a sort of pensioning off. She was very much fluttered, -and informed him in an undertone that Lady Jane had arrived a few -minutes before “with a gentleman.” “Her ladyship is in the library, your -Grace, and the gentleman with her,” the old woman said, curtseying and -trembling—for though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> Lady Jane’s garb was very simple for a bride, -still it was a white dress, and in the middle of winter it is well known -that ladies do not go about their ordinary business in such garments. -The Duke considered a moment and then decided that he would not see his -daughter till her companion was gone. He was tremulous with rage and -discomfiture, yet with the sense that vengeance was in his hands. This -feeling made him conclude that it was more wise not to see Winton, not -to run the risk of losing his temper or betraying his intentions, but to -remain on the watch till he withdrew, and in the meantime to arrange his -own plans. He told the old housekeeper to let him know when the -gentleman was gone, and in the meantime hurried up-stairs to his -daughter’s room, and examined it carefully. Lady Jane had two rooms -appropriated to her use, with a third communi<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span>cating with them in which -her maid slept. This was a large area to put under lock and key, which -was her father’s determination: but in the ferment of his excited mind -and temper he felt no derogation in the half-stealthy examination he -made of the shut-up rooms, their windows and means of communication, the -locks on the door, and all the arrangements that would be necessary to -shut them off entirely from the rest of the house. With his own hands he -removed the keys, locking all the doors but one, and leaving the key on -the outside of that to shut off all entrance to the prison.</p> - -<p>While he was thus occupied the pair so strangely severed stood together -in the library waiting for his appearance, and getting a certain bitter -sweetness out of the last hour they were to spend together. They were -not aware that it was, in any serious sense of the words, their last -hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> “Till to-morrow” was the limit they gave themselves. To-morrow no -further interruption would be possible, the incomplete service would be -resumed, and all would be well. Even the Duke, unreasonable as he might -be, would not think it practicable, when in his sober senses, to -endeavour to sunder those who had been almost put together in the -presence of God. They believed, notwithstanding the tantalising misery -of this interruption, that it could not be but for a few hours; and -though Winton’s impatience and indignation were at first almost frenzy, -Lady Jane recovered her courage before they reached the house, and did -her best to soothe him. She drew good even out of the evil. To-morrow -all would be completed in her father’s presence. When once convinced -that matters had gone too far to be arrested, how could he refuse to -lend his sanction to what must be, whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> with his sanction or not? -She pleased herself with this solution of all their difficulties. “My -mother will come, I am sure,” she said, “as soon as the train can bring -her. I shall have her with me, which will be far, far better than Lady -Germaine, and there will be no further need of concealment, which is -odious, is it not, Reginald? There is a soul of goodness in things -evil,” she said. As for Winton, he was past speaking: the -disappointment, and those passions that rage in the male bosom, were too -much for him—fury and indignation, and pride in arms, and the sense of -defeat, which was intolerable. But he permitted himself to be subdued, -to yield to her who had put so much force upon herself, and conquered so -many natural repugnances and womanly traditions for him. Lady Jane would -not even let it appear that she felt the shame of being thus dragged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span> -back to her father’s house. “To-morrow,” she said, “to-morrow,” with a -thousand tender smiles. When it became apparent that the Duke did not -mean to make an appearance, she turned that to their advantage with -soothing sophistry. “He has nothing to say now,” she cried, “don’t you -see, Reginald? You cannot expect him to come and offer us his consent; -if he withdraws his opposition, that is all we can desire. Had he meant -to persevere, he would have come to us at once, and ordered you away, -and made another struggle. That is what I have been fearing. And now in -return for his forbearance you must go. Oh, do you think I wish you to -go? but it is best, it will be most honourable. What could be done in -the circumstances but that you should bring me home? Yes, till your -house is mine this is still home—till to-morrow,” she cried, smiling -upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> him. Winton paced up and down the gloomy closed-up room in an -agony of uncertainty, bewilderment, and dismay.</p> - -<p>“My home <i>is</i> yours!” he cried; “and what sort of place is this to bring -you to, my darling, without a soul to take care of you or look after -your comfort, without a fire even, or a servant:—on this day! It is -intolerable! And how, how can I go and leave you, on our wedding-day? It -is more than flesh and blood can bear. Jane, I have a foreboding; I -can’t be hopeful like you. If you submitted to the force of -circumstances in that wretched church, there is no force of any kind -here. Don’t send me away; come with me, my love, my dearest. The way is -clear, there is nothing but that old woman——”</p> - -<p>“There is our honour,” said Lady Jane. “I pledged it to my father. And -if I went with you, it would only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> be to separate again. Surely I am -better at home than at Lady Germaine’s:—till to-morrow—till -to-morrow,” she repeated softly. The library was next the door, it was -close to the open street, the free air out-of-doors. The temptation, -though she rejected it, was great upon Lady Jane too. There was a moment -in which, though she did not allow it, she wavered. The next moment, -with more fortitude than ever, she recovered the mastery of herself. It -was she at last who, tenderly persuading and beseeching, induced him to -go away. She went to the door with him and almost put him out with -loving force. “You will come back for me to-morrow—to-morrow! it is not -long till to-morrow,” she said, waving her hand to her distracted -bridegroom as he hurried away. It was well that there was nobody in -town—nobody in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> Grosvenor Square—except a passing milk-boy, to see the -Duke’s daughter standing in the doorway like the simplest maiden, in her -white dress, a wonderful vision for a murky London day, taking farewell -of her love. She closed the door after him with her own hand, while poor -old Mrs Brown, in such a flutter as she had never before experienced in -her life, came bobbing out from the corner in which she had been keeping -watch. “Oh, my lady! my lady!” the old woman said. She had scarcely been -high enough up in the hierarchy of service below-stairs to have come to -speech of Lady Jane at all, and now to think that she was all the -attendance possible for that princess royal! Lady Jane, it may be -supposed, was in no light-hearted mood, but she stopped with a smile to -reassure the old servant.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Nurse Mordaunt is with me,” she said; “she will, no doubt, be here -directly, Mrs Brown. You must not vex yourself about me. It will only be -till to-morrow. If you will have a fire lighted in my room, I will go -there.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my lady; oh, my lady! but I’m afraid there’s some sad trouble,” -said the old housekeeper.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane was far too high-bred to reject this sympathy, but it was -almost more than in her valour she could bear. Her eyes filled in spite -of herself. “It is only an extraordinary accident,” she said. “But -Mordaunt will tell you when she comes.” She was glad to escape into the -library that she might not break down. Turning round to re-enter alone -that huge, cold, uninhabited place, her mind was seized with a spasm of -terror. The blinds were drawn down, the fireplace was cold, it was like -a room out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> of which the dead had been newly carried, not a place to -receive a woman in the most living moment of life—on her wedding-day! -She had borne herself very bravely as long as her lover was -there—almost too bravely, trying to make him believe that it was -nothing, that she had scarcely any feeling on the subject. But when she -saw him go, the clouds and darkness closed in upon Lady Jane, her lips -quivered sadly as she spoke to Mrs Brown. When she was alone, her -swelling heart and throbbing forehead were relieved by a sudden passion -of tears. Would it be nothing as she had made believe? or was it a -parting, an ending, a severance from Reginald and hope? A black moment -passed over her—blacker than anything that Winton felt, as, distracted -and furious, burning with intentions of vengeance, and a sense of injury -in which there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> some relief from the misery of the situation, he -hurried along towards the Germaines’ house. There, at least, he could -plan and arrange, and talk out his fury and wretchedness. But Lady Jane -had no such solace. When she had yielded to that bitter <i>accès</i> of -tears, and felt herself pass under the cloud, she had to gather herself -together again all unaided, and recover her composure as best she could. -That sensation of overwhelming cold which so often accompanies a mental -crisis made her shiver. She drew her cloak closely round her, and went -slowly up-stairs through the hollow silence of the great house, pausing -now and then to take breath in her nervous exhaustion, and looking -anxiously for the appearance of her father. Did he not mean to come to -her at all? Lady Jane had no idea that she was going with all those -hesitations and pauses<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> straight into a prison. Such a thought had never -occurred to her. She believed still in reason and loving-kindness and -truth. Her father, when he saw it impossible, would after all yield, she -thought. Her mother would come to succour her in this extraordinary -emergency. “There is a soul of goodness in things evil,” she murmured -again to herself, but not so bravely as she had said it to her lover. -The house was so cold, such an echoing solitude, no living thing -visible, and she alone in it, left to wear through the weary hours as -she could—on her wedding-day!</p> - -<p>Thus with tired and lingering steps, and despondency taking possession -of her soul, Lady Jane went softly up-stairs, longing to divest herself -of her wedding-gown and hide her humiliation, looking vainly for her -father, whose appearance in this wilderness, even if it were only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> to -upbraid and denounce her, would still have had a certain consolation in -it. The Duke, unseen, watched her progress with a vindictive pleasure in -the downcast air and slow, languid step. He watched her to her very door -with an eagerness not to be described. At the last moment she might turn -round, she might still leave the house, she might escape. In no case -could he have used violence to his daughter. To level thunderbolts of -speech was one thing, to use force was quite another. To lift his hand -was impossible. If she turned round and fled down the stairs and out at -the door, she must do so: there was no way in which he could stop her: -if any third person were present, even Mrs Brown, he would be obliged to -keep a watch upon himself, to demand no more obedience than she would -give, to treat her as a reasonable being. All<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> this the Duke felt, -spying upon her steps as she went slowly up, following her, his -footsteps falling noiselessly on the thick carpets. He heard her sigh, -but this made no difference. To any one else this sigh of the widowed -bride, alone in this dismal empty house on the day that was to have -been, that almost was, her wedding-day, would have contained something -touching. But it did not touch the Duke. He followed at a distance, -keeping out of sight, determined to give her no opportunity to appeal to -him. When he heard her door close, a certain glow of satisfaction came -over his face. He went forward quickly, and turned the key in the lock -and put it in his pocket. He heard her moving about in the room, and he -could hear that she stopped short at the noise and stood listening to -know what it was. But all was quiet again, and Lady Jane suspected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> -nothing. She had begun to look in her wardrobe for something to put on -instead of her white dress. She thought it was some jar of one of the -doors as she opened them. And he stole down-stairs again, unnoticed and -unobserved. Who was there to notice him? no one in the house, except his -daughter locked into the room, and Mrs Brown with her little niece -down-stairs. The Duke withdrew into the library, where he had sat and -pondered for many a day, but never as now. The old housekeeper had -bestirred herself and had lighted a fire and set out a table with two -places for luncheon. She at least could do her duty if no one else did. -Mrs Brown, indeed, felt as a neglected general has often done when the -moment arrived in which he could distinguish himself. She had never had -this opportunity. Now, at last, in the end of her life it had come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> to -her. His Grace, who was so particular, should for once in his life know -what it was to eat a chop, an English chop, in its perfection. She had -sent out her handmaiden to fetch them, and lit the fire herself in her -devotion. This is an extent of enthusiasm to which few people would go. -And Lady Jane, sweet creature, who was evidently in trouble somehow with -her papa, who had sent that nice young gentleman off as fast as ever she -could, that the Duke and he might not meet, poor thing! what would be so -good for her as a chop? The old housekeeper betook herself to her work -with the warmest sense at once of benevolence and of power—power to -ameliorate and soften the hardness of destiny, and to win fame and -honour to herself. What enterprise could have a finer motive? Of the -three people in the house, she was the happy one, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> happens not -unfrequently among all the twists and entanglements of fate.</p> - -<p>Before, however, Mrs Brown had begun to cook her chops, Nurse Mordaunt, -Lady Jane’s devoted attendant since her childhood, arrived in much -anxiety and distress. Nurse had been detained by various matters, by -Lady Germaine, and by the delay in getting her ladyship’s things, which -had been left that morning at Lady Germaine’s house. With a heavy heart -nurse had effaced the direction of Lady Jane Winton from the box. She -had never herself approved of such a marriage any more than the Duke -did. It injured her pride sadly to think of “My Lady” marrying a -commoner at all, and marrying him secretly at a poky little church in -the city! But that she should be married and not married, half a wife, -“dragged from the altar,” was something which no one could contemplate -with calm<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span>ness. Nurse was more shamed, distracted, broken-hearted than -any of the party. “Oh, don’t ask me,” she answered, shaking her head, -when Mrs Brown humbly, with every respect, begged to know what had -happened. “It is as bad as a revolution—it’s worse than the Chartists; -even Radicals respect the marriage vow,” nurse cried in her dismay. “I -don’t approve of it, and never did, and never will. Up to the church -door I’d have done anything to stop it. But bless us! if you don’t keep -the altar sacred, what have you got to trust to?” She caused the boxes -to be brought into the hall with their erased addresses. There was -nobody to carry them anywhere,—none of the attendance about to which -Mrs Mordaunt was accustomed. “Fetch one of the men,” she had said at -first, but then she remembered there was no man in Grosvenor Square at -this time of the year.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> “Drat it! as if things were not bad enough -already; no servants, no comfort, nobody but Mrs Brown to look to -everything!” Mrs Mordaunt was too much broken down to go to her young -lady at once. She condescended to go into the kitchen, where it was at -least warm, to eat one of the chops and to rest a little before she went -up-stairs. And her arrival was scarcely over before it was followed by -another more urgent and important. The old housekeeper almost fainted -when, opening the door in answer to the impatient summons of another -arrival, she saw the Duchess herself get out of a hackney-cab. “Bless -us!” the old woman cried; if the Queen had come next she could not have -been more surprised.</p> - -<p>The Duchess, it need not be said, was in the secret of all those -arrangements which were to make Lady Jane into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> Reginald Winton’s wife. -She had a cold that day, partly real, partly no doubt emotional, but -enough to make her keep her room in the morning, leaving her guests to -the care of her sister, who was at Billings on a visit. She got up, as -may be supposed, with a great deal of agitation from her broken rest, -thinking of her Jane, how she would be preparing for her marriage, with -nobody but Lady Germaine to comfort and support her. Lady Germaine was -very kind: she had taken charge of the whole business; she and her -husband had gone to town on purpose to facilitate everything; but still -it was dreadful to the Duchess to think that her child should have no -one but Lady Germaine to lean upon at such a moment of her life. In her -own room, in the stillness of the morning, the thoughts of the mother -were bent upon this subject, which she went over and over, thinking of -everything.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> She figured to herself how her child would wake, and -realise what a fateful morning it was, and wish for her mother. How she -would say her prayers with all the fervour of such a crisis, and linger -upon the contemplation of the past, and the sweet but awful thought of -the future. Though her husband and his reign were so near, Jane would -think of her home, of the parents who loved her, and shed some tears to -think that the most momentous act of her life was taking place away from -them, in opposition to one of them. The Duchess, who was very much -overcome, at once by what she knew and what she did not know, by -imagination and by fact, shed more tears herself at this point, and she -had to dry them hastily to look up with an unconcerned face when her -maid came into the room bringing a piece of news which in a moment -startled her into activity and alarm. The Duke had gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> suddenly off to -town by the early train. After he had read his letters he had seemed -agitated, but said nothing to Bowles (who was his Grace’s valet) except -that business called him to town. And he had been gone an hour when the -news was brought to his wife. The reader may suppose how short a time -elapsed before the anxious mother followed him. She went out quietly in -a close carriage, nobody knowing, and got the next train, arriving in -London two hours later than that by which her husband had travelled. He -was sitting down with a little shrug of his shoulders, but not without -appetite, to Mrs Brown’s chops, when she drove up to the door, and -suddenly came in upon him, pale and full of anguish. Her eye ran round -the room questioning before she said a word:—then she loosened her -cloak and sat down upon the nearest seat with a sigh of relief.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></p> - -<p>“What have you done with Jane?” she was about to say: but then it -appeared to her that Jane must have escaped, that everything was -accomplished. She could have wept or laughed in the extreme blessedness -of this relief, but she dared not do either. She looked at him instead, -as he sat looking suspiciously at her. “It made me very anxious to hear -of your going,” she said. “I feared something might be wrong. I am going -back directly, and nobody knows I am out of my room: but I felt that I -must hear——”</p> - -<p>“What?” he asked with watchful suspicion; it was a terrible ordeal to go -through. The Duchess did all a woman could to take the meaning out of -her own face and put upon it an aspect of affectionate concern alone. “I -did not know what to think,” she said; “I was very anxious: but it -cannot be anything very bad, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> hope, since I find you——” How hard it -is to say what is not the truth! While she uttered these commonplace -words her eyes were watching him, keenly questioning everything about -him. At last her heart seemed to stand still. She perceived the two -covers laid on the table. “You have some one with you,” she said, with a -catching of her breath.</p> - -<p>He looked at her still more keenly. “I have Jane with me,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Jane!” It was all her mother could do not to break down altogether, and -show her anguish and disappointment in passionate tears; but her heart -was leaping in her throat, and she could not speak.</p> - -<p>“That is to say,” he added slowly, with unspeakable enjoyment in the -sense of having got the better of the women altogether, and holding them -in his hand, “she is in the house. I arrived in time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> to save her from -becoming the victim—of a villain. I shall keep her safe now I have got -her,” the Duke said, with an ineffable flourish of his hand.</p> - -<p>“The victim—of a villain? What do you mean by such words? They sound as -if you had got them out of a novel,” the Duchess said; but her heart was -beating so that she could scarcely hear herself speak.</p> - -<p>“Then you knew nothing about it?” said her husband calmly.</p> - -<p>The Duchess got up from her seat. She was too much agitated to be able -to keep still. “I knew, if that is what you mean, that she was to -marry—the man she loved—to-day. What have you done? Have you parted -your own child from her happiness and her life?”</p> - -<p>He rose too. He had kept up his calm demeanour as long as he could. Now -his rage got the better of him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> “So you were in the plot!” he cried, -“you! I felt it, and yet I could not believe it. You who ought to have -been the first to carry out my will and respect my decision.”</p> - -<p>“Augustus,” said his wife, very pale, standing up before him, her hand -upon the back of a tall chair, her head erect, “this must not go too -far. Jane has not one but two parents, and she has always had her -mother’s sanction. You are aware of that.”</p> - -<p>“Her mother’s sanction!” cried the Duke, with a tremendous laugh of -passion. “That is a mighty advantage, truly. Her mother! what has her -mother to do with it? Nothing! These are pretty heroics, and do very -nicely to say to the ignorant; but you know very well that, save as my -agent, you have no more to do with Jane or her marriage—no more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span>——”</p> - -<p>“It may be so in law,” said the Duchess, recovering her composure, “but -it is certainly not so in nature; nor have I ever considered myself your -agent, in respect to my child. I have yielded to you in a hundred -ways—and so much the worse for you that I have done so; but, as regards -Jane, I have never thought it my duty to yield—and never will; such a -suggestion is intolerable,” she said, with a touch of feminine passion. -“My right and my authority are the same as yours—neither of them -absolute—for she is old enough to judge for herself.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, poor girl!” he said, with a knowledge that it was the most -irritating thing he could say, and at the same time a coarse sort of -pleasure in insulting the women, though they were so near to him; “that -is at the bottom of everything. You made her believe it was her last<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> -chance. She was determined anyhow to have a husband.”</p> - -<p>The Duchess grew scarlet, but she was sufficiently enlightened by -experience to restrain the angry reply that almost forced its way from -her lips. She looked at him with a silent indignation not unmingled with -pity, then turned her head away. Poor Mrs Brown! Her chops, that had -been so good, so hot, stood neglected on the table. Her opportunity was -over. It was no fault of hers that she had not distinguished herself. So -many another disappointed genius has done its best, and some accident -has stepped in and balked its highest effort. Had the Duchess delayed -but half an hour, his Grace, after so much French cookery, would have -experienced the wholesome pleasure of at least one British chop, and -probably in consequence would have promoted Mrs Brown to a post near his -person. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span> it was not to be. There was no luncheon eaten that day in -Grosvenor Square. The discussion was prolonged for some time, and then -the Duchess was heard to go hastily up-stairs. She went to her -daughter’s room with tears of hot passion in her eyes and an intolerable -pang in her heart, and knocking softly, called to Jane with a voice -which she could scarcely keep from breaking. “My darling!” she cried, -“my sweet, my own girl!” with something heartrending in her accents. All -had been still before; but now there was a stir in reply.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother dear, come in, come in! How I have longed for you!” Lady -Jane cried; and then there was a little pause of expectation, breathless -with a strange suspicion on one side, and such miserable humiliation and -anguish on the other, as can scarcely be put into words.</p> - -<p>“I cannot come in, my dear love. Oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> my darling, you must be patient. I -must go back directly to all those people in the house. You know it -would never do——” Here the Duchess, unable to keep up the farce, began -all at once to cry and sob piteously outside the door.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane, fully roused, hurried to it and turned the handle vainly, and -shook the heavy door. “I cannot open it,” she cried wildly. “Mother, -mother! what does this mean? Cannot you come in? What can take you away -from me when I want you—the people in the house? Oh, mother, I want -you, I want you!” she cried as she had never done in her life before. -And then there was such a scene as might be put into a comedy and made -very ridiculous, and which yet was very heartrending as it happened, and -overpowered these two women with a consternation, a sense of -helplessness, a bitter perception of the small account<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> they were of, -which paralysed their very souls—not only that he had the power to do -it, but also the heart: he with whom they had lived in the closest ties, -whom they had loved and served, for whom they had been ready to do all -that he pleased, one for the greater part of her life, the other since -ever she had been born. What did it matter, any one would have said, the -power such a man had over his wife and his daughter? He would never use -it to make them unhappy. But there are capabilities of human misery in -families which no one can fathom, which may seem to make it doubtful by -moments how far the family relation is so blessed as it is thought to -be. The Duke felt that now, for the first time, he had these women under -his thumb, so to speak. He had them so bound that they could not resist, -could not move, could not even call for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> help from any one without -betraying the secrets of the family. He kept possession of his library, -and, with the key in his pocket, had a moment of triumph. They had -united against him; but now they should feel his power.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>IN PRISON.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> scenes that followed were at times not only so exciting, but so -tranquil, that we shrink from attempting to depict them. If there had -been anything wanted to confirm the determination of the Duke to hold to -the position he had taken up, it would have been the arrival of the -Duchess, and the prodigious step he took in refusing her admittance to -her daughter. After that there was nothing too much for him. He had -burnt his ships. When Lord and Lady Germaine arrived next morning to -bring away the bride, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> some trembling on the part of the lady, but -a contemptuous certainty on that of the gentleman, that “the old -duffer,” though he had let his temper out, was not such a fool as all -that—they were refused admittance peremptorily. After they had parleyed -for some time with the man at the door,—a personage whom the Duke, -roused into energy by the position in which he found himself, had -engaged on the previous day, and who was invulnerable to all assaults -and persuasions,—the Duchess herself came to them, extremely pale, and -with difficulty preserving her composure. She had remained all night -notwithstanding the misery of the circumstances altogether, and though -she did not admit it in words, her quick-witted visitors easily -perceived that she herself had not been permitted to see her daughter. -“You will think it is medieval,” she said with a faint<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> smile. “The Duke -is very determined when he thinks it worth while.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” said Lady Germaine, touched by the aspect of the suffering -woman, “that one does not have the blood of Merlin in one’s veins for -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Merlin,” said Lord Germaine, who was very slangy, “was the old swell -who was seducted by Miss Vivien. I don’t think it would have been hard -work to get over him.”</p> - -<p>The Duchess stood in the doorway pale, supporting with difficulty any -levity on the subject, yet ready to put as brave a face upon it as -possible. “Give Reginald my love, and tell him it is impossible this can -last for ever,” she said. “I am sorry for him to the bottom of my heart, -and sorry for my child, but at present I cannot help even her.”</p> - -<p>Lady Germaine stepped within the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> guarded door to take the Duchess’s -hand and kiss her. “And we are so sorry for you, so indignant——”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” the Duchess said. “It is my fault; I should have had the courage -of my convictions. I should have gone with my child myself; the error -was mine.”</p> - -<p>Lady Germaine was half disposed to reply, “Oh, if you think we neglected -any precaution——” But she had not the heart to be offended.</p> - -<p>The pair drove away after a while considerably discomfited. “I did not -think the old duffer had so much spirit,” Lord Germaine said with secret -admiration. “I say, Nell, if you tried to marry Dolly against my will, I -wonder if I should be up to that?”</p> - -<p>“If there was any chance of it I should lock you up first,” said his -dutiful wife.</p> - -<p>“And on the edge of a smash, the <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span>greatest smash that has been since—— -Billings will have to be sold up, and all that is in it,” Lord Germaine -said thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>Lady Germaine showed neither surprise nor pain at this piece of news. -“What a chance for Reginald!” she said. “He can buy in all their best -things and do up Jane’s rooms at Winton like her old ones at home.” And -then she laughed and added, “He wouldn’t have those old things in his -house. Taste had not been invented when their Graces were married.”</p> - -<p>It was in this mood of partial hilarity that they reached their own -door, where poor Winton was waiting. However sympathetic friends may be, -the way in which they take our troubles is very different from the way -in which we ourselves take them. The Germaines, though they threw -themselves so warmly into his affairs, and had given themselves so much -trouble, had to change their aspect sud<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span>denly, to put up shutters and -draw down blinds metaphorically, as they approached the actual sufferer. -But into his misery and rage it is unnecessary to enter. He said, as was -natural, a great many things that it would have been better not to say, -and for some time after he besieged the house. He went in person, he -wrote, he communicated by means of his solicitors with the solicitors of -the Duke, whose mouths watered over the settlements he had made, which -the authorities on his own side thought ridiculous, and professed their -eagerness to do their best, but would not flatter him with any hopes of -success. “No man in his senses would reject a son-in-law like you, Mr -Winton, especially in the circumstances,” the senior partner said; “but -the Duke is the Duke, and there is nothing more to be said. We have -found him very impracticable, extremely impracticable in his own -affairs;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> things are looking bad for the family altogether. There is -Lord Hungerford now has some sense. He made a capital marriage -himself—you should get him on your side.”</p> - -<p>Winton found no great difficulty in getting Hungerford on his side. That -young nobleman was so much excited on the subject, that he even took it -upon him to speak to his father and show him how ridiculous it was.</p> - -<p>“You can’t make a house in Grosvenor Square like a castle in the -Apennines,” Hungerford cried; “for heaven’s sake, sir, don’t make us -ridiculous!” Lady Hungerford on her side enjoyed the whole affair -immensely. “I never realised before that I had really married into a -great house,” she said. “It’s like the ‘Family Herald.’ It’s like the -sort of nobility we understand among the lower classes, don’t you know? -not your easy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span>going, like-other-people kind.” And she offered to take -lessons of a locksmith so that she might be able to break open Jane’s -prison.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, even suggestions of this kind, which were partially -comic and wholly theatrical, came to be entertained by Winton before his -trial was over. One of his friends seriously advised him to get an -Italian servant, used to conspiracies, smuggled into the house, in order -to deliver the captive. Another thought that rope-ladders and a midnight -descent from the window might be practicable; but a rope-ladder from a -second-floor window in Grosvenor Square would not be easy to manage, and -a wag intervened and suggested a fire-escape, which turned the whole -into ridicule. This was one of the aspects of the case, indeed, which -aggravated everything else. The whole situation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> being so serious and -painful to two or three people, was, to the rest of the world, -irresistible from the comic side. People drove through Grosvenor Square -on purpose to look up at the second-floor windows: and as the -instruments began to tune up, and the feast to be set in order for the -first arrivals of society, the importance of the strange event grew -greater and greater. A new Home Secretary, and all the consequent -changes in the Cabinet, faded into nothing in comparison. “Have you -heard that Jane Altamont was half-married to Regy Winton some time in -the winter, and that odious old Duke dragged her from the very altar, -and has kept her ever since under lock and key?” Very likely it was Lady -Germaine who first put the story about, but it was taken up by everybody -with all the interest and excitement which such a tale warranted. -Further<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> details were given that were almost incredible; to wit, that -the Duchess herself, though living in the same house, was not allowed to -see her daughter, and that Lady Jane for two months had only breathed -the fresh air through her window, and had never left the suite of rooms -in which she was confined; worse than if she had been in jail, everybody -said. But not even this was the point which most roused the popular -indignation (if we may call the indignation of the drawing-rooms -popular). Half-married! that was the terrible thought.</p> - -<p>The Duke paid one or two visits before the opening of Parliament. It may -be supposed that to none but very great houses indeed would his Grace -pay such an honour: and though he was not very quick to observe in -general matters, yet his sense of his own importance was so keen that it -answered for intelligence, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> far as he himself was concerned. He saw -that the ladies regarded him with a sort of alarm, that even the -gentlemen after dinner showed a curiosity which was not certainly the -awed and respectful interest which he thought it natural he should -excite. And it was not long before his hostess, who was, he could not -deny, his equal, of his own rank, and of unexceptionable antecedents, -made the matter clear to him. “Duke,” she said, “of course you know I -wouldn’t for the world meddle in any one’s private affairs. But there is -such a strange story going about—— Dear Jane! We had hoped to see her -with you as well as Margaret” (Margaret was the Duchess, and a very -intimate friend of this other great, great lady); “and now neither of -them has come. But it is not possible—don’t think for a moment that I -believe it!—that this story can be true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“If your Grace will kindly explain what the story is?” Our Duke, liking -due respect himself, always gave their titles to other people, according -to the golden rule.</p> - -<p>“I don’t like even to put it into words; that you stopped her -marriage—at the altar itself; that the dear girl is neither married nor -single; that—— But I give you pain.”</p> - -<p>“The statement is calculated to give me pain; but the facts, as of -course your Grace knows very well, are true. I arrived in time to -prevent my daughter from making a marriage which I disapproved.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we are all liable to that,” said the great lady, letting her eyes -dwell regretfully, yet with maternal pride, upon a daughter who had been -so abandoned as to marry a clergyman, but who had produced a baby, for -whose sake the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> parents had forgiven its father. “Who can guard against -such a misfortune? But Beatrice, poor thing, is very happy,” she added -with a sigh.</p> - -<p>The Duke made her a little bow. It said a great deal. It said, if you -are so lost to every sense of what is becoming as to take it in that -way—but I should never have allowed it! He to utter sentences of this -kind, who had made himself the talk of society! “But, Duke,” she said -with spirit, taking up Nurse Mordaunt’s argument, “if the altar is not -held sacred, what will become of us? They say you stopped her when she -was saying the very words——”</p> - -<p>“The subject is not a very agreeable one,” said the Duke; “I cannot take -it upon me to recollect at what point they were in the service—— but -at all events, your Grace may be assured it was not too late.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but it must have been too late,” cried the indignant matron. “I -heard he had said ‘I will.’ I heard he had put the ring on her finger. I -could not have believed it was true had not you said so. But you cannot -let it rest like that. Half-married! it’s wicked, you know,” her Grace -cried.</p> - -<p>And the other Duke, the gracious host, permitted himself, in a moment of -expansion, to say something of the same sort. “I wouldn’t interfere with -your affairs for the world,” he said; “but I hope, Billingsgate, you -don’t mean to let that sweet girl of yours lie under such a stigma——”</p> - -<p>“A stigma! My daughter! There is no stigma,” cried the head of the -Altamonts, growing scarlet.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t want to be a meddler: but the women say so. They are all -in a fuss about it; one hears of nothing else<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> wherever one goes. You -will have to give in sooner or later,” said the other Duke.</p> - -<p>“Never!” said his Grace of Billingsgate, and he hastened his departure -from his friend’s abode. But the next house he went to the same result -was produced. There was a putting together of feminine heads, a -whispering, a direction of glances towards him, from eyes which once had -looked upon him only with awe; and after a little hesitation and beating -about the bush, the same outburst of remark. Half-married! The most -important lady in the company took him to task very seriously. “What is -to become of her? you should think of that. At present she has you to -protect her reputation. But suppose anything were to happen to you? We -are all mortal; and think of dear Jane with such a scandal against her. -People will say it is the man who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> has drawn back: they will say all -sorts of things; for it is inconceivable that a girl’s father, her own -father, should play with her reputation like that.”</p> - -<p>“Her reputation!” the Duke cried, almost with a shriek of indignation. -“My child’s reputation! Who would dare——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nobody would dare,” said his assailant—“but everybody would -understand. People would make sure that there were reasons. -Half-married! There is not one of us that doesn’t feel it. Such a thing -was never heard of. Oh, you must not think you will escape it by going -away. Wherever you go you will hear the same thing. The news has gone -everywhere. Didn’t you see it in the ‘Universe’ at full length? Of -course nobody could mistake the Duke of B—— G——. Oh, I hope you will -think it over seriously, before it is too late.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The Duke, more angry than ever, went back to Grosvenor Square. He was -determined to face it out. Country houses are proverbially glad of a -piece of gossip to give their dull life an interest. He began to go out -into society, as much as there was at that early season, and present a -bold front to the world. His home was dull enough, with Lady Jane locked -into her room and watched, lest by craft or force she should make her -escape; her mother obstinately refusing to go out, or accompany him -anywhere; his very servants looking at him reproachfully. The butler, -who had been with him for about thirty years, and whose knowledge of -wine and of the cellars at Billings was inexhaustible, threw up his -situation; and so did the housekeeper, who was Jarvis’s wife. “I don’t -hold with no such goings-on,” Mrs Jarvis said. And when he dined with -the leader of his party (which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> was in opposition) Mrs Coningsby did not -wait till the conclusion of the dinner, but cried, “Duke, it cannot be -true about Lady Jane!” before he had eaten his soup. This lady treated -the subject lightly, which was more odious to him than the other way. -“Oh no, it can’t be true,” she said; “we all know that they say you -dragged her from church by the hair of her head, and snatched her hand -away when the bridegroom was putting on the ring. Mr Coningsby was in a -dreadful way about it. He said it would be such a cry at the elections; -but I told him, Nonsense! the Duke is far too fine a gentleman, I said.” -This was more difficult to answer than the other mode of assault. The -Duke became all manner of colours as he listened. “And the elections are -so near,” the lady said. “Of course the Government will not care how -false it is; they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> will placard it on all the walls, with a picture as -large as life. They will turn all the clergy against us. Of course, dear -Duke, of course, to people who know you so well as I do—you need not -tell <i>me</i> that it is not true.” The Duke sat grim, and heard all this, -and did not say a word. There was a flutter in the drawing-room as he -came in: everybody looked at him as if he had been a wild beast. -“Dragged her out by the hair of her head!” he heard whispered on every -side of him, and though Mrs Coningsby still affected not to believe, the -bishop’s wife contemplated him with terrible gravity. “Oh, I hope you -will talk it over with the bishop,” she said. “He is so anxious about -it. Lady Jane was always such a favourite. I do hope you will take the -bishop’s advice. After a certain part of the service, I have always -under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>stood it was a sin to interfere.” Later in the evening he was -mobbed by half-a-dozen ladies—there is no other word for it—mobbed and -overwhelmed with one universal cry. Half-married! Poor Lady Jane! Dear -Lady Jane! They pressed round him, each with her protestation, a soft, -yet urgent babel of voices. The poor Duke escaped at last, not knowing -how he got away. It seemed to his Grace that he had escaped out of a -mob, and that his coat must be torn and his linen frayed with the -conflict. He was astonished beyond all description; but he was likewise -appalled by the discovery that even he was not above the reach of public -opinion. It affected him against his will. He felt ashamed, uneasy, -confused even on the points where he was most sure.</p> - -<p>And when he came home, he went to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> his wife’s boudoir, where she sat -alone, to bid her good-night, which was a form he always observed, -though this event had separated them entirely. She was permitted now to -see Jane once a-day; but as she would give no promise that she would not -help her daughter to leave the house, this was the utmost that he had -granted her. She was seated alone, reading, pale and weary. She scarcely -raised her eyes when he came in, though she put down her book. The fire -was low, and there was no light in the room except the reading-lamp. The -Duke could not help feeling the difference from former times. A -temptation came upon him to throw himself upon her sympathy, and tell -her how he had been persecuted. He would have done so had it been on any -other subject, but he remembered in time that on this he had no sympathy -to expect from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> his wife. So he stood for a minute or two before the -fire, feeling chilled, silenced, an injured man. “No, I have not had a -pleasant evening,” he said shortly; “how should my evening be pleasant -when every one remarks your absence? I am asked if you are ill; I am -asked——”</p> - -<p>“Other questions, I imagine, that are still more difficult to answer.”</p> - -<p>“And whose fault is it?” he cried, with vehemence. “If you had taken the -steps you ought to have taken, and supported my authority, as was your -duty, there would have been no such questions to ask.”</p> - -<p>The Duchess turned away with some impatience; she made no reply: the -question had been often enough discussed in all its bearings. If she had -now thrown herself at his feet and begged his pardon and forbearance, -what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> a relief it would have been to him! He would have yielded and -saved his position, and recovered the pose of a magnanimous superior. -But the Duchess had no intention of the kind. After a while, during -which they did not look at each other, she seated gazing into the fire, -he standing staring into the vacant air, he took up his candlestick with -an air of impatience. “Good night, then,” he said, with in his turn an -air of impatience.</p> - -<p>“Good night,” she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>DELIVERANCE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Lady Jane</span> had been for two months the solitary inhabitant of those two -rooms on the second floor. Yet not altogether solitary—Nurse Mordaunt -had been allowed to join her, and had been the faithful companion of her -captivity. She was a better companion than a younger maid would have -been, for she had been a kind of second mother to Lady Jane, and knew -all her life and everything that concerned her, besides being a person -of great and varied experience, who had anecdotes and tales to -illustrate every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> vicissitude of life. Nurse Mordaunt was acquainted -even with parallel instances to place beside Lady Jane’s own position. -She knew every kind of thing that had ever happened “in families,” by -which familiar expression she meant great families like those to which -she had been accustomed all her life. Little families without histories -she knew nothing of. The profound astonishment which overwhelmed Lady -Jane when she found herself a prisoner it would be impossible to -describe. She felt once more as she had felt when her father insulted -her womanly delicacy and sent the blood of shame tingling to her cheeks, -shame not so much for herself as for him. Was it possible that her -father, the head of so great a house, the descendant of so many noble -ancestors, and again her father, the man to whom she had looked up with -undoubting confidence and admiration all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> her life—that at the end he -was no true gentleman at all, but only a sham gentleman, the shadow -without any substance, the symbol, with all meaning gone out of it? Do -not suppose that Lady Jane put this deliberately into words. Ah, no! the -thoughts we put into words do not sting us like those that glance into -our souls like an arrow, darting, wounding before we have time to put up -any shield or defence to keep them out. Deeper even than her separation -at such a moment from her lover, more bitter than her thoughts of his -disappointment, of his rage and misery, was this empoisoned thought: her -father, a great peer, a noble gentleman—yet thus suddenly showing -himself not noble at all, not true, a tyrant, without any understanding -even of the creatures whom he could oppress. Lady Jane was sad enough on -her own account and on Winton’s, it may well be believed:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> but of this -last wound she felt that she never could be healed. Imagine those -traditions of her rank in which she had been brought up, her proud yet -so earnest and humble sense of its obligations, the martyrdom which in -her youth she had been so ready to accept—all come down to this, that -she was a prisoner in her father’s house, locked up like a naughty -child,—she who had been trained to be the princess royal, the -representative of an ideal race! Ah, if it had but been a revolution, a -rebellion, democracy rampant, such an imprisonment as she had once been -taught to think likely! but to sink down from the grandeur of that -conception to the pettiness and bathos of this! She tried to smile to -herself sometimes, in the long days which passed so slowly, at her own -ludicrous anticipations, and at the entire futility, after all, of this -suffering to which she was being exposed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> But she had not a lively -sense of humour, and could not laugh at those young dreams, which, after -all, were the highest of her life. And somehow the sense that the -present troubles could produce no possible result of the kind intended, -made her almost more impatient of them than if they had been more -dangerous. That her father could think to subdue her by such means, that -he could expect to convince her by so miserable an argument, that he -could suppose it possible that she would change for this, abandon what -she had resolved upon at the expense of all her prejudices and so many -of her better feelings, because of being shut up in two rooms for two -months, or two years, or any time he might choose to keep her there! If -she had not thought her filial duty a sufficient reason, would she be -convinced by a lock and key? Lady Jane smiled with high and silent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> -disdain at so extraordinary a mistake. But it was unworthy, it was -lowering to her moral dignity to be exposed to so vexatious and petty an -ordeal. At a State prison, with the block at the end, she had been -prepared to smile serenely, carrying her high faith and constancy -through even the death ordeal. But confinement in her own room was -laughable, not heroic; it made her blush that she should be exercised in -so miserable a way—in a way so impossible to bring about any result.</p> - -<p>Nurse Mordaunt was an excellent companion, but after a while she began -to droop and pine. She wanted the fresh air; she wanted to see her -grandchildren; she wanted, oh, imperiously beyond description! a talk, a -gossip, a little human intercourse with some one of her own kind. Lady -Jane was a darling—the sweetest of ladies; but it was a different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> -thing talking to that angel and chatting familiarly over things in -general with Mrs Jarvis. Nurse no more than other mortals could be kept -continuously on the higher level. She longed to unbend, to be at her -ease, to feel herself, as the French say, <i>chez elle</i>, in which -expression there is almost a more intimate well-being than in that of -being at home, which we English think so much superior. Her health -suffered, which Lady Jane would not allow that hers did; and at last, -Nurse Mordaunt made such strenuous representations on the subject to the -new servant, whose business it was to watch over the prisoners, that she -was allowed to go out. She was allowed to go out and the Duchess to come -in, two proceedings altogether contradictory of the spirit of the -confinement, and which were, indeed, a confession of failure, though the -Duke himself was unaware of it. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> made a great change to the -prisoner, whose cheeks, though still pale, got a little tinge of colour -and hope in consequence. It did more for her than merely to bring her -her mother’s society, though that was much. It brought her also other -news of the outer world—news of Winton more definite than the distant -sight of him riding or walking through the Square, which he did -constantly. Now, at last, she received the budget of letters, of which -her mother’s hands were full. Lady Jane smiled and cried a little at the -entreaties her lover addressed to her to be steadfast—not to give him -up. “I wonder what they all think,” she said; “is this an argument -likely to convince one’s reason, mother, or to persuade one for love’s -sake?” She looked round upon her prison—her pretty chamber furnished -with every luxury—and laughed a little. “Is it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> my head or my heart -that is appealed to?” she said. This, perhaps, was too clear-sighted for -the angelic point of view from which the world in general expected Lady -Jane to view most matters. But, in fact, though she had more poetry in -her than her mother, Lady Jane had come into possession of part of her -mother’s fortune, so to speak, her sense; and that is a quality which -will assert itself. Now the Duchess, in the excitement of standing by -helpless while her daughter suffered, had come to regard the matter more -melodramatically than Lady Jane did, to suffer her feelings to get the -mastery, and to imagine a hundred sinkings of the heart and depressions -of the spirit to which the captive must be liable. She recognised the -change instinctively, for it was one which had taken place long ago in -herself. She, too, had been brought to see the pal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span>triness of many -things that looked imposing, the futility of <i>les grands moyens</i>. Lady -Jane’s development had been slow. At twenty-eight she had been less -experienced than many a girl of eighteen. But now her eyes were opened. -Even her lover, who thought it possible that she might yield under such -persuasion, was subject to almost a passing shade of that high but -gentle disdain with which she contemplated the vulgar force to which she -was subjected; for it was vulgar, alas! though a duke was the -originator: and unspeakably weak though it was—what the French call -<i>brutal</i>—everything, in short, that a mode of action destined to affect -a sensitive, proud, and clear-seeing soul ought not to be.</p> - -<p>The new <i>régime</i> had continued but a short time when Nurse Mordaunt -returned one day from her walk with heightened colour and great -suppressed excitement.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> Something, it was evident, was in her mind quite -beyond the circle of her usual thoughts; but she talked less, not more, -than usual, and left her lady free to read over and over the last -letters, and to refresh her heart with all the raptures of her lover’s -delight in having again found the means of communicating with her after -the misery of six weeks of silence and complete separation. Something he -said of a speedy end of all difficulties, which Lady Jane took but -little thought of, being far more interested in the reunion with -himself, which his letters brought about. A speedy end: no doubt an end -would come some time; but at present the prisoner was not so sanguine as -those outside. She did not know the gallant stand which the ladies were -making, or the social state of siege which had been instituted in -respect to the Duke; and she sighed, but smiled, at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> Winton’s hope. All -went on as usual during the long, long evening. It was long, though it -was provided with everything calculated to make it bearable—books and -the means of writing, writing to <i>him</i>—which was far more amusing and -absorbing than any other kind of composition. Her fire was bright, her -room full of luxurious comfort—a piano in it, and materials for a dozen -of those amateur works with which time can be cheated out of its length. -But she sighed and wearied, as was natural, notwithstanding the -happiness of having her lover’s letters, and of having talked with her -mother, and of knowing as she did that some time or other this must come -to an end. “After all, nurse,” she said with a little laugh, as she -prepared for bed, “to be in prison is not desirable. I should like to -have a run in the woods at Billings, or even a walk in Rotten Row.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Yes, dear,” said nurse, leaning over her, “your ladyship shall do -better than that. Oh yes, my sweet, better days are coming. Don’t you -let down your dear heart.”</p> - -<p>“No; that would not do much good,” Lady Jane said with a sigh: but she -did not remark, which was strange, that nurse was full of a secret, and -that a delightful secret, exultingly dwelt upon, and ready to burst out -at the least encouragement. Or perhaps she did perceive it, but was too -tired to draw it forth. And she gave no encouragement to further -disclosure, but went to her rest sighing, with a longing to be free, -such as since the first days of her imprisonment she had not felt -before. And she could not sleep that night. Lady Jane was not of a -restless nature. She did not toss about upon her pillows and make it -audible that she was sleepless: and she had much to occupy her thoughts, -so many things that were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span> pleasant, as well as much that it hurt her to -contemplate. She put the hurtful things away and thought of the sweet, -and lay there in the darkness of the winter’s night, lighted and calmed -by sweet thought. When it was nearly morning, at the darkest and -chilliest moment of all, there came a rustling and soft movement, which, -however, did not alarm her, since it came from Nurse Mordaunt’s room. -Then she perceived dimly, in the faint light from an uncurtained window, -a muffled figure, with which indeed she was very familiar, being no -other than that of nurse herself in a dressing-gown and nightcap, with a -shawl huddled about her throat and shoulders, stealing round the room. -What was nurse doing at this mysterious hour? But Lady Jane was not -afraid. She was rather glad of the incident in the long monotony of the -night. She turned her head noiselessly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> upon her pillow to watch. But -the surprise of Lady Jane was great at the further operations of her -attendant. Nurse arranged carefully and noiselessly a small screen -between the door and the bed, then with great precaution struck a light -and began with much fumbling and awkwardness to operate upon the door. -What was she doing? The light, throwing a glimmer upward from behind the -screen, revealed her face full of anxiety, bent forward towards the lock -of the door, upon which many scratches and ineffectual jars as of tools -badly managed soon became audible. The candle threw a portentous waving -shadow, over the further wall and roof, of the old woman’s muffled -figure, and betrayed a succession of dabs and misses at the door which -Lady Jane for a long time could not understand. What did it mean? The -noise increased as nurse grew nervous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> over her failure. She hurt her -fingers, she pursed her mouth, she contracted her brows; it was work -that demanded knowledge and delicate handling, but she had neither. When -Lady Jane raised herself noiselessly on her arm, and said in her soft -voice, “What are you doing, nurse?” the poor woman dropped the tools -with a dull thump on the floor, and almost went down after them in her -vexation. “Oh, my lady, I can’t! I can’t do it, I’m that stupid!” She -wept so that Lady Jane could scarcely console her, or understand her -explanation. At last it came out by degrees that the tools had been -given her, with many injunctions and instructions, to break open the -lock of the door. “By whom?” Lady Jane demanded, with a deep blush and -sparkling eyes. Why she should have felt so keen a flash of indignation -at her lover for thinking of such an expedient is inscrutable, but at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> -the moment it seemed to her that she could never forgive Winton for such -an expedient. But it was Lady Germaine who was the offender, and Lady -Jane was pacified. She bound up nurse’s finger, and sent her off -summarily to bed. Then, it must be allowed, she herself looked upon the -tools long and anxiously with shining eyes. It seemed to her that it -would be fighting her father with his own weapons. It would be as -unworthy of her to get her freedom that way, as it was of him to make a -prisoner of her. Would it be so? Lady Jane’s heart began to beat, and -her brow to throb. Would it be so? The mere idea that she held her -freedom in her hand filled her whole being with excitement. She locked -them away into a little cabinet which stood near her bed. She was too -tremulous, too much excited by the mere possibility, to be able to think -at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span></p> - -<p>That night had been a very exciting one for the Duke. Again he had been -the centre of a demonstration. It did not seem to him that he could turn -anywhere without hearing these words, “Half-married,” murmuring about. -This time it was at the house of the Lord Chancellor that the <i>émeute</i> -occurred. A very distinguished lady was the chief guest: not indeed the -most distinguished personage in the realm, but yet so near as to draw -inspiration from that fountain-head. She said, “We could not believe -it,” as Mrs Coningsby had said; but naturally with far more force. “I am -afraid you are not of your age, Duke.”</p> - -<p>“There is little that is desirable in the age, madam, that any one -should be of it,” his Grace replied with dignity. Here he felt himself -on safe ground.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but we cannot help belonging to it: and it is for persons of rank -to show<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> that they can lead it, not to be driven back into antiquity. -All that is over,” said the gracious lady. The Duke bowed to the ground -as may be supposed. “Lady Jane I hope will appear at the Drawing-Room -<i>on her marriage</i>,” his distinguished monitress said as she passed on. -The emphasis was unmistakable. And how that silken company enjoyed it! -They had all gathered as close as possible, and lent their keenest ear. -And there was a whisper ran round that this was indeed the way in which -royalty should take its place in society. As for the Duke, he stumbled -out of these gilded halls, more confused and discomfited than ever duke -was. He did not sleep much more than Lady Jane did all that long and -dark night. What was he to do? Must he <i>Give In</i>? These words seemed to -be written upon the book of fate. Relinquish his prejudices, his -principles, all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> the traditions of his race—retrace his steps, own -himself in error, undo what he had done? No! no! no! a thousand times -no! But then there seemed to come round him again that rush of velvet -feet, that sheen of jewelled brows, the look with which the central -figure waved her lily hand—— The Duke felt his forehead bedewed with -drops of anguish. How could he stand out against that? he, the most -loyal of subjects, and one whose example went so far? If he set himself -in opposition, who could be expected to obey? He thought of nothing else -all night, and it was the first thing which occurred to him when he woke -in the morning. What to do? He was tired of it all, all, and tired of -other things too, if he could have been brought to confess it. His heart -was sore, and his soul fatigued beyond measure. He had not even his wife -to lean the weight of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> his cares upon, and everything was going wrong. -He could now at last feel the sweep of the current moving towards -Niagara. It bore him along, it carried him off his feet. Ruin at hand: -he would not allow himself even now to believe in it—but in his heart -was aware that it was ruin. And this other matter in the foreground, -occupying the thoughts which had so many other claims upon them! The -reader will feel with us that the subject is too sacred, otherwise there -is enough to fill a volume of the Duke’s self-communings, and perplexed, -distressful thoughts. He got up in the morning, still half-dazed, not -knowing what to do. But in his heart the Duke was aware he was beaten. -There was no more fight in him. He swallowed his breakfast dolefully, -and sat down in his vast, cheerless library by himself to settle what he -was to do, when—But for this we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> must go back a little in the record of -the family affairs.</p> - -<p>Lady Jane had begun the day with a sense of underlying excitement, which -she covered with her usual calm, but which was not her usual calm. She -had the means of escape in her power. She said nothing to nurse, who, -subdued by her failure, and crushed by her lady’s first flash of -indignation, effaced herself as much as possible, and left Lady Jane in -the room which looked out upon the Square, which was her dressing-room -(nominally) and sitting-room, undisturbed. Lady Jane could not forget -that the tools were in that little carved cabinet, which, never in the -course of its existence, had held anything of such serious meaning -before. She could not keep them out of her mind. To use them might be -unworthy of her, a condescension, putting herself on the same level as -her tyrant;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> but after all, to think that the means were in her power! -Lady Jane was very well aware that, once outside that door, her -captivity was over. It was a thing that could not be repeated. Once upon -the staircase, in the passage, and all the world was free to her. When -you think of that after two months’ imprisonment, it is hard to keep the -excitement out of your pulses. At last it overcame her so much that she -got up, half-stealthily, timidly, and went to the door to examine the -lock, and see whether, by the light of nature, she could make out what -was to be done. It had been closed not long before to permit of the exit -of the maid who carried their meals to the prisoners. The tools were in -the cabinet, and in all likelihood Lady Jane would be as maladroit with -those poor small white hands of hers as nurse had been. She went to the -door and examined the lock closely. All at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> once something occurred to -her which made her heart jump. She took hold of the handle, it turned in -her hand. Another moment and she flung it open with a little cry of -terror and triumph. Open! and she free, out of her prison. It was but -one step, but that step was enough. Her amazement was so great that it -turned to something like consternation. She stepped out on to the -landing, which was somewhat dark on this February morning: and there she -paused. She was a woman born to be a heroine, one of the Quixotic race. -She paused a moment, holding her head high, and reflected. This must -have been an accident: for once the jailer had made a mistake, had slept -upon his post, had turned the key amiss. Was it good enough to take -advantage of a mistake, to save herself by the slip of a servant? She -hesitated, this spiritual descendant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> of the great Spanish cavalier, -that noblest knight. But then Lady Jane’s sense came in. She was aware -that now, at this moment, she was delivered,—that no force in the world -could put her again within that door. She gathered the long skirt of her -black gown in her hand, and slowly, stately, not like a fugitive, like -the princess she was, went down-stairs.</p> - -<p>The Duke was in his library thinking what to do, and the Duchess—in her -morning-room, with her heart greatly fluttered by that little royal -speech, which had been reported to her already—sat with, strange to -say, only half a thought of Jane, looking in the face that other dark -and gloomy thing,—the ruin that was approaching. She had palpable -evidence of it before her, and knew that it was now a matter of weeks, -perhaps of days, so that though her heart, like an agitated sea after -the storm, was still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> heaving with the other emotion, her thoughts for -the moment had abandoned Jane. But the Duke’s mind was full of his -daughter. He would have to <i>Give In</i>! Look at it how he would, he saw no -escape for that. “The women,” as Lord Germaine in his slangy way -prophesied, “had made it too hot for him,” and royalty itself—clearly -he could not put his head out of his door, or appear in the society of -his peers again, till this was done. But how was it to be done? To make -his recantation in the eye of day, in the sight even of his household, -was more than he could calmly contemplate. It was no longer, What was he -to do? but, How was he to do it? that was in his mind. He had got up, -unable to keep still, and feeling that some step must be taken at once. -When——</p> - -<p> </p> - -<p>We had already got this length on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> previous page. At this memorable -crisis, when all the world seemed to his consciousness to be standing -still to see what he would do, the door of the library was pushed slowly -open from without. The doors in Grosvenor Square did not squeak and -mutter like the wizards in the Old Testament, as our doors so often do, -but rolled slowly open, majestically, without sound. This was what -happened while the Duke stood still, something within him seeming to -give way, his heart fluttering as if what he expected was a visitor from -the unseen. He stood with his eyes opening wide, his lips apart. Was it -a deputation from Mayfair? was it the royal lady herself? was it—— It -was something more overwhelming, more miraculous than any of these. It -was Lady Jane. The reader is already aware who was coming, but the Duke -was not aware. He gasped at her with speechless astonish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span>ment, as if she -had been indeed a visitor from the unseen.</p> - -<p>She was very pale after her long incarceration, and the hollow, alas! -very visible on her delicate cheek. She was dressed in a long, soft -cashmere gown, black, with an air of having fitted her admirably once, -but which now was too loose for her, as could be seen. But though she -was thin and pale, she held her head high, and there was a sort of smile -in the look with which she regarded her father. Hers was indeed the -triumph. She was too high-minded, too proud to fly. She came into the -room, and closed the door with a sort of indignant stateliness. “I have -come to tell you,” she said, “that by some accident or misadventure my -door was found unlocked this morning, and I have left my prison.” She -held her head high, and he bowed and crouched before her. But yet, had -she but known, her own relief<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> and ecstasy of freedom was nothing to her -father’s. It was as if the load of a whole universe had been taken off -his shoulders.</p> - -<p>“This is Martin’s fault,” he said; “the fellow shall be dismissed at -once. Jane, you will believe me or not as you please, but I had meant to -come myself and open the door to you to-day.”</p> - -<p>He dropped down into a chair all weak and worn, and held his head in his -hands: his nerves now more shattered than her own. It was all he could -do to keep himself from bursting like a woman into tears.</p> - -<p>“You surely do not imagine that I could doubt what you say? I am glad, -very glad, that it was so——” she said, her voice melting. He was her -father still, and she was not guiltless towards him. “I wish that I had -waited till you came,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes;” he seized eagerly upon this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> little advantage. “I wish that you -had waited till I came: but it was not to be expected. I do not say that -it was to be expected.” Then he hoisted himself by his hands pressing -upon the table, and looked at her. “Bless me,” he said, “how thin you -are, and how pale!—is this—is this my doing? Gracious! shut up so -long, poor girl!—I suppose you must hate me, Jane?”</p> - -<p>Lady Jane went up to him holding out her hands. “Father, I have sinned -against you too. Forgive me!” she cried, too generous not to take upon -herself the blame; and so the father and daughter kissed each other, he -crying like a child, she like a mother supporting him. Such a moment had -never been in the Duke’s long life before.</p> - -<p>And we are bound to allow that neither the Duchess, who was his faithful -wife, nor Winton, always ready to appreciate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> the noble sentiments of -Lady Jane, could ever understand the fulness of this reconciliation. It -is to be hoped that the reader will comprehend better. They were too -resentful and indignant to resume their old relations in a moment as if -nothing had happened, which Lady Jane did with perhaps more tenderness -than before. But into this question there is no time to enter. When Lady -Jane went in softly, as if she had left her mother half an hour before, -into the morning-room, the Duchess flung away her papers with a great -cry, and rushed upon her daughter, clasping her almost fiercely, looking -over her shoulder with all the ferocity of a lioness in defence of her -offspring. She would have ordered the carriage at once to take Lady Jane -away, or even have gone with her on the spot, on foot or in a cab, to a -place of safety: but Lady Jane would not hear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> of any such proceeding. -She calmed her mother, as she had soothed her father, and in an hour’s -time Winton was in that little room, which suddenly was turned into -Paradise. He had been carrying about with him all this time a special -licence ready for use, and as everything can be done at a moment’s -notice in town, even in February, Lady Jane Altamont, attended by a -small but quite sufficient train, and before a whole crowd of excited -witnesses, was married next morning at St George’s, Hanover Square, like -everybody else of her degree. Needless to say that there was in the -‘Morning Post’ next morning, as well as in most of the other papers, an -account of the ceremony, with a delicate hint of difficulties, -unnecessary to enter into, which had gone before. This was read by many -who understood, and by a great many more who did not understand; but -nowhere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span> with greater excitement than in the rectory-house of St -Alban’s, E.C., where Mrs Marston took the fashionable paper, poor lady, -because in that wilderness she was so out of the way of everything. She -rushed in upon her husband in his study (who had just seen it in the -‘Standard’ with feelings which are indescribable) with the broadsheet in -her hand. “Listen to this, William,” she cried solemnly; “didn’t I tell -you it was none of our business to meddle! and your fine Duke, whom you -were so anxious to be serviceable to, and that never said thank you—— -But I told you what you had to expect,” Mrs Marston cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> </p> - -<h1><a name="THE_FUGITIVES" id="THE_FUGITIVES"></a>THE FUGITIVES.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Helen Goulburn</span> was sitting alone in the great drawing-room of her -father’s country-house on an evening in October. It had been very sultry -during the day, and the great heat had ended in a thunderstorm and -torrents of rain. Now all the tumult and commotion of the elements were -over. The night was cool and fresh. The great windows were open to the -unseen garden, from which a sweetness of honeysuckle and mign<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span>onnette -and late roses came in upon every breath of the fitful night air. The -room was an immense room, far too large for a solitary occupant. She and -her lamp and her white dress made a lightness in one corner; the rest of -the huge drawing-room was faintly lighted with candles, of which there -were regiments about on the walls, reflected vaguely from mirrors here -and there, on tables and consoles and cabinets,—but yet not enough to -give anything like light to the vast shadowy room, which was full of -everything that is rich and rare—of everything at least that the -highest price could buy or the best workmen produce. The windows, a long -line of them, all draped in that shadowy whiteness, stood open, as has -been said. Most girls of Helen’s age would have been afraid to sit all -alone, with so many windows opening on to a lawn, which in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> its turn -swept downwards into the park, at so late an hour. Sometimes the lace -curtains swayed in the night wind as if put aside by a shadowy hand. It -was difficult to keep the imagination from developing some stealthy -figure half hidden in the drapery, some one coming in, out of the -darkness outside. The house was full of wealth, and the temptations to a -sudden raid might have been many. When the branches swayed in the night -air, bringing down a shower of raindrops, or some twig cracked, or one -of the mysterious noises of which darkness is always full, broke the -absolute quiet—any one of those sounds, which yet were scarcely -definite sounds at all, might have conveyed a tremor to the lonely -occupant of all this mystic space and solitude. But Helen sat unmoved. -She was used to the vacant bigness of the great house, often in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span>habited -by only herself and her little sister, and a crowd of servants. She had -been in the hands of a governess till very lately, and in the routine of -lessons and the certainty that a schoolgirl was not likely to be -interrupted by visitors, had escaped all consciousness of the isolation -of the great house. It was the most splendid in the county, surrounded -by a beautiful park, embosomed in great trees. When Mr Goulburn bought -it from the decaying proud family to whom its glories belonged, Fareham -was already a noble place; and he had added greatly to it, had built out -a room here and a room there, and enlarged it with every extravagance of -convenience that lavish wealth could think of. He had built and -decorated in the most costly way the splendid room in which his daughter -was sitting; he had fitted out for her a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> suite of rooms worthy of a -princess; the very servants were lodged as half the well-to-do people in -England would have been glad to be lodged. Outside, in the darkness of -the summer night, full of dew and rain and soft fragrance, were acres of -flower-beds and conservatories, tended by a regiment of gardeners.</p> - -<p>But notwithstanding all this splendour, the county looked very shyly on -the new member of its sacred and select society. He had brought very -good introductions, and he gave such dinners as were not to be had -within a hundred miles. The Duke called, an honour scarcely less than -royal condescension; but the surrounding gentry showed no enthusiasm in -following that example. Helen was then still in the school-room, which -furnished the ladies with a very good excuse; but even after the ball, -which was given on the occasion of her coming out, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> which certified -that event to all the world, no genial circle of neighbours collected -round her. Even her youth, her solitude, her motherless and friendless -condition, did not call forth the sympathy of the county people. Never -was girl more solitary. Her governess, who it had been arranged was to -stay with her as chaperon, had married suddenly the widowed vicar of the -parish, and deserted her not long before the period of which we speak: -and she was left alone, the mistress of the wealthiest, most barren, and -splendid house in all the district. She had crowds of servants to do -whatever she bade—carriages, horses, whatever, as the servants’ hall -said, heart could desire—but no friends. Little Jane, her little -sister, was the offspring of a marriage which her father had made -“abroad,” and of which, except this child, no trace existed. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> was -only on his return with the baby, six years before, that his -extraordinary wealth had shown itself. Before that period Helen had been -left at a school in the country—but not in this part of the -country—where she had been happy enough with her companions. But when -her father returned from “abroad,” everything had been changed for her. -An <i>ayah</i> had brought the baby home, and Helen had first become aware of -the existence of a little sister when she saw a big pair of dark eyes -gleaming out of the palest of little faces over the dusky nurse’s -shoulder. She had been taken away from her school from that day, and -ever since had lived the life of a princess, waited upon by innumerable -servants, and living in luxurious houses. But her father had always -lived the life of a bachelor, notwithstanding his possession of these -two daughters. His friends had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> all men. There were great dinners -now and then; and occasionally Helen had seen through an open door a -glimpse of a long splendid table laden with plate and crystal, and -baskets of fruit and flowers, where her father’s friends were being -entertained. But no ladies had come to the house, nor, after the -childish companions of her school, had she had any friends in her new -magnificence, except Miss Temple, who had been very good to her, and -whose departure had brought a poignant sensation of loss into the girl’s -mind. It was almost the only keen feeling she had ever known. She had -come into society with something of the bewildered, uncertain vision of -a creature bred in the darkness, who is dazzled and confused rather than -delighted by the light. The people who came to the ball had been as -figures in a dream to her. The whole scene was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> like something in the -theatre. She was scarcely aware that she was herself not a spectator, -but an actor in it, walking about mechanically among the guests, making -her mechanical curtsey when her father brought up now one strange face, -now another.</p> - -<p>And after that one ball, silence had fallen again upon Fareham. The -porter at the lodge received sheaves of cards, and some carriages even -penetrated through the grand avenue to the hall door; but no one entered -the house. Doubtless there were some hearts in those carriages in which -there vibrated some touch of pity for the millionaire’s shy, motherless, -inexperienced daughter. But the county was wonderfully intact, and its -gentry had made up their minds to discourage the advent of Money among -them. A few years of perseverance would no doubt have made an end of -that irra<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span>tional notion; but in the meantime they distrusted Mr -Goulburn. He was far too rich; it was insolent of a man who, so far as -any one knew, was nobody, to be richer than all the squires put -together. A ball in such a house might be tolerated. It was like a -public ball; you took your own party (for in this respect the -invitations were most liberal), and, save that one of your men had to -sacrifice himself to ask the girl of the house to dance once, you kept -yourselves to yourselves, as you did at the ball for the hospital or any -other subscription assembly. This was what the county people said. And -as for Helen, she was often dull, but she had not learned to blame -anybody for her dulness. She thought it a law of nature—it was no one’s -fault.</p> - -<p>All this explanation is to show how it was that Helen found nothing -unusual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> in her own position, alone in this great dim room, with all the -windows open. The windows always were open, except in the depth of -winter. The darkness without had no dangers for her; it never occurred -to her that any strange apparition might disturb her solitude. She liked -the stillness, the night air, the fragrance from the garden. Though she -usually went to bed early, yet on this night she was not sleepy. She was -reading a novel; that was one of the luxuries which her father provided -regularly. She had not read many books that were worth reading, but of -novels all kinds. When the butler came softly into the room, with the -intention of closing up the house for the night, she stopped him.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to sit up to-night, Brownlow?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Goulburn, as usual on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> Saturdays, till the last train comes -in,” the man replied.</p> - -<p>“Then leave the windows open a little longer.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Goulburn,” he said. But he did not go away forthwith; he -extinguished the candles on the distant tables and in the sconces, -moving like a shadow (though he was very substantial) in that elegant -desert of costly furniture, until finally Helen’s figure in her white -dress, lit up by her lamp, became the one definite point in the -darkness. She was at some distance from the windows, in the winter -corner near the fireplace, now all dark. Everything was dark except that -one spot. The soft and almost stealthy closing of the door was all that -testified to Brownlow’s departure; he had become invisible before. In -the great stillness his soft and regular step, subdued and re<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>spectful, -as a good servant’s ought to be, yet stately, was heard retiring, thick -though the carpets were and closely fitting every door. He went away -through those softly carpeted corridors and across the great marble hall -to his own part of the house. And once more absolute silence and -solitude abode with Helen. The night air came in softly, swaying the -curtains; sometimes a bough creaked, a long tendril of some creeping -plant shook out a few rain-drops, a moth dashed against the panes. No -other sound in heaven or earth. And Helen in her white dress gave a -heart to the darkness. All alone, no one near her, yet not afraid!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">What</span> was it that stirred?</p> - -<p>Scarcely a sound at all—not half so definite as the cracking of the -twigs, the boom of the night moth against the window; yet it affected -Helen as those sounds never did. When it had occurred twice she raised -her head. It was nothing, and yet—— Again! What was it? Though you -would not call it a sound, it made the air thrill as no sound of the -inanimate ever does. She looked up, but the light of her own lamp -blinded her. She could scarcely see beyond its charmed circle. Then a -slight jar succeeded to the soft pressure, as of a human<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> foot upon the -turf. A sound that conveys purpose and energy, how different is it from -the aimless noises of nature! She rose up in great, though restrained -alarm, with a cry almost on her lips. Then Helen reflected that all the -servants were far away, that a scream would not help her much; and -though her heart beat wildly, almost taking from her both sight and -hearing, she still could, after a sort, both hear and see. She stood up, -closely drawn against the wall, looking out with puckered eyelids. Then -a hand stole between the curtains of the nearest window: they were -pushed aside, and a dark figure showed itself, at first -indistinguishable, a something merely, an emblem of mystery and danger. -Helen’s scream got vent, but in a low cry only of fright and dismay. -Then all at once the fluttering of her heart stopped, her pulses -regained their steadiness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Papa!” she said, “oh, how you have frightened me! Why didn’t you come -in the other way?” It was a great relief, for her terror had been all -the greater that she had never experienced any visionary alarms before, -and her imagination was unprepared. She put out her hand to the bell, “I -will ring for Brownlow——”</p> - -<p>Her father did not leave her time even for another word. He sprang -forward and caught her arm. “Don’t do anything of the kind,” he said. “I -want no Brownlow. I am going again immediately. I want no one. I don’t -wish it to be known that I have been here.”</p> - -<p>It was certainly her father, but not the placid, prosperous, moneyed man -she knew. His coat, which was of a rough kind she had never seen him -wear before, was beaded with rain. His face was pale<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> and haggard; his -dress bore traces of mud, as if he had scrambled over ditches; his boots -were wet and clogged with the damp soil. She looked at him with a terror -she could not express, and he looked at her with a somewhat stern -inquiry in his eyes.</p> - -<p>“But you are wet: you want—dinner—something?” she faltered. “Shall I -run and bid them bring——”</p> - -<p>He shook her slightly, still holding her arm. “Are you good for -anything?” he said. “Have you any stuff in you? Now is the time to test -it. Go and get that white rag off. Put on your darkest dress, and come -with me.”</p> - -<p>“Come with you? To-night, papa?”</p> - -<p>He gave her a slight shake again. “It will neither be to-night or any -other night if you make so much noise. What are you capable of, Helen? -Are you able to be quick, and silent, and brave? Can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> I rely upon -you?—if not, say so; but make up your mind, for there is not a moment -to lose.”</p> - -<p>She grew whiter than her white dress, and looked at him with gleaming, -wide-open eyes. She had read of appeals like this, but she could not -remember how the heroines responded. She said, faltering, “I can be -quick, and quiet, papa.”</p> - -<p>“That is all that is necessary; but we have not a moment’s time to lose. -No one must know that I have been here. I shall go out again outside the -window and wait for you. Go up to my room, to the little Italian cabinet -near my bed, on the right hand. You know it, and you know how to open -the secret drawer? Here is the key: bring me a little portfolio, a sort -of letter-case you will find in it. Stop; that is not all. Change your -dress and put on thick boots, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> a cloak, and a veil. Then go and -bring Janey——”</p> - -<p>“Janey! papa? She has been in bed for hours.”</p> - -<p>“Did I say she was not in bed? Take up the child out of her bed, wrap -her in something, and bring her down-stairs. You can surely carry that -little thing down-stairs. After that I’ll take charge of her myself.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa, Janey! she is so little. If I wake her she will cry.”</p> - -<p>“Not she! But why wake her at all? Lift her, and wrap her in something -warm; she need not be awoke. My poor little Janey! I can’t go without my -Janey,” he said to himself.</p> - -<p>Helen scarcely knew what she was saying in her consternation and -surprise. “If you are going anywhere, papa, and want to take Janey—at -this hour—would it not be best to order the brougham?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>“Would it not be best to order a coach and six, with half-a-dozen fools -to draw it?” he said savagely. Just then some far-off sounds were -audible, some one moving in the silence of the house. Mr Goulburn made a -hurried step towards the window. Then paused and said in a half-whisper, -which he seemed to try to make kind, “Let me see what mettle you are -made of, Helen. Do what I have told you without betraying -yourself—without attracting any one’s attention. Show what you are good -for, once in your life.”</p> - -<p>He disappeared, and Helen stood for a moment like one in a dream. Was it -a dream? and would she awake?—or had the rest of her life been a dream -to which this was the awaking? She felt that her father was watching her -from behind the white mist of the curtains, and that she dared not -delay. She went up-stairs mechanically. The huge house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span> lay silent like -an enchanted palace. On Saturdays it was always possible that the master -might not return until the late train, and it was common for the great -household of servants, badly ruled and prodigal, to hold a sort of -domestic saturnalia on that night. Faint sounds of fun and frolic were -to be heard from the servants’ hall—very faint, for Brownlow had a -sense of his responsibilities—and all the guardians of the place were -out of the way. Helen went up, unseen and solitary, to her father’s room -and her own. She did what he had told her—changed her own dress, and -took the Russia leather letter-case, which was full apparently of -papers, out of the secret drawer of the cabinet. But there she paused; -the other part of the mission was more difficult; and Helen stood still -again, with a beating heart, outside the door of little Janey’s nursery, -where the nurse<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> certainly ought to be, even if all the other servants -were off duty. What should she do if the nurse were there? Her mission -was difficult enough without that. When Helen went in, however, to the -luxurious rooms appropriated to her little sister, no nurse was visible. -The child of the millionaire slept, unwatched, like the child of the -poorest clerk. A faint night-light burnt in the inner room. There were -acres of stairs and corridors between little Janey and the highly paid -functionary who was supposed to be devoted to her body and soul. She -might have died of fright before any one could have heard her cry. Helen -stood, breathless, at the foot of the little bed in which Janey lay fast -asleep. She thought she had never realised before what perfect rest was, -or the beauty of the child who lay with her pretty round arms thrown -above<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> her head, rosy with sleep and warmth, her soft breathing making a -little murmurous cadence in the stillness. How can I have the heart to -wake her? Helen said to herself; a new sentiment, half tenderness, half -fear, seemed to awaken in her heart. To wake the little one to this -hurried incomprehensible night journey seemed terrible—yet somehow -Helen felt a reluctant conviction that Janey would adapt herself to the -adventure better than she herself should. The child’s sleep, however, -was so profound, and there was something so contrary to all the -prejudices of education in waking her up at that hour, that only the -thought of her father’s severe and haggard countenance kept Helen to her -errand. She had even turned away to go back to him—to say that she -could not do it—when the greater evil of having to return again, and -of, perhaps, meeting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> nurse next time, prevailed. She got a warm little -pelisse, with many capes—a piquant little Parisian garment, which had -tantalised all the mothers in the district—out of its drawer, and put -the little shoes ready. Then she bent over her small sister and called -her. “Janey, wake up, wake up; papa wants you. Wake up; we are to go -with him if you are quiet and don’t cry.”</p> - -<p>The child sat up in her bed, awake all at once, with big, dark eyes, -opening like windows in her pale face. “I am not doing to cry,” she -said, and stared at her sister through the gloom, which was faintly -illuminated by the night-lamp. Janey was, as Helen had anticipated, much -more at home in the emergency than she was. She woke up in a moment, as -children do, not with a margin of bewilderment and confusion such as is -common to us—but wide<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> awake, with all her little intelligence fresh -and on the alert.</p> - -<p>“What is it? what is it, Helen?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know; but you are to go down to papa. You are to be quiet; you -are not to cry. We are going with him.”</p> - -<p>“Where? where?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Helen, ready to weep with the strange and wild -confusion, the sense of misery and wretchedness which was involved to -her in this overthrowal of all habits, this sudden secrecy and adventure -in the dark. But little Janey clapped her hands. It was a delightful -novelty to the child. She pulled on her stockings on her own small pink -feet, her eyes dancing with pleasure and excitement. No need to carry -her down asleep, as Helen with terror and doubt of her own powers had -feared.</p> - -<p>“You must be quiet; you must be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> quiet—not to let the servants know,” -the elder sister whispered.</p> - -<p>“I am doing to be quiet,” said the little girl, delighted with the -mystery. She thrust her big doll into her bed, and covered it carefully, -while Helen, not knowing what she did, picked up various fugitive -articles, half-consciously, and put them into the pockets of the ulster -which she had put on.</p> - -<p>“Be dood, baby, and keep my little bed warm till I come back,” sang -little Janey.</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush! you are to be quiet—you are to be quiet,” Helen said.</p> - -<p>They crept down the great stairs like two ghosts, fantastic little -shadows, so unlike anything that could have been expected on that grand -staircase at that hour. But they met no one. The sounds from the -servants’ hall were a little more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> audible as the evening went on. The -master was absent, the master’s daughter too shy and timid, even had she -heard them, to take any notice. The hours of licence were approaching -when even Mr Brownlow relaxed the bonds of discipline. As these sounds -reached them, little Janey clasped her sister’s hand tighter. But it was -the sense of a mischievous escapade, not of a mysterious calamity, which -was in her mind.</p> - -<p>“What will Nursey say?” the child said with a low laugh.</p> - -<p>Even the whisper frightened Helen. The lights flared in all those vacant -passages, but gloom lurked in every corner; the great rooms were all -dark and empty: not a living being, not a sound of habitation was in the -magnificent costly place, except the squeak of the footman’s violin, the -far-off laughter of the servants—so much for so little!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> Amid all the -confusion and terror of the moment, Helen always recollected the vacant -lighted staircase, the hall with its marble pillars, the vast darkness -of the dining-room standing open—not a creature near, except those two -helpless creatures equipped for flight; but on the other hand, the -servants’ merry-making, and the squeak of the fiddle painfully -scratching out a popular tune. They paused to listen for one moment, -holding their breath. Then they went into the drawing-room, where -Helen’s lamp was still burning close to the wall, making the darkness -visible. Her book was still lying open on the table. She had left the -heroine at a painful crisis, but it was not so terrible as this.</p> - -<p>Helen closed the door behind her with great precautions, and Janey, a -little frightened at the dark, clung to her closely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Where is papa? I don’t see papa,” cried the child.</p> - -<p>“Oh, hush, hush!” said Helen, frightened by the sound of her voice.</p> - -<p>He was standing behind the curtains waiting for them.</p> - -<p>“How long you have been!” he said to her in a low, stern voice; but he -opened his arms to the child. “My little Janey—my little darling!” he -said, bending down on his knees to bring himself within her reach. Janey -clasped her arms round his neck, and kissed him, with open-mouthed -childish kisses.</p> - -<p>“Where are you doing to take me, papa?” she said, her dark eyes dancing -with excitement. He raised himself up, holding her closely clasped to -his breast, and carried her out into the night.</p> - -<p>What a strange night-walk it was—through the country lanes, all heavy -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> muddy after the storm, and dark as the darkest midnight; brushing -against the rustling, thorny hedges, stumbling over heaps of stones, -through the pools at the roadside, and upon the slippery grass; here and -there crossing a stile at haphazard, with no guide but instinct; here -stealing past a cottage, shrinking from the lamps of the doctor’s gig, -which threw a suspicious light upon them. Helen, following, dragging her -weary feet through the muddy ways, holding up the long skirts not -intended for such usage in her arms, her veil over her face, felt -herself shrink, too, when the light flashed upon them. But who could -have supposed that it was the master of Fareham and his children that -were out there in the muddy lanes? Once at the turnpike, where they were -all as well known as the day, her father, whom she always saw before -her, a vague, dark shadow with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> the child in his arms, replied in a -gruff feigned voice, with a fictitious country accent, which gave Helen -a sharp shock, to the good-night of the gatekeeper. To avoid notice was -one thing, to tell a practical lie was another. This, in the midst of -her confused wretchedness, gave her a painful prick of sensation. Janey -in her excitement had begun to prattle at first, but had been summarily -silenced by her father, and now drooped upon his shoulder fast asleep, -her face half hidden in the rough collar of his coat. Between the other -two not a word passed. Helen was too miserable and too much bewildered -to ask any questions; she followed submissively.</p> - -<p>The little station was within about a mile of Fareham, but a mile is -long when trudged through mud and rain by unaccustomed feet, in a gloomy -night, and with a heavy heart. A late train<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span> going express to town which -otherwise would have scorned this little station, had been arranged to -stop there for the convenience of the man of business, the well-known Mr -Goulburn, whose affairs were on too colossal a scale to be managed by -the ordinary means of communication open to everybody. Sometimes he had -special parcels to send by the guard: sometimes a clerk who had “run -down” for some special directions, or an associate acting with him on -some great city board, whose time was too valuable to permit the loss of -a moment, took advantage of this train; and sometimes he himself, -jumping into a dogcart the moment the latest guest had departed after a -sumptuous dinner, had rushed up to town by it. The station-master and -the porters were like his own servants, and the whole place all but kept -for his convenience. He crept up to it now,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> keeping carefully in the -shadow, out of the glare of its poor paraffin lamps.</p> - -<p>“Keep yourself muffled up, and your veil down, and go and get the -tickets,” Mr Goulburn said, in the low and peremptory tone in which he -had throughout addressed Helen. She went without a word; she who had -never in her life done any such thing for herself. The clerk peered at -her through his wicket; the solitary porter stared as she stood alone on -the little platform. She was left there by herself until the train came -up, and the three persons who formed the <i>personnel</i> of the station had -nothing to do but to stare at her, and ask about the luggage which she -did not possess. When the train stopped with its usual little fret and -commotion, Mr Goulburn suddenly came forward and plunged into an empty -carriage. His high coat-collar, the slouch of his hat, and finally,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span> the -figure of the child asleep upon his shoulder concealed him effectually. -Helen could not help wondering whether she were as effectually -disguised, and the thought once more gave her a sharp pinch of pain. Why -were they hiding themselves? There was not a word spoken while the train -rushed on, tearing through that darkness which they had just traversed -so slowly and painfully. Only once, and that when they were but just -started, did any communication pass between the father and daughter. -They both looked out towards the home they had left, though it was -invisible as they left the little station. Upon the road close by the -lights of a carriage were visible, slowly approaching. It was the -carriage which, when Mr Goulburn was absent, was despatched to meet the -last train on Saturday nights. The last train from London<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> was not due -for half an hour, and the coachman came along at a leisurely pace, -slowly climbing the road to meet his master, who was flying, disguised -and shameful, in the other direction. The contrast was so strange that -he looked at Helen, and their eyes met. Something piteous was in his -look. It contained a whole world of misery, of consciousness, of appeal -which was almost humorous, amidst the profundity of pain. She had asked -no questions, she had scarcely ventured to form to herself an idea of -what the cause of this flight could be, but for the first time her heart -was touched.</p> - -<p>“Does she not tire you, lying on your shoulder? I could take her a -little, papa,” she said. She could think of no other way of showing her -sympathy. He shook his head and pressed the child closer to him. Was it -that the touch of her innocence made him feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span> less guilty? Was it that -to convince himself of the strength of the natural affection in him made -him think himself a better man? or was it only the one real and true -sentiment which may still preserve the least worthy from perdition? -Helen looked somewhat wistfully at her little sister, lying in all the -<i>abandon</i> of childish sleep, helpless yet omnipotent, across her -father’s breast. She had never been a favourite like little Janey. No -passion of parental affection had ever been lavished upon her, and, in -consequence, she knew her father better, and perhaps secretly trusted -him less, than children ought to do—though she had never said this even -to herself. But for the moment, she sitting alone opposite to them, -carried off from all her anchors, swept into some wild sea of the -unknown, looked at them wistfully, and envied the father and the child.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span></p> - -<p>In a few hours more Helen understood much more perfectly what the -metaphor meant which we have just employed. At midnight they embarked in -a steamer which, after feeling its way down the river through a thousand -dangers, plunged into the Channel just as daybreak made the rough waves -and flying foam visible. It was a small, old, almost worn-out boat, and -the voyage was one of the longer and cheaper ones which tempt the -passengers from the ordinary routes, to their profound suffering and -repentance. Helen had never been at sea before. She lay trembling while -the vessel creaked and plunged, not knowing what to reply to Janey’s -inquiry why the ship went up and down. Why, indeed? It seemed to do so -on purpose, tossing them up one moment and down the other with that -sickening repetition which helps to make up the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> agony of a voyage to -the inexperienced. In the morning, in the perplexing and painful -daylight of which Helen felt afraid, she did not know why, they landed -on foreign soil. Her father had changed during the night, she could not -tell how. Was it possible that already on the previous evening he had -worn the large whiskers and carefully smoothed hair which seemed to have -grown lighter, redder, than it used to be? She scarcely knew him when he -came on deck, and he gave her an uneasy look when he met her eye. She -did not, however, suspect the truth as yet, nor did she in the least -understand his disguise. She was only full of alarm and wonder, not -knowing what to think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind">“<span class="smcap">Where</span> are we going, papa?” Helen had walked some way, bewildered and -wondering, through the foreign streets, confused by the strange language -round her, the unfamiliar look of everything, the strangeness of her -situation altogether. They had set out walking, and seemed, she thought, -to be going on vaguely from street to street without any aim, passing -hotel after hotel, at any of which she would have been glad to rest and -collect her thoughts after the rough voyage and all the agitations of -the night. “Where are you doing to take us, papa?” said little Janey, -run<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span>ning along by his side. The child was pale, too, and her pretty, -costly clothes had already acquired that look of crumpled finery which -garments too good for common use so easily assume. Helen, too, had found -it very difficult to manage her dress, with its train, made for no -greater exertion than to sweep over the velvet lawns at Fareham. It had -dropped from her hand now and then. It had got crushed and crumpled and -a little soiled with the wet deck. It looked like a dress that had been -worn all night. The signs of the night journey and rough sea were -unmistakable upon them. Mr Goulburn made no reply. He murmured something -to soothe the little girl, but made no answer to Helen. Their questions, -however, seemed to rouse him to action. He went into a shop which was -full of <i>articles de voyage</i>, and there bought a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> large second-hand -portmanteau, considerably battered, and one of those iron-bound trunks -which are used by Continental travellers. Then he put a purse into -Helen’s hand, and took her to the door of another shop, in which were -exhibited all kinds of feminine apparel. “Buy what is wanted for -yourself and <i>her</i>,” he said. Helen had scarcely ever in her life so -much as entered a shop alone, but necessity overcomes everything, even -the shy inexperience of a girl. She went in submissively, trembling to -face the brisk saleswoman, all her schoolroom French deserting her in -this earliest emergency. Nevertheless, she managed to do what was -absolutely essential. As for Janey, she proved herself much more a woman -of the world than her elder sister. The whole adventure was a frolic to -Janey—a frolic which the voyage had unpleasantly interrupted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span> but -which had now regained its jollity and excitement. She made her choice -among the different dresses exhibited to them with unfailing -promptitude. “I am doing to have this,” she said in her childish -peremptory tone, to the great delight of the shopwomen, who gathered -round her, offering her their wares. The little English child, -recovering all the vivacity of her childish spirits, and excited by the -laughter and flatteries, though she did not understand them, of the -French milliners, was an amusing little figure, and the scene like a -scene in a comedy. Janey inspected all the garments, feeling the texture -with her baby fingers, assuming a hundred little airs of importance. She -chattered without ceasing, a perpetual flood of remarks, while the women -laughed and admired.</p> - -<p>“What does she say?” they asked the one among them who partially -justified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> the “<i>Ici on parle Anglais</i>,” in the shop-window.</p> - -<p>“Elle est délicieuse,” the shopwoman said; “elle est jolie comme un -cœur: et d’un goût!”</p> - -<p>Janey did not understand a word, but all the same knew she was being -applauded, and her little head was turned by the notice bestowed upon -her. “We came without any boxes or frocks or anything, and papa is doing -to let me buy whatever I like,” said Janey.</p> - -<p>The women were curious beyond description when this was rapidly reported -to them by the one who understood. All this strange little scene went on -while Helen, still half dazed, stammered out her orders in her -faltering, imperfect French, and accepted timidly what was offered to -her. The colour came to her cheeks, and a painful prick of life to her -being, when she heard her little siste<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span>r’s indiscreet explanation. “We -left all our things behind—by mistake,” she said, trembling, a -tingling, smarting blush dyeing her face. The timid falsehood redoubled -her own confusion, but it did not do much more. It changed, Helen -thought, the looks of the women. They followed her about, she fancied, -trying to elicit further revelations from Janey, pressing every kind of -outfit upon her; watching her as if—— What did they imagine? Did they -think she would steal something? Helen’s heart swelled so in her -simplicity that she thought it would burst. She held Janey’s hand -closely in her own, and squeezed it tight. “Don’t talk so, don’t talk -so,” she whispered. And then asked herself, with an indescribable pang, -why should not the child talk? A grey light of knowledge, a vague, -miserable twilight of consciousness, like the first lightening of a -gloomy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span> dawn, was stealing over her. When she had made her -purchases—two frocks for Janey, the simplest which that little heroine -could be prevailed on to accept, and a plain dark dress for herself, and -a supply of underclothing,—she found her father at the door, with the -box he had bought upon a cab. This was how they were provided with the -luggage which is indispensable to respectability. Helen could not but -look at him with different eyes, now that she felt herself a party to -this fraud, which she began to be conscious of, without knowing what it -meant. What did it mean? Almost involuntarily unawares had not she -herself made a false statement in explanation of the extraordinary -straits in which they were placed? She watched her father, and found him -altered, she could scarcely tell how. His hair had changed its colour; -his beard had grown miracu<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span>lously in a single night. What did it mean? -Her heart ached with the question, but she did not know how to reply.</p> - -<p>He took them to the railway after this—to the railway again, after all -their past fatigue. He was not negligent, however, of their comfort, but -made them eat at the buffet, and took a <i>coupé</i> for them, filling it -with all the picture-books and papers he could find, with baskets of -fruit and chocolate and bonbons. “Here is a corner where my little Janey -can go to sleep,” he said, putting the child tenderly into it when the -train had started. Janey jumped upon his knee, and began to chatter and -give him an account of her own achievements at the shop.</p> - -<p>“They understood me,” said the little thing, “better than Helen. I can’t -speak French, but they understood me better than Helen. Papa, do you -hear? they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span> understood me——” Here she paused and gave a sudden cry. -She had a pretty way of calling the attention of the careless listener, -drawing his face round with her little hand upon his chin. “Papa!” she -said, in great alarm, “you have dot hair on your chin, and it moves. Oh! -papa!”</p> - -<p>His face grew crimson. He turned the child down from his knee, giving -her a sudden sharp blow on the cheek with his open hand—a blow which -was nothing, yet like a revolution of earth and heaven to Janey, and to -Helen too. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he turned to Helen, -who was watching him, pale with terror and wonder and indignation. -“Well!” he said, defiantly; “out with it! You are a spy upon me too. Let -me hear what you have got to say.”</p> - -<p>“I have nothing to say, papa,” said Helen, trembling. She looked at him -wistfully, with miserable insight in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> eyes. She saw now that it was -all false—hair and complexion and even expression. It seemed to her, as -she looked at him, that it was not her father at all; that it was some -strange masquerader of whose identity she never could be sure again. -There had been no special devotion between Helen and her father; he had -been kind but careless, and she too had been careless, though -affectionate enough; but the miserable pang with which she seemed to -lose her hold of him, and with him of everything solid and steadfast in -the world, was more terrible than anything she had ever felt before. Her -life seemed to be rent up by the roots. Janey, whimpering and -astonished, took refuge in her corner, and by-and-by, worn out, dropped -happily asleep. But Helen could not sleep. Worn out too, but watchful, -she sat upright by her father’s side, not venturing to look at him, -seeing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> the long, flat, level lines of the country fly past the -carriage-windows with a tedium that made her eyes ache. And he too sat -bolt-upright, not looking at her. She had found him out; and he -perceived that she had found him out; but yet she had not got a step -farther, or discovered any real clue to the meaning of the flight which -she shared.</p> - -<p>They travelled all that night, the second since they left home, Janey -sleeping in her corner, but Helen sitting sleepless, though worn to -death; and next day in the forenoon stopped at a sleepy little French -town, by a slow, pale, chalk river, amid interminable lines of poplars. -Words could not tell the weariness which possessed Helen, the -overmastering desire she felt to lay herself down anywhere, it did not -matter where; while at the same time the routine of the continued -movement had got into her brain, and it seemed to have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> become natural -to go on and on, watching those long lines of distance, those flying -plains, monotonous and endless, those rivers and fields. When the train -stopped with a jar, and with cramped limbs they stepped out and stood -upon the ordinary soil, the stoppage itself was a shock to Helen’s -nerves. It was midday of a bright October day when they drove over the -stony pavement in a jumbling omnibus, and rattled into a large square -inhabited by a cathedral and town-hall of imposing architecture, with -two little soldiers in red uniforms lounging under an archway, and two -people crossing the sunshine, going in different directions. The white -houses, tall and trim, with their green <i>persiennes</i>, the great tower of -the church cutting the blue sky, the two figures crossing the sunshine -printed themselves vaguely on Helen’s mind. She could not see anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span> -plainly for that vision of her father always before her who was not her -father. She did not like to look at him, yet saw his changed countenance -and false beard all the time with that sense of the insupportable which -only our own flesh and blood ever give us. She could not forget it as -Janey forgot, from whose little mind the incident of the night had fled -like last year’s snow. Janey ran into the bare, carpetless room at the -inn, and climbed up upon the wooden chair at the window, and called to -papa—“Why do they have all the curtains drawn at the windows, and why -is there nobody in the street, and why are the soldiers so little, and -what have they dot red trousers for?” cried Janey. The blow had gone -from her recollection. She thought no more of that novelty of the beard. -She had slept all night, and she was no longer tired, though she was -pale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span></p> - -<p>“Do you mean to stay here, papa?” said Helen. It is dreadful to sit at -table with any one and not to speak. She could not bear it; if he would -not say anything to her, she must talk to him.</p> - -<p>“It does not look a very interesting place, you mean? No -picture-galleries or fine things to see. That is a pity; but if you do -not object to it too much, it suits me to stay here for a little while.”</p> - -<p>“I do not object at all, papa,” said poor Helen, ready to cry, -“only—only——” She looked at him with wistful eyes.</p> - -<p>“Only what? If you don’t object to me and everything about me, you -should try not to look as if you did. Understand, once for all, that <i>I</i> -understand my own motives and you don’t. And I don’t mean to be forced -to explain by any one, much less my own child.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Janey, “you souldn’t be cross. You dave me a slap last -night,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> but I never was cross. I did not look like this,” and she -covered her innocent forehead with the most portentous of frowns. “I -forgave you,” said the child, mastering the “g” with an effort, and -looking up at him with a countenance clear as the day, not like the -troubled face of Helen. The man was more touched than words could say. -He caught her up in his arms.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my little darling,” he said, “I did; God forgive me! I gave this -dear little cheek a tap. I may have done other things as wrong, but none -that I regretted so much. But you forgive your poor old father, Janey? I -would not hurt you, my pet, not a hair of your pretty head, for the -world.”</p> - -<p>“I knew you would be sorry, papa,” said the little girl, with the air of -a little queen. Then she lifted up her tiny forefinger, with serious yet -mischievous warn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span>ing, “But you sould never be cross,” she said.</p> - -<p>How different was Helen’s state from the innocent, tender play of the -child! She sat immovable and looked on at this pretty scene, seeing her -father’s countenance change, the hard lines melt, a tender light come -over it. He kissed his little Janey with a kind of reverential passion. -“I will try, my little love,” he said, as humble as a child. And while -he kissed her half weeping, and she clung with both her little arms -round his neck, Helen felt herself rigid as stone. She could not be -touched even by that which was most pathetic in this little episode—the -real emotion of the man whose conscience was certainly not void of -greater offences, yet whose heart melted at the pretty majesty of his -child’s reproof, her innocent counsel and authority. Helen sat and -looked on like some one entirely outside, a world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> apart from this -tender union. She did not share the emotion of it, nor the sweetness. -Her heart seemed made of lead; her eyes were dry as summer dust. She -turned away from them, not to see the innocent rapture of the father and -child. The bare little <i>salle à manger</i>, with its long table thinly -covered; the bare board; the windows with their close white curtains; -the all-prevailing odour of soup and cigars; the clashing of the -ostler’s pails outside; the high-pitched voices; the language only half -comprehensible,—made up a scene for her which she never forgot. Their -strange meal was over—a dozen unknown dishes—and they had been left -with a plate of fruit on the table and a bottle of <i>vin du pays</i>, which -Helen thought so sour. She was wearied to death, but she no longer felt -that devouring desire to lie down and go to sleep. The pain had roused -her; it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> seemed to her for the moment as if she could never sleep again.</p> - -<p>Then she went up-stairs to the little bare bedroom above, where two -white beds stood side by side, two windows with the same white, closely -fixed curtains, a carpetless, curtainless room, with everything as bare -and wooden, as clean and white, as could be desired. She had to open the -new trunk and take out all their new things, which did not belong to -her, which belonged to a fugitive, the daughter of a man who had fled -from his own country and home in disguise, and at the dead of night. It -seemed to her that she could never tolerate this livery of shame, or -think of it save with a burning as of disgrace upon her countenance. -Perhaps it was partly because she was so worn out that she took -everything so tragically. She went out afterwards to see the town, -following her father, who led little Janey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> by the hand, delighted by -all her demands. The little girl prattled without ceasing, asking -questions about everything. “Why are they such little soldiers?” she -said; “they are like the little men in my Swiss village; and why have -they dot red trousers instead of red coats? Is it with walking in the -enemy’s blood, papa? like the Bible,” said Janey.</p> - -<p>“Hush, hush! there cannot be anything like that in the Bible, Janey.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is because you don’t read the lessons. You should read the -lessons every day,” said Janey, delighted with her <i>rôle</i> of counsellor, -“like nurse, papa! How funny it would be when nurse went up-stairs and -found only dolly in my little bed, and Janey gone away!” She laughed, -and then looked at him with a look of examination more keen than that -timid, wistful look of Helen’s. “But I like this,” she added; “it is -funny. Why do the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> little children wear caps? And what funny little -shoes, that make such a noise! And why do they all speak French, papa? -Who taught them to speak French?” Janey, in her fresh wonder, put all -the threadbare questions that everybody has put before. She skipped upon -the rough stones by her father’s side, holding his hand tight; and the -three people who were in the great square (besides the soldiers) looked -upon the pair with kindly eyes, and pointed out to each other that the -newly arrived <i>Anglais</i> worshipped his child. They have the domestic -instinct above all—they adore their infants. “But <i>tiens</i>,” they said; -“is it madame the young wife who follows with a look so <i>maussade</i>?”</p> - -<p>The sympathies of these spectators were all with the father and the -child. Helen followed like a creature in a dream. The great, silent, -empty, open cathedral,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> with its altars all dressed in artificial -lilies, and the scent of incense still in the air, came into her silent -picture-gallery with all its details distinct, yet strange; and the long -line of boulevard with its trees, and the white houses with their veiled -windows, and the clanking of the <i>sabots</i>, and the little soldiers in -the archway. They gave her no pleasure as of a novel sight, but they -completed the vague, feverish world around her, so dim to her mental -perception, yet keenly clear to her outward eye in the sharp blueness of -the sky, the more vivid tints of an atmosphere without smoke. They went -over all the town thus, mounting to the ramparts, going through all the -narrow streets: Janey dancing along with her hand in her father’s, Helen -following, silent, like a creature walking in her sleep, taking in all -the novel scene only as a background to the pain of her soul.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> little city of Sainte-Barbe was the quaintest and most slumbrous of -little French towns, and that is saying a great deal. The walls were -intact and in good order, supplying the inhabitants with pleasant walks, -which few people took advantage of. Their pretence at defence was -antiquated and useless, but then there was nothing to defend nor any -enemy intending to attack. From the ramparts you looked out upon a great -plain bounded towards the north with hills, and dropping southwards into -those low swelling slopes and hillocks which form the best vineyards. -Sainte-Barbe was on the edge of a rich<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> wine country verging upon the -Côte d’Or; but there were no vineyards close to the town, which rose up, -with its cluster of towers, its high walls and peaked roofs, out of the -plain. It is to be supposed that in former days it had been a centre of -more important life, for the cathedral was large enough for a -metropolis, and the great town-hall, with its fine belfry, looked like -one of the warlike municipalities of the middle ages. These two great -buildings stood and sunned themselves, resting from whatever labours -they might once have known, in a sort of dull beatitude—the one with -half-a-dozen erratic worshippers coming and going, the other with three -little red-legged soldiers under its grand gateway. Now and then a -tourist who had heard of these buildings stopped for a few hours on his -way from Italy to Paris to see them; but the fame of them was fast -fading out, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> that nobody thinks of posting from Paris to Dijon, and -it was the rarest thing in the world to see a stranger in the streets. -For the first week the townsfolk said among themselves, “Tiens! voilà -les Anglais!” when Mr Goulburn and his daughters appeared; but at the -end of that time became familiar with the appearance of them. It was a -curious life which they led at the Lion d’Or—in a quaint discomfort, -which may be amusing to tourists in high spirits, but to the timid and -troubled English girl was the strangest travesty of existence. The -mixture of small discomforts with great troubles is perhaps the -combination above all others which procures most entire and complete -confusion in life. And the want of a room to sit in other than that -wooden bedroom, where every movement of a chair jarred upon the bare -planks, began after a while to mingle in Helen’s mind with all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> -painful circumstances of their flight, so that she scarcely knew what it -was that made her so wretched, so disjoined from all her past. Twice a -day the little party ate in company with some of the best people in -Sainte-Barbe. M. le Notaire, who was unmarried, an old bachelor, and M. -le Maire, who was a widower, took their meals regularly at the Lion -d’Or. They tied their napkins round their bottle of wine when they left -after one meal, and tucked them under their chins when they next sat -down. On Sunday there was an officer who came in his uniform, with his -sword clanking, who impressed Janey with great awe, accompanied by his -wife and their little boy and <i>bonne</i>, who sat down next her charge and -dined too, cutting the child’s meat for him, and having a little wine -poured out for her by her mistress from the family bottle. Janey could -not eat her own dinner, so absorbed was she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> in watching this party. She -pulled Helen’s dress to call her attention a dozen times in a minute. -“Oh! what would nurse say?” she cried, with big eyes of astonishment. -“Look, Helen! he has some of that that you would not let me have, and he -is so little—much more little than me. And he has dot wine: and oh, -look! he has put his knife in his mouth—he will kill himself. And now -he has his hand in, the nasty little boy!”</p> - -<p>“Cela amuse mademoiselle de voir manger mon petit,” said the lady across -the table in a tone of offence.</p> - -<p>Helen blushed as if she had been caught in a mortal sin. “Oh no, -madame—only—elle ne sait pas——” she murmured in apology.</p> - -<p>“He has dot his knife in his mouth, and that will kill him,” said Janey. -“She ought to tell him. Oh, little boy, little boy! <i>couteau—bouche!</i>” -she cried, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> the anxiety of her age to put everything right.</p> - -<p>Mr Goulburn tried to apologise. “My little girl thinks it is her -business to set everybody right. She takes it upon her to regulate my -conduct and manners. I hope you will forgive the little impertinent. -Besides, she is astonished to see the <i>bonne</i> by your side, madame, at -table. It is contrary to our English usage. Forgive her,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, <i>de rien</i>, monsieur,” said the French lady, politely. “We all know -that England is the most aristocratic of countries. Do not apologise; -there is great good in that—the <i>canaille</i> are kept in their place.”</p> - -<p>“The <i>canaille</i> are in all places, madame,” said M. le Maire. “They are -among us when we least suspect it. Persons of the best manners, the most -irreproachable in appearance——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, if M. le Maire takes the point of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> view of the highest morals! It -is well known that the blessed apostles were but fishermen and -labourers,” said the lady; “but we could not now invite a sailor -smelling of the sea, or a ploughman fresh from the fields, to eat with -us. There are lines of demarcation.”</p> - -<p>“Madame,” said the Maire, “I have been warned from the police of a -person completely <i>comme il faut</i>, handsome, young, tall, well brought -up, a hero of romance—you would be enchanted with his description,—who -has done everything that a man can do of perfidious and wicked—if he -should pay us a visit here——”</p> - -<p>“Ah, monsieur, what a dreadful idea! But perhaps it is evil companions, -bad influences—and then, when one is young, everything may be -recovered.”</p> - -<p>“With <i>le beau sexe</i> youth is always the first of virtues,” said the -Notaire.</p> - -<p>“Listen—they are not always young;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> madame should have seen the -journals of England a little time ago—monsieur here could tell us, no -doubt. A great company of merchants in London has lately made -bankruptcy. Impossible to tell you what ruin they have produced. The -great, the small, widows and orphans, poor officers in retreat, little -functionaries, priests—what in England they call clergymen—all ruined, -without a penny, without bread!” said the Maire, throwing up his hands. -“<i>Mon Dieu!</i> even to hear of it makes one suffer. And figure to yourself -the chief—he who was first in this <i>compagnie</i>, a man rich as the -Indies, living <i>en prince</i>, and for whom nothing was too good, has taken -flight, instead of ending his life with a pistol-shot, as would have -been done in France—has taken flight, with enormously of money in his -pockets! You have seen it, perhaps, in the journals. Such things happen -only in England. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> has saved himself with the money of -others. And one talks of <i>canaille</i>!” the Maire concluded, wiping his -forehead. He was warm with indignation, feeling the force of his own -eloquence.</p> - -<p>Helen did not understand all this—or nearly all; but she caught a word -now and then, and her father’s face filled her with alarm. It had been -smiling enough at first, though with that drawn and artificial smile -which she had only remarked of late; but by degrees Mr Goulburn’s head -had dropped, he stooped over his plate, fixing his attention on that, -yet now and then directed a furtive glance from under his eyebrows at -the speaker. And his face grew ghastly pale, yet he took out his -handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. His hands trembled as he -raised his glass to his lips. The <i>vin du pays</i> was not likely to -inspire much courage, but he drank a large quantity, large enough to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> -make the Maire and the Notaire stare. All this Helen remarked, though -perhaps no one else did. He did everything he could to preserve -appearances; but her attention was roused, and she was on the alert and -saw everything, and almost more than everything. What had he to do with -this story of disgrace and ruin? Some one came in at this moment, a -stranger, who was placed in a seat on her other hand; but she was so -intent upon her father that she did not even see who it was. There was a -pause, which seemed terrible to her—and to him; but which to the others -was a most natural and simple, nay, flattering moment of silence after -the Maire’s impressive remarks.</p> - -<p>“You say such things happen only in England; is no one ever bankrupt in -France?” Mr Goulburn said at last.</p> - -<p>“Alas!” said M. le Maire, “misfortune comes in all countries. But a -French<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> <i>commerçant</i> bears it—not so well as your countrymen, monsieur. -I have known men who have undergone that and now hold up their heads -again; and I have known men, <i>ma foi!</i> who could not bear it, who -thought of nothing but a pistol-shot. One follows the customs of one’s -country. I have heard that Englishmen grow fat upon it. Pardon! you -understand that is a pleasantry. No one can have more respect for the -English than I.”</p> - -<p>“It is a pleasantry, M. le Maire, which an Englishman hears with very -little pleasure,” said Mr Goulburn. Helen looking at him with her -anxious eyes, felt that her father was glad of some cause for seeming -angry, and caught at this justification of his own excitement. But while -her mind was intent upon him, watching him with an eager anxiety and -curiosity beyond words, she started to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> hear herself addressed on the -other side. “Is it possible that it is Miss Goulburn? Can I be mistaken? -a pleasant voice said in English. She turned round quickly, and found a -fair-haired and very sunburnt young man, whom she did not at first -recognise, and upon whom she looked with suspicion and alarm. Her fears -had been excited, she could scarcely tell how or why. Every one who knew -her seemed a possible enemy. Were they not fugitives, whatever might be -the cause?</p> - -<p>“You do not remember me,” said the new-comer; “which, perhaps, is not -wonderful. I left Fareham four years ago, Miss Goulburn; but I think I -cannot be mistaken in you. You were only a child then; and now!—but -still I think it is you: and perhaps you will remember my name—Charley -Ashton? I went to India——”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I recollect. Are you going<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> home now to—to Fareham?” Helen said, -with fright in her eyes.</p> - -<p>“That we should meet here of all places in the world! Yes, I am on my -way home; and there is all about the cathedral in Murray, and besides, -there is a bit of engineering I wanted to see, and I had a day to -spare,—what a lucky chance for me! You, I suppose, are making the grand -tour, as it used to be called. Travelling, like necessity, makes one -acquainted with strange quarters. This is not much like Fareham, is it?” -he said, with a laugh. That careless, happy laugh, without thought of -evil! Helen looked at, admiring it as an old man might have done.</p> - -<p>“No; we are only here—for a little while.”</p> - -<p>She knew by instinct that this would be their last night at -Sainte-Barbe, and that she must not encourage any renewal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> of -acquaintance. The young man gazed at her with such a look of kindly -inquiry, almost tender in the sympathy that mingled with it, that Helen -felt the tears come to her eyes. He divined that there was something to -be sorry for, and he was ready to be sorry and to sympathise, whatever -the trouble might be—though the troubles, he said to himself with a -smile, of the rich man’s daughter were not likely to be very hard to -bear.</p> - -<p>“That is like my luck,” he said; “unless you are going back to England, -which would be the best of all. Then I should ask leave to follow in -your wake. There is no one now to care much when I get home; a day or -two sooner or later doesn’t matter. My mother is not there now to mind. -And to tell the truth, Miss Goulburn,” said young Ashton, “I am just as -glad to put off the first plunge. Poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span> old father! I daresay he’ll be -glad to see me; but to find <i>her</i> not only gone, but with another in her -place!”</p> - -<p>“Poor Mr Ashton was so lonely,” said Helen, coming out of her own -troubles for one moment, “and Miss Temple is so kind: it does you good -to speak to her. She never meant any harm. She was so sorry for him—do -not be angry with Miss Temple. I think I love her,” the girl said, the -tears slowly gathering in her eyes, “better—oh yes, a great deal better -than any one—than any other woman in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Do you?” he said, touched by the sight. Charley Ashton did not know how -many other troubles in poor Helen’s heart found grateful outlet in those -tears. They dropped upon her dress and frightened her lest any one else -should see them, but the young man was altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> melted by Helen’s -emotion. “That shall be my best reason for loving—at least for liking -her too,” he said. “Thank you for showing me how much you care for her. -What a lucky inspiration I had to come to Sainte-Barbe! I had been just -thinking of you, wondering if you would be much changed—if, perhaps, I -should find you at Fareham.”</p> - -<p>“I think I am very much changed,” she said, sadly shaking her -head—while he looked at her, smiling, with a look of subdued yet tender -admiration. He did not venture to look all he felt, yet he could not -keep it from appearing.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think you are changed,” he said, with a confused laugh. She was -thinking of the last week, he of the last five years. He had admired her -then as a child—for Helen had been tall and precocious. Now he could -not tell her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> how much more he admired her as a woman, and Helen was too -sadly preoccupied to interpret justly the lingering glance that dwelt -upon her. She had never had any lover, nor was she at all aware that the -vicar’s son had any special recollection of her; that he should -recognise her at all, filled her with surprise. But at the same time the -sense of something sympathetic by her side, of some one who was young -like herself, and English, and looked kindly at her, gave the girl a -sense of consolation. He laughed, but certainly he meant nothing unkind. -The moment after, young Ashton gave Helen, all unawares, a sudden blow -which forced her back upon herself. He said with a little eagerness, but -calmly, as if it were the most ordinary question in the world, “Do you -go back soon to Fareham? I have come home on sick leave.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> I shall have -only a little while at home. I hope I shall see you while I am there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Helen, trembling all over with the shock, “I do not -know—papa has never told me. Perhaps—we may not be back for a long -time; perhaps—not at all. I don’t know.”</p> - -<p>“Not back at all! Has Mr Goulburn sold it?” young Ashton said, and his -changed countenance grew long. He was as much disappointed as she was -startled; and for a moment both looked, though from very different -reasons, as though not at all indisposed to mingle their tears.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Helen. She looked away from him, her voice -shook,—there was trouble indescribable in her face. And he remembered -that he had been gone for four years; that he had not heard very much -about them for some time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> back; that many changes might happen, -especially in the fortunes of a man in business, however great he might -be, and apparently beyond the assaults of fortune. What could young -Ashton say or do to show his sympathy? He did not even know how far he -might inquire.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” he said. Helen looked up at him timidly, and gave -him a little nod of assent, and a faint smile. She granted him his -pardon freely. She thanked him for the feeling in his face, but she said -nothing more. The secret was not hers, and she did not even know what -the secret was. Meanwhile her father had begun to see what was going on. -He had looked furtively from the corner of his eyes at the stranger, and -had ended by remembering who he was; and he did not know what young -Ashton knew, where he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span> had come from, what he might be doing there. When -he saw that Helen was fully engaged in conversation, he got up softly -and walked away. The sight of a face he had once known made his heart -beat wildly, and filled him with a sickening sensation. He went out by a -door behind, so as never to come within the stranger’s range of vision. -What did he want here? and what would the girl tell him? Would she have -the sense to hold her tongue? though, indeed, the very sight of her -would be enough if young Ashton knew. He began, without a moment’s -delay, to put back his clothes into his portmanteau, and prepare again -for flight. Who would have thought that such a thing could happen here? -Had the danger been greater, he would have understood. For the sudden -appearance of pursuers in search of him, he was always pre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span>pared, but -not for the ludicrous simplicity of a peril like this; a neighbour’s -son! What evil genius had brought him here? It seemed a very long time -before Helen came up-stairs. It had relieved her to see her father -disappear, and she had yielded to the pleasure of talking to her -contemporary, her old friend (as she thought). But after all, in about -ten minutes she had held out her hand to him timidly, rising up as she -did so, to go away. “But I shall see you to-morrow?” he said. She only -smiled faintly and said, “Perhaps,” but even as she said so shook her -head. In her heart she felt certain that they would leave Sainte-Barbe -that night.</p> - -<p>And so they did. In France all the great trains go by night; there was -one very late which called at Sainte-Barbe, on the way to Paris. The -clatter and clang of the omnibus which met this train<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> disturbed the -whole town at midnight so much, that M. le Maire had set every kind of -machinery in motion to have it discontinued; but as the convenience of -the two extremities of the railway, Marseilles and Paris, forbade this, -the authorities paid no attention to the protest of Sainte-Barbe. The -few guests in the Lion d’Or felt a double grievance this night, in that -the omnibus, after making its usual noisy circuit from the stables, -waited, pawing and champing for five minutes, under the <i>porte cochère</i>, -having baggage placed upon it, and carrying away travellers at that -hour. Who could they be? Oh, <i>les Anglais</i>: that went without saying. -Certainly <i>les Anglais</i>; they were the sort of people who would do such -a thing simply because it was unlike the rest of the world—though it -was the action of a fiend, the landlady exclaimed afterwards, to take -such an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> infant from her rest at such an hour. Young Ashton was still -astir, smoking his cigar out of the window with a quite unnecessary -regard for the feelings of his hosts, when the omnibus turned out of the -great doorway. He thought he saw a pale face look up at his window in -the uncertain glimmer of the moon, which was dim with flying clouds, and -he let his cigar drop on the head of an ostler below in consternation. -Could it be that they had gone away? “Gone away, because I am here!” -this young man said to himself. But it seemed a thing too impossible to -be true.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was scarcely daylight of the ruddy but chill October morning, when -the travellers set out from the station at which they had been dropped. -They had been left there to wait for the diligence, which only left on -the arrival of another train from Paris. All had been black and silent -at the little station of Montdard, when they were shot out, to the -dismay of two or three half-awakened officials, who regarded them with -alarm and suspicion. It was very rarely indeed that any one arrived in -the middle of the night at Montdard, except from Paris, the train from -which did not come in till five o’clock. What were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span> they to do in the -meantime? Mr Goulburn had got little Janey in his arms fast asleep. With -her dangling feet, and her pale little head thrown back on his shoulder, -she looked more like a sick young woman, long and wasted, than a child. -Helen followed closely as a shadow, asking no questions, following every -indication of her father’s will, silent and watchful, cold and -miserable. The gloom around and the suspicious looks of the railway men, -and the cold that went to her heart, all began to be familiar. It did -not even occur to her to think of the existence which had ended about -ten days ago, the life of warmth and luxury and softness, which knew no -disturbance, which was waited upon by assiduous servants, and spent in -such careful guardianship. She thought of it no more. What she wished -for was not her draped and curtained room at Fareham, with its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> carpets -in which the feet sank, but a comfortable bench somewhere, or -rush-bottomed chair in a corner out of the wind, where she could get her -ulster more closely about her, and put a shawl over Janey’s feet; or, as -the very climax of comfort, another white-curtained wooden room with two -little beds, where she could lie down with Janey next to her. Helen in -her heart had bidden farewell to Fareham for ever and ever. She did not -know even where they were going; and it gave her a gleam of comfort to -hear her father explain to the sleepy yet vigilant porter in his blouse, -that he was going to Latour, where there was to be a sale of the woods -on the property of the late Count Bernard de Vieux-bois. Mr Goulburn -explained that he had heard of this only at the last moment, and that, -as he had no time to lose, he had been obliged to bring his daughters -with him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> though the journey was so fatiguing for the little one. The -French heart is very open to children, and the man with the blouse -managed to open the door of a dismal <i>salle</i>, where at least <i>la petite</i> -would be sheltered from the cold wind. How kind they are to Janey! Helen -thought. The rough peasant-porter with his bristly beard, a man who -might have figured in a revolutionary riot, and probably had done so, -one time or another, caressed a floating lock of her fair hair which -fell from her father’s shoulder with his rough hand, with the softest -look of reverence and pity. “<i>Pauvre petite!</i>”—he brought an old -braided overcoat, fine, but faded, from an inner room to lay on her -feet—“It would have been better to leave her <i>à la maison</i>,” he said. -<i>À la maison!</i> People who know no better, say the French have no word -that means home; but Helen felt this word go through and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> through her -like a sword. Where was the house to which Janey belonged, where she -could find her little bed and her little corner by right? As for Mr -Goulburn, he put himself on the bench against the wall in the most -painfully constrained attitude to make Janey comfortable. His face, as -he looked down upon the child, was lighted up with the most trembling -tenderness. He had wronged many people and deprived many children of -bread, but he loved his own with a passionate devotion. He could not -separate himself from his child. Helen, so watchful beside him, saw it -all with an ache of wonder in her heart. She did not understand, -perhaps, that clinging of a guilty man to the one thing innocent and -sweet in his life. She was sorry for her poor little sister thus dragged -about the world, and perhaps a little sorry for herself. If it was -necessary for him to fly from one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span> place to another, why should little -Janey be made to fly too? And Helen turned her thoughts back upon the -Lion d’Or with unspeakable regret. It was not an attractive place, but -still it was shelter and safety. What thoughts were going on in her -father’s mind, who could say? There were other places of refuge which -would have been safer than France, but he had little time to choose. It -was not much more than chance which had determined the route they took -in leaving England, and he had remembered Sainte-Barbe as the most -unfrequented place he had ever seen. But the village which he had chosen -must surely be out of the world if ever village was. Among the hills of -Burgundy, above the vineyards, beyond the reach of commerce, in the -country where the old Gauls fought, and where even the Prussians had not -penetrated—what could be more safe?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> and yet who could guarantee its -safety? “We should have been better in Spain,” he was saying to himself.</p> - -<p>The diligence started at five o’clock for Latour. It was speedily -filled, in the little interior, with five or six young peasant-women in -their white caps, each with a baby, little foundlings, or the children -of poor shopkeepers and workpeople in Paris, brought to the country to -be reared—the healthy hills of <i>la Haute Bourgogne</i> being much approved -for that purpose. The travellers managed with great difficulty to get -possession for themselves of the <i>banquette</i>, a covered seat like a sort -of phaeton, with leathern curtains capable of closing in front, which -occupies the place behind the coachman in these rural vehicles. They had -ten long leagues to traverse before they got to their journey’s end. -Poor little Janey, very pale and shivering, lost for the first time her -child<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span>ish adaptability, and whimpered pitifully, with cold feet, and the -wretchedness of her disturbed rest; and a more melancholy and jaded -party never confronted the morning mists. They rattled along as in a -dream, seeing the country gradually unfold itself, now just visible in -the faint grey of the dawn, anon developing into clearer light, the -hills rising black against the yellow east, then showing their grass -slopes and broken bits of cliff as the sun struck here and there a long -golden dart driving away the shadows. A crisp sprinkling of hoarfrost -was upon the fields, and the roads were hard, and resounded under the -horses’ feet, which made sound enough, with all the jingling of the rude -harness, and all the creaking of the springless coach, for a whole -cavalcade. In front of the <i>banquette</i>, beside the coachman, sat a large -priest and a man wrapped in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span> the thick blue overcoat with its braided -collar which the French peasant loves. The talk of these two was all of -the old Count de Vieux-bois’s woods. The hills between which the road -passed were entirely bare of trees, and Count Bernard had been the -subject of much pleasantry, the priest said, when he planted his lands -with an unprofitable crop of forest. But time had proved Count Bernard -to be right. These voices went on dreamily in Helen’s ear, making a sort -of drowsy song to the accompaniment of the wheels and the horses’ hoofs. -But Mr Goulburn listened closely to all the heavy talk. The impulse of -trade was strong in him, and the idea of turning over money now in his -present downfall and fugitive condition roused him. He had seized upon -the pretext, catching it up at the moment of necessity from an -advertisement in one of the papers, to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> an excuse for his hurried -journey. But the idea pleased him the more he dwelt upon it. He listened -with the greatest attention to all that was being said; he recovered the -activity and energy of mind that was natural to him. To outwit fate in -such a way would be in itself a kind of triumph. He did not disturb -little Janey’s head, which lay on his shoulder, but he withdrew his arm -from her as his thoughts quickened. A man of business is always a man of -business, however direful may be the plight in which he finds himself. -Pale, uncared for, haggard as he looked in the morning light, his -bosom’s lord sat more lightly upon its throne than it had done since he -left England. So far even as appearances went, there was this good in Mr -Goulburn’s false decorations of hair, that they did not grow in the -night.</p> - -<p>They passed through a number of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> villages, changing horses with much -noise and clangour here and there—a proceeding which cheered up Janey -almost as much as the thoughts of a bargain did her father; and through -one quaint and wonderful town, all walled and embattled, where the -lanterns still hung across the streets as in the days when aristocrats -were hanged by that easy method of getting rid of an undesirable -intruder; and by dreary old <i>châteaux</i>, grey and homely, without any -softening of trees or park to link them to the surrounding country. -By-and-by, after a long, long waste of road, they came upon the masses -of trees which had hung upon the horizon like clouds, and which showed -where Count Vieux-bois’s estates began. Beautiful feathery larches, big -pines, and sturdy oaks clothed the slopes, and changed the whole -character of the country. And after a while the diligence rattled into -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> long village street with a church at one end and a quaint old castle -at the other, more imposing than anything they had yet seen. The street -was irregular, now broad, now narrow, widening out in the centre into a -kind of place or square, in which there were two or three white houses, -several storeys high, with green <i>persiennes</i> half closed. The rest of -the place consisted of cottages, mostly thatched and humble, with a -little post-office, and a cavernous shop in which were all kinds of -possible and impossible goods. The “general merchant” of France is -different from him of England, just as <i>sabots</i> and blouses are -different from country-made shoes and fustian coats. And at Latour the -<i>sabots</i> and the blouses were universal. M. le Curé himself wore a pair -over his shoes in bad weather, leaving them at the door of every house -he visited. The diligence stopped with a jarring shock<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> and noise, -suddenly drawn up before the humble door of another Lion d’Or, a popular -sign in the district. But this one was little more than an <i>auberge</i>, a -village public-house, with its description posted up in straggling -letters, <i>ICI on loge à Pied et à CHEVAL</i>. There was no <i>porte cochère</i>, -no courtyard to mark the importance of the hotel, but only a <i>salle à -manger</i> looking out upon the pavement, low-roofed and dark, and smelling -as usual, but worse than usual, of bad cigars and the <i>pot au feu</i>.</p> - -<p>There were several men seated at the long table eating their breakfast -when Helen and little Janey followed their father into the room; one or -two others who had finished their meal were smoking their cigars—they -were all talking in high voices, harsh to unaccustomed ears. The farther -end, the only unoccupied place, was far from the window, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> a kind -of twilight. Little Janey grasped her father’s hand tight till the -little soft fingers almost hurt him. “Oh, take me away,” she cried, -“take me away! I won’t do there. Take me home, papa—take me to my own -home.”</p> - -<p>He took her in his arms and carried her to the quiet corner. “My little -pet,” he said, “I wish I could; but it’s a long, long way off, Janey. -You must try and be contented here.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa,” said the child, “I want to do home! I want to do home! I -don’t like it here. I don’t like—nothing at all but—home.”</p> - -<p>“Janey, Janey!—speak to her, Helen. You will like it better after: the -people are always very kind to you. And you are tired, my little love. -You will like it better when you know——”</p> - -<p>“I want to do home!” cried Janey; but the sudden odour of the soup put<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> -under her nose wrought a revolution in her mind. “And I am so hungry,” -she said, her tears drying up. She raised her head from her father’s -shoulder where she had been past all consolation the moment before—and -slid down from his knee. Ah! why is six so much more easy to console -than eighteen? or eighteen than fifty? might be said in other -circumstances. But in the present case the father and the little child -had both regained their spirits, and it was only Helen whose heart lay -like a lump of lead in her breast.</p> - -<p>That evening Mr Goulburn called her into the small room which he was to -occupy, with an air of some embarrassment. There had been no -sitting-room possible at Sainte-Barbe, yet it was practicable to occupy -a corner in the <i>salle à manger</i>, when all was quiet there. But in the -Lion d’Or at Latour it was never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> quiet. In the evening the villagers -came in to consume slowly their sour <i>piquette</i>, or bitter <i>chope</i>, and -fill the place with clouds of smoke; and the two crowded yet scantily -furnished bedrooms, in which the strangers were lodged, were the only -places in which they could talk. Mr Goulburn called Helen into his room. -He was embarrassed, and did not know how to begin. Helen’s look of -inquiry seemed to paralyse him. He stammered and hesitated and cleared -his throat. At length he said, with the rapidity of one who is anxious -to get over a painful operation, “I wanted to speak to you, Helen. There -is one little matter: unnecessary to enter into my reasons for it. While -we are here, I mean to call myself by my mother’s name, Harford, instead -of Goulburn.”</p> - -<p>“Papa!” her pale countenance was suffused with the most violent colour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> -Pale, worn out, and weary as her looks had been a moment since, she was -of the colour of passion now.</p> - -<p>“I mean what I say,” he said sharply, his own disguised face catching -fire at hers. There was a touch of shame in his anger, yet his eyes -blazed into a sudden burst of fury, which again was partly put on to -hide the shame. “I do not see that I need enter into all my reasons to -you. I am satisfied that it is expedient, or I would not do it; and that -ought to be enough for my child.”</p> - -<p>“It is not enough, it is not enough, papa,” said Helen. “I cannot call -myself out of my name.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will do what you please,” he said; “but I shall employ the -name I have told you; you can do what you please: but in that case you -shall not be owned as a daughter of mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span>”</p> - -<p>The world seemed to go round and round with Helen,—the poor little -world so bare and poverty-stricken, the walls with their blue and white -striped paper, the bare boards and white-curtained windows. She looked -at him piteously, seeing his face blurred and magnified through the two -tears of pain and passion in her eyes. “Why is it?” she said with a -pathetic appeal; “oh, tell me why it is! If I knew why, perhaps I could -bear it better. Oh, papa, tell me why!”</p> - -<p>His first impulse was to silence her imperiously and send her away, but -a better inspiration followed. “Did you never hear of men in business -who were ruined, Helen? Did you never read of destruction coming in a -single day? I was a rich man a fortnight since, and never dreamt that -such a calamity—was possible. It came upon me all at once. Misfortune -of the most complete kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span>—ruin. I had nothing for it but to take you -and the child and hurry away.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, is that all, papa? are you sure that is all? Not—what they were -speaking of last night?—not—oh, forgive me!—I did not understand; -only the loss of your money—no more that that, papa?”</p> - -<p>A painful contraction, almost a grimace, went over his face. The rage -which he had partially assumed before was now real, but he did not show -it. He clenched his fist at her, but kept it in his pocket, and put on a -smile which looked something between a grin and a snarl. “Most people -would think it was quite enough—and more than enough. Now you know my -secret. I did not want—to make you unhappy,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, unhappy! it is the contrary; if you knew how happy you have made -me!” said Helen, with the first real smile that had visited them for -days in her wet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> eyes. “You have taken off the weight <i>here</i>—oh, it is -all gone, and I can breathe. You have lost your money, poor papa! I am -so sorry, and yet I can’t help being glad. After all, what does it -matter? We have enough, and we are together. Oh, if you knew the things -that have been going through my wicked, wretched heart! Papa, will you -forgive me?” the girl cried, growing pale and clasping her hands. “Oh, I -ought to ask your pardon on my knees!”</p> - -<p>“We will dispense with that formula,” said her father, with a chilly -smile which froze her fervour; “perhaps this will teach you to refrain -from hasty judgment. There can scarcely be a case, let me entreat you to -believe, in which I shall not be the best judge of us two.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” she said submissively: then added with a timid look, “but -would it not have been better to have stayed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> met it in the face, -whatever it was? To be unfortunate is not any harm. What could ruin do -to us, but to make us poor? Papa——”</p> - -<p>A sharp laugh from him cut her short; he could have struck her as he -struck Janey when she found out his disguise, but he did not dare to -treat the elder sister so, and she was more easily managed in the other -way. “It seems to me,” he said, “that you are doing precisely what you -have just promised not to do. We have agreed that I am the best judge, -and the judge I mean to be, in my own concerns. Therefore go to bed, and -recollect that to-morrow you are Miss Harford—and know nothing about -that other name.”</p> - -<p>She shrank a little away, looking at him with piteous eyes. “Yes, papa,” -she said; “but——” and stood looking with a beseeching, tender -entreaty. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> clasped her hands, but she did not say anything, though -every moving line of her face, the glimmer of moisture in her eyes, the -quiver in her lips, all spoke. In his impatience he stamped his foot on -the floor.</p> - -<p>“By Jove! you will drive me mad,” he cried, “with your fancies and your -hesitations. Do what I tell you—hold your tongue, if you are so -scrupulous about an innocent social pretence. What does it matter to -those French clowns what name I call myself by? Will they be any the -wiser? And I hold that a man has as much right to his mother’s name as -his father’s. It is the same thing. There, Helen, I forgive your -nonsense, because you are tired out, poor child! Go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa,” she said, but still she did not budge. All this time the -voices<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> and noises were going on below, sounds of disputation, quick -fire of talk, more vivacious and louder in tone than anything English; -outside and in, there were sounds of conversation going on. All this -babel of sound continued while these two quiet English persons had their -explanation, which meant so much; the rest meant nothing. When Helen -thought of it after, she always remembered the discussion in the <i>salle -à manger</i>, and the clatter of words which Jeannette on the top storey -flung down to her mistress below-stairs.</p> - -<p>But as for herself she had said her say. Her father bade her good night -in a peremptory tone, dismissing her beyond appeal. But he was very -kind, and kissed her, though she was conscious of a thrill and tremor -about him when he did so, which she could not understand to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> -suppressed rage. But as it was, Helen retired with a weight gone from -her heart, as she said—yet not such a complete relief as she had felt -at the first moment. Only ruin, only poverty! these were nothing. But -then—people were sorry for men who had lost all their money, nobody was -cruel to them, or thought it their fault; it was nothing to be ashamed -of; the best people in the world (she reflected) have been poor; -therefore why, <i>why</i> had he fled from home? Why had he not faced the -worst? Better even, Helen thought, to have endured a little vexation, to -have given up everything, than to have become fugitives, and worn -disguises, and feared a friendly face, and changed their name. The -weight came back as these strange details recurred to her mind. That -false beard! would any deprivation, any scorn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> of cruel creditors, any -misfortune have been so bad, so debasing, so shameful as <i>that</i>? And why -should Charley Ashton’s honest face have so appalled him? Ah! Charley -Ashton could meet the gaze of all the world and never flinch; he would -not disguise himself, nor hide himself, whatever might be the danger. -Helen tried to represent to herself that she was not the judge, as he -had said—that her father must know best; but there is nothing so -difficult to believe as this, especially when reason seems all on our -side.</p> - -<p>The pain was gnawing again when she lay down by Janey’s side. Poverty: -but we are not poor! Helen said to herself, almost leaping up in her -bed. They had spent a great deal of money and spared nothing; indeed -there had never been any attempt to spare anything. It was not an art -they understood. But, happily,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> sleep began to steal upon her young -eyes, even in the midst of her agitation. The night before had been one -long vigil; she could not be kept awake, even by the misery of these -thoughts.</p> - -<p class="fint">END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.<br /><br /><br /> -PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.</p> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/back.jpg" width="340" height="550" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> -<pre style='margin-top:6em'> -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DUKE'S DAUGHTER (AKA LADY JANE) -AND THE FUGITIVES; VOL. 2/3 *** - -This file should be named 63902-h.htm or 63902-h.zip - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/9/0/63902/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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