diff options
Diffstat (limited to '76077-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 76077-0.txt | 17592 |
1 files changed, 17592 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/76077-0.txt b/76077-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2f72ff --- /dev/null +++ b/76077-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17592 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76077 *** + + + + + +PROBATION + + + + +[Illustration: + + J. Collier, px. C. O. Murray. Sc. + +ADRIENNE.] + + + + + PROBATION + + A Novel + + BY + + JESSIE FOTHERGILL + + AUTHOR OF ‘THE FIRST VIOLIN,’ ‘KITH AND KIN,’ ETC. + + [Illustration] + + A NEW EDITION + + LONDON + + RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. + + Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen + + 1887 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + +BOOK I. + +PRIDE AND PLENTY. + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +OF AN ABSENTEE EMPLOYER. + + ‘The perfection of mechanism, human and metallic.’ + + +You, at any rate, Lancashire reader, know this place; the large +somewhat low room; the long lines of looms; the wheels, straps, and +beams; the rows of standing work-people, men, women, and children; +the dimness of the dust-laden atmosphere. You know, too, the roar of +noise--how deafening, stunning, and overwhelming it is to the stranger +who may happen casually to encounter it, yet how easily those in +the habit of working in it can make themselves intelligible to one +another. You know all this, and your accustomed eye recognises at once +one division of the ‘weaving shed’ of a large cotton factory; which +forms, with its perfect mechanism, the ‘metallic and the human,’ a most +wonderful sight to any eyes but the too careless or the too accustomed. + +There is an air of calm, leisurely ease about the process which might +be apt to lead the uninitiated astray, and make him suppose that not so +much accuracy of eye, delicacy of manipulation, sensitiveness of touch, +was required as is really the case. Which are the most alive--the +girls in the cotton dresses, and the men in their fustian clothes, +who move lightly to and fro, adjusting their work, keeping watch and +ward over the flying shuttle; or that flying shuttle itself, which +seems instinct with vitality, darting with vivid, almost oppressive, +regularity of activity backwards and forwards--indulging sometimes in a +malicious vagary, worthy of a human being, such as flying suddenly out +from its groove, and perhaps striking its human fellow-worker a sharp +blow on the forehead, or in the eye? It would be difficult to say--the +definition at the head of the chapter forms also the best description +of the whole--‘the perfection of mechanism, human and metallic.’ + +It was during the afternoon hours of work; the day’s labour was drawing +to a close; the great ceaseless roar and buzz and rush seemed to +grow rhythmic, harmonious in its monotonous continuity; through the +thick-ribbed panes of glass, distorted yellow sunbeams came streaming, +golden, hazy, smoky, dusty, striking here and there upon the face of +some laughing or languid girl; here into the eyes of some lad--an imp +of mischief--or a youth of thoughtful and serious aspect. + +That was the head overlooker who came in, looked round, stopped the +loom of one of the said laughing girls, fingered the cloth, remarked +warningly, ‘Now, Sarah Alice! this won’t do! You must look out, or +there’ll be some mischief;’ then passed on his round, stopping more +looms; examining more cloth, and then went out of the room altogether. + +A steady progression, for a time, of the rhythmic toil, till the same +door was again opened, and a young man, who also appeared to be a +person of some authority, stepped in, and paused, note-book and pencil +in hand. This was the second overlooker, a person who of necessity +must possess considerable intelligence--being generally, as in this +case, a working-man born and bred--some discrimination and tact also, +since he fulfilled the duties, in some measure, both of a workman +and a superior. In addition to his position as overlooker, he also +performed the functions of what is known in factory parlance as ‘head +cut-looker:’ and a cut-looker is a man who examines each piece or ‘cut’ +of cloth after it leaves the loom; notes the flaws, and deducts from +the wages of the weaver in compensation for the same. Perhaps this +‘cut-looking’ and over-looking may be like criticising--they may have +a tendency to produce a turn of mind sceptical as to the merits of the +work with which the cut-looker, or the critic, has to do. Incessant +flaws, ‘scamped’ work, broken threads, ill-joined ends, an uneven weft, +a rough warp--the parallel is certainly a striking one; and a long +career of cut-looking, to say nothing of criticising, may tend to make +the temper quick, and the tone just a little imperious. + +The individual whose occupation was something like criticism was a tall +young man, dressed in grey clothes, which looked in some way cleaner, +or better, or different from the clothes of the others, and a white +linen jacket, which gave a cool and airy look to the whole costume, +and was far from unbecoming to the spare, yet very strong, well-built +figure, and to the dark, handsome, sharply cut face belonging to it. + +A right workmanlike figure. There was power and capacity--skilled +power and capacity, too, in the supple, lissome figure, in the brown +hands, long and slim, yet strong and muscular, which looked as if they +were well-accustomed to do fine work, and to do it well. The loose +linen jacket was by no means new, though clean; it bore here and there +traces of having been mended, and sat in the easy creases and folds of +a much-worn old friend, from whose shape no washing and starching can +quite banish the accustomed outline, given by the wearer’s form. Above +the collar of this jacket was a narrow line of grey waistcoat; then a +white collar, and a narrow black tie. The whole costume was as pleasant +and as becoming to look at as it was practical, fit, and workmanlike. + +The face was rather thin and rather square; the complexion pale. The +eyes were very dark and very steady--at the moment very quiet, though +with a touch of defiance in them which was habitual; the forehead broad +and thoughtful--the level eyebrows had a trick of contracting sharply, +which took away from the calmness which might have seemed at first the +dominant characteristic of the ample brow. The nose was rather long and +sharp--the mouth firm, and a little cross: the lips looked as if they +would more readily tighten in irritation at the stupidity of others, +than part in wonder or amaze at their cleverness--and their expression +did not belie the truth. The whole face was more clearly cut, more +decided in feature, more distinct in expression than the faces of +many--nay, of most of his class in the same place. Perhaps it answered +to a clearer mental outline--was the distinct objective side of a +well-defined subjectivity. Be that as it may, the figure was a manly +and a good one--the face no less so. + +This young man, holding his pencil suspended over his note-book, looked +reflectively around the room, standing erect, though the wall was just +behind him to lean upon. Walls to lean upon, moral or material, are +irresistible to some people. His eyes fell upon the different workers +as they moved hither and thither, adjusting their work, or stepping +from one loom to another. Those eyes presently fell upon a young woman +who was standing at the far end of the room, and whose face happened to +be turned towards him. Her glance met his: they nodded and smiled to +one another, and his smile flashed across his dark face with an effect +which the smiles of fair faces and light eyes can never have. + +This young man’s name was Myles Heywood, and the scene of his labours +was the factory of Sebastian Mallory, the largest mill and property +owner but one in the town of Thanshope, in Lancashire. He was, then, +clever, honest, proud to excess, and self-opinionated, though few +people could help liking him, even when his opinions and prejudices, +with both of which articles he was well provided, might rub against +theirs. One thing deserves recording of him, which alone would have +shown him to be somewhat aloof from his fellow-workmen--he had no +nickname; and in that district, where often a man’s real name was +quite hidden under a cloud of bynames and nicknames, this was at least +peculiar. + +Myles Heywood, after spending a few moments looking down the shed, +through the mist of cotton fluff which made the air dim and the lungs +irritable, turned and went into a neighbouring room, where they were +twisting--a monotonous task--the rapid twisting together of the ends of +cotton of two warps, paid for at the rate of threepence per thousand +ends--a fact which had caused our critic in the linen jacket much +thought at different times. + +Out of this twisting-room into a large square yard or court, with the +engine-house and its neighbouring boilers on one side; offices on +another, and the great wall of the mill on the third. On the fourth, a +blank wall and huge gates, at present standing open, and affording a +glimpse into the dingy street. + +The engineer, this warm August afternoon, was standing in the full glow +of the furnace: his face was black, and shone as if recently it had +been anointed with oil. His arms were bare and sinewy, and they were +black too. His shirt, whatever its original hue, was black now, and his +other garments, reduced to as scanty a quantity as was compatible with +decency, were black also with oil, and grease, and coal-dust. He paused +to mop away a swarthy perspiration with a dingy-looking handkerchief, +as Myles went by, looking clean and cool, and aggravatingly comfortable. + +‘Hey, Miles, lad, what time dost make it? I’m too hot to get my watch.’ + +‘Ten to six,’ said Myles, looking at his watch. + +‘The Lord be praised!’ responded the engineer piously, ‘and send us a +speedy deliverance. It’s as hot as hell here of a summer afternoon, and +no jokin’. Hast had thi’ baggin?’[1] + +‘I don’t take baggin,’ said Myles, a little contemptuously, as he took +his way to the office, where he found a man and a boy behind a desk, +on which was a heap of gold, silver, and copper coins, and a number of +books and papers. It was Friday afternoon--pay-day. + +‘Oh, you’re there, Myles,’ said the man. ‘You may take your wages now, +if you like.’ + +‘All right!’ said Myles, picking up two sovereigns from the heap of +gold, and slipping them into his pocket. Then he twisted himself over +the counter and seated himself on a high stool beside the desk. + +‘By your leave, I’ll just wait here till my lass comes, and then we’ll +go home together.’ + +Wilson, the head-overlooker and cashier, assented. Myles folded his +arms before him, and began to whistle a tune to himself. It was the +tune of the song, ‘Life let us cherish!’ and when Myles had nothing +else to do, he generally did whistle it--unthinkingly, almost +unconsciously. While he whistled he looked through the dingy panes of a +small window upon a prospect as dingy as the panes. + +There was nothing but a short patch of grey-looking street, and over +the way the multitudinous windows of a great foundry, from the back +premises of which came loud sonorous clangs, as of metal striking +against metal--a maddening and a deafening sound to ears unused to it, +but which, from long habit, failed to disturb the workers in ‘Mallory’s +Factory.’ It had become not exactly inaudible to them, but part of +the day’s features--as clouds, or wind, or rain. They would, to use a +Hibernicism, only have noticed it if it had left off. + +It still wanted some eight or nine minutes to the time when the bell +would ring for ‘knocking off’ work, and that interval was used by those +present to discuss with their tongues that with which their heads +happened to be concerned, for the truth is, that out of the emptiness +of the head, much oftener than out of the fulness of the heart, does +the mouth speak. + +‘Hast heerd news, Myles?’ inquired the lad. + +The whistle ceased for a moment. + +‘What news?’ + +‘We have heard say,’ said the other man, ‘as how he’s coming home.’ + +‘Who?’ + +Wilson pointed northwards, over his shoulder, with his thumb. + +‘Oh, him!’ said Myles, with again the touch of contempt which came a +little too often to his voice. And he shrugged his shoulders--another +gesture betraying his unlikeness in temper and temperament to those +with whom he was surrounded. + +‘Ay, him!’ + +‘Is it true?’ inquired Heywood. + +‘Don’t know. I’ve only heard say so.’ + +‘_Who_ said so?’ + +‘Why, I believe it were one of the men from the stables at Mrs. +Mallory’s.’ + +‘Servants’ gossip!’ said Myles, trenchantly, unsuccessfully trying to +turn up his nose. ‘Never believe what they say. Flunkeys by trade, and +liars by nature, the whole lot of ’em, or they wouldn’t be where they +are.’ + +‘I’m none so keen about believing everything that any one says to +me,’ said Wilson, with a slightly offended air, ‘but this seems to me +so uncommonly probable, with things in the state that they are. Why +shouldn’t he come back?’ + +‘Ay, why shouldn’t he?’ echoed Ben, the office boy, feeling a dawning +sense of coming pleasure in the idea of having given Myles a poser. + +‘Why shouldn’t he?’ began Myles. + +‘That makes three times as it’s been said,’ observed Ben, with an +intelligent smile. ‘Well?’ + +‘Young one, keep your fingers out of the pie!’ said Myles, ‘and answer +me this--why should he?’ + +Crestfallen silence on the part of Wilson and Ben, till the former +began rather feebly, + +‘Well, he’s been abroad for years and years, and when he’s a fine +property like this awaiting for him to step into, as it were, and a +fine house, and a fine mother----’ + +‘Ha, ha!’ said Myles, and his laugh was by no means one of +unsophisticated enjoyment. + +‘And with things in the state that they are,’ Wilson again repeated, as +if much impressed with that state. ‘With these Yankees and Southerners +at it like cat and dog, and cotton going up, and no prospect of any end +to it yet. Mr. Sutcliffe said to me, he says, ‘Wilson, we don’t know +what’s before us yet. If I’m not much mistaken,’ he says, ‘there’ll +be a famine in the land before this time next year.’ And I say, if a +master shouldn’t come home under those circumstances, when should he?’ + +‘Should! Ought!’ repeated Heywood, in sarcastic tones; his scornful +smile lighting his face and gleaming in his eyes. ‘What’s that to do +with it? I’ll tell you why he couldn’t, and shouldn’t, and won’t come.’ + +The others settled themselves more attentively in their positions to +hear the riddle answered. + +‘Because he’s proud and lazy, and likes amusing himself better than +working,’ said Myles, with a strong flavour of contempt and dislike in +his voice. ‘Because the money’s there, and let who may have made it, +choose how they’ve sweated for it, it’s got into his hands, whether he +deserves it or not, and it’s his to do as he likes with--so he does +what he likes with it. He’s got such a manager as there isn’t another +like him in Lancashire. Mr. Sutcliffe can do anything; it’s he that has +slaved and made this business what it is--the biggest in Thanshope, +next to Spenceley’s. He’s got this manager, and if he chooses to think +that he hasn’t got a duty in this mortal world, except to muddle his +head with foreign politics, as I hear he does, and amuse himself by +dancing attendance on a lot of fine ladies, and stroll about foreign +countries, and stare himself blind up at pictures as big as the side of +a house, and as black as my hat, and figures of men and women without +any clothes on----’ + +‘Lord!’ said Ben, awestruck and shocked. + +‘And go rambling about, admiring scenery, and wondering what to do with +himself next--well, what is it to us?’ + +As Wilson and Ben really did not see what it was to them, but had an +uncomfortable sensation that their hitherto revered and honoured Mr. +Sutcliffe was in some way a wronged and slighted individual, and that +they ought to feel it all to be a great deal to them, and a subject of +soreness and offence, they waited humbly for the keynote, nodding their +heads, and trying to look wise. + +‘It’s true,’ went on Myles, more warmly--‘it’s true, he’s got this big +business here, which makes his money, and hundreds of hands who work +for him, and who are, so to speak, under his care; and it’s true that +some people--old-fashioned idiots, of course--might think that a big +property has its duties as well as its pleasures, and that a capitalist +has, or ought to have, something else to do than take and spend his +money, and never inquire how he got it, nor what state the machine is +in that made it for him; but what is that to us? If we’re going to +have a famine in the land, it would be unpleasant for a person not +accustomed to this kind of thing--all the more reason for him to keep +away. My lord likes the company of lords and ladies, and he thinks +Thanshope is only fit for tradespeople.’ + +‘I bet he’s ne’er seen nowt finer nor the new town-hall, choose where +he may have been!’ said Ben, aggressively. + +‘And,’ went on Myles, whose mouth had grown very cross indeed, and +whose eyebrows met in a straight line across his frowning brow, ‘he’s a +_Tory_--a Tory; if I’d said that at first, I shouldn’t have needed to +say all the rest. A Tory, in these times, and in Thanshope!’ + +Wilson and Ben laughed, but not quite a whole-hearted laugh. A +Tory--every species of Conservative--was a poor thing, was the general +Thanshope opinion, but they had always thought of Tories more as +harmless old women, or vulgar ‘risen’ men, like Mr. Spenceley, than as +anything so actively mischievous and to be eschewed as their absentee +employer, Sebastian Mallory. + +‘He’s ashamed of the place, and the people, and the business that has +made him what he is. And that’s why he won’t come back.’ + +‘I say, Myles, who told you all this?’ inquired Wilson, deferentially. + +‘That I’m not at liberty to say; but not one of the men from the +stables, old lad,’ said Myles. ‘But my authority is a good one, and +it’s what I’ve suspected for years. I’ve heard of his doings. He goes +about with parsons. He’s trying all he can to shake himself free of +trade. He’ll try to do it by marrying a lord’s daughter--that’s what +these shoddy Conservatives always do--she’ll spend his money for him, +and if he says anything, she’ll tell him it smells of cotton, and she +wants to get rid of it.’ + +‘Nay, nay, now!’ interrupted Ben, with feeling. + +‘But she will,’ said Myles, looking as angry as if the fair and +contemptuous aristocrat stood in person before them. ‘I know. Don’t we +all know what happened to Jack Brierley’s lad, and how----’ + +Clang, clang, clang! went the great bell in the courtyard. It was two +minutes past six. Wilson raised himself rapidly from his recumbent +attitude, and began to turn over his papers, calling Ben to his side +to help him. The discussion as to the merits or demerits of Sebastian +Mallory, who certainly formed a striking instance of the theory that +_les absents ont toujours tort_, was over; soon the office was filled +with a pushing, elbowing crowd, waiting more or less impatiently to +receive the hire of their week’s labour. + +Myles sat upon his high stool in the background, and watched, +while Wilson and his assistant paid out the wages. It was rather +a dingy-looking crowd that he saw, and was apparent to nose, as +well as to eye, by the unmistakable odour of oil and fluff which +emanated from it. Bare-armed girls with long, greasy pinafores, loud +voices, and ungainly gestures, elbowing their way through the lads, +and exchanging with them chaff of the roughest description. Small, +pale, stunted-looking men; sometimes downright hideously ugly and +mean-looking, or again, only sallow, pale, and subdued by a sedentary +occupation, with here and there a tremendous massive brow; here and +there a pair of eyes so deep and glowing as to cause a shock and thrill +to one who encountered them; here a mouth of poetical delicacy and +sensitiveness; there a jaw so strong and heavy, that, comparing it with +the eyes, brows, and mouths before spoken of, one no longer felt cause +for surprise in hearing such aphorisms as ‘Manchester rules England,’ +‘What Lancashire thinks to-day, England thinks to-morrow.’ It was, +taken all in all, an ugly crowd, but in its way a commanding one. It +might have moved the soul of a ‘Corn-Law Rhymer,’ a Gerald Massey, a +‘Lancashire Lad;’ it would probably have been repulsive to more refined +bards and writers, and the poet of the brush and canvas would have +found absolutely nothing here with which to gladden his eye. + +Myles, a striking exception to almost every one of the men in point +of good looks and fine physical development, if not in point of +intelligent expression, sat upon his stool; and his monotonous whistle +continued as he scanned the faces, and returned a nod here and there. +Many a girl looked at him, and smiled her brightest as she caught his +grave eyes. + +He was not quite like the other workmen in more things than beauty, +and a somewhat higher position, and none knew that better than the +workwomen. The smiles and amiable looks provoked little answer. Myles +was not rude to girls; he never chaffed them in the rough manner of +some of his fellow-workmen; but, on the other hand, he very seldom took +any notice of them at all, having very little to say to any young woman +out of his own family. + +They passed before him in varied array; ugly, and pretty, and mediocre; +fair girls and dark girls, stout girls and thin ones, tall and short, +stupid and intelligent-looking. Here and there a pale, pensive face, +with a head of flaxen hair, and long, delicate, Madonna-like features; +now a brunette, with high complexion, and flashing black eyes, that +showed the brighter under the thick white powdering of cotton fluff +with which her head was covered; _piquante_ and placid, merry and +melancholy; but not for one in all the crowd did his cheek flush in +the least, not once did the calm indifference in his eyes change, nor +did his low, careless whistle cease for an instant. He stared over or +between their heads, or--which was the most irritating of all--right at +them, without once noticing them, until a girl, somewhat taller than +the majority of her companions, came in, and stood waiting with a group +of others near the door, until her turn should come to go up for her +wages. + +Then Myles stopped whistling, and got off his stool, remarking, half +to himself, ‘There’s Mary, at last!’ and applied to Wilson for the sum +of eighteen shillings, that being the amount of his sister’s wages. He +received the money, and made his way through the crowd towards the door. + +‘Eh, Myles, art there?’ said the young woman. ‘Wait of me a minute, +while I get my wages.’ + +‘They’re here,’ said he, putting the money into her hand. ‘So come +along, lass! Let’s get out of this shop.’ + +They passed out at the door, and walked together down the sloping +street--a tall and well-looking pair. It was very seldom, indeed, that +Myles Heywood and his sister Mary failed to walk home from their work +together. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] ‘Baggin’ is not only lunch, but any accidental meal coming +between two regular ones. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +BEFORE THE STORM. + + ‘And I will say to my soul, Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for + many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.’ + + +It was August of the year 1861--the year succeeding that which might +almost be called the apotheosis of the cotton trade. The goods of +Lancashire were piled in every port; her merchants were a byword +for riches and prosperity. ‘Cotton lords’--the aristocracy of the +land--that grimy, smutty, dingy, golden land, whose sceptre was swayed +by King Cotton. + +Day after day the goodly ships had borne their load across the +Atlantic, from New Orleans and the other cotton ports; day after day +those Liverpool cotton lords had received that load upon their docks, +and those Manchester cotton lords had bartered with them and bought +it; and it had been borne slowly along, piled up on great lorries, or +it had been whirled along the iron road, and unloaded, and carried to +a thousand factories in Manchester, and Bolton, and Oldham--the giant +consumers; in Rochdale, and Bury, and Burnley; Blackburn and Wigan, and +Ashton and Stockport; to the great, young, growing towns; to strange +moorland villages, younger sisters of the towns; and there thickset +spikes had whirled it about, and combs had smoothed it out; revolving +spindles had spun it into the thickest or the most fairy threads; rows +and rows of shining looms had received it, and woven it into every +conceivable variety of texture and colour, and breadth, and length, +and pattern. Skilled workmen and workwomen, deft-handed, lissome, +soft-fingered craftsmen and craftswomen had stood by their wooden and +metal fellow-workers, and fed their untiring jaws; then it had gone to +the white-looking warehouses, to be piled in great masses, like little +mountains for height and solidity, and from thence removed to ships +again, and borne over the seas to India, and China, and America, and to +every town in Europe where men and women needed clothing and had money +to buy it. + +The glory of King Cotton at this period of his reign, and the splendour +of him, cannot be better summed up than in the graphic words of one who +has thought and written on that great subject:-- + +‘The dreary totals which Mr. Gladstone’s eloquence illuminates, and +the rolling numerals of the National Debt, become almost insignificant +beside the figures which this statement (the statistics of the cotton +trade) involves. Arithmetic itself grows dizzy as it approaches the +returns of the cotton trade for 1860. One hundred years back, and the +cotton manufactures of England had been valued at £200,000 a year. +Had not French, American, and Russian wars--had not railways and +telegraphs, had their part and lot in this century, surely it would be +known as the Cotton Age. This year, 1860, was the _annus mirabilis_ of +King Cotton. In this year his dependents were most numerous and his +throne most wide. There was no Daniel at hand to interpret to him the +handwriting on the wall, which within twelve months should be read by +all who ran, in letters of blood. What cared he? An argosy of ships +bore him across every sea and into every port. He listened to the +humming of his spindles and to the rattle of his looms; he drank of the +fulness of his power and was satisfied, for he was great--yes, very +great.... The total value of their (the manufacturers’) exports for the +year amounted to £52,012,380. If figures can ever be magnificent--if +naked totals ever reach to the sublime--surely the British cotton trade +for the year 1860 claims our admiration. Its production for this +single year equalled in value £76,012,380, or nearly six millions more +than the gross revenue of the kingdom for the same period.’ + +Surely the land which was the chief home of this monster trade deserved +the title of ‘The Land of Plenty,’ and such it was--‘a goodly land,’ +in fact, if not in outward show, ‘a land flowing with milk and honey,’ +or at least their modern English equivalents--a land where wealth was +profuse--where masters and men vied with each other in pride of bearing +and dogged independence of spirit. Such was that rough, dark land at +the end of 1860; such it was still at the end of August 1861; what +it was in August 1862 only those know who dwelt in it, and saw its +thousands of perishing children, and noted their stoic endurance of +their sufferings. + +Even now, even in this month of August 1861, rumours were gaining +ground that the war in America would not soon be over. The price +of cotton was beginning to go up; the days were hastening towards +that month of October when prices sprang up, mounting daily higher +and higher, and factories began to close--not in ones and twos as +heretofore, not to run short time, or half-time, or even quarter-time, +but to close bodily, in dozens and scores, with no prospect of their +opening again for an indefinite period of want and woe. It was a vast, +dark, pitiless cloud, that which was even now rolling up from the West, +bearing in its huge womb lamentation, and mourning, and woe. + +But still Lancashire was the land of plenty and of hospitality; still +her generous fires burnt merrily upon her ample hearths, making the +stranger forget her murky skies, and the smoke-dimmed countenance +of her landscapes. Her work-people still got the largest wages, +her masters still made the greatest fortunes of any masters and +work-people, taken collectively, in England; and nothing was said about +the over-production of the last plethoric year, nor of the piled-up +goods in the overstocked warehouses. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +RIFTS WITHIN THE LUTE. + + +The brother and sister walked together down the sloping street already +mentioned, and which was, as usual at that time, full of work-people, +streaming out of the numberless factories which formed the staple of +Thanshope buildings. Arms were swinging, and clogs were clattering; +tongues were wagging furiously in the reaction of the release +from work, and the inhalation of the air, which, though close and +thunderous, was yet fresher than that in the great hot factories. + +Thanshope was built on a situation with considerable claims to natural +beauty, and there were days, even now, when it looked beautiful. Its +streets all climbed up and down steep hills. Whenever the day or the +smoke was clear enough, hills might be seen surrounding it on all sides +in the distance, except to the south, where Manchester lay. + +There was a river--the river Thanse--running through the town, +which unfortunate stream formed a fertile source of bickering and +heart-burning amongst the members of the town-council, the medical men, +and the people who write to the newspapers: one party of them contended +that there was nothing the matter with the river Thanse, it was a good +and wholesome stream, which purified the town; while the other party +said that it and its unspeakable uncleanness were at the root of all +the ills that Thanshope flesh suffered from. + +Altogether, the verdict of a stranger would most likely have been that +Thanshope was a dim, unlovely, smoky place, in which no one would +choose to live whose business did not oblige him to do so--a place +where substantial dirt was the co-operator of substantial prosperity, +where grime and plenty went hand in hand. + +Yet there were people who loved this dirty town, and who lived +contented lives in it--people not belonging to the great swarm of +workers who were obliged to live there, and who, perhaps, thought more +about the rate of wages than about the æsthetic condition of their +surroundings. + +Myles and Mary Heywood, having come to the end of the sloping street, +turned a corner to the left, and soon found themselves in another +street, quieter, wider, with terraces of small houses on either side, +whose monotony was diversified by various chapels, meeting-houses, and +schools. Uphill for a short distance, till the street grew wider and +the houses better, and Myles and Mary, turning down a side street to +the right, emerged upon one side of a wide, open, square space, called +Townfield, or the Townfield, and elevated so high that the rest of the +town lay below them as in a basin. All along that side of the Townfield +where they stood was a row of neat, small houses, each exactly like all +the others; the only room for the individuality of the owners making +itself apparent being in the arrangement of the little strip of garden +spreading before each. + +Half the Townfield had been cut off, a couple of years ago, to furnish +a small park or pleasure-ground; but looking across the open space to +the north-west, they could see the old part of the town in its hollow; +the old church of the parish on ground almost as high as the Townfield +itself; the gilded spire of the town-hall rising ambitiously from the +hollow (it chimed a quarter after six with mellow tone as they stood +there), and all the other churches and chapels and public buildings +strewn here and there about the town. A great cloud of smoke came +up and dimmed the air; on every side was a fringe of long chimneys; +different big factories were familiar features in the landscape, and +formed landmarks to Mary and her brother--had formed landmarks to them +from infancy. + +Away to the north-west were undulating lines of blue, lofty moors. They +were part of Blackrigg--that mighty joint of England’s irregular spine. +It was not exactly an enlivening prospect, but it had certain beauties +of its own; and at least this town, full of rough, busy toilers, had a +fitting and harmonious frame in that semicircle of bleak and treeless +moors. + +Mary and Myles went up one of the strips of garden about the middle of +the terrace, and opened the door of the house. + +‘Pah! how hot and close it feels!’ said Myles, as they closed +themselves in. ‘Now I wonder how that lad is!’ + +They went along a little passage, to the left of which was the +‘parlour,’ arranged in the approved style of such parlours, with a +brilliant, large-patterned carpet in red, yellow, and blue; bright +green merino curtains, a ‘drawing-room suite’ in rosewood and crimson +rep, a pink cloth upon the centre table, upon which were negligently +arranged albums, Sunday books, paper mats, and a glass shade, under +which reposed waxen apples and grapes of a corpulent description. +On the mantelpiece, two green glass vases, and a china greyhound of +an unknown variety, more frilled paper mats, and little piles of +spar and crystal. On the walls, photographs and a rich collection of +framed funeral cards, together with the _chef-d’œuvre_ of the whole +establishment--a work of art which Mary regarded with feelings little +short of veneration--‘Joseph sold by his Brethren,’ executed in Berlin +wools, the merchants all squinting frightfully, and Joseph with a +salmon-coloured back and a decidedly ruddy countenance, though one +not of such remarkable beauty as quite to account for his subsequent +adventures. + +Past the door leading into this epitome of art and beauty went these +young people, into the kitchen, which was, of course, the general +living-room of the family. Upon a couch beneath the window, with the +crinkling of the cinders and the ticking of the clock for his only +companions, lay the failure of his family--a cripple lad of eighteen. + +‘Well, Ned, lad, how dost find thyself?’ asked Myles, going in. + +‘I find myself as usual--wishing I was dead,’ was the encouraging +reply, as the lad turned a pale and sallow face, not without +considerable beauty of feature, but stamped with a look of ill-health, +pain, and something deeper and more sorrowful than either, towards the +strong, handsome brother who stooped over him. + +‘Nay, come! Not quite so bad as that,’ said Myles, smoothing Edmund’s +hair from his hot forehead, and seating himself beside the couch. He +looked into his cripple brother’s eyes with a glance so full of life, +and hope, and strong, protecting kindness, and withal so contagious a +smile, that an answering, if a reluctant one, was wrung from the lad’s +dull eyes and down-drawn mouth. + +‘I’m that thirsty!’ he said. ‘Molly, do get the tea ready.’ + +‘I’m shappin’’ (shaping) ‘to’t now, lad,’ she returned, hanging up her +cotton kerchief and poking the fire to settle the kettle upon it. + +‘And you read a bit, Myles, wilta?’ pursued Edmund. ‘Mother won’t be +home for half an hour, and I could like to know how yon Lady Angiolina +got on at the castle.’ + +Myles took up a book from a table and began to read aloud: + +‘“As the groom of the chambers announced the Lady Angiolina +Fitzmaurice, every eye turned towards her. She advanced with the step +of a queen. Her trailing robe of black velvet set off her superb beauty +to the utmost advantage,”’ and so forth. + +Edmund listened with face intent and a pleased half-smile upon his +lips. Mary moved noiselessly about, getting the tea-cups out of the +cupboard and setting them on the tray with gingerly hand, so as not to +disturb the literary party in the window. + +The reading was continued only for the space of some quarter of an +hour. The story was a novel of ‘high life.’ No agent in it was of lower +rank than a baronet; no menial less distinguished than a groom of the +chambers or a majordomo was permitted to appear in its truly select and +exclusive pages; the action took place in Mayfair, in Belgravia, and +in the ancestral halls of dukes and earls. Manchester was alluded to +by the refined author much as if it had been of about equal importance +with Timbuctoo; the whole a very tawdry tinsel, pasted together in a +very poor, second-rate manner. + +Myles read on and Edmund listened. Perhaps he was aware that the story +was rubbish, but it took him into a world which by contrast with his +own was beautiful: it spoke of something else than the Townfield as +a pleasure-ground, grey factories, smoke and chimneys by way of a +prospect. It pointed out another sort of existence than that led by +him and his. + +Edmund had an intensely poetic temperament. Poetry of some sort, in +real life or in books, he must have or die. It was not forthcoming in +real life: Myles never read novels for his own pleasure, therefore +Edmund had no beneficent hand to point out to him the shining treasures +of real poetry with which our English literature abounds, so he had to +rely on the titles in the catalogue of the Thanshope Free Library, and +often received a stone instead of bread, in the shape of such jingling +nonsense as he was greedily listening to just now. + +Myles was a great reader of politics and science. The romantic +and poetic side of his nature had been left to itself; the soil, +whether sterile or fruitful, had never received the least touch of +cultivation--yet. He had some strong convictions on the subject of +ethics, which will be best left undescribed, to display their results +in his actions as circumstances put his theories to the test. + +There was something striking and uncommon in the appearance of all +three of this group of brothers and sister. Mary was comely--a tall, +well-formed, well-grown young woman, with the pale but clear and +healthy complexion, dark eyes and hair of her elder brother--a calm, +sensible face, not destitute of a certain still, regular beauty, but +lacking the impetuousness and intensity of Myles’s expression. She sat +knitting a long grey woollen stocking, and looked with a large steady +gaze now at Myles, now at Edmund, whose face was equally sharp cut as +his brother’s, but worn and drawn with pain and ill-health. + +Edmund was nineteen; Mary, two-and-twenty; Myles, six-and-twenty; +another, born between them, had died an infant. + +At this juncture the back door was heard to open. Some one entered, and +in the pause made by Myles in his reading there was distinctly audible +a heavy sigh--almost a groan. Glances were exchanged between Myles and +Mary; both looked as if they braced themselves to meet some ordeal. +Edmund’s face darkened visibly. + +‘Is that you, mother?’ called out Mary cheerfully. + +‘Ay, it’s me!’ replied a rather grating voice--a voice high, though not +loud, and complaining in the midst of an ostentatious resignation. + +‘Go on, Myles!’ said Edmund, in an undertone. + +‘Can’t, my lad. You know mother can’t abide it.’ + +‘Why am I never to have a bit o’ pleasure? It’s precious little as +I get,’ grumbled the lad, as he turned away, and lay with his face +concealed. + +‘See, lad! Tak’ the book, and read for thysel’,’ said Myles, who +indulged in a tolerably broad dialect when in the bosom of his family. + +Edmund shrugged his shoulders irritably and made a gesture of aversion. +Myles closed the book, rising from the side of the couch and going +to the table, as a woman came in from the back kitchen--a small, +sharp-featured woman, comely yet, with a bright cheek and a dark eye. +She was the mother of all those tall children, though she was only +five-and-forty, having been married, as too many of her class do marry, +at eighteen. The great wonder was that she had remained a widow so +long, for in addition to good looks, clever fingers, and a stirring +disposition, she possessed property to the extent of thirty pounds per +annum left by a rich relation to her years ago. + +An ignorant observer, looking at the family party just now, would have +said what a good-looking, prosperous, well-to-do party they were. But +Mrs. Heywood had scarcely spoken yet. + +‘Evenin’, mother,’ said her eldest son, civilly, but, it must be owned, +hardly cordially. + +‘Good evenin’,’ she returned, in her high-pitched, dubious voice. +‘What! you’ve managed to get th’ tea ready, lass? But I know what that +means. Just twice as much tea in the pot as we’ve any need for, or as I +should ‘a put in mysel’. Waste, waste, on every side!’ + +As this was Mrs. Heywood’s invariable remark when she came in from her +occasional day’s sewing at one of the large houses of the neighbourhood +and found the tea prepared, it excited neither comment nor indignation, +and the excellent woman, seating herself, cast a sharp, discontented +look around, as if wishing that some one would give her an opportunity +of saying something disagreeable. + +‘Eh, bi’ the mass! It is some and hot! If some folks had to walk as far +as me, mayhap they’d understand what I feel at this moment.’ + +Again no answer. Myles was buttering a piece of bread. His eyebrows +were contracted again. The serpent in that Eden was the contentious +woman. Myles never answered her complaints, on principle, for fear of +saying something outrageous and unbecoming, but it was often with a +sore struggle that he abstained: he did not want to become a household +bully, or he knew--he had found it out by accident one day--that a +certain look and tone of his could quell Mrs. Heywood’s temper in one +minute. He was very much afraid of using it too frequently, though +often sorely provoked. ‘Such people as Sebastian Mallory,’ he reflected +(whose mother was said to live for him and his happiness), ‘were +not obliged to stay in one room, listening to maddening complaints, +like the continual dropping of a rainy day, with no alternative but +solitude, silence, or the taproom.’ + +Edmund’s shoulders were drawn up to his ears, and his back expressed +distinctly that he felt himself jarred and grated in every fibre of his +being. + +‘Now, then, Edmund,’ said his mother, in her thin, penetrating voice; +‘art comin’ to the table, or mun thou have thy tea carried to thee, to +drink on th’ sofa, like a lady, eh?’ + +Answering to this appeal, he raised himself, his face darkened, his +lips quivering with anger. + +‘That’s right!’ said he, bitterly. ‘Do insult me a little more! It’s so +nice to be ill, and so pleasant to spend your days by yourself upon a +sofa in a kitchen. I’m likely to keep it up as long as ever I can. So +would you if once you knew how agreeable it was.’ + +He had supported himself by means of a stick to the table; and as he +limped along to the chair which Mary had placed for him, one could +see how much deformed he was, and how clumsily he moved. No look of +pity warmed the woman’s face as she saw him. He was not, like many a +weakly or deformed child, the object of the mother’s divinest love and +tenderest care. He had been born three months after his father’s sudden +death. Mrs. Heywood had never been noted for enthusiastic devotion to +any of her children, or to her husband, or, indeed, to any one but +herself and her own interest. Myles could influence her; but she seemed +to have a positive aversion to Edmund, who used to say that his real +mother was Mary. + +When the meal was over, there was a little movement. Edmund looked +wistfully towards Myles and the book; but Myles did not offer to resume +it. He had begun to think over that conversation in the office before +pay-time, and was wondering whether it could be really true that +Sebastian Mallory meant to return. + +Sebastian Mallory was, and had been for years, his _bete noire_. He had +seen him once, ten years ago, a handsome, fair-faced, ‘yellow-haired +laddie’ of sixteen, who had come to look round his own works, with a +somewhat listless gaze. Myles’s vigorous soul had been filled with +contempt for him at that moment, and he had never seen fit to alter +that feeling. All he heard of Sebastian Mallory was exactly contrary +to his ideas of what a _man_--unless the man were some irresponsible +person, with neither business nor estate in the background--ought to +be and do. He had a very strong sense of duty himself, and never, so +far as he knew, left a duty unperformed. He struggled hard, according +to his light, to do what was right; consequently he felt himself in +a position to be somewhat censorious upon those who, he considered, +obviously did not fulfil their duties--duties to their property, +their dependents, their privileges, to him--such persons as this very +Sebastian Mallory. Therefore he smiled somewhat grimly to himself as +he imagined that lily-handed, yellow-haired, delicate-looking young +man coming to take his place at the head of affairs at such a crisis +as was striding towards Lancashire--a storm which it would take the +keenest heads, the strongest hands, the most practised eyes of the +wariest business men who should succeed in weathering it. Probably Mr. +Sebastian Mallory, if he did come, would cut a sorry spectacle, and +would soon be glad to retire again to more congenial scenes abroad. + +He did not feel it his duty to excite Mrs. Heywood’s disagreeable +remarks by reading aloud what he justly considered ‘balderdash’ to +Edmund; he therefore suggested that they should go and take a turn on +the Townfield. + +Edmund, who for some reason was in a more unhappy temper than usual, +shrugged his shoulders, and said he did not feel inclined to go out. + +‘No? Then I must go by myself, I suppose,’ said Myles. + +But he made no immediate effort to leave the house. He seated himself +at the table with a book, and might possibly have remained in the +house, but for his mother, who having ascertained that his book was +entitled ‘The History of Rationalism,’ announced that the bitterest +grief of her declining years consisted in having to see a son of hers +growing up an infidel, or worse. She hunted under the Family Bible, +and produced a tract, which she offered him in lieu of the work he was +reading. It bore the alluring title, ‘Thou also, Worm!’ And on his +refusing this tit-bit of religious badinage, she put it aside with a +bitter smile, and an audibly expressed hope that it might not in the +future go too hardly with those who had spurned the means of grace +proffered by a mother’s hand. + +Myles endured these, and a succession of similar remarks, for some +little time, while he appeared to go on with his book without +heeding them; but, as none knew better than she who made them, the +contracted eyebrows and the impatient twisting of his moustache covered +considerable inward irritation. He at last abruptly rose, and took his +cap from the nail on which it hung. + +‘Out again!’ said Mrs. Heywood, in the same maddening voice; ‘and if a +mother may ask, what pothouse are you going to now?’ + +‘No thanks to you, mother, that I’ve not taken to the pothouse long +ago,’ replied the young man curtly, slapping his hat upon his head and +leaving the room. + +‘If he doesn’t break that door off its hinges some fine day, in one +of his tempers, my name’s not Sarah Ann Heywood,’ remarked his mother. +‘It’s a grievous thing to have an ungovernable temper. His Bible, if he +ever read it, would tell him that the tongue is a little member, but a +consuming fire.’ + +‘The Bible never said a truer word,’ retorted Edmund, witheringly; and +Mrs. Heywood, returning to her knitting, with the pleasant sense of +having driven out the strongest, sank into silence. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +ADRIENNE. + + ‘I love my lady; she is very fair; + Her brow is wan, and bound by simple hair: + Her spirit sits aloof, and high, + But glances from her tender eye, + In sweetness droopingly.’ + + +Myles left the house, and, traversing some sideways, found himself +presently in a steep, hilly street, which he descended, arriving at +last at a sort of square, through the middle of which ran the river +Thanse, and on both sides of which were rows of shops. Then, walking on +a hundred yards or so, he emerged in another still larger open space, +opposite a large and beautiful building, which, in its delicate and +multiform Gothic tracery, and noble dimensions, with the springing +gilded spire leaping aloft at last, offered a startling contrast to its +sordid surroundings--the shabby, low houses, narrow streets, and grimy +factories which crowded round, as near as they dared. The river here +made a bend, and passed the front of the town-hall. A kind of boulevard +had been made, planted with trees, and immediately across the river, +fronting the town-hall, was a house standing in a garden, divided by +the river from the road. It was a fine old house of red brick, which +had no doubt originally been ‘in the country.’ There was a look of +stateliness and substance about it--the brick was relieved by handsome +stone mullions, copings, and chimney-stacks. + +The trees had been stunted by smoke, but they lived yet. Much ivy, +strong and tenacious from advanced age, clung about it. The grounds +were thoroughly well kept. The parterres were blazing with the +passionate, glowing colours of late summer flowers; the windows were +glazed with sheets of plate-glass. Here and there a bow had been thrown +out. Behind were extensive stables and outhouses. It was, though dingy, +and miscellaneous in architecture, a fine, imposing old mansion; it +instantly caught the stranger’s eye, and was known from infancy to +every inhabitant of Thanshope as well as the old church on the hill +behind the town-hall, or as the great co-operative stores on another +hill at the other side of the town. + +To-night Myles looked more earnestly than usual at this old house. It +was called ‘The Oakenrod,’ and was the property of Sebastian Mallory, +tenanted during his absence by that stately dame, his mother. + +‘There it is!’ said Myles within himself. ‘Cumbering the ground--kept +like a palace for a fellow who doesn’t care two straws for it!’ + +Again he shrugged his shoulders, and turned somewhat abruptly to the +left, making for one of the side doors of the town-hall. He went in, +and ran up a great many flights of stone steps, past corridors and +branching passages, till he could go no higher, for the excellent +reason that he was at the top of the building. Pushing open the glass +door, which swung to behind him, Myles found himself in the holy of +holies--the library. A door to the right led into the reading-room, and +thither he directed his steps. It was a large, lofty, handsome room, +with many tables and chairs, and plenty of pens, ink, newspapers, and +periodicals scattered about. When Myles entered, the room was almost +empty. One or two men were reading newspapers, and at one table in a +window sat a girl, who had a great book open before her, but whose eyes +were at the moment intently fixed upon the old house, the Oakenrod, +which lay directly beneath. + +Myles, searching about, found a number of the _Westminster Review_, and +took it to his accustomed place, at the table next to that where the +girl sat. He noticed no one to right or to left of him--not even her +who was almost the only lady visitor who ever entered the reading-room. + +She was already a familiar figure to his eyes. For some months past +he had seen her nearly every evening, sitting at the same table, even +at the same side of that table, with a book--generally some large and +weighty volume--open before her, and a small thick note-book, in which +she wrote extracts or abstracts of what she read. + +Myles knew quite well the tall, slim figure, the two dresses which she +alternately wore--one a soft, flowing black one--another, soft and +flowing too, of a blue so dark as to be nearly black. He knew that the +lines of her dresses flowed gracefully, and were agreeable to the eye. +He knew, too, the little black _fichu_ which she usually wore--a sort +of apology for a mantle, which she never discarded on the hottest days; +the modestly shaped white straw hat, with its carefully preserved black +lace scarf, and bunch of daisies at one side, which hat she always +ended in taking off after she had sat there ten minutes or so. She had +a pale, clear, fair complexion, bright, warm chestnut hair, and a face +which, not conventionally beautiful in outline, was full to overflowing +of the subtler, more bewitching charm of a beautiful spirit. It--her +face--had a youthful softness of outline--not full, but not thin, with +a charming rounded chin, melting into the full white throat; a mouth +whose lines attracted irresistibly, so good, so spiritual were their +curves; an insignificant but well-cut nose; a pair of large, luminous, +expressive eyes, which in some favourable lights might appear grey, but +which an impartial observer must inevitably have confessed had a shade +of green in them. + +Myles and this young lady had sat at neighbouring tables in the public +reading-room almost every evening throughout the spring and summer +months of that year. Whenever Myles came into the room he had found the +young lady there; he could not, of course, tell whether she came when +he was not there. + +Conversation in the reading-room was against the rules; but +‘conversation’ is an abstract noun of considerable indefiniteness, and +one to which different minds may attach different meanings. A few words +exchanged, of greeting or courtesy, could scarcely have come under the +head of ‘conversation,’ or if it did, the rules were infringed every +day. A little remark, as one passed the paper to the other--fifty +little things might have been said (and were said by some frequenters +of the room) without in the least disturbing the peace of the studious. + +But between Myles and his neighbour those words had never been spoken. +They had never exchanged a syllable--Myles because of a certain +British-workmanlike shyness, and a general sense that she belonged, +despite the simplicity of her appearance, manner, and attire, to the +class of ‘fine ladies’ whom he disliked and distrusted--the class which +was typified for him in the person of Mrs. Mallory of the Oakenrod--and +of whom he had the idea that they were silly, pretty, useless, +expensive things, good for nothing but to spend a man’s money, and make +him miserable with their tricks and antics--and break his heart if he +were fool enough to give it into their keeping--incapable of taking any +part in the serious things of life. That was his opinion of ‘ladies.’ +For the women of his own class he had a hearty respect and admiration: +they could earn wages; they could work; they did not meddle with things +out of their sphere; they had a distinct use and purpose; he never +uttered an ill word to or of any one of them. + +He had never spoken to his neighbour, because he was shy, and did not +know how to begin a conversation; but he would have scorned to own it: +he would have said, ‘Speak to her? Why should I speak to her? I’ve +nothing that I want to say to her.’ + +Which would have been untrue; for there was such intelligence, such +sympathy in her face, that he many a time caught himself, on reading +any striking passage, wondering what she would think of it if she had +read it. + +She had never spoken to him--because--why--because--well, what did +it matter? possibly because she was a little more sensible than most +girls, and felt no wish to speak unless she had something to say. + +They met without sign of recognition. He would take his place--she +hers; she always had some book under her arm, for which she had stopped +to ask the librarian on her way in, and they would often pass a couple +of hours thus almost without a word or a look. She read earnestly +and hard--not as if she read for pleasure, but for work--with a +purpose. Privately, Myles was mighty puzzled to know what she could +be reading, or rather, with what object she read what she did. Once +he had been quite excited (silently) to see her poring over a musical +score; reading it as if it were a book. One of the specialities of the +Thanshope Free Library was its musical department, which was richly +stocked both in scores and in treatises on music and musicians. + +During the summer the room was generally nearly empty. The people were +otherwise employed, so that often not more than half a dozen readers +were to be found in all the large, airy room--sometimes Myles and the +studious, unknown ‘reading girl’ were all alone there. + +Myles opened his Review, and his eye fell upon an article on the +governing classes which instantly caught his attention. In the hope of +finding some follies and weaknesses of the governing classes sharply +castigated, he settled himself with pleased expectation to his book. + +Half an hour passed. One by one the other occupants of the room walked +away. The workman and the young lady were left alone together. She +looked every now and then out of the window. Her note-taking did not +seem to flow so smoothly as usual. Spread open on the table before her, +she had a fine edition of the ‘Fugues’ of Domenico Scarlatti, which +she studied a little now and then, but oftener looked out through the +window. Now, from that window she had a tolerably wide prospect; and +immediately beneath her eyes was the handsome old red-brick house, with +its flower-beds, and its lawns, smooth, and green, and well-watered--a +rural fastness in the midst of the dusty town. + +There was silence that was almost solemn in the big room, which was +growing dusk: it was so high and airy, and so isolated; raised far +above the town and its troubles; the din hushed; the rolling vehicles +and the passing throng dwarfed; books on every side, and silence like a +garment over all. + +As chimes broke that silence, and eight o’clock struck, the girl, with +a sigh, turned resolutely away from the outside prospect, and applied +herself again to her score. + +Myles, half roused by the chiming, half pleased with a particularly +hard hit at the governing classes, which especially took his fancy, +raised his head at this moment, and his eyes, without any thought of +his neighbour. It is a gesture which every one makes sometimes in +reading. Smiling with satisfaction at what struck him as a masterly +argument, Myles let his eyes fall upon her. + +She too was looking up--not at him, but past him. Her eyes were +turned towards the door, and quick as thought there passed a subtle, +inexplicable flash of dislike, tempered with alarm, across her face. +She made a movement as if to rise--as if to escape; then sat down +again, with a flush, more of annoyance than confusion, mantling in her +cheeks. Then, bending to her book, she seemed to make some effort to +keep her eyes firmly fixed upon it. + +This little bit of by-play roused Myles’s attention. He turned his +head towards the door, which was behind him, and he saw how it was +opened, and a man came into the room. A gentleman? he speculated, as he +first saw the figure, in the obscure background. The visitor gradually +approached, and Myles, staring unceremoniously at him, experienced a +feeling of surprise, disgust, and sudden enlightenment as to the cause +of the young lady’s disturbance. + +The new-comer was a young man with a somewhat high colour, dark hair +and eyes, a full beardless face, and a coarse, animal mouth. He was +well, even foppishly dressed, and bore the outward stamp of a person +to whom money is not a subject of painful study or consideration. But, +as Myles knew, he was not sterling coin. His manner, even of entering +that room, was less than second-rate; confidence became a swagger; +independence was metamorphosed into self-consciousness. The expression +of his face was bold and vulgar. Perhaps no greater or more telling +contrast could have been found, than that between the workman in his +work-a-day dress, and the would-be dandy in his gloved, perfumed, +over-dressed vulgarity. + +This person came forward; his eyes fell upon Myles; he removed them. A +workman--a person not demanding his attention, one of the “fellahs” who +came to the reading-room. + +Nevertheless, he seated himself at Myles’s table and drew a _Daily +News_ towards him, without speaking and without removing his hat. Myles +glanced at the young lady without letting her see that he did so; her +eyes were fastened upon the page before her, but he had studied her +expressions, and knew that she was not reading. + +‘Now, I should like to know,’ speculated Myles inwardly, ‘what you may +want here, Mr. Frederick Spenceley?’ + +He had recognised the man--the son of a rich manufacturer of Thanshope, +who had earned his fortune as a Radical, and was living in state now as +a Conservative and a supporter of the aristocracy, Church, State, and +landed gentry interest. His son, as Myles was well aware, had assuredly +not visited the reading-room for purposes of mental instruction. + +Myles apparently applied himself again to his book, but the argument +had lost its charm for him. He had not known until now how lively was +the interest he had taken in his graceful young neighbour. Placing his +book so as to shield his face, but yet so that he could observe what +was going on, he said to himself, + +‘I’m glad I didn’t go away ten minutes ago.’ + +After bestowing a very short and scant need of attention upon the +_Daily News_, Mr. Spenceley cast his eyes around him. Myles watched +him, and saw the leisurely impudence of the stare with which he +favoured the young lady, and his ears began to tingle. He--my poor +Myles--was of a fiery temperament, could not endure to see even a ‘fine +lady’ insulted without cause, and was dangerously ready to take up the +cudgels for the unprotected or ill-used. + +‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. Frederick Spenceley, leaning towards the +girl. ‘Do you want that paper?’ + +He stretched his hand towards a newspaper which lay upon the table +at which she sat, but he was looking at her with a stare, perhaps +intended for one of gallant admiration, but which, from the unfortunate +‘nature of the beast,’ succeeded only in being impertinent. + +Without looking at him, she raised her elbow from the paper on which it +had rested, and continued, or seemed to continue, her reading. + +‘You don’t want it?’ he said, with what may have been meant for a +winning smile. + +‘No,’ came like a little icicle from her lips. + +Myles with difficulty sat still; but, making an effort, continued +quiet, though watching the game with a deeper interest than before. + +The twilight had grown almost into darkness by this time. The +attendant, perhaps not knowing that any one was in the room, had not +yet lighted the gas. + +Mr. Spenceley took the paper, but, without even pretending to look at +it, said in a tone of under-bred badinage, + +‘Isn’t it rather dark to be reading, Miss--a----’ + +She raised her eyes this time, and caught those of the speaker fixed +full upon her. Her own were instantly averted, with an expression of +cold contempt and disgust, and she made no reply. + +‘I assure you it’s very bad for the eyes to read by this +half-light--very trying. Hadn’t I better tell the fellah to light the +gas? I am sure you will spoil your eyes, and that would be a pity,’ +with a winning simper, which made Myles’s fist clench with an intense +desire to do him some horrible violence. ‘Don’t you really think I had +better?’ he pursued, evidently bent upon making her speak. At last he +succeeded. + +‘Be good enough to mind your own business, without addressing me,’ said +she, in a voice which, thought Myles, was sufficient to have rebuffed +the veriest cur that ever called itself by the name of man. + +With that she quietly, by slightly altering the position of her chair, +turned her back upon Mr. Spenceley, while her profile, with frowning +brow and indignantly compressed lips, was plainly visible to Myles. + +Mr. Spenceley laughed, not so musically as a lady-killer should be able +to laugh, and remarked: + +‘I feel it my business to prevent a young lady from spoiling her eyes, +and----’ + +Steadying his voice with some difficulty into something like +indifference, Myles turned to him and said, + +‘Don’t you know that talking is forbidden here?’ + +The look which he received in answer made him smile, despite his inner +indignation. Mr. Spenceley contemplated him with a stare, which was +unfortunately not so regal as it might have been; then, raising a +single eyeglass, he stuck it into one eye, and surveyed the audacious +speaker anew, as if his wonder at what had occurred could never be +sufficiently satisfied. + +‘Will yah mind yah own business, and leave gentlemen to mind they-aws?’ +he at last drawled out, with magnificent disdain. + +‘When I see the gentleman I shall be quite ready to leave him to mind +his own business,’ was the placid retort. ‘In the meantime, as the +young lady wishes to read, and I wish to read, and you disturb us with +your chatter, perhaps you will kindly hold your tongue.’ + +Here Mr. Spenceley resolved upon a master-stroke. Turning his +broadcloth-clad back upon Myles, he tilted his chair back so as to see +the young lady better, and inquired, + +‘Do you know the fellah, Miss--a----?’ + +Before she could reply (supposing that she had any intention of +replying) Myles had leaned a little forward, and tapped Mr. Spenceley +on the shoulder. With a great start, quite disproportionate to the +circumstances, the latter brought his chair to its normal position +again. Myles saw the start, and stifled a smile. + +‘Excuse me, my good sir, I don’t remember ever to have seen you here +before, so perhaps you won’t mind showing me your ticket--I mean your +member’s ticket--otherwise----’ + +‘Will yah hold yah tongue?’ retorted the other, in a tone of scornful +exasperation. + +‘No,’ replied Myles. ‘If you’ve any right to be here, show me your +ticket, and hold _your_ tongue, according to rules; if you haven’t that +right, walk out at once.’ + +‘I can tell yah, yah don’t seem to know who ya’h speaking to,’ observed +Mr. Spenceley, apparently lost in astonishment. ‘Are yah one of the +authorities here?’ + +‘Oh yes! I know you,’ said Myles, who saw that the young lady was now +watching the dispute with undisguised interest. ‘And I’m that much +of an authority that I can prevent you from disturbing and annoying +people. Once for all, will you show me your card of admission?’ + +‘No, I won’t.’ + +‘Then you’ll excuse my going to the librarian and telling him you are +here without right--unless you prefer to save that trouble to me, and +ten shillings to yourself, by walking yourself off now, this moment,’ +said Myles, who began to find a delicious piquancy in the sensation of +dealing thus summarily with a person of the consideration of Frederick +Spenceley. It was an ignoble feeling, and we all have ignoble feelings +sometimes, or what is the meaning of the constant injunctions to bear +and forbear which we receive from different sources? + +‘Haw! Wha--at?’ + +‘The fine for using this room without belonging to it is ten shillings. +There’s another fine for talking and disturbing people, too,’ said +Myles, who had never lost his look of perfect ease and calmness, and +who did not for a moment remove his eyes from the other’s face. + +Mr. Spenceley did not appear to like the mention of fines. His face +fell; his hand involuntarily sought his pocket. + +‘Tender in that direction, poor fellow!’ thought Myles to himself. + +‘Confounded radical place, this!’ observed Mr. Spenceley. ‘Not fit for +gentlemen to live in.’ + +‘Not when they have only been gentlemen since the last general +election,’ said Myles, politely. ‘I quite agree with you.’ + +‘Well, I shall go and see what the librarian says to all this,’ said +Mr. Spenceley, by way of covering his retreat; and then, after a +prolonged stare at the girl in the window, he retired, not so jauntily +as he had entered. + +Myles picked up his book again. The girl watched her tormentor, until +the noiseless door had swung to behind him, and she had seen his shadow +pass towards the stairs. Myles feigned to read, but he could not help +seeing how she trembled as she sat there. + +He did not speak to her. Something--he knew not what--held him back. +But he suddenly felt a light touch upon his arm, and, looking up, saw +the young lady standing beside him. + +‘Do you think he is really gone?’ she asked, scarcely above her breath. + +‘Oh yes! That sort of cur slinks off when you stoop for a stone, with +his tail between his legs. It’s only when he has his kennel well behind +him that he turns upon you and snaps,’ replied Myles, with homely if +expressive metaphor. + +She drew a long breath, raised her head again, and said, with a mixture +of dignity and gentleness which appealed intensely to his strongest +feelings of admiration, + +‘I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you!’ + +‘Don’t mention it, miss,’ said he; and it was odd that, while Mr. +Spenceley’s ‘miss’ made every right-minded person pant to knock him +down and pound him well, Myles’s ‘miss’ was not in the faintest degree +offensive. + +‘You spoke as if you knew who he is. Do you?’ she added. + +‘Oh yes! He’s well enough known; he’s the only son of that Spenceley +who has the big factories down at Lower Place--“Bargaining Jack” they +call him.’ + +‘Oh! I know who you mean. Poor man! How I pity him for having such a +son!’ + +‘Had you ever seen him before?’ asked Myles, confirmed in his +impression that she was not a native of Thanshope, and finding +conversation easier than he had expected. + +‘I have seen him several times lately. I seem always to be meeting him. +Once I thought he had followed me, and then I thought how absurd to +imagine such a thing; but he must have done it all the same.’ + +Myles had had inexplicable sensations while she spoke. He had known +her so long without a voice, that now, when he heard it, she seemed to +become a stranger again; and yet not a stranger. She had a sweet, low +voice, clear and penetrating, and she spoke with an accent that had +something not quite English in it. + +It would have been difficult--to Myles in his ignorance, impossible--to +say in what the foreign element lay; but it was assuredly there. When +she spoke she looked at him with fleeting glances which had nothing +insincere in them, and her face lighted up and became lovely--and more +than that, distinguished, spiritual; the slender figure was balanced +with such a graceful poise; the delicate hands were free from all +nervous restlessness. Her chestnut hair was abundant, and its dressing +so simple and beautiful as alone to make her remarkable. Myles realised +that she was most distinctly a ‘lady,’ but he could not make himself +feel her to be either trivial or stupid. There had been nothing trivial +in her behaviour. Her treatment of him flattered his discrimination +when he remembered her late treatment of Mr. Spenceley. At that time +of his life he had very wrong ideas on the subject of gentlemen, +having mistaken notions as to their power and character; but the best +part of his nature was soothed and pleased when so perfect a piece of +refinement as this young lady treated him entirely as a gentleman. + +‘And I thank you again, very much,’ she added, smiling, and holding out +her hand. + +Myles forgot to be confused as he accepted the hand so frankly +extended, and felt encouraged to do what he had thought would be right +from the moment she had spoken to him. + +‘I am very glad to have been of service. May I ask how far you are +going?’ + +‘To Blake Street, if you know it.’ + +‘I know it well. It is too far for you to go alone, if you will excuse +my saying so. It is quite possible that fellow may be hanging about +yet. I’ll go with you, if you will allow me?’ + +‘Oh! you are very kind,’ said she, with visible relief. ‘I cannot +refuse, though I am sorry to take you away.’ + +‘Not at all. I can’t fasten to it again,’ said Myles, sincerely. + +‘Then, if you would be so good, I should be very grateful,’ said she; +and she looked so relieved and so pleased, that Myles felt himself +rewarded an hundredfold for the act which had occurred to him as one of +simple civility--nay, of almost obvious necessity. + +They left the town-hall when she had returned her book to the +librarian, and passed out into the street turning to the right. + +‘This is the shortest way, miss,’ said Myles, distracted as to what he +should call her, feeling ‘miss’ disagreeable, he hardly knew why, but, +despite the wealth of the English language, having no other alternative +than a bold ‘you.’ + +She relieved his mind as if she had understood his thoughts. + +‘My name is Adrienne Blisset,’ said she. ‘I should like to know yours, +if you will tell it me?’ + +‘Myles Heywood.’ + +‘I like it--it is so English, so Lancashire.’ + +‘It’s not like yours, then,’ said he. ‘It sounds foreign.’ + +‘Adrienne? Yes; that is French for Adriana; but I pronounce it in the +German way--Adrien-ne. Don’t you see?’ + +‘I never heard such a name--for an English young lady,’ said Myles, +simply. + +‘I am not altogether an Englishwoman. I am half German. I was never in +England till eighteen months ago.’ + +‘Never in England!’ echoed Myles, incredulously. ‘Then you speak +English amazingly well.’ + +Adrienne laughed, and Myles asked, + +‘How do you like England, now that you are in it?’ + +‘I do not know England. I only know Thanshope, and I--cannot say--that +I do like it much--if you will excuse me.’ + +‘Oh, we don’t expect every one to like our town,’ said Myles, +magnanimously. ‘It is a rough sort of a place, I fancy. And I should +not think you would like it either. You are not like most of the ladies +here.’ + +‘No?’ + +‘There isn’t another lady in the place who would come to the +reading-room as you do.’ + +‘Indeed. Why?’ + +‘They are too fine, I suppose,’ said he, contemptuously. + +‘Too fine?’ + +‘Ay. We have a lot of fine ladies here. There’s Mrs. Spenceley, mother +of that fellow who was annoying you this evening; but she’s not so +fine, certainly, poor thing! But there’s her daughter!’ Myles shrugged +his shoulders and turned his eyes to heaven. + +‘Is she very fine?’ + +‘Whenever I see her she is as fine as fine can be; but perhaps she +has some excuse for it, for she is very handsome, and she has a kind +face too; one would wonder how she could be that fellow’s sister. Then +there’s Mrs. Shuttleworth, that has the grand yellow carriage, but she +is better than some of them; and she looks ill, poor thing! so perhaps +her finery only gives her very little comfort.’ + +‘It seems to me that you have an excuse for them all,’ said Miss +Blisset. + +‘Perhaps I have--for all but one--the proudest and the finest of the +whole lot. I’d rather have any of them than her--and that’s Mrs. +Mallory of the Oakenrod.’ + +‘Mrs. Mal----’ began Adrienne quickly, and then stopped abruptly. ‘Do +you know her?’ she added. + +‘I know this much of her, that I work in their factory, and she comes +looking round now and then, behaving as if she thought that I, and the +factories, and the town, and the world in general were made for her +pleasure and service. Oh, she’s a proud, insolent woman, Mrs. Mallory; +all the Mallorys are proud and insolent. It would do them good to be +humbled, and I hope they will be.’ + +‘Oh! how can you be so bitter against them?’ said she, as if shocked. + +‘No, I’m not bitter; but I don’t like to see people like that giving +themselves airs, looking as if the world’s prosperity depended upon +their continuing to favour it by living in it, when any one knows that +if they had their bread to earn they couldn’t do it. I like justice.’ + +‘Justice, and a little generosity with it,’ said she, gently, smiling +in what appeared to Myles a very attractive manner. + +‘We are here in Blake Street,’ said he; ‘which way do we turn?’ + +‘To the right, please. My uncle’s house is at the very end of the +street.’ + +‘The end--it must be lonely,’ observed Myles. + +‘Yes, it is, rather. He lives at Stonegate.’ + +‘Stonegate!’ echoed Myles. ‘I’ve often wondered who lived there, +and never knew. Why, it is part of the Mallorys’ property,’ he said +suddenly. + +‘Yes; I believe it is,’ she replied composedly. ‘My uncle has lived +there for ten years now.’ + +There was a little pause, and then Myles said, + +‘You will excuse me, but I don’t really think it is fit for you to walk +all that long way of an evening, especially now that it gets dark so +soon, and after what has happened to-night.’ + +‘I suppose I shall have to give it up. Luckily I am nearly at the end +of my task. So I shall try to finish it.’ + +‘Your reading?’ he said inquiringly. + +‘Yes. References for my uncle’s book. He is writing a book about Art +and the Development of Civilisation: he is too infirm to go to the +library himself, and I like going there. I have been reading up music +for him all summer.’ + +‘Oh, that’s it!’ said Myles, in a tone which betrayed ingenuously +enough that he had thought often and deeply upon the subject. + +‘Yes, that is it. I must really try to go a few times more, because +those books may not be removed from the library; and then I shall not +need to go any more.’ + +‘But you have not been here long, you said?’ said Myles. + +‘No. Only eighteen months, since my father died abroad, and my uncle +asked me to come and live here with him, else I should have had no +home.’ + +She spoke with a quietness amounting to sadness, and Myles felt sure +that there was sadness in her life, though she spoke so cheerfully. + +‘Were you sorry or glad to come to England?’ he ventured to ask. + +‘Oh, sorry. Every association I had with it was unpleasant; whereas I +had had many pleasures at different times abroad; and it is so cold, +and dull, and _triste_ here.’ + +‘For any one that has no friends----’ he began. + +‘Like me,’ she said. + +‘It must be rather dull. Here is your place, I think.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, pausing with her hand on the latch of the gate. +‘I would ask you to come in, only it would disturb my uncle so much. +But I shall see you again, and another evening I hope you will come +in--will you?’ + +‘You are very kind,’ said Myles, secretly feeling immensely flattered +at the invitation. ‘If it wouldn’t be intruding----’ + +‘Not at all. I should like to know what you think about one or two +things. I know you think, by the books I have seen you reading, and I +have a burning curiosity to know what you think.’ + +Myles suggested that his subjects--work, wages, politics--might not be +very interesting to a young lady. + +‘It depends so much upon the kind of young lady, I think,’ said she, +smiling. ‘Well, good night; I am obliged for your kindness.’ + +With a gracious inclination of her head she was gone--had passed +swiftly up the walk, opened the door, and entered the house. + +Myles stood for some time on the spot where she had left him, staring +at the house. He looked at it well. ‘Stonegate. Blake Street.’ The +whole of Blake Street was part of the Mallorys’ property--Sebastian +Mallory’s property, to gain which he had toiled not, neither had he +spun; but it had come to him, and was his to do as he would with. + +Blake Street was a long street, composed, for about half its length, of +smallish houses, in which lived quiet, steady, proper people. Several +of the door-plates bore the indications of dressmakers; there were two +dentists, a veterinary surgeon, and an undertaker. The rest were quiet, +dull, dingy-looking private residences. + +Beyond a certain point all this changed. Blake Street became a mere +confusion of pasteboard terraces, half-finished houses, single strips +of houses, and general disorder and chaos--a brick and plaster +abomination of desolation. And then came a lonely stretch of street, +quite without houses, with an unfinished footpath on either side, +skirting a waste of what really had been heath, and was now little +else. Some tufts of heather might be found growing there in their +season, and the air that blew over it was sharp and keen. + +Across this common one might see the lights of the town; dim outlines +of factories and churches, and masses of buildings--the tortuous lines +of light creeping up steep streets and lanes, and the indistinct +outlines of the long range of the Blackrigg moors. On the left side of +the road stood one solitary house, in a moderately sized garden--the +Stonegate where Adrienne lived with her uncle. It was an old house +of dark grey stone; square, solidly built, and of moderately large +proportions. It was contemporary with the Oakenrod, and had been built +by some far-back, dead and gone Mallory (they were lords of the manor +of Thanshope) as a dower-house. In the garden the trees were shrivelled +up, the flower-beds were adorned with nothing but a few evergreen +bushes, and the grass was not kept as was the grass in the Oakenrod +garden. + +Behind the house was the lonely-looking waste of heath or common which +was out of Sebastian Mallory’s jurisdiction; and in front a low wall, +with a wicket-gate in it, bounded the garden. From the wicket to the +door was a flagged walk, raised a little above the grass border on +either side of it. On each side the door two windows; on the second +story five windows. The shutters of the lower windows were closed--the +whole face of the house presented a blank, staring void, till at last +Myles, looking intently upwards, saw a light appear in one of the upper +windows, and a shadow pass the blind. That must be Adrienne’s room. +Then he glanced at the surroundings of the house. + +‘A lonely place enough!’ he decided within himself. ‘I’m glad I came +home with her. If that blackguard had been at the trouble to follow +her! I hope he doesn’t know where she lives: it hardly looks as if he +did, or he wouldn’t have chosen the public library to molest her in. I +don’t believe that if she called out, in this street, any one would +hear her; and if they did, they’re a poor lot--tailors, and women, +and ‘pothecaries: they wouldn’t know a woman’s screaming from a cat’s +miauling.’ + +‘It is a nasty place!’ he muttered again to himself, lingering +unaccountably, reluctant to go. ‘It looks as if there were a blight, or +a curse, or something upon it.’ + +At last he tore himself away, and took his homeward way. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +PHILOSOPHY AND FASCINATION. + + ‘A tenderness shows through her face, + And, like the morning’s glow, + Hints a full day below.’ + + +Myles walked home, not in the ‘kind of dream’ proper for a hero under +the circumstances, but thinking very lucidly and very connectedly +during his pretty long walk, from the end of Blake Street to his house +on the Townfield, chiefly of what had happened that evening. He thought +of Adrienne--of all those summer months of silence, and then of the +sudden, quick acquaintance. + +‘She’s certainly different from other people,’ he said to himself: +and in that matter he was right, if he meant that she was not like +the ordinary Thanshope lady. But the ordinary Thanshope lady had +not been brought up as Adrienne Blisset had been, and Myles did not +know then what patient struggles with sorrow and poverty and adverse +circumstances had made her what she was. At one-and-twenty she had +lived in many lands, and her mind had come in contact with many other +minds, often minds of a far from common order. Very few English girls +in her class have had that experience at that age--nor would those who +wish a girl to be innocent and happy desire such experience for her, if +it had to be paid for with such a heavy guerdon of sorrow and suffering +as Adrienne had paid for hers. + +Myles knew nothing of that, he only saw the difference. He felt a +curiosity about her, blended with some admiration. He admired her +grace, her spirit, her sweet voice, her quick intelligence; and he +thought a great deal about her as he walked home, and wondered if he +should see her again to-morrow--if she would be as gracious as she had +been to-night; he thought of Frederick Spenceley, and classed him in +his mind with ‘Mallory and that lot,’ and was glad, quite revengefully +glad, that he had been able to treat him as he had done, and that was +all. + +Perfectly unexpectant, unconscious, unaware of the web which +circumstances, past, present, and to come, were weaving about his +head, he paced the well-known streets--a son of toil, the descendant +of generations of sons of toil, but with a whole world dormant in him, +or rather nascent--a whole realm of suffering: love, hope, grandeur, +baseness, which this night had first stirred into a premonitory natal +activity. + +Saturday morning came, and work, and the business of life; Saturday +afternoon, and holiday. Myles and Mary walked home together about two +o’clock; and his sister looked at him more than once, as his head and +his eyes turned quickly from one side to the other, so often that at +last she said, + +‘Why, Myles, dost expect to see some one thou knows?’ + +‘Me--no!’ said he, hastily, and with a forced laugh. He had been half +unconsciously looking for Adrienne, but in vain. + +In the evening he repaired to the reading-room as usual. He went +straight to his seat in the window; but she was not there, so he picked +up the _Westminster_, which no one had disturbed since last night, and +resumed the article on the governing classes. + +But he could not, to use his own expression, ‘fasten to it,’ until he +heard the soft opening and closing of the swing-door in the background, +and the faint sound, almost imperceptible, of a girl’s light footfall +and undulating dress, came nearer and nearer. Then, when he looked up, +she was there, looking just the same as usual--which was surprising, +after all his dreamy thoughts about her. + +She bowed to him, with the smile which lent such a charm to her +fair face. For she was fair, Myles decided, as he saw that look of +recognition; and he was right. She was one of those women who are not +anything, neither ugly nor beautiful, until one knows them, and then +they are lovely for ever. + +With the ‘Good evening’ and the smile they exchanged, he felt at rest, +and could turn to his book again, and read, and understand. For not yet +did he know that he had met his fate--good or evil as the case might +be; there was a sweet, momentary pause before there came that fever of +unrest which love must be to such men as he. + +Miss Blisset made her notes, and studied her music with diligence, +until nine o’clock came chiming from the steeple above their heads, +and there rang out after the chimes the music of the tune ‘Life let us +cherish!’ + +Adrienne put her books together, and rose. + +‘Mr. Heywood, I told my uncle about what happened last night, and he +told me to ask you to come and see him this evening. Will you?’ + +‘I shall be very glad to do so,’ said Myles, looking up, pleased and +somewhat surprised. He had thought Miss Blisset’s gratitude to him +natural, under the circumstances, and had quite supposed that she would +treat him with friendliness afterwards; but he had smiled at the idea +of the uncle of whom she spoke troubling himself about him. If he let +the girl take that disagreeable walk to the town-hall every evening, he +was not likely to care much whether she were annoyed or not, so that +his work was done. That was the conclusion Myles had come to; and it +was a conclusion quite in harmony with his character. + +They left the hall together: it was Saturday night, and the streets +were thronged with a rough-spoken, roughly mannered Lancashire crowd, +pushing and talking, and, too many of them, reeling about, with the +absence of ceremony peculiar to them. They soon left the thoroughfare, +and found themselves first in the narrow cross-lane, and then in Blake +Street. + +‘Only one more evening,’ said Adrienne, ‘and then my work will be done; +and I shall not need to come any more.’ + +‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Myles, abruptly. + +‘You like reading,’ said Adrienne. ‘Have you read much?’ + +‘I don’t think I have,’ he owned frankly. + +‘The Thanshope library is not a bad one in its way,’ she remarked. +‘Rather behind the time though, in the matter of science and +philosophy.’ + +‘Well, you see, it’s like the gentlemen who have the managing of it, +I suppose,’ said Myles, apologetically. ‘They are a little behind the +time, too.’ + +‘Fortunately they have been allowed to exercise no control over my +department, the music, since it was all bequeathed by a good and +enlightened man to the town; and all those worthy committee people had +to do, was to accept it gratefully, and find a room to put it in. And +then, too, I don’t think they would know anything about the orthodox +and heterodox in such matters.’ + +‘Is there orthodox and heterodox in music?’ asked Myles. + +‘I should think so! The adherents of the different musical creeds +are given to a “bear and forbearance” equal to that of adherents of +different religious creeds.’ + +Myles laughed a little at this and said, + +‘Then I’m sure ignorance is bliss in that case. We’re somewhat overrun +with parsons in these parts. The women make so much of them that they +seem quite to lose their understanding--what they have of it. But the +vicar--Canon Ponsonby--he is quite different; and he keeps a pretty +tight hand over his parsons. I’ve heard that he shows them their place +sometimes as if they were schoolboys. He ought to have been a prime +minister, ought Canon Ponsonby.’ + +‘Yes, I know him,’ said Adrienne. ‘He and my uncle are great friends. +He is a grand old gentleman.’ + +Here they turned in at the wicket of Stonegate; Adrienne opened +the door, and Myles for the first time--not for the last by any +means--stood within that sad-looking, lonesome old house. + +It was a square, matted hall in which they stood; dimly lighted by a +Japanese lantern, also square, hanging from the roof. On a great oaken +table in the centre, stood a large, beautiful vase of grey-green +Vallouris ware. Over the carved mantelpiece hung an oil-painting--a +fine copy of that beautiful likeness of Goethe--the one with the +dark rings of curling hair, and the magnificent face; that likeness +which always reminds one of the _herrlichen Jüngling_ described by +Bettina as the hero of a certain skating scene, when he stole his +mother’s cloak--_der Kälte wegen_. Opposite to this picture stood, on a +pedestal, a bust of Orfila. These were the only ornaments in the place: +every other available corner was filled with book-shelves loaded with +books. A dome-light gave light by day to this hall. + +‘This way,’ said Adrienne, opening a door to the left, and Myles +followed her into the room. This room too was lighted with lamps and +candles. There was a table in the centre--a writing-table in one of +the windows, piled with books, and papers, and manuscripts. In an +easy-chair, beside this writing-table, reading, was a man--presumably +the ‘uncle’ of whom Adrienne had so often spoken. + +‘Uncle’ said she, going up to him, and touching his arm, ‘here is Mr. +Heywood, of whom I spoke to you.’ + +He looked up, and Myles beheld a strange, long, pale face, with hollow +eyes, and a large and, as it seemed to him, an expressionless mouth. It +was a deathlike face; its expression neutral to impassiveness. + +‘Mr. Heywood--oh, I am glad to see you. Take a seat.’ + +Somewhat chilled by this unenthusiastic greeting Myles complied without +a word, feeling remarkably small and insignificant, while Adrienne +produced her papers, sat down at the desk, and began to arrange them. +Mr. Blisset turned towards her, but did not move his chair. He merely +observed to Myles, + +‘You will excuse us a moment, Mr. Heywood,’ and then gave his attention +to the remarks which his niece, in a low tone, made to him. It was with +a kind of shock that Myles soon perceived the man’s lower limbs must +be paralysed. That was what Adrienne meant when she spoke of his being +unable to come to the library. That was why he was so shy and reserved, +that he must be prepared for the visit of a stranger. Myles understood +it all now, and, from his experience of Edmund, knew what it meant, +only that this was far worse, far more of a living death than that in +which Edmund lived. + +The writing and reporting over, Adrienne left the room. Myles and the +strange-looking, corpse-like man were left alone; and now Mr. Blisset +turned to him and said, still in the same cold, measured voice, + +‘You rendered a very kind service to my niece last night, and I am much +obliged to you.’ + +‘Pray don’t mention it. No one could have sat still and seen a young +lady annoyed by a fellow like Frederick Spenceley.’ + +‘Spenceley--surely I have heard the name!’ + +‘Very likely. His father is the richest man in Thanshope.’ + +‘Oh--ah! Naturally I have heard of him then. So that was the name of +the individual who insulted her?’ + +‘That is his name,’ said Myles, concisely, ‘and it’s another name for a +cad and a blackguard.’ + +‘Oh, is it? You know something about him?’ + +‘There are few people in Thanshope who don’t. He is a born +ruffian--Spenceley. Some day the ruffianism will come out through the +veneering, and, once out, it will never be polished over again.’ + +Mr. Blisset assented half-inquiringly, surveying Myles all the time +from his impassive eyes, and then he said, + +‘I am sorry my niece should have to go to the reading-room. She tells +me that one evening more will finish what she has to do, otherwise I +should not permit it. But I should think you have frightened the fellow +away for a time?’ + +‘Oh yes! He won’t trouble her again,’ said Myles, with contemptuous +indifference, forgetting that beaten-off insects, with or without +stings, have a habit of returning with blundering persistency to the +attack. ‘But couldn’t she go in the daytime?’ he asked suddenly. + +Mr. Blisset shrugged his shoulders. + +‘There is so much work to be done in the daytime,’ said +he--‘correspondence, and reading, and manuscript to copy. But I spare +her as much as I can. I never ask or wish her to work after she returns +in the evening. The rest of her time is her own.’ + +‘I should hope so!--from nine o’clock!’ thought Myles, a little +surprised. ‘She must be ready to go to bed at ten, after such a day as +that. I wonder at what time it begins. Why, I am better off than that.’ + +‘The rest of her time is her own,’ repeated Mr. Blisset, as if he clung +to that concession with fondness and pride, feeling that it made up for +all other privations which her day’s work might entail--which indeed +was the case. His infirmity--his long confinement to one house and one +spot--the absorbed concentration of his faculties upon one work--a +work which he was determined should burst upon the world, and make him +illustrious--all this, and above all, Adrienne’s own devotion to him +and his pursuits, since she had come to live with him, had fostered his +natural egotism; till now he verily believed that his yoke was easy +and his burden light to the young creature who bore it, and that that +hour ‘after she came in’ was an elastic period, in which any amount of +private work and reading could be done, and pleasure enjoyed. + +Yet he was not a hard-hearted man, and if Adrienne had been by any +cause removed from him, it would have been her gentle presence and the +charm of her company that he would have lamented--not the loss of her +services in reading, writing, and research. + +His intense and almost forbidding coldness of manner was soon +understood by Myles, who discovered before long that it arose chiefly +from physical weakness and languor--not from any want of interest in +the questions of the day, or in the men and things about him. + +‘You are writing a great book, sir?’ inquired Myles, by way of +something to say. + +‘A book,’ corrected Mr. Blisset--a slight but ineffable smile playing +upon the marble of his face. ‘Let no men and no generation call any of +their own achievements--whether in literature or legislation--great. +That is for posterity to decide.’ + +(‘Humph!’ thought Myles. ‘That implies that posterity will take some +notice of it, in which case--but the reflections opened up were too +large to be fully followed out then.) + +‘One branch of knowledge, and one alone, can produce works which at the +very time of their appearance may be safely pronounced great--and that +is science, of course,’ resumed Mr. Blisset half-closing his eyes. + +‘Then yours is not a scientific work,’ said Myles politely. + +‘It is chiefly historical and speculative, but based, I trust, on the +truest and most profoundly scientific principles. It is an inquiry into +the question whether highly advanced civilisation and an art-spirit +living, original, and capable of producing new and great works, can +exist together--whether they are ever likely to go hand in hand.’ + +‘And what do you conclude?’ asked Myles. + +‘I began in hope,’ said Mr. Blisset. ‘But the hope has died away. +Music still remains--a wide, only partially trodden field, but for the +rest----’ he shook his head. ‘Of course it is a gigantic undertaking,’ +he went on, ‘and I have been engaged upon it for twenty years. But I +think when my work is complete, that I shall have pretty well exhausted +the subject.’ + +‘And your readers, too, perhaps,’ thought Myles, unwillingly forced +to wonder whether there were much use in Mr. Blisset’s gigantic +undertaking. + +At this juncture Adrienne came into the room again; and Myles, +beholding her for the first time in indoor dress, was sensible of a +warmer, deeper feeling of admiration than he had hitherto experienced. +There was a nameless foreign charm about her, which worked like a spell +upon him. She held some trifling work in her hand, and coming quietly +in, seated herself, and lent her attention to her uncle as he went on +discoursing in a monotone, which by degrees fascinated Myles, so that +he listened intently, and _nolens volens_. + +It was only afterwards, in thinking it all over, that he remembered +what a sad, dreary life it must be for the young girl, alone with +this stupendous egotist, listening while he discoursed of--himself; +helping him in his great work; writing letters relating to his vast +undertaking; studying hard in order to supply him with facts. That +was all true: but at the moment Myles did not think of it, for Mr. +Blisset spoke upon subjects that the young man had thought about +himself--subjects that made his heart burn--of governments and peoples, +and the lessons which history may teach us. + +And when Myles heard the treasures of learning and research, which Mr. +Blisset had undoubtedly accumulated, brought to bear upon his own view +of the question, and found that the speaker too was one of those whose +watchword is-- + + ‘The people, Lord! the people! + Not crowns and thrones, but _men_!’ + +his admiration speedily grew to enthusiasm, and he sat listening, his +handsome face all flushed with eagerness, and was disposed, before the +evening was over, to rank Mr. Blisset as a demigod. + +Mr. Blisset was pleased, like other philosophers, with the admiration +he excited, and surveyed the young man with a favouring eye. + +‘You must come and see me again,’ said he. ‘It is always a pleasure to +me to know one who has thought and felt upon these subjects. But I have +talked till I feel almost exhausted. Adrienne, my love, suppose you +give us some music.’ + +‘Yes, uncle,’ said she; ‘I like you to talk in that way,’ she added, +touching his forehead with her lips. ‘Then you do yourself justice.’ + +There was a piano in the room, and Adrienne’s playing for her uncle +when the day’s work was quite over--a sort of requiem upon the toil +they had passed through--was as regular a thing as the falling of night +upon the earth. There, in the world of harmony, was her kingdom--there +she ruled; from thence she could sway the hearts of men. + +The harmonies she made for them that evening were calm and grave--a +pathetic _Tema_ of Haydn’s; a solemn _Ciaconna_ of Bach’s; a slow +movement, the ‘singing together of the morning stars,’ of Beethoven’s. + +Mr. Blisset shaded his long pale face with his long pale hand, and +sat, with closed eyes, listening. Myles was listening too, but ear, +with him, was subservient to eye and to thought. His gaze never left +Adrienne, and the longer he looked, the deeper became the charm. +There had slumbered in his mind, throughout these years of toil and +striving, a latent, dormant, ideal of loveliness, purity, and fitness +for worship, and it was as though, when Adrienne’s fingers touched the +keys, that the door of heaven was opened, and a ray, falling upon her +fair head, proclaimed her his soul’s dearest wish. + +With a sigh, promptly repressed, he rose from his dream as she +finished, and took his departure, after Mr. Blisset had made him +promise to come again. + +It was Saturday night, and Myles found the din of the town not yet +hushed. He saw sights which were familiar enough to his eyes, heard +sounds to which his ears were accustomed--drunken men reeling out +of the public-houses which must be closed, brawling songs shouted +hoarsely up and down--all the ugliness of rude, coarse natures taking +their pleasure. He had never in his life found pleasure himself in +such things; but equally, he had grown accustomed to the fact that +others--men with whom he was on good terms--did take pleasure in them. +He thought of the scene he had just left, and there shot a sudden +sense of chill doubt and discomfiture through his frame of musing, +high-strung happiness, a desperate feeling that those whom he saw +about him in the streets now, were his class, his companions; that, +ever since he had begun to hope and think, he had hoped for their +advancement, their good, and he must not be untrue to them. + +‘Pah!’ said he to himself, ‘as if she could ask a man to be false to +what he ought to be true to. She’s like truth itself.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +FINE LADIES AND FOLLY. + + +Monday morning, with the business of this work-a-day world in full +swing, or rather in preparation for the week’s swing of labour. In the +freshness and rawness of a six o’clock morning air, Myles walked with +his sister to his work. He and Mary were accustomed to do all their +private conversation during these walks. They sometimes discussed their +mother and her doings, and the discussion took away from the bitterness +which silence would have left to rankle there. + +To-day Myles was exceedingly silent, but Mary, who knew him and loved +him better than any other soul, felt that the silence was no sign of +dejection. + +The brother and sister separated on arriving at the factory. Mary went +to the weaving shed, and Myles to the warehouse. After breakfast the +same arrangement took place; but the day was not destined to be one of +pleasant memories for Myles. + +In the course of the forenoon he was in the outer office, with Wilson +the overlooker, when the latter, glancing through the window, remarked, + +‘There’s Mrs. Mallory coming. I see her carriage.’ + +Myles made no answer, for the information did not seem to him of any +particular importance; but Wilson went on, in a voice which had grown +by anticipation smooth and respectful, + +‘I expect she wants to see Mr. Sutcliffe, and he’s out. So she’ll have +to put up with me.’ + +With that he stepped up to a square of looking-glass, which he retained +despite all Myles’s gibes and jeers, over the mantelpiece, and smoothed +his hair. + +‘And Myles, lad, as Mrs. Mallory’s coming, and may have business to +speak about, perhaps you’d better----’ + +‘Go?’ said Myles, tranquilly, though the suggestion was highly +irritating to him. ‘That I’m not going to do, old chap. I’ve got these +figures to write down; and here I stay and write them, if fifty Mrs. +Mallorys were coming.’ + +Wilson made no answer. Myles’s position was too near his own for him +to be able to order him out of the office; but, not quite satisfied, +he waited, snatching up bundles of papers and sample cops, shoving an +empty skip aside, and endeavouring to make the rough office look a +little tidier. + +‘What a pity,’ remarked Myles, sarcastically, ‘that you haven’t got a +few evergreens and some paper roses. I’d invest in a few, if I were +you, and keep them in the cupboard, ready for such an occasion as this.’ + +With which he seated himself at the desk in the window, which commanded +a view of the street, and began to write. + +Wilson walked up and down, watching the carriage as it drew nearer, and +Myles felt contemptuous and superior. + +‘She’s got Miss Spenceley in the carriage with her,’ observed Wilson, +reconnoitring over Myles’s head. ‘They go a deal together, those two.’ + +Myles looked up sharply as he heard this. The carriage had stopped; +Wilson had rushed to open the door. Myles saw the open carriage +standing at the gates, and how one lady sat waiting while the other got +out. The face of the waiting lady was turned towards the office. + +‘Miss Spenceley’--the sister of the man who had displayed his +contemptible character to Adrienne Blisset the other night. It was not +likely that Myles should glance at her with very amiable or respectful +feelings. He saw a graceful figure leaning nonchalantly back in the +carriage; he had a general impression of a brilliantly beautiful +brunette face, large dark eyes, an extremely elegant costume, a hat, or +bonnet, with a waving plume, a parasol covered with lace--and that was +all. But he had long sight; he saw none of her brother’s expression on +the girl’s countenance, which was frank and open, as well as beautiful. + +‘I’d bet something they don’t get on well together,’ he thought; and +then he heard a silk dress rustle over the threshold, and a woman’s +voice answering indifferently Wilson’s profuse salutations. Myles could +not help looking up, though he tried not to do so. He had often seen +Mrs. Mallory before; but she had never seen him. Now she was looking +full at him. + +She was a handsome woman, of some forty-six years of age, but looking +younger when one did not notice certain lines about her eyes and +mouth--lines of meanness as well as of pride. She was very richly +dressed in black; there was silk, and lace, and perfume about her. She +was tall, fair, pale, and inclined towards _embonpoint_. She looked +Myles over from head to foot; then, turning to Wilson, said, + +‘Is Mr. Sutcliffe in?’ + +‘I’m very sorry, ’m; he isn’t. He has had to go to Bolton, and won’t be +back till afternoon.’ + +‘Oh!’ said she, pausing as if in thought; and then added, ‘Give me the +papers Mr. Sutcliffe was speaking about the other day; they are sure +to have been left ready. I will take them home with me, and look them +over.’ + +Myles had turned again to his work, and was bending over a page of +figures, wroth with himself that, instead of being able undisturbedly +to add up the figures he had put down, he could not help listening to +Mrs. Mallory’s voice. + +‘Yes, ’m; I’ll find the papers. They’ll be in Mr. Sutcliffe’s room. But +won’t you sit down ’m, while I look for them?’ + +‘No; make haste, please,’ was all she said, a little impatiently; for +Mr. Wilson’s manner was, to put it mildly, fussy; and Myles, feeling +the influence of that tone, despite all his efforts, began to count +half aloud: + +‘Three and five, nine--eight, I mean; and seven fifteen, and----’ + +‘Here they are, ’m. Allow me to make them into a parcel, ’m: it will be +more convenient.’ + +‘No; you can take them to the carriage, and I will look them over when +I have time.’ + +‘Myles, lad, suppose you were to take the papers to the carriage,’ said +Wilson, wishing to appear superior. + +Myles looked up, surprised; he could read the simple, fussy character +of the faithful old cashier to its very depths, and knew his motives +exactly. He had no wish to disoblige him, and, with an amused +half-smile, took the papers and walked to Mrs. Mallory’s carriage. + +The young lady, Miss Spenceley, was looking somewhat impatiently +towards the office. + +‘Oh!’ said she, when she saw Myles, ‘is Mrs. Mallory in there? Has she +nearly finished her business, do you think?’ + +Myles had seen the girl many a time before; she was the beauty and the +heiress, _par excellence_, of Thanshope; the only daughter, as her +brother was the only son, of her parents. The young man, looking at her +more attentively than ever before, could find no trace of likeness, or +his scorn of her relative might have displayed itself in his voice. + +‘I really don’t know,’ said he, in answer to her question. ‘She is +talking to the cashier.’ + +‘Oh, thanks!’ said she, turning abruptly away, and looking impatiently +up the street. + +Myles returned to the office, and as he re-entered it Mrs. Mallory was +saying to Wilson, + +‘Because I expect my son--your master--will be at home again shortly, +and of course he will wish to inquire into everything that is going on.’ + +There was something in the tone in which this was said which rasped +upon Myles’s feelings--a calm superiority which he felt to be extremely +needless. + +‘Then we may expect Mr. Mallory to come and take possession some time +soon?’ Wilson hailed the news as if it were a personal favour. + +‘I expect so. I do not know the exact time; but of course everything +will be ready for him?’ + +‘Will _he_ be ready for everything?’ thought Myles, with strong +contempt; his old spite--it deserves no nobler name--against the +absent, unknown Sebastian Mallory rose angrily to the surface again. +‘Our _master_, indeed!’ he reflected angrily. ‘I wonder if he’s ever +proved himself his own master yet?’ + +Wilson, by an unlucky combination of circumstances, was at this moment +inspired to turn pointedly to Myles and remark: + +‘Now, Myles, do you hear what Madam Mallory says? I told you the master +was coming, and you wouldn’t believe me.’ + +‘It remains to be seen whether “master” is the right word to use,’ said +Myles, with deliberation. ‘In this case I have my doubts about it.’ + +He bent to his book once more, but not before he had seen the stony +stare in the light blue eyes of Mrs. Mallory, and the gaze of haughty +astonishment upon her pale, high-featured face--a stare which seemed to +say, ‘I have seen human nature in many obtrusive and ill-bred aspects, +but never in one which so much required putting into its proper place +as this.’ + +Myles smiled rather grimly to himself; he hated to exchange such +civilities with any one, most of all with a woman, but his spirit could +ill brook the unquestionably haughty and supercilious manner of Mrs. +Mallory, and the profuse mouthing of the word ‘master’ by Wilson’s +complaisant lips. Myles had, up to now, utterly refused to call any man +master, and he was not going to begin it in the case of a man whom he +had never seen; and to whom local report gave anything but a decided or +master-like character. + +‘There’s no call for you to be so rude,’ said the cashier, shocked and +reproachful. + +Myles turned to him. + +‘Will you understand,’ said he, with lips that had grown tight, ‘that a +man can’t both do arithmetic and talk?’ + +‘Who _is_ the young man?’ inquired Mrs. Mallory of the discomfited +Wilson. + +‘You must excuse him, ’m. He’s one of the foremen: he knows no better.’ + +Myles made no sort of comment upon this apology, content that they +should say what they liked about it, so long as they did not require +him to acknowledge an unknown ‘master.’ + +Mrs. Mallory, after another and a prolonged stare of the said +haughty astonishment, which stare wasted itself upon the back of the +delinquent, swept away, leaving Myles with his lips twisted into a fine +sneer--an expression to which they were wont too readily to bend. + + * * * * * + +Myles’s temper had assuredly not been improved by the occurrences of +the morning. It was destined to be yet more severely tried before his +return to work in the afternoon. + +On leaving the factory he parted from Mary, as he had an errand in +the town, and told her he would be home in half an hour for dinner. +He did his errand, and took his way home. And as he arrived at his +own gate there came out from it a man whom Myles recognised as a +person to whom he bore no friendly feelings. He was named James +Hoyle, and was by trade a small shopkeeper, in the stationery and +evangelical-religious-book line: occasionally he acted as a preacher +of a denunciatory and inflammatory description; always he was a +missionary--so, at least, he said. + +To him and to his style of preaching and piety Myles had a most +thorough dislike; he believed him to be a hypocrite, and in this case +his dislike was well grounded enough, and founded on facts. + +‘Good morning, Myles. The Lord bless you!’ observed Mr. Hoyle, holding +out a dingy, fat hand. No lowest scum of the Levites, of whatever +section, whatever persuasion, could have looked, thought Myles, +sleeker, or more as if his sleekness were an ill-gotten gain. + +Out of tune as Myles was with all the world, this apparition and his +tone of familiarity was not of a kind likely to restore harmony to the +jarring notes of his life’s music. Drawing up his proud figure to its +utmost height, and looking with his contemptuous eyes down upon the +pudgy individual who addressed him, he said, + +‘Good morning. I’ll thank you not to make so free with my name. Who +gave you leave to call me “Myles”?’ + +He ignored the outstretched hand, having an objection to touching what +he considered to be both literally and metaphorically dirty fingers. + +Hoyle looked up at him, and his eyes twinkled. + +‘I’ve been taking spiritual counsel with your mother, my dear young +friend. A sweet, precious soul! It is a privilege to converse with her; +she teaches one so much.’ + +‘Does she? It’s a pity but she could teach you to be sober and honest,’ +said Myles, with distinct enunciation and scornful mien, holding +himself somewhat aloof from Mr. Hoyle. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘until +you’ve managed it--the soberness and honesty, I mean (you needn’t look +as if you didn’t know. I saw where you came out of at eleven o’clock +on Saturday night)--till then, you’ll please give this house a clear +berth, and my mother may take her spiritual counsel--if she wants +it--with a different sort of person from you.’ + +He was about to turn in at the gate, but, with his hand on the latch, +was arrested by an expression on the face of the other. + +‘The day will come, young man, when you will wish you had treated +me--me, of all people--with more respect,’ said he with a smile, for he +had a flexible face, which appeared to lend itself even more easily to +smiles than to other expressions. Yet the smile was an evil one. + +He turned and walked away, and Myles, in some annoyance, went into the +house. Usually Mrs. Heywood had the field to herself in the exercise +of her tongue. Edmund occasionally indulged in a burst of temper, but +always to his own disadvantage. Mary never answered at all. Myles +alone, as has been before said, could, with a certain look and tone, +show himself master of the fretful, repining embodiment of scolding +and selfishness whom they had the misfortune to call mother. To-day he +was in no mood to ‘stand nonsense,’ and as he went into the kitchen +he said, hanging up his cap, and taking Edmund’s hand, as he seated +himself beside him, + +‘What does yon James Hoyle want always hanging about here? The chap is +never out of the place, and I can’t abide him. If he doesn’t give us a +little more of his room and less of his company I must speak to him. +Mary, lass, I hope thou’rt not got agate of meeting-going.’ + +He spoke with perfect good-nature and good temper, not suspecting +anything but that all the rest of the company were equally averse with +himself to Mr. Hoyle’s visits, and he smiled a little as he looked at +Mary. + +‘Me!’ said his sister, laughing. ‘Nay, I’m not come to that. As long as +I live I’st go to th’ parish church every Sunday, and sit in th’ old +place----’ + +‘Alongside o’ Harry Ashworth,’ put in Edmund, gravely, at which Mary’s +cheeks flushed, and she went on somewhat more rapidly. + +‘For I make nowt at o’ out o’ the meetin’-house.’ + +‘Perhaps you’ll end by leaving th’ owd place for an older, and going +clean over to Rome,’ said Mrs. Heywood, who had been bending over the +fire, looking at a pan of potatoes, and who now raised rather a flushed +face from that occupation; ‘choose how, there’st nowt be said here +against James Hoyle, the godly man! and it’s more than likely that +you’ll see more of him than you have done yet.’ + +‘How do you mean?’ asked her eldest son, turning towards her; ‘you mean +that Jimmy Hoyle would come here a second time after I’d forbidden him +the house?’ + +He laughed, as if he thought it rather a good joke. + +‘You’d turn him out of the house? That’s like you!’ said Mrs. Heywood, +emptying the potatoes into a tureen. + +‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Myles, in some +surprise at her whole demeanour. + +‘Well, you’ll get to know, then,’ she retorted, without meeting his +eye. ‘A good man is like the salt of the earth. He can make even a +sinful house holy, and bring a blessing on it. James Hoyle and me is +going to be married. We’st be wed this day three week, and then I’d +like to know how you’ll forbid him the house.’ + +There was a momentary silence, during which Myles, who had risen, +stared at his mother in an incredulous manner. Mary, after a moment, +turned pale, and sat down upon a chair in the background. Edmund’s lips +were curled into a sneer. + +‘Mother!’ said Myles, confronting her, and somewhat forcing her eyes to +meet his. ‘Is this a joke that you’re playing upon us? Because, if so, +it’s a very poor one.’ + +‘Joke!’ she retorted, her voice rising to shrillness. ‘What should it +be a joke for, I’d like to know? Have I such comfort in my children +that I shouldn’t be glad of the help of a godly man--oh, and he is a +godly man--like that?’ + +‘That’s a poor answer, mother,’ said Myles, who had thrust his hand +into his breast, as if to repress some anger or emotion. ‘Your children +have never done anything to cause you uneasiness.’ + +‘Do go on blowing your own trumpet!’ Mrs. Heywood exhorted him. + +‘Nay, I’ve no more to say about it. But I want a better answer than +that your children’s conduct drove you to marry that great, idle, +greasy, sanctimonious, all-praying, no-doing brute--he isn’t a man. I +can understand him wanting to marry you, you’ve thirty pounds a year +of your own: but that you should look at him!’ He made an expressive +gesture of contempt. + +‘So it’s my money he’s marrying me for,’ said Mrs. Heywood; and no +girl of eighteen could have spoken with more anger at the suggestion. +‘That’s it, is it? Ay, ay! “Honour thy father and thy mother”--do!’ + +‘Are you giving us an example of honouring our father?’ he inquired, +growing quieter in tone as his anger and disgust grew more intense, +and her determination (he saw) more fixed. ‘Or is your present plan +likely to lead us to honour you? No, mother; I can’t see what a woman +like you wants with marrying again; though if it had been a decent man, +let him be never so rough, I’d have put up with him, but that--why, +I saw him on Saturday night coming out of the lowest public-house in +Thanshope--half-drunk--as plain as I see you. But here’s the long and +short of it. That man certainly never enters this house again. I’ll let +him know that. And if you do marry him, he’ll please to find a home for +you; for neither he nor you will share ours. Mark my words--if you go +to him you leave us for ever.’ + +‘Mother, thou’ll ne’er be so wicked,’ said Mary, from her corner, in +tears. + +‘Hold thy tongue, thou hussy! calling thy mother wicked,’ said Mrs. +Heywood, sharply. + +‘I’ll not have Molly called by that name,’ said Myles, composedly. +‘Remember, it’s I that am master here, when all’s said and done. I’ll +have no such nonsense carried on. So let us hear--do you intend to be a +wise woman or a fool?’ + +The words were not at all rudely spoken, but they were unfortunately +chosen. They incensed Mrs. Heywood, and she replied sharply, + +‘I intend to marry James Hoyle.’ + +‘Then,’ said he, slowly, as if giving her an opportunity to recant, +‘it’s settled that I intend to have no more to do with you.’ + +‘Oh, Myles, don’t be so hard on her!’ implored Mary, coming forward and +laying her hand upon his arm. + +‘My good lass,’ said he, ‘dry thy eyes, and be glad thou’rt not called +upon to be hard, as thou calls it.’ + +Mary did not expostulate. Under the gentleness of the words she read a +decision which she did not attempt to combat. + +‘Mary’s our good angel,’ remarked Edmund from the couch; and his eyes, +too, fell upon her with affection. + +‘A nice angel you’ll find her when I’m gone,’ grumbled Mrs. Heywood. + +‘Once more,’ broke in Myles’s voice, ‘I tell you, mother, I have spoken +to you for the last time, unless I hear that this abominable thing is +given up--for the last time.’ + +‘Myles!’ implored his sister. But she might as well have tried to move +one of the great boulders on Blackrigg as make him soften or yield one +jot. + +‘Come, lass!’ he observed to her. ‘Those that must work must eat. The +time’s gone by in this precious palaver, and we’ve only twenty minutes +left.’ + +He sat down and helped himself, and tried to look as if nothing had +happened; soon, however, he laid down his knife and fork, and told +Mary, who had not even pretended to eat, that it was time to go. + +She put her shawl over her head, and, saying good afternoon to Edmund, +they went out. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +SANS FAÇON. + + +Six o’clock was the time at which the work-people ‘knocked off.’ Myles +and Mary had not spoken as they went to their work, and of course not +during the afternoon; and it was only as they were coming home again +that they first named the subject which at that moment lay nearest +their hearts. Mary was all for mildness and temperate measures. + +‘I think, Myles, that if we was to be kind to her, and talk to her, +hoo’d likely give it up,’ said the girl, in her soft, broad, Lancashire +dialect. + +‘Not she, Molly. She’s no intention of giving it up.’ + +‘I never could abide yon Hoyle,’ went on Mary. ‘A false, sneakin’ +fellow, he always seemed to me. I reckon he’s after mother’s bit o’ +brass; but how hoo can gi’ so mich as a thought to him--nay, it fair +passes me!’ + +‘Ay! you may well blush! I don’t wonder!’ said Myles, grimly. ‘It looks +as if some people’s minds were fair crooked, or set up on edge, or +upside down, or something.’ + +They went into the house, and found Edmund alone. + +‘She’s not coming back,’ said he, by way of salutation. ‘She’s gone to +some of his relations. She says she’s lived through a deal o’ trouble, +and has found out at last what it was to be turned out of doors by her +own children.’ + +Neither Mary nor Myles made any answer to this announcement. Mary got +tea ready, and they sat down. It was a silent painful meal. Myles rose +from it with a sense of relief, and taking Edmund’s book to change, +said he was going down to the reading-room. + +‘Would thou mind calling at th’ saddler’s in Bold Street for yon strap +o’ mine?’ said Mary. + +‘What strap, Molly?’ + +‘It’s a girder as I took to have a new un made like it. He’ll give you +both th’ old and th’ new un. I could like to have it to take wi’ me +to-morn. I’ve been using Sally Rogers’; but hoo’s comin’ back again +to-morn, and hoo’ll want it hoo’rsel.’ + +‘Ay, I’ll get it,’ said Myles, putting on his cap and going out. + +He made a little détour from his usual route, in order to go to +the saddler’s on his errand for Mary. Bold Street was one of the +principal streets of Thanshope, and close to the very shop to which +Myles was going was a place known to the vulgar as ‘th’ Club.’ This +was a billiard and whist club, frequented by the golden youth of the +promising town of Thanshope. + +It was a spot not exactly loved of the mammas of the said town, and +much discussed by the young ladies of the same. Much iniquity was +vaguely supposed to be perpetrated there: some of the piously disposed +spoke of it as a ‘den’; others, who knew nothing, and wished to appear +as if they knew a great deal, said it was ‘as bad as the worst of +London clubs,’ which remark may serve as a specimen of the mighty +self-consciousness of little provincial towns--and ‘den’ is a word +which has about it a fine abstract flavour of awfulness. + +It is probable that, as a matter of fact, much bad whist was played +there; billiard balls were knocked up and down, and bets made; too much +spirits were probably consumed; as many dull, coarse, or vulgar tales +were told, as much aimless scandal was talked, as many praise-worthy +efforts were made to ape the manners and tone of metropolitan clubs, as +in most provincial institutions of a similar kind. + +Myles went to the saddler’s, which was next door to this temple +of hilarity, fashion, and fastness; got the straps which Mary had +spoken of, and then came out to take his way to the town-hall. As he +passed the portico of the club, he saw just within it a back which he +remembered, clothed in broadcloth. Beside this figure was another, +that of a mere lad, with a babyish face and no chin to speak of, who +would have been better in the cricket-field, or even grinding at his +Latin grammar. On his small-featured insignificant face was stamped an +expression of foolish glee and admiration. + +The first individual was speaking; Myles, strolling leisurely past, +heard the words, in the loud, strident voice: + +‘Such a chase, my boy! but I succeeded. I found out where she lives, +and waylaid her; gave her my protection whether she liked it or not. +Unless I’m much mistaken, we shall soon be very good friends. She’s a +deep one--those little demure things always are. Ha, ha!’ + +‘I say, Spenceley----’ + +‘Doosid pretty, though. D--d good eyes she has, and knows how to use +them. Look here! do you want your revenge for Saturday night?’ + +‘Oh yes! Come along!’ + +They walked forward to the interior of the hall, and were lost to view. + +Never before had Myles felt the singular sensation which just then +clutched him--a kind of tingling, half of rage, half of shame, from +head to foot--a tempest of his whole mental being. He was in a white +heat of fury, and only two ideas were distinct in his mind: to find +Adrienne, and to punish her insulter. + +Almost unknowing how, he hurried to the town-hall, up the stairs, +through the library, into the reading-room. Would she be there? Yes, +she was there, in her usual place. He strode towards her. She was not +even pretending to read or write. She was pale as ashes, and trembling, +as he saw in his approach. + +‘Miss Blisset!’ he almost whispered, as he went up to her, and bent +over her, his face dark with suppressed indignation, his eyes aflame. +If she too had not been moved out of all conventional calm, she must +have started at the expression which flashed from his face upon hers. + +‘Oh, Mr. Heywood, will you be so very good as to go home with me now, +at once? I have been so frightened and--insulted.’ + +Her voice broke, though her eyes flashed. How proud a front soever +she might have showed to her insulter, the reaction had set in: the +remembrance was not to be borne unmoved. + +‘I know you have,’ said he in a low emphatic voice; and a tremor +shook him too as he looked at her and saw how beautiful she was. He +had admired her as she sat in repose, but now every fibre of his +nature bowed to her, and he felt a passionate desire to do something, +anything, which should set him apart in her eyes from others. Yet +after his first swift glance, he scarcely looked at her, and said very +little. Words appeared weak and trivial--he could not express in them +his detestation of the conduct of that other man, or how profoundly he +reverenced her. + +‘How was it?’ he asked, speaking composedly, but clenching his hands, +and crushing together what he held in them. + +‘It was that man,’ said she, in a low breathless voice, ‘that hideous +man. I don’t know where he saw me. I think he must have followed me, +but when I got to that little lane, he suddenly overtook me, and spoke +to me. I could not turn back. It would have been much farther--and so +lonely. I did not answer him; I went on very fast, but he detained +me so long in that lane--he would not let me pass. I thought I +should--bah! I thought, when we got into the town, that he would have +left me, but he did not. He came to the very door of this place, and I +dare not go out for fear he should be there yet. Oh, I am so glad to +see you! I thought you were never coming.’ + +She had leaned her head upon her hand, or she must have seen the light +that flashed suddenly into his eyes--not the light that had been there +at first. He drew a long breath, but succeeded in not betraying for a +second his emotion, as she turned, pale and quivering with excitement, +and put her two little slender hands upon his, saying earnestly, + +‘You have been very kind to me. What should I have done if you had not +helped me?’ + +‘It has been a pleasure to serve you,’ he said constrainedly. ‘Do you +feel fit to walk home now?’ + +‘Oh, quite!’ she answered, picking up her note-book; and they went away +together. + +Myles walked with her to the gate of her uncle’s house, and said, as +they paused there, + +‘Of course you will never come again, Miss Blisset?’ + +‘Never. Of course not.’ + +‘Then--then--’ he faltered, unable to say what he wished. + +‘But I shall see you again, of course,’ said Adrienne, quickly. ‘You +will come again. My uncle wishes you to come again. And you will--yes?’ + +‘You are sure it wouldn’t be an intrusion?’ said Myles, doubtfully. + +‘Very far from an intrusion,’ she answered. ‘You will be welcome--and +you will be expected until you come.’ + +With which, and with a warm hand-shake she disappeared. + +Myles did not pause to-night to contemplate the street, or to look +out for the light in the window. He took the shortest and straightest +course into the town again, went direct to Bold Street, and stopped +before the club. + +There was a light in the vestibule of that building, and a waiter stood +at the door surveying the passers by, and feeling no doubt that he +looked negatively fascinating. + +‘Is Mr. Frederick Spenceley here?’ inquired Myles, quietly and politely. + +‘Mr. Frederick Spenceley?’ repeated the waiter, while an expression of +ill-humour crossed his face. ‘I rather think he is, and in a deuce of a +temper too. If Mr. Frederick Spenceley keeps on coming here, I shan’t +stay. Well, do you want to see him?’ + +‘I should like just to speak to him,’ said Myles, ever calmly and +politely; his one object being to penetrate to Mr. Spenceley’s +presence, content to pocket his burning fury until he was face to face +with him. + +Mr. Spenceley evidently enjoyed little favour in the eyes of the +waiter, or the latter would hardly have allowed a working-man to +penetrate into that _sanctum sanctorum_, the billiard-room. As it was, +he said, + +‘Well, if you go straight ahead upstairs, you’ll find him in the +billiard-room, I expect. But perhaps you want to see him down here?’ + +‘Oh no! I can go to him. Upstairs, you say?’ + +The waiter nodded; and Myles obeying his direction, found himself on +the first landing, opposite a door inscribed ‘Billiards.’ + +He knocked, but no reply was given, which was accounted for by the loud +and overpowering voice of Frederick Spenceley, whose accents drowned +all other sounds. + +Myles opened the door, and walked into the room, which was like most +other billiard-rooms: four green-shaded lights above the table; the +marker, standing in his place, looking sulky--he too having received +his share of the compliments of Mr. Spenceley that evening. + +(It was a significant fact, that not one of Frederick Spenceley’s +inferiors would have felt anything but pleasure in his degradation or +humiliation.) + +There was Charlie Saunders, the insignificant-looking boy whose pretty +pink-and-white face was now a good deal flushed, and who laughed +foolishly now and then in high-pitched voice. Opposite, with his burly +back towards the door, was Frederick Spenceley, shouting very loudly, +and freely expressing his opinion that the cloth was a confounded bad +one, and that the table was not level. + +‘It’s your eye that’s not level, Freddy, my boy,’ said his youthful +opponent; ‘and your cue too. Look out what you’re doing.’ + +‘D--n it! it isn’t. Where’s the cha-alk? It’s my beastly luck,’ roared +Spenceley, against whom the balls had broken most unfavourably the +whole evening. + +Had the fellow been in the least intoxicated, Myles would have retired; +but he was merely noisy and ill-tempered, and accordingly the workman +chose that moment to step forward and touch Mr. Spenceley on the +shoulder. + +With a violent start, which contrasted somewhat curiously with his +previous bluster, he turned; and when he saw Myles, his face assumed a +deep hue of anger, and perhaps of some less noble feeling. + +‘I want a word with you,’ said Myles, curtly; and young Saunders paused +to stare at the new-comer, while the marker turned and looked on too. + +Be it observed that neither of these men loved Frederick Spenceley. +A billiard-marker, however, is not always in a position to resent +affronts, and Charlie Saunders was a person of less importance than +Spenceley, whatever might be his private opinion of him. Moreover, the +whole proceeding took them by surprise, or--perhaps they might have +interfered. + +‘If you like to come to another room, where we can be alone,’ pursued +Myles, composedly, ‘lead the way. I don’t care where it is.’ + +‘What the ---- do you want, you ----?’ growled Spenceley, recovering +his pluck, or what he was pleased to consider his pluck. + +‘I think you remember me. I don’t need to introduce myself,’ said +Myles. ‘Now look here! You’ve been behaving like a blackguard +again--perhaps you can’t help that--but, in any case, you’ll be pleased +to take your attentions to some other quarter than that one. You know +what I mean.’ + +‘I’ll be--’ (a volley of the dash dialect)--‘if I do, you fool! Be off, +and don’t annoy gentlemen. Clear out, I say, or I’ll call the waiter, +and have you kicked out.’ + +There was that in Myles’s face, so far removed from brutal violence, +which was conspicuous in every word and gesture of Spenceley, that the +others were quiescent. How he had got there was a mystery to them; but +being there, they were Englishmen enough to wish for fair play, and +had sufficient sense to perceive that the workman was no blackguard, +whatever his interlocutor might be. + +‘You were in Markham’s Lane, to-night,’ went on Myles composedly, +though his face had become white, and his lips were set. + +‘What’s that to you? What business have you to come spying on +gentlemen?’ + +‘If I were you, I wouldn’t say too much about spying. You know what +happened there--in Markham’s Lane I mean. If anything like it happens +again--just once again----’ + +He paused. + +‘Well?’ said Spenceley, with a sneer and a taunt, ‘what will be the +consequences, my fine fellow?’ + +‘They will be unpleasant to you, for I’ll thrash you within an inch of +your life.’ + +‘Ha! ha! _ha_!’ roared Mr. Spenceley, but somehow there was a false +note in the full chord: it failed of rounded complete harmony. + +‘Freddy, what have you been up to?’ cried Charlie Saunders, in amaze; +but he did not ask what the other man had been ‘up to.’ It appeared to +be taken for granted that he had good ground for his complaint. + +‘Look here, you beggar,’ observed Spenceley to Myles; ‘just get out +of this, before you are turned out, and don’t interfere in things you +don’t understand.’ + +‘I go when I have your promise to behave yourself in future--not +before.’ + +‘Wha-at? Promises? I don’t make promises to cads.’ + +‘Then I suppose you’ve never promised yourself what you deserve. I’m +waiting for a promise to me, not a cad, and I’ll stay till I get it.’ + +‘D--n you! will you be off?’ shouted Spenceley, in a sudden passion, as +he saw the cool, scornful face of Myles, and his eyes contemptuously +measuring him from head to foot; and took in with a side-glance the +scarcely concealed smile upon the faces of the others. ‘Will neither of +you fellows ring the bell, and have this fool turned out?’ + +The rules of the club not providing for such an emergency, they took no +notice of what he blustered at them, while Myles replied coolly as ever, + +‘When I’ve got what I want, I’ll be off, as I said.’ + +‘Perhaps you want to keep the little darling to yourself,’ began +Spenceley. + +‘Drop that!’ said Myles, sharply, for the first time losing his perfect +self-command. + +‘Ah, that’s it! We don’t want to be disturbed in our little game. We +are so very industrious and literary in our pursuits----’ + +In clenching his hand, Myles felt something in it which he had +forgotten--the parcel containing Mary’s straps. The paper which +enwrapped them had got loose. One strap had fallen coiling upon the +floor; one remained in his hand. He looked at it, and felt very strong +to wield it. He turned once more to Spenceley, saying, + +‘Do you promise never to speak to, or molest the lady again?’ + +‘Make promises to _you_, about that little jade ...’ began Spenceley, +jeeringly, but he did not finish the sentence. + +Myles’s hand, like an iron vice, was at his throat, and during the +paralysing astonishment and bewilderment of the other two, Frederick +Spenceley received such a thrashing as he had many a time deserved, +but which circumstances had hitherto denied to him. Myles’s hold, +strengthened by a passion which lent him irresistible power, did not +for one moment relax. At last Saunders turned and rang the bell; but +not before the fine broadcloth coat was in ribbons upon its owner’s +back, and the face above it purple and almost suffocating, did Myles +fling him away from him, remarking coolly, + +‘Perhaps that will answer as well as a promise. If ever it’s necessary, +there’s the same thing, and worse, ready for you a second time.’ + +He turned to find the door open, and the waiter staring in, aghast. + +‘Kick him out! Fetch some water!’ cried young Saunders, bending +over the prostrate figure of his friend. ‘Kick him out, I say!’ +he reiterated. He was remarkably small and slender in figure, and +doubtless felt that it would be a mockery to attempt the deed himself. + +Myles turned towards the waiter, who still blocked up the doorway. + +‘Well,’ said he, tranquilly, ‘I am waiting; which are you going to do? +Kick me out--or let me pass?’ + +The billiard-marker had made no attempt to interfere. The insults +received that very evening from Spenceley rankled in his mind; he was +well pleased at the humiliation of the bully. The little waiter looked +up for a moment at the tall, muscular, sinewy young man who towered +above him, with a pale face, and a look of inflexible determination and +power about his eyes and mouth, and a frown of anger, terrible in its +intensity, on his brow. He stood aside silently. Myles turned and said, + +‘If I’m wanted again about this business, my name is Heywood, and I +live on the Townfield. I can easily be found.’ + +No answer was returned: he composedly picked up his second strap, and +walked away. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +AFTER-THOUGHTS. + + +‘What ails thee, Myles?’ asked his sister, as he came into the kitchen. + +‘Me? Nothing, lass. Here’s your straps. The new one has had a kind of +inauguration, but I reckon it will have done it good more likely than +harm.’ + +‘What dost mean?’ she asked, staring at him. + +‘Oh, nothing!’ said he, with a slight laugh, as he leaned against the +mantelpiece with his arms folded behind him, his favourite attitude. + +‘Hast changed my book, Myles?’ inquired Edmund. + +‘Eh, I clean forgot it,’ replied Myles, with a start. ‘I’m very sorry. +Fact is, I was called off, and I never thought of the book again.’ + +‘Well, it doesn’t matter,’ answered Edmund, who was in high good humour +at his mother’s absence. + +Mary also seemed less constrained, though nothing would have induced +her to own that she was glad her mother had left them. She moved about +more freely, and as she passed to and fro, ‘putting things to rights,’ +she was heard to sing snatches of no less a song of praise than the +‘Old Hundredth.’ And when her household work was done (for Myles’s +adventure had not taken long, and it was now barely eight o’clock) she +brought her work, and sat down with her brothers; and though there were +shadows brooding over them all--darker shadows, and deeper, than they +imagined--they formed a very happy trio. + +Mary especially felt happy and contented. She was devoted to her +brothers--loved Edmund with a mother’s and a sister’s love combined, +while she looked upon Myles as her ideal of all that was good and +manly. He had given her no cause to think otherwise. With regard to her +own merits, she was humble; but let any one impeach in the slightest +degree those of Myles or Edmund, and she became fierce, proud, and +resentful. Something in Myles’s mien to-night disturbed her, she knew +not why. + +‘Wilt have thi pipe, lad? It’s theer; I’st get it in a minute.’ + +‘No, thank you, Molly. I don’t care about smoking to-night.’ + +‘Did iver ony one see sich a chap?’ said Mary, secretly filled with +pride in him. ‘He ne’er drinks, and he ne’er hardly smokes, and he +ne’er does nowt disagreeable.’ + +‘He hasn’t a redeeming vice,’ said Myles, ironically, watching her +fingers as she plied her needle, and forcing himself to speak, though +he did it half mechanically. What was she making? he asked. + +‘A shirt.’ + +‘For whom?’ + +‘Why, for thee, lad!’ said Mary, with a laugh and a look at him; and +Myles returned the look with a smile, and instantly became lost in a +long train of reflection. + +Edmund and Mary loved him, and looked up to him as to a superior +being, as the centre figure in their lives, and the person around whom +clustered their hopes, fears, and loves. Beyond them, out of their +circle, was Adrienne Blisset; was it in the nature of things that she +could ever behold him with eyes like theirs? No, never; because she was +instructed, and they were ignorant. Well, was adoration the best thing +for a man? Was it not better to adore? Could there be any shame in the +worship of a woman like Adrienne? He decided, no. It was not the giving +up of independence--it was the bending to a superior being, which, when +that attitude was self-elected, was the highest independence. Here all +was secure, safe, assured. Nothing would ever change the love of these +two for him: outside there, where Adrienne was, all was storm, cloudy, +feverish, uncertain: he knew not what she thought of him--what feelings +or no-feelings her gracious manner might cover. + +He had defended her--from the first moment of their intercourse his +attitude had been made by circumstances a protecting one: he felt at +once an inferiority and a superiority to her, which two things do +surely form part of the primal basis of pure and holy love. He stood +still, leaning against the chimney-piece, thinking of what he had this +night done for her sake, and his face flushed at the remembrance. + +‘Can she ever be like another woman to me?’ he thought. ‘It is +impossible. If it were possible I should be a clod.’ For what he had +done counted for something with Myles: he was not one of those heroes +who will thrash you half a dozen fellows, twice as big as themselves, +and then require to be reminded of such a trifle. + +He was not quite sure, even now, that he felt unmixed satisfaction in +the deed. To thrash a cowardly bully, who seemed unable to express +himself without the assistance of copious volleys of oaths, was one +thing, and Myles contemplated with some complacency the fact that he +had done it. But if any evil consequences should ensue to Adrienne! + +After a moment he reassured himself. He did not believe that Spenceley +knew her name. He had not mentioned it. Myles would have died rather +than utter it himself in that company--that would indeed have been a +casting of pearls before swine, of which he was naturally incapable. + +If Mr. Spenceley chose to prosecute him he would own himself guilty, +and take his punishment--anything rather than drag her name into the +discussion; but he doubted much whether Spenceley would wish to draw +public attention so pointedly to the fact that he had been flogged by a +workman in the billiard-room of his own club. That would have been to +expose his own brutal insolence and violence, and to hint, moreover, at +some discreditable deed in the background which had called forth the +attack. Myles began to wonder how that beautiful sister of his, whom he +had spoken to that morning--could it be that morning?--would receive +her brother. Then his thoughts wandered off again to Adrienne. + +‘At any rate, I can’t face her yet. I must stay quiet awhile until +it has blown over. Perhaps, as she’s so very quiet, and goes out so +little, she’ll not hear about it; and then I could call, and not +mention it, and it would all pass over.’ + +A knock at the back door roused him. + +Mary lifted her head, and cried ‘Come in!’ but after a pause the knock +was renewed. + +‘It’s Harry,’ observed Edmund. ‘Thou mun open to him, Myles, or he’ll +go on knocking for half an hour.’ + +‘Ay, poor lad, I suppose he will,’ said Myles, going towards the door, +while Mary maintained absolute silence, continuing her work. + +Myles soon returned, accompanied by a young man, slight and somewhat +delicate-looking, pale-faced and fair-complexioned, whose calm, open +countenance was pleasant to look upon, despite a certain vagueness in +its expression--not a want of intelligence, or anything approaching +vacancy, but rather as if something escaped him and left him apart from +other people. + +‘Good evenin’, Mary--evenin’, Ned,’ he said, in the very softest and +gentlest of voices. + +‘Sit down, Harry, and have supper with us,’ said Myles; and when he +spoke, Harry Ashworth’s infirmity became apparent. + +Myles had to go close up to him and speak, not very loudly, but very +slowly and clearly. He was almost deaf, in consequence of a fever he +had had when a boy of twelve. He was twenty-five now, and the weakness +increased each year: it was probable that in a few more years he would +be stone-deaf. He was a frequent visitor at the Heywoods’, and a great +friend of Myles and Edmund; Mary and he had little to say to each other +beyond the words of greeting and farewell. + +There was a certain constraint this evening immediately after his +entrance, on account of what had happened in regard to Mrs. Heywood, +but this constraint was dissipated by Harry himself. + +‘I hear your mother has gone,’ he remarked. + +Myles assented in a grave sort of way. + +Mary’s cheeks flushed, and she did not raise her eyes from her work. + +‘She thinks of being married soon, then?’ + +‘I expect so,’ said Myles. + +‘Ah,’ said Harry; and then, without any embarrassment, changed the +subject. + +‘We may expect changes soon, Myles, I reckon.’ + +‘What changes?’ asked Myles, who had come close to Harry, while the +latter had placed his chair beside Edmund’s sofa. + +‘The master’s coming back--so I hear.’ + +‘Oh, him!’ said Myles, again trying to turn up his nose, and again +failing to do so. + +Harry laughed, and Mary remarked, + +‘Eh, but I could like to seen yon chap. He mun be some and clever.’ + +‘Molly thinks he must be clever,’ said Myles to Harry, who nodded. + +‘I don’t see why he shouldn’t be, choose how. I think you’re a bit hard +on him, Myles. We know no harm on him.’ + +‘Yes, we do. We know he’s neglected his business and his property. He’s +six-and-twenty if he’s a day, and he’s never looked in upon us since he +came into possession. He’s a gawmless chap--he must be.’ + +‘Well, we’st see that when he comes. Have you heard as Mr. Lippincott, +his health’s failin’, and he’s ordered abroad? They say he can’t live.’ + +Mr. Lippincott was the sitting member for Thanshope. + +‘Nay, I heard nothing of that,’ said Myles, reflectively. ‘Then, +suppose he dies, we shall have a fresh election.’ + +‘Ay; and I have heard,’ pursued Harry, not without a twinkle of humour +in his eyes, ‘as it’s possible Mr. Mallory may stand, if Mr. Lippincott +resigns or dies.’ + +‘What!’ ejaculated Myles. ‘And who is to oppose him?’ + +‘Spenceley--Bargaining Jack.’ + +‘Why, Myles, thou’d be hard set to know who to vote for,’ said Mary, +innocently. + +Myles suddenly recovered his presence of mind, and shouted to Harry, + +‘You’ve heard wrong, lad. Mallorys are all Tories, and always have +been--it’s bred in the bone; and Bargaining Jack reckons to be a +Conservative too, so far as he’s anything. Conservatives manage better +than us. They would never run two candidates in Thanshope--in fact, +they only run one for the look of the thing. They can’t get the wedge +in here.’ + +‘Well, I have heard too,’ continued Harry, ‘as how Mallory is a +Radical--a Liberal, choose how.’ + +‘That I’ll never believe till I hear him say it himself,’ said Myles, +decidedly. ‘And from all I’ve heard, I think you’ve been misinformed, +Harry.’ + +‘Well, perhaps I have,’ said Harry, peaceably. ‘It doesn’t matter to me +which way it is.’ + +Nor did the others appear to take much interest in the subject, for it +dropped, and Mary began to get supper ready. + +At that meal the conversation was carried on almost entirely between +Harry and Myles. Harry was a spinner, in receipt of a large wage. He +was, as has been said, a pleasant, comely-looking young man, and if not +very robust, did not look unhealthy. Many of his friends wondered why +he did not marry; for he was turned twenty-five. He and Myles and Mary +Heywood were beginning to be looked upon as drifting into the old maid +and bachelor ranks. + +At all times, early--terribly early--marriages are the rule in +Lancashire; but in those halcyon years of plenty and golden prosperity +preceding the American Civil War, they had been more numerous than ever. + +After supper Edmund, stretching out his arms, said in a muffled kind of +voice, + +‘Eh, I say, it is some and hot here. I wonder what it’s like outside.’ + +‘Why, the air’s pleasant enough on the Townfield,’ said Harry. + +‘I could like to feel it,’ remarked Edmund. ‘I’ve not been out these +three days.’ + +‘Well, come along and take a turn,’ said Myles, good-naturedly, well +knowing that Edmund’s motive for suggesting such a thing at that time +was that the dusk was rapidly gathering: there were fewer people about, +and he was less likely to be observed. + +Edmund jumped at the offer, and Myles, giving him his cap, and taking +his own, drew his brother’s arm through his, shouting to Harry, + +‘Wilt come with us, or wilt stay with Molly?’ + +‘I’st stay and have a pipe till you come in, if Mary’s no objection,’ +said Harry; and Mary, by way of answer, pointed to a china basket on +the mantelpiece, in which stood half a dozen neatly made ‘spills.’ + +These spills were a mystery to the household. Mary gave it out that +she liked to have them. They looked tidy like, and did for lighting +the pipes; but it was a well-known fact that Edmund did not smoke at +all, that Myles preferred to light his pipe with a coal or a match, +and that the only visitor who enjoyed the privilege of smoking in +that kitchen was Harry Ashworth. Yet no one ever suggested that the +lighters were kept in stock for Harry’s benefit, though Edmund had +been perilously near doing so once or twice. Had he or any one else +uttered that theory, it is impossible to imagine what Mary would have +said--possibly nothing at all, for she was, in practice at least, a +strong upholder of the theory that ‘silence is golden.’ + +The two brothers went out, leaving the door open, and a waft of the +somewhat cooler outside air penetrated to the kitchen. The gas was +not lighted; the fire had burnt low; the room was almost dark. Mary +could no longer see to work, and sat, with her head thrown a little +backwards, in the high-backed, red-cushioned rocking-chair. The clock +ticked: everything was very still. It was Harry who spoke first, in his +soft voice. + +‘Warm and close, this here weather, Mary.’ + +‘Ay,’ said Mary, ‘’tis.’ + +‘How does Ned get on?’ he asked; for though she did not speak very +loudly, she spoke deliberately, and he appeared to hear her easily. + +‘He feels th’ heat aboon a bit,’ replied Mary. + +‘Ay! I dare say.’ + +A pause, while Harry puffed away at his pipe, and Mary offered no +further observations on men or things. + +‘I took a long walk o’ Sunday--yesterday,’ observed Harry at last. + +‘Did you? Where to?’ + +‘Reet o’er th’ moors to th’ top o’ Blackrigg.’ + +‘It’s to’ far. Thou’rt none strong eno’ for sich like walks.’ + +‘Yea, but I am. I set me down on the heather, and listened wi’ all my +might, and I thowt I heard a bird singing.’ + +‘Happen a lark?’ said Mary, after a perceptible pause. + +‘Happen. I should ha’ gone to church in th’ evenin’, but I can’t +hear--nowt distinct, that’s to say--and I’m a’most inclined to think +that I didn’t _hear_ yon lark, but only thowt I did, from memory, thou +known.’ + +‘Ay,’ assented Mary. + +‘And when I go into church, and hear the organ buzzin’ and th’ voices +all mixed up wi’ it, and can’t make out what it is, it fair moithers +me; same as when I look up, and see th’ parson speakin’, and don’t know +what it’s about.’ + +‘Ay,’ said Mary, laconically as ever, but this time there was the +faintest possible vibration in her voice. + +And there was another long pause, while Mary’s eyelids drooped. He did +not see that--it was too dark; and had he seen it, he could not have +known that those eyelids were sore with repressed tears, which burnt +them, and which she would not allow to flow. + +‘Sometimes,’ his voice broke in again, ‘I get discontented. I’m main +fond o’ music, as you know, Mary.’ + +‘Ay, I know thou art.’ + +‘And it troubles me above a bit sometimes as I should be deaf, for it +just takes away my greatest pleasure. Sometimes I wish I’d been blind +instead.’ + +No answer from Mary, till Harry, in a hesitating voice, said, + +‘What dost think, Mary? Is it very wrong to have such thoughts?’ + +‘No, I dunnot,’ replied Mary. ’ I call it very nateral. If I was deaf, +I reckon I should make more noise about it than you do. I wonder what +them chaps is doin.’ It’s time they was comin’ in.’ + +‘Don’t thou go out. I’ll find ’em, and tell ’em, for I mun be goin’ +too,’ said Harry, rising. + +Mary had begun to poke the fire violently, and now let the poker fall +with a loud rattle, as Harry, without her knowing it, had advanced +close to her, so that her elbow struck against his outstretched hand. + +‘Dule tak’ th’ fire-irons!’ said she, impatiently. ‘I conna think what +ails ’em. Good neet to you, if you mun be going,’ she added, shaking +hands with him, and, as soon as he was gone, lighting the gas. + +Presently her brothers came in. The house was locked up. Mary went to +bed, followed by Edmund. Myles was left by the dying-out kitchen fire, +with a book on the table, which he never opened, but sat till far into +the night, living through some of those strange hours of still, silent, +yet vivid, rushing, mental life which come to all of us sometimes in +our youth, and which are like no other hours in our experience. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +A TEA-PARTY. + + ‘Mir war’s so wohl, so weh!’ + + +After that evening Myles found himself in a position which he at least +found full of difficulties. Two things happened, both of which he had +looked upon as probable; the news of what had happened spread, and +Frederick Spenceley did not prosecute. The waiter who had allowed Myles +to go into the billiard-room was dismissed; the billiard-marker who had +stood by shared the same fate. + +It would be difficult to guess what object, real or supposed, was +gained by this measure; but it seemed to afford great satisfaction to +many minds. Spenceley found it convenient to leave home for some weeks, +and Myles heard no more of his share in the transaction. + +There were endless tales in circulation--the facts, the names, the +causes of the affair, all got mixed up in the wildest and most +inextricable confusion, as in such cases they always do. The principals +maintained absolute silence, and let report work what wonders it would +or could. + + ‘Bear not false witness; let the lie + Have time on its own wings to fly!’ + +They adhered to the precept, and the result was that they and their +grievances were soon completely obscured in the buzz of talk, +conjecture, wrong guesses, and wild surmises which gathered about them +like a thick cloud. One thing soon became apparent; and, once secure of +that, Myles cared nothing for the rest. Adrienne’s name was not known. +The cause of the _fracas_ was generally supposed to be a woman; but the +tale which gained the greatest favour was one taking the side of the +workman--that mysterious ‘workman’ whose name had somehow disappeared +in the midst of contradictory reports, and whom no one could distinctly +specify, because there were so many workmen in Thanshope. How was a +genteel person to know one linen jacket, or its wearer, from another? +This report, which preserved a kind of likeness amidst all its +variations, was to the effect that Frederick Spenceley had deserved his +thrashing; for that he had been taking undue liberties with the young +man’s sweetheart--and her name was Sally Rogers, was Frances Alice +Kershaw, and she was a dressmaker, was a mill hand, and lived in half +a dozen places, and worked in as many factories, quite certainly and +positively; she was very pretty, and he was very jealous; or, she was +not a particularly good-looking girl, but Fred Spenceley had had words +with the young man before, and had wished to insult him. + +Myles maintained a rigid silence upon the subject, even when Mary came +in one day in a state of unusual excitement, exclaiming, + +‘Eh! Ned, Myles, have ye heerd tell o’ what’s happened?’ + +‘What?’ + +‘Jack Spenceley’s lad has had such a leathering,’ said Mary; and told +the rest of it with much excitement and volubility, for her. + +Edmund manifested a lively interest in the story, and Myles admitted +indifferently that he had heard something about it. + +They were, however, not much given to gossiping at that house, and the +subject soon dropped. + +Then came Myles’s other difficulty. He did not know whether boldly +to go and call at Mr. Blisset’s, as he longed and desired to do, or +whether to remain away. He plagued himself with wondering what she +thought about it, and then tried to believe that she had perhaps not +even heard of it--her life was so very retired, she saw and heard so +little of what was going on outside. Then he might go? But suppose +she did know, and he appeared as if he came to be thanked and made a +hero of? He contradicted himself ten times a day; decided to go--to +stay--to go--and stayed because he absolutely could not decide which +was best. + +So the days went on until Saturday, and he had not had a glimpse of +her--only the remembrance of her grateful eyes and the pressure of her +hand, as she bade him good-bye at her uncle’s gate before it had all +happened. When Saturday afternoon came, his longing to see her was +growing almost unbearable, and he had the sensation that if he went out +of the house, his feet would turn mechanically towards Blake Street. + + * * * * * + +It was Saturday afternoon; the clockhands pointed to five; Mary’s +‘cleaning’ was over, and the house was quiet. Edmund lay upon his sofa +with a headache, and Myles was softly reading to him, glad of some +monotonous occupation which should divert his thoughts somewhat from +the topic which at present tyrannised over them. + +Edmund had been reading in a magazine about the works of the Brontë +sisters, and Myles had procured him ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’ +from the free library. ‘Wuthering Heights’ lay as yet untouched; it +had not yet laid its strong and dreadful spell on the boy’s spirit. +They were deep in ‘Jane Eyre.’ It proved a spell which caused Edmund to +forget his headache, and enchained the attention of Myles himself, with +its passionate expression of the equality of soul and soul, and its +eager conviction of the supremacy of mind over the differences of rank +or place. Its burning radicalism went straight to Myles’s soul, while +its deep poetry touched Edmund’s inmost heart. + +At this moment they were wandering with ‘Jane’ over the summer moors, +homeless, friendless, foodless, penniless; and they had forgotten all +outside things with her, as she reposed herself beneath the broad sky, +on the friendly bosom of her mother--Nature. + +‘Hist!’ said Edmund, suddenly, ‘there’s a knock.’ + +Myles paused. Some one knocked at the front door. Mary had heard it, +and rose from her rocking-chair. + +‘Thee go on wi’ thi’ readin’,’ said she, going out; and they heard her +open the door, and a low voice--a woman’s voice--ask her some question. + +With an inarticulate exclamation, Myles half rose, the book open in his +hand, and as Edmund was in the act of inquiring what was the matter, +Mary came in again, looking rather bewildered, and saying, as she +turned to some one who followed her, + +‘Myles, here’s a lady wants to speak to thee.’ + +‘Why did you not come?’ said Adrienne, going straight up to Myles. ‘Why +have you never been to see me? I have waited and waited, until I could +wait no longer.’ + +He stood, crimson, unable to speak a word, but looking at her with eyes +that must have told their tale--which must have warned her had she been +less excited and earnest. + +‘How could you go and do a thing like that, and then never take any +further notice of me?’ she continued. ‘I have thought of nothing else +since I heard of it. It was most wonderfully foolish--oh, very foolish; +but oh, I do thank you, and honour you for it, with all my heart. It +is exactly what such _canaille_ deserve, and it was nobly done--it was +indeed!’ + +‘Miss Blisset ... you ... you--it was nothing. Any one would have done +it. I couldn’t have rested or slept till I had punished him. I was +obliged to do it.’ + +‘Ah, that is how _you_ put it, no doubt--but any one would not have +felt so--only you would. I can never thank you--never.’ + +‘Well, don’t then! I--it makes me ashamed of myself--it does indeed,’ +said he, earnestly. + +‘But whativer is it o’ about, miss?’ said Mary, putting into words her +own and Edmund’s boundless astonishment. + +‘Is it possible,’ said Adrienne, turning with wide-open eyes to +Myles--‘is it possible that you have never told them? Did he not tell +you?’ + +‘Nay, he’s ne’er told us nowt,’ said Mary. + +‘I never heard of anything so extraordinary,’ said Adrienne, with still +a vibration in her voice, which showed how much she was moved. ‘You +must have heard about that man--Spenceley--who insulted me, and ...’ + +‘Thank heaven, your name has never been uttered,’ interposed Myles, +hastily. + +‘And your brother, who had once before sent him away when he tried to +annoy me at the library, went to make him promise to behave himself, +and he would not. Was not that it? So he flogged him.’ + +‘Eh--Myles!’ said Mary, with a long-drawn intonation, compounded of +incredulity, pride, and pleasure. ‘Eh--h--Myles! I niver did--no niver!’ + +‘So it were you, Myles,’ said Edmund. ‘Thou hast kept some and quiet +about it. But I’m glad thou did it.’ + +‘And he has never come near my home--never given me a chance of +thanking him,’ pursued Adrienne. ‘You must understand, now, why I have +come.’ + +‘Ay, I can so,’ said Mary, regarding her with great favour and +cordiality, for this praise of Myles touched her to the very heart. +‘Won’t you sit down?’ she added. + +‘I don’t wish to disturb you,’ said Adrienne, hesitating. + +‘Eh, no sich thing. Sit you down,’ said Mary, drawing up the +rocking-chair, in which Adrienne sat down, and Myles stood leaning +against one end of the mantelpiece, feeling the need of a support of +some kind; for he felt a sort of intoxication and a bewilderment, and a +strange, subtle, new life in the very fact of Adrienne’s presence. + +‘I had to inquire where you lived,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘You +did not even tell me that. You once mentioned that you lived on the +Townfield, and I thought I should never find your house; but the first +person I met told me where you lived. But would you never have come?’ + +‘I--I hardly liked to come. I did not know whether you might have +been--displeased, perhaps,’ he said, with some embarrassment. + +‘My uncle has often asked when you were coming. He wants to see you +again. But now you will come soon--yes?’ + +‘I--yes. I should like to,’ said he. + +‘I hope you don’t mind my coming here,’ said Adrienne to Mary. + +‘Eh, no! Lord, no!’ said Mary, earnestly. ‘I’m reet glad to see you. +Yon chap would ne’er ha’ told us what he’d been doin’. He’s so--stupid.’ + +‘Yes--so I should think,’ said Adrienne, meeting Mary’s eyes with a +smile. + +And then, looking at Edmund, she said, ‘I’ve heard of you, too. You are +not strong.’ + +‘No,’ said Mary, answering for him. ‘He’s ne’er one o’ th’ strongest, +and to-day he’s getten a headache.’ + +‘Don’t you do anything for your headaches?’ + +‘Nay, I jist bide ’em out.’ + +‘That is a pity. I could do something for them--if I come again, I will +bring you something that will do them good.’ + +She went on talking to Mary and Edmund, who seemed to feel no +embarrassment in the intercourse. Adrienne certainly possessed in a +high degree the art of putting people at their ease in her company. +Mary and Edmund were not usually communicative in first interviews +with strangers; but this stranger appeared to take their hearts +by storm, and quickly succeeded in making them forget that there +was any difference in station between them. She apologised for her +intrusion much more particularly than she would have done to a woman +whose servant had opened the door, taken her card, and announced +her with a flourish. This demeanour was not put on--it was her +natural, spontaneous manner, springing from instinctive politeness +and geniality of nature. Everything about her was true and pure--what +Myles was accustomed to call in the vernacular ‘jannock.’ Mary, also, +was nothing if not jannock; and the two girls--the lady and the +factory-worker--seemed instinctively to get on. + +‘I must not detain you any longer now,’ said Adrienne, at last. ‘I see +you are going to have your tea. But I should like to know you. Would +you mind if I came again, now and then?’ + +‘Eh, I’st be vary glad,’ said Mary, ‘if so be we’re not too simple and +plain like for you. Yo’ seen we’re nobbut working folk ...’ + +‘Well, I am a working person too, and like seeks like,’ said Adrienne. + +‘I reckon you’re a different mak’ o’ worker fro’ us,’ said Mary. + +‘I am sure I work as hard as you at least, and am as tired and as glad +of rest as you, when my work is done.’ + +‘You look tired now,’ said Mary, fixing her large, clear eyes upon +Adrienne’s pale and somewhat weary face, from which the glow had faded. +‘Where do you live?’ + +‘Up at Stonegate, in Blake Street.’ + +‘My certy! But that’s a good step!’ said Mary, who, like many of +her class, was nothing of a walker. ‘We’re just goin’ to have our +tay--won’t you draw up and have a sup, and a bit o’ summat to eyt?’ + +That homely, cordial Lancashire invitation, ‘Come and have a sup, and a +bit o’ summat to eat’--what Lancashire ears are there that do not know +it and love it for the kind thoughts it arouses? It went straight home +to our lonely Adrienne: a mist rushed over her eyes; she said somewhat +hesitatingly, + +‘Oh, I should like it. You are very kind, but I fear----’ she half +turned to Myles. + +‘Myles, coom out o’ yon corner, and behave thisel’, mon! Thou can when +thou’s a mind to,’ said Mary, briskly. ‘Now draw up,’ she added to +Adrienne. ‘Tak’ off your hat, and I’st hang it up, so! And Myles’ll see +you home. He’s got nowt to do to-neet.’ + +Mary must have been inspired when she made this suggestion. + +‘Oh, I need not trouble him now,’ said Adrienne, with a radiant smile +upon the approaching Myles--‘unless he has forgotten the way to my +uncle’s house, as I begin to think.’ + +‘It’s much better I should go with you. It’s Saturday evening,’ said +Myles, seating himself beside her, and throwing a fleeting glance +towards her face. + +She was content, pleased, even flattered at the friendly way in which +she had been received. Her expression said that as plainly as words +could do. Myles began to lose some of his bewilderment, and to gain +somewhat more confidence. + +‘Eh, I’ve forgotten th’ mowffins!’ said Mary, suddenly, a shade +crossing her face. ‘We mun really wait while I toast the mowffins.’ + +She jumped up and produced tea-cakes out of a cupboard, and Myles +suggested that perhaps it did not matter about the muffins. Mary was, +however, firm, and bade him cut some bread-and-butter while she toasted. + +‘And mind thou cuts it nice and thin, and not all i’ lumps,’ she added +in admonitory tones. + +Myles, much too simple-minded to see anything derogatory in cutting +bread-and-butter, began, but in half a minute Adrienne had jumped up +and laid hold of the knife. + +‘Stop! That is clearly not your sphere,’ said she, laughing into his +embarrassed, yet ever-attractive face. ‘It is not stern enough--not +commanding enough. Let me do it.’ + +Unaware of the distinguished example set by the Wetzlar heroine in the +bread-and-butter cutting line, Myles watched the deft fingers of his +enchantress as if no woman had ever been known to cut bread-and-butter +properly before. + +Mary, who grew visibly and every moment more satisfied with her guest, +toasted the ‘mowffins,’ buttered them, and tea was proclaimed ready +with acclamation. + +Then Edmund came to the table; they all sat there, and Mary made tea in +state, apologising for not having the best tea-things because of the +impromptu nature of the visit. + +‘I am sure these seem delightful tea-things,’ said Adrienne, smiling. + +The festivity was altogether successful as regarded Adrienne, Mary, +and Edmund. But Miss Blisset cast every now and then fleeting glances +at Myles, and was not quite at her ease about him, for he alone of +all the party was silent and grave. It was the deep intensity of the +delight within him that caused this, but Adrienne could not be supposed +to know that--in very truth, as yet she honestly believed the greater +admiration and liking to be on her side. That delusion was soon to be +ended, but at present she was under its influence. + +The meal was not long over when she said she must go, and promising +Mary to come again, she went away, accompanied by Myles. + +Their way lay through what was called ‘the Park.’ They turned in at the +large iron gates of a town pleasure-ground, laid out in gravel walks, +grass plots, seats, and flower-beds. They were on a height. The town +lay below, with the gilded spire of the town-hall cleaving the air, and +the hazy-looking blue wall of Blackrigg to the north and north-west. + +As they walked slowly along a broad terrace, unoccupied save by +themselves, Adrienne asked, in her quick foreign way, + +‘Say to me, Mr. Heywood--you are vexed that I came?’ + +‘I--vexed--nay!’ was all that he could say. + +The current which for the last week had ever been hurrying more and +more quickly forward had now arrived at the verge. It leapt over it in +a bound, and carried everything before. He was madly in love, and all +he could do was to say as little, be as brief as possible, for fear of +showing her, startling her, perhaps repelling her; for he was intensely +conscious of the difference; all his dearly loved, passionately +cherished theories of equality could not blind him to the fact that +they were not equals--that while he loved her with a strength that +shook his nature with its power, yet the bare thought of touching her, +holding her hand, speaking to her on easy and familiar terms, came to +him with a sense of impropriety--brought him the conviction, _non sum +dignus_. + +‘You were so quiet,’ said she. ‘You would hardly speak to me. I was +afraid I had offended you.’ + +‘Not at all,’ said poor Myles, unable to say more lest he should say +too much. + +‘I am sure,’ pursued Adrienne, stopping in her walk and looking +earnestly at him--‘I am sure you know that I did not mean to offend +you; and you could not be so hard as to wish me to keep silence. You +behaved splendidly. I felt that I must thank you for it.’ + +It was growing too much for him to stand there quiescent, and hear that +voice, which contained all melody for him, and to see that face, those +eyes, looking at him so. The eagerness of desperate love came storming +down upon prudence, and hurrying words of devotion to his lips. +Mastering himself by a strong effort, and clasping, or rather clenching +his hands behind him, he said, in what seemed to Adrienne a singularly +calm, colourless voice, + +‘You make too much of it. I would rather not be thanked for it.’ + +‘You are hard upon me to say that. It gives me such pleasure to thank +you, but you deserve at my hands that I should comply with your +wishes--after what you have done for me. But you cannot guess what a +delightful feeling it is to one so lonely as I, to suddenly discover +that there is some one who has been not afraid to stand up for her--and +to some purpose.’ + +‘I should have thought you would have many friends,’ remarked Myles, +endeavouring to change the too-fascinating subject. + +‘I--no indeed. I don’t think any one with fewer friends ever lived.’ + +‘But you may have left friends behind you on the Continent?’ + +A momentary pause while he looked at her. It was as though some sudden +blow had struck the words back from her lips to her heart--then she +said steadily, + +‘Some few; but chiefly benefactors rather than friends--benefactors +who befriended and helped me in my loneliness and destitution, for my +father and I were sometimes almost destitute.’ + +‘Destitute?’ echoed Myles, shocked. + +‘Oh yes! I have not always lived in Lancashire, you know. No one seems +to be poor here. I have known what it is to look at a piece of money +worth sixpence, and know that if I spent that upon my supper I should +not have a penny in the morning to buy breakfast with.’ + +‘But not seriously?’ + +‘I assure you it seemed very serious to me. I have sunk lower. I have +known what it was to go supperless to bed, wondering what poor little +trinket or book I could spare in order to get a breakfast next morning.’ + +Myles was silent, and Adrienne continued, + +‘That, you know, is what is not considered respectable for a young +lady.’ + +‘Hang respectability!’ was all he said. + +‘Not at all! I like it. After all the fever and the turmoils, and the +ups and downs, and dreadful uncertainties of that life, my present one +is like Paradise. Oh, rest is a very sweet thing--rest and security, +and a strong arm to help you.’ (Myles turned to her with parted lips.) +‘Your home is beautiful. That sister of yours is so calm and good. I +love her already. She must be very dear to you.’ + +‘Ay, I love Mary dearly.’ + +‘Yes. Both she and you, and all of you, look as if you had had a home +all your lives. Do you think I might go to see them again?’ + +‘They’ll only be too glad. I never thought you could sympathise so +much--with our sort,’ said Myles, constrainedly. + +‘To-morrow you will come to Stonegate, will you not? and then I will +tell you my story, and you will perhaps understand how it is that I +sympathise with “your sort,” as you call it, and why I think so much of +what you have done for me.’ + +‘I will come with pleasure.’ + +‘To-morrow afternoon, then, I shall expect you.’ + +They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Myles left her at the +gate. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + ‘Deeper and deeper still.’ + + +It was a lovely Sunday afternoon on which Myles took his way to +Stonegate. He found Adrienne alone. She said her uncle was taking his +afternoon airing in his bath-chair in the garden, and did not wish to +be disturbed; his old servant, Brandon, was with him. + +‘But sit down,’ she continued, ‘and we can have a talk.’ + +With that she picked up her knitting and began to work. + +‘You will talk,’ said Myles, ‘if you keep your promise. You promised to +tell me about yourself.’ + +‘Do you really want to hear that?’ + +‘I came on purpose.’ + +‘Well, I will tell it you, and I hope it will have the effect I intend.’ + +‘What effect is that?’ + +‘You are determined to look upon me (I have seen it, so don’t be at the +trouble of denying it) as something fine and delicate, and unused to +roughness and hardship.’ + +‘Yes, one can see plainly enough that you are that.’ + +‘Can one? Well, I’ll begin my story, and you shall learn how +appearances may deceive.’ + +Adrienne related well. She did not exaggerate; there was nothing +strained, no striving after effect; but there was colour, pathos, life, +in her tale, and a subtle poetry thrown over all, by her way of looking +at things. + +Myles, in listening, felt as if he were actually wandering with her on +that nomadic life she spoke of; through the great foreign capitals, and +the country villages, and the towns, big and little; to be sojourning +with her in the gay, feverish watering-places; to survey the distant, +rose-tinted Alps. He utterly forgot where he was, and knew only her and +her life. + +There had been two brothers, she told him, of whom her father was the +younger, and her uncle the elder. Kith and kin, they had none, and +their patrimony was small. Both were gifted, but in different ways. +Adrian, her father, was artist to the marrow of his bones. Richard, +her uncle, had also some taste for art, but more of the analytical and +critical than of the synthetic description; he had been, moreover, +at one time, a practical man of business, and had made money--he was +not rich, but thoroughly independent. Her father had had the gift of +spending, not of making. The brothers had parted early. Adrian, as soon +as he was his own master, had said farewell to home, and had gone, +first to Germany, there to study the music which his soul loved, and +which had beautified his otherwise weary, disappointed life. + +Some time was spent in Germany; then two or three years in +miscellaneous and somewhat aimless travel; then back again to Germany, +to music, and to love. The fair, clever, and penniless daughter of a +poor professor and man of science won his heart, as he hers, and they +married. + +With marriage came the feeling of an insufficiency of means, and the +desire to augment them led him into business speculations of a nature +which he did not in the least understand: the bubble burst, and Adrian +Blisset found himself a ruined man in less than a year after his +marriage. Adrienne’s mother died at her birth; the girl had never known +that holy bond, however much she might have longed for it. Her father +chose to lay part of the cause of his wife’s death to the anxiety +induced by his extravagance and folly--moreover, he had adored her, and +from the hour of her death he had been a changed man. He had his own +living and that of his child to gain, but he settled nowhere. His life +became nomadic. He and the little one did not sojourn long in the tents +of any particular tribe. Scarce a city or a town of any importance in +Europe, but had sheltered the unconscious head of the infant, or been +trodden by the child’s uncertain feet, or by the sedate step of the +maiden, careworn before her time, while she knew intimately many an +out-of-the-way nook, unnamed by Murray, Bradshaw, or Baedeker, amongst +Italian hills, deep in the sunny lands of France, Thüringian woods and +slopes, or sleepy red-roofed Rhenish hamlets. + +A restless ghost drove the musician with his child and his violin +hither and thither, never permitting him to stay long in any one place +and gather substance; but ever, so soon as the novelty had worn off, +seeming to drive him forth on a fresh search after--what? Adrienne had +learnt at an early age to ask herself that question, and sorrowfully to +give up the answer. + +Sometimes he was in funds, when he showered all kinds of presents upon +her, and called her his dear child, his _Herzallerliebste_; but oftener +they were plunged in poverty, sore, sordid, dreadful poverty. His moods +varied distressingly, from kindness that had in it something fitful and +sinister, up to the dark melancholy silence which was his most frequent +humour. He was proud, and his pride was of a touchy and intractable +kind; it offended men of business, and estranged friends and pupils. + +Adrienne had had many teachers and many strange lessons, and the whole +had combined into a varied and truly most unconventional education. +Her father had lavished musical training upon her. At Florence, where +they stayed a whole year, longer than anywhere else, she had wandered +about with a kind-hearted old artist, who led her about with him to +the great galleries, and showed her the grandest pictures, and made +her know the beautiful buildings, till she had imbibed the undying +loveliness of such masterpieces as Giotto’s Campanile, or Michael +Angelo’s Duomo, and had discovered that her favourite thing in Florence +was the ‘Pensiero’ Medici of the last-named artist. + +‘You remind me of him,’ she added, suddenly looking at Myles. And she +had sat, at thirteen years of age, for a picture of ‘Gravity.’ + +‘Was that what he called you?’ asked Myles. + +‘Yes. Gravity, or Sedateness was his name for me--and it suited me.’ + +She had had to part from her good old friend, and that had cost her the +pain which parting brings to those who know they will not meet again. + +In Paris, Adrienne had had lessons in democracy from a young universal +genius, whose talents were too vast to stoop to any ordinary walk of +life. He lived in a garret, and planned schemes of a perfect republic. +Adrienne had not felt much grief on parting from him. + +A monstrous learned professor, who lived at Bonn, in a _Schlafrock_, +slippers, and spectacles, had taught her a little store of Greek and +Latin. But her greatest teacher had been a strange, absent-looking +professor, in Berlin--a man of literature and philosophy, who had been +very fond of her, and had given her freely of his very best. Her uncle, +Mr. Blisset, looked upon this as a providential circumstance, for he +found when she came to him, that he had no tyro to deal with, but one +already instructed in philosophy and its terminology. + +Two years ago her father had died; and just before his death she had +learnt for the first time that they possessed any relation in the +world. She had received a letter to give to her uncle. She fulfilled +the behest, and that was how she first met Mr. Blisset. + +‘And what did he say? How did he receive you?’ asked Myles, eagerly. + +‘I was chilled,’ said she, ‘as I sat opposite to him and saw his pale, +impassive face, and watched how he raised his eyes now and then from +that letter. He gave me no reply that night; told me nothing; did not +intimate whether he were pleased or displeased to see me, but ordered a +room to be prepared for me; and the next day he told me that my father +had asked him in his letter to give me a shelter until I was able to +find some employment by which I could support myself. My uncle said +that if I could endure to live buried alive with an old man, and work +hard at a sedentary employment, he would give me a home and pay me a +certain sum every year. I accepted his proposal gratefully, and have +never repented it; and I trust he never will, either.’ + +There spoke the true Adrienne Blisset. + +‘And you are happy here?’ + +‘As happy as I expect to be. It is a great thing not to be miserable.’ + +‘That’s what our rulers appear to think we working-men ought to feel,’ +said Myles, sardonically, his thoughts for the moment flying off at a +tangent. + +‘Are you bitter against your rulers?’ asked Adrienne, tranquilly. + +‘I am bitter against some of them--a pampered set of rich men, who +never had a care in their lives, but don’t mind how many other people +have to bear. There are some, now--Bright, and Cobden, and the +like--for them I’d die. There’s that in their faces which says they +have not a mean thought, nor a desire but for our good; but the most +of them’--he shrugged his shoulders--‘those lily-handed politicians +who call themselves Radicals in these days, and plan how to prevent a +working-man from getting his beer, but have half a dozen sorts of wine +at their own tables, and go mincing about at public meetings, talking +lightly of trials that would make them cringe if they had to face them; +talking about “supply and demand” and how to improve the conditions +of the lower orders--isn’t that the phrase? Much they know about the +lower orders, and how to improve them! They don’t know what ails them +yet.’ + +He laughed sarcastically. + +‘It is true, they are a somewhat emasculate type,’ said she; ‘but +I don’t see what right you have to blame them much. It is the +working-man’s own fault that they can do no more for him.’ + +‘His own fault!’ he echoed incredulously. + +‘Now don’t eat me up, please! I wonder if you and I differ essentially +in first principles on this subject. You have thought about it, haven’t +you?’ + +‘Ay, I have. I’ve plenty of reason to think about it, when I see such +fellows as Frederick Spenceley and young Mallory living on the fat of +the land, without having lifted a finger to get it, or proved by a +single act that they merited it.’ + +‘Mr. Mallory,’ said Adrienne, slowly, ‘you say you have seen him: has +he come home?’ + +‘No. I meant to speak figuratively. I don’t see him; but I know it is +so. If I don’t know him, I know the likes of him----’ + +‘But--but what about him?’ she asked, still with the same slowness and +a kind of hesitation. ‘What has he done wrong?’ + +‘He has done nothing; that’s what he has done wrong,’ said Myles. +‘Well, he’s coming home soon; we shall see how he breasts the +storm--for we are in for a storm, sooner or later. But don’t you think, +Miss Blisset, it must make a man think to see these contrasts--a man +who has the least bit of a power of thought?’ + +‘No doubt. And what conclusion have you come to in the matter?’ + +‘The conclusion that it’s a crying injustice.’ + +‘To whom?’ + +‘To--well, to put it broadly, we’ll say to the working-man--but I mean +to those in general, who work very hard, and get very little.’ + +‘In what way?’ + +‘Miss Blisset! Where is the justice of fellows like that having that +money without either rhyme or reason; and of fellows like----’ + +‘You,’ suggested Adrienne, demurely. + +‘I don’t mean me in particular, but my class in general, earning from +thirty to sixty shillings a week--the very best paid of us--in payment +for hours and hours of close, hard work.’ + +‘I suppose it is not the work you object to?’ + +‘No. I like work. I should be lost without my work.’ + +‘The property which those young men enjoy has been earned with trouble +as great, or probably, from an intellectual point of view, greater than +your weekly wages.’ + +‘But not by them.’ + +‘Suppose it had been earned by you, and you wished to leave it to your +only son, whom you had educated with a view to his inheriting it, and +the law stepped in and said you should not, but should leave it amongst +a number of working-people whom you had never seen or heard of--how +would you like that?’ + +‘But that is an exaggerated view of the case.’ + +‘I don’t see it. I don’t believe you have ever considered the subject +fairly. And answer me this; suppose the average working-man became +possessed of that money, or of part of it--_money which he had not +earned_--money which had become his by a lucky chance: do you think his +use of it would be worse, or as good as, or better, than the use made +of it by those two of whom we are speaking? Do you think it would do +him a real and permanent good: increase his self-respect, lessen his +self-indulgence, make him steadier, soberer, more inwardly dignified, +worthy, and honourable?’ + +She was looking earnestly at him, and Myles frowned, the words driven +back from his lips. Did he know one man amongst his fellow-workman on +whom the possession of such money would have such an effect? Would it +have such an effect upon himself? The generalities of the writers who +cried up the working-man and his wrongs seemed suddenly to grow small, +and to shrink into the background. + +‘Oh,’ went on Adrienne, ‘I don’t think you working-men know in the +least how noble your work intrinsically is. You only see that others +are outwardly better off than you, and you clamorously demand a share +of that wealth. You don’t see how disastrous to your best interests +such an acquisition would be.’ + +Myles had started up, feeling terribly humiliated. + +‘You think so ill of us!’ he exclaimed. ‘You could come and see us +yesterday, and talk to my sister as if she had been your sister--and +now you reproach us in this way. Good-bye!’ + +‘Stop!’ said she, laying her hand upon his arm, and looking earnestly +into his face. ‘How wild and impatient you are! Think a moment! It is +not of _you_ I am speaking. Do you know any other working-man to whom I +could speak in this way?’ + +She paused. It was true. Perhaps Harry Ashworth might hear those words +and bear them--he knew of no other who would do so; and while he was +stung and tortured by what she said, he felt a bitter consciousness +that it was true. But he stood still, and waited to hear the end. + +‘I am speaking to you with a purpose,’ Adrienne went on in the same +tone, low and quiet, but full of vehemence. ‘Since that night when you +stepped forward in my defence, I have thought much about you--very +much. I have studied you, and you do not know how well-used I am to +studying people. The more I have studied you, the more I have felt that +you were both generous and high-minded--and terribly hot-tempered,’ +she added, with a smile, which Myles thought must have charmed the +temper of a ravening wolf. ‘Just think what you, a workman, might do +by setting an example to your fellow-workmen. Take the right side. You +are too good for the commonplace career of an ordinary “intelligent +working-man,” for a blind submission to trade-union rules, and for +an obstinate resistance to your masters, just because they are your +masters, or because your union bids you resist them. Don’t be a +tool; use your reason; consider the why and wherefore of things. Be +answerable to your conscience alone for all you say and do. Help to +show your fellows that all improvement in their condition must arise +actively from within, not be received passively from without--you know +that, and own it, don’t you?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, quickly, folding his arms and leaning against the +mantelpiece, his eyes fixed upon her, as she stood before him, with her +head a little thrown back; her eyes alight, looking beautiful in her +energy and excitement. + +‘I wish,’ she said, ‘I often wish that I were a working-woman, like +your sister. I would show you what I meant; how toil could be ennobled.’ + +She paused. Myles’s heart was beating wildly. Something, whether God or +devil he had no time to think, hurried quick words from his lips; in a +voice as low, as vehement as her own had been, he said, + +‘Do you? And suppose it ever came to the point? Suppose some day some +working-man came to you, and told you he loved you; that he could see +how toil might be ennobled, if you would help him to do it--there would +be an end of your philosophy. You would think of the cottage to live +in, the floors to scrub, the rough neighbours, the coarse common life, +the children to tend, and make, and mend, and sew for; and if you could +get over that, there would be the man himself--a great rough fellow--a +workman, not a gentleman, a man of rough speech, like--like our sort. +You would have to work for him, too; to cook, and sew, and wash for +him; to obey him--_you_. When he said, “Do this,” you must do it, and +when he called, “Come here!” you must go to him. That’s the way amongst +us working-people. What about the ennobling of toil _then_?’ + +He spoke jeeringly, and hated himself for doing so; and listened for +her answer in a state of wild, if silent, excitement. + +Her hands had dropped, her eyes had sunk, her face was burning; she +turned away. If he could have trusted himself to move or speak, he +would have fallen upon his knees and begged her pardon. + +‘Oh, Myles!’ said she, at last, in a very low voice. He bit his lip +till the blood came, at that sound; the most maddening in its mingled +sweetness and bitterness, he had ever heard. ‘I suppose I gave you the +right to say that,’ she said, ‘and to demand an answer too. You put +it tersely, certainly. As you speak, I can see the very life rising +before me that you picture.’ + +‘And yourself in it!’ said he, still with a sneer, though he would have +given the world to ask her to forgive him. + +‘No. You forget something,’ she replied, walking to the window, while +he still leaned against the mantelpiece. ‘You made it all hard and +sordid. You forgot the very “ennobling” that began the discussion. +I _could_ fancy myself in such a home--a working-man’s wife--but to +become that, I must love that man; and in the life you described there +was no love. The man I loved, be he workman or prince, must be a +gentleman--not a brute.’ + +‘Ah! and supposing you met this working-man--or whoever he might be?’ +suggested Myles, in a calm, restrained kind of voice. + +‘If I met him, and if I loved him, and he loved me, and asked me to +marry him, I would say “yes;” and I would love him, and serve him +faithfully to the end of my life.’ + +The words fell softly and gently, almost timorously, as if she +hesitated to speak of such a thing; and yet with a certain gentle +firmness which said that they were no sentimental verbiage, but +expressed the steadfast feeling of a steadfast heart. But each word +was like a drop of liquid fire in the young man’s veins. She seemed +suddenly to be close beside him--a possibility, a thing he might +dream of--and fifty thousand times higher and farther off, and more +impossible to him than ever. How could _he_ ever hope to bend that +heart to love him? The very thought was insanity. + +He mastered his emotion, and walked up to her. She turned, but did not +look at him. + +‘I beg your pardon, most humbly,’ said he. + +‘It is granted freely. I dare say it has been good for me; it has +reduced my vague theories to the language of common sense. I had no +right to reproach you with the faults of your class, and expect nothing +but milk and honey from your lips in return. We understand each other. +Oh, but yours is a biting tongue! It cuts like a knife.’ + +‘It forgot itself when it turned against _you_. But, remember, your +words had roused me. You made me blush for my own “vague theories,” as +you call them. If you could not have said what you did, to any other +workman, do you suppose I could have spoken so to any other young lady?’ + +‘No, no. I suppose not,’ said she, but her face was still downcast. The +glance which he at last received wavered almost timidly. She resumed +her seat and her work, saying, ‘And you will think of what I have said?’ + +‘I will--seriously. I believe you are right, but the thing was too +wonderful for me. I could not attain unto it--all at once.’ + +The conversation was turned, as if by one consent, to books. Adrienne’s +heart was beating unwontedly fast; her knight had not only surprised, +but somewhat subdued her; delighting her at the same time. He was no +tool; he could turn upon her, and he had the front of a ruler. That +glance and that voice were not to be forgotten. She thrilled as she +remembered them. She was glad he had not gone; the sensation that he +was still there was pleasurable, with a strange potency of strength. + +The door opened, and Mr. Blisset was wheeled in, and a servant brought +afternoon tea. Then Mr. Blisset began to talk, and Myles to listen. +Mr. Blisset had some of his niece’s conversational power. The time +flew insensibly, till supper was announced. Myles rose, fearing he had +intruded too long. + +‘No,’ said Mr. Blisset. ‘Stay, unless you are tired, and my niece will +give us some music.’ + +He looked at her, and she said, ‘Yes, do stay!’ And Myles stayed. + +That evening Adrienne sang some songs. She finished with ‘_Neue Liebe +neues Leben_,’ and Myles went home with its last passionate words +ringing in his ears: + + ‘_Liebe, Liebe, lass’ mich los!_’ + +Would it ever ‘let him loose,’ that love which had sprung up so +suddenly and strongly, making every other feeling weak in the glow of +its might and strength? + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +PROMISES. + + +That visit was but the first of a long series. Mr. Blisset was pleased +to see the young man who listened so patiently and so deferentially to +him, and Myles had an ever-growing conviction that Mr. Blisset’s views +of men and things, of right and wrong, were deeper and sounder than his +own; riper, truer, and most justly balanced. Myles learnt much in these +visits and conversations. + +Adrienne had been many times to the cottage on the Townfield, and had +completely won the hearts of Mary and Edmund. She had opened up a new +field of delight and wonder to the boy, by putting him in the way of +studying botany, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. She lent him books +and specimens, and Harry Ashworth, who was a great walker, brought him +all kinds of plants, and ferns, and mosses, from the moors on which he +was wont to spend his Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. + +When Myles and Adrienne were in his house at the same time, they +seemed to have little to say to each other; which was, perhaps, not +surprising, for their subjects were not those discussed by Mary and +Edmund. Harry Ashworth had a great deal to ask Miss Blisset about +music; she comforted him, too, for she helped him to some scientific +understanding of the mighty harmonies of which he was fast losing the +outward apprehension. Harry had not read much about music or musicians; +he had, while his hearing had been pretty good, contented himself +with drinking in the sounds themselves. Adrienne soon discovered that +the sorrow of his life was his failing hearing, and one evening it +occurred to her to tell him the story of Beethoven. Mary and Harry and +she happened to be alone. Adrienne began, and related that saddest of +stories. It had the effect she intended. + +Harry sat with one hand shading his face, in an attitude which he had +assumed soon after she began the story, when she said, ‘And at last +he wrote to one of his friends and confessed that he was growing quite +deaf--that if he went to the opera, he must sit close to the orchestra, +and even then, even leaning over towards it, he could scarcely hear.’ + +Mary went on knitting. Adrienne’s voice, somewhat raised, slow, +distinct, and clear, told the tale of that mighty genius--Christlike +in the immensity of his woe and the utterness of his separation from +those around him. She went through it all. She told him about the great +symphonies, about Beethoven’s one or two sad, luckless love-episodes; +his poverty; his love for the thankless young profligate, his nephew; +the performance of the Choral Symphony--of that great adagio ‘in which +we discern the slowly stalking movement of a god!’ + +‘When it was over,’ Adrienne went on, ‘the audience were +almost mad with rapture and delight, and the applause was +deafening--thundering--it resounded through and through the great room! +the master still stood with his baton in his hand, his back to the +audience, till one of the vocalists gently turned him round, and he saw +them all--how they were wild with pleasure and emotion; _he_ had thus +moved them by his heavenly music to ‘joy,’ and he had heard no sound of +it all.’ + +She paused. It was the life which she most loved in all truth or +poetry; to her Beethoven’s sufferings were as actual as his genius or +his grandeur. + +She saw Harry look at her with an expression which told her that he too +understood, and she went on to the end--told of the bitter loneliness +of those last years, that death in harmony with the life--that passing +away of the Titan soul in the sublime music of the spring thunderstorm, +and then she was silent. + +Harry looked at her for a moment, started up, and took her hand. + +‘Thank you, miss,’ said he, and left the house. + +‘Eh, Miss Blisset,’ said Mary, wiping her eyes, ‘you’re like no one +else as ivver I heerd tell on afore. You’ve done a kindness to yon poor +lad, such as he never had yet.’ + +‘I’m very glad if you think so.’ + +‘Yo’ve gi’en him summat to console him. He’ll go about now, thinking he +may bear his deafness quite easy like, seein’ yon man as yo’ towd us +on were so great and patient. His mind is fair beautiful--Harry’s mind +is,’ said Mary, moved out of all reticence. + +‘I like him very much,’ said Adrienne; ‘very much indeed.’ + +‘Ay! He’s good--good to th’ marrow of his bones, he is.’ + +‘Like you, Mary. You and he are well matched.’ + +‘Eh, nay! Eh, don’t think o’ that! He’s ne’er said nowt about it.’ + +‘He will some time!’ + +Mary was silent, with a downcast face, till at last she said, + +‘I know you’ll ne’er say a word to no one about it. I can trust you to +tell you this, as whether he ever says owt about it or not, the vary +thowt of ony other mon than him fair gives me a turn.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Adrienne. ‘And you do deserve to be happy, Mary. I wonder +how it is that you and all yours are so different from other people. I +always feel well, and happy, and right with the world, when I am with +you.’ + +Later, as Myles walked with her up Blake Street, Adrienne remarked that +the end of September was approaching and the evenings darkened earlier. + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, ‘soon winter will be here. And then ... now then, +you,’ he added to a passer-by, who gave Adrienne a very close berth; +‘mind your manners when you’re passing a lady.’ + +‘I didn’t know you had lady-friends, Myles Heywood,’ replied a smooth +voice, as the offender paused, and looked at them. + +‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Myles, with trenchant contempt. ‘If I’d known, I +wouldn’t have troubled to speak to you.’ And he passed on. + +‘Who is the man?’ asked Adrienne. + +‘He’s my--step-father,’ said Myles, in a peculiar voice. Adrienne had +heard the whole story from Mary; Myles had never been able to speak of +it. + +‘Oh, forgive me for saying it, but I wish you had not spoken to him in +that way.’ + +‘Why? How?’ he stammered. + +‘Has he ever done you any harm?’ + +‘Not directly; but I can’t abide the very looks of him.’ + +‘There!’ said she, with a somewhat nervous smile; ‘you are too +contemptuous. Reverence is better than contempt; it is indeed.’ + +‘Reverence! Would you have me reverence _him_?’ + +‘Yes. You ought to reverence human nature--your own nature--in him. If +you could have heard yourself speak! Do you know what you would do, if +any one spoke to you in that way?’ + +‘What?’ + +‘Why, you would--I think you would shake him. I can just see you make +one stride towards him, and fasten upon him--poor fellow!--to teach him +manners.’ + +‘You mean that I have none myself. Well, you may be right.’ + +‘Are you offended?’ + +‘Miss Blisset--you could not offend me.’ + +‘I think I could. But do think of what I have said; and try not to be +so contemptuous. Will you?’ + +‘The next time I meet Jim Hoyle, I’ll take off my hat to him +politely--since you wish it.’ + +‘You will drive me to despair! How different you are from your +reasonable sister, who sees the right bearings of things at once; and +from your sensitive brother, who....’ + +‘Yes, Ned is like a girl for delicacy,’ said Myles, a sarcastic flavour +in his voice. ‘Well, Miss Blisset, I will try hard to please you. Next +week there’s a fellow coming that I _have_ a contempt for, if I ever +had for any one.’ + +‘Who may that be?’ + +‘Mr. Sebastian Mallory, our so-called _master_.’ + +A pause. Then a hesitating, ‘In-deed!’ from her, the intonation of +which Myles did not remark. + +‘So I’ll try to be polite to him, if our paths cross--which I hope they +won’t.’ + +‘Perhaps they may not. But now do try,’ said she. ‘You may find it +easier than you think.’ + +They parted at the wicket, and Myles went home, to find Edmund gone to +bed, and to sit up himself, reading ‘My Beautiful Lady,’ which Adrienne +had lent to Edmund, never supposing that Myles would look at it, or +that he would take any interest in it if he did. But he pored over it, +and his heart-strings trembled to the poet’s notes: it was he himself, +his own thoughts put into poetry as the lover waited his lady’s coming. +And as for the end, Myles read it differently; to please himself, he +allowed common sense to step in--Adrienne was not consumptive. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +MR. MALLORY’S POLITICS. + + ‘_Philinte._--Mais on entend les gens au moins sans se fâcher. + + _Alceste._--Moi, je veux me fâcher, et ne veux point entendre.’ + + _Le Misanthrope._ + + +During the following forenoon Myles sat alone in the outer office, +employed exactly as he had been on the day of Mrs. Mallory’s visit, +weeks before. Wilson was going his usual round in the works, and Mr. +Sutcliffe, the manager, was out. + +Pausing at the end of a column of figures, he raised his eyes and saw +coming down the street something which caused him to open his eyes in +surprise, though surprise was not his usual expression. + +It was a very high and very swell phaeton, with a pair of magnificent +bays, which danced along the street, as if its shabby, clog-worn +stones caused much distress to their aristocratic hoofs. The driver of +this (in Thanshope) unique conveyance was a young man in light grey +clothes and a round cloth cap--no English cap: indeed there was, at +least to the uninitiated Thanshope eye, something un-English in his +whole appearance. He was, however, master of his cattle, as even Myles +could see. Beside him sat a slight, dark boy, with a plain, queer, but +attractive face; and behind was a very correct-looking groom. + +‘Who on earth is that chap?’ was Myles’s first very natural thought, as +he forgot his work, and gazed in the blissfulness of ignorance at the +vision. The next moment he could have bitten off his tongue could he +have had the feeling that he had not bestowed a second glance upon the +whole affair, for the dancing bays came sidling down the street, and +the driver pulled them up before that very office door; moreover, he +had caught sight of Myles staring at him, and had given him in return a +lazy look from a pair of rather sleepy eyes. + +Now Myles knew it was the ‘so-called master’--it was Sebastian Mallory: +a second glance at the fair though bronzed face, the yellow hair and +moustache, the proudly cut features, and the indifferent expression, +displayed sufficient likeness to his mother to make the first intuitive +conviction a certainty. + +Furious with himself at having been caught staring openly and +wonderingly, Myles forgot his voluntary promise to Adrienne, and, in +order to prove that, whatever his open eyes might at first have seemed +to intimate, yet that he was not really at all struck by anything he +had seen, he turned his back to the door, and was apparently bending +with the deepest attention over his work, when that door was opened; he +heard a voice conclude some injunctions to the groom, and the answer +which followed: + +‘_Jawohl, mein Herr._’ + +‘Foreign servants, even!’ murmured Myles, shrugging his shoulders. + +‘Good morning, my good man,’ was the next thing he heard, in an accent +as different from that of the Thanshope ‘gentleman’ as Adrienne’s was +different from that of the Thanshope lady. + +He turned round and looked up; he was forced to do so now, and, without +noticing the lad who stood in the background, he faced Mallory. The two +young men confronted each other for the first time. + +So far as expression and complexion went, they were as great a contrast +as could be imagined. Both were tall, spare, and well-built, and there +the resemblance ended. Myles was, as has been said, quick, passionate, +lithe, alert, with a temper that sprang into action on every possible +occasion, with eyes that flashed, brows that contracted, very often +in the course of the day. Sebastian Mallory was graceful, but there +was some languor, real or assumed, in the grace. He was handsome, but +the good looks were certainly marred by the bored expression on his +pale, fine features. His eyes moved slowly; they were very good eyes, +luminous, and hazel in colour, but they did not look as if they would +easily flash. He spoke, looked, moved, as if he found life rather +troublesome, and scarcely worth the trouble when it had been taken. He +had taken off his cap when he entered the office--foreign fashion, and +Myles saw that his face, all save the forehead, was somewhat bronzed; +but it was with the bronze of a hot sun--not nature, naturally he +was pale. His hair, too, seemed to have caught the sun at the ends, +elsewhere it was just yellow hair. Every gesture and movement was full +of the polished ease of high cultivation. + +Myles, looking straight at him, said to himself, ‘One of your languid, +heavy swells, are we? I’m afraid we shall ruffle his fine feathers in +this horrid democratic place.’ + +He had Mrs. Mallory in his mind’s eye as he surveyed her son; her +principles were well known--the divine right of kings--the Conservative +side through thick and thin, good report and evil report; Church and +Constitution intact through every storm; our greatest Premier, the +late lamented Duke of Wellington; _the working-man in his proper +place_ (wherever that may be); rich and poor, gentle and simple, a +providential arrangement which it would be sinful and impious to think +of disturbing. + +Thinking of all this, Myles surveyed Sebastian Mallory, and as he found +him entirely different from any young man he had ever seen before, and +as most of the Thanshope people, great and small, were of the Radical +persuasion, he immediately concluded that he was right--what had been +bred in the bone must come out in the flesh, and it was quite clear +that Mr. Mallory was a Conservative of the bluest dye. + +Meanwhile Sebastian had been looking at Myles, too, surprised at +receiving no answer to his remark, and still more surprised to observe +that the eyes of the ‘good man’ were fixed intently, criticisingly, +and with unabashed steadfastness upon himself, and appeared to measure +him over from head to foot, in a manner which was, to say the least, +singular. The cap of the young man remained on his head; he did not +rise; he did not ask what he could do, nor the visitor’s business; +he simply looked at him with a pair of remarkably keen, piercing, +dark eyes, and Sebastian returned the look, until at last a gleam of +amusement appeared in his sleepy eyes. + +That look of amusement was not lost upon Myles; it irritated and +angered him. He was so terribly in earnest about all he did, thought, +or believed, as not readily to see the comic side of a question, while +it was Mallory’s chief foible to take everything in this world that +came to him as rather amusing--if not too troublesome. + +‘_Ma foi!_’ he observed, with a quaint look, but very good-naturedly; +‘they told me in the train that I should be surprised at the Thanshope +people, and so I am!’ + +‘Perhaps they’ll be equally surprised with you,’ said Myles, concisely. + +‘Well, they may,’ replied Sebastian, coolly. ‘Do you know who I am?’ + +Myles hesitated a moment, much wishing to say, ‘No, I don’t,’ but +integrity got the upper hand; he only put the fact as disagreeably as +he could. + +‘I should suppose you are Mrs. Mallory’s son.’ + +Sebastian turned to the brown-faced, dark-eyed boy who stood behind, +and remarked smilingly, + +‘You see, _I_ am nobody, Hugo; only my mother’s son; and yet here I am +upon my own property.’ + +The youth nodded, and glanced thoughtfully at Myles, who could not +resist going on with the rather perilous game he was playing, and who +remarked drily, + +‘You’ll find that we count a good deal by residence and relationship +here.’ + +‘So!’ said Sebastian, with the amused half-smile still playing about +his lips and in his eyes, to the intense exasperation of Myles, who +naturally saw nothing at all to laugh at in the situation. There was +something, too, about Mallory, which struck a subtle blow at his pride +and self-esteem--something which in his innermost heart he knew to be +superior to himself, though he passionately refused to admit the idea. + +‘Your guess is correct,’ went on Sebastian. ‘I am Mrs. Mallory’s son. +And now I should be glad to know who and what you are--one of my +work-people, perhaps?’ + +The young man did not seem to be at all annoyed at what was taking +place; indeed, there was that in his manner which said that he was +mildly amused with the whole affair. He looked around as he spoke, with +a lazy, criticising glance, but it was the glance, as Myles keenly +felt, of a master, and of one who was accustomed to be a master. He was +surveying his property, and questioning one of his servants. All the +revolutionary element in that servant was in perturbation. + +‘What am I?’ he began, when Sebastian, who had taken off his cap on +entering the office, said suggestively, ‘Hadn’t you better take your +cap off?’ + +‘That is a matter of opinion,’ said Myles, the blood rushing to his +face. ‘It is not the fashion here. As for me, I doff to no man, and but +few women.’ + +‘Ah! well, we won’t quarrel about it. As you say, it is a matter of +opinion,’ said Sebastian, politely; but there was something in the +tone which made Myles feel small, and as if he had been behaving +childishly--not a comforting feeling. + +‘But I interrupted you,’ continued Mallory, who seemed to be acquiring +gradually a sort of interest in the conversation; ‘you were going to +tell me who you are?’ + +‘My name is Myles Heywood, and my business is cut-looking and part of +the over-looking in this factory,’ said Myles. + +‘Heywood,’ repeated Sebastian, his eyes losing their lazy look, +‘Heywood, where have I--ah, yes! A cut-looker--I don’t know what that +is.’ + +‘Likely enough not,’ said Myles. + +‘But it is quite certain that I must learn it,’ pursued Sebastian; +‘what is it, if I may ask?’ + +An uncomfortable sense began to steal over Myles, that Mr. Mallory was +courtesy itself, and that too under considerable provocation. He gave a +short sketch of his business. + +‘Thanks,’ said Sebastian. ‘And now--by-the-by, I am absolutely +forgetting my business--is Mr. Sutcliffe in?’ + +‘Not now: he will be in about an hour.’ + +‘In an hour? Then I must go over the works without him. Is there any +one here who knows all about it--you, perhaps?’ he added quickly, as if +struck by a happy thought. + +The idea of leading Mr. Mallory round the works excited the liveliest +aversion in Myles’s mind. + +‘Wilson, the head-overlooker, is above me. He generally does that,’ +said he. + +‘Wilson--I ought to remember Wilson. He has been here a long time, +hasn’t he?’ + +‘He has,’ said Myles, rather emphatically. + +‘I thought so. Well, where is he?’ + +Myles, despite himself, very much despite himself, felt the influence +of Sebastian’s manner. He would have been glad could he reasonably have +classed him with Frederick Spenceley, but no such classification was +for a moment possible. He wished he had not made that difficulty about +going through the works. He suddenly remembered his voluntary promise +to Adrienne, and felt that he could not tell her he had kept his word. +But too proud, or perhaps too shy, to suddenly change his manner, he +said, in the same curt tone, + +‘He’s going round the works. If you’ll wait a minute I’ll send him to +you.’ + +‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Mallory. + +Myles went out of the office, and across the yard to the factory; and +Mallory, putting his hand upon Hugo’s shoulder, silently pointed to the +workman’s figure, and they watched him until he had gone into the mill. + +‘Hugo, you have not a good ear for English names yet, but I have. I +have heard that man’s name just lately--yesterday, in fact, in the +train as we came from Manchester. He is a fellow I must know something +more about. Did you notice him? He has a splendid face.’ + +‘Splendid manners too, I think,’ said the boy sarcastically. + +‘Yes,’ replied Sebastian meditatively. ‘Heywood! If he had not +mentioned his name when he did, I think I should have lost my temper. +As it is, I shall try another plan. There he goes! What a row comes +from behind that door!’ + +Then they looked through the window. + +‘What a prospect!’ said Sebastian, glancing over the head of his +companion, who leaned with both arms on the window-sill. ‘This +time last week, do you remember? we were with--ah, what was their +name--those girls and their brother?’ + +‘On the Luzern steamer, going to Fluelen,’ said Hugo, his eyes fixed +upon the dead wall opposite. + +‘Just so! Do you remember the sunset, and Mount Pilatus, as we came +back? Well, Pilatus is there now--and we are here.’ + +Hugo made no answer, but Sebastian saw a smile curve his cheek. + +‘Why, you might be pleased rather than not,’ said he. + +‘I am not displeased,’ replied the lad, with the same little smile. + +‘Not displeased that I took a notion about duty into my head, and +whirled you away from Switzerland, and snow-peaks, and Alpine +colouring, to Thanshope, Hugo?’ + +‘Suppose you had obeyed the call of duty without whirling me away--had +left me behind somewhere?’ said Hugo, tranquilly. + +‘Ah, so! That is at the root of it,’ said Sebastian, laughing. ‘What +an odd--ah, here comes the overlooker! Now, Hugo, observe me doing the +merchant-prince, and prepare your artist-eye for some shocks during the +progress we are going to make.’ + +Wilson entered in a state of high excitement. + +‘Mr. Mallory, sir, this _is_ a hunexpected pleasure! I couldn’t believe +it. ‘Ow are you, sir? Well, I ’ope. We’ve looked forward long to this +event.’ + +‘Very well, thank you. I found myself at home sooner than I had +expected--a week earlier. I remember you very well,’ he added. ‘How are +you and your family?’ + +‘As well as possible, sir, thank you,’ said Wilson, pressing the hand +which Sebastian had held out to him. ‘Do I see a friend of yours, +sir?’ he added, looking at Hugo, who was watching the man with the +preternatural solemnity which was one of his ways of showing that he +was amused. + +‘Yes; a very great friend--Mr. Von Birkenau,’ was all Sebastian said, +and added, ‘I want to go through the works. I asked that young fellow +who was here, who----’ + +‘I hope he wasn’t rude, sir. I trust he didn’t make him self +unpleasant,’ said Wilson, fervently. + +‘Why, is he insubordinate usually, or rude to his superiors?’ asked +Sebastian, with a sudden keenness of look, in strong contrast with his +soft voice, and gentle manner. + +‘Insubordinate! no, sir. A better workman or an honester young +fellow never lived; only he’s got the idea that he hasn’t got no +superiors--and it will bring him into trouble. I often tell him so.’ + +‘But he is clever and honest, you say?’ said Sebastian, pausing to ask +the question. + +‘Yes, sir,’ said Wilson, who was fond of Myles, and had been fond of +him for years. ‘He’s got the brains of half a dozen of the usual run, +and you might trust him with untold gold; ay, and more dangerous things +than that. But he is apt to give a little too much of his sauce.’ + +‘Ah! Well, we will go on now, if you please; and when Mr. Sutcliffe +comes in, I’ll get him to go on and lunch with me. I should like to +say a few words to the--“hands,” is it you call them?--if there is any +place where they could come and listen to me.’ + +‘Surely, sir. The big yard will hold them all, and more than them.’ + +‘Then be good enough to lead the way,’ said Sebastian, looking at his +watch suggestively. + +Wilson was a proud and a happy man that morning, as he led the +newly arrived lord of that place through the maze of great rooms +and machinery, and pointed out all the improvements, the wonderful +contrivances for making wood and steel and iron do the work of hands +and feet; all the ‘perfection of mechanism, human and metallic,’ of +which the factory and its contents formed an example. + +Sebastian followed him: his eyes had lost their sleepy look; he asked +many questions, acute enough, for all the indifferent tone of them. +He seemed to have much of the gift which is said to be royal--the eye +which took in with incredible rapidity both details and generalities. +Very little that was to be seen escaped him, including the curious +glances and the loud comments and surmises relative to himself. + +It took an hour to go even quickly through the different rooms, and +then Wilson, saying, ‘This is the last, sir, the warehouse,’ took +them into a large, well-lighted room, in which were some half-dozen +men at work, Myles Heywood in the centre. Sebastian stooped to Hugo, +whispering, + +‘I want to speak to that young fellow alone a few minutes.’ + +Hugo stepped up to a large pile of cloth, seemingly interested in some +mystic marks and figures upon it, which he requested Wilson to explain; +while Sebastian, going on, stopped at Myles’s side, and, looking at his +work said, + +‘That is cut-looking is it?’ + +‘Yes.’ + +‘Well, I’ve learnt something. Listen to me a moment, will you?’ + +Myles looked up inquiringly. + +‘I am going to say something to all these people directly, and I want +you to promise to come and listen to it; will you?’ + +Half vexed, half flattered, Myles looked into Mallory’s face. He had +not given up his notion that the young man was a ‘jackanapes:’ but +if so, the ‘jackanapes’ had a manner that it was not easy for even a +superior person to resist. Myles replied, + +‘Certainly I will come.’ + +He looked as if he were going to add something--in fact it was on the +tip of his tongue to say, ‘I don’t promise to like what I shall hear;’ +but he refrained. He remembered Adrienne and his promise. Yet he had +the conviction that he would dislike what Sebastian had to say. A +Conservative--Southern sympathies, no doubt. What could such an one +have to say that he would like? But he would go, if only to watch till +the cloven foot showed itself. + +At that moment Wilson came up again. + +‘You’ve seen the last of the rooms, sir. If you’re ready, I’ll have the +bell rung, and then we can go out into the yard.’ + +In a few minutes the great bell had clanged out, the engines had been +stopped, the hands were streaming out into the yard. + +Sebastian and Wilson stood upon a huge empty lorrie that was close by +one of the warehouse doors, so that they had nothing to do but step on +to it, which they did, while Myles and his comrades swung themselves on +to the ground, and took their stand in a knot, not far away from this +impromptu platform. + +Sebastian looked keenly at all the upturned faces, while Wilson made a +few brief yet remarkably entangled and involved introductory remarks. + +The overlooker’s voice ceased. He swung himself from the lorrie, and +went and stood with the crowd. + +‘My friends,’ began Sebastian, ‘circumstances have kept me for ten +years away from Lancashire. Perhaps I might still not have made the +necessary effort to return, but for this great struggle which is +going on in America, and whose direct effects will first be felt in +Lancashire. When that began, I felt I had no right to remain any longer +away. I have heard, and one or two little things which I have seen, +even during the few hours I have been in Thanshope, lead me to feel +that the saying is a true one, that you Lancashire men are inclined to +despise an employer who does not know his business, much as you would +despise a workman who did not know his work. The principle is a right +and honest one; and I don’t say that I may not have come under the head +of those who deserve some contempt as being ignorant, and “absentee +owners.” Even since I came here, I have discovered that I never knew +what work was before; I see that my task will be no easy one, to master +the principles of my business, and to try and provide in some degree +against the dark days which, I fear, are almost inevitable. But, hard +or easy, it is a task I mean to learn. The time is coming, as I think +all thoughtful men must see--coming rapidly, when Lancashire will have +to exert every effort to meet that distress which will rush upon her; +that cloud that is hastening across the Atlantic is a very black cloud, +and will make the days very dark. Let us try manfully, hand in hand, to +breast the storm together. + +‘I suppose that you all, or nearly all, will agree with me upon at +least one point--sympathy with the Federal side in this struggle. +(A murmur, deep and strong, of profound approbation arose--a murmur +in which men’s and women’s voices alike joined.) ‘That noble man, +Abraham Lincoln, against whose honour the Southern press has lifted its +impotent voice--not to mention some journals in this country, which +Englishmen ought to be ashamed to read--that noble man, should he live +and be fortunate in his grand crusade, will benefit all the world +by his intrepidity. He cannot give you cheap and abundant supplies +of cotton now, but by his courage and wisdom he is securing your +future supplies upon a firm basis, very different from the slippery +vantage-ground of slave-labour upon which they have hitherto depended. +(Another murmur indicative of that approval which, to their honour, +Lancashire working-men and women, throughout those bitter years, gave +to the Federal side, greeted the speaker.) + +‘I understand that you Lancashire men, especially you Thanshope +men, think a great deal of politics and principles. So you ought, +considering who is your member, and that other great name which is +connected with Thanshope. I also know that in spite of the strong +Conservative element amongst your gentry, and, they tell me, amongst +the workmen too’ (a voice: ‘Conservative working-man--there’s no such +thing!’)--‘in spite of this alleged Conservative element, you have +always, since you first returned a representative to Parliament, +returned a Radical. + +‘I was not aware of the strength of the feeling upon this point in +Thanshope. I have always myself held politics to be secondary to some +other subjects, but, since I find so much interest centred round the +point here, and moreover, since persons whom I have met and spoken to +have treated me on the tacit assumption that I was a Conservative, +I judge it as well to tell you, face to face, that whatever I may be +on other matters, in politics I am no Conservative, but a Radical. +Of course there are almost as many kinds of Radicals as there are of +Dissenters. The details of my radicalism and those of your radicalism +are, I dare say, somewhat different; but I hope we shall both be able +to respect the principle and never mind the form. + +‘Now I will not keep you longer--only let me say, finally, I am here to +learn my business, and to try to guide my ship through the storm that +is coming. Thanshope, as you know, is one of the places where the pinch +of distress will be soonest felt, since the counts of yarns used here +are precisely those the supply of which will soonest fall off. I ask a +promise from you, and I make one to you. In that time that is coming I +ask you to trust me--my feelings and intentions towards you, and on my +part I promise to strain every nerve to do my duty by you. We will work +on as long as there is cotton to be had, and then--I trust, for your +sakes, and mine, and that of humanity at large, that it will not be +long that I shall have to help you in your fight to keep the wolf from +the door.’ + +He stopped, bowed, and was turning away, when they gave him a hearty +cheer; and one or two voices informed him laconically that they +‘reckoned he was one o’ th’ reet sort,’ and that ‘he’d suit.’ + +He jumped down from the lorrie, joined Wilson and his friend Hugo, and +went with them towards the office. The engineer returned to his post; +soon the busy machinery was in full roar again, as if there had been no +such thing as war--no such parties as Federals and Confederates. The +interruption to the morning’s work was already a thing of the past--an +incident to be talked about. + +Myles Heywood maintained entire silence upon the subject, nor could any +one of all who inquired of him get him to say what he thought of the +new master. He might have deep thoughts about it--at least they were +unexpressed. The rest of the hands talked the event over with lively +excitement. The general impression was a favourable one. The men liked +what he had said, though he was generally pronounced to be a ‘bit too +much of a swell,’ and it was agreed that he ‘spoke rather fine,’ and, +they said, minced his words too much; was, in short, rather too much +of a fine gentleman. Otherwise he was considered sound, and they were +pleased to find him on the right side in politics. + +The women, too, liked him, for reasons apparently similar to those +alleged by Peter van den Bosch, as their grounds for liking Philip van +Artevelde, + + ‘And wenches who were there, said Artevelde + Was a sweet name, and musical to hear.’ + +Mary Heywood, at least, said she ‘liked the chap: he had siccan a soft +voice, and a nice, smooth-soundin’ name, like.’ + +The general conclusion was a very Lancashire one; that the young man +had spoken well and reasonably; sensibly enough for a person who knew +nothing about his business, but that ‘fair words butter no parsnips;’ +and the conjecture may reasonably be hazarded whether Sebastian’s +speech had induced any one of his hearers to form a decided opinion, +good or bad, of him. They waited to see, and indeed the time was +striding forward with fearful rapidity, nearer and nearer, when the +sincerity of his profession should be put to the proof. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +INITIATION. + + +Sebastian and Hugo drove away from the factory, accompanied by Mr. +Sutcliffe, the manager and head man of the business. Arrived at the +Oakenrod, Mallory and his manager retired to the library, and there +plunged straight into business. + +Mr. Sutcliffe was a small, mild-looking man, with eyes that were keen +despite his nervous, almost timid expression, a bald head, spectacles, +a gentle smile, and a large bundle of what he called ‘documents.’ + +Over these documents he and Sebastian remained absorbed until luncheon +was announced. They tarried not long over that meal. Hugo von Birkenau +appeared to be a very familiar friend, for Sebastian made no excuse +for leaving him, and with a slight apology to his mother he and Mr. +Sutcliffe returned to the library. + +An hour, two, three hours passed, chiefly occupied in expositions +from Mr. Sutcliffe on the nature of the business, its principles, +and the method of carrying it on. Sebastian’s part consisted chiefly +in listening, naturally; but every now and then he interposed with a +question--questions so much to the point, and showing such discernment +and discrimination, that Mr. Sutcliffe, who had at first begun his task +with some constraint and great dryness of manner and tone, brightened +visibly every minute; his tone grew warmer, his manner more animated, +his eyes flashed now and then. Thus the interview went on, until Mr. +Sutcliffe, laying down a bundle of papers, whose import he had just +explained, took up another bundle, and was beginning-- + +‘These refer to the----’ + +But Sebastian interrupted him. + +‘Excuse me, Mr. Sutcliffe. Suppose we lay aside business for to-day. +I want to ask you some other questions. With such a manager as you, I +have no fear of things going wrong.’ + +Mr. Sutcliffe smiled. + +‘Judging from what I have heard and seen of you, Mr. Mallory, +you will soon be in a position to manage your own business. You +must not feel offended when I say that I have been most agreeably +disappointed--surprised is perhaps rather the word.’ + +Sebastian smiled a little. + +‘I am a fearfully indolent fellow, I believe,’ said he. ‘I take a lot +of rousing; but once set me to plod at a thing, and I continue until I +understand it--at least, I think so.’ + +‘That is a very modest way of describing your ready comprehension of +details which must be as strange to you as those we have just been +discussing. But that’s neither here nor there; you wanted some other +information?’ + +‘I suppose you are pretty well acquainted with the different parties, +social and political, in the town, and with the characters, at any +rate, of the leading people?’ + +‘I may say that I certainly am.’ + +‘Well, to begin with, I wish you would tell me candidly what character +is borne by my own concern and the management of it?’ + +Mr. Sutcliffe looked up quickly, an almost startled expression upon his +face. + +‘That is rather a delicate matter,’ he began. + +‘Yes, I suppose it is. But I am sure you will be frank with me. I +drew my own conclusions from what I saw and heard this morning, and +I want to find out if your account agrees with them. Never mind how +disagreeable it may be.’ + +‘Your works, then, bear a very high reputation in many respects. Your +hands are as decent and as steady a lot as any in the town, take them +all in all. Things are generally peaceable. It is looked upon, and with +justice, as an increasing, thoroughly prosperous concern. Our goods, +both yarns and cloth, have got a name. I like the men who are under me, +and I think they like me--Wilson, and Heywood, and the others. I think +I have succeeded in keeping things right; but----’ + +‘Well?’ + +‘There are some misunderstandings about yourself--some prejudices. They +don’t like absentee owners here, and that’s a fact. But I’m sure that +impression will soon be effaced, now that you are here yourself. If you +show them that you don’t mean play----’ + +Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. + +‘_Mon Dieu!_ There does not seem to be much question of play. I never +saw anything so oppressively in earnest as every one here seems to be. +It is stamped upon almost every face you meet. Certainly I am not in +play.’ + +‘Then they will soon find that out, and respect you accordingly.’ + +‘But that is not all you were going to say?’ + +‘It may seem a small kind of complaint to make; but it’s better to let +you know the truth at once. There certainly is a feeling against Mrs. +Mallory.’ + +Sebastian looked up in surprise. + +‘Against my mother? What has she to do with it?’ + +‘A feeling that she is not sufficiently liberal in her ideas, and that +she would, if she could get the authority, interfere unduly in matters +which, with the utmost respect to her, she does not understand, never +having had occasion to study them. I am bound to say that, though I +have never had anything like a dispute with Mrs. Mallory, yet that is +my own impression too, and that is one reason why I rejoice at your +return. You are now the final authority.’ + +The murder was out, and Mr. Sutcliffe’s shrewd eyes watched the young +man’s face attentively. He did not look angry, did not look even +annoyed, but rather thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, + +‘I am glad you mentioned it. Of course that is not a topic for +discussion. As you said, my presence will make all the difference. Is +that all about my own works?’ + +‘Yes. I don’t think there is anything else.’ + +‘Who are the leading men here?’ + +‘So far as money goes, there are a good many big men here. Mr. +Spenceley is reported to be the richest, and I believe report is right.’ + +‘Spenceley! Ah! What about him?’ + +‘He is a spinner; does an enormous trade. They say he has been +speculating rather too much lately. He has a certain influence in some +quarters, but it is an influence that will die with him.’ + +‘How so?’ + +‘He has only a son and a daughter, and the son is probably the biggest +blackguard in the place; he will never have any influence. The +daughter, I hear, is rather an eccentric young lady.’ + +‘Oh!’ was all Sebastian said. + +Mr. Sutcliffe went on, + +‘The son I believe, is a very black sheep. It was only a week or two +ago that he insulted some young woman--in a small place, you see, these +things make a good deal of noise--in a most abominable manner; but he +was punished for that, for the girl’s sweetheart--at least that is +one of the tales, I don’t believe it myself; but one thing is quite +certain, a young working-man followed him to his club that very night, +and gave him a good hiding in the billiard-room. No one, I don’t think +one soul, was sorry for him. The feeling was so dead against him that +he did not even prosecute.’ + +‘I have heard some account of it. But don’t you know who the young man +was who did it?’ + +Mr. Sutcliffe smiled a little as he said, + +‘In my own mind, I believe I could lay my finger upon the man; but as I +thoroughly respect him for what he did, and should be sorry to get him +into trouble, I shall keep quiet about it.’ + +Sebastian looked inquiringly at him. + +‘I believe the man was one of your own work-people--Heywood, a fellow I +have known from the time when he first came as a half-timer.’ + +‘I have seen the man. You think it was he. Why?’ + +‘Partly because I was passing the club-door at the very time of the +row, and saw him come out of it, looking rather dangerous, with a +couple of straps in his hand; and, secondly, because when it has been +discussed, which you will easily believe has been pretty actively, he +has looked embarrassed, and kept perfect silence upon the subject.’ + +Sebastian nodded. + +‘Miss Spenceley is a great friend of Mrs. Mallory,’ went on the +manager. ‘But that’s neither here nor there; only they are about +the biggest people, in a money point of view, in the place. There +are several other families something like them. Then there’s Canon +Ponsonby, the radical parson, our vicar, a very fine old gentleman; +you will like him. He is respected by all who are themselves worthy of +respect, be they Churchmen or dissenters.’ + +‘Naturally the feeling here is radical?’ + +‘Tremendous; and North, almost to a man. Lots of these working-men know +what’s coming; and it _is_ coming upon them too, like the very devil. +They’ll tell you they know the cotton must run out soon, or run up to +such a price that we can hardly get it. But if they have to do without +it, or with Surats----’ + +‘What on earth is “Surats”?’ + +‘Indian cotton; abominable stuff to work. Haven’t you--but of course +you haven’t--heard of the weaver who put up the prayer, “O Lord! send +us cotton; _but not Surats_!” But if they have to work Surats, they’ll +stick to it that North is right, and South wrong; and they’ll clem +rather than have anything to say to Jeff Davis.’ + +‘How soon do you think distress will begin?’ + +‘I think we shall have to shut up shop by Christmas. It’s of no use +talking much about it beforehand. All I can say is, there’s a time +coming which will prove Lancashire once for all, her rich and her poor +alike; and show them up to the world in a light as fierce as that +of the midday sun. We shall get to see the stuff we’re made of. And +there’s half-past five; I must go.’ + +‘Won’t you stay and dine with us?’ + +‘I have another engagement, thank you. To-morrow, at the same time, Mr. +Mallory, we will resume the discussion, if you feel so inclined.’ + +‘Certainly. I shall expect you. Good evening.’ + +He was left, leaning against the mantelpiece, to reflect upon what had +passed. + +A tap at the door was followed by the entrance of his mother. + +‘Have you finished at last, Sebastian? I have had no opportunity to +tell you that I am expecting a friend to dine with us to-night.’ + +‘Oh, are you? Who may he be?’ + +‘She is Helena Spenceley, a very great favourite of mine. If my son +will spend all his time away from home, I am obliged to find some kind +of a substitute, you know. She has been almost like a daughter to me.’ + +‘Any relative of the young man who recently distinguished himself by +earning a thrashing?’ + +Mrs. Mallory looked annoyed. + +‘He is her brother,’ said she coldly. ‘He is away from home now. You +must not judge Helena by him. Poor girl! She has a sad, unhappy home. +I believe I really have been a friend to her. And I like to see young +people about me.’ + +‘Yes, of course.’ + +‘I hope you have no engagement?’ + +‘None at all. I shall be delighted to make Miss Spenceley’s +acquaintance.’ + +She retired, after casting a comprehensive glance around at the papers +which strewed the table. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +THE TWO RADICALS. + + +Mrs. Mallory came into her drawing-room twenty minutes before the +dinner-hour, and found her son already there, alone, already dressed, +and stretched, in an attitude of extreme laziness, in an arm-chair by +the fire. + +There was likeness between the mother and son--strong likeness; and +there was also, what most people forget in comparing relations with +one another, strong unlikeness. Mrs. Mallory was an elegant-looking +and a young-looking woman. She had an impassive, pale face, with thin +lips and a high nose; pale, flaxen hair, without a grey streak in its +glossy abundance; and the elegant trifle of lace and feathers which she +wore upon it made her look still younger and handsomer. She was dressed +in pale lavender silk and white lace, and she looked a very handsome, +prosperous person, as she came in, casting a glance at Sebastian--a +sharp, keen, calculating glance. Mrs. Mallory loved power, and had long +exercised it; she did not realise that her son had grown from a boy +into a man since she had known him. She had the lowest possible opinion +of the natural penetration of men; and circumstances had fostered that +impression. There is a great deal in having once lived for a term of +years in close intercourse with a person very decidedly one’s inferior +in intellect, as in the case of Mrs. Mallory and her late husband. +There is nothing like it for giving one an overweening idea of one’s +own capacities, and for fostering an attitude of contemptuous tolerance +towards the opinions of every one else. Mrs. Mallory’s experience of +her husband had entailed, as one of its indirect sequences, that she +was completely deceived now by the lazy, languid manner of her son. +In this most agreeable of convictions, that of mental supremacy over +the rest of the company, let her tranquilly abide, until her hour of +disillusion arrives. + +‘Mother, it is too absurd that I should have to go about representing +myself as your son! Couldn’t you pass as my sister?’ + +‘Nonsense! Where is your friend?’ + +‘Dressing, I suppose. He was greatly excited at hearing that a young +lady was expected to dine with us.’ + +Mrs. Mallory had some remarks to make _à propos_ of the young lady, but +she deferred them for a moment in order to inquire, + +‘What have you been doing all day?’ + +And she placed herself in an easy-chair opposite to his, and held a +feathery screen between her face and the fire. + +‘I have been, like a good little boy, attending to my lessons,’ said +her son, lazily. + +‘Ah, don’t speak in parables! I have forgotten how. In this dreadful +place every one says the most disagreeable things they can think of, +in the most disagreeable way they can think of, and then call it being +honest and candid. And if you can contrive to drop a few h’s, and speak +in a broad Lancashire dialect at the same time, you are thought very +honest and candid indeed. I detest the place!’ + +‘Do you really, mother? I wonder you have remained here so long.’ + +‘I have tried to do my duty, Sebastian, to you and your property. A +woman must make up her mind to sacrifice herself--a mother above all +others.’ + +‘I am infinitely obliged to you, mother, but I trust that now you will +have a long and complete rest. I am going to learn my business----’ + +‘Very proper, but I think it will take you some time. With your habits, +I am afraid you will find it a frightful bore.’ + +‘Do you know my habits, mother?’ he inquired in the very quietest of +voices. + +Mrs. Mallory looked at him in some surprise. As a matter of fact, she +did not know his habits in the very least. But, looking at him as he +lounged in his easy-chair, with the newspaper across his knees, she +said within herself, and prided herself upon her discernment, + +‘His father all over: weak and idle, though he has more surface +quickness. I don’t think I shall have much trouble with him.’ + +‘At least I know, dear, that your habits have not been those of +Thanshope business men. But I suppose your first object will be to go +over the works and see your people?’ + +‘I have been over the works, and have seen my people, and spoken to +them.’ + +‘When--why did you not tell me?’ she asked vivaciously, and with no +little vexation. ‘You should not be so impetuous, Sebastian.’ + +He laughed. + +‘The first time I was ever accused of impetuousness. It shows indeed +that you don’t know my habits.’ + +This was annoying, though it was impossible to complain about it. + +‘These people will not bear to be treated unceremoniously, though they +are such bears themselves.’ + +‘I am not aware that I did treat them unceremoniously.’ + +‘What did you say to them?’ she asked, curiosity getting the better +of vexation. ‘I wish you had not been so hasty. A speech of that kind +requires both consideration and careful management I hope you did +not commit yourself. They are such frightful people for taking up +one’s most innocent remarks and construing them into something quite +different from what one intended.’ + +Mrs. Mallory spoke feelingly, as if from experience. + +‘Are they? Well, I don’t know that I committed myself to anything from +which I should wish to back out later. Indeed, I am not a fellow who +is given to backing out of his promises--but then I make so few,’ he +added, thoughtfully. ‘I simply told them I was afraid there were bad +times coming, and that we must stand by each other in them. And I said +a few words on politics.’ + +‘My dear boy! how foolish! Excuse me, but it was. They are rabid +Radicals, and have a prejudice against you already--one of their +horrid, narrow-minded prejudices, and to mention that you were a +Conservative would certainly not improve your situation.’ + +Sebastian looked a little surprised. + +‘How odd it is! Why should I tell them I was a Conservative when I am a +Radical? I spoke the truth of course.’ + +Not Mrs. Transome herself could have been more horrified at Harold’s +declaration of his views than was Mrs. Mallory at this avowal by +her son. She forgot to shade that complexion, which was not as the +complexions of other women of six-and-forty. She laid her screen +down, sat bolt upright, without the pretence of any amiability in her +expression, and said sharply, + +‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself!’ + +‘I am truly sorry that I cannot oblige you by feeling so.’ + +‘You have no respect for your father, or your grandfather--for any of +your forefathers,’ said she, sullenly. ‘Every man here who can boast of +a grandfather, much more a man of good old family like yours, ought to +be a Conservative out of pure self-respect. No! You have no respect for +your ancestors or for yourself.’ + +‘_Mon Dieu!_ I think I have as much respect for them as they deserve. +Do you think ancestors are really of much use? But at least I have more +respect for their memories than to imagine that they would wish me +simply to sit down and hobnob with the first opinions that happened to +be offered to me. Since I have inherited my name and my tendencies of +mind from them, I must also have inherited my brains and my reasoning +powers from them. I have an inquiring mind, a thing, my dear mother, +which is not spontaneously generated, but developed.’ + +‘That is wicked nonsense, Sebastian. I won’t allow it.’ + +‘But you will allow me to explain my opinions to you, I am sure. That +is always better, and saves so many misunderstandings.’ + +‘I see without explanation that you are a renegade to your fathers, and +have degraded yourself to the level of these horrid, insolent Radicals; +yes, to the level of these grasping, dirty, presuming work-people. +I hate them, Sebastian; I cannot tell you how I hate all Radicals. +How can you refuse any of the demands of these odious people now, +professing, as you do, their own opinions?’ + +‘I don’t know what their opinions may be, I am sure. Probably not at +all the same as mine. But I was going to mention that, in my quite +early youth, I once read a little sentence which made a deep impression +upon my mind. It ran thus: “Those who believe that heaven is what earth +has been--a monopoly in the hands of a favoured few, would do well to +reconsider their opinion; if they find that it came from their priest +or their grandmother, they could not do better than reject it.”’ + +‘I call that impiety,’ said she, her lips tightening. + +‘Allow me to finish,’ said he, courteously. ‘I read between the +lines of that little remark, and applied the principle contained in +it to a great many other things beside those mentioned in the text; +and the result of my continued use of that principle, as a test of +institutions, opinions, and customs, has been that I am a Radical.’ + +‘It is an odious and an impious principle,’ said Mrs. Mallory, with +cold and bitter anger in her voice, ‘and it is a principle to which I +will never give my countenance.’ + +The shock had been not a small one of finding that Sebastian called +himself by the name she hated, as the formula of the sum of the +opinions of Thanshope--Radical. But a yet greater shock was that +of finding, that though he seemed so soft and pliable, spoke so +indifferently, smiled so languidly, yet that she could no more bend +him, nor apparently impress him, than she could stem the incoming tide +of the ocean. + +Sebastian had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. Mrs. Mallory +glanced at him once, sideways, and caught his eye. That was annoying in +itself: it vexed and angered her because he was smiling. + +‘I am sorry you don’t like it, mother,’ he said quite pleasantly and +cheerfully, but not in the least apologetically; ‘and yet, do you +know, considering the letters you have had from me, and my perfect +frankness as to the society I have most sought and enjoyed, I think +you might have been prepared for it, even if I never explicitly stated +my convictions.’ + +This was also true. He had a most annoying way of being in the right. + +‘Convictions? Oh, I dislike that talk about convictions. When people +want to annoy their best friends, they call their conduct the result of +convictions.’ + +‘The impertinence of circumstances is certainly very great sometimes,’ +assented Sebastian, leaning against the mantelpiece, and she, as she +tapped her foot impatiently upon the floor, would hardly have been +flattered to find that he was thinking: + +‘I must let her rail against it until it begins to be tiresome--perhaps +she may see the wisdom of stopping before then. I suppose one must +make allowances for the disappointment of a woman whose prejudices (or +convictions?) have been offended; but it would be wasting words to +reason with her about it, and soon, I suppose, she will learn to accept +the circumstances and make the best of it.’ + +He had no wish or intention of being disrespectful. Simply, he had +‘beaten his music out’ with more difficulty than any one knew, save +himself, and was mildly surprised to find that the resulting harmony, +which sounded not ill in his own ears, should cause his mother such +shuddering, should fall so discordantly upon her perceptions. He had +no more idea of interrupting the flow of that harmony than he had of +sharing his ample estate with all the paupers in Thanshope. + +Fortunately, at this juncture, Hugo came into the room, his odd, +original young face looking still more peculiar in contrast with his +careful evening dress, and before many words had been exchanged ‘Miss +Spenceley’ was announced. + +Sebastian turned, with the story of Frederick Spenceley and his already +conceived contempt for him strong in his mind, to confront Frederick +Spenceley’s sister. His glance softened as it fell upon the girl +advancing towards his mother. + +Had he wandered through all the cities of Europe and seen their lovely +women, in order to come home and find in a provincial manufacturing +town a daughter of the people more beautiful than any of them? + +‘Helena, my love, let me introduce my son, who has arrived sooner than +I expected. Sebastian, Miss Spenceley.’ + +A profound bow on his part, and a rather careless, not very +sophisticated inclination of her beautiful head on hers, was the result +of these phrases of politeness. + +‘My son’s friend, Mr. von Birkenau,’ was then introduced, and received +the same notice exactly, a notice graceful and even dignified, because +she could not help all her movements being graceful and dignified. + +‘Like my daughter,’ Mrs. Mallory had said, and as she spoke to Helena +Spenceley her voice assuredly took a tender accent; she glanced over +the young lady’s costly dress, and smoothed down a lace ruffle with +the affectionate familiarity of a very intimate friend or much-loved +relative. + +Miss Spenceley remained standing on the hearthrug, talking to Mrs. +Mallory--a lovely, noble figure, tall, slim, and shapely, with the +exquisite elasticity of perfect health in every line. + +‘Splendid!’ said Sebastian, in his own mind; and splendid expressed her +appearance and her character both. From her great dark, soft eyes, her +dusky hair, in its delicate unruly little rings and tendrils, her ripe +red lips, set in a delicious curve of mirth, frankness, and wilfulness, +down to her rich dress and sparkling rings, she was all splendid, +without being in the least vulgar. + +‘Dear child, what a long time it is since I saw you!’ said Mrs. Mallory. + +‘Yes. I have been busy. How nice this fire is, Mrs. Mallory. I do +believe we have not had one at our house yet. Perhaps it is lighted on +your behalf?’ she added, turning to Sebastian with a somewhat malicious +smile. + +‘Mine? Not so far as I am aware. What makes you think so?’ + +‘You have been living in warm countries lately, and Thanshope is not a +warm place, but one of those towns where we have to use a lot of coals +to make up for the want of sunshine!’ + +‘Yes, indeed!’ said Mrs. Mallory, shivering. + +‘I have not had time to miss the sunshine, or to enjoy it, if there had +been any, since I came,’ said Sebastian, his glance dwelling almost +involuntarily upon her as she stood there, her eyes flashing back the +firelight, and looking herself (he thought) like some bright living +flame, or some tropical flower. + +He could not understand her. There was nothing vulgar about her; her +voice was pleasant and, though distinctly northern in its clear accent, +was not in the least uneducated in its pronunciation of words; she had +ease, grace, self-possession of carriage; apparently she was devoid +altogether of self-consciousness; all of which things were surely +signs of good breeding; and yet she was not in the least like the many +well-bred girls whom he had met in society up and down the world--in +Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and other places. He wondered what she could +talk about, and whether she talked well. + +Dinner was announced, and he led her into the dining-room. Hugo von +Birkenau was talking with much animation to Mrs. Mallory, as was +his wont, though she did not appear to find him a very interesting +companion. + +Helena Spenceley, suddenly turning to Sebastian, said, + +‘I know quite well where you have been. I have followed your course +with the greatest interest Mrs. Mallory used always to tell me where +you went, and sometimes read me bits of your letters.’ + +‘Did she? I wish I had known.’ + +‘Do you? Why?’ she asked, looking at him with a certain bright +attentiveness, and waiting with evident interest for his answer. + +Certainly she was not like other girls. Another girl would have known +directly that he meant a kind of vague compliment by his aimless +phrase; but she said ‘Why?’ + +‘If I had known, perhaps I might have written rather more carefully +considered epistles to my mother,’ he said, and felt that it was, and +sounded, a lame reply. + +‘That would have been a pity, for the sake of a person you had never +seen and did not know,’ she said, the smile fading from her face. + +Sebastian felt he had made a bad beginning. It began to be rather +dreadful, when she went on quite seriously, + +‘Do you mean that if you had thought your letters were read aloud you +would have made them into set compositions to please an audience?’ + +‘I think it is a matter of no importance whatever. Letter-writing is +not my _forte_. I am too lazy.’ + +‘Oh, they were very interesting letters,’ said Helena, naïvely. ‘But +how can you talk about being lazy! If only I had had such chances!’ She +shook her head. + +‘I should think you had the chance of doing whatever you pleased,’ he +said, smiling. + +Helena did not respond to the smile. Her face, intensely expressive, +darkened visibly. Her eyes sank. + +‘No,’ said she, coldly. ‘You are quite mistaken. Whatever pleasures +and enjoyments I have had in my life have been procured for me by the +kindness of Mrs. Mallory. She has been so good to me!’ She looked at +him with eyes tragic in the earnestness of their expression. + +Sebastian, glancing down the table, saw that Hugo’s eyes were fixed +upon her in a perfect trance of admiration. + +‘Then you have never been abroad?’ said he. + +‘I--no! I have been nowhere except to London once or twice--oh, and to +Brighton with Mrs. Mallory. I don’t want to go anywhere.’ + +‘You are such a home-bird?’ + +He saw immediately that he had asked an unfortunate question. The blood +rushed over her face as she replied, again coldly, + +‘Oh no! I think all that stuff about “home, sweet home,” and that, is +the most wearisome nonsense imaginable. I hate it.... Did you study the +position of women at all when you were abroad?’ + +Sebastian looked at her. She was perfectly grave, serious, and +judicial. The ‘Woman Question’ had not been forced so far to the front +in 1861 as in 1878, and Sebastian was proportionately surprised to hear +that question from so young, rich, and beautiful a woman as Helena +Spenceley. + +‘I’m afraid I was rather remiss in that respect. But one sees their +position without studying it, I think.’ + +‘And what do you think about it? Is it what it ought to be? But that is +a foolish question. It is not what it ought to be, anywhere. It never +will be what it ought to be, until women themselves rise and refuse any +longer to submit to their own degradation. Don’t you think so?’ + +‘Really I am afraid I have not thought much at all upon the question.’ + +‘I suppose the idea has not yet penetrated to France and Germany. It +will have to come, though, sooner or later. The German woman, for +instance--is she in bonds, or emancipated?’ + +‘As how?’ + +‘Is the German woman the slave of the German man, or has she a position +of her own?’ + +A malign spirit took possession of Sebastian. Mrs. Mallory and Hugo +were both listening to the discussion, Mrs. Mallory with a shade of +anxiety on her face. Sebastian, after a pause, as if he were profoundly +considering the question, said, + +‘I should say that she combined both those conditions--that she was +very decidedly the slave of the German man, and at the same time had a +distinct position of her own.’ + +‘Really! I wish I had brought my note-book. Pray explain!’ + +‘The German woman’s thoughts are, if I may use such an expression, +directed manwards, _Mann_ being, you know, her word for husband. Her +thoughts, then, are directed _Mann_-wards from her earliest youth--from +the time when she begins to go to school....’ + +‘Horrible!’ said Helena, her eyes fixed in grave earnest upon his face, +so that his gravity was sorely tried. ‘Horrible! Well?’ + +‘I don’t know how much or how little true the report maybe about her +beginning in early youth to prepare her trousseau.’ + +‘Disgusting!’ + +‘But she hears all around her and all her life long conversations on +the subject of matrimony.’ + +‘The end and aim of her existence, poor thing!’ said Helena, with +a pitying smile. ‘Go on! you have studied the subject almost +unconsciously, as every thinking man must.’ + +‘If she reaches the age of one-and-twenty, unmarried, she begins to +wonder what the reason can be of such a thing, and her friends, too, +begin to speculate about it....’ + +‘Naturally!’ said Helena, her eyes flashing and her colour rising, +while Hugo looked preternaturally solemn, except for a gleam in the +depths of his eyes, and Mrs. Mallory’s face wore a puzzled expression. +‘Naturally--she is sold, disposed of before her reasoning powers are +developed. It is very deplorable. Well?’ + +‘But very generally she is married at or before that age, and then----’ + +‘And _then_?’ echoed Helena, waving away the butler’s offer of wine +and leaning eagerly towards Sebastian. ‘And then--what is her life +afterwards, Mr. Mallory? Tell me that!’ + +‘A long course of bondage to husband, children, domestic affairs, and +social exactions.’ + +‘Hideous!’ murmured Helena. ‘What a sad, sad fate! Did you not burn +with indignation every time you witnessed it?’ + +‘I--I----’ + +‘Ah! you did, I know, or you could not have described it so +graphically. And now you will consider the subject, I don’t doubt, and +you will see it in its true light. But you said the German women had +also a distinct position of their own. How do you account for that?’ + +‘They have. The very fact of their bondage gives them a sort of +distinguishing rank. They have been accustomed to it for so long, that +now they glory in it. If you were to attempt to inspire them with your +enlightened notions, they would probably scoff at you; you would appear +as dark to them as they to you.’ + +Helena looked at him with such intense earnestness and expressiveness, +that Sebastian began to feel somewhat embarrassed. + +‘What an odd girl she is!’ he thought. ‘And how, in Heaven’s name, +shall I get out of this mess that I have got into? I can’t let her go +without offering some explanation.’ + +‘You grieve me,’ said Helena, in a sorrowful voice. ‘I had no idea it +was so bad as that.’ + +Here Mrs. Mallory rose in a dignified though perplexed silence, and +they all went into the drawing-room. + +Arrived there, Sebastian, as in duty bound, asked Helena to play. + +‘I don’t play at all,’ said she. ‘I can’t waste my time upon +practising.’ + +‘_Waste_ your time upon music?’ he asked, wondering whether that were +one of the strong-minded female ideas too. + +‘I have not the power of interpreting music; it would be vanity and +vexation. So I never try. I can just accompany myself in one or two +little songs; that is all.’ + +‘Then you will gratify us by singing one of the said little songs, I am +sure.’ + +Helena went to the piano, sat down, and began to play an introduction. +Sebastian looked at Hugo, with ever so slight a shrug, and they waited. +It was ‘Kathleen Mavourneen.’ But the faces of the two critics changed +gradually from an expression of painful doubt and suspense, to pleased +surprise, pleasure, and a broad smile of delight. A pure, strong, +fresh, sweet soprano voice rang out. There was no attempt at airs and +graces; the severest simplicity and the most unaffected tenderness +sounded in every one of the true, clear notes. + +Mrs. Mallory watched her son covertly, but intently, and saw that +Helena’s music had power to move him. The languor disappeared from +his expression; his head was raised, and his lips parted. Song and +songstress engrossed his attention. + +Mrs. Mallory’s countenance gradually cleared. + +As Helena finished, both Hugo and Sebastian sprang forward, with thanks +and entreaties for something else. + +She paused a moment, and then sang: + + ‘Since first I saw your face, I resolved + To honour and renown ye; + If now I be disdained, I wish + My heart had never known ye! + + ‘What! I that loved, and you that liked, + Shall _we_ begin to wrangle? + No, no, no, my heart is fast, + And cannot disentangle. + + ‘The sun, whose beams most glorious are, + Rejecteth no beholder; + And your sweet beauty, past compare, + Makes my poor eyes the bolder. + + ‘Where beauty moves, and wit delights, + And ties of kindness bind me, + There, oh! there, where’er I go, + I leave my heart behind me.’ + +It is a sweet, tender, quaint old song, and Helena sang it almost +perfectly. She rose when she had finished, and, looking at Hugo, asked +him if he did not play. + +‘Yes,’ said the boy, flushing; ‘but after your voice----’ + +‘Don’t refuse, Hugo,’ put in Sebastian. + +And Hugo seated himself and began to play German music--deep, strange, +and expressive, _con amore_. + +‘But he is a musician--he must be!’ said Helena, turning, with +wide-open eyes, to Sebastian. + +‘Most certainly he is. I believe he has it in him to make a great name +as a composer.’ + +‘How delightful to have a talent, a genius, that gives pleasure to +yourself and every one else! Is he a very great friend of yours?’ + +‘Yes; he is my ward. I have been his guardian now for four years.’ + +‘Ah! if he can compose, he has a life before him--a career!’ sighed +Helena; and her eyes looked dreamingly and longingly before her. + +Sebastian felt strangely attracted to the girl, but as yet he felt +he knew her too little to know whether he should even like her. The +explanation he had to make would serve to bring out some fresh point in +her character. + +Mrs. Mallory was knitting fleecy-white wool by the fireside, and seemed +able to give up Helena’s society on this occasion. Hugo’s fingers +wandered on in one melody after another--melodies like those which +Adrienne Blisset’s fingers most readily wove. + +Helena herself gave Sebastian the opportunity he wished for. + +‘About the German women and their position?’ she began. + +He laughed a little. + +‘I had no idea you were so much in earnest,’ said he. ‘It was a joke.’ + +‘A joke!’ + +She turned to him in amaze. + +‘In this way. What I said was quite true--that _is_ the the position of +the German women; but--but--I thought you would see it--isn’t it the +position of all civilised women? Are not Englishwomen in the same case? +I am sure I think so. I don’t see how any woman who marries can expect +anything else.’ + +The colour rushed in an angry flood over her cheek, and brow, and +throat, as she realised that he had been politely making merriment of +the subject, and that the very point of the joke lay in her having +taken it all as solemn, thoughtful earnest. + +‘You were making fun of me and of the cause: that was very polite of +you!’ she said, her eyes flashing upon him in anger. + +‘I am very sorry,’ he said, with a provoking smile. ‘I was only +describing the position of women in general in a picturesque manner. It +depends upon the feelings of the speaker as to the colouring he gives +to his descriptions.’ + +‘I see,’ said Helena, ‘you are just like any other selfish, unthinking +man--not in earnest. But I am! I think that cause is worthy the +devotion of a woman’s life; and it is what I intend to devote my life +to.’ + +‘Don’t!’ said Sebastian, involuntarily. + +But Helena had been roused to real anger. + +‘Compliments and pretty phrases are all we ever get from men on that +subject,’ she said. ‘All my life I have been sure it was women alone +who must work their own emancipation; and after what you have said +to-night, I am doubly sure of it. Oh! it is horrible to think that +a woman is not even allowed to have a serious thought upon her own +condition; or if she says she has to a man, he laughs at her! There is +one consolation--the laugh dishonours him, not her.’ + +‘But, my dear Miss Spenceley, do let me explain. Do you think you +really have had any experience in such things? Many most accomplished +women think quite differently; the nicest girl I ever knew--I mean +the cleverest and best-informed young lady I ever knew--thought very +differently.’ + +‘Perhaps that was one reason why you thought her so nice. I am sure she +had not been brought up in the school of adversity and experience.’ + +‘Pardon me! She had been brought up in that school alone, and in no +other. I fancy she had attended more of its classes than you.’ + +‘I don’t see how you can know what school I have attended,’ said +Helena, the same sudden, cold, sharp look coming into her eyes and over +her face. ‘And I do not think much of any woman who is indifferent upon +that subject.’ + +‘I did not say she was indifferent,’ said Sebastian; and Helena, +looking at him, saw that he was, in imagination, in some very different +place from his mother’s drawing-room: perhaps thinking of ‘the nicest +girl I ever knew.’ + +‘Don’t you think,’ said he, breaking the angry silence which on her +part had supervened, ‘that the best way of securing your ends would be +for men and women to work together, and----’ + +‘I don’t believe in men’s help in that matter. They are too thoroughly +and naturally selfish ever to give real help in such a cause.’ + +‘Without help you can do nothing,’ he said composedly. + +‘Can we not?’ she replied, setting her lips. + +‘I don’t think that any number of women agitating, and making speeches, +will answer the purpose. The sort of help I mean is such as would be +given by, for instance, husband and wife practically showing how much +they had the subject at heart, by working together and giving in their +lives a specimen of their doctrines. It is not a question that will +ever be settled by public meetings and petitions. It must grow and +evolve, as other social conditions evolve--gradually!’ + +‘Husband and wife!’ said Helena, with a sneer--a sneer so bitter and +unmistakable as to startle him. ‘That is a relation I have put entirely +out of my calculations in this matter. I don’t believe in the existence +of husbands who will give up, and help their wives. I have been able to +study the subject remarkably well....’ + +(‘Mr. Spenceley sits upon Mrs. Spenceley, and the redoubtable Frederick +sits upon them all,’ thought Sebastian.) + +‘And the women who wish to improve their condition must put all such +foolish ideas aside, and feel, as I do, that they can never be tempted +into accepting any such delusory fancies.’ + +‘You feel that?’ he said, smiling. + +‘Yes, I do--to the bottom of my heart.’ + +Helena spoke with emphasis; her eyes flashing, her cheek flushing. +She was very handsome; she was more, splendidly beautiful; ‘but how +untrained, how unreasonable,’ thought Sebastian. ‘How different this +heat and prejudice from the calm, well-balanced judgment, the clear, +philosophical mind, of that other girl, scarcely older than herself. +This raging against the weakness and selfishness of men was very +short-sighted, and rather vulgar, was it not?’ All he said, however, +was, + +‘I am glad you feel so independent. It must give you a sense of +superiority.’ + +‘I never think about such things. I call it vanity to be always +wondering whether you are superior to other people.’ + +She rose and went across the room to talk to Mrs. Mallory. Very soon +she was discussing the merits of a new knitting-pattern, just as if no +such thing as women’s rights had ever been heard of. + +When she had gone, and Hugo had retired, after fervently expressing +his opinion that she was the loveliest, most fascinating, _schönste, +herrlichste_ person he had ever seen, Mrs. Mallory introduced her +intended remarks upon her favourite. Did not Sebastian think her very +lovely? Yes; she certainly was an exquisitely beautiful girl. And +intelligent, too? Undoubtedly; but there was a certain sameness about +her animation. She seemed to rave a good deal upon one subject. + +‘If you knew her surroundings, Sebastian, you would not be surprised, I +assure you. Such a brother! With her high spirit, and rather strained +ideas as to what is honourable and gentlemanly, it must be a bitter +cross to her to have that brother constantly disgracing himself in one +way or another.’ + +‘Yes, that is true.’ + +‘And her father and mother too----’ + +‘Ha! what about them?’ + +‘Her mother is a mere cipher--a handsome, helpless, vulgar woman; +kind-hearted, but absolutely weak in intellect, and the father is a +hard, coarse man, who bullies that unfortunate woman in a disgraceful +manner. He is proud of his daughter, but in a tyrannical, despotic way. +Fortunately for her (I may say it without boasting), he thinks me the +best friend she could have, and places no restraint on her visits to +me. Otherwise, she has not a congenial companion.’ + +‘The benefit must have been immense to her,’ he said. ‘I wondered, +after all I had heard of her family, how she came to be even +so--well-behaved.’ + +‘She ought to marry soon. She would soon calm down if she had a kind +husband, whom she loved.’ + +Sebastian remarked drily that she had forcibly expressed her +determination to eschew any such relationship. + +Mrs. Mallory shook her head, smiling with gentle pity. + +‘So she may say, but her father has very different views for her. She +would be very helpless, cast upon the world, with her beauty, her hasty +disposition, and her large fortune.’ + +‘Has she a fortune, then?’ he asked, with provoking indifference. + +‘Sebastian, that young, warm-hearted girl, with all her enthusiasms and +crotchets, ready to fall into the hands of any adventurer, will have at +least a hundred thousand pounds.’ + +Mrs. Mallory spoke with solemn, impressive manner and tones. She was +watching her son, who seemed to view the matter with a seriousness that +promised well, for he stood, his hands folded behind him, his eyes +fixed upon the carpet, profoundly silent and profoundly grave, till, +looking up with a sudden, humorous smile, he said, + +‘_Ma foi!_ The adventurer who won her, and her hundred thousand pounds, +and her frantic ideas on women’s rights, and the execrations of all the +other adventurers who had tried, and failed to win her--and her family, +who must be most delightful people, I am sure--that adventurer would +have driven the very hardest bargain that could well be imagined. I +pity him, whoever he may be.... Good night, mother. You must excuse me; +I have several things to do to-night. I have my business to learn, you +know.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + ‘“Do so,” said Socrates; “here is room by me.” + + ‘“Oh, Jupiter!” exclaimed Alcibiades, “what I endure from that man! + He thinks to subdue every way.”’ + + +In a week from that time the master’s face was beginning to be familiar +to his work-people; and his business and its details were beginning to +be a little less strange to him. Whatever Sebastian thought, felt, or +endured, in the change so complete and entire, of habits, customs, and +surroundings--and the contrast, and the effort to grow accustomed to it +must have been pretty severe at times--he said nothing--made absolutely +no remark, but quietly ‘went at it,’ with a cool, calm, comprehensive +energy which amazed Wilson and the other secondary officials, and +delighted little Mr. Sutcliffe. + +It seemed as if, from the moment in which the young man had entered the +place, work had walked up to him, ready to his hand, and that hand had +grappled with it, and that head had bent itself to the understanding +of it, without thought or intention of ever turning back, until the +task were accomplished. His place was ready for him, and he stepped +into it. He had a tenacious memory; he was rather fond of saying that +it was the only mental advantage he possessed. He was a very quiet, +undemonstrative person--never paraded any likes or dislikes: at the end +of a week, his mother was amazed and angry to find, that though he had +so completely worsted her on that eventful night when Helena Spenceley +had dined with them, yet that she did not discover any pronounced +points of character in him--no particular weaknesses or predilections +on which she could lay hold, as handles by which to manage him. This +annoyed her excessively: she puzzled over it, and tried to find a way +out of it, and was, almost unknowingly to herself, nourishing towards +her son an attitude which was beginning to be one of opposition. + +Sebastian’s retentive memory held, amongst the other figures with which +it was peopled, that of Myles Heywood in a conspicuous and prominent +place. A most distinct impression remained in his mind of the workman’s +defiant attitude and words. What Sebastian felt towards the young man +would make too long a tale, and involve too much dry psychological +analysis, to be here recorded. Mrs. Mallory had most truly told her son +that whether she knew his habits or not, she was sure they were not +the habits of Thanshope business men. Something happened just about +this time--and Sebastian’s method of treating the matter would probably +have made the hair of a Thanshope business man stand on end, or called +forth from his tongue emphatically Doric epithets as to the young +mill-owner’s sanity, and mental capacity in general. + +Sebastian never beheld Myles’s firmly set lips and sharply contracting +eyebrows without wondering whether those strongly marked features were +merely signs of an absolutely crabbed disposition and bad temper, or +whether they were only traits of a hot temper and quick disposition. +He tried in half a dozen ways to find out, but in vain. Myles put on a +silent dignity and reserve equal to Sebastian’s own, until at last pure +accident put the matter to the test. + +Some irregularity or insubordination had occurred in one of the rooms, +which Sebastian had been discussing with Mr. Sutcliffe, and the latter +had said that some one must be told off on the following day to +superintend that room--some one in authority. The following morning +Sebastian, coming down to the works, entered the outer office, and +found Wilson and Myles there. + +‘Has Mr. Sutcliffe come?’ he inquired. + +‘Yes, sir,’ said Wilson. ‘He’s in his room.’ + +‘Did he give any orders about the beaming-room?’ + +‘No, sir. He hasn’t mentioned it to me.’ + +‘Oh! Well, Heywood, you had better go there and look over them this +morning. I can’t have them idling about as they have been doing. You +had better go at once.’ + +With that, and without waiting for any answer, he stepped forward into +the inner office, and closed the door after him. + +Myles went on with his work for some minutes, and then rose. + +‘If you go to the beaming-room,’ observed Wilson, ‘I must take your +place in the warehouse myself, I suppose.’ + +‘I’m not going to the beaming-room,’ was the tranquil reply. + +‘Not going! But the master----’ + +‘I’m not a Jack-of-all-trades. I know what my business is, and how +long it will take me to do it. It is not my business to overlook the +beaming-room.’ + +‘But Mr. Mallory didn’t know that.’ + +‘So it appears,’ said Myles, with a disagreeable smile. ‘He’ll know it +for the future. It’s all in the way of learning. You can find some one +else to overlook the beamers. I’m off to the warehouse.’ + +With which he departed, leaving Wilson aghast. + +It was through a mere casual question to Wilson that Sebastian found +out, later, what had happened. Wilson’s evident confusion aroused his +suspicions. Dropping his careless tone, he promptly bade the overlooker +tell him all that had passed. + +Wilson stammered out the whole story, even to Myles’s remark about it +‘all being in the way of learning,’ and then stood, looking miserable, +and feeling no less so, listening for the command, ‘Send Heywood to me.’ + +But the command did not come, and Wilson concluded that the dismissal +would perhaps be given through Mr. Sutcliffe. That it would be given, +and that promptly, he did not doubt, nor was he reassured by the +perfect calm and good temper of Mr. Mallory’s expression. + +Several days passed, and still Myles Heywood, without let or hindrance, +pursued his usual avocations undisturbed; and still Mr. Mallory, calm +and good-tempered as ever, continued to learn away at his business; and +still he made no remark upon the act of flagrant insubordination which +had taken place. + +Saturday came some three days after the occurrence just described. +It was late in the afternoon, and work had been over for an hour and +a half, but the mill was not yet closed, for Mr. Mallory and Mr. +Sutcliffe were in the inner office, in consultation, and Ben, the +office boy, stood lounging outside, wishing that his superiors would +bring their parley to an end and let him lock up and get home to his +holiday. + +Within, at that moment, there ensued a little pause, and Sebastian +rose, looking thoughtful, and leaning against the mantelpiece. +Presently he said, + +‘Well, I suppose there is nothing else for it; we had better put up the +half-time notice this afternoon.’ + +‘Yes. There is nothing else for it,’ echoed Mr. Sutcliffe. ‘It will be +no time at all in a few weeks. We can’t hold out much longer.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Sebastian, and again seemed to fall into a train of thought, +until he said, + +‘I wonder how it will all end? What is there in this life of yours, +Mr. Sutcliffe, that gives it its interest? I feel more as if I was +really living now than I ever did before. The cotton trade is on its +last legs, for a time; and a young man who dislikes me has behaved with +insubordination and impertinence; and yet, though there is nothing +intrinsically interesting in those facts, and no connection between +them, I feel intensely interested in both.’ + +‘You will excuse my saying it, Mr. Mallory, but it is not discipline to +have allowed Heywood to remain a single day in your employment after +his openly disobeying an order of yours. It goes very much against my +judgment.’ + +‘I know it is neither business nor discipline,’ said Sebastian, +apologetically; ‘but you must allow me a little tether now and then, +till I am more used to run in harness in this way. I am trying an +experiment in regard to that young man. It is a delightful diversion +from business. How long has he been here, did you say?’ + +‘Fifteen years, and his sister eleven. Except in the strike, four years +ago, they have never missed a day.’ + +‘Exactly, it would decidedly displease me--it would humiliate me to +think that a man who had amicably worked fifteen years during my +absence should have to--hook it within a fortnight after my arrival. +Besides, he is unusually intelligent, and an admirable workman.’ + +‘Ay, he is. He could direct and manage if ever he got a rise in life. +He has a head on his shoulders as good as any one else’s, but that +temper of his will be the ruin of him.’ + +‘I don’t know about that,’ said Sebastian, reflectively, as if +discoursing with himself. ‘That temper of his--I should dearly like to +subdue it.’ + +‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr. Sutcliffe, to whom this was as so much +Sanscrit. + +Sebastian looked up with a smile. + +‘Leave me my own way in this matter, Mr. Sutcliffe. I promise that, if +things do not turn out as I expect, I will dismiss Heywood on Monday.’ + +At this moment Ben put his head in at the door, and remarked, + +‘Please, sir, there’s your carriage, and the young gentleman in it, +a-come for you; and Heywood, he wants to know if he can speak to you.’ + +‘Show him in here, and tell the gentleman I will join him in a few +minutes.’ + +Ben disappeared. Mr. Sutcliffe rose. + +‘I’ll leave you alone with your rebel, Mr. Mallory. I shall be curious +to know whether he has come to beg pardon, or to give notice.’ + +‘For my part,’ said Sebastian, ‘I have no more idea which he will do +than an owl in the parish church tower.’ + +Mr. Sutcliffe laughed and went away, and a moment afterwards Myles +Heywood entered the office. Sebastian, still leaning up against the +mantelpiece, looked at him, and could read nothing from his expression. +He felt that he did not know the man, and he also felt an inexplicable +anxiety that the man should not say he was going to leave his service. + +‘Good afternoon,’ said he, courteously; ‘you wish to speak to me?’ + +Myles had taken off his cap, a sign which Sebastian noted instantly. + +‘Yes,’ said he, slowly, but not ungraciously. ‘You gave me an order the +other day, which I took no notice of, and I spoke of you as I ought not +to have done. I am sorry that I did so, and I beg your pardon.’ + +Sebastian had watched him intently, and with keen interest. He saw that +Myles had strung himself up to say the words from a sheer sense of what +was right and fitting, and from honest conviction that he had done +wrong; not from any sudden leaning towards him, Sebastian. And he saw +that the anxiety and the uneasiness followed, not preceded, the words. +He saw that Myles laid great importance upon the manner in which his +words were taken. + +‘It is granted freely,’ said Mallory. ‘I felt sure that you were +too manly not to do this. You have felt that I had no wish to be +capricious, or put you to work that was not yours, when I gave you that +order?’ + +‘Yes; I have thought it over, and felt that that was the case.’ + +‘You have worked here fifteen years, and it would have troubled me very +much if you had, from any reason, been obliged to leave me as soon as I +got here.’ + +Myles looked up, surprised, but, as Sebastian plainly saw, with a +flush of self-reproach. It had not entered into his calculations that +Sebastian could possibly take any interest in him or his. The latter +went on, + +‘I am new to my work; you must remember that. Another time, don’t let a +mistake go so near costing you your place, and me my best workman.’ + +Myles’s face flushed. + +‘I will certainly bear it in mind,’ said he. ‘I have a hasty temper, +and it leads me astray often, I know.’ + +‘And you do not like me,’ said Sebastian, looking steadily at him. + +Myles’s eyes were also fixed upon his. + +‘I have not liked you,’ he said; ‘I should tell a lie if I said even +now that I liked you; but I respect you. I shall respect you from +this day, and I don’t think you will ever have to complain either of +disrespect or disobedience from me again.’ + +‘You have relieved my mind very much. I am glad we have had this +explanation. It does you credit.’ + +‘The credit is not all with me,’ said Myles, hastily, with a rising +colour and a conscious look, which Sebastian remarked. ‘I had some +advice from some one, that finished it off. I must go now. Good +afternoon.’ + +‘Good afternoon,’ said Sebastian, who would have prolonged the +conversation if he could; but Myles departed, and Sebastian followed +him out of the office. + +Standing just without was Sebastian’s phaeton, with Hugo holding the +reins, and carrying on a conversation with Ben at the same time. +Sebastian heard the words: + +‘Ay, and his mother never got o’er it, hoo didn’t. It were main stupid +o’ Sally Whittaker to say what hoo did----’ + +Ben stopped abruptly and grew very red in the face, as Sebastian tapped +him on the shoulder, inquiring, as he climbed into his place, + +‘What was so stupid?’ + +‘Go on!’ said Hugo to the boy. ‘He’s telling me about a boy that he +knew, who was killed at a factory. Go on! What did Sally Whittaker say?’ + +‘Well, it were i’ this way, yo’ seen. It were at Ormerod’s works as th’ +lad were killed, and Ormerod come round just as they was takin’ th’ +body away on a shutter; and he says, “Now then, where are you boun’?” +he says. And they told him they were for takkin’ him to his mother, +and they doubted it would kill her too, for hoo were main fond on him. +“Eh, what?” he says. “Yo munnot do so. Yo mun one on yo go afore, and +warn her--prepare her like a bit,” he says. “Let one o’ these ’ere +wenches go on afore.” So Sally Whittaker, hoo knew his mother, and hoo +said hoo’d go and tell her, and hoo went on afore. Eh, bi’ th’ mass! +but hoo is a gradely foo’, is Sally Whittaker! and hoo walks into +Emma’s kitchen, and hoo says, straight out, hoo says, “Eh, Emmer, but +troubles is never to seech,” hoo says. “Your Johnny’s killed as dead as +a stoan!”’ + +‘What did the poor woman do?’ asked Sebastian, with interest. + +‘Eh, hoo just dropped the fryin’-pan, and hoo gave a screech yo’ mowt a +yeard down to the town-hall, and then hoo begun to cry, and then they +browt him whoam. Mun I lock up, sir, now? Have you finished?’ + +‘Yes, quite,’ said Sebastian, with a good-natured nod. ‘Lock up, and go +home. You’ve not had much of a holiday this afternoon’ + +‘Bless you, sir, it’s no soart o’ consequence,’ said Ben, with a +gratified look at this mark of attention; and he retired to lock up +again. + +‘Will you drive?’ asked Hugo, when they were alone. + +‘No; I’ll let you drive on, if you will. And, stay! What do you say +to a drive in the country before dinner? It will be daylight for a +long time yet. If there is any country about here?’ he added, with a +disparaging look around. + +‘Oh, lots! While you have been so industriously grubbing away at those +figures, and showing me quite a new phase in your character, I have +been exploring the interior. I know of four separate and distinct +routes to the country. Certainly it is rather stony when one does get +there; but it is country all the same. Will you go north, south, east, +or west?’ + +‘Hurrah for the North!’ said Sebastian, drily. ‘Turn the horses’ heads +towards Yorkshire, _mein Hugo_!’ + +Hugo complied. Very soon they were rattling through the main street. +Hugo’s attention was taken up with the guiding of his cattle. Sebastian +leaned back, a little wearily, and was long silent, until they had +left the town behind them--left the dirty straggling suburb called +Bridgehouse, and passed through the neighbouring manufacturing village +of Hamerton, with its stately houses of gentry and rich mill-owners, +and were put out upon a wide, open road, driving past a solemn old +house called Stanlaw, deeply sunk in trees. Beyond that, the purple +moors spread before them, rising every moment higher and nearer. The +sky was pure, the air sweet. As if with a sudden impulse, they both +turned and looked behind them. A heavy cloud of smoke showed where +Thanshope lay below, in the distance. + +Hugo shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Comfort yourself,’ said Sebastian. ‘It won’t be there long. Soon we +shall see what Thanshope looks like without smoke.’ + +They drove quickly on in the sharp, delicious October afternoon air, +along the upland road. The heather sprang from the very roadside, and +rich, mellow purple, brown, and crimson, the moors spread themselves +around, under the pale, chill blue of the cloudless sky. The peculiar +scent of the ling and heather rose like a pastoral incense around them; +far away glittered the sinuous line of a canal, and a silvery pond or +two. The crack of a gun broke the stillness once or twice. + +‘Did I not tell you I would bring you into the country?’ said Hugo. + +‘You always manage to keep your promises, somehow’ (they were speaking +German now). ‘How goes the music under these changed conditions, Hugo?’ + +The lad smiled his odd smile, and said, + +‘The more prosaic the surroundings, the more need one has of something +like music to brighten them. Don’t you think so?’ + +‘Just so. I only asked because I have not noticed you practising, and +as for sitting down and listening to you--why, the last time I did that +was when Miss Spenceley was at the Oakenrod.’ + +‘You have been so busy. I have practised hard enough, only your mind +was taken up with other things.’ + +‘Ay, with things less artistic than the Sonatas of Beethoven.’ + +‘But not more earnest and workmanlike. Do you know, I like this +Thanshope. There is something real in the life these people lead.’ + +‘There is so! And in the things they say, and the way in which they +remind you of your duties. There is a fellow I am very curious to +know something more about. Do you remember that brusque individual who +confronted us the first time we drove to the office?’ + +‘Perfectly well. Do you never see him?’ + +‘Oh, daily. I have just had another shindy with him. He piques me +excessively. Every time I see the fellow, with his handsome face and +defiant eyes--he _has_ a pair of eyes--I feel as if I must stop and +question him upon his thoughts and feelings. It is a most insane idea, +and I know it makes him exceedingly angry; but it is so, all the same. +What is that air you are humming, Hugo?’ + +Hugo held the reins loosely between his fingers, while the horses +climbed slowly up the hill: he hummed to himself the half-melancholy +air of the German _Volkslied_--_Der Verschmähete_; and Sebastian +listened attentively with a half-smile. + +‘Aren’t you tired, Hugo? Let me take the reins.’ + +‘As you will!’ said Hugo, changing places with him, and they turned +homewards again. + +‘Do you remember when we last heard _Der Verschmähete_?’ asked Hugo, +smiling to himself. + +‘Perfectly,’ said Sebastian, concisely. ‘Corona Müller sang it, and....’ + +‘There was instrumental music, too,’ put in Hugo; ‘one of Liszt’s +Hungarian Rhapsodies--ay, ay! And it was a Rhapsody too! How splendidly +she played it! It would have delighted Liszt himself. Do you remember +the end?’ + +‘Yes, yes! _Un poco pesante!_’ said Sebastian, who listened attentively +to the reminiscences, but volunteered no remark upon the subject. + +They were now again in Thanshope, and the dusk was beginning to fall, +though it was still far from dark. There had been a silence. Now as +they turned into the main street, Hugo, suddenly taking courage, looked +up into his companion’s face, and said, + +‘Sebastian, do you know where she went with her father, from Wetzlar?’ + +‘No I have seen nothing, and heard nothing of her, since then.’ + +‘But you have inquired?’ + +‘Inquired--naturally. But--ah, there’s my handsome young democrat. Just +take a good look at him, Hugo--quick! before he turns off--do you hear? +What? _Impossible!_’ + +Hugo had touched his arm, so that his attention was diverted from the +figure of Myles Heywood, who was in the act of turning off down a side +street, and directed towards that of a young lady going straight down +the main street, and whom they were now in the act of passing. + +It was nothing remarkable for an expression of lively excitement, +pleasurable or otherwise, to be seen upon Hugo’s face, but such a look +upon Sebastian Mallory’s countenance was a rare visitor; and it painted +itself there at this moment, as his eye fastened upon the slight figure +of the girl, who was pursuing her way, looking neither to right nor +left of her. Would she see them? Would she turn? No--yes--no! The +phaeton had just passed her, when she casually raised her eyes, and +glanced towards the road; and then into her face, too, leapt the same +startled look--the same surprise and vivid emotion of some kind, as +that which already brightened Sebastian’s. She made a visible pause, +as her eyes fell upon the occupants of the carriage. Both hats were +lifted, two deep bows were made at the same moment; four earnest eyes +looked eagerly into her face. With a sudden, quick, warm flush, she +returned the bow of the young men, and then they had driven on, and +left her behind them. + +They were almost at home now, close to the Oakenrod. No word was +spoken, until, as they sprang out of the carriage, their eyes met, +Hugo’s full of inquiry, Sebastian’s of a trouble and excitement strange +to them. + +‘Are you glad?’ asked the boy, in a low voice, as they hung up their +hats in the vestibule. + +‘Nay, _mein Bester_--time alone can tell me that. I know no more than +you. But here--how did she come here?’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + ‘Mais pourquoi pour ces gens un intérêt si grand?’ + + +One evening--it was Sunday, the day after that drive into the +country--Sebastian Mallory strolled into the drawing-room where his +mother sat, and, glancing round, seated himself, without speaking at +the piano, on which he struck some aimless chords, which presently +developed into a coherent harmony, in a style _un poco pesante_. He +played the first bars of Liszt’s second _Rhapsodie Hongroise_, and then +paused. + +‘What is that thumping thing?’ inquired Mrs. Mallory, whose many mental +superiorities did not include an understanding of the art of music. + +‘This “thumping thing,” as you so justly term it, is a “Hungarian +Rhapsody,” by that Thor the Hammerer of pianoforte music, Franz Liszt.’ + +‘I am as wise as I was before.’ + +‘_N’importe!_ Where is Hugo, I wonder?’ + +No reply. + +‘You have not seen him?’ + +‘I saw him leave the garden about an hour ago.’ + +‘Gone out for a walk, I suppose. I am glad he can find anywhere to go +to.’ + +‘Sebastian, may I ask how long a visit that boy is to pay here?’ + +‘Visit!’ said Sebastian, turning round on the music stool, in some +surprise; ‘why, Hugo lives with me. I thought you knew.’ + +Mrs. Mallory lowered her favourite weapon, the feathery screen. + +‘Lives with you? What will you say?’ + +‘I can but repeat my previous statement. He is my ward--you do know +that, mother--but then we drop that connection as much as possible. I +suppose we are more like brothers than anything else.’ + +‘You are the guardian of his property, then? He is a _von_--is he of +noble family?’ + +‘Two questions. He is of noble family. Von Birkenau is a good old name, +and he is the last of his race. As for property, he has none--not a +scrap.’ + +‘How came you to be his guardian? It was very extraordinary--so young a +man as you. Had his family, or whoever left him to you, any claims upon +you?’ + +‘It was his mother who left him to me, because I asked her to. She had +no claims upon me in the legal sense of the word; only the claim of +having been my great friend, and the source of inestimable benefit to +me. Paula von Birkenau was a woman in a thousand, beautiful, good, and +gifted; and, I am sorry to say, very unhappy.’ + +Mrs. Mallory, watching her son’s face, thought how odd it was that he +should have such queer, out-of-the-way ideas and tastes. What could +there be in this memory of an impecunious German countess to bring that +smile to his lips, and that light of subdued enthusiasm to his eyes? + +‘If her son has no property, how did she manage to live?’ + +‘She was penniless when she married, and her husband’s family had +been a declining one for generations. When he died, she was left +without a stick or stone of land or house, and without a penny of +fortune. She retired into a _Stift_--an institution, you know, for +poor ladies of noble family. There are many like it in Germany. She +procured admittance for her son into a place of the same kind--a +school, where he was hard-worked and ill-fed, and quite unable to +pursue the real bent of his talent for music. I made the acquaintance +of Frau von Birkenau six years ago. I could not describe her; she +was a beautiful soul; she did more for me than any one I have ever +known. She talked to me a great deal about her boy, and I went to +see him. I liked him, and told her so. She asked me if I would think +of him sometimes, and perhaps pay him an occasional visit, when she +should be dead; she suffered from a painful complaint, and bore her +sufferings like a heroine. I said the best and shortest way would +be for her to make a will, appointing me her son’s guardian, when I +should have full authority over him. This she did, about four years +ago, and very shortly afterwards she died. On my signing a document +to the purport that henceforth I undertook the duties of a parent to +him, the authorities of the school permitted me to remove Hugo, to +his and my great satisfaction. Since then he has been my companion in +all my ramblings, and though I don’t wish to sound my own praises, I +must say he looks a different fellow altogether from the white-faced, +pinched-looking lad whom I took away with me overwhelmed with grief at +his mother’s death.’ + +‘In-deed!’ observed Mrs. Mallory, in cold tones of intense, though +repressed, exasperation. ‘It sounds like a page from a romance. If my +opinion were asked, I should say I could hardly tell whether he or you +stood most in need of a guardian--of some one to control you. You have +encumbered yourself with his entire maintenance. He is a pensioner on +your bounty?’ + +Sebastian shook his head. Leaning his elbow upon the top of the piano, +he remarked, + +‘There is no question of “incumbrance.” I love the lad. I delight +to see him growing happier every day, and to know that his powers +are expanding in the direction best suited to them. It is not every +one who can secure the pleasure of enabling an artist nature to grow +and develop in a congenial soil. As to his being “a pensioner on my +bounty,” excuse me, mother, I mean no disrespect when I say that I +dislike that expression intensely. If you had not used those words, I +should not have mentioned that Hugo knows nothing at all of this. All +he knows is that I am his guardian. I let him live under the impression +that I guard not only himself, but his property. And that impression +must not be disturbed. I will not have his happiness embittered just +when he should be able to throw aside all care for everything except +his studies. He is intensely sensitive. I never approach the subject +with him--you understand?’ + +‘I suppose I do. But I consider it the most amazing piece of folly I +ever heard of. How do you know what he may turn out?’ + +‘How, indeed? At least he will have had every inducement to turn out +well; and, unless I am much mistaken, he will do so. It is not only +his name and lineage that is noble.’ + +‘I thought you were a _Radical_’ observed Mrs. Mallory. + +‘My dear mother!’ + +‘That Frau von Birkenau must have been a clever woman--too clever for +you, at any rate.’ + +‘Please don’t say anything against her. I would as soon say anything +against you as against her,’ said Sebastian, calmly; and his mother, +meeting his eyes, found herself blushing for her own meanness. Such +signs of sensibility are often reckoned hopeful. + +‘Is he to be always here?’ she asked quickly, to cover her confusion. + +‘I don’t know. He will please himself. At present England is new to +him. He may enjoy it, or study it, until he gets tired of it; and then, +I expect, he will go to some German musical _Conservatoire_ to study, +just as he pleases. I shall give him his choice.’ + +‘Humph!’ said Mrs. Mallory, with indescribable significance of tone. + +‘But I repeat, he is never to be told of his position. I shall explain +it all to him myself, when circumstances make it desirable. And I think +you will get to like him, mother. He is the best-hearted fellow, and +absolutely adores those who are kind to him. He is a perfect child in +some ways.’ + +‘I don’t like young men who are like children.’ + +‘Well, I like Hugo. It would pain me exceedingly to have any +misunderstanding with him,’ said he, with an emphasis unusual to him, +as he turned again to the piano, and solaced himself with a waltz of +Schubert. + +Mrs. Mallory sat puzzling angrily over the character which daily +baffled her more completely; its traits becoming more involved, +enigmatical--nay, to her, insane. She considered this freak of his to +display an eccentricity not short of insanity, but strangely enough she +did not dare to tell him so. Did he care for any one? Was he so devoted +to this lad, whom she disliked for his fantastic, unconventional habits +and speech, and whom she would regard with contemptuous pity, as he +sat, the morning long, at the piano, absorbed, with strange tossings +of the head, and quaint, absent-minded wavings of the hands, and +contortions of the body? Or was he only obstinate to have his own way, +and provoke her, his mother? + +At this moment the door was opened, and Hugo entered, followed by the +butler, with tea. + +Mrs. Mallory was too much annoyed to linger over that refreshment. She +drank it quickly, and went to her writing-table, where she turned over +the papers, listening vexedly the while to the talk between Sebastian +and Hugo--talk in which she had no sort of share--about music, and +foreign friends, and foreign countries; and she heard Hugo express his +rejoicing that at last he could have an hour of Sebastian’s company, +and she heard Sebastian answer, that he was glad too, for that he +missed his companion. And she knew that the tone was one of genuine +affection; that Mr. Mallory of the Oakenrod was perverse enough to pin +his affections rather upon an eccentric, penniless German lad, than to +make acquaintances which would be to his advantage; that her chance +remark about the cleverness of the late Frau von Birkenau had been, in +vulgar parlance, ‘a bad shot’--a very bad one indeed, and that she had +not increased her own influence by making it. + +The laughs and chaff of Hugo and Sebastian became intolerable, as +forming a running accompaniment to reflections of this nature. She made +another shot, this time unconsciously; and this time she hit her mark, +also unconsciously. Picking up a note which lay upon her table, she +suddenly interrupted the conversation. + +‘Sebastian, here is a note--it must go to you now, I suppose. I have +nothing more to do with these affairs.’ + +He looked up; rose and came to fetch it; smiled as he took it; but she +would not see either smile or look. + +‘It is from Mr. Blisset,’ she remarked, apparently busily arranging her +papers. ‘Something about repairs. I cannot imagine what he wants doing, +I am sure.’ + +Sebastian and Hugo exchanged glances. + +‘Mr. Blisset--who may he be!’ inquired Sebastian. + +‘Your tenant. He lives at Stonegate, that place up at other end of the +town, which your great-grandfather built, and which has always been a +great deal more trouble than profit.’ + +‘How long has this Mr. Blisset been its tenant?’ + +‘I’m sure I don’t know. Eight or nine years, I think.’ + +‘Do you know anything about him--who he is, or where he comes from?’ + +‘No. He is an invalid--paralysed--a most crotchety, tiresome person.’ + +‘Ah! Let me see what he says.’ + +He opened the note, and his face changed as he saw the handwriting. +It had been addressed to Mrs. Mallory, as had probably all other +communications on the subject. The hand was small, compact, and +characteristic--the matter was business-like. + + ‘Mr. Blisset presents his compliments to Mrs. Mallory, and begs to + inform her that the outside of his house stands in need of some + repairs before the winter sets in. If Mrs. Mallory will have the + kindness to send her agent, or the work-people she usually employs, + to inspect the house, Mr. Blisset will feel extremely obliged to her.’ + +Sebastian, without comment, handed the note to Hugo, who read it with a +smile, and an excited expression, which caused Mrs. Mallory to set him +down in her own mind as a lunatic. + +‘I will have it seen to!’ was all Sebastian said, carefully putting the +document into a small letter-case. + +‘I should send Mitchell to make an estimate: he will do it as cheaply +as any one,’ observed Mrs. Mallory. + +‘Yes, it shall be attended to,’ repeated her son. ‘Now, Hugo, sit +down to that piano, and play something--something right lively and +soul-stirring, you will understand.’ + +‘I think I do,’ said Hugo, smiling in an uncanny manner, as he placed +himself at the piano, and straightway burst into a triumphal march. + + * * * * * + +Later, when Hugo and Sebastian were alone, the former said, + +‘Now you can go and call, Sebastian.’ + +‘Heaven forbid! I have not the least right to do so.’ + +‘But you would like to. Make a way. Make that note about the repairs an +excuse. Call upon Mr. Blisset, and find out what sort of an old party +he is.’ + +Sebastian said nothing, and the subject dropped. + +The next day, as they sat in Sebastian’s study, and he cut the leaves +of a Review, he remarked, + +‘I had a conversation with Myles Heywood to-day.’ + +‘The revolutionary weaver?’ + +‘He is no weaver, ignoramus. He is a sort of head man, but they call +him a cut-looker.’ + +‘A how much?’ + +‘A cut-looker. Your education, like mine, has been neglected. But I +know now what a cut-looker is. Myles Heywood is one. He earns forty +shillings a week. It exercises the brains and the observation, and they +have time for reading and thinking, too. Myles Heywood reads. He has +read Buckle’s _History of Civilisation_.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Hugo, sitting with his head on one side, looking like an +intelligent dog. ‘That does not raise my opinion of him. It is a book I +hate.’ + +‘He has read most of the works of John Stuart Mill.’ + +‘I’m glad I don’t know him so well as you do.’ + +‘Impertinent!’ + +‘Can he play Beethoven’s Sonatas, and paint in oils; and does he sing +tenor, baritone, or bass?’ + +‘Tsh! I tell you I take the greatest interest in the fellow. He knows a +lot of German, too. Where he learnt it I can’t tell. When I asked him +who taught him he flushed up, looked me straight in the face, and said, +“A friend.” So I had to beg his pardon.’ + +Sebastian had thrown himself into an easy-chair, and was lighting a +cigar. + +‘Beg his pardon--why?’ + +‘My dear child, you wouldn’t say to your equal, “_You_ learn +German--who teaches you?” and why should you say it to a cut-looker?’ + +‘Well?’ said Hugo, seeing the expression upon Sebastian’s face, and +knowing it to be no careless one. + +‘I did beg his pardon, and he said, “Don’t mention it.” Then I asked +him what he meant to do with himself while we were working half-time. +He said he had no doubt he could manage to dispose of his own time, and +I incautiously persisted, “But how?” He said he really had not thought +much about it--might he ask why I wanted to know? So I had to beg his +pardon again.’ + +Sebastian was puffing away, with raised eyebrows. Hugo burst out +laughing. + +‘I never heard of anything so preposterous. Why did you go on talking +to him, if you got so vexed?’ + +‘But I didn’t. I got interested. Why should the fellow dislike me so +intensely? What can be his object?’ + +‘Sebastian! I thought you did not care a straw what any one thought of +you. You have said so often enough.’ + +‘Well, and it was generally true--_generally_, mind you. I am +interested against my will--personally interested. One thing I’ve found +out--he hates me.’ + +‘Nonsense!’ + +‘Hold your froward tongue! You know how to play Beethoven’s Sonatas, +and I know what I am talking about. He hates me, and I have made up my +mind that he shall, so to speak, eat his words--that is, change his +opinion. It will gave me endless trouble, I know,’ added Sebastian, +knocking the ash from his cigar; ‘endless trouble, but I will do it. I +must know whether that man is master, or I.’ + +‘Oh, if it comes to that,’ said Hugo, shrugging his shoulders, and +laughing a little; ‘if he has excited your obstinate combative +instincts, you will never let the poor beggar alone till he at any rate +_says_ that he gives in. Bless you, I know you!’ + +‘He will never say he gives in unless he actually does so.’ + +‘_Ja, ja!_’ said Hugo, nodding significantly, ‘I know. May you find the +game worth the candle, is the sincere wish of one who succumbed long +ago to your masterful disposition!’ + +‘Thanks!’ laughed Sebastian. ‘And as I can’t begin this laudable +campaign on the instant, I shall carry my investigations into another +direction, that, namely of Stonegate. I am going to call upon Mr. +Blisset.’ + +‘At Stonegate--also with a view to conquest?’ inquired Hugo, politely, +rising and walking quickly to the door, and closing it after him just +in time for it, instead of his own person, to receive the large bundle +of tape-tied ‘documents’ which Sebastian wrathfully sent flying after +him. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +DISCORD. + + +The scene once again the drawing-room of Mr. Blisset’s house; its +occupants, Myles and Adrienne: he just arrived; she smiling to receive +him, and he smiling in answer, as one might smile on suddenly finding a +flower peeping up through the snow. + +‘I rather hoped you would come to-night, to do some German,’ said she, +‘but I did not think you would come so early.’ + +‘We are working half-time. We began to-day,’ said Myles. + +‘Half-time already? I thought there was such an enormous supply of +cotton somewhere in the country.’ + +‘So there is, somewhere; but it will have to be bought with a price +before it can be got at. Lots of other places have begun half-time +to-day. And it’s not only that cotton is dear; there must have come a +reaction after last year’s over-production. It was tremendous. There is +a bad time coming for the workers; but those who can afford to wait, +and who know how to use their chances, will make some big fortunes.’ + +‘Some others will lose them, I think.’ + +‘Naturally. The one goes with the other.’ + +‘But how will you all manage when the hard time comes?’ + +‘We shall pull through,’ said poor short-sighted Myles, little dreaming +of the depths of misery, and what he, and such as he--proud, honest, +self-dependent men--considered deepest degradation, which lay in the +not far-distant future. ‘We shall pull through. If it is only half-wage +we get, we shall have to do with half-doings; pinch a bit, and clem a +bit, and put on a good face.’ + +‘But,’ said she gravely, ‘my uncle and Canon Ponsonby were saying the +other night that the time must most likely come when there would be no +work and no wages.’ + +‘If the war lasts a long time, or the ports are very well blockaded, it +may come to that,’ said Myles, calmly. ‘But we, and a good many others +besides us, have money laid by. We must live on that till better times +come.’ + +In six months from that time, thousands of working homes were stripped +of every stick of furniture that could possibly be done without. Many a +savings bank had collapsed. Many a stout-hearted toiler had to bend his +proud, unwilling feet towards the relief committee, or the guardians, +and, with burning face, and bursting heart and down-drooped head, tell +his tale, and ask for ‘charity.’ Not yet had the ‘Lancashire Lad’ +sent to the _Times_ that pathetic account of the shame-faced girls +who stopped him to ask him, ‘Con yo help us a bit?’ that appeal which +brought the tears to thousands of eyes of readers in every end of the +earth. None of this had happened yet. The great ‘panic’ had not come +swooping down upon the land; but it was not long before the cry of the +distressed must go up. + +Myles Heywood, after this his first half-day’s enforced idleness, +perhaps not ill-pleased to be freed for a few hours, on a fine +afternoon, from his toil, said he had no fears for the future. He felt +himself strong: felt that a little pinching and ‘clemming’ would do him +no material harm, and smiled at the storm-cloud hurrying across the +Atlantic. + +They went on talking upon different topics; but while she questioned +or answered, his jealous eyes detected some change in her. She was +not cold to him; there was the same genial grace and cordiality, and +yet there was a change. In a pause which presently ensued, a footstep +passed on the flags outside. She raised her head quickly and looked up, +with parted lips and a startled expression. + +‘Do you expect some one?’ asked Myles; and so much were the words a +part of the thought, that he scarcely knew he had spoken them, until +she answered, + +‘I--oh no! Why should I? But shall we not read some more of +“Iphigenia”? Here is the book.’ + +She did not look at him. There was a sudden constrained expression +upon her face as she opened the book, and he as suddenly felt his +heart sink with a reasonless, aimless, lover’s pang. He said nothing, +however, but obediently began to read. But neither his heart nor +her’s was in the work, as usual. She had told him that he was an apt +scholar; his intelligence was ready, and his ear quick, and attuned +to the Lancashire gutturals, and its broad ‘a’s’ and ‘u’s’ found +little difficulty with the corresponding German sounds. Myles, for +his part, had treasured up that hour that she devoted to him once or +twice a week, as if it had been some precious coin or gem. Then she +was all attention to him; then she was thinking of nothing else but +him and his lesson, and the idea was heavenly. But this very evening, +for the first time, he was obliged to let himself understand that her +attention wandered, that she sometimes scarcely heard what he said, +and his anxiety and foreboding increased every moment. He was no +favoured lover; he had striven assiduously to conceal every sign of +his devotion, for fear it should annoy her, or repel her. He had no +right to ask her why her attention strayed, what made her absent and +_distraite_, and that very fact made him the more sensitive to the +change in her manner. + +He read on, and translated, mechanically, dreamily, till he came to the +words: + + ‘Und künft’ge Thaten drangen wie die Sterne, + Rings um uns her, unzählbar aus der Nacht.’ + +‘“And future deeds,”’ he slowly translated, while the sense of discord +and oppression grew every moment stronger; ‘“and future deeds pressed +about us, out of the night, countless as the stars.”’ + +She had not heard a word. He looked at her, with eyes that dared +not be reproachful, and said nothing. There was pain, there was +embarrassment, in her expression. Then she suddenly said, + +‘I want to speak to you. Let us put away this book. I want to tell you +something that I ought to have told you before.’ + +At once his face changed; the cloud fled; he turned to her with a smile. + +‘Something you ought to have told me----’ he began. + +The door was opened. Just outside they heard the voice of Brandon, Mr. +Blisset’s old servant, saying, + +‘I will see whether Mr. Blisset is at liberty, sir, if you will step in +here.’ + +Then he threw the door wide open and announced, + +‘Mr. Mallory.’ + +Sebastian came into the room, and Adrienne rose, feeling like one in +a dream, looking like a person who has received overwhelming news of +some kind. She saw Sebastian: she felt that Myles was there--felt it +in every fibre of her being, and while Sebastian spoke to her, she was +only intensely conscious that Myles was gazing at them both; and she +wondered, with an intensity that amounted to pain, what he was thinking +of her. + +She gazed at Sebastian, as he came up to her, looking as if he saw no +one but her, with extended hand, and she heard him as he said, + +‘Miss Blisset, I little thought before Saturday, that I should have the +happiness of meeting you again--in Thanshope!’ + +With that their hands closed, and her voice said (with a vibration), + +‘It is certainly long since we met. I am glad to see you again.’ + +Myles had risen with a swift, almost unconscious impulse, and was now +in the window, leaning against it, and looking into the night, which +was now falling fast. He closed his eyes. He felt his own emotion to be +almost grotesque in its intensity, but it was so--he could not help it. +The devil jealousy had seized his very heart-strings on the instant, +and clutched them relentlessly. There was one thing, and one only, +that he could do--having no right to call her to account, he could +suffer in silence, and speak gently to her--after all, he reminded +himself, she had been exquisitely kind to him, and he had no sort of +claim upon such kindness. + +While Myles fought this silent, desperate battle with the feelings +which urged him to rush out of the room, and leave those two together, +Sebastian was saying, + +‘I came to see Mr. Blisset on some business, and his servant asked me +to come in here. I fear I disturb you.’ + +‘Not at all. May I introduce--but Mr. Heywood tells me he knows you +already.’ + +She turned to Myles, who also turned. His very emotion made him rise to +the occasion. Pride and self-esteem, respect and regard for Adrienne, +modesty as to his own merits, all urged him to put on an outwardly calm +demeanour; and Sebastian, whatever astonishment he might feel, was of +course far too civilised to betray it. + +‘We have met already to-day, earlier,’ remarked Mr. Mallory, +courteously bowing towards the young man, who, on his part, bowed his +head gravely and proudly, and wished his employer good evening. If +Adrienne had not flushed up, and looked with such startled, conscious +eyes, and such a half-excited smile, around her, he could have done +even more--he might have been able to force a smile too, but under the +circumstances it was physically impossible. + +Adrienne, turning aside, as if to push forward a chair, looked at him, +but in his then state of mind he could not understand the glance; +all he could do was to answer it with another, of bitter, clouded, +miserable feeling; sorrow, pain, and a sort of premonitory despair. + +Sebastian did not see Adrienne’s look, but he did see this one of +Myles’s, and it made him feel suddenly grave and doubtful. In an +instant he understood how things were with Myles: as to Adrienne’s +feelings he was utterly in the dark. He remembered one morning, when +she, relieved through his efforts of great anxiety, had clasped his +hand, and, looking up at him with brimming eyes, had said, ‘There is +nothing I would not do for you.’ They had been almost the last words +she had said to him. The day afterwards he had lost her. He knew +nothing of what she thought of him now, but he realised immediately +that the stiff-necked young workman, whose pride and reserve resisted +all his efforts to break through them, was over head and ears in love +with the woman of whom he had been thinking, when he spoke to Helena +Spenceley of ‘the nicest girl I ever knew.’ It might be preposterous: +it might be that young, handsome, and more than ordinarily +high-spirited and ambitious young workman had no business to fall in +love with young ladies in a superior position in life; but all that did +not prevent the fact that such an occurrence had taken place before, +and would take place again. Sebastian knew it, and, reasoning from the +interest he himself took in Myles, did not underrate the importance of +the discovery he had made. + +‘Have you seen the evening edition of the Manchester paper?’ he asked +Myles, as he seated himself. + +‘To-night? No.’ + +‘The war news seems rather important. I hope our neutrality won’t be +put in peril. It would be an everlasting disgrace to us if it were to +be interrupted for a moment.’ + +‘Yes, it would,’ assented Myles, dimly conscious that it was a superior +sophistication which was able to converse thus easily upon foreign +affairs--under the circumstances. + +‘I suppose you take a great interest in the war too?’ said Sebastian, +turning to Adrienne. + +‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Mr. Heywood and I have the audacity to dispute +even with my uncle sometimes.’ + +‘Mr. Blisset is your uncle?’ + +‘Yes. Oh! I forgot you could not know; I live with him here. Have you +known him before?’ + +‘Never. But I find he is my tenant I came to see him on a matter of +business and----’ + +‘Will you step into the other room, sir?’ interrupted Brandon, coming +in. + +Sebastian rose. + +‘Shall I see you again?’ he asked, stooping a little towards Adrienne, +who looked up to him with the same distinct, though well-repressed, +agitation or excitement of some kind in her face. + +‘It will depend upon how long you stay; I do not know,’ said she; and +her voice was not calm and deliberate as usual. + +Myles sat still, his face composed, watching those two; realising her +grace and beauty, and his charm of manner, and all those advantages in +the background. No girl--he felt it keenly--need be ashamed of the fact +that she had fallen captive to the wooing of Sebastian Mallory. His +heart grew heavier and colder. + +‘Then I will say good evening, in case I do not see you again,’ said +Sebastian. + +They shook hands, and Mallory followed the waiting Brandon. + +Then they were left alone. Adrienne’s face had changed; the excitement +had gone from it; it was pale; the glow had faded; her voice sounded +tired when she spoke. + +‘When Mr. Mallory came,’ she said, forcing a smile, ‘I was just going +to explain to you that I knew him--or rather, had known him a few years +ago. It was curious that he should call at that very moment.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, in a voice colourless as her own. + +‘Once he was very kind,’ she pursued, ‘when my father was in trouble. +He saved me a great deal of anxiety and distress.’ + +‘Yes,’ again assented Myles. ‘I am sure he is very considerate, and +means to do right.’ + +‘You think so! Then your opinion has changed?’ + +‘Yes, very much. He is not at all the kind of man I supposed him to be.’ + +‘I am glad you have discovered that. I am sure you and he will get on, +now that the misunderstanding is cleared up.’ + +Myles rose, smiling rather a faint, miserable smile. He felt it +impossible not to give one little thrust in the midst of the agony he +was himself enduring. + +‘You know I am hot-tempered, and, I am afraid, prejudiced,’ said he +quietly; ‘but if you had mentioned to me that you knew Mr. Mallory, and +that he was not the kind of man I supposed, I should--perhaps I might +have behaved more rationally.’ + +Adrienne stood speechless. She made neither apology nor excuse. When he +said good night, she put out her hand silently, and did not meet his +eyes. His own manner was quite to coldness. Thus they parted. Myles, as +he walked home, could not forget the verse from ‘Iphigenia,’ which he +had laboriously translated: + + ‘Und künft’ge Thaten drangen wie die Sterne, + Rings um uns her, unzahlbar aus der Nacht.’ + +In that moment he doubted bitterly whether any deeds, whether anything +but woes, lay for him in the future. + +Meanwhile Adrienne was left alone to reflect upon the situation, to +think of Sebastian’s smile, and of Myles Heywood’s pale face and +glowing eyes; and, after due reflection, either to congratulate or +commiserate herself, as she thought most appropriate. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +‘MAY MY MOTHER CALL UPON YOU?’ + + +Mr. Mallory contrived to make his visit so delightful to Mr. Blisset +that that gentleman pressed him, with an eagerness unwonted to him, +to remain a little longer; and Sebastian, hoping each moment to see +Adrienne appear, continued in his place. + +At last she came into the room; but she had brought her work with her, +and after a few sentences of courtesy, amiable but meaningless, she +took a chair a little apart, and sat in almost entire silence, while +the two men discussed, first politics, and then, when each had taken +the length of the other’s foot on that topic, science and philosophy. + +Sebastian, whether intentionally or not, showed himself in his best +mood, and putting aside both cynicism and indifference, discussed the +subjects earnestly, and incidentally displayed how much thought and +attention he had really given to them. + +Mr. Blisset, greatly delighted at finding so cultivated a listener, +was also in a happier and more hopeful mood than usual. Adrienne’s +eyes were fixed upon that monotonous embroidery. It is to be presumed +that she did not see the repeated glances, half of inquiry, half of +surprise, with which Sebastian’s eyes continually sought her face. He +knew that she could talk on such subjects. Mr. Blisset’s reiterated +appeal to her--‘Eh, Adrienne?’ ‘Don’t you think so, my dear?’--showed +Sebastian that she was not accustomed to sit in silence at the feet of +even so great a philosopher as her uncle; and yet she was silent now, +merely answering when spoken to, as briefly as possible. + +At length came a pause, and Sebastian hastened to make use of it. + +‘How do you like England, Miss Blisset?’ + +‘I can hardly say, seeing that I only know Thanshope.’ + +‘Thanshope, then, as compared with the Continent in general?’ + +‘I like it,’ said Adrienne, ‘because I have found a home in it, and +because I am useful to some one--am I not, uncle?’ + +‘Necessary, my dear, necessary.’ + +‘There, you see! necessary!’ said Adrienne. + +‘But you used to rejoice so intensely in the sunshine, and the poetry, +and the beauty of those foreign lands.’ + +‘Yes, I did.’ + +‘Wetzlar, for instance. Do you remember how delighted you were? how you +sat dreaming by Goethe’s Brunnen, and how you seated yourself in Lotte +Buff’s parlour, and looked round, and could scarcely speak?’ + +‘Ah, yes!’ said Adrienne, her eyes lighting up at the remembrance, and +a smile stealing over her face; ‘but that was very enchanted ground, +you know.’ + +‘And you struck a few chords on that piano; that “old, tuneless +instrument,” on which Goethe had played to Lotte, and then drew back, +quite ashamed of your own audacity--you must remember?’ + +‘Did I ever say I did not remember?’ said Adrienne, a tremor in her +voice as she looked up and found Sebastian leaning forward, his chin +in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon her face. + +Something in the expression of those eyes seemed to cause Adrienne some +emotion. Her colour rose. Mr. Blisset had opened a newspaper which his +servant had brought in, and was apparently buried behind it. Sebastian, +his eyes still fixed upon the young lady’s troubled face, said softly, + +‘Don’t you think Wetzlar was the most sunshiny place you were ever in?’ + +‘At least the sun began to shine for me there,’ she said quickly, and +looking towards him with a sudden, deeper glance than before. + +He smiled. + +‘I think, for me too.’ Then, seeing that she looked still more +downcast, he added, ‘But we shall meet again, I hope, and then we can +discuss those old days. I was going to ask, have you many friends here?’ + +‘Scarcely any. My uncle does not visit. We know Canon Ponsonby, and +Mrs. Ponsonby called upon me, and was very kind. Then I have a few +friends of my own peculiar kind, you know.’ + +‘I know. Old apple-women at street-corners; working-people; unhappy +youths who want a few lessons in this and that--eh?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, smiling. + +‘Then Myles Heywood is not counted amongst your friends?’ said +Sebastian, composedly, glancing aside at Mr. Blisset, to assure himself +that that gentleman was absorbed in his newspaper. + +‘Yes, he is,’ said Adrienne, raising her head. ‘He is a friend both of +my uncle’s and mine.’ + +‘Is it allowable to ask how you made his acquaintance?’ + +Adrienne suddenly crimsoned, while Sebastian unkindly continued +steadfastly to watch her. He had been piecing different facts and +inferences together in his mind, and was rather anxiously awaiting her +answer. + +‘It is not allowable?’ he said. ‘I beg your pardon.’ + +‘Yes, it is, quite,’ retorted she, somewhat recovering herself. ‘I met +Myles Heywood a few weeks ago, not more. I used to have some work that +I did at the public reading-room, and he used to read there too. He +rendered me a very kind service on one occasion, and has been a friend +and a visitor here ever since.’ + +Sebastian bowed politely. + +‘He interested me,’ said he, with a rather ambiguous smile. ‘I wished +to know more of him; but he declines every advance I make to him.’ + +Adrienne was silent. Sebastian, with a laudable thirst for information, +went on, in the same calm, matter-of-fact voice, + +‘I begin to think that in his case appearances deceive me’ (Adrienne +looked rapidly up and down again). ‘There is something wonderfully +attractive about his face and manner. He appears so very superior to +his class, and yet I begin to fancy there must be some fatal defect of +temper--some moral want.’ + +‘You are mistaken,’ said she, in a voice which, though low, was so +clear and decided as to startle Sebastian. The information he wished +for appeared to be readily forthcoming--whether it were of a pleasant +nature or not, he could hardly yet say. + +‘You think so? You think it is not mere churlishness?’ he said, +purposely using a strong word. + +‘He has not a grain of the churl in him.’ + +‘Indeed! Then he must have well-developed imitative faculties,’ said +Sebastian, with a politely sceptical accent, which he had often +found useful as a conversational weapon. It was successful upon this +occasion. Adrienne answered quickly, + +‘You must not think him churlish. It would be a grievous mistake to +make. He has a most generous disposition. You should see him at home +with his sister and his cripple brother--they are friends of mine +too, and his deaf friend, Harry Ashworth. You would not misjudge him +then. Those people know his heart, as it is--and they all adore him. +Churlish--no!’ + +‘Well, does he behave in such an extraordinary way to Mr. Blisset? +Does he look at him as if he would say, “Thus far, and no farther. Keep +your distance if you please”?’ + +‘To my uncle--oh no! He is very fond of him, and very respectful to +him,’ said Adrienne, demurely, a curious little smile quivering about +the corners of her mouth. + +‘Then why does he select myself as the object of his hatred--for I am +sure he does hate me?’ + +‘He--because----’ + +‘Because?’ + +‘I cannot explain. Only he does not hate you.’ + +‘I am convinced you could tell me all about it if you would, so, as +you will not, I must find it out in my own way. I am determined I will +learn the reason of his aversion to me--and will overcome it.’ + +‘Oh, don’t! Pray let him alone. He is best let alone.’ + +Sebastian smiled. + +‘You seem to be well acquainted with what is best for him--though you +have only known him a few weeks. If you have succeeded in making a +friend of him, why should not I?’ + +‘I would not go too far. Remember, he, as well as you, has a right to +choose his own friends, and if he does not choose you for one of them, +you have no right to----’ + +‘Importune him? No. You are quite right,’ he said, rising. ‘But there +is society of a different stamp from Myles Heywood, even in Thanshope. +Would you have any objection to my mother calling upon you?’ + +‘Mrs. Mallory--objection? Not the least. I should be delighted. But +don’t you think, if she had wished for my acquaintance, she would have +called before?’ + +‘She was ignorant that you lived here. She thought Mr. Blisset’s +household was quite without ladies. I expect she will call upon you +within the next few days.’ + +‘I shall be happy to see her,’ said Adrienne, politely, but not +enthusiastically; and he could read nothing from her eyes, as +they answered his inquiring gaze. She roused her uncle from his +abstraction, and Sebastian dropped her hand with a smile. After all, +he told himself, it was absurd to think seriously of Myles Heywood +as a rival--quite absurd. A high cultivation like Adrienne’s--and +how different she was from that little dark-eyed Helena, with her +vehemence and her disorganised ideas as to women’s rights and man’s +selfishness--could surely never feel any real affinity with that +untamed, untutored specimen of humanity, Myles Heywood. There might +be plenty of force about him, but force without culture is apt to get +uncomfortable. + +Amidst earnest requests from Mr. Blisset that he would speedily renew +his visit, and equally earnest assurances on his part that he would do +so, Sebastian departed. + + * * * * * + +In the Oakenrod drawing-room, Mrs. Mallory by the fire, with a novel +and the feathery screen; Hugo gloating over a copy of the original +edition of Bewick’s ‘Birds,’ the like of which treasure, he considered, +he had never seen before: for the rest silence. + +‘You have been out all the evening?’ inquired Mrs. Mallory, languidly, +as she looked up. + +‘Yes, I have been at Mr. Blisset’s.’ + +Hugo looked up. + +‘Mother, do you ever call at Mr. Blisset’s house?’ + +‘No. Soon after he came, I called; but his man-servant told me that he +was a great invalid, and saw no one.’ + +‘He is certainly a great invalid. But there is a Miss Blisset.’ + +‘Is he a widower?’ asked Mrs. Mallory, struck by something in her son’s +tone, dimly conscious of some impending unpleasantness in store for +herself. + +‘She is his niece. She came to live with him some two years or eighteen +months ago. I was delighted to renew my acquaintance with her.’ + +‘Then you had met her before?’ + +‘Yes, at Coblentz, and at Wetzlar, on the Lahn.’ + +Sebastian was at the present moment leaning on the top of his mother’s +chair, which was a deep, roomy easy-chair of a bygone day. As he spoke +he took the feathery screen out of her hand and fanned her with it a +little. She wished he would not do so. It might not make it more really +difficult to resist him, but it made her look very ungracious; it must +look ungracious in a mother to deny favours to a son who asked them in +so seductive a manner. + +Mrs. Mallory thought there were certain points upon which she would +never give in; but even while she thought it, and Sebastian’s +hand waved the screen to and fro, and his voice gently continued +to speak--even then, she had an indefinable sensation of being +managed--that power was slipping from her hands into his. But she could +say nothing until he had in some way committed himself; and he had a +most provoking habit of not committing himself. + +‘She is as clever and accomplished in her way as her uncle is in +his,’ Sebastian went on: ‘and she is, in addition, a most charming +young lady. She has no friends here--and she is so different from the +Thanshope people--much more in your style than that vehement little +Miss Spenceley,’ he added, while Hugo looked on from afar and laughed +in his sleeve. ‘I am sure you would like her if you knew her, and I +want you to be so kind as to call upon her.’ + +‘Call upon her! Call upon a person I know nothing about! Really, +Sebastian, I wonder at you!’ + +‘My dear mother, she is not in the least what you would describe as a +“person.” Even your critical taste will pronounce her a thorough lady +when you see her.’ + +‘How is it nobody else has called upon her?’ + +‘Some one else has. Mrs. Ponsonby has called upon her. But I want you +to call upon her. You really would oblige me exceedingly, mother, if +you would.’ + +‘And therefore I must, I suppose. That appears to be the rule by which +the young judge the old in the present day,’ said Mrs. Mallory, a +little acidly. + +Sebastian had come round to the other side, and was leaning against the +mantelpiece, and as Mrs. Mallory concluded her remark she looked at +her son, and her son looked at her. If he had only been talking about +Helena Spenceley! But it was merely some Miss Blisset. She thought she +would refuse. But at that moment the idea struck her that she might +even serve her own aims by consenting conditionally. + +Scarcely two days before, Sebastian had treated, first with levity and +contempt, and then with downright repugnance, the prospect of dining +at the Spenceleys’ house, or cultivating their further acquaintance. +Mrs. Mallory had at that moment in her pocket a note, in Helena’s +handwriting, requesting the pleasure of the company of Mrs. and Mr. +Mallory, and that of Mr. von Birkenau, to dinner ten days hence. + +‘If I go out of my way to make new acquaintances, about whom I care +nothing in the world, it is only fair that you should put yourself a +little out of the way too, Sebastian.’ + +‘Perfectly fair. As how?’ + +‘We are invited to dine at the Spenceleys on the --th. If you don’t go +there, and behave civilly to my friends, I really don’t see how I can +encourage yours, about whom I know nothing, to come here, or go to see +them myself.’ + +‘I quite grasp the importance of the situation,’ said Sebastian, with +that placid politeness which exasperated Mrs. Mallory beyond bounds, +because she did not know into what language to translate it. ‘If you +will call upon Miss Blisset within the next day or two--I mean a proper +call, you know, with an intimation that you would like her to return +it, and so on--I will go to any amount of Spenceley spreads, be they +never so gorgeous, and will listen to Miss Spenceley’s diatribes with +the utmost resignation. There will be the contrast to think of.’ + +This was not very encouraging behaviour; but it was the best to be +extracted from her very ‘trying’ son, and Mrs. Mallory had to accept +it, merely remarking, + +‘If your friend, Miss Blisset, has anything like the good qualities of +Helena, I shall be surprised.’ + +‘No, she has not,’ said Sebastian. ‘Miss Spenceley has one hundred +thousand golden virtues--not to mention others of a less tangible +character--of a kind that Adrienne Blisset knows nothing about.’ + +Mrs. Mallory made a note of the ‘Adrienne Blisset,’ and began to feel +an intense dislike to that young lady. + +But the bargain had been struck. On the third day after the treaty +had been, so to speak, signed, Mrs. Mallory called out her horses +and called out her men, and drove in state to see and overwhelm Miss +Blisset. + +She saw her; but the overwhelming remained still a dream of the future. +Adrienne’s utter freedom from embarrassment in the presence of Mrs. +Mallory, of the Oakenrod, might be in bad taste, but it could not very +well be commented upon. She parried all her visitor’s hidden thrusts +upon the subject of Sebastian with a cool adroitness which called forth +her visitor’s reluctant admiration, and behaved altogether with an ease +and an address which was the more reprehensible in that it seemed so +perfectly natural. + +‘But it could not have been natural,’ reflected Mrs. Mallory, as she +drove away. ‘The attention, after Sebastian’s calling there and finding +her, was so marked. I think she is the most consummate little actress I +ever met anywhere.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +‘I DREAMT I DWELT IN MARBLE HALLS.’ + + +Castle Hill, the Spenceley mansion, was a large, new, imposing +residence of red brick, with massive stone facings. It had been the +dwelling of Mr. Spenceley and his family for some six or seven years, +and it was within these walls that Helena sat in captivity, and groaned +alternately over the selfishness of men and the mean-spiritedness of +women. + +On the appointed evening, Mrs. Mallory, her son, and Hugo, were driven +to this mansion, and ushered into the drawing-room. It was an apartment +vast in dimensions, lofty, dazzling, perfectly square, perfectly +gorgeous, and more than perfectly uncomfortable. + +Some ten or twelve persons were collected somewhere amidst the mass of +gorgeous carpet, hangings, furniture, and dazzling crystal drops which +seemed to blend and combine in a determined and successful effort to +crush and annihilate the human portion of the scene. Sebastian and Hugo +saw Mrs. Mallory sail up to a massive-looking lady in purple satin, +and white lace, and unlimited jewellery of florid design and great +brilliance. This lady she greeted almost affectionately. Was she not +Helena’s mother? and did not Mrs. Mallory herself regard Helena almost +as a daughter? Having introduced Sebastian and Hugo, Mrs. Mallory +turned to Mr. Spenceley, while the young men bowed themselves before +the mistress of the house. + +She said she was very glad to see them. Then she told Sebastian that +she had heard a great deal about him, and then she looked hurriedly +around for ‘Mr. Spenceley.’ + +That gentleman, who had been exchanging courtesies in a loud and +blatant voice with Mrs. Mallory, now began to welcome Sebastian to his +native place, also in a loud and blatant manner. + +‘Well, sir, I’m glad to see you. Come home just in the nick of time, +you have. You’ve a grand opportunity for making your fortune now. Gad! +But it’s providential, this American business! We shall get rid of some +of our surplus stock now. It’ll give us a pull over our work-people +too, at last; and not before we need it. The fellows were getting +beyond everything, eh!’ + +Sebastian, his calm and serious eyes quietly scanning the strong, if +coarse, under-bred face of the man before him, merely said that he was +quite new to this kind of thing. He had not considered the subject in +that light at all. + +‘Well, I should advise you to do so as soon as possible then, or you’ll +lose your chance,’ shouted Mr. Spenceley, whose voice was elevated so +as to drown entirely those of the rest of the company, while his wife +timidly looked on, her florid face set gravely, and her eyes round and +staring with a sort of anxious attentiveness. + +Sebastian foresaw that he would have to take her in to dinner, and he +glanced at her now and then, wondering what he should say to her--how +keep up some kind of a conversation. She was a tall, stout, matronly +woman; once she must have been an extremely handsome lass. Her black +hair was still abundant, and had something of the waviness of Helena’s: +her eyes, too, were dark. She was as tall as her daughter, but more +lymphatic in temperament. + +Helena probably inherited her beauty from her mother, and her +vehemence from her father. Mrs. Spenceley was accustomed to roll in her +carriage through Bridgehouse and Lower Place, suburbs of Thanshope, +and to look from her elevation upon the extensive matrons who stood +at their cottage doors, exchanged gossip, and scolded their ingenuous +offspring, sporting in the road before them; but her nature was the +same as theirs. Denude her of her silks and satins, attire her in a +cotton or linsey gown, with bare arms and a large apron, her hair +twisted up into a knot behind, and her head capless; a cottage full +of cares and unruly children, a rough ‘measter’ to make and mend and +‘do’ for, and she would have been indistinguishable from those other +matrons. She would have fallen back into the old ways quite genially +and naturally; she would have been what she certainly was not under +existing arrangements--happy. + +For Mrs. Spenceley was unhappy in her riches and greatness; she +could remember quite distinctly the days when Spenceley had been +overlooker at one of the great Thanshope factories, and she had done +the work of the house, and brought up the children single-handed, +and been happy--and not genteel. She remembered the sudden leap into +prosperity, the gradually increasing establishment, Helena dismissed +to a fashionable boarding-school, and Fred to a private and select +academy, where he was to learn how to become a gentleman--that short, +easy, and every-day process, where, as a matter of fact, he had drunk +in one lesson, and one only, namely, that a fellow whose father has +money, and who will one day have money himself, need not know, or do, +or be anything--except rich. Mrs. Spenceley remembered how servants, +of whom she stood in awe, had accumulated around her; how she had had +to leave her kitchen to their tender mercies; how she had found that +she must not handle a duster, or have an opinion as to the merits of +the heave-shoulder or the wave-breast any longer; until she had got a +magnificent housekeeper, in black silk and a lace cap, who was fully +conscious of the primordial fact that large and wealthy establishments +only existed in order that she might domineer over one of them. How +Helena was returned upon her hands, a ‘finished’ young lady, ignorant, +as it seemed to Mrs. Spenceley in her own ignorance, of the very +elements of a womanly education--unable to keep house, to cook, to +sew, even to distinguish ribs of beef from sirloin. She had ventured, +mildly, to utter some of her woe to the father, who had said, ‘Pooh! +Let the lass alone. She’ll never need to know such things. She shall +marry a lord! Only don’t let her cross me and she’ll do.’ And Helena +had been suffered to trample upon the domestic arts, and to throw +herself, with all the energy of one who has nothing to do with herself, +into all sorts of questions about which her active brain made her +curious, while her unfinished education left her profoundly ignorant of +their practical bearings. She had no female friends except Mrs. Mallory +and Miss Mereweather, a conspicuous friend and upholder of ‘the cause.’ +She loved Mrs. Mallory, because that lady was kind to her, and was by +no means a nonentity; and she adored Miss Mereweather because of her +talents, or what seemed to Helena her talents. + +Friends at home the girl had none. Fred had one of those hopelessly +dense natures which may be called the complacently brutal--nothing +in the way of friendship or sympathy was to be had from him. Her +father--Helena, in her intercourse at school with girls of good +family and social surroundings, had learnt to know that her father’s +manners and language were to be abhorred, while, had he been a Sir +Charles Grandison in the matter of deportment, his coarse bullying +and ferocious bantering of her mother would alone have made the +hot-spirited girl almost hate him. + +And Fred--his mother stood in profound awe of him; his talk, his slang, +his ways in general; and she was the one soul on earth, except himself, +who was firmly convinced of the fact that Frederick Spenceley was at +once a finished gentleman and a consummate man of the world. + +As Sebastian sat watching his hostess, and partly divining some of +these facts, a voice at his elbow roused him. + +‘Good evening, Mr. Mallory. You look as if you were dreaming.’ + +Looking quickly round, he saw Helena standing close beside him, smiling +as frankly as if no misunderstanding had ever existed between them, +as if they had not quarrelled violently within two hours of first +seeing each other. How lovely she was! None but a very lovely woman +could have stood the dull ivory satin dress she wore, fitting tight in +the waist, without a fold or a crease; and, in an age of voluminous, +portentous crinolines, trailing straight and long behind her. She wore +a black lace fichu, and elbow sleeves with black lace ruffles falling +from them. The fichu was fastened with a golden brooch; beyond that was +not a ribbon, not a frill, not a jewel or a flower about her. And her +beauty came triumphant through the ordeal. + +They had parted on decidedly evil terms, and he was surprised now to +find that she welcomed him cordially, and smiled as she took the chair +beside him. + +‘I am afraid I was very cross the other night,’ said she, with a sunny +smile. ‘But I thought you had treated me badly, and I am going to have +my revenge to-night, and show you that I am in earnest. My greatest +friend, Laura Mereweather, has most fortunately been able to come just +when I invited her. Wasn’t that wonderful?’ + +‘I am prepared to say that it was; but I don’t yet know why.’ + +‘You know Miss Mereweather; by name, at least?’ + +‘To my shame I must confess that I never even heard of her before.’ + +‘What an extraordinary thing! She has a European reputation.’ + +‘You astonish me! For what?’ + +‘As being the most advanced female thinker, and the greatest benefactor +to her sex, of her time.’ + +Sebastian’s face fell, as he looked round the room. + +‘These very intellectual women have often nothing remarkable in their +personal appearance,’ said he. ‘Would you believe that, of the several +young ladies I see seated about the room, I could not say which I +should suppose to be Miss Mereweather. + +‘_That_,’ said Helena impressively, ‘that slight girl, all intellect, +and mind, and spirit, talking to my brother--that is Laura!’ + +‘Is it really?’ he said, his eyes falling upon the ethereal-looking +being described by Helena. + +He saw a thin, nervous-looking girl--a girl with not a bad face, if +it could not be called absolutely handsome. She too was dressed, +like Helena, in a tightly fitting robe with undistended skirts, but +her dress was black. She wore an eyeglass, looked restlessly around, +and had a deep contralto voice. There was nothing alarming in her +appearance; she looked, thought Sebastian, as if she would have made an +excellent head-mistress of a large school, the matron of an hospital, +or some authority of that description. + +‘She is a woman of powerful individuality, I should say,’ he remarked. + +‘Is she not? After dinner she shall talk to you.’ + +‘Oh, you are very kind! I wouldn’t trouble her for the world.’ + +‘It is no trouble. Nothing done for the cause would be a trouble to +Laura; and then you must be enlightened. You must learn that ours is +not a cause to be treated with levity. You must be punished for what +you did and said the other night,’ said Helena. + +‘I submit; but--I am sure you could talk just as well,’ said Sebastian, +resignedly. + +‘Ah, if I could!’ said Helena, gazing with admiring devotion towards +her friend. + +‘Is there not an immensity of power and force about her?’ she said +enthusiastically. ‘Laura has several times been mistaken for a man--by +persons who have heard her voice, and her remarks, without seeing her.’ + +‘Has she? How excessively annoying for her!’ said Sebastian, with +feeling. + +‘Annoying! It pleases her, as a testimony to her power, and as a proof +that there is no real disparity in the respective capacities of men and +women. Of course, when it is known that books or pictures have been +written or painted by women, all hope of fair and impartial criticism +is over.’ + +‘Is it?--Well, I was looking at the question from another point of +view. I thought that if Miss Mereweather disapproves so strongly of men +in general, it would annoy her to be mistaken for one of that odious +and inferior sex; and, moreover, would only be a sign of how very +different she must be from most women.’ + +‘She is very superior to most women; if that is what you mean, I +concede the point willingly.’ + +‘Well, if such a superior woman is often mistaken for a man, is not +that a piece of negative evidence of the inferiority of women in +general?’ he asked politely. + +Helena’s face had flushed again. + +‘As I said, Laura shall talk to you. She will argue much better than I +can. I do not pretend to her abilities. And there is Parsons announcing +dinner,’ added Helena hastily, her colour mounting still higher as she +caught Sebastian’s eyes fixed with a grave yet not unkindly expression +upon her face. + +He rose to offer Mrs. Spenceley his arm, and stood with her, watching +the couples as they filed out of the room. Yes, Helena was lovely, and +not all her wild talk, not even her enthusiastic admiration for Miss +Mereweather, could make her otherwise. + +He looked absently on, as first his mother and Mr. Spenceley went by; +next a gorgeous dowager, whose tribal name and standing were unknown to +him, but whom he distinctly heard saying something about ‘the ’oist at +the Lang’um ’otel,’ as she swept past on the arm of a flaccid-faced, +red-haired, meek-looking man, pertaining to the goodly company of +cotton-spinners. The wife of the said cotton-spinner followed next, +with a gentle-looking incumbent--he who ministered to the spiritual +needs of Mr. Spenceley and his family. More couples followed. Fred +Spenceley with Miss Mereweather--more gorgeous dowagers and resplendent +spinsters, and more of the native young men, leading the same to the +banquet, and, at last, Helena, in her creamy robes, with Hugo. + +‘The lucky young dog!’ thought Sebastian, resignedly, as Hugo’s +eyes met his, and the lad smiled rather triumphantly, in the full +consciousness that he was leading out the prettiest woman in the room. + +Was she talking women’s rights now? Sebastian wondered, as he silently +brought up the rear with the equally silent Mrs. Spenceley. No! She was +laughing with Hugo, like any other pleasant, well-conditioned girl, and +asking him to tell her exactly how he spelt his name, and if it had any +particular meaning. + +‘For I know nothing about German, you know, except a translation of the +“Sorrows of Werther,” which I thought very funny.’ + +‘And I do not know much about English,’ said Hugo, much delighted +with his own good fortune, ‘but I can understand yours, _sehr gut_, I +mean, very well. You speak so clearly--it is different from the London +people.’ + +‘Not bad for a first attempt, old boy!’ thought Sebastian, smiling +as they entered the celebrated dining-room of Castle Hill, with its +pictures and bronzes, and statuary, all of the very best, and ‘bought +by people who understood such things,’ as Mr. Spenceley was wont +modestly to say, when any one praised any of his artistic treasures. + +Mrs. Spenceley did not look like a person who would have exactly a +discriminating taste in the matter of genre-paintings, or landscape, +but Sebastian broke the silence between them by remarking on a little +picture hanging opposite to him. + +‘Yes; it’s by a person called Ansdell, I believe,’ said Mrs. Spenceley. +‘They say it’s very good; but for my part I’m no judge of such things.’ + +Sebastian bowed, and then, thinking that perhaps local topics might +prove more successful than artistic ones, said he feared that distress +was already beginning amongst the work-people. + +Mrs. Spenceley turned with some vivacity to her guest. + +‘You’re right, Mr. Mallory. If it goes on as it is doing, it’ll break +some ’earts before all’s over.’ + +‘Do you visit much amongst them?’ + +‘Not so much as I could wish. There’s some of the poor creatures will +soon be fair clemming--starving, I mean.’ Mrs. Spenceley sank her +voice, and every now and then her eye turned with a little nervous, +wavering glance towards her lord at the other end of the table. ‘You +see I shouldn’t like to go amongst them so much without I could keep +them a bit. I _should_ like to have a soup-kitchen!’ she added with +feeling; ‘but Spenceley doesn’t quite approve of it. He says that many +of them have money laid by, and he’s of opinion that we must let them +help themselves a bit before we begin to help them.’ + +‘From a politico-economical point of view Mr. Spenceley is perhaps +right,’ said Sebastian, glancing down the table at the red-faced, +coarse-featured man, with a heavy jaw not devoid of cruelty; and noting +that same jaw reproduced even more obtrusively and unpleasantly in the +son; scarcely at all in the daughter, or at least only in a manner +which gave an expression of decision to the charming mouth. + +‘I know nothing about politics,’ said Mrs. Spenceley; ‘and you may mark +my words--those that’s starving will want bread--not politics.’ + +‘Certainly they will. Unfortunately you often cannot give them the one +without a good deal of the other.’ + +‘I dare say. But if the war doesn’t stop soon we shall have to do +something, if it was only to try and teach the poor women to make the +most of their bits of stuff. Most of them are no housekeepers to speak +of. They can spin and weave, but they can’t make home comfortable, +and after all, that’s the chief thing. But,’ she added, suddenly +remembering different reports she had heard of Sebastian, and Helena’s +contemptuous announcement that he was a fop, who thought the world was +made for his amusement, and that there was nothing in life worth the +trouble of being earnest about, ‘you won’t be much interested in these +kind of things, Mr. Mallory.’ + +‘On the contrary, I am much interested in it. Your idea makes me wonder +if something could not be done. If some schools, or something of that +kind, could be established,[2] if some of the ladies of the town would +take it up--my mother and you, for example, Mrs. Spenceley--and make +it unnecessary for those poor girls to be wandering about, laughing +and making fun of people in the streets as I saw them the other day. +And your daughter--I should think Miss Spenceley would find the work +congenial.’ + +‘Helena!’ echoed the mother, shaking her head. ‘It’s of no use talking +about her, Mr. Mallory. She has always some fresh craze in her head, +and never a useful one. That horrid Miss Mereweather has been the ruin +of her.’ + +Sebastian repressed a smile. + +‘If she only would turn to something useful!’ lamented Mrs. Spenceley, +‘but with these ridiculous ideas about women being better than men, and +all that--and she can’t even make a shirt for her father or a pudding +for her brother. Oh, but I beg your pardon--only I do often tell her +that she would never make a good wife with these ideas--not if she had +millions of pounds and was the prettiest girl in England.’ + +Though Mrs. Spenceley threw back her head and spoke in a tone of +annoyance, yet Sebastian clearly distinguished an accent of pride in +her voice. The homely mother then was not altogether displeased with +her wilful, brilliant girl. + +‘And what does she say to that?’ he asked, looking at Hugo and Helena, +who seemed to be greatly enjoying some remarkably good joke; and he +thought: ‘The prettiest girl in England! At least she might hold her +own amongst a dozen of the prettiest.’ + +‘Oh, she says she never will be married, and that nonsense. I tell +her to wait until Mr. Right comes, and then we shall hear a different +song. I wish he would, I’m sure,’ she added fervently, ‘before she gets +spoiled. She has a right good heart, has Helena, if only a giddy head.’ + +Sebastian did not answer. He was still looking towards Hugo and Helena, +and felt intensely conscious of the ripple of laughter which scarcely +ceased between them. It was impossible that women’s rights, or any +such bristly, hateful topic could be causing that delighted look on +Hugo’s dark, artist face; could call that gracious curve to Helena’s +red lips. Hugo threw himself with passion into the joy of the moment, +as Sebastian knew; Helena seemed to have something of his eager, +inflammable temperament. At least they appeared to be very happy +together. + + * * * * * + +Dinner over; a group of four congregated in a corner. Helena on a sofa, +with Hugo beside her; Sebastian and Miss Mereweather facing one another +in chairs, and the cross-examination about to begin. Helena had wished +to leave Sebastian and Miss Mereweather to fight it out alone, but he +had meekly suggested that it was not fair to make him confront the most +remarkable woman of her age entirely without support; and Hugo adding +his petition, Helena had consented to be present at the discussion. + +Helena seated herself, opened her fan, and said, + +‘Now, Laura dear, Mr. Mallory would like to know your views on the +Woman Question.’ + +She avoided meeting the look of sorrowful amazement and reproach with +which Sebastian heard this decidedly exaggerated announcement, and +Laura replied, + +‘I should first wish to know Mr. Mallory’s own views upon that +subject--_the_ subject, I may say, of the present age.’ + +‘They are soon stated,’ said Sebastian. ‘I have none.’ + +‘Then there is some hope for you,’ said Miss Mereweather, with rather a +pitying smile. + +‘I am glad of that. At the same time, I should like to know in which +direction the hope shows itself.’ + +‘Your frank acknowledgment of your utter ignorance of the question is +a great point in your favour. As you have no views at all upon it, +you are the more likely to be able to receive just ones when they are +offered to you.’ + +‘I have some preconceived ideas upon the matter of logic and +reasonableness, common sense, and all that kind of thing. Will that be +against me in this case, do you think?’ + +‘I dislike flippancy,’ said Laura. + +‘I did not mean to be flippant. I merely wished for information.’ + +‘We will take the suffrage first,’ said Miss Mereweather, raising +her voice somewhat, as if to scatter such irrelevant remarks to the +winds. ‘Are you in favour of extending the franchise to women--I mean +women-householders and ratepayers?’ + +‘On what grounds?’ + +‘On the only grounds on which they can claim it; on the grounds that +they are mentally, morally, and, in the practical affairs of the world, +the equal of man; and that, as they bear equal burdens for the State, +so they should have equal privileges.’ + +‘I could never grant them the suffrage on those grounds.’ + +‘_What!_’ exclaimed both ladies, while Helena started forward, and +dropped her fan, her eyes flashing, and her face flushing. + +‘Because it would take too long to prove your case. What is more, if +you fight the question on that ground, I doubt whether you will ever +win it. You cannot be said to have proved a case to your opponent +until you have got him to agree with you, and you will never, in your +lifetime at least, get more than a number to agree with you on that +point; it may be an influential number, and a select one, but it will +not be at all a majority.’ + +‘Your argument is not logical, it is a quibble,’ said Miss Mereweather +disdainfully. ‘Your real opinion is that women ought not to have the +franchise.’ + +‘I never said so. If they think it a privilege, and if they would be +pleased to have it, why not?’ + +Miss Mereweather, unaccustomed to this style, neither agreement nor +opposition, was silent a moment. Then a shade of pique crossed her brow. + +‘You do not think women worth discussing anything seriously with?’ said +she. + +‘Excuse my saying that you are quite mistaken.’ + +‘Then why don’t you discuss this question seriously?’ was the decidedly +feeble reply of the most remarkable woman of her time. + +‘But I do. I say, why not give them the franchise if they would like to +have it? I suppose that by degrees they would get educated up to it.’ + +‘Mr. Mallory! you are absolutely insulting,’ cried Helena, angrily, and +Sebastian merely answered with a grave look, and the remark, + +‘I am sorry if I have offended you.’ + +Helena’s lips, opened to utter further reproach, suddenly closed; with +a look of embarrassment she became silent, and Miss Mereweather, in a +business-like tone, said, + +‘Mr. Mallory is not so dark as he seems to you, my dear, I have good +hopes for him. We will turn to another branch of the subject. What is +your opinion, Mr. Mallory, of the relative status before the law of +husband and wife? What do you think of the laws about married women’s +property?’ + +‘I think they are bad,’ said Sebastian, stifling a yawn, and glancing +at Hugo, who was fanning himself with Helena’s fan, while she leaned +eagerly forward. + +‘Ah!’ said Laura, ‘an opinion at last! You agree with us that there, in +that most important of all relations, the woman is a slave.’ + +‘I don’t think I said so. I suppose the woman might be a slave if every +husband were as bad as the law would allow him to be. Men are not all +tyrants, nor women all slaves! so I suppose that is why the law has not +been changed.’ + +‘That is sophistry,’ said Laura. + +‘Will you deny that it is fact?’ he inquired politely. + +‘Then you would allow the law to be altered?’ + +‘Certainly.’ + +‘It is an important subject for you, my dear child,’ said Miss +Mereweather to Helena. ‘I only hope your resolution will remain firm, +and that you will resist temptation and specious promises. In your case +you will have plenty of both.’ + +‘Of course I shall resist,’ said Helena, a little crossly. ‘I am not +quite imbecile, Laura, and know how to take care of myself. My mind is +quite made up on that subject.’ + +‘In what direction?’ inquired Sebastian. + +‘I have told you already. I know I shall have property,’ said Helena, +trying to speak with lofty indifference, but all the same, not unaware +that the young man’s eyes were fixed upon her face, and with her own +wavering as she went on with the speech which she had uttered many a +time before, and which now struck her for the first time as falling +somewhat flat, and not being quite equal to the occasion. Other young +men had looked at her, and said they were sure she didn’t mean it, +and it was too cruel of her, and other ‘vacant chaff’ of the same +description. Sebastian only looked at her gravely, calmly, as it seemed +to her, almost pityingly, and in perfect silence. + +The glance stung and galled her. She would not be deterred by that +look. What was Sebastian Mallory but a man--a thoughtless young man, +who had dared to laugh at her views? + +‘And property entails responsibilities,’ she continued. + +‘It certainly does.’ + +‘I shall therefore never marry,’ said Helena, courageously, though her +face burned, and she wished intensely that she had never insisted upon +the discussion. ‘I shall look after my own affairs, and arrange them +according to my own judgment. I will be free, and nobody’s servant.’ + +‘A very wise resolution; provided, first, that you keep it; and second, +that you feel equal to disposing judiciously of a large property.’ + +‘I have no doubt about _that_,’ said she, with a lofty smile, still not +raising her eyes, and very angry with herself for not being able to do +so. + +Sebastian smiled, and the smile made Helena feel hot and uncomfortable. + +‘I hope,’ said he, with extreme politeness, ‘that you will feel the +satisfaction which should be the reward of such high motives.’ + +Helena flushed again. She had argued the point more than once with +different people, and without this feeling of embarrassment. Why was +she embarrassed now? What would that ‘nicest girl’ he ever knew think, +if she were here? Had she money? He had said she had been brought up +in the school of adversity. That reminded Helena of another point in +the argument, which she ought to have advanced long ago. She was dimly +conscious of a kind of bathos as she said, ‘I don’t believe in useless +fine ladies, you know, all the same. I think women ought to be able to +earn their own living, if necessary. They ought to be able to be quite +independent of men, if they choose.’ + +‘Do you think they ever would choose?’ he asked with a suppressed smile. + +‘I know this, that I would rather earn fourpence a day as a +needle-woman, than depend upon any man!’ said Helena, hotly and +indignantly. ‘And I could always do that.’ + +‘In that case I congratulate you,’ he retorted ironically. ‘You are +superior to all calamities and misfortunes. I wish I could feel myself +equally secure.’ + +‘You have not argued a single point,’ said Helena with passion. ‘I +shall never be at the trouble to talk seriously to you again.’ + +‘If you will only talk to me at all, I shall be delighted.’ + +She had risen, and whirled herself away to the other end of the room, +where she busied herself in setting two young ladies to screech duets, +while she conversed (seriously or otherwise) with the clergyman. + +Sebastian turned with a half-smile to Miss Mereweather. He found an +unaccountable pleasure in goading Helena into a passion. He had a dim, +vague idea that if he tried, he could not only irritate her into fury, +but soothe her back into calmness; but he was quite sure he never would +try. Rages, he thought, were not in his line. He liked better, as a +permanency, the perfect temper and calm self-possession of another +character. No one would want to tease Adrienne. + +His mind half given to such thoughts, he conversed with Miss +Mereweather, and his opinion of Helena’s discrimination was gradually +raised. Miss Mereweather was not at all bitter about her defeat--if +defeat it were. She was clever, sensible, accomplished. She owned +that she did think a great deal about the advancement of women and +their improvement, and she was an ardent advocate for giving them the +franchise; but, she added, she could not go to the lengths Helena +did, and very soon they left that subject and turned to others. Their +conversation was perfectly amicable and agreeable, and Helena watched +them from afar, with a darkling, somewhat resentful glance. Dear +Laura’s one fault, she thought, was that she was too facile--that she +compromised too easily. + +As the Mallorys drove home, Mrs. Mallory, completely deceived by +the long conversation which had taken place, was in a disastrously, +unsuspiciously amiable frame of mind, and was correspondingly +dejected when Sebastian, summing up his description of the evening’s +entertainment, said that Miss Spenceley had adopted the strictly +feminine line of argument, ‘Agree with all I say, or I will quarrel +with you!’ + +‘As I did not agree with all she said, she quarrelled with me. _Violà +tout!_ Did she talk women’s rights to you, Hugo?’ + +‘To me--no!’ + +‘Why _I_ should be selected as the victim, I can’t imagine,’ pursued +Sebastian. ‘It is a pity she does it, for she could be nice, I am sure; +and as it is, she makes herself simply a bore.’ + +Mrs. Mallory was silent, mentally heaping opprobrium upon Helena’s +crazes. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[2] An apology is herewith offered to the Manchester Central +Committee, for thus putting into the mouth of a fictitious individual +their excellent proposals for the schools which were of so much benefit +in most of the distressed districts. + + + + +BOOK II. + +THE STORM. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE FIRST OF THE STORM + + +The year 1861 had closed in thick clouds and a great darkness, with +the mutter of war in the far west, and with the threatening of famine +at home. The year 1862 dawned, but with a dawn so dark as scarce to be +distinguishable from profoundest midnight. + + ‘Earth turned in her sleep for pain.’ + +January, February, dragged slowly by, and times only grew worse. Few +chimneys smoked, no workers tramped through the streets; faces were +pinched, fires burnt low and meagre in the bitter weather; money was +not forthcoming, clothes were few, pleasures were at an end. Men paused +and waited, as it were, while the thunder growled and the first heavy +drops of the storm began to fall, slowly and deliberately, and then +faster and ever faster, till none could escape the universal drenching. + +One bitter morning, in the beginning of March, Myles and Mary Heywood +turned out to their daily work. A furious, stinging wind, and a +driving, scourging rain, saluted them as they entered the long sloping +street leading to the factory. Myles pulled his collar up about his +ears, and Mary folded her shawl more tightly round her, pulling it also +farther over her face. They walked in silence, and did not look at +each other. In truth, both their hearts were sad as sad could be. They +were entirely changed from the well-to-do, untroubled, noble-looking +brother and sister who, six or seven months ago, had walked home +together in the heat of the August afternoon. What a hot, plentiful +blaze of sunlight then! what cold, what wet, what inclemency of +elements now! The contrast was pointed and searching, and went home to +both. + +For months now, Myles’s heart had been growing bitterer and harder, and +more rebellious; ever since that evening on which Sebastian Mallory +had come and interrupted his talk with Adrienne. He had not seen her +often since then, or rather had not visited her often since then; but +on the few occasions when he had done so, she was changed. He had seen +the change distinctly, had seen how her eye wavered and her colour +changed under his piercing glance, for he could look at her steadily +enough now, without bashfulness, and with a gaze of desperate, hopeless +inquiry, which, he thought, must burn her secret from her heart. With +each visit, each conversation with her, he had grown more hopeless, +more despairingly certain that what little part or lot he had ever +had in her life, had now vanished--was done with for ever more. Once, +strolling aimlessly along, he had seen her come out of a shop, and +had been going to speak to her, when Sebastian Mallory had come up, +smiling, and lifting his hat, and fixing his eyes upon her face. + +The sight had been quite enough for Myles, who had plunged his hands +into his pockets, and turned away with bitterness in his heart. Once or +twice--he did not know how often--he had purposely and pointedly spoken +to her of Sebastian, and had even asked her a question or two about her +former acquaintance with him, and had watched cruelly and unflinchingly +to see how she took it. And she had taken it just as he had expected, +with downcast eyes, a heightened colour, and a sudden confused silence. +He had been satisfied with his experiment; now he had given over going +to Mr. Blisset’s house, saying to himself, + +‘If she cares for us, and is worth anything, she will come--she will +come, if it is only to see Mary. By this I shall know her. If she comes +I’ll keep quiet, and try to be satisfied with her--friendship. And if +she does not come--I’ll hate her; no, I’ll think no more of her--I’ll +forget her, and rid myself of this plague that has been with me ever +since I knew her.’ + +Adrienne did not come; days and weeks went by, and she came not, +and Myles did not hate her; he did not cease to think of her. His +‘plague’ tormented him more grievously than ever, and his life was +miserable. His days were long; there was only half the usual work to +fill them. The weary afternoons and evenings were unutterably long. +He sat at home with his books open before him, or he took his way to +the reading-room, and sat with more books open before him, and stared +at them, and knew nothing about what was in them, while the chimes +played ‘Life let us cherish!’ and Myles thought of the hundreds, now +daily augmenting, dwelling in the houses beneath those chimes, to whom, +in their destitution, the tune must have seemed a sort of melodious +mockery. ‘Life let us cherish!’ while the men across the Atlantic +were locked in the deadly grip of war, and the cotton manufacture in +England was coming steadily, surely to a stand-still. A few more throbs +of its mighty pulse--a few more desperate struggles to break through +the paralysis that was creeping over it, and then the iron lungs, the +great throbbing heart of it, its huge limbs, its vast arteries, would +be quiescent--for who should venture to say how long? It was a deadly +prospect. + +With these various causes of distress gnawing perseveringly at his +heart, the young man might well be silent, as he set his teeth against +the wind, and stooped his head to shield his face from the rain. + +While Mary, on her side, had cause enough and to spare of unhappiness. +The poor girl’s heart was full to bursting of a dread fear that she had +had for many weeks now, and concerning which she had not breathed a +word to any one. + +‘That it should ha’ begun just now!’ she thought to herself; ‘just when +times is hard, and work is short, and I can none get him all he should +have.’ + +She kept up a brave face; worked out her daily task at her looms, and +her much harder, heart-breaking task at home; had caresses, and smiles, +and tender words for Edmund, and a good face to turn to poor Myles, in +his gloom, which oppressed her faithful heart like a chill hand laid +upon it. She had her meed of consolation for Harry Ashworth, who said +he was growing deafer and deafer. She had her own private astonishment +at Adrienne’s long absence, but no thought that Adrienne meant any +slight or ill-will to her or hers. + +Still, her secret cares had thinned her cheeks, and taught her lips +to assume a sadder curve; had placed a line or two upon her frank, +calm brow, and lent a quiet pensiveness to her dark-brown eyes. It +had always been a good face--now it had the dignity and pathos of +well-borne sorrow. + +They entered the great gas-lighted room. Myles went off to his part of +the mill and Mary to hers. How hot and overpowering it felt, after the +bitter rawness of the outside air! She cast aside her shawl, and set +her looms going, and in a few minutes the old accustomed roar of the +machinery had somewhat soothed her; and her monotonous, weary pondering +over ways and means, and sharp, stinging fears as to some dread event +hovering in the near future, had been somewhat dissipated by attention +to her work and the chat of a fellow factory-worker. + +‘I reckon we’st soon have to shut up shop here, Mary,’ said the latter. +‘I yeard Wilson say as how we couldn’t hold out mich longer.’ + +‘Eh, what?’ said Mary, with a start--‘eh, I hope not, lass. What mun we +do, if we’ve no work?’ + +The other girl shrugged her shoulders. + +‘I’ve yeard say, too, as if we do have any work, it’ll be wi’ Surats, +and I mun say I’d rayther have none at all. I conno’ work yon stuff.’ + +‘I care nowt at all, whether it’s Surats, or what it is, so as I’ve +summat to do, and summat to earn,’ said Mary. + +‘Thou may work twelve hours a day at Surats, and not earn above +six shillin’ a week,’ said her companion cynically; and then the +conversation ceased, and Mary was left to her reflections. + +At eight they went home to breakfast, and at half-past they were at +their work again, and continued at it until half-past twelve, when +Wilson put his head into the room, and called out, + +‘All the hands in this here room will please wait a few minutes in the +big yard. I’ve got something to say to you.’ + +The same announcement had been made in the different rooms, and the +result was, all the hands were assembled and waiting, some curiously, +some apathetically, for the communication that was coming. + +Wilson jumped upon a lorrie which stood in the yard, and in a clear, +distinct voice, read out from a paper he held in his hand this +announcement:-- + + ‘I hereby give notice that on and after Friday, March the --th, + this factory will be closed, owing to the present condition of the + cotton trade, in consequence of the American war. At the same time, + as I am anxious to keep my hands together, and to save them as much + as possible from distress, I undertake, for the present at least, + and until other circumstances should make a change desirable, to + furnish them with the means of subsistence, and such of them as are + my tenants will not be pressed for rent until the times improve. Each + head of a family is requested to attend in the warehouse of this + mill on the afternoon of Monday next, at three o’clock, when the + conditions of relief will be made known, and the names and addresses + of all in receipt thereof taken down. I request you earnestly, and + with perfect confidence, to try, all of you, during this present + trouble, to act together, and assist me in the preservation of order + and the relief of distress. + + ‘SEBASTIAN MALLORY.’ + +There was a short silence; then murmurs; then, from some lips, an +attempt at a cheer. Some girls and women were wiping their eyes with +their aprons, and one or two men waved their hats: exclamations +and murmurs arose all around. ‘Eh, but that’s reet-down kind, that +is!’ ‘Th’ chap is a good sort!’ ‘Well, we needna fear to clem just +yet!’ and so on. The gratitude was very real, if expressed with true +Lancashire reticence and absence of effusion. But almost greater than +the gratitude was the gloom--the sense of shame and degradation--the +feeling that this was a draught too bitter for any amount of sugaring +to sweeten, and that they had done nothing to deserve to have to +swallow it. Sebastian had done wisely in committing to Wilson the +delivery of the message. Wilson seemed to the work-people almost as +one of themselves; he, too, must suffer somewhat from this calamity. +The humiliation would have been too intense had Sebastian read the +announcement himself. He, like hundreds of other masters, was making +money--netting large profits at this stage of the crisis. His piled-up +warehouses would be emptied at profitable prices of the accumulated +results of last year’s over-production, while the impossibility of +getting at the stores of cotton which were undoubtedly reposing in +large quantities in Manchester and Liverpool warehouses, relieved +him from the immediate expense of working, and of paying wages. +That part of the ‘panic,’ as it was and is always called by the +work-people, was one of unmitigated severity for the poor man--for the +worker--capital added hugely to her stores. Yet every employer of any +foresight was troubled to know what was to become of his work-people +during the great distress--such skilful, practised, deft-handed, +soft-fingered work-people as no other corner of the world could supply +to him--work-people who, if they once got scattered, or emigrated, or +separated from their labour, could not be replaced--the choicest of +craftsmen and craftswomen. This was a hard subject during all the years +of the cotton famine--how keep the operatives together, provide for +them, prevent them from becoming demoralised by the enforced idleness, +combined with the living on money not earned by themselves? It was a +problem which, all must confess, was nobly solved. + +At this precise time, though the distress was daily augmenting in an +appalling manner, though each week saw a greater number of factories +closed entirely, yet the organised system of relief--that gigantic +machinery whose equal the world had never before seen--was not yet in +existence. + +Sebastian, after long consultations with Mr. Sutcliffe, had come to the +conclusion, for the present at least, to support his own work-people, +and the result of that resolution was the paper just now read out by +Wilson. + +Slowly the hands dispersed. Mary Heywood, seeing her brother near the +big gate, joined him there, and glanced rather doubtfully up into his +face. Doubt rapidly changed to dismay: he was white as death; his lips +tight-set; his great dark eyes absolutely scintillating with passion. +The words she had been about to speak to him died upon her lips. + +‘Thou go home, lass! I’ve a little business to do before I come after +thee, but I’ll not be long,’ said he, so quietly and calmly that her +heart beat a little less rapidly, and without a word she obeyed, +leaving him there in the yard, he conscious only of one purpose, and of +a burning restlessness until that purpose should be accomplished. + +He waited by the gates, looking at no one, speaking to no one, until he +saw that all the hands had filed out, and that Wilson was left alone in +the office, locking things up. A few swift, striding steps brought him +inside the little room. Wilson looked up. + +‘Hey, Myles! Is that you? Do you want something?’ + +‘Yes. I just want to tell you to take my name--and my sister’s too--off +the books. We shall not work here any more.’ + +‘Oh! but you will. This here is only a temporary stoppage, you know. +Times must mend, though they look bad enough now, and Mallory’s won’t +go to smash so easily.’ + +‘I shall never work here again, I tell you, nor Mary either. Take our +names off the books, if you please; and look you, Wilson, if anybody +comes round to my house offering me relief in’--a spasm twitched his +pain-set lips--‘the master’s name, I’ll kick him out--so you’re warned.’ + +‘My certy, Myles! You’re mad to talk i’ that way. You’ve ne’er thought +about it. How are you to live without relief? And when such a handsome +arrangement has been made----’ + +‘That’s nothing to the point. Please to do as I ask, and remember, I’ll +keep my word.’ + +He turned on his heel and left the yard. Wilson looked after him, +watching the proud, elastic figure, haunted by the remembrance of the +deadly paleness of the face, and the sombre, despairing gloom of the +eyes. + +Wilson acted as became a wary man, who did not choose to commit +himself--shook his head, and murmured, + +‘Ay, ay, my good chap, but you’ll have to eat humble-pie sooner or +later--and why not sooner?’ + +Evidently, the characters of Myles and his easy-going old friend were +fundamentally unlike. + +Meantime Myles, breathing rather more freely, and with a faint return +of colour to his cheek, took his way home, feeling that now, if he met +Sebastian Mallory, he could look him in the face as defiantly as he +chose. There was something almost exquisite in the sense that, though +only a few pounds stood between him and destitution, yet he was no +longer in any way dependent upon Mallory. + +Arrived at home, he found the kitchen empty; the dinner half ready +(not such an abundant dinner, even now, as it once had been), the +table spread. He sat down moodily, and waited; and presently Mary came +down looking very sad indeed. She had not been crying, but there was +something in her eyes speaking of a grief and fear beyond tears. + +‘Well, my lass, where’s Edmund?’ + +‘Edmund’s in bed, Myles.’ + +‘In bed!’ he echoed, looking up in some surprise; ‘why, what ails him?’ + +‘The same thing as has been ailin’ him this six-week. I dunnot know +what it may be. Th’ doctor calls it low fever.’ + +‘The doctor!’ he echoed again, more astonished still. ‘What’s the +meaning of this, Molly?’ + +‘Eh, Myles, if thou’d none been so wrapped up in summat all this time, +thou might ha’ seen as the lad were fair pinin’ away.’ + +She could hardly finish her words, but sat down upon the rocking-chair, +and covered her face with her hands for a moment, while he looked at +her with a haggard gaze. A hundred trifles came into his mind now, +crowding quickly forward--Mary’s pre-occupation--Edmund’s passive +silence and flushed face--and he had never seen it. Brute that he was! + +‘And to-day he’s that weak, he can’t sit up no longer,’ continued Mary, +raising her face from her hands and looking sadly before her; ‘and I’m +sore fleyed he’ll ne’er be strong again, that I am.’ + +Then she rose, and began to finish the few preparations for dinner, +though, sooth to say, no two people ever made ready for a meal with +less appetite. She began to talk, as she thought cheerfully. + +‘When I heard Wilson read out as factory would stop o’ Friday, my heart +fair sank within me, when I thowt o’ yon lad, and us wi’out a penny +to earn, but, eh! I could ha’ cried wi’ joy afore he’d done. Yon Mr. +Mallory mun be a reet good-hearted chap, and our Edmund winnot clem +now.’ + +‘Mary!’ he exclaimed, starting up, and speaking in so strange a voice +that she looked at him involuntarily, and saw again the look--the +pale face, the scintillating eyes--which had so terrified her an hour +before, at the mill-gate. He stepped across the room to her, and +grasped her arm. ‘Never thou name such a thing again. I told Wilson to +take my name, and thy name, off the books, and to send anybody round +here, poking into my affairs, if he dared. I’d die like a dog before +I’d take bit or sup from _him_, or let any of those that belonged to me +do it.’ + +‘Why, whatever----’ she began, but he went on, forcibly moderating his +voice, + +‘Molly, I never could have thought to hear such a word from thee. Hast +thought what it means? It means that we--seven hundred and more of +us--shall go like beggars every day, and take that man’s money, and eat +his bread, and do nothing for it. Thou’rt mazed with thy trouble,’ he +added soothingly, ‘or thou’d never have dreamt of it.’ + +‘But how mun we live?’ she asked, seeing only that they were Mr. +Mallory’s work-people, and that he prized their services, and like a +generous master desired to help them until better times came round +again. ‘Thou wert always so set against th’ master, lad; but when we’re +like to starve, what mun we do?’ + +Neither Mary nor Myles, it may have been observed, made any mention +of their mother, or spoke as if she could relieve them. Later in the +distress Mary went to her mother, and represented their situation. Mrs. +Hoyle replied sententiously that her money was sunk in her husband’s +business, and she had no longer any control over it, which was indeed +true: she had put it entirely in his power immediately after marrying +him, and it remained there, for towards the close of 1863 Mrs. Hoyle, +who had believed that she was doing well for herself in her marriage, +died of a rapid, sudden illness, and her money passed away from her +children, and into her husband’s hands, for ever. + +‘We’re not like to starve yet,’ replied Myles, to his sister’s last +remark. ‘I’ve got over ten pounds put by--it ought to have been more, +but I wasn’t as careful as I should have been; and you’ve something of +your own, I know. It’s true, we’d meant to keep it, but in these times +we’ll most of us have to use up what we put by.’ + +‘Eh, lad!’ answered Mary, with sorrowful embarrassment, ‘mine were such +a bit! And I’ve drawn it all out, for to buy yon lad his bits of things +as he must have. Doctor ordered them, and I saw as thou were moithered +wi’ summat, so I didn’t ax thee, but just used up my own bit o’ brass. +It’s all gone--all but a few shillin’s.’ + +He dropped her arm, and turned aside. This then was the prospect--a +sick brother to cherish, himself and his sister to support; the rent +to pay; and a little over ten pounds between them and destitution. +Undaunted though his spirit was, it was fain to stand appalled before +these facts, until at last, turning round, he said, + +‘I’ll think about what can be done, Mary. Ten pounds will last a good +while, and thou’rt so clever at managing, and all that.’ + +Mary was silent. She knew how quickly ten pounds would vanish, where +there was an invalid to be cared for; and the regular weekly sum which +Myles had haughtily refused, seemed, now that it was out of her reach, +to assume the proportions of absolute wealth. + +‘Myles,’ she said, ‘I know thou mun have some reason for what thou’rt +doing, but _I’ve_ no grudge against the master. I don’t see why I +shouldn’t take the relief and help Ned a bit ... thou needna know nowt +about it.’ + +‘Mary!’ He paused, choked back some passionate emotion, and looked at +her. There rushed over his mind, as by an inspiration, the conviction +that what he had said, what he had proposed to do, was a mean, +tyrannical way of making others suffer for his own private grudge. +Mary’s mind was to be kept on the rack as to ways and means; Edmund’s +comforts were to be stinted, or stopped, because he, Myles, hated +Sebastian Mallory, and, knowing his sister would obey him, despotically +said, ‘You will take no help from him.’ + +Certainly, to know that Mary and Edmund were subsisting upon Mr. +Mallory’s bounty, while he was idle, would be anguish almost as keen +as to sit down and subsist upon that bounty himself; but anguish, it +seemed, prevailed a good deal in the world. It had to be borne by some +people--what right had he to shift his portion upon the shoulders +of a loving woman and a cripple boy? He cried shame upon himself. +His cheek flushed, and he hesitated no longer. He had begun to speak +passionately; he finished calmly. + +‘I had not thought of that. You are right, Molly. You’d better do so. +It will be bad for me to bear’ (how bad, his pale face and drawn lips +foretold), ‘but it’s best so. This is a great trouble that has come +upon us, and we must be as great as we can to meet it, I suppose. I +shall look out and see if I can find anything to do--perhaps away from +here. I’m sure it’s the best thing I could do. It’s a great mistake my +being here at all.’ + +This speech, with the misery and bitterness underlying its acquiescence +in her wish, seemed to freeze Mary’s heart within her. She could not +understand it, yet it seemed to forebode evil and misery and woe to +her. She looked at Myles, in whose whole attitude was something alien +and strange. For a moment a fearful weight and foreboding oppressed +her; then, breaking suddenly loose from it, she ran up to him with a +cry of love, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him eagerly. + +‘Eh, Myles, hush, hush! Thou munnot talk like that. I’d clem sooner nor +take a penny from any one thou didn’t like. It were only that I were +quite disheartened, like, wi’ wondering what I were to do in these hard +times, now yon lad is so poorly. But for thee to go away and leave +us--the best brother’--a hug--‘ay, the vary best, ever a lass had--my +certy, don’t say nowt about it again.’ + +She was half laughing, half crying. As for Myles, the clasp of her +warm arms about his neck seemed to unstiffen it; the pressure of her +face upon his breast appeared to loosen a load of pent-up feeling. He +put his arm round her waist, and kissed her soft brown hair again and +again, and once more the feeling rushed over him that this was true +hearty love, and that he was a fool to distress himself for that other +love, which would never be his. + +‘Don’t take on so, there’s a dear lass. Do just as you like about the +relief. Say nothing to me about it, and I shall know nothing about +it. There’s a reason why I can take neither bit nor sup from young +Mallory--a reason I can’t tell you, and that will never be removed. A +crumb of his bread would choke me.’ + +‘Why, has he done thee any wrong?’ + +‘None at all, and means me no wrong; it’s what they call circumstances, +Molly. They come rather hard upon a fellow sometimes, that’s all. Come! +the dinner must be well-nigh cold. Let’s have it, and then I’ll go up +and sit wi’ poor Ned a bit.’ + +It was a dark prospect which opened before them; yet, after this +conversation, they both felt lighter of heart, and better prepared to +meet it. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +‘RATHE SCHLAGEN.’ + + +Sebastian Mallory, Mr. Sutcliffe, and Wilson, holding a council of +war together, late in the afternoon of that eventful day, discussed +the means to be taken for the preservation of order, and the best +distribution of relief. + +Sebastian, in the course of the debate, asked how many exactly there +were to be relieved. + +Wilson ran his eye over some long lists of names and addresses. + +‘The number of hands is seven hundred and thirty, sir, all in all; but +it’s with the heads of families we shall have to deal. About a dozen +won’t require relief, and four have taken their names off the books +altogether.’ + +‘Which are they?’ asked Sebastian. + +‘Frank Mitchell, weaver; he’s got a brother in Canada, who offered to +pay his passage out if he’ll go and help him on his farm; so, as soon +as he heard work was stopped, he decided to go. That’s one. Myles and +Mary Heywood----’ + +‘What! Any reasons given for their leaving?’ asked Sebastian, quickly. + +‘Well, sir, relief would be a hard nut for Myles Heywood to crack, at +the best of times. He’s uncommon proud, and he came up to me, after I’d +read your notice, and told me very stiff indeed to take his name and +his sister’s off the books. I did hexpostulate with him, but he were +quite determined.’ + +‘Did he give any reasons?’ + +‘No, sir. He doesn’t generally give his reasons for what he does, +leastways not to me; but I’m not his master.’ + +‘Is he one of my tenants?’ + +‘No, sir. He lives on the Townfield, at Number 16.’ + +‘Oh, very well!’ said Sebastian, and the business went on for some time +uninterruptedly. + +In the evening Sebastian, calling at Stonegate, and asking if Miss +Blisset could see him, was admitted, and taken to the drawing-room, +where he found Adrienne alone, seated at her piano. She rose, coming +forward to greet him, and he saw that her face was pale, and her eyes +sad and heavy. + +‘I hope you are in a good-natured and self-sacrificing mood,’ said he, +‘for I am come to ask a very great favour.’ + +‘I shall be delighted if I can help you in any way.’ + +‘Did you know we cease to work at all after Friday?’ + +‘Cease to work at all! What will become--oh, I am very sorry--what will +the work-people do?’ + +‘I thought,’ began Sebastian, and bit his lips. + +He was afraid of appearing to parade his intentions before her, and +altered the form of his announcement. + +‘I have consulted with Sutcliffe, my manager, you know, and we have +come to the conclusion that it will be the best and wisest plan for me +to relieve my work-people myself, for the present at any rate, and----’ + +‘All of them! To keep them, do you mean?’ asked Adrienne, quickly. + +‘It is really the best, and it will be the cheapest way in the end,’ +said he, half apologetically; ‘and what I wished to ask you was----’ + +‘It is right--it is a generous thing to do. I am glad you are going to +do it,’ she interrupted him, her eyes beaming, and suppressed warmth in +her tone. + +And she looked at him more fully and steadily than she had done for +many weeks past. Yet there was something not perfectly pleased in her +expression. + +Sebastian, a young man who was not usually given to losing his +self-possession or presence of mind, coloured, half with embarrassment, +half with pleasure. + +‘I am glad you approve,’ was all he could find to say. + +‘I do. It will be such an excellent example.’ + +‘An example--ah, yes! But now to ask my favour. Sutcliffe thinks it +will not do to let them be idle all the time, so we have decided to +open some schools--one for the men and boys, and another for the women +and girls. Both of them will require some one with brains and a head on +their shoulders to look after them. I want to know if you will take the +management of the women’s school?’ + +‘But Mrs. Mallory--will she not wish to----’ + +‘No. She will have nothing to do with it beyond giving me a +subscription. I believe she does not altogether approve of the course +I have taken, and has decided to hold herself aloof. You can do it, if +you will, and if Mr. Blisset will spare you. I know you are not afraid +of yourself, and that is why I asked you.’ + +‘If my uncle can spare me, I will undertake it,’ said Adrienne, +speaking as she now usually did speak to him--rather briefly and drily. + +Sebastian could wring no sign from her--nothing but a rapid, guarded +glance, and a brief, unemotional speech. It was unsatisfactory, he +felt. He was not making way. She tormented his thoughts sometimes in +a way that was harassing; he carried in his mind almost incessantly +the calm, sweet face, pale and clear; the rapid glance which was, +he felt, not so much destitute of expression as full of something +veiled--something which she would not allow to beam fully out upon him. + +‘It will not be play,’ he proceeded, after a silent pause, during which +his eyes interrogated hers, which made no answer. ‘It will be downright +hard, arduous work. If it should prove to be too much for you....’ + +‘It will not be too much for me,’ she said quickly, and then her eyes +did suddenly fill with some expression--what he could not tell. ‘I +want some work like that--work which will be hard and absorbing,’ said +Adrienne, clasping her hands with an involuntary movement. ‘What must I +do? Have you got a room for the school, and some teachers?’ + +‘I think of dividing part of my warehouse, and filling it with +benches. It can soon be done. As for teachers, I thought some of the +better-educated amongst the young women themselves, or I could find a +mistress, and--do you know Miss Spenceley?’ + +‘No, I do not,’ said Adrienne, steadily, her colour rising. + +‘She is a young lady who professes to need active work and to love it, +and I really think, if she had the opportunity, she would throw herself +heart and soul into such a scheme. But perhaps you would rather not +make her acquaintance?’ + +Adrienne paused again. Was she to extend the scorn and contempt she +felt for Frederick Spenceley to his whole connections, and to make +difficulties and quibbles about her co-workers in a scheme in which it +was essential chiefly to have workers as soon as possible? + +‘No,’ said she; ‘if you think Miss Spenceley would help, I shall be +very happy to work with her.’ + +‘Of course you will be the head,’ said Sebastian. ‘I will take care +that is understood, and then there will be no difficulty.’ + +‘If you will send me a list of names and addresses,’ said Adrienne, ‘I +will go myself and see after them. I dare say Mary Heywood could tell +me something about a good many of them.’ + +‘That reminds me that Myles Heywood, for some reason or other, has seen +fit to decline all assistance. He has ordered his own name and his +sister’s to be taken off my books, and withdraws in dignified silence.’ + +He looked intently at Adrienne as he spoke. She was silent, crimsoned +for a moment as she met his glance; then she started from her chair and +walked to the fireplace, stooped over the fire-irons, and began to mend +the fire. + +‘Allow me!’ said Sebastian, politely, coming to her assistance in +time to see her disturbed face. ‘Is it not foolish of him?’ he added, +remorselessly. ‘He is too young to have been able to save anything +almost, and there is not the least prospect of work at present.’ + +‘He was quite right,’ said Adrienne, clearly, as she fixed her eyes +upon Sebastian. + +‘Quite right?’ he echoed, holding the poker suspended in his hand, and +looking at her in his turn. + +‘Perfectly right. I am thankful to hear it. If he had stooped tamely +to accept charity from you--I mean from any one--as soon as it was +offered, I--I would never have forgiven him.’ + +Sebastian gently replaced the poker in the fender. + +‘Perhaps he knew that,’ he remarked in his softest tone. + +‘He could not,’ was Adrienne’s quick retort. ‘I have not spoken to him +for weeks. And if I had--if he had known it....’ + +‘He might know it perfectly well, all the same,’ insisted Sebastian. +‘Have you thought seriously about it, Miss Blisset? I know Heywood is a +friend of yours....’ + +‘Yes, he is--a great friend of mine,’ she answered firmly, and not one +sign was lost upon Sebastian’s cool, observant eyes; the head a little +thrown back, eyes bright, the pale cheek flushed, as if she braced +herself to meet some peril. He saw and noted it all. + +‘You should be cautious how you influence him,’ said he. + +‘I do not influence him. He is far too strong and decided to be +influenced by--by a girl like me.’ + +Sebastian smiled politely but derisively. + +‘Pardon me, but I don’t think you are quite right there. I am convinced +you do influence him, and if so, don’t you think it is unkind to +prejudice him against his real interests?’ + +‘His real interest is not to take charity. Mr. Mallory, the bare idea +of Myles Heywood coming up to receive charity is dreadful. It makes me +miserable to think of it--only I can’t imagine his doing such a thing. +He never will. Poor fellow! I am sorry for him!’ + +‘Sooner or later it will come to that--it must,’ said Sebastian. ‘And +I--you speak as if I had tried to thrust alms upon him ostentatiously, +like a rich man relieving a beggar, and then appealing to every one +to notice his generosity. Can you suppose I intended anything so +revolting?’ + +The usually placid and unruffled Sebastian spoke in a tone of deep +vexation and chagrin. + +‘No, of course I did not suppose any such thing,’ replied Adrienne, +her face still flushed. ‘I did not do you so much injustice. But I’m +glad he refused--so glad. I hope he will find something else. I even +hope that this present trouble may turn out to be a means of improving +his position, for I think he may turn his thoughts to some higher +employment than mere drudgery in a factory--even though it is your +factory,’ she added, with a slight smile. + +‘He is certainly fit for a higher post. You would be glad to know him +in such a situation, would you not?’ + +‘Indeed I should.’ + +‘Even though it took him away from his friends and native town?’ went +on Sebastian, somewhat ironically. + +‘Y--yes. Even in that case.’ + +‘Well--who knows! It may turn out to be as you say.’ + +The conversation had been a far from satisfactory one to Sebastian. +He had had no idea, a month ago, that Myles Heywood’s image would +take such an important place in his concerns. He turned the subject, +and made arrangements with Adrienne about the school; but it seemed +to him that since their passage of arms--for it had been a passage +of arms--her eyes had brightened, and her voice had been more full +and decided. He left her at last, firmly convinced that Myles was his +formidable rival, and the conviction gave him a strange sensation, such +as he had never known before. All his life he had been accustomed to +quietly make up his mind, and then as quietly carry out his decision. +Now, to his own astonishment, he found himself strangely wavering +between certainty and uncertainty; and as he walked from Mr. Blisset’s +house to his own, he pondered over the history of his own love for +Adrienne, and, almost for the first time, began to wonder what would be +the end of that history. + +It was three years now since he had first met her. There had been a +chamber concert, in Coblenz, of classical music. Adrian Blisset had +played violin and his daughter piano, and Sebastian had been one of +the not very numerous audience; for the taste of the Coblenzers for +music was not of the severe sort. Perhaps the small audience was the +more appreciative--at least Sebastian Mallory sat a long two hours and +a half, without a thought of being weary or any wish to go. When the +music was over he had penetrated to the little room whither Adrian and +his daughter had retired; and knocked, and been bidden _herein_. + +Apologising for the intrusion, he had introduced himself, and said +he imagined that certain pieces that had been played that evening, +and which stood on the programme without any composer’s name, were +the production of the musician himself. He was right, and as these +compositions had appeared to him to possess a certain wild, weird +beauty of their own, there had ensued a long conversation upon the +subject, during which Sebastian’s discrimination and real, earnest love +for the art he professed had won over even Mr. Blisset’s reserved and +moody disposition. + +Thus the acquaintance began. The musician had been kinder and more open +than he usually was, not only to strangers, but to any one at all. +Sebastian had been allowed to visit him and his daughter. Adrienne had +played for him; she had talked with him, and he had found her charming. + +From Coblenz they had gone to Wetzlar, in the vain and illusory hope +that there they might find an audience, and receive remuneration. The +projected concert never took place, but certain other things did. +They spent altogether a week in the sleepy old town. They floated in +a little boat up the river, between the rows of poplars and the level +meads; they sat under the shadow of the grim old _Heidenthurm_ of the +cathedral, and looked over all the landscape below. Adrienne sat upon +the wall above Goethe’s _Brunnen_, and looked at the girls coming to +fill their pitchers, and said to Sebastian, who was standing beside +her, and looking earnestly down at her, + +‘I wonder if it was to such a well that Hermann came and helped +Dorothea? I could almost fancy so. Could not you?’ + +‘I think I could,’ Sebastian had answered, looking, not at the well, +but at her. + +With each day that he saw her, his admiration for her grew greater. She +was a fair jewel in a poor setting. Her gentleness, her dignity under +trouble and sorrow, her + + ‘Festen Muth in schweren Leiden,’ + +impressed him, delighted him. Her flashes of quaint humour, which +showed him how gay the spirit she owned might be, if only the sun would +shine a little upon its dwelling-place; her grace, her intellect, +attracted him irresistibly; and he loved, too, the quiet independence +with which she met him; the calm dignity with which she ignored his +wealth, his position, his advantages, and treated him as her equal--no +more, no less. + +Amongst the list of events which made, as it were, a gaily coloured, +kaleidoscopic pattern in his memory, that week at Wetzlar stood out +from the rest, like a little patch of pure gold, like the lucent +background on which stands out, pure and clear, some mediæval Madonna. + +One morning, when he went to call upon them, he found Adrienne in sore +distress, which she tried in vain to conceal. She was alone, and he +had succeeded at last in getting her to confess what troubled her. A +creditor of her father’s pressed hard for a certain sum of money, due +long ago. That fact was in itself painful enough, but it alone would +not have been sufficient to break down Adrienne’s calm and steadfast +courage. It was her father’s manner of accepting, or not accepting, his +position, which alarmed and made her wretched. More than once he had +uttered dark and oracular hints as to the wisdom of leaving a world +which was full of nothing but misery and contradictions. At that time +he was in his room, and had refused to see her or speak to her. She +did not know what would happen, what he might or might not do; and +Sebastian saw the young girl’s courage fail for the first time, for the +first time saw her fold her hands, and, with tear-stained eyes, ask +piteously, + +‘What am I to do?’ + +‘Leave it to me, Miss Blisset. Of course something must be done, and I +will do it. For your sake I will do it gladly,’ he had said, taking her +hands, looking into her troubled eyes with a glance that made them more +troubled still, and going straight to her father’s room. + +The ‘something to be done’ naturally resolved itself into pecuniary +assistance. The matter was perfectly simple. Notes for three hundred +thalers settled it. Sebastian insisted upon becoming Mr. Blisset’s +banker, and Mr. Blisset said that he could not refuse the possibility +of being under obligations to a gentleman, who would understand +the feelings of another gentleman, rather than to a coarse-minded +tradesman, who could not by any possibility understand such fine +sensibilities. The money was a loan. They both called it a loan; and +Sebastian came out and told Adrienne that it was all right. + +She had burst into tears; then recovering, had said, + +‘There is nothing that I would not do for you.’ + +To which he had replied, + +‘Then come and have a row on the river.’ + +Upon which they had straightway had a very delightful row on the river, +the Lahn; and delicacy alone had prevented Sebastian from then and +there saying to Adrienne that he loved her, and asking her to be his +wife. He deferred the question--he hoped, not for long--only until he +had spoken to her father; and that he decided he would do the following +day. + +In pursuance of this resolution, he had called during the forenoon at +the musician’s lodgings, and had asked to see him. + +‘_Ja!_’ the hostess told him, with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘the +_Herrschaften_ had left by the first train that morning. Last night the +gentleman had spoken very sternly to the Fräulein; she had heard him. +The Fräulein had expostulated, and cried, and said, “How unthankful +it will seem!” To which her _Herr Papa_ had replied that he could not +endure such a burden; he must leave the place. After which he had +desired his _Fräulein Tochter_ to pack up, and they were gone.’ + +‘Where?’ asked Sebastian. + +‘_Na!_ How should I know, _mein Herr_? Apparently to Frankfort, since +the first train in the morning goes direct there; but from Frankfort, +I have heard, one may go out anywhere over the whole world, even to +Africa, if one chooses. What do I know?’ + +Sebastian had retired, quite convinced that it was not Adrienne but +the morbid pride and vanity of her father, which had caused this +_contretemps_. That pride could not endure to live in the presence of +the man who had placed him under an obligation. He had gone to hide +himself, and Sebastian tried in vain to find any further trace of +Adrian Blisset and his daughter. + +He had so much the less forgotten her. The feelings of warm admiration, +chivalrous respect, and tender affection which he had hitherto felt +for her, suddenly leaped up in a quicker flame--he loved her. From +feeling convinced that to have her as his wife would be a good and a +happy thing for him, he had become determined that one day she should +be his wife; she and no other. From that time she had remained for him +as a sort of standard, an ideal of womanhood; gentle-spirited, true, +and pure, wise and prudent, sweet and modest. He had judged all other +women by this standard, and had never felt anything more than a certain +admiration for any woman since his parting from Adrienne. + +Then had ensued his return home, his not very satisfactory relations +with his mother, the distress amongst his people, the necessity for +prompt action and hard work, his introduction to Helena Spenceley, his +sudden, unexpected meeting with Adrienne, and the eager conviction that +now she soon must, should be his. Beside Helena’s brilliant beauty, the +delicate grace of Adrienne was as the beauty of a white violet compared +with a crimson rose. Helena was dazzlingly beautiful, but she was the +exact opposite of all which he had been for three years praising and +exalting to himself as best and sweetest and most desirable in woman. +He thought a good deal of Helena. She was younger than Adrienne, +wilder, less educated, prejudiced, hot-headed, violent, and bewitching. + +‘Yes, she must be bewitching,’ argued Sebastian, with exquisite +_naïveté_, within himself. ‘Look at Hugo. The lad was enraptured with +her.’ That was to be expected. Hugo was young too; he had not loved +Adrienne Blisset for three years. Sebastian had the steady purpose +and intention of asking Adrienne to marry him, to honour him and +make him happy by becoming his wife. When? As soon as he could find +the opportunity, he said to himself. But it never did come. He could +not understand how it was, that, though he saw Adrienne repeatedly +and alone, though she was amiable, cordial, pleasant, yet he could +never get that question asked. Adrienne’s behaviour puzzled him. He +could have sworn that once she loved him. When he was with her, Myles +Heywood’s handsome olive-hued face, with its scornful lips and defiant +eyes, seemed always to be hovering there between her and him. And yet, +on the one occasion on which he had seen them together, Myles had +looked and behaved as if he were as far as possible from being anything +like a favoured lover, thought Sebastian, with an odd sensation of +jealousy and pain. No; it was only opportunity for which he waited, +an opportunity which seemed as if it would never come. Certainly it +had not been there that evening. He walked home lost in profound +speculations, thinking of Adrienne’s lifted head and flashing eyes, and +of how Myles Heywood had been ‘very stiff indeed’ with poor old Wilson +that morning. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + ‘Kannst du des Herzens Flammentrieb nicht dämpfen, + So fordre, Tugend, dieses Opfer nicht.’ + + +Towards eight o’clock on the following evening, Mary Heywood and Edmund +were the only occupants of the kitchen. The lad was somewhat better and +less feverish, and Myles had carried him downstairs and laid him upon +his old resting-place, the chintz-covered sofa under the window. + +There he lay, with a shawl thrown across him; his thin face wasted to +sharpness--a waxen pallor on his cheeks and lips; dark rings under his +great bright eyes. His almost transparent hands were stretched out upon +the couch before him, and his unread book lay open across his knees. +Mary had made things as cheerful as she could, so as not to let Edmund +know how bitterly they were pinched in order to give him the things he +needed. True, the fire was smaller than their kitchen fires were wont +to be; and behind the cupboard-doors there was not very much to bring +forth for supper; but the place was exquisitely clean and tidy, and so +was the girl herself, in her faded gown, and with her pale, pathetic +face. + +‘Mary,’ said Edmund, breaking a silence, ‘does Miss Blisset never come +here now?’ + +‘Well, it’s a good while, like, since hoo were here; likely hoo’s had +summat to do as has kept her away,’ said Mary, as confidently as she +could. + +‘I canno’ think why hoo ne’er comes. I could like to see her ... +where’s Myles to-neet?’ + +‘Gone to the reading-room, he said. I’m some and glad he does go there. +Some o’ these chaps is hanging about the livelong day, fair as if they +didn’t know what to do with theirsels. I reckon some on ’em will do +summat as they shouldn’t before long.’ + +‘Has Harry Ashworth been lately?’ pursued Edmund, his thoughts turning +towards his friends, now that he felt himself somewhat more free from +pain and weariness. + +‘Ay--he’s been more than once,’ replied Mary, and her cheeks flushed, +and she gave a great jump, as a knock resounded at that very moment +through the house. The coincidence was too remarkable. + +In a moment, however, she realised that the knock was at the front, +not the back, door, therefore it could not be Harry Ashworth who +knocked; and secondly, it was not at all like his knock when he did +come. Wondering who the visitor could be, and casting a critical glance +around, to see if the kitchen were as neat as it should be, she stepped +out through the passage, and went through the ceremony of unlocking and +opening the door. + +Outside it was dark. Coming from the light of the kitchen she could not +see who stood there, but a voice which she had already heard once, and +thought pleasant, inquired, + +‘Does Myles Heywood live here?’ + +‘Ay, he does; but he’s out.’ + +‘Oh, is he? I’m sorry. I felt sure he would be in in the evening.’ + +The visitor still lingered on the doorstep, and inquired again, + +‘Do you know how long he will be?’ + +Mary’s sense of hospitality was stronger than even her dread of Myles’s +displeasure. + +‘Won’t you step in a minute, and see if he comes? It’s Mr. Mallory, +isn’t it?’ + +‘Yes. I did want to see him very particularly.’ + +‘’Appen, if you were to sit you down a bit, he might coom back soon,’ +suggested Mary, fervently trusting that he would do nothing of the +kind; and that Mr. Mallory would get tired of waiting, as she knew +Myles himself did. + +With a word of thanks Mr. Mallory accepted the invitation, and +entered the house. A proper attention to established etiquette would +have led Mary to usher him into the highly coloured parlour, but +the recollection that there was no fire there, and that some of the +furniture was wanting, overcame conventional rules, and he was taken +forward into the kitchen. + +‘I hope I am not intruding,’ he began, so courteously that all Mary’s +innate politeness was roused to action, and his welcome was more +effusive than it might otherwise have been. + +‘Eh, dear no! Please take a seat!’ said Mary, pulling up her own +rocking-chair. ‘Me and Edmund was quite alone, and not doin’ nowt at +all, except talk a bit. Ned, here’s Mr. Mallory. You’ve ne’er seen him +afore.’ + +Edmund had never been aware of Myles’s deep antipathy to the young +master; he only knew that his brother had a sort of contempt for his +employer, as a useless, highly finished piece of humanity, not good +for much in such a rough place as Thanshope. He himself was intensely +sensitive to refinement and beauty, in every shape and form, and as +Sebastian was handsome, polished, and refined in an eminent degree, +Edmund’s eyes rested upon him with a sense of satisfaction and soothed +pleasure and delight, and he smiled pleasantly as he took the hand +which their visitor extended, saying kindly, + +‘I fear you are a great invalid.’ + +‘I’m none so strong,’ said Edmund. ‘I’ve been ill, but now I’m better.’ + +‘I suppose you are Myles Heywood’s brother and sister?’ continued +Sebastian. + +‘Ay,’ said the others, and they smiled--that smile of mingled pride and +affection which speaks well for the absent one, and which Sebastian +noted directly. + +He took a chair by Edmund’s sofa, and, turning to Mary, said, + +‘I suppose you know your brother has had his name and yours taken off +my books.’ + +‘Ay,’ responded Mary, colouring with some embarrassment, while Edmund +looked rather anxiously from the one to the other, this being the first +he had heard of the circumstance. + +‘Was it your wish, too, to leave my employment so suddenly?’ he asked +slowly. + +‘I didn’t know--Myles did it. He thought it would be for the best, I +suppose, sir,’ stammered the girl. + +‘But you,’ he persisted gently--‘have you such an intense objection to +receiving a little assistance in such a time of distress, from a--you +don’t say master here, I notice--from an employer whom you have served +so long and so well as I hear you have done? I should not have thought +so. You know it is not an ordinary case. It is not as if you or I, or +any of us here, could have prevented it. There can be no shame----’ + +‘I never thought there was,’ said Mary, wondering in her distress what +could be the grudge that Myles had against such a master as this. ‘I +fair cried wi’ joy when I heard what you was going to do; but when +Myles came in and told me----’ + +‘But you do not mean that he has forbidden you--that he prevents--it +is----’ + +‘No!’ said Mary, suddenly. ‘Our Myles is not one of that sort, I can +tell you, Mr. Mallory. He won’t take a penny himself--why, I don’t +know. And I saw as it would go near to break his heart to see me and +yon lad eating another man’s bread, and him standing by idle. But he +said to me, “Thou’ll do what thou’s a mind to, Molly; it’s a great +distress, and we m--mun--be g--great to meet it.” Oh! it were same as +if he’d said, “There’s nowt for’t but to cut off my right hand; give me +th’ chopper, and let me do it!”--that it were!’ + +She sobbed vehemently once or twice, and Sebastian read the passionate +love and devotion she felt for that brother, whom, he began to think, +he never could conquer. + +‘Ah! that is more like him!’ he said warmly. ‘I thought I was mistaken. +And will nothing persuade you to accept this help? It is such a small +thing to refuse; and I do not think it right in you to refuse it. You +must think of this brother of yours. He cannot stand the hardships of +this time as Myles, and even you, can; and----’ + +‘You are very good--reet-down kind, you are!’ said Mary, looking at him +with gratitude. ‘I’ll say this. We’ll hold out as long as we can. We +mun do that, if we want to think well of ourselves. But I’ll come to +you when it gets too much. You’re reet: I can’t see nowt to be ashamed +of in it.’ + +‘You promise?’ + +‘Ay, I promise.’ + +‘That is well. Now, if your brother would come in, I could say what I +have to say to him, and----’ + +Mary lifted her head. She heard footsteps along the flags of the back, +and the tune being whistled which no one but Myles ever did whistle. +She started forward as the back door was opened, and exclaimed, + +‘Here’s Myles; he’s coming now.’ + +‘Ah, I’m glad of that,’ said Sebastian, though he was fully conscious +of Mary’s discomfited looks. ‘Now I can speak to him myself.’ + +The back door was closed again; the quick steps grew leisurely; +presently the kitchen-door also was opened, and the voice of Myles was +heard, saying, as he entered, + +‘I say, Molly, thou must----’ + +He came in, and looked round with a smile, which flashed out of his +face as he saw who was there. His first impulse was to ask fiercely, +‘What brings _you_ to my house?’ but Myles had very strongly developed +the proverbial Lancashire sense of hospitality, and accordingly he +suppressed his question, and remained silent, until Sebastian offered +him his hand, saying courteously, + +‘I hope you will not think I am intruding. I particularly wished to see +you, and your sister was so kind as to ask me to wait a few minutes, in +the hope that you would return.’ + +Sebastian had spoken just in time. Myles was assailed on the side of +hospitality, politeness to a guest, and other similar feelings. He +realised quickly that Sebastian had not acted as most masters would +have done--sent for him to come and see him--but had come himself to +seek him out, and now apologised for intruding in the most handsome +and ample manner. There was nothing there that even his sore heart +could construe into a slight. Moreover, the man was there, under his +roof--had been invited there; and, if Molly might have been wiser, +the thing was done, and he must act accordingly. He could not look +cordial--the sense of the advantages which the other had over him +was too heavily and oppressively present for that--but he could be +civil, he could speak words something like welcome. He could even, +under the circumstances, accept the hand which Mallory held out--or +rather, circumstances did not allow him to refuse it. Accordingly, he +took the hand, standing very erect, and looking very proud and solemn, +while Mary knitted more quickly, as she observed, from her seat in the +background, how each man looked straight and steadily into the other’s +eyes. + +‘Won’t you take a seat?’ said Myles, handing a chair to Sebastian, and +taking one himself. ‘It’s a cold night, and you’ve had a longish walk.’ + +‘Thank you. It was on a small matter of business that I called--about +your having taken your name from my books.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, his eyebrows setting suddenly in a straight line +across his brow, and his lips in one nearly as straight beneath his +moustache. + +‘It was this. I do hope you will not think that I come out of any +officiousness or curiosity, because it is not so. Mr. Sutcliffe told +me you had left my employment. I asked him if he thought you had any +other occupation; and he said that, so far as he knew, you had not. +I concluded, whether rightly or not, that your reason for leaving +was that the factory was closed, and you would not accept assistance +without working for it. Was I right?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, concisely. + +‘I know that employment, especially remunerative employment, is +not easy to find in these bad times, and that you might not soon +find anything to do; so I merely called to say that I know of two +situations, for either of which you would be suited, and if you would +like me to use my influence to get you either of them, I shall be glad +to do so. You must not think that I meant anything else.’ + +‘You are very kind,’ said Myles, in the same constrained and colourless +voice, which belied his contracted brows and the fiery flash of his +eyes beneath them, ‘very kind; but I do not require any assistance, +thank you!’ + +The manner and the tone were such that Sebastian felt he could not, +after what he had said, urge his offer any farther. But the desire +which he constantly felt when with Myles, to gain his esteem and win +his confidence, rushed more strongly over him than ever before. He saw +in the young man so much that was noble, so much that was good, so much +that he, in his quiet, reserved way, intensely prized. Sebastian had a +strong, though secret, desire to be much loved, to greatly influence +certain individuals. He felt very strongly that where Myles Heywood +loved or admired, it would be with a passionate whole-hearted devotion, +which would go all lengths; and he desired greatly to see some other +expression light those sombre, moody eyes, when they looked at him; +to compel that right hand to stretch itself towards him in a genial, +spontaneous clasp of friendship and regard. + +Was it possible that he who before now had won hearts, both of men and +of women; he who had inspired that fitful, capricious artist-Hugo with +a passionate love and devotion; he who had seen Adrienne Blisset’s +quiet eyes well over with something more than gratitude; he who felt +within him the potentiality to subdue that fiery-hearted Helena, did +he but choose to give his mind to the task, and to bring her to his +feet with a devotion as intense as her present half-assumed scorn--was +it possible that he was to be baffled by a young, uncultivated, +untutored, unsophisticated artisan, who could continue to resist, +defy, and scorn him, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary? Was +it possible that this plain-spoken Myles Heywood, with nothing on his +side but his prejudices, his pride, and his love, could continue to +hold Sebastian Mallory at arm’s length, when he really set his whole +battery of persuasion to work upon him? The idea was a galling one. +He did not like effusiveness, but he did like devotion very much. He +hated a display of power; but the power itself he loved dearly. Myles, +in his present attitude, represented a defiant obstacle which must be +overcome. But how? + +Mary here afforded him unconsciously a little assistance, by saying in +a tearful voice, ‘Eh, Myles, think about it! Remember how badly off +we are. It’s not for mysel’, it’s for Edmund and thee. I canna bear +to think o’ thee bein’ so pulled down and troubled wi’ such things. +Thou’rt too good for it.’ + +‘Molly, lass, don’t make it worse for me!’ said Myles, with a +reproachful look; and Mary was silenced, as Sebastian saw. + +She sat down in a rocking-chair, and cried quietly, wiping her eyes at +intervals, but she said no more. Myles turned his back upon her, not +wishing to see her distress. Sebastian had also stood up. The man’s +pride was stiffer than even he had supposed, and his desire to bend it +became proportionately greater. + +‘I am very sorry you will not let me do anything,’ he said. ‘You are +quite mistaken in thinking there could be any degradation in it.’ + +‘I never said I did think so,’ interposed Myles. + +‘You are not without ambition,’ pursued Sebastian, fixing his eyes upon +Myles with conviction, and noting the answering flush in his face, +though his eyes remained downcast. ‘No man who is worth anything is +without ambition. If you would let me, I could put you into the way +of furthering your ambition. Of course it would be a struggle; but +then you are one of the right kind to struggle--you like it. A few +years’ absence from England, a few years’ hard work in a post for which +you would be well suited, and you might return here, if you liked, a +different man, in a different position, able to do and get pretty much +what you liked. Remember, to a man of courage, who has made a mark, +_most things that he wishes for stand open_. Is this nothing to you? Do +you prefer remaining shut up in Thanshope, with your own prospects, and +the prospects of your fellow-workmen no better than they are? I cannot +believe it of you.’ + +Almost unconsciously, Sebastian had half-cast aside the mask of +indifference, and was speaking nearly as eagerly as he felt. He had +stepped up to Myles, and laid his hand upon his arm. Their eyes met. +Myles’s very soul had been stirred by the words he had heard. + +They had touched the very well-spring of his present wishes and +desires, the longing which had grown and intensified with his love +and his sense of its utter hopelessness. To leave this place--go away +to some other spot, where there would be scope for hard work, mental +and bodily--work that would absorb his energies. There was nothing +he desired more than such work. His enforced idleness was absolutely +hideous to him. Out of England, he might advance, rise; Sebastian, he +knew, was not wont to speak rashly or unadvisedly on such matters, +but was given to measuring his words. He might return an altered +man, well off, perhaps, or at least with the means of becoming well +off; why, he might (it all seemed to flash in a second through his +mind)--he might go at last, and seek Adrienne--and find her gone, hear +that she was Sebastian Mallory’s wife. And _then_ the acceptance of +Sebastian Mallory’s assistance would have caused his last state to be +worse than his first. He would have stooped, not to conquer, but to +be forestalled, defeated, humiliated, and all the riches, and all the +position that the world could give, would not restore his hopes and his +lost self-respect. With a short sardonic, miserable laugh, he jerked +his arm from Sebastian’s hand, and said almost angrily, + +‘It is of no use. You will never persuade me to that. It is wasted +breath to try it.’ + +Sebastian felt an absolute thrill of vexation and mortification; a +thrill so strong as to surprise himself. + +‘What makes you so obstinate?’ he unwarily exclaimed. ‘Is it some +personal reason?’ + +‘Yes,’ answered Myles, looking him directly in the eyes; ‘it is!’ + +Sebastian’s lips were parted to speak, but he could not utter the words +he intended to say. He was silent with a disagreeable, discomfiting +sense that he was baffled and defeated. They were all silent till +Sebastian said, + +‘Well, since you will not, you will not. But I think you are mistaken +in your course, and what is more, I think you will repent it before +long. If you do, if you should come to change your mind, let me know. I +have no wish to take my word back, but shall always be ready to abide +by it.’ + +Myles smiled, almost scornfully, as he bowed his head slightly and said, + +‘Thank you.’ + +In his inmost heart he was thinking that he would rather die than place +himself under obligations to his rival, whose full formidableness he +only realised to-night. There was, he confessed it, fully and frankly +to himself, something extremely attractive about the grace and courtesy +of Sebastian, but the most dangerous quality was the power which soon +became distinctly visible beneath the polish; a power which forced the +observer, however reluctantly, to respect as well as to admire. If +he, the unwilling and prejudiced, felt these things so strongly, how +much more must others, already prejudiced in his favour, experience +it? So much the more reason why he, the plain and unadorned, should +keep himself to himself, follow his own path, and not ape qualities +so different from his own. But he had ceased to bear any ill-will to +Sebastian. The latter did not know how far he had advanced in the very +moment in which he seemed to have receded. + +‘I will not intrude upon you any longer,’ said he. ‘You bear no +resentment, I trust, but understand my motives?’ + +‘I bear no resentment at all,’ said poor Myles, putting his hand +without hesitation into that held out to him. ‘If I have been rather +rough, I beg your pardon. It is my way. I meant no incivility.’ + +‘I am sure of it. Good night,’ he added, turning to Edmund. ‘Good +night, Miss Heywood.’ + +‘Good night, sir,’ said Mary, looking tearfully up, as Sebastian +followed Myles from the room. She heard the door open and shut, and the +steps of the unwonted visitor going away. Then Myles returned to the +kitchen. + +Edmund was tired. Myles helped him upstairs, and came down again. They +scarcely spoke. Mary uttered no reproach, and he offered no apology; +but when she got up to go to bed, he kissed her tenderly, saying, + +‘Don’t think too hardly of me, Molly. I can’t do otherwise and be an +honest man at the same time.’ + +‘I’m none thinking of blaming thee, lad,’ said Mary, escaping from him, +and going upstairs. + +He remained there a long time, brooding over the embers of the fire, +and thinking, if only things had been different! And as he thought, a +vision rose before him of that Sunday afternoon when he had so nearly +betrayed himself, and he remembered Adrienne’s words: + +‘If I loved that man, and he loved me, and asked me to be his wife, I +would say yes; and I would love him and serve him as long as I lived.’ + +‘Ay, my darling!’ his heart cried within him, in a kind of anguish, +‘but you don’t love me; and if you did, I should not be worthy of you, +if I did what was wrong to win you.’ + +No doubt he took a wild, fantastic, mistaken view of things, but to him +it was much more real than if the most accomplished logician had argued +it out for him, and proved it to be founded on the purest and most +solidly reasonable basis. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +COMBINATION _V._ STARVATION. + + +For the space of some six weeks--that is, from early March to the +middle of April, Adrienne, Helena, Mr. Sutcliffe, Hugo, Sebastian, +and others who worked with them or under them, had toiled hard at the +schools of both kinds which Mr. Mallory had opened in connection with +his relief system. At first considerable difficulties were naturally +experienced; some of the work-people grumbled bitterly at being obliged +to ‘go to school again,’ as the condition of receiving a sum, which +appeared to them small indeed, after the abundant wages they had for +years been earning; but the tact and kindness of the three principals, +Sebastian, Adrienne, and good little Mr. Sutcliffe, and the hearty +manner in which they were backed up by their subordinates, soon worked +wonders. Ere long the work-people themselves discovered how much better +off they were than those of their friends whose masters had not seen +fit to provide for them; and who were just then groaning under the +obnoxious ‘labour test,’ as it was called, which roused so much gall +and bitterness before the sewing and educational schools were fairly +started. Learning to make clothes, or reading, writing, and arithmetic, +were felt to be decidedly more distinguished and elevating employments +than stone-breaking, or road-making, and were, moreover, much better +adapted to the lissom fingers, and to the physique, accustomed to +sedentary labour in a high temperature, of the operatives. By degrees +they fell into their places. They felt that they were known, and +expected, and missed if they did not come at the appointed time. The +great warehouse was warmed and lighted, and threw open its doors +hospitably wide to receive them. ‘Mallory’s schools’ were known all +over the town, and those who attended them were envied by those who did +not. + +For the principals the task was, as Sebastian had told Adrienne, no +joke. It was continuous, dry drudgery. The routine was monotonous, and +the discipline strict; but the master and head of it all was the first +to adhere unswervingly to every rule laid down, and his coadjutors +followed with unhesitating obedience. Mr. Blisset received more +kisses and thanks from his niece just now than she had ever bestowed +before--kisses and thanks for what she called his goodness in sparing +her to help the poor people in their great distress. She was with him +much less than usual, and perhaps did not therefore notice so much his +pallor and weakness, and the strength which was failing in every way. +He, for some reason, withheld the truth from her, and did not tell her +that he felt almost at the end of his weary, dismal pilgrimage. It was +only to Sebastian that he spoke about that--Sebastian, who had become +the trusted friend of the poor, lonely man. + +Adrienne and Helena worked heartily, hand in hand. That was no time +for petty bickerings and jealousies. Even sectarians forgot their +differences in the imperative necessity for administering to the great +need and woe of the people. In working-hours Adrienne forgot entirely +who Helena was; and knew her only as a hearty helper, a quick, bright, +kind-hearted girl, to whom no trouble was too great, and no task too +hard. It was not quite the same with Helena. She had divined, by some +subtle means--herself scarce knew how--that Adrienne was no other than +‘the nicest girl I ever knew,’ and Miss Spenceley’s eyes grew intensely +critical. Every word, every gesture and action of her coadjutor, was +weighed in a nice balance, and, so far, had not been found wanting. +Helena herself was, without knowing it, changing rapidly. Despite a +certain vague disquietude of heart, she was happier than she had ever +been in her life before. She threw herself into her new work with +her characteristic passionate energy and vehemence, and her contact +with life, and some of its sternest lessons, was rubbing down her +preconceived extravagances of opinion, though she still, in word and +theory, cherished them as fondly as ever. But it was impossible that +one of her intensely sensitive and receptive mind could behold what +she daily did, of sorrow and pain, of ignorance and helplessness, and +remain the same. She saw into depths in this our life of which she had +never dreamed, and which Laura Mereweather’s philosophy passed over +entirely. + +It has been acknowledged on all sides that the benefits, at that time +were not only on one side. It was not only the rough factory-girls +who came to learn, but also the delicate ladies who gave up time +and comfort and their best energies to teach, who profited by the +intercourse. In the sad and degrading spectacle of the spring of 1878, +the sweet lessons learned and taught in that bitter season of 1862 +seem almost to have been forgotten and obliterated. Many a benighted +girl--many an uneducated, ignorant matron, roused to her toil at +half-past five in the morning, and prevented by its long monotony from +acquiring any domestic grace, learnt almost her first notions of making +home happy and comfortable in the schools that were set up in the +‘panic.’ + +Then, in the woe of the poor, and the sympathy of the rich, it almost +seemed as if the great black frowning barriers of caste had been +overthrown; but the division of classes, the opposition between master +and man, is a plant of sturdy growth, and strikes its roots deep and +far under the earth. Now, sixteen years later, comes a strike almost +without parallel for bitterness and unyielding stubbornness on either +side--a strike accompanied by rioting and mob-rule, broken windows, +houses sacked, men assaulted, women and children threatened; and the +necessity for a strong military force to preserve even the outward +semblance of order; and this, on the identical ground where, during +the cotton famine, the sore distress was most nobly borne and most +generously relieved. These things make a riddle hard to read. + +Adrienne and Helena found both their mental and physical energies +taxed to the utmost by the work they had undertaken, but neither had +any thought of giving up. With Adrienne it was a labour of calm, +affectionate duty; she went to it with an enlightened sense of her +own responsibilities, and a full comprehension of the gravity of the +crisis. With Helena it was something quite different; she worked +eagerly, till she was wearied, and scarcely knew why she did it. Of +course she was sorry for the poor people, and pitied them in their +present condition, and was anxious to help them, strained every nerve +to do her work; but she thought more about Adrienne Blisset and +Sebastian Mallory than about all the poor people in Thanshope. + +She was changing rapidly, without knowing it. In the presence of +this great urgent need, and of her own deeper emotions, all the +flimsy theories of the past were being utterly undermined, though +outwardly towering as high and as fair as ever. She was no happier +in her home-relations than before. Sebastian’s conduct was condemned +there by her father and brother. She knew that it was only because of +Sebastian’s wealth and Mrs. Mallory’s high position in the town, that +she was allowed to participate in what was called the ‘madness’ of +Mr. Mallory. Fool and madman were the mildest words in the vocabulary +of the Spenceley men, by which to describe Sebastian’s course. It was +wrong and iniquitous in him, they said, to set such an example, as if +every mill-owner in Thanshope could be expected to support his hands +while this confounded war lasted. + +‘Every mill-owner--no!’ said Helena, with flashing eyes. ‘So many of +them are too poor. They have not the means; but if all those who could +afford it did so, it would only be their duty--their bare duty, and +there would not be so many begging letters in the papers, asking for +help for the richest county in the richest country in the world.’ + +She was informed that she knew nothing about it, and that it was only +to keep her out of some other mischief that she was allowed to have +anything to do with such folly. + +(‘And,’ she thought to herself, with a hard smile, ‘because Sebastian +Mallory is rich and influential, and I see him every day, there.’) + +The conversation turned to Helena’s coming birthday, when she would +attain her majority, and great festivities would be the order of the +day. With tears in her eyes, she took the opportunity to implore her +father to give up the ball which would cost so much money, and to give +her half, nay, a quarter of the sum he intended to spend upon it, that +she might give it to Miss Blisset or Mr. Mallory, and have it used for +relief purposes; but the request was peremptorily refused, and she was +told, in oracular language, that she did not know what was good either +for herself or the work-people. Moreover, she was informed, it was +all very well for a pretty girl to play at women’s rights; but that a +daughter was expected to obey her father; and the regal Fred remarked +that a fool and her money were soon parted, and he would back Helena +for making ducks and drakes of any property she might ever have, if it +were not pretty tightly tied up. + +‘I suppose it is only finished gentlemen like yourself who know how to +make proper use of their money and their time,’ said Helena, turning +upon him bitterly. ‘I can tell you the whole town will cry shame on +both of you--the richest men in it, and you have scarcely subscribed +five pounds to keep your own work-people from starving.’ + +‘I didn’t become the richest man in Thanshope by pouring my money into +my work-people’s pockets,’ said Mr. Spenceley, grimly. + +And Helena, with a passionate ‘Psha!’ rushed from the room, drawing on +her gloves as she went, to go forth to her afternoon labours at the +school. + +This was in the middle of March, and as she came up the cindery path +leading to the little anteroom, which Sebastian and his staff were in +the habit of using as an office, he and Miss Blisset sat at the window +watching her approach. + +‘What a lovely, graceful creature she is!’ said Adrienne, admiringly, +as the tall supple figure of the girl came swiftly up the walk. ‘I +often wonder how she can be the child of such parents.’ + +‘There is some southern impetuousness in her nature,’ he replied, +‘and a capacity for southern rages, too,’ he added, watching her and +smiling. ‘Look at her now, Miss Blisset; do you see that frown, and how +her eyes are flashing, and her lips set?’ + +‘Yes, I do; but that is a very unusual expression with her. I wonder +what is the matter with her?’ + +Here Helena came in, somewhat in the whirlwind style, her tall figure +erect--her silken skirts angrily sweeping about her. + +‘You look annoyed, Miss Spenceley,’ said Adrienne, looking up from +where she sat, composed and cool. + +‘Annoyed!’ repeated Helena, whose anger and mortification had been +augmenting all the time since she had left home, and whose voice +vibrated; ‘they tell me on all sides that my father is the richest man +in Thanshope, and that I shall have more money than I know what to do +with--some time. Some time, indeed! And I cannot get five pounds now +to help people with. I’ve given away all my money. I have just half a +crown in the world, and I can’t get any more for a month. Do you call +_that_ the proper way to treat a woman who will be responsible for five +thousand a year--_some time_? My father said I should. Do you call that +the right means to accustom her to the duties of her position?’ + +She had turned suddenly, and almost fiercely, to Sebastian. + +‘Not at all,’ said he at once; perceiving that her lips quivered, and +that she was divided between tears of mortification and flames of +anger. ‘Not at all; but, my dear Miss Spenceley, so long as we have +your services, the money which you do or do not contribute is not of +the very least consequence.’ + +‘Don’t say that to me!’ she exclaimed, excitedly. ‘What is the use? My +services are nothing; I can do nothing.’ + +‘Indeed, I don’t know what I should do without you,’ said Adrienne. +‘You can influence those girls and women sometimes, when I can make +nothing of them. You can make them laugh heartily, when all my efforts +can only extort a solemn stare from them.’ + +‘You must not talk of going,’ chimed in Sebastian. ‘It is your +countenance alone which reconciles my mother to the undertaking. And if +you did not come,’ he added, smiling, ‘I don’t believe Hugo would have +anything to say to it; and he is invaluable to me amongst the boys. For +heaven’s sake, don’t desert us!’ + +Helena, with downcast eyes, was taking off her gloves. Her cheek was +flushed, and she smiled a little triumphantly. + +‘Girls can do something then, after all?’ said she. + +‘Have I not two living and bright proofs of the fact before me now?’ he +replied, looking from the one to the other. + +‘Ah, yes!’ said Helena, coolly, while the flush died from her cheek, +and the smile faded from her lips. ‘Would you mind helping me off with +my mantle? Thanks. There comes Hugo von Birkenau, and there is our +first batch of girls, Miss Blisset. What is the programme for this +afternoon?’ + +She was all business now; had tied on a great holland apron, studded +with baggy-looking pockets, and slung a huge pair of scissors by a +string round her slim waist. Adrienne was accoutred in a similar +manner. Helena stopped some of the girls who were coming in, to make +them carry a pile of calico to the workroom. Raising his hat, Sebastian +left them to their labours, and joined Hugo outside. + +Half of the great warehouse had been temporarily cleared, and +accommodated with benches and half a dozen huge deal tables. This +afternoon was to be a ‘cutting-out’ lesson--a lesson which, sooth to +say, Helena had had to learn herself for the occasion, from her mother. +The two young ladies, with some half-dozen others, who rapidly followed +on Helena’s steps, each took a class, and began their instructions; +the women and girls standing round, and many a dozen of them receiving +their first impressions as to the practical construction of the clothes +they wore. The directions were clear and simple enough; care was +taken, by questionings and cross-questionings, that the pupils should +thoroughly understand what was being explained to them. + +When the ‘cutting out’ was over, they were shown how to fix the +things, and as they all sat doing this, each one bringing up her +performance when it was complete, for approval or correction, there +was much talking, and some singing, chiefly of hymns, in very high, +and generally in minor keys. It was very fatiguing work: the long +standing, the continuous talking, explaining, expounding, arranging and +rearranging for the stiff, unaccustomed fingers, formed no light task. +After more than two hours and a half of such labour, it was time to +go. The work was folded up, piled in heaps, laid on one side, and the +pupils prepared to leave. + +Adrienne and Helena, both very tired, stood at the door, counting them +as they filed out. + +‘Three hundred and five,’ they exclaimed together, as the last one +departed, and they smiled, and turned inside the room again, to divest +themselves of their aprons and shears. + +‘Miss Blisset, will you not come home with me, and have some tea?’ +asked Helena, who had given the invitation several times before, and +always received the same answer as on this occasion. + +‘Thank you very much. I am sorry to say I cannot come.’ + +‘You always say that,’ said Helena, looking earnestly at her. ‘I have +tried in vain to get a little conversation with you, and to know you +better. I never see you, except at this dingy schoolroom, where I am +sure the incentives to cheerful intercourse are not strong.’ + +Adrienne smiled rather faintly as she replied, + +‘I am sorry; it looks rude, I know, but I must go home to my uncle. He +is not very well at present; and I am obliged to leave him so much. You +must excuse me!’ + +‘If I must, I must, I suppose, but I don’t all the same,’ said Helena, +turning away in some dissatisfaction, and at that moment Sebastian and +Hugo entered, arm in arm. + +‘Miss Spenceley!’ said Hugo, eagerly going up to her; ‘it is getting +dark. May I accompany you home?’ + +‘Oh yes, if you like,’ said Helena, absently, while she attentively +listened to what was passing between their fellow-workers. + +‘Miss Blisset,’ she heard Sebastian say, ‘your uncle particularly asked +me to call this afternoon. I will walk with you to Stonegate, if you +will allow me.’ + +‘I shall be very glad,’ said she. ‘I am sure he will be pleased to see +you. Do you know, sometimes I am afraid he will not live long.’ + +‘His is hardly likely to be a long life,’ said Sebastian, evasively. + +‘Oh, but it may be. Invalids--when they are taken such care of as I +take of him--sometimes live a long time. And he is not old, and it is +not as if he had a complaint in which there was danger of his dying +suddenly.’ + +‘Do you dread his death so much?’ asked Sebastian, folding her shawl +around her. + +‘I do; and I fear for selfish reasons. Without him I should be +perfectly alone in the world.’ + +‘You alone? not unless you wished it,’ said he, almost reproachfully, +whilst Helena, assisted by the proud and happy Hugo, was wrapping +herself in her fur-lined mantle with the sable border; the mantle which +set off her dark, piquant beauty to the utmost advantage; for she was +one of those truly English beauties who look almost lovelier in their +outdoor dress, and with the flush of exercise upon their cheeks, than +in the airy fabrics of the ball-room. But there was no flush upon +Helena’s cheeks now. She turned to the boy who had been, or wished +to be since he first saw her, her particular page in attendance (he +aspired to nothing more in his own mind, and, despite all unfavourable +circumstances, he had always seen Helena the wife of his worshipped +friend), and said, in a voice that had sunk and grown tired, + +‘Come, Hugo, I have no time to spare. We will leave the others to lock +up. I must go.’ + +‘I am ready, and waiting your pleasure, _mein gnädiges Fräulein_.’ + +‘Don’t speak foreign tongues to me. Do you forget what Gretchen said to +Faust when he called her Fräulein?’ + +‘“Thank you, sir, I can walk home by myself.” That would be shocking, +and I will not do it again.’ + +‘Good afternoon!’ suddenly said Helena, in a loud, clear voice, as she +looked carelessly over her shoulder at the other two, who started, as +if suddenly recalled to a sense of what was going on around them. + +Hugo and his companion left the mill-yard, and paced down the street in +the bitter cold of the March twilight, now rapidly becoming darkness. +The lamps were being lighted; some shops were open; the passengers +along the streets were not many; the great factories were silent, there +was no cloud of smoke to obscure the frostily twinkling stars. + +Helena suddenly began to speak, in a voice bitter, though it strove to +be careless, and with a short laugh that was not a merry one. + +‘How affecting--truly affecting it is, to see two such congenial +spirits together as Mr. Sebastian Mallory and Miss Adrienne Blisset. +He likes a rose-watery kind of woman, who looks up to him and +thinks he is better than she is herself, and wiser; and she likes a +dreamy, unpractical kind of man, full of sweet compliments and vague +generalities--like a sugar-plum that breaks in your mouth, and then +you find it has been full of a weak, diluted kind of essence--like +Sebastian Mallory.’ + +‘What a comparison!’ exclaimed Hugo, in a tone, almost of offence. +‘You are very harsh, sometimes, Miss Spenceley. Sebastian dreamy and +unpractical! _Jawohl!_ I used to think so once; but I have found out +that there is an iron hand under the silken glove. Once I fancied he +was all art, all----’ + +‘All art!’ said Helena, perversely twisting his imperfect English to +suit her own purposes; ‘perhaps you were not so far wrong there, Hugo.’ + +‘What has occurred to vex you, _mein Fräulein_?’ asked her companion +innocently. + +‘To vex me? I am not vexed. I am tired, and it is so cold. Well, go on! +I don’t think very highly of Mr. Mallory, as you may be aware; and I +should like to hear what you can find to say in his favour. What other +good points has he?’ + +‘_Herrgott!_ He is all good.’ + +‘Ha! ha!’ + +‘Miss Spenceley----’ + +‘A good, bigoted Tory and Conservative, despite his professed +radicalism. Mrs. Mallory need not have been distressed. He may call +himself what he likes, but he hates progress.’ + +‘I don’t understand about Radicals and Conservatives,’ said Hugo, +good-humouredly. ‘I am densely ignorant about politics. In Prussia +there are Liberals and Conservatives, and Communists, but I don’t know +what any of them want. I don’t think the _Reichstag_ is the sphere for +me--do you?’ + +‘Good gracious! how should I know? I was not talking about Communists +or the _Reichstag_. If you don’t know anything about them, you know +something else, Hugo,’ she said, softening her voice confidentially. + +‘I know that you are charming--so kind to me,’ said he, with a +vibration in his voice--and indeed Helena had been very kind to the +boy; ‘and I know that you sing “Since first I saw your face” like an +angel.’ + +‘You know perfectly well that Mr. Mallory and Miss Blisset are +desperately in love with one another--deny it if you can.’ + +Hugo was silent. + +‘You cannot,’ said Helena, triumphantly. + +‘I am not in their confidence,’ he said slowly. + +‘All the world is in the confidence of people who are so far gone +as they are. If you mean to say that they did not each take you +separately aside, and tell you in so many words--well, I can say the +same. He that hath eyes to see, let him observe.’ + +Hugo was not yet master enough of the English language to be able to +turn off her remark. Helena began to hum a little song to herself, and +then suddenly sank into silence and gravity, until it began to snow, +and grew quite dark, when she shivered, putting up her umbrella, and +saying pettishly, + +‘My mantle will be ruined. Why didn’t I bring a cloak? I declare, +another day, when the weather is so bad, I won’t take this horrid long +walk.’ + +‘You will rather drive?’ suggested Hugo, with apparently the most +childlike innocence of her meaning. + +‘How ridiculous you are! How far is it, Hugo, from the mill to +Stonegate?’ + +‘About as far as from the mill to Castle Hill, only in exactly the +opposite direction.’ + +‘Oh! I don’t know that end of the town at all. We, at any rate, have +had time for a delightful conversation, haven’t we? Come in, and have +some tea, and play me something.’ + +Nothing loth, Hugo followed her, and they vanished within the portals +of Castle Hill. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + ‘Death, with most grim and grisly visage seene, + Yet is he nought but parting of the breath; + Ne ought to see, but like a shade to weene, + Unbodièd, unsoul’d, unheard, unseene.’ + + +Adrienne and Sebastian were walking ‘just the opposite way,’ with very +little more satisfaction to themselves than Hugo and Helena had found. +Helena was constantly picturing Sebastian to herself as engaged in +half-intellectual, half-amorous discourse with the ‘nicest of girls;’ +his mind elevated by her spiritual observations, and his languid but +ever-present sense of superiority (this was Helena’s hypothesis) +gratified by her deference to his superior wisdom. It was a comical +theory--one worthy of Helena’s vivid imagination and hopelessly +impractical ideas; and was, moreover, as far removed from the truth +as she herself could possibly have wished. Yes, wished; for while the +delusive vision kept dangling before her mental eyes, and while she +professed to sneer and scoff at it, it was in reality an ever-present, +dull pain, none the less real because not clearly comprehended for what +it was. + +On this especial evening Adrienne was tired more than usual, and +mentally as well as physically weary. An undefined pain and distress +had troubled her mind for some weeks--to-day the cloud was very +dark. She had seen Sebastian Mallory growing more and more intimate +with her uncle, and progressing with great rapidity in the favour of +that most fastidious individual; she had seen--how could she help +seeing?--Sebastian’s attentions to herself; how, when he was with her, +his eyes constantly turned towards her, and how a light flashed into +their quietness when they met hers; how his voice, in speaking to her, +took a deeper sound. He was good, rich, handsome, clever, kind. She +knew all his good qualities, and thoroughly valued them. She approved +of him; she liked his presence; it was pleasant to her. She remembered +with deep, earnest gratitude his delicate kindness and attention to +her in those days gone by, when her troubles with her father, and her +terrible struggle against their adverse circumstances had threatened +to overwhelm her. ‘I would do anything for you,’ she had said, and had +meant it. And yet, now! How painfully, unaccountably, unexpectedly +things changed! Thus meditating, her step dragged, and her head drooped +a little, as they paced the dreary length of Blake Street together. +She did not understand why that load of oppression and longing--that +_Sehnsucht_--should just now lie so heavily upon her heart. Sebastian +paused at the gate, and laid his hand upon it, and then Adrienne seemed +to see, in a flash of sunlight, Myles Heywood’s tall figure and earnest +face; as he, in the same attitude, almost a year ago, had laid his hand +upon that wicket, and had opened it for her to pass in. Her heart +throbbed--something rose in her throat as she entered. + +‘Myles has not been near us for weeks,’ said she to herself. ‘I will go +and call there some day, very soon,’ she added valiantly, ‘and ask the +reason of it, and if I have done anything to offend them.’ + +Mr. Blisset, his servant said, was not at all well. He felt very weak, +and had gone to bed, and he had left word that if Mr. Mallory called, +he particularly wished to see him. + +Sebastian followed the man upstairs. Adrienne went into the +drawing-room, and mechanically sat down, without even turning up the +shaded lamp, and her hands clasped themselves before her upon her knees. + +Sebastian sat a long time beside Mr. Blisset’s bed, for their +conversation was prolonged. At last Mr. Blisset said, + +‘And I have made you one of my executors. I hope you don’t mind. I have +so few friends.’ + +‘I am honoured in being chosen, and will gladly undertake it.’ + +‘Thank you. Of course, I have left everything to Adrienne. She will +be placed above all money troubles; for she is like me, she has no +extravagant desires. But I should wish the child to have a staunch +friend, and you are different from other young men, or I would not have +asked it. Will you be her friend?’ + +‘It is my most earnest wish. But since we have spoken of this, I may +as well tell you the whole truth. I have loved your niece for a long +time--for years. When I find an opportunity, I intend asking her to +become my wife. Have you anything against it?’ + +Mr. Blisset pressed the young man’s hand with a clasp which had grown +feeble. + +‘You make me very happy. I would rather know her safe in your hands +than in those of any other man.’ + +‘I wish you could know it,’ said Sebastian, with a somewhat melancholy +smile. ‘I assure you I am far from feeling confident myself, but I hope +for the best.’ + +‘I think you may be quite confident,’ said Mr. Blisset. ‘Poor child! +now she need not be alone, and has a fair chance of a safe, untroubled +future, such as a woman ought to enjoy.’ + +Shortly after this Sebastian left him, and went away without seeing +Adrienne. Later, she went upstairs to sit with her uncle, and ask if +she should read to him. + +‘No, thank you, my child. I shall need no more reading now, Adrienne. +Your wearisome, monotonous task is almost at an end.’ + +‘Dear uncle, what do you mean?’ + +‘I am what men call dying, my dear. Whether it is the end of all things +for each one of us, or whether it is but the beginning of an endless +succession of advancing lives, very soon I shall know--or I shall not +know.’ + +She kissed his hand. + +‘You must not talk in that way. You have been very good to me, and I +cannot spare you. I love you, uncle--you must not leave me.’ + +‘I fear your pleasure will not be consulted on that point, my +daughter,’ said he, with a strange half-smile, half-pity, half-deep +amusement. ‘Ah! Adrienne, when men have lived--or existed--as I have +done, and for so long, they are not sorry when the machinery comes to a +stop, and they know no more.’ + +Much moved and much distressed, she listened to him until he sent her +away, telling her to sleep undisturbedly, for he would yet live to talk +with her, and convince her that it was for the best. + +But he was wrong. When morning dawned, Richard Blisset was at rest, and +free from the mantle of pain and weakness which he had worn so long. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +‘TO THE DREGS.’ + + +The merry month of May, in the year of grace 1862, and in that part +of her Majesty’s dominions known as the County Palatine of Lancaster, +wore a face even less smiling and colder than usual. Despite the +gaudy sunshine, despite the unusual chances offered to external +nature, of showing herself to the best advantage through the absence +of smoke--despite this, all was sad, penitential, silent. One missed +the burst of talk and laughter, the chaffing and shouting in the +streets when the mills were loosed. One missed the tramp, tramp, of the +thousands of clogs over the flags at the appointed times. + +Trade had collapsed. King Cotton was discrowned; his subjects had +become a nation of paupers; some of whom were begging their bread, +all of whom were living chiefly on help from outside. There was a +vast organisation kept up, chiefly by unpaid, voluntary toil, for +discovering distress, and distributing relief. Thanshope had now added +herself to the list of towns which had instituted Relief Committees, +and Sebastian’s schools had been merged into the larger ones belonging +to the public body. They had served as a sort of model or introduction, +and the others were founded upon the same plan. He himself was one of +the most powerful and active members of the committee, while Adrienne +and Helena, from their previous experience, were in reality the head +and front of the ladies’ committee, though duly subordinated in outward +order to Mrs. Ponsonby, and one or two other dames of place and +importance. + +But while the great complicated machine was working with such +regularity and smoothness, so that it and its movements were praised +by all who beheld them, what were those doing on whose behalf all this +mechanism had been set a-going? What was happening in the thousands of +homes whose most cherished hopes and traditions had to be given up and +forsaken in this terrible emergency? In the one home in which we are +interested it was going hardly enough. + +It was in the very beginning of the month, a bright, glaring, sunny +May morning, to look upon, with a dry pitiless east wind blowing +round the corners and sweeping down the shady side of the streets. +It was the middle of the forenoon, and the Heywoods’ kitchen did +not get the morning sun. There was no fire. Mary and her next-door +neighbour, Mrs. Mitchell, took turns at having a fire, for the cooking +of both households now was less extensive than it once had been, and +each alternately undertook the responsibility of the other’s baking +and boiling. This was the day on which Mrs. Mitchell had the fire; +consequently Mary’s kitchen was all the colder from its bareness and +its spotless neatness. She was sitting in the window, sewing. Myles +was at the centre table with some books from the library before him, +ostensibly reading--really gazing blankly at the page, and looking, as +it is not good that a young man, or any man, should look--looking as +men only do look when their affairs are in a very bad way. + +His sister stole occasional side-glances at his face, and her heart +wept, if her eyes did not. She and Edmund had been living all this time +upon the weekly sum allowed by Sebastian Mallory to such of his hands +as chose to accept it. They had been aided by Myles from his own store, +in order that Edmund might have the things he required; and that store, +Mary knew now, was at an end, had come to an end some days ago. She did +not quite know how Myles had lived during those few dreadful days. He +had accepted nothing from her, because what she offered had been bought +with Sebastian Mallory’s money. He had smiled when she had implored him +to take something and repay her when times mended, if he would not have +it as a gift; smiled in a way that had not encouraged her to repeat +the offer. He had made no complaints, had been very quiet, but those +days had been the most wretched Mary had ever spent in her life. She +knew what her brother had been trying to hold out for, but the hope +continued to be deferred; and even if it must now be soon fulfilled, +she feared the relief would come too late to save him from what he and +she both considered the supreme and ultimate disgrace and shame, of +having to apply for relief. Some fortnight ago, the Relief Committee +had advertised for two clerks, to relieve their honorary secretaries +of the burden of accounts and correspondence, which had grown greater +than they could bear. Candidates of the artisan class were invited +to apply, and it was intimated that, if competent, they would be +preferred rather than others, on the principle of helping them to +help themselves. Myles Heywood had been one of the applicants, and the +decision would not be known for two days yet. The day before, Mary had +met Mr. Mallory, and had hurriedly implored him to use his influence, +if he had any, to get her brother in; but never, never to say she had +asked him, or she did not know what would happen if Myles ever knew +of it. He had promised; but there still remained a dreadful blank two +days, and then, even with Sebastian’s efforts, the answer might be that +Myles was rejected. + +Thus she sat this morning, with a sick heart, furtively watching her +brother in an anguish of pity. Would it really come to the worst? +Would he actually have to turn his steps--her brother, of whom she was +so proud--towards those dreadful doors above which glared, in white +letters a foot long, ‘Relief Committee’s Offices’? those doors which, +she thanked her God every night, she had not yet been obliged to enter? +He had had no breakfast, she knew; she did not know when he had last +eaten, or of what the meal had consisted. His face was terribly wasted; +so was the muscular, long-fingered hand which lay before him on the +table. There was lassitude in his attitude, a drawn look about his lips +and his eyes; his eyes haunted her, and made her very heart bleed when +she encountered them. What would he do? At eleven the committee began +their sitting, and it was ten minutes to eleven now, and the offices +were some distance away. If he were going it was time he---- + +She started violently as he, at this moment, pushed his books away from +him with a slow, resolute sweep of his hand, and rose. What a terrible +change had taken place in the whole figure and deportment of the man! + +Myles took his cap from the nail on which it hung, and turned to her. + +‘I’m going out, Molly,’ said he. + +‘Yes,’ she answered; and something in the muffled toneless accent of +her voice made him look at her. She was gazing intently at him, with +a fixed, almost staring look--a glance of blank pain and suffering, +passive, yet terrible. + +‘Mary,’ said he, pausing, ‘you know what it is. It must be. You think +it is the worst; but I tell you it is not so. It is not so bad as what +you would have me do.’ + +With that he left the room and the house. + +He had a pretty long walk, up and down hill. He felt inexpressibly +tired--and worse than tired: his stomach was empty: he had a sick, +gnawing sense of hunger--absolute, grinding hunger, such as he had read +of others--destitute people--feeling; but such as he had never before +felt, till now that he was destitute himself. His head felt weak and +dizzy; his mind dull and stupid--he found he could only walk slowly, as +he took first this turning and then that, and presently arrived at his +destination--the one place in Thanshope where, in these hard times, a +flourishing business was being carried on. + +About the door was a crowd of people--men and women; young and old. The +expressions upon the different faces varied from callousness, through +every variety of unwillingness, pain, and shame, up to a careless +hardihood that felt no disgrace, and was only wishful to make the most +of the opportunity. + +Into this crowd stepped the tall figure of the young workman; his +face white, half with exhaustion, half with emotion; his lips set, +his deep-set eyes glooming beneath the pain-drawn brows. He looked +neither to right nor left of him, but leaning against the wall, plunged +his hands into his pockets and waited. There was a kind of network +of railings before the door, through which the people had to pass in +single file, to prevent their all crowding in together, and Myles, like +the rest, had to wait his turn. + +Most men have to go through one or two _mauvais quarts d’heure_ in the +course of their lives, but few can have surpassed in bitterness the +minutes which Myles Heywood spent, waiting his turn, before the door +of the committee-room. Some one recognised him, spoke to him, and said +she had never expected to see him there. He answered mechanically and +composedly, but felt his face suddenly grow fierily hot; and then a +little push from behind warned him to move on, and he obeyed it. + +He entered the large room in company with several other people, and +there were more than a dozen gentlemen seated round the table in the +middle of the room. But from the moment in which he entered and saw a +face raised, a pair of eyes fixed in pitying astonishment upon him, he +felt as if he were alone with one man, and that man Sebastian Mallory. +Strange to say, he had never remembered, had scarcely been conscious of +the fact, that Mallory was one of the most important members of this +very committee. He knew it now--realised it with heart and brain and +consciousness, as the face of his rival + + ‘Flashed like a cymbal on his face,’ + +and for a moment the sense of degradation, of humiliation, burned and +scorched him, and he felt almost mad. + +Almost--but no; reason was still the stronger. The remembrance of his +own utter destitution, the distinct, imperative call of sickness and +hunger, the clear knowledge that there was no alternative, prevailed. +He did not turn round and walk away. He remained, but how he dragged +his feet towards the desk of the man who was asking questions, he +knew not. How he answered those questions remained also a mystery to +him. The gentlemen heard him, noted his address, and said he would +see that the case was inquired into. Myles felt no resentment at the +idea of his statements being thought to require investigation: whether +because his pride had been once for all laid low, or whether from sheer +weakness and dulness of sense, he did not know. He was turning away +and wondering when the inquiries would be made, and how much longer he +would be able to hold out, when Sebastian Mallory, for the first time +removing his attention from the writing in which he had apparently been +engrossed, said composedly, + +‘There is no need to trouble the visitor to inquire into that case, +Mr. Whitaker. I can vouch for the truth of every word of it. I should +recommend you to write a ticket and pay the sum required at once.’ + +Then he turned to his writing again. Mr. Whitaker said, ‘Ah, that is +all right, then,’ and immediately took a ticket and began to write. + +Myles felt as if everything was reeling around him, and himself +with the rest. He caught at the top of a chair by the table and +steadied himself, feeling as if he were some one else, some strange, +alien, degraded being--one of the beggars of whom he used to read in +advanced periodicals, that they ought not to be relieved by private, +miscellaneous almsgiving; but should all be ticketed and classified, +and strictly watched and overlooked. It was as the bitterness of death, +and must be borne unmoved, standing composedly and decently. + +All the time he still supported himself by the back of the chair, +unable, from very weakness and dizziness, to move. The gentleman +who sat in it rose, and looked at him from a pair of keen, stern, +steel-gray eyes. + +‘You look ill, young man,’ said he. ‘Come with me, and I will show you +where to get the money.’ + +He took the ticket in his hand, and, taking Myles’s arm, led him away +through a side-door, into a small sort of anteroom. Here he bade Myles +sit down, and he took from a cupboard some wine--red wine, which he +poured into a glass and gave to Myles with a piece of bread. + +‘Take that,’ said he, ‘and drink the wine, or you will be ill before +you get home. You have fasted long. You should have come sooner. How +long is it since you had any food?’ + +‘About thirty-six hours, I think,’ said Myles, looking at him as +he took the glass in his hand. It was Canon Ponsonby, ‘the radical +parson,’ the man who ought to have been a prime minister, but who, as +Rector of Thanshope, earned more love than falls to the lot of most +prime ministers, charm they never so wisely. + +His stern face softened as he looked upon the figure before him. + +‘You have a right spirit,’ said he. ‘I know your name, and who you are. +Your sister attends the parish church. You----’ + +‘Attend no church at all. I’m a free thinker.’ + +‘Are you? I don’t think you will ever solve your riddle by +free-thinking. But shake hands. I wish you were one of my flock.’ + +‘If anything could make me one of a flock, it would be that you are the +shepherd, sir,’ said Myles, finishing his bread and wine, and feeling a +warmed life in his veins and at his heart. + +‘See!’ said Canon Ponsonby, ‘here is the weekly allowance to which +your ticket entitles you. Do not trouble to call at the office. Good +morning.’ He took the young man’s hand. ‘I have long known of you. I am +glad to have seen you. God have you in His keeping!’ + +Strangely moved and grateful, Myles silently clasped the noble old +man’s hand. He could not speak. Canon Ponsonby showed him out by a +side-door, so that he avoided that dreadful crowd round the entrance. +He was in the street again, with the white ticket, and some money in +his hand. After what Canon Ponsonby had said to him, he had ceased to +feel that dreadful agony of shame, but he felt utterly crushed, and +reduced to the most perfect insignificance. + +Dreamily pursuing his homeward way, he turned over the money in his +hand, and remembered that he must buy some food with it! Food! for +himself? When he had gone through that age of anguish, as it had seemed +to him, he should take the coins which had been so hardly earned, and +buy bread with them, and eat them? It struck him as being absurd--as if +one had used a steam-hammer to crush a midge withal. + +Nevertheless, he went into a shop, and bought some bread and cheese, +and was carrying it home, still with the same sense of incongruity +between the means and the end. But, as he passed a doorstep, at the end +of a street, he beheld a little girl sitting on it, and crying bitterly. + +‘Little one, what’s the matter?’ he asked, stopping, and looking down +at her. + +‘I’m--so--hungry!’ said the child, with a sob between each word, as she +looked piteously up into his face, and held a thin little pinafore, +soaked with tears, in two small, tremulous hands. + +‘So hungry!’ he said, stooping over her, with the sense that perhaps, +after all, he had not gone through the furnace to find nothing at the +other side. ‘Hast had no breakfast?’ + +‘Nay, none at o’.’ + +‘How’s that?’ + +Here a thin, clean-looking, poorly clad woman, with a baby in her arms, +came to the door. + +‘Come in, Sarah Emily,’ said she. ‘For shame o’ thisel, to sit bawlin’ +on th’ dur-step. Thi’ feyther’s gone to see about summat to ayt. Coom +in, and hold thi’ din.’ + +‘I’m--so--hungry!’ was the only answer. + +‘Ne’er heed her, lad!’ said the woman to Myles. ‘My measter’s going to +th’ committee to-day. We’ve had to come to that, and we’ll likely get +summat to ayt afore neet.’ + +‘Nay, but it’s very hard for such a bit of a lass to wait so long,’ +said Myles. ‘If you’ll trust her to me, I’ll give her some breakfast. +I’m just going to get my own.’ + +‘Eh, thank you, you’re very kind,’ said the woman, her voice suddenly +breaking, as she looked at him, and then turned aside again. + +‘Come, my lass!’ said Myles gently, and he took the open-mouthed Sarah +Emily in his arms, and carried her to his home. + +In the kitchen, he seated her in Mary’s rocking-chair, explaining +briefly to his sister that the child was clemming, and must be fed, and +then he cut her some bread and cheese, and watched her with an intense +and altogether unaccountable interest while she ate it. He felt almost +light-hearted. If he had not, so to speak, walked up to the cannon’s +mouth this morning, little Sarah Emily might have been sickening with +hunger until eventide. + +‘Good! good!’ she cried, when she had eaten as much as she could. + +And she laughed at him, while he slowly ate something himself. + +‘Look here!’ he suggested; ‘do you think you could find your way from +your home to this another day?’ + +‘Eh, ay! It’s none so far,’ said Sarah Emily. + +‘Then, if you come every morning--every morning, mind--I’ll give you +something to eat always, eh?’ he suggested. + +‘But I can ayt such a lot, when I’m hungry,’ said Sarah Emily +bashfully, putting her forefinger into her mouth. + +‘Never mind! There’ll always be something. Wilt come?’ + +‘Eh, I will so!’ said the child, clapping her hands, jumping upon his +knee, and kissing him. + +Thus was the bargain struck. + +There is this day, in Thanshope, a dark-eyed young woman, of some +twenty-four years, who has a husband, and some young children. When the +little ones clamour for breakfast or dinner, she is in the habit of +reproving them, by telling them that they don’t know what real hunger +is; and, as an instance in point, she is given to relating the story +how she sat on the doorstep one day in the ‘panic’ crying with hunger, +and how the tall, pale-faced young man with the kind eyes picked her +up, and carried her home, and gave her food; and how either he or his +sister welcomed their hungry little visitor daily for---- + +‘How long, mother?’ + +‘Three months, child; every day--eh, they were kind; they were so.’ + +‘Is he alive now, mother?’ + +‘Ay, for sure he is, and----’ + +But the dark-eyed young woman always makes rather a long story of it, +and freely intersperses remarks and comments, which, though doubtless +interesting to her family, might not be considered of value by the +public in general. + +Two days later, the postman brought Myles a summons to attend at the +Central Offices of the Relief Committee that day, as he was one of the +successful candidates for the clerkship, and the announcement that his +salary would be twenty shillings a week. + +Thus the worst, materially, was tided over; but the bitterness of the +cup he had drunk that terrible morning did not lightly pass away. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +A PAUSE. + + +When Myles began his work at the Committee Office, one conspicuous +member of the Ladies’ Committee was temporarily absent. Adrienne +Blisset was then occupied in learning the condition of her own affairs, +and found herself soon in a totally different position from any she had +ever expected to fill--very rich, as it seemed to her, and a person +of great importance; and, what was strangest of all, with Sebastian +Mallory coming and going and fulfilling his duties as executor, and +explaining everything to her. She repeatedly told him that she could +not believe it; it was impossible--there must be a mistake. All that +money hers to do as she liked with, and she had not earned it, nor +worked for it! + +‘What an idea you have of working for everything you get!’ he exclaimed +suddenly one day. ‘Do you carry it so far as to demand a service from +every one to whom you accord a sign of favour?’ + +‘Really I don’t know what you mean,’ replied she. ‘I only know that I +have got, you tell me, between six and seven hundred a year, and I have +done nothing to deserve it.’ + +‘No. I suppose you have to deserve it now, by using it properly,’ said +he sedately. + +That was in fact the amount of Adrienne’s means, and it was natural +that it should appear to her as wealth unbounded. She had also +Stonegate on a lease, which had yet somewhat over two years to run. And +when she had learnt all this, and that she really was the mistress of +such means, with the only drawback that there was no one to share them +with, no one to consult with--herself alone, and her own pleasure and +convenience to study; when she had grasped these facts, and had begun +to feel rather sad and lonely, she returned to her work one morning +in a black dress, looking rather thinner and paler than she had done +before. The people with whom she had become acquainted in her work, and +who had heard the reason of her absence, came round her, and, though +not openly, congratulated her, hoped she would now take a recognised +place amongst them, asked if they might call, and so on. And as she +somewhat vaguely and sadly answered these efforts at friendship, she +looked up, and saw some one pass the window. It was Myles Heywood going +to his work. + +Adrienne’s name had become well known in Thanshope during the last +three months. It was but a provincial town, and every one seemed +thoroughly acquainted with every one else’s affairs. Mrs. Mallory had +been much annoyed at finding Sebastian ‘mixed up,’ as she called it, +with Mr. Blisset’s affairs, and above all, with those of Miss Blisset. +She had had to explain it as well as she could to certain friends who +had asked her who this Miss Blisset was, and what it all meant. + +Sebastian, she said, was so very good-natured; she feared he would be +imposed on some time. Did she know Miss Blisset? Certainly she did, in +a way; but as for being a friend of hers, certainly not! Sebastian had +consented to act as Mr. Blisset’s executor out of pure goodwill and +kindness, because the man was so much to be pitied, and seemed to have +absolutely no friends. That was all. + +But despite all Mrs. Mallory’s efforts, it got known that her son +and the young lady, who had lately come into a fortune, and who was +reported to be both charming and accomplished, were very great friends. +Helena Spenceley took rather a malicious pleasure in upholding this +theory in Mrs. Mallory’s very presence, so that that lady would have +boxed her ears with pleasure, if one could box the ears of a person who +would have one hundred thousand pounds some day. + +Thus Miss Blisset and Mr. Mallory were already talked about in a +certain set, and Adrienne’s duties had made her name and herself +familiar to another and a less distinguished public--to the +working-people of Thanshope. She had been a notability amongst them +before her sudden accession to wealth and friends; she was doubly well +known to them now. She was busy and preoccupied, thought Myles, as he +sat at his desk in the second office, and saw her almost daily pass the +windows on her way to the Ladies’ Committee-room. She was a lady of +property, sought after and busy, and he was a clerk on a high stool, to +whom she scarce spoke a word from one week’s end to the other. + +Those years of distress brought about some strange acquaintances, and +led to some unusual events. Though everything appeared on the outside +to work so smoothly, there were active emotions stirring amongst the +members of that Thanshope Relief Committee--emotions, quite unconnected +with the wants of those for whose benefit they had assembled +themselves. The circumstances were exceptional, and it was only under +exceptional circumstances that those particular people could have not +only met, but continued almost daily to meet and come in contact with +one another. Gradually circumstances drew them together--gradually as +they met, the half-forgotten, smouldering feelings of love and hate, +contempt and pity, sprang into life and activity again, and emotion +stepped to the front, and all these things acted and reacted one upon +the other, till every story was modified, every life received a bend +this way or that, a change in the even tenor of its way. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A MEETING. + + +Mr. Spenceley, the millionaire, the richest man in Thanshope, the man +of boundless wealth and boundless callousness, was amongst those cotton +lords who, to their lasting shame and disgrace, were determined at +this crisis not to come forward and give of their abundance, but who +preferred to hang back until the popular voice left them no option, and +the universal indignation absolutely thrust them to the front. + +For a long time Mr. Spenceley had contented himself with abusing the +sorely tried work-people, demanding to know why they did not all +emigrate, and vowing that he would not waste his money upon them. He +amused himself by everywhere calling Sebastian Mallory, behind his +back, a fool and a madman, a spendthrift, a pernicious leveller, and so +on: and by behaving to him before his face with the utmost courtesy and +politeness, excusing conduct which might savour of double dealing by +saying that such fools could never be made to see that they were fools, +and that it was best to take them as you found them, and let them go +their own way. + +When the Public Relief Committee was established, and one and all, rich +and poor, young and old, contributed something either in money, or +kind, or assistance, or all, the chief inhabitant of Thanshope could +no longer hold back. He allowed his name to appear as a member of the +committee, sent a subscription of a hundred pounds, and deputed his son +to act as his proxy at councils, committee meetings, and so on. Despite +the bad times, he himself was so much engaged with business, that he +had no time to attend to such things. + +Accordingly, Fred Spenceley periodically shed the light of his +countenance upon the council board and those surrounding it. He +continued to come, despite a terrible rebuff he received on the +occasion of his first appearance upon the scene. + +It was that rebuff, and one or two incidents connected with it, which +filled him with rage and bitterness; so that if he had been an Irish +reaper, or an Oldham weaver, he would have proceeded to drink himself +blind, and then gone home and maltreated his wife, or any other +feminine creature within the range of his arm. Being in a different +station from that occupied by reapers and weavers, and thinly veneered +over into a poor, tinselly, outward semblance of a gentleman, he only +raged frantically within himself, and cast about to find an instrument +to execute a moral revenge, which, he had sense enough in his dull +brutal brain to know, would far more torture the objects of it than all +the corporal punishment in the world. + +He arrived one afternoon, thinking the whole business a great piece of +‘tomfoolery.’ The Relief Committee’s offices consisted of three rooms, +opening one out of the other. The first was the Ladies’ Committee-room, +a large, spacious place, where the ladies could meet, decide upon their +proceedings, and hear the accounts of their wants and troubles brought +to them by mothers, wives, and daughters from all parts of the town. +Passing through this room, a second and smaller one was reached, in +which sat the two clerks, Myles Heywood, and a lad who was under him. +Through this second apartment, ingress was obtained to the Gentlemen’s +Committee-room, where the council assembled, three times a week as a +rule, and oftener if necessary. + +Coming to attend his first committee meeting, Fred Spenceley entered +the first of these rooms, and, glancing round, beheld different groups +scattered in different parts of the room. No one took any notice of +him; they were all much too busy; but as he looked round, he perceived, +in one of the windows apart from the rest, three persons: Sebastian +Mallory, whom he had hated since first he saw his face, as only a +true ‘cad’ can hate a true gentleman; and two ladies--one in black, +whose back was turned towards him, the other his sister Helena, erect, +animated, with her dark eyes flashing and her silks in some agitation. + +He walked up to the group, and touched Helena on the shoulder, +inquiring graciously, + +‘Well, little one, what’s the matter now?’ + +‘Fred! How you startled me! Have you come to the meeting?’ + +‘Yes, I have. Much good it will do me or any one else, my being here. +But the governor was----’ + +‘Oh yes! I know. But stop! You know Mr. Mallory. Miss Blisset, let +me----’ + +Adrienne interrupted her. She was standing, pale, haughty, and erect, +with eyes full of cold contempt; and she interposed, in a cool, decided +voice, + +‘Pardon me, Miss Spenceley, I do not wish for any introduction. I must +decline to make that--gentleman’s acquaintance.’ + +With which she turned away, in perfect outward composure, and, seating +herself at a desk, calmly looked out of the window, leaving Sebastian +surprised, and yet not surprised, Fred furious, and Helena overwhelmed +with confusion; for she knew her brother, and felt sure that he must +have distinguished himself in some far from desirable manner towards +Miss Blisset, to cause that gentle lady openly to manifest discourtesy. +Helena’s humiliation was increased as she realised, with lightning-like +rapidity, that Adrienne must have some excellent reason for repeatedly +refusing to visit her at Castle Hill. Crimson, she stood where she +had received the rebuff, and knew not what to do. It was Sebastian +who, after the unavoidable momentary pause, and when Mr. Spenceley had +turned upon his heel, said just as if nothing had happened, + +‘I shall lay the matter before the Board to-day, Miss Spenceley, and I +am sure it will be attended to immediately.’ + +Helena met his eyes as she looked up at him, and the burning blush of +mortification glowed more deeply than before. + +‘You are very kind,’ said she, in a low, choked voice; ‘but you cannot +do away with the fact that I have to blush for my nearest relations.’ + +With that, she too turned away, as if not knowing where to go to; and +Sebastian decided that the best thing he could do would be to follow +Mr. Spenceley to the council-room. + +For Mr. Spenceley, muttering an anathema, had directed his steps away +from such dangerous ground, and with raging hatred in his heart, +entered the second of the three rooms. In that moment he would gladly +have strangled some one, or kicked his dog, or flogged his horse, or +sworn at his mother; and if he had had a wife, he would have caused her +to spend a joyful evening on his return home. + +As it was, he found himself in a small room, in the window of which +stood a long desk, at which desk sat two men busily writing. One of +them rose, as he entered, to fetch a ledger from a shelf at the other +side of the room. Spenceley’s rage gave way to a momentary start of +surprise; then the blood came surging to his face and ears, as he +found that he was confronting that insolent, unknown operative who had +disgraced and branded him, and degraded and punished him, ten months +ago in the club billiard-room. + +Like a lurid dream it all started up again in his brain. There the man +stood--he tingled from head to foot as he beheld him--with face pinched +and worn, but with that same broad, unstained brow, the same scornful +grey eyes, the same muscular fingers--he seemed to feel them at his +collar again--and he could not grind him to powder, as he would like +to do, nor put him to any kind of horrible torture, such as he would +have deemed desirable for him. Myles’s eyes fell upon him, and a sudden +gleam of scornful contemptuous amusement shot into them; his head flung +itself backwards--his lips curved into a kind of smile, but otherwise +he did not deign to notice Mr. Spenceley. + +Into the heart of the latter the old devils of revengeful desire and +frantic hatred came leaping back. Why had he been so quiet? Why had +he suffered himself to be laughed at and diverted from his original +purpose of punishment? Why had he sat down patiently all this time with +that--a black cloud of fury overshadowed his mind. His thoughts were +scarcely coherent. But it was incredible. The fellow should and must +be made to pay dearly for his insolence. He had sworn it once, and he +would carry it out now. With wrath and rage contending madly in his +stupid, brutal soul, he went on into the committee-room, where he was +immediately followed by Sebastian Mallory, and business commenced. + +Fred Spenceley was too much occupied with his own private fury, with +thinking, with a sort of hatred and love combined, of the sweet, +contemptuous face of Adrienne Blisset, which he could not banish from +his mind--of these and of other things, to take any particular notice +of the man called James Hoyle, who was summoned to read a report to the +Board that afternoon. + +He had been intrusted with the task of visiting certain courts in a +low part of the town, whither, it was said, a number of the factory +hands had been obliged to retire, in consequence of being unable any +longer to pay the rent of more respectable houses. Mr. Hoyle had +offered himself to the Board as peculiarly suited for the work, being +himself a minister of the gospel, and used to strange scenes and low +neighbourhoods. + +‘He speaks the truth there, at all events,’ Sebastian Mallory had +remarked _sotto voce_ to Canon Ponsonby, ‘but the Father of Lies has +had some share in his parentage, all the same, sir--don’t you think so?’ + +‘Or else he has selected him as his peculiar adversary, and left the +traces of his attempts to corrupt him,’ replied Canon Ponsonby, fixing +his piercing eyes upon Mr. Hoyle. + +But as Mr. Hoyle really did seem well fitted and anxious for the work, +he was allowed to undertake it. + +His report was considered clear and succinct. He was told that he had +done well; a further commission of the same kind was given him, and he +was told to present himself again as soon as possible with the required +information. + +Expressing himself humbly gratified at having been of any service +in such a cause, Mr. Hoyle bowed to the assembled Board, carefully +avoiding two pairs of eyes--a pair of lazy brown ones and a pair of +piercing grey ones, and, with a long sidelong look at the sullen, +averted countenance of Frederick Spenceley, took his departure. + +A fortnight passed. The middle of May had come and gone. Every day +the distress grew more tremendous--the efforts needed to meet it more +strenuous and unceasing. The whole time and the whole energies of those +who had begun the work were gradually absorbed into it. Still the cruel +war raged on across the Atlantic, and Mid-summer and Famine advanced +hand in hand, with long, devouring strides. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +‘FOR A PRICE.’ + + +A committee meeting had been called for a certain Tuesday afternoon. An +appeal for help had been sent out to all the persons of any position +in the neighbourhood. Canon Ponsonby’s name headed the list with a +donation of fifty pounds, which was more to him than fifty hundred +would have been to Mr. Spenceley. Some half-dozen large manufacturing +firms followed with sums varying from one to five hundred pounds. ‘S. +M., five hundred pounds.’ ‘Mrs. Mallory, five pounds.’ Mrs. Mallory had +so many calls upon her charity just then, she said, she really could +not afford more, or the yearly sum she set apart for such purposes +would be exceeded. + +‘The yearly distress to be relieved is also considerably exceeded,’ +murmured her son, as he took possession of the contribution. ‘H. v. B., +five pounds.’ + +‘Our money!’ as Mrs. Mallory indignantly observed to herself, and +tossed her head angrily. + +‘H. S., ten pounds.’ This stood for Helena Spenceley, who delivered the +money over to Sebastian with a kind of chuckle. ‘You would never guess +how I got it,’ said she, with a broad smile of triumph and satisfaction. + +‘Begged, borrowed, or stolen?’ he asked, smiling too. + +‘Neither one nor the other. Nor yet was it a free gift, nor yet did I +find it at the back of a drawer, having quite forgotten that I had put +it there, as I once before did with a five-pound note. Oh, you will +never know how I got it.’ And she laughed. + +But Sebastian learnt from Adrienne how she had come by the money. + +‘Her father would not give her a penny,’ said she, ‘because he had made +up his mind with his narrow income to sacrifice twenty-five pounds, +which he was sadly in need of himself, so what do you think she did?’ + +‘Such knowledge is too wonderful for me.’ + +‘She sold a lot of her dresses and things. I expect the poor girl has +been awfully cheated,’ Adrienne added, a touch of real feminine feeling +and regret in her tone. ‘She said she had left herself only half a +dozen--and fancy getting no more than ten pounds for the rest of her +wardrobe--it is awful to think of. But the money was there, she said, +and she could not resist it. She is as pleased as if it had been a +hundred.’ + +‘Like somebody else’s,’ suggested Sebastian. + +‘Somebody else’s?’ + +He pointed to the written subscription list which they had been looking +over. ‘Life let us Cherish, £100,’ stood inscribed on the page. + +‘Do you think I don’t know what hand traced that?’ + +‘But you won’t tell, please!’ said Adrienne. + +‘Ah, you have confessed. No; I will not tell, unless I think it would +be for your good.’ + +‘Nonsense! But was it not nice and generous in that girl?’ persisted +Adrienne, who always would talk to Sebastian, much more than he liked, +about Helena. + +‘Yes; it was. But she has a generous disposition,’ he admitted, still +looking affectionately at his favourite inscription. + +The celebrated twenty-five pounds spoken of by Adrienne--it is lucky +that money has not an organised nervous system, or it might suffer +keenly under the touch of some fingers!--was committed by Mr. Spenceley +the elder to Mr. Spenceley the younger, with the remark that he +wondered how much longer people who had honestly earned their money +would be expected to pour it out like water ‘in that way;’ and the +request that he would deliver it into the hands of Sebastian Mallory, +the treasurer. + +Mr. Frederick Spenceley, who did not appear to find business so +engrossing as his father, strolled down to the committee-rooms, +arriving on the scene of action some ten minutes or quarter of an +hour before any signs of action had begun to manifest themselves. The +well-known _mauvais quart d’heure_ may be evil in many ways, kinds, and +degrees of badness. Frederick Spenceley had no intention of spending +his fifteen minutes more aimlessly or mischievously than usual; but +his guardian demon had ordained that they should be consumed more +reprehensibly, perhaps, than all the rest of his existence put together. + +There was no one in the first room, no one in the second room; in the +third room was a solitary figure standing in one of the windows--a +figure in black cloth clothes, with a bundle of documents under one +arm--the figure of Mr. James Hoyle. + +There were two windows to the room. Mr. Spenceley, jingling the coin in +his pockets, strolled up to the other one, and stood at it, whistling +to himself, and looking out upon the prospect--what there was of it. +The two windows were on the same side of the room, and looked upon a +kind of open yard, separated from the street by a low wall. It was +a slanting street, like so many others in that up-and-down town, +Thanshope. Exactly opposite the window in which Spenceley stood was a +gate, through which any one coming to the committee-rooms must pass, +and, going under the windows (to the right) of the other two rooms, at +last arrive at the door opening into the Ladies’ Committee-room. There +was also a separate door, leading into the second room, or clerk’s +office, where Myles Heywood and his fellow-clerk sat. + +Half absently, Spenceley began to collect the money together that +his father had given him, and to lay it out, two five-pound notes +and fifteen sovereigns, upon the window-ledge before him. He looked +at it pensively, and Mr. Hoyle’s little sharp eyes were fixed with a +sidelong gaze, full of interest, upon his face. Mr. Hoyle had surveyed +the prospect to more purpose than Mr. Spenceley, and was very anxious +that the latter should give over counting out his money, and return to +the apparently innocent pursuit of looking out of the window, which he +presently did. + +He plunged his hands into his pockets, and gazed out again, swaying +to and fro from his toes to his heels, in the rhythmic manner common +to persons in his position. Presently the rhythmic movement ceased. +Mr. Spenceley’s attention became concentrated on outside objects, on +a figure some two hundred yards distant, approaching down the hill. +He looked at her as she came along, in her black dress, with her pale +face and her warmly tinted hair. He hated her for a thousand reasons, +and because she looked sad and lovely at once, because she was gentle +to others and to him an icicle; and most of all, because he had made +a great mistake about her in his gross, clumsy, blundering way, and +knew now, that if he had but known what she was he would never have +insulted her, but would have tried with all his might, though he was +not clever, to become good enough for her. But she had prevented that, +she had refused him the faintest chance of letting her know that he +repented, and by ----, he thought savagely, he did not repent. These +women were all alike; either worse than the devil himself, or too icily +cold and pure to glance aside at such as he. He watched and watched, as +if fascinated; watched how she came along, looking tired and pale, but +lovely; despite his hatred he felt, with all the finer feeling he had, +that she was lovely, and his head turned, his eyes followed her steps, +till she arrived at the gate, and then her face changed, and he gave +a great start, for, standing there, exactly as she came up, was Myles +Heywood, who had been coming (as the astute Mr. Hoyle had perceived) up +the hill from the opposite direction. + +They met at the gate. Adrienne’s face, after a faint smile, seemed to +grow still paler and calmer. She held out her hand. Myles took off his +cap, and though he did not smile--unless a slight quiver about the +comers of his mouth could be called a smile--yet he took her hand, and +they spoke together for a moment at the gate. It was quite evident +that it was Adrienne, and not Myles, who made the pause and carried on +the conversation which took place before they both came on, past the +windows (which had the lower panes frosted, on purpose to baffle vulgar +curiosity), without seeing the two striking countenances that were +watching them. + +Myles left Adrienne at the door of the second room, and she went on to +the ladies’ room. + +Frederick Spenceley had entirely forgotten the presence of any one but +himself. He gave vent to his feelings in a low but distinctly audible-- + +‘D--n them!’ + +He suddenly felt a touch on his arm, and, turning round with his usual +disproportionate start, beheld Mr. Hoyle at his elbow, looking into his +face. + +‘Oh! Confound you! What do you want, creeping up to a fellow in that +way?’ + +‘I beg your pardon, sir. I have been looking at that man Myles +Heywood....’ + +‘What, that’s the blackguard’s name, is it?’ + +‘Yes, sir. My step-son. A--_some_ young ladies choose strange friends, +sir; don’t you think so?’ + +Spenceley was about to ask roughly what business of his it was; but +something in the intent, glittering fixity of the man’s gaze held him +fast. + +‘Perhaps they do,’ said he, slowly. ‘What then?’ + +‘Only this. That young man’s mother is now my wife. I ought to know +what sort of a character he is. I ought to know something about the +young lady, too. If the facts about both of them, the real facts, were +known, _she_ would be in a different position from what she has, and +he----’ + +Mr. Hoyle laughed. + +‘He--what about him?’ asked Mr. Spenceley, almost breathlessly. + +‘Well, I don’t think that young fool of a master of his----’ + +‘Who is his master?’ + +‘Mallory.’ + +‘Ah--h!’ + +‘He’s taken a fancy to him; he’s offered to help him. He did help him +to his present place. But it was in ignorance of the facts. If he knew +the facts, my young gentleman would not be in such a hurry to patronise +him. In fact--he’d be ruined.’ + +‘Facts--what facts?’ + +‘Ah!’ said Mr. Hoyle. ‘That’s just it. Properly to investigate and +establish those facts might be rather expensive.’ + +‘Oh! you are certain that if they were known they would have the +requisite effect?’ + +‘You mean----’ + +‘Of parting him and her--of punishing her?’ + +‘I tell you, he would leave the place, and she would cry her eyes out. +I know it.’ + +‘And about how expensive would that be?’ demanded Spenceley. + +‘It would cost a hundred pounds, and I should want five-and-twenty to +go on with--the rest down when I tell you he has gone.’ + +Spenceley put his hand on the money. + +‘This is five-and-twenty,’ he remarked. ‘I must give them a cheque for +it, instead of money down. But remember, if you’re cheating me----’ + +‘On my soul and honour, sir,’ said Hoyle, with almost vehement +earnestness, ‘you may trust me. It’s as much my cause as yours. And +meantime, if you should hear any reports to the disadvantage of a +certain lady, don’t deny them--I told you I knew some queer facts about +them both.’ + +Scarcely had the money been transferred to the keeping of Mr. Hoyle, +than the door was opened, and Canon Ponsonby, Sebastian Mallory, +and others, came in. Mr. Hoyle began to study his documents, and +Fred Spenceley to look out of the window again, his heart beating +unheroically fast, with a sense of peril of which he felt ashamed, and +an undercurrent of eager thirst for revenge, the stronger in that there +was now some prospect of its being gratified. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + ‘Bear not false witness; let the lie + Have time on its own wings to fly.’ + + +One fine morning, Mrs. Mallory, her son, and Hugo von Birkenau sat +at breakfast, and the young men maintained a decorous silence while +the lady held forth on what was at present her favourite topic, the +approaching ball at Castle Hill, in honour of Helena’s coming of age. + +‘Helena will be the belle at her own ball,’ she observed. ‘I called the +other day, and Mrs. Spenceley showed me her dress. It had just come +from Paris. It is perfectly exquisite. Even you, Sebastian, will be +able to find no fault with that toilette.’ + +‘Black velvet, diamonds, and point lace?’ he suggested. ‘That would +be just like her, and then it is a costume on which you may spend an +indefinite amount of money.’ + +‘How ill-natured you are! It is a charming dress, and she will look +lovely in it. I hope you have secured one dance, at any rate, or you +will have no chance now.’ + +He confessed that he had not acted with sufficient spirit in that +respect; he had never even thought of asking for a dance. + +‘Then I am sure she will be very much hurt. She let me see the other +day that she thought a great deal about your coming.’ + +‘If she did, she is not the girl I take her for,’ said he, looking +rather impatient. It was not Mrs. Mallory’s fault if her son remained +sceptical on the subject of Helena Spenceley’s _penchant_ for him. +She had long ago seen that it was useless for her to dangle Helena’s +hundred thousand pounds before his eyes; he would none of it, whereas +to Mrs. Mallory it was an ornament which grew more becoming and more +desirable the longer she looked at it. She had discovered, or thought +she had discovered, that Sebastian was very anxious not to hurt the +feelings of any one, by neglect or unkindness, ‘that is, of any one +but myself,’ as she plaintively told herself--and she thought that +if she pictured in colours strong enough the affection which she was +determined Helena had for him, this sensitiveness of his might lead to +the desired results--sooner or later. + +‘Any other man,’ Mrs. Mallory said to herself, ‘would have fallen in +love with the girl for her beauty alone, if she had not had a penny; +but in that case, of course, he would have fallen in love with her.’ + +Then she tried to excite his self-esteem, and pique his _amour propre_, +by telling him that Helena was very difficult to please, and had +already had half a dozen more or less eligible offers, all of which she +had refused _sans façon_. + +‘I can quite believe it,’ was the tranquil reply. ‘_Sans façon_ exactly +describes her manner and her character as well. She has no idea of any +medium. Wild enthusiasms and extravagant hatreds----’ + +(‘Like me,’ murmured Hugo to his plate.) + +‘And I have no doubt she did refuse the “six braw gentlemen” you +mention, unceremoniously enough.’ + +Mrs. Mallory would have despaired, if she had not taken comfort in +the idea that Sebastian liked to conceal his feelings from her, which +argued that perhaps he cherished a secret passion for Helena, and would +do as he ought to do, if he were let alone. + +Her fears as to the influence of Adrienne Blisset were fitful and +intermittent. Sometimes that adventuress did not particularly disturb +her mental peace, but at other moments a dread fear seized her lest the +game should be going in the very direction she least wished it to take; +lest the obstacle which interfered with her plans and wishes was not +Sebastian’s utter and unaccountable indifference to beauty, love, and +a hundred thousand pounds, but a misguided, infatuated inclination on +his part, for a daughter of Heth, with neither beauty (compared with +Helena) nor pretensions. When attacked by such thoughts, Mrs. Mallory +felt herself turn cold and numb with fear. The idea of Adrienne Blisset +promoted to her place was the most thoroughly unpleasant--not to say +altogether hideous--that had ever occurred to her. + +On the morning in question, Sebastian, on being asked what his plans +were, said he should be in his office all morning, and at a committee +meeting in the afternoon. Would he be in to lunch at half-past one? +Yes, he fully expected so; and with that, he said good morning, and +went away. + +The others went their several ways. Hugo retired to the drawing-room, +to a packet of new transcendental German music, and to the spinning out +certain music of his own. Mrs. Mallory, after an interview with her +housekeeper, ordered her carriage for half-past eleven, wrote letters +in the breakfast-room till that time, and then got ready and drove out +in the said carriage. The proverbial ‘spectator might have seen’ the +equipage go from one place to another in the town, and afterwards to +certain mansions in the vicinity of the same, where its mistress made +state calls. (It was the fashion in Thanshope to make state calls in +full dress between twelve and one.) It was quite half-past one when +Mrs. Mallory forsook the war-path, and returning home, came into the +dining-room. She sat down to lunch without removing her bonnet. She +was dressed in her favourite lavender and black, and so attired, with +a new and unusual expression of animation and amiability upon her high +fair features, she looked a very handsome, agreeable, though rather +thin-lipped English matron. + +The gong sounded. First Hugo strolled in, and raised his dark eyes in +astonishment when the lady graciously and sweetly inquired, + +‘May I give you some soup, Mr. von Birkenau?’ + +‘No, thank you,’ he replied, politely but tentatively. + +‘How warm it is, is it not? So unlike the end of May. May is generally +such a bad month in England; don’t you think so?’ + +‘You should know best,’ said Hugo, bowing solemnly, and somewhat +nervous under this excessive amiability. + +‘I wonder what Sebastian is doing,’ she remarked, still graciously. ‘He +really seems to have his hands quite full.’ + +At that moment he came in. + +‘Sorry to be so late, but Sutcliffe kept me. Soup? No, thanks. I’ll +trouble you for some of that cold fowl, Hugo, please.’ + +‘And will you give me a little sherry, my dear?’ said his mother. + +Sebastian, too, changed countenance at this tone, privately wondering +‘what next?’ but poured out the sherry with imperturbable gravity. + +The meal proceeded in silence for some little time, until it occurred +to Sebastian to ask, + +‘Where have you been all morning, mother?’ + +‘Driving,’ was the vague reply, and another pause ensued. + +Sebastian poured out a glass of sherry, drank some of it, and then +thought he would trouble Hugo again; he was so awfully hungry. Hugo, +with a gravity amounting to gloom, wrenched the second wing from the +fowl before him, and placed it upon Sebastian’s plate. + +Sebastian was watching the operation with the intense eagerness of a +mind quite at ease; and it was at this juncture that Mrs. Mallory said, + +‘Sebastian, I am sorry to hear of a very strange thing in connection +with that girl--what is her name?--whose uncle’s affairs you somehow +got mixed up with.’ + +Hugo’s eyes gave a flash. That was what was coming. + +‘Do you mean Miss Adrienne Blisset?’ asked Sebastian, in a distinct +voice. + +‘Blisset--yes, Miss Blisset. She professes to take a great interest in +the relief affairs.’ + +‘So far as I know, the interest is real--at least if hard work is any +test of reality.’ + +‘She appears to choose very strange people as her intimate friends.’ + +‘Myself, _par exemple_?’ he suggested. + +War was now declared. The blandness had disappeared from Mrs. Mallory’s +countenance. The excitement remained. Her son did not appear to her to +be excited, but Hugo, glancing at him, felt a little thrill as he saw +all the slight signs which he so well understood, and which told him +that his friend was moved, much moved, unpleasantly moved. + +Mrs. Mallory, all unconscious how much Sebastian knew, and reckless of +the storm she was inviting to descend upon herself, continued, + +‘I must say, I hope you are not amongst her intimate friends, unless +you wish to be placed on the level of low, immoral, atheistical +work-people; the very dregs of the lower orders.’ + +‘It is asserted that Miss Blisset selects her friends from the dregs of +the lower orders?’ he inquired, with ominous politeness. + +‘The case does not rest on mere assertion. Her uncle professed peculiar +opinions, and she carries them to extremes, as is the way with those +women who have been brought up amongst men, and always led a vagabond +life.’ + +Sebastian smiled slightly as he carefully balanced a fork upon his +little finger. + +‘_Après?_’ he inquired. + +‘She made the acquaintance of a young man of whose character the less +is said the better--picked him up at some reading-room where she used +to go in an evening--an _evening_,’ said Mrs. Mallory, in an utterly +indescribable tone. ‘She encouraged him to visit her, and he did so +repeatedly; he is a socialist, an atheist, and altogether immoral. How +far the connection may have gone I cannot pretend to say, but this I +know, that Frederick Spenceley, who is not exactly strait-laced----’ + +‘No, certainly not.’ + +‘Frederick Spenceley declined to make her acquaintance, and took his +sister away, and declined to let her converse with her.’ + +‘You have this information from a reliable source?’ + +‘Perfectly reliable. I am not at liberty to say who told me, but I must +say the news exactly agrees with what my own judgment led me to expect. +I always said....’ + +‘Pardon! No matter what you have always said, or what other people say. +I can tell you the truth, not from any second-hand source, but from my +own personal knowledge of the circumstances. The young man of whom you +have heard such a delightful character was, though he no longer is, one +of my own work-people. He is perfectly respectable, and of unstained +character. If Frederick Spenceley were one hundredth part--if he could +ever become one hundredth part as much of a gentleman as Myles Heywood +naturally is, he might congratulate himself. He--Heywood, I mean--is a +friend of Miss Blisset’s, and the fact honours both him and her. I have +met him at her uncle’s house, and I have shaken hands with him in his +own house. He is a man whom I honour and respect very much. So much for +that part of your information. For the rest, that Frederick Spenceley +refused to make Miss Blisset’s acquaintance--my dear mother, I am +surprised that a woman with your knowledge of the world should believe +such a story. I happened to be present then, too. Miss Spenceley wished +to introduce her brother to Miss Blisset, and the latter declined +the acquaintance; I believe she had excellent reasons for doing so. +I pitied Miss Spenceley, from my soul, for she is as superior to her +blackguard of a brother as heaven is to earth. But--I trust you will +see the wisdom of making the best of Miss Blisset, and not the worst, +for I shall ask her to be my wife--to-day, if I get the chance, and if +not, on the very first opportunity.’ + +Mrs. Mallory had sat, during this prolonged harangue, drawing deep +breaths, but at the last announcement, made with an emphasis unusual to +Sebastian, it seemed suddenly to burst upon her, how entirely she had +overreached herself, and she rose from her chair very pale; and, but +that her pride forbade it, would have burst into tears of mortification. + +‘There is no ingratitude like that of a child to a mother,’ said she, +in an icy voice. ‘You have done all you could to humiliate me and cross +my wishes ever since your return, and now you insult me by seeking out +the least----’ + +They were at the door. He had opened it for her, but as she looked up +in uttering those words, she paused, subdued by a certain expression in +his eyes and mouth. + +‘Don’t speak too recklessly of that lady. It will do no good, and you +would repent it,’ he remarked. + +She did not finish her sentence, but swept out of the room, and he +gently closed the door after her. + +He stood in the middle of the room, biting his lip, till Hugo came up +to him and took his hand. + +‘Dear Sebastian, I wish you success, though, _freilich_, I fancied you +would marry Miss Spenceley.’ + +‘Why, I wonder?’ asked Sebastian, impatiently. ‘I cannot imagine why +I am supposed to be destined for Miss Spenceley, or she for me. She +cannot endure me, and makes no secret of her dislike.... + +‘You could overcome that,’ suggested his counsellor audaciously. + +‘Could I? She is perfectly charming, I don’t wish to deny, but I have +loved Adrienne Blisset for years, and I am not going to give her up +unless she refuses me.’ + +‘Fellows don’t always give up when they are refused,’ suggested Hugo +again. + +‘Finish your lunch and hold your tongue. What I was going to say is, +that my mother is answerable for a great deal of mischief by persisting +in marrying me to Miss Spenceley.’ + +‘If there had been no such person as you, then there would have been no +mischief,’ said Hugo, apparently throwing in the observation between +two sips of claret, for he had obediently returned to the table. + +‘What do you mean?’ asked his friend, stopping in his promenade between +the two windows. + +‘I mean what I say.’ + +‘Why, do you mean that I have ever encouraged----’ + +‘Miss Spenceley? _I, bewahre!_ No. But----’ + +‘I shall do you some serious bodily injury if you don’t curb your +boundless impertinence. Do you mean that I ever encouraged my mother’s +scheme in any way?’ + +‘Can’t say. I’ve done. Adieu!’ said Hugo, going out of the room, and +singing in an insultingly loud voice-- + + ‘Willst du dein Herz mir schenken, + So fang’ es heimlich an!’ + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + ‘Opportunity is always golden and beautiful. It is the use it is + sometimes put to that is--imperfect.’ + + +Sebastian did not find any opportunity that afternoon for carrying out +his purpose. He was fully occupied; so was Adrienne, and he was forced +to see her, half an hour before he could leave himself, walk away alone +in the direction of Blake Street, without having been able to exchange +a word with her. This annoyed him, and made him feel nervous and +anxious. Three months ago he would, without any inordinate vanity, have +felt almost secure of being accepted if he proposed to Adrienne; now he +felt very far from sure of it. The unpleasant scene with Mrs. Mallory +left him determined to wait no longer, no more to ‘fear his fate too +much,’ but ‘to put it to the touch, and win or lose it all,’ that very +day, be it early or late. + +Accordingly, he returned home after the meeting, dined alone before +the usual time, and, knowing that Adrienne was usually at home about +half-past seven, set off a little after seven. + +His shortest way to Blake Street was to go past the town-hall, and +proceed through the pleasure-grounds on the hillside, through the park +at the top, and so across the Townfield into Blake Street. + +This he did, and having ascended the hill, entered the park by one +of its gates, and found that it was almost deserted. There was a +nursemaid, and some children playing about the croquet lawn; there was +a man reclining upon a bench in a rocky recess--a man who seemed tired, +for he was almost crouched together; his face was completely hidden by +his arm and hand, which were stretched on the back of the bench. There +was also a woman’s figure advancing from the other end of the park, and +Sebastian’s heart gave a spring as he recognised Adrienne Blisset. + +He walked up to her, and met her. + +‘You here, Mr. Mallory, at this time? That is unusual, isn’t it?’ + +‘I am here because I was on my way to your house, hoping very much to +find you in. I am glad I have not missed you altogether.’ + +‘I am glad too. I was going to see Mary Heywood, and should most likely +have sat with her some time, for my conscience accuses me of having +neglected her. But shall we return to my house?’ + +‘Not on any account--that is, if you are not tired, and do not object +to walking about on this terrace for a short time.’ + +‘Not in the least. What a lovely evening it is! And how clear! Look +at those purple moors to the north. I have often longed to get to the +top of one of those moors. What do you think I should see at the other +side?’ + +‘Yorkshire--and more moors.’ + +‘Those are the moors on the other side of which Charlotte and Emily +Brontë lived,’ said Adrienne, her thoughts taking any direction but the +one Sebastian wished. + +‘Yes, I believe so. Haworth and Keighley, and all about there. You +should go there some time. But don’t look at the prospect now. I want +to ask you something.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, turning to him with a half-smile. + +The smile died away. She found his eyes fixed upon hers with an +unmistakable meaning in their earnest gaze. Her own face flushed +deeply, as he gently took her hand and said, + +‘I have tried in vain to take an opportunity--at last I have had to +make one. I must know something, certainly. I cannot wait any longer. +Adrienne, I love you dearly--I have loved you ever since I lost sight +of you on that unhappy morning after you left Wetzlar. I knew it then, +and my love has only grown stronger ever since. Can you return it? Will +you--some time--be my wife?’ + +He felt his happy confidence falling from him on all sides, as he +beheld her face, and stood there, cold, as if a warm mantle had dropped +from his shoulders. + +‘You--I am very sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Oh, Mr. Mallory----’ + +‘Mr. Mallory!’ he echoed drearily. ‘Adrienne, I see what you are going +to say, but think again! I must have been a terrible, conceited fool +all this time; but will you not think again? Wait till to-morrow. Don’t +speak to-day. Let me explain.’ + +Adrienne’s face was full of pain as she said, tremulously but +decisively, + +‘No. It would be wrong. I know what I feel, and must always feel, now. +I admire you very much; I respect you, oh, more than I can tell you. I +have a sort of affection for you. Indeed, I am very fond of you. You +were so good to me,’ said Adrienne, with tears swimming in her eyes; +‘but I cannot marry you.... Oh, do not look like that!’ she exclaimed, +in an agony, ‘I am so sorry; I am so sorry.’ + +‘Are you quite certain?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Have I all along +been so utterly indifferent to the woman I----’ + +‘Not indifferent. You were never indifferent to me. And once----’ + +‘Once!’ he echoed eagerly. + +‘I thought--I believed----’ + +‘That you could love me--perhaps that you did love me?’ + +She bowed. + +‘Ah, that was when I was away. But why should you not love me now, +dearest? If you would only let me show you how I love you--you +must--you could not help--so good and so loving as you are.’ + +‘No, no! Do not speak to me of it. _It can never be._ I know my own +heart now--too well,’ she said, looking at him almost appealingly, and +with distracted, troubled eyes. + +‘And there is no love in it for me?’ + +‘Not that kind of love. Oh, heavens! why must I have such things to +say to _you_! You must know that you ought to have a very different +kind of wife from me. Your wife should be rich and beautiful, and quite +different. You will see it yourself some day, when you meet a woman +worthy of you, who will love you as you deserve to be loved.’ + +‘That is cold comfort when the woman I worship won’t have me. I cannot +make you love me.’ + +‘Only because another man has all the love I have to give,’ said +Adrienne, scarcely audibly, as she turned aside her face. + +Sebastian stood still for a moment. + +‘Forgive me!’ said he; ‘it is hopeless, I see. I will never speak to +you of it again.’ + +‘Forgive _me_!’ she said, much moved. ‘I ought--no, I could not tell +you. I have been distracted.... I----’ + +‘Do not reproach yourself,’ said he, chivalrously. ‘I understand. After +this’ (they had begun to move towards the farther gate of the park, +along the broad terrace where the man was sitting on the seat in the +trees)--‘after this I have not another word to say. We shall have to +meet as before, Adrienne. May I call you Adrienne sometimes?’ + +‘Always, if you like.’ + +‘Will you try to overlook this--to treat me as if I had not annoyed you +thus?’ + +‘Annoyed me--_you_! Oh, how can you ask?’ + +‘And then slander will be silenced, and then there will be no more +misunderstandings. All will be clear between us.’ + +The tenderness he felt he could not banish from his voice, and hers +trembled as she answered. + +‘Quite clear--as it should be.’ + +He raised her hand to his lips, and they passed on. The man on the +bench had not moved, and they, as they uttered these last words, which +were in effect a farewell, saw nothing and no one but each other. + +‘I must go home. I cannot go on now,’ said Adrienne, as they arrived at +the gate. + +‘I will leave you. Good-bye.’ + +‘Good-bye,’ said she, putting her hand in his, but not looking at him. +He kept her hand in his so long that at last she looked up. + +‘Dear Sebastian, I----’ + +‘There, that is all I wanted,’ said he, with a rather faint smile. ‘God +keep you, child. Good-bye!’ + +When Adrienne had left her home, it had been with the firm resolution +to see Mary Heywood before returning. But she met Sebastian, and the +visit was not accomplished. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + ‘Great Mother Nature! + Eternal good and blessed! + Hear me! Hear my prayer! + Forsake me not in this my need!’ + + +Myles Heywood’s life had become worse and darker than merely a sad +life. It was filled with a wretched pain and unrest, which had been +growing like a disease for weeks. His was an earnest, passionate +nature, deep and intense; but there was in it a well-spring of +contentment, a something essentially sweet and wholesome, which, +so long as no very disturbing element intruded, left him tolerably +at ease with his life, in spite of the vague dissatisfaction and +striving which had led him in earlier days to associate himself with +radical working-men’s clubs; which had made him eagerly devour all +kinds of iconoclastic literature, and which had often sent him home, +on pay-day, meditating upon the unequal manner in which wealth was +distributed. But he had had nothing to make him feel this inequality, +keenly and cruelly, until, with one single circumstance, one single +evening’s adventure, the turning-point in his life came, and he seemed +all at once to realise the significance of all these things--wealth, +station, and culture--in the shape of Adrienne Blisset. From that time +his view of things was changed. He had seen what he felt to be the +best, and most beautiful, and desirable thing in the world; and he +did desire it with the ardour of a young man and a poet and a lover +all combined, and with an ardour deeper still--the ardour of one who +feels that everything great and high and satisfactory lies in one +direction, and in the other, blackness, emptiness, death, if death be +the opposite of life. He could never look back or down again; and yet, +the more he looked forwards and upwards, the more did all he saw in +the distance seem unattainable and impossible. He had quite ceased to +visit Adrienne. To be with her now was only a prolonged ache and pain. +He watched her wistfully, and noted in his heart each day that passed +over without a visit from her. She used to come so often; now she never +came at all. He knew--every one knew, that her uncle was dead, and that +she was his heiress. More than once he had heard it was likely that she +and Sebastian Mallory would be married. He felt it to be very likely +himself; but to go and see her, to hear such a thing from her own lips, +was more than his will had strength to accomplish. + +Myles had at one time heartily despised Sebastian Mallory; and later, +with little more reason, had as intensely disliked him. Now that was +all changed, and he himself was surprised to find how utterly and +entirely his resentment had burnt out, vanished, evaporated. He could +see his (as he considered him) successful rival without any other +feeling than one of quiet, despairing indifference. His most active +wish, when he was conscious of actively wishing anything, was that all +this could somehow come to an end, that some change would soon take +place. + +The change was approaching, in a manner so unexpected, so utterly +terrible and unthought of, that if his sore and weary heart led him +somewhat astray, a just and righteously acting world must not blame him +too severely. When the eyes are dim with watching, when every nerve is +irritable from long strain and a cruel endless tension, when calamity +quickly succeeds calamity, it is not given to all men to act exactly as +they ought to do. + +On the morning of the day on which Mrs. Mallory had been so signally +defeated as regarded Miss Blisset, Myles Heywood received a letter. +Address and contents were alike in a handwriting unknown to him. +The epistle was simply headed ‘Thanshope,’ with the date following. +He turned it over, and the subscription puzzled him--‘A Christian +Well-wisher,’ it was signed. Marvelling at the whole thing, he began at +the beginning, and read it through. + + ‘Do you know,’ began the ‘Christian Well-wisher,’ ‘what position you + are standing in? Do you know to whom you really owe your situation? + You owe it to your friend Mr. Sebastian Mallory. Ask him if he did + not get Canon Ponsonby’s casting vote, which, with his own, got you + in. I thought you were determined to owe nothing to him. Do you know + that, with all his fair professions, he is stealing a march upon you + in one direction--that if you don’t either make sure of a certain + young lady, or give her up altogether, you will soon look a great + fool? I say this because it is well known that you and she are, or + were, great friends. Ask any one you know, almost any one in the town + of Thanshope, what is said about you and her, and see if I have not + written the truth. There is one way open to you out of this, and one + only--you can leave the place. I take a real interest in you, and + advise this, supposing that you do feel some grief at having caused + her to be spoken about in such a manner. Of course you are at liberty + either to take my advice or leave it. I should think there cannot be + much doubt which is the most manly, not to say Christian, course. + + A CHRISTIAN WELL-WISHER.’ + +He laid the letter down, feeling that he was trembling--feeling almost +as if his limbs failed him. He did not speculate as to who had written +the letter. Much of it seemed true to him. Sebastian’s love for +Adrienne was no delusion of his jealous fancy. Nothing was said against +her; he was blamed, and it was hinted that others spoke lightly of her. +He was told to test the report, to inquire for himself; the challenge +was a fair one. + +That he owed his situation to Sebastian Mallory’s influence was +nothing; such things as that had now lost the slightest power to +distress him. That Sebastian was ‘stealing a march’ upon him--that +idea was so ludicrous and so pitiable as to make him smile drily in +the midst of his own torture. There was no sting in that. If Sebastian +chose to woo Adrienne, if she chose to receive his wooing, who should +say them nay? He had no such right, at least. He dwelt for a moment +on these points, and then came the rush of horror and disgust, the +sickening, dreadful part of it. He shook with fury, and with misery +too, as he realised that there were people who had watched him and +her; that wrong constructions had been put upon their friendship; that +people gossiped about her--coupled her name with his. It stung him into +madness. There must be something in it. ‘Ask,’ said the writer, ‘ask, +and see if I have not written the truth.’ To advise him to go away--to +appeal to his manly feeling! It was like a hideous dream, which he +could not at first grasp. His heart was sore and aching already; this +blow seemed to crush him. His nerves had been strained for weeks past; +he saw nothing in its proper light or just proportions. He thrust the +letter into his breast-pocket, and, driven by necessity, went out to +his work. How he got that work accomplished he could not tell. Adrienne +was not there, or he did not think he could have struggled through with +it. + +At noon he took his way home again. Crossing the Townfield, he met +Harry Ashworth, who joined him, wishing him good-day, and observing, + +‘Myles, lad, you don’t look so well. What ails you?’ + +‘Nothing, nothing ails me,’ said Myles; and then there flashed a sudden +thought into his mind: that letter--that ‘Ask, and see if I have not +written the truth.’ He would put it to the test now; no time like the +present. + +‘I am telling lies,’ said he; ‘something does ail me. Harry, are you my +friend?’ + +‘Ay, for sure I am, old lad.’ + +‘Then come and prove it. Come with me into our house; I want to show +you something.’ + +They were close at home. Myles led the way, and Harry followed him into +the parlour, the front room, now stripped of almost all the furniture +and ornaments which had formerly been the pride of Mary’s life. + +‘See here!’ said Myles, his eyes filled with a sombre fire, and his +lips twitching a little as he pulled out the letter: ‘read this, and +tell me, when you’ve done, if you know who’s meant in it.’ + +Harry looked surprised, but took the letter and read it. Myles watched +him, thinking what a good idea it was to make him read the letter. If +the report were unfounded, he would not guess who was referred to; +and if it were true, he would. Harry’s face changed, grew amazed, +embarrassed as he read on. When he had finished the letter, he folded +it up, and returned it, without speaking, to its owner. He did not look +at Myles, but out of the window, as he said, + +‘It’s a very queer kind of a letter.’ + +‘Well,’ said Myles, obliged to raise his voice, but desirous that +neither Mary nor Edmund should overhear the conversation, ‘can you give +a guess, lad, as to who the lady is that’s spoken of?’ + +‘Well,’ said Harry, rather confusedly, ‘I have heard some talk about +you and--and--that lady.’ + +‘Suppose I don’t know who is meant? Suppose it’s all a riddle to me?’ +said Myles. + +But Harry shook his head, saying, + +‘Nay, nay, that won’t do.’ + +‘But tell me who you think it is,’ said Myles, impatiently, +desperately; ‘tell me, for God’s sake! I will know, Harry, so out with +it.’ + +‘You must remember, it’s no tale of mine--it’s only what I’ve heard; +and I believe the lady meant is Miss Blisset. Fact is,’ he added +decisively, ‘I know it is!’ + +Again Myles’s lips quivered a little as he said, + +‘You said you were my friend, Harry. You must tell me what you’ve +heard.’ + +‘Well, it’s useless to deny that there’s a story going about that +before her uncle died she was in love with you, and that you said so +often; but _I_ don’t believe it, old chap. You never think I believe it +all?’ + +‘That I said she was in love with me?’ said Myles in a voice that had +grown almost hoarse. + +‘Yes; and that when you went to their house it wasn’t exactly to see +the old gentleman, but----’ + +‘There, that will do!’ said the other, holding up his hand and turning +away sickened. It was too hideous. If any such rumour had penetrated to +her ears? He could not speak, till Harry, in an ill-judged moment, said, + +‘Nay, there’s nothing to take on about so much, Myles. Some enemy of +yours has written that letter--some one as wants you out of the way. +Can’t you see what he’s driving at when he advises you to go? Likely +enough some one as thinks he might get your place if you were gone. But +you’re not the sort of chap to pay any attention----’ + +‘The advice is good,’ said Myles, curtly. ‘Very likely I shall take it. +Do you know who set this tale going?’ he asked, turning to Harry with a +look which startled the latter. + +‘That’s just what no one can tell,’ said he. ‘It seems to be known +everywhere, and yet we can’t tell where it comes from.’ + +‘Though you give it the benefit of free discussion. Well, I’ve found +out what I wanted to know. There’s only one thing more--if you care for +me or mine--and we’ve known each other a good many years now--you’ll +never speak of what we have spoken of this morning.’ + +‘My hand upon it,’ said his friend. ‘Never, so long as I live.’ + +They left the room. Harry departed by the back way to have a word with +Mary, and to offer to come and sit up that night with Edmund, who was +much worse. The offer was accepted, and Harry went away. + +The midday meal was again a very sad one. Myles ate nothing, and said +nothing; and Mary, full of fears and forebodings, was almost as bad. + +After dinner the young man went out again--up the street he hated, to +the room which had become a purgatory to him. How he loathed the sight +of that long building with the many windows and the well-known faces! +It seemed to him as if every eye must be fixed upon him, every finger +pointing at him. + +Work was not over until late that afternoon. It was six o’clock, or +after, when Myles got home again, and on going into the house found +that Mary was sitting upstairs with Edmund; so, after brooding a +little, his mind full of wild, half-chaotic projects and ideas, he +left the house and wandered out, he knew not whither. At last he found +himself in the park, pacing about the broad terrace, and looking with +eyes that saw nothing, across the idle town and the nearer hills, to +the blue, calm, moorland ridges far away to the north. It was a scene +he had loved, half unconsciously, from his childhood up, but to-day it +was without joy--almost without existence for him. + +At last he seated himself on a bench situated in a kind of rockery +which ran along one side of the terrace; the seat was a little retired +in a hollow of the rockwork, and there he remained, and gradually he +turned his back upon the prospect and his face to the wall, and hid +his face in his arm and fought alone, as well as he could, with the +misery and despair which rushed over him like a flood. He saw no point +of cheerfulness or light in all his life’s sky. All was black and thick +and overcast. + +‘This is no fit place for me to stay in,’ he thought. ‘I must get away +as soon as I can. If I go, all the lies will die out quickly enough, +and then--there’s another man who is ready to fight her battles for +her, and he may see her as much as he pleases, and there’s no harm in +it.’ + +How long he had remained there motionless and miserable he did not +know. He had forgotten all outside things, and was busied solely with +his wretched self-introspection. At last, however, distant voices +first, and then approaching footsteps, which advanced slowly and with +many pauses, penetrated to his abstracted ear. He did not move; why +should any one notice him, or think of him? Still less did he move when +he distinctly heard and recognised Sebastian Mallory’s voice close to +him saying, + +‘And then slander will be silenced, and there will be no more +misunderstandings. All will be clear between us.’ + +His voice was deep with love as he spoke, and to each vibration of it +Myles’s heart seemed to give an answering throb. + +‘Quite clear, as it should be,’ replied the voice he loved best, and it +trembled too. + +They paced past. Myles hid his face more deeply in his folded arms. He +heard Sebastian kiss her hand, and then their voices died away--their +footsteps too, and at last Myles raised his head and changed his +position. He was half puzzled at the change which had come over him, +at the quiet apathy which seemed to fill his whole soul. He had heard +those words spoken which he had thought would be harder than any other +words for him to bear, and yet he found himself sitting on in the same +place, his pulses beating no faster, his breath coming no more quickly. +Such utter indifference he felt to be ominous, and yet, though he +tried, he could bring no different feelings forward; he repeated to +himself all that he thought he had lost, all he believed Sebastian had +won--conned it over as a devotee might tell his beads, but it had no +effect. He felt no special pain or indignation. + +And yet, when he rose with the instinctive intention of turning his +steps homeward, he found that he was incapable of going home. He +recoiled from the very idea of entering the house, or speaking to any +one he knew. He stood reasoning within himself about it. + +‘Why shouldn’t I go home? Home is surely the best place. Molly is +there, and Ned. I ought to go and stay with him; he’s so ill.’ And he +forced his feet towards home. But it was useless, he felt it impossible +to enter the house. + +‘I know what I want,’ he reasoned within himself. ‘I want a good +stretch of a walk, right over the moors, and away from this smoky hole. +There’s nothing like a moorland breeze for blowing away unhealthy +fancies. Harry used to say so, and he’s tried it often enough, and in +trouble enough, poor lad.’ + +He smiled. He found himself pitying Harry Ashworth with an intensity of +commiseration such as he could not by any means wring out for his own +sorrows. + +But he congratulated himself. A long, long walk, a walk of twenty +miles or so, to prove to himself that he was still young and strong, +and swift of foot, and that six weeks of clerkship drudgery, and six +months’ alternate hot and cold, hope and fear, doubt and despair, +had not impaired one iota his strength and endurance! That glorious +moorland air, blowing keen and fresh, though it was pure, from the +north over the top of Blackrigg! There was surely not a grief, not a +solitude-nourished fear and sorrow, that its strong, bracing breath +would not blow clean away! + +By this time he had left the park, and was walking quickly down +the street in a northerly direction. He met one or two friends and +acquaintances before he got fairly out of the town; he returned their +salutations quite mechanically, and still walked on. Just outside +Thanshope, as the suburb of Bridgefold began, there stood a well-known +public-house, the _Craven Heifer_; and, as he was passing its door, +some one hailed him. + +‘Eh, Myles! I say, Myles, is yon you?’ + +He looked up, and saw a man standing in the doorway--a man whom he +had known years ago, who had once worked side by side with him in the +factory, and had left and gone over into Rossendale before Myles had +been promoted from the weaving shed to the warehouse. He stared blankly +at the man, who had been drinking, and though by no means drunk, was +decidedly elevated. + +‘Come in, mon?’ he cried. ‘It’s years sin’ I saw you. Come in, and have +a glass, for old acquaintance sake. I’ll stand it.’ + +He would not be gainsaid, but rolled out, and pulled his former friend +into the taproom. There were half a dozen men there, all more or less +happy and free from care, as it seemed to Myles. They welcomed him +noisily, and his friend asked him, with unnecessary affectionateness of +tone and manner, what it should be. + +‘What? Oh, anything. What you are having yourself,’ said Myles, +greeting first one and then another of them, and thinking, with a +kind of savage mirth, within himself, that there were more kinds of +pleasure in the world than one; since he could not have one kind, he +might as well try another. He would see whether these men, who seemed +so pleased to see him, were really such bad company after all. And he +sat down, and waited until a girl brought him a glass of steaming hot +punch--whisky punch; that was what they were drinking. + +‘Now, then,’ cried his acquaintance, ‘good luck to you, Myles! Here’s +to our next merry meeting, eh?’ + +‘To our next!’ said Myles, raising the glass to his lips, and then, +even as it touched them, feeling as if he had suddenly come to his +senses, he put the glass down on the table. ‘Not yet,’ he said, half +aloud, and got up from his seat and walked out of the room, shaking off +the hands that were outstretched to stay him, and unheeding the loud +and angry expostulations which came after him. + +‘Pah!’ he exclaimed, as he took his way along the road again; ‘I’m not +come to that yet!’ + +It was a long and toilsome road that led from the town of Thanshope, +through some outlying suburbs, to a large manufacturing village, called +Hamerton, which lay on the very skirts of Yorkshire, closed in on all +sides by the great ridges of Blackrigg, and some neighbouring wild and +desolate moors. He took the road along which Hugo and Sebastian had +once driven, and the sun had set as he turned his face towards the +hills with that strange sensation of oppressive apathy and indifference +ever at his heart. The night was descending, the ‘stars rushed out,’ as +he at length gained the complete solitude of the moors, and, turning +aside from the road, plunged half knee-deep into the thick heather and +ling, which was the only vegetation about there. He walked, for a very +short time as it seemed to him--really, for hours--battling with the +horrible sensations of a great, black, yawning, hideous blank, a huge +emptiness, an _ewiges Nichts_, which completely overpowered him. He +was unconscious how far he had gone, or where he was, or that he was +even weary, when suddenly he found himself stumbling over the knolls of +heather, and looking up, found that it was dark. The summer night had +closed in, and he, for aught he knew, might be twenty miles away, or +thirty, from Thanshope. + +He thought he would sit down and rest a little, so he sank down upon +the friendly heather, and found that it formed a soft and yielding bed, +and that the air which played around his head and face was cool, and +pure, and sweet. For a moment he found a blessed sensation of rest and +relief, and then all things seemed softly to swim and fade around him; +with sweeping wing sleep came upon him, and laid her finger upon his +eyelids, and bade the weary brain rest. He sank gradually down in the +hollow of the heather, and a deep, dreamless slumber overcame him, and +saved him. Never had sleep been a more beneficent visitant; never had +kindly Nature taken to her soft arms a more weary, heart-sick child of +hers, than she did that summer night, when she offered to Myles Heywood +rest upon her own broad bosom. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +SUNRISE. + + +Mary Heywood, all the weary afternoon of that weary day, sat beside +Edmund’s bed and nursed him, with fear at her heart that the nursing +would be of no long duration. The fever which had consumed him was +over, but the weakness which remained was terrible--it was a weakness +from which, as Mary dimly felt, there would never be any rallying. +She had brought sewing and knitting upstairs into the little bedroom, +and she drew down the blind ‘to keep the sun out,’ as they both said. +Edmund lay perfectly still. She asked him if she should read to him, +but he smiled a little, and shook his head. Neither of them knew how +very near the end was. Edmund, if he could have known, would have been +very glad, and Mary would have been so miserable, that it was well she +did not know. + +‘I could like to see Myles a bit,’ said Edmund at last; ‘I ne’er see +him now, hardly. He’s quite different from what he was.’ + +‘He’s not happy,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t rightly know what ails him, but +it’s summat very bad, I’m sure.’ + +‘Oh, he doesn’t like bein’ out o’ work. No more should I, if I was him. +He’s ne’er been used to such pinchin’ work as this. They keep him a +long time at yon shop.’ + +‘Ay, they do. Harry Ashworth said he’d come and sit wi’ thee to-neet, +Ned. Would thou like it?’ + +Edmund assented, with a look of pleasure, and there was silence, while +the afternoon wore on, and at last Mary’s head began to droop. She was +weary with sorrow, with working, and with watching. The atmosphere of +the room was close and heavy, although Mary had conscientiously tried +to follow out the doctor’s directions about keeping it ventilated. She +could not keep her eyes open, but slept in her chair until Edmund’s +feeble touch on her arm awoke her, and she started up. + +‘Eh, what is it, lad?’ + +‘I could so like summat to drink, Molly,’ said he, gaspingly. ‘And I +think there’s summat not reet wi’ Myles. I heard him come in, and sit +quite still for a bit, and now he’s gone out again, without coming up +here, or waitin’ for his tea, or anything.’ + +Thoroughly awake, Mary hurried downstairs, and found emptiness and +solitude. She could see that Myles had been in. She could see the +chair that he had drawn up to the table and pushed away again, and she +wondered, and was uneasy at his going out thus, without word or message. + +The kitchen, too, felt close. She drew up the window, and set the back +door open to let some air in. Then she roused the fire, and set the +gently singing kettle upon it, and brought out the tea-things. She +prepared some tea for Edmund, and took it upstairs to him. He had said +he was very thirsty, and he took the cup eagerly, and put his lips to +it, then put it down again. + +‘I feel very faint, Mary; I can’t take that. I mun have a +little--bran----’ + +He had fainted, and it was some time before she succeeded in restoring +him to consciousness. + +‘Eh, I wish Myles was here; I wish Harry would come,’ she kept +murmuring to herself, looking with anguish upon the poor worn +face, which had now the stamp of the approaching end set upon it in +unmistakable characters. + +At last a knock at the outer door informed her that Harry Ashworth had +come. She ran downstairs and let him in, drawing him into the kitchen; +and when they were there, sat down upon her rocking-chair, and began to +cry heartily. + +‘Why, Mary, what ails thee, lass?’ said Harry, taking her hand. + +‘Myles is gone out--I don’t know where, and yon poor lad upstairs +hasn’t so much longer to be here,’ said Mary, looking at him with her +tearful eyes. ‘Thou munnot leave me yet awhile, Harry.’ + +Whether the presence of a great mutual sorrow broke the barrier which +had hitherto existed between these two, I know not. As Mary begged him +not to leave her, their eyes met, and something in those eyes gave +Harry the courage he had never before been able to summon to his aid. +It was as if by a mutual impulse that they bent towards each other, +and their lips met for consolation and reassurance; and Harry, with a +wonderful sense of strength of courage, put his arm round Mary’s waist, +saying, + +‘There’s nought I’d like so well as never to leave thee at all, Mary, +if thou could look at such a poor, deaf, marred chap as me. Sometimes I +think thou could, and sometimes I’m sure thou couldn’t. Dost think thou +could make up thy mind to take me?’ + +‘I made up my mind long ago what I’d do if ever thou asked me,’ said +Mary, naïvely. + +‘And what was that?’ + +‘Why, to take thee, for sure,’ she answered. + +Harry, smiling, looking on her with amaze and admiration, ventured on +another kiss, and said, + +‘Eh, but I have been a fool not to speak to thee before.’ + +She smiled a little, and then the remembrance of the troubled present +returning to her, said, + +‘I’m very happy, but we mun think o’ poor Ned just now. Thee go +upstairs, and tell him what thou’s done. He always _were_ suspicious +about thee. It’ll cheer him up like, and I’ll come after thee in a +minute or two.’ + +Just for a few moments the news had the desired effect upon Edmund. He +shook hands with Harry, smiled and looked what he had not voice enough +to say. But the same chill look of coming death was upon his face; and +Mary, as Myles still did not come, could not rest until she had been +out and brought the doctor back with her. The doctor was a busy man. +He made a very brief visit--said nothing much in the sick-room, but +ordered some restorative, and, when Mary followed him downstairs and +tremulously asked his opinion, said brusquely, but not at all unkindly, + +‘My good girl, you must make up your mind to lose him. I cannot even +assure you that he will live till morning.’ + +Restraining her tears, Mary went upstairs again, and, with Harry, +resumed her watch by the sick lad. They were slow and solemn hours. +They saw the end approaching under their very eyes; they saw Death’s +grey seal stamping its impress more and more visibly upon the features, +and one on either side the narrow little bed they sat, while it grew +deep night, and still Myles did not come home. + +‘What can be keeping him?’ the girl uneasily wondered again and again; +but she dared not speak her wonder, for every time that Edmund roused +from the lethargy which was settling more and more heavily upon him, +he looked round with an anxious gaze, and a vague astonishment at the +absence of that brother who had been his stay and protection all his +weak and painful life. + +Midnight passed, and still the sorrowful watch lasted. One o’clock +struck, and still he came not; and still the face on the pillow grew +grayer and more deathlike. Two o’clock passed, and yet all was as it +had been. Towards half-past two, Mary, going softly to the window, +raised a corner of the blind, and beheld the first flush of dawn in the +east, as it may be seen at that hour on a June morning. Her heavy eyes +looked across the houses, across the town, to where the pure sky, with +a cool, bright light, showed the ridges of the moors. She looked back +into the room. Harry’s eyes had followed her, and hung upon her face; +and Edmund’s eyes too were opened, wide, bright, and clear. His voice +had regained a last flicker of strength, as he said distinctly, + +‘Wind up the blind, Molly, and open the window a bit. Let _me_ see the +sun rise.’ + +Speechless, Mary complied. A waft of pure, fresh morning air was +borne into the room through the open window. Then there was a pause. +From where he lay, Edmund could see the broadening rose flush in the +east, and then suddenly the chimes from the spire rang out; three was +solemnly tolled, and in a moment there rang out upon the sleeping town, +resting from its troubles, the sweet old tune, ‘Life let us cherish!’ +Mary heard the tune, ‘Myles’s tune,’ as she called it, and wondered +longingly where he was. She returned to the bedside, and Harry went to +the window. Edmund had closed his eyes again, and another quarter had +chimed, when Harry exclaimed, + +‘He’s there! He’s coming!’ + +In a few moments more Myles stood in the room. There were very few +words more. They all stood round the bed, and Edmund held his brother’s +hand. In the watching him, the others had no time to notice the haggard +look on Myles’s face. Day grew broader, and life waned. Four was chimed +melodiously; the first stir of life was audible, as Edmund quietly +breathed his last. + +Mary was sobbing--the sunrise was over--and day, full, glowing, and +brilliant, poured in upon the dead face. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +DUST AND ASHES. + + +The day that followed was naturally a sad one. Mary was too much +occupied in mourning her loss to notice Myles as she otherwise might +have done. Harry left the house about five o’clock, promising to call +again about dinner-time. A friendly neighbour came in and helped Mary +to perform all that remained to be done for the dead. At last all was +finished. The woman had gone, and Mary paused as she left the room, +looking round it with a kind of sorrowful pride. It looked very white, +and pure, and still. + +She had drawn the blind down and set everything in the most exquisite +order. The dead figure lay stretched out in its eternal repose, +with calm, beautiful face, and quietly closed eyes. At the door she +returned, and ran up to the bedside, and kissed the cold forehead. + +‘Poor lad! poor lad!’ she whispered between her tears, ‘thine has been +a hard life, but thou’rt in heaven now, if ever anybody was.’ + +When Myles came in, during the forenoon, she was struck, for the first +time, with his great stillness and the strange, haggard look upon his +face. She remembered that he had been out all night, and asked him what +he had been doing. + +‘I dare say it seemed unkind,’ he replied, ‘but you may trust me, +Molly, I couldn’t help it. I can’t explain to you why it was; something +had happened. I couldn’t help it.’ + +He sat down beside her, and took her hand, and they both remained +there, looking mournfully into the little fire; she with the sorrow of +deep affection which knows its object removed; he sad too, but with a +more incurable sadness than hers. They were both oppressed with sorrow, +but he + + ‘Beneath a rougher sea, + And whelmed in deeper gulfs than she.’ + +On this scene entered Harry Ashworth, with offers of his services if +they were wanted, and also with the object of telling Myles what had +passed between him and Mary. + +Myles heard it all out, down to Mary’s acknowledgment that she wished +to marry Harry, ‘supposing thou hast nothing against it, Myles.’ + +‘Against it? What could I have against it? You’ve my hearty consent and +good wishes, both of you. There won’t be a better wife in Thanshope, +nor in England, than you’ll get, Harry; and I know you so well that I’m +not afraid to trust Molly to you. I’m glad it is so, for I don’t think +I shall stay here long, and I should have been unhappy to leave her +alone. I hope you’ll both be as happy as you deserve.’ + +He shook hands with Harry and kissed Mary, but he could not force +a smile. They saw that he was glad, relieved to find that they had +decided to be married; but they also saw that he had some sorrow behind +it all, which was greater than the joy. + + * * * * * + +It was a little after eight on the same evening. Myles found himself +standing opposite the Townhall, with his hand on the latch of the +Oakenrod gate. He paused a moment before lifting it, then summoning up +courage, did so, and stood within the garden of the house against which +he had had so long and so strong a prejudice. + +He had never been so near it before. His feet were strange within the +gates of rich or important people of any kind, but particularly here. +It was with a sort of thrill that he looked round at the smoothly +shaven grass, the dazzling flower-beds, in all the splendour of their +June garments, the softly rolled gravel beneath his feet. The errand he +came upon was one which, a month ago, he would have repudiated, would +have said that no imaginable combination of circumstances could make +him undertake. Yes, truly; but the combinations of circumstances which +force us into the actions that humble us, and wound us, and sting our +self-esteem with hornet-stings, are always such combinations as we +should never imagine beforehand, because it never occurs to us that +deserving persons, such as ourselves, can be put into positions only +appropriate to ill-regulated conduct. + +Myles was conscious of no bad conduct or evil intentions, but only of +a great, ever-growing misery, which was so strong as to force him to +try in some way to escape from it, and this was the only path which +presented itself as practicable; so he took it, as is generally the +case. + +He walked up to the front door, past the open windows with the lace +curtains fluttering inside, and pulled the bell. An unpleasant fear +seized him, lest Sebastian should be out, gone to see Adrienne, +perhaps, and he would have his hard task to do all over again. + +A page-boy opened the door, and Myles inquired if Mr. Mallory were at +home. + +‘I believe so,’ said the youth, a little wondering at the unusual +visitor. + +‘I wish to see him,’ said Myles, stepping in, ‘if he is not engaged, +that is; and my business is rather particular.’ + +The boy, after serious consideration, decided to show the visitor into +the library, and asked him to take a seat. This he did, and inquired, + +‘Who shall I say wishes to see him?’ + +‘Tell him that Myles Heywood would be glad to speak to him, if he is +disengaged.’ + +The page disappeared. Myles was left alone in the library, and his +quick, restless eyes roamed round it, and took everything in, and the +full significance of everything--the soft carpets, the harmonious, +subdued hues of walls, hangings, and furniture; the relief afforded by +gleams of gold here and there; the book-cases filled with books of all +times and in all languages; the great bronze busts of Aristotle and +Sophocles; the quaint blue and white vases; the two curious paintings +by Sebastian’s favourite German artist; the reading-stands; the +writing-tables; the pleasant luxury and taste, and abundance of every +appointment. + +‘No wonder!’ said he to himself. ‘And between the man and me--his +manners and mine, his mind and mine--there is just the same difference +as there is between this library of his and our little flagged kitchen +at home. This is the place for her, and I feel as if I could see her +here sitting at that writing-table, or standing in the window there +looking out.’ + +He heaved a deep sigh, and at that moment some one began to play a +melody on a piano in another room; a soft, sad, melancholy air, to +which he listened so intently that he did not hear the door open, and +was first roused by Sebastian’s voice. + +‘Good evening. I am sorry to have kept you waiting; but I was engaged +and could not escape.’ + +‘Don’t mention it,’ said Myles, rising; and as each man’s eyes fell +upon the other man’s face, both felt surprise. Sebastian almost showed +his, in a suppressed exclamation, but Myles was too sad and oppressed +to experience more than a vague wonder and astonishment that a man +in what he thought was Sebastian’s position should wear that subdued, +grave, downcast look. + +‘I noticed that you were not in your place to-day,’ began Mallory, by +way of opening the conversation; ‘nothing wrong at home, I hope?’ + +‘Yes; we are in trouble at home. My brother, who has been ill for a +long time, died this morning, early.’ + +‘I am very sorry indeed. Of course you would not think of coming to +work, at present. It is not----’ + +‘It was not to excuse myself from work that I came,’ said Myles, in the +same quiet, constrained way. ‘My brother’s death is a grief to me, of +course; but one does not talk about such things. I was going to trouble +you on a matter of business, if you can spare the time----’ + +‘Perfectly well. In what can I help you?’ + +Myles bit his lips. He had strong ideas about what it was fitting for +a man to say and do under certain circumstances. Probably if he had +formulated some of his ideas upon ethics, most sophisticated persons +would have broken into inextinguishable laughter. One favourite maxim +of his was that, to use his own language, ‘To blackguard a man high +and low, and then go and ask a favour of him, was a mean, dirty trick; +fit for a hound, perhaps, but not for an honest man.’ If he could +not be said to have ‘blackguarded’ Sebastian high and low, he had +certainly spoken with less than courtesy, both of him and to him; it +was impossible to ignore that fact, and proceed to his real errand. + +‘You may think it a very strange thing, but I’ve come to ask a favour +of you,’ said he. + +‘Is it strange? I shall be glad to grant it if I can.’ + +Myles lifted his hand a moment, and then went on, + +‘You may not know that I have often spoken very bitterly of you, but +you do know that I have not been particularly civil to you--have I?’ + +‘Well, not exactly effusive,’ admitted Sebastian, with a slight smile, +wondering whether he had at last completed his much-desired conquest. + +‘It is true,’ said Myles. ‘I had a bad opinion of you--a prejudice +against you--and I expressed it. If it had not been for troubles I have +had lately,’ he added, with that little nervous twitch of the lips +which had only lately been present with him; ‘but for those troubles, I +might have gone on thinking and speaking evil of you without a cause, +but my eyes have been opened. I see how utterly wrong I was--blind and +bigoted. You have proved yourself a very different man from what I +thought you--a very much wiser and better man than I should have been +in your place--and I beg your pardon for what I have said against you.’ + +‘But, my dear fellow, you must not take it so terribly in earnest; +so--so tragically. Every one has his prejudices; I have some most +preposterous ones, I believe. All the same, I confess to you that I +was excessively piqued by your bad opinion of me. It has been a matter +of some moment, with me, to overcome that prejudice, and enlist you +amongst my friends. If I can say that you are amongst them now, I must +feel that I have won a kind of victory.’ + +‘Mr. Mallory, I can never be amongst your enemies, never again. Let +that be enough. I can say no more. You are wiser and more generous, +too, than I am; but you can afford to be so. The reason I came to-night +was to ask you if you still remembered an offer you made me a short +time ago--the offer to give me a place away from Thanshope and _out of +England_, you said?’ + +‘I remember it perfectly well, and that I said I could still do it if +you changed your mind about it. Well?’ + +‘I have changed my mind about it If you can carry your generosity +a little farther, and get me that place, or something like it--the +farther away from here the better--I shall be--God knows, how grateful +to you: I can never express it.’ + +‘I can still do it,’ said Sebastian, looking attentively and kindly +at the eager, haggard face of the other. ‘But I am sorry you think of +leaving Thanshope.’ + +‘I _must_ leave Thanshope. It is to get away from here that I ask. Will +the work be hard? I hope so. I care for nothing but hard work--hard +work,’ he repeated, in a sort of restless, prolonged sigh. + +‘You will have what you wish for. The work is certainly pretty stiff. +It is in Germany--in a rough, mining district near a large town. There +is a cotton factory, and some collieries. They have a lot of English +and Irish work-people there. The master and owner, Herr Süsmeyer, is +a very intimate friend of mine. He wants a sort of superintendent--an +Englishman, and one who is not afraid of work. He himself is as much an +Englishman as a German. Still, you must know a little of the language. +Did you not learn something of it from Miss Blisset?’ he added +deliberately. + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, curtly. + +‘Ah, you will soon pick up more; you are quick, and you must study when +work is over. That will give you as much occupation as even you could +wish, I think. I shall give you a very high recommendation, indeed, as +being personally known to me.’ + +‘And as having been always polite, reasonable, and amiable with my +superiors; not ready to take offence, and willing to own myself in the +wrong!’ suggested Myles, with grim humour. + +Sebastian smiled, in silence, as he drew a paper-case and inkstand +towards him, and wrote rapidly. He fastened up the letter, and +addressed it to--HERRN GUSTAV SÜSMEYER, Eisendorf, Westphalien, +Prussia, and handed it to Myles, saying, + +‘I know the situation is still open, and that letter will secure it for +you. I shall also write to Herr Süsmeyer to-night, so as to lose no +time. From what you say, I suppose you will want to go soon?’ + +‘As soon as ever I can--in a few days, when poor Ned is buried, and I +can leave Mary.’ + +‘You will leave your sister behind you?’ + +‘For a good reason,’ said Myles. ‘She’s going to be married, and I know +I leave her in good hands.’ + +‘May I ask whom she will marry?’ + +‘Harry Ashworth, a friend of ours. He has loved her long,’ said Myles, +not even feeling surprised that he should be relating such things to +Sebastian. + +‘I am very glad; I wish them all happiness. I am sure the man is +fortunate who marries your sister.’ + +‘Yes, he is,’ assented Myles. ‘Then,’ he added, ‘you think I may go any +day?’ + +‘Any day; but before you go, I hope you will see me again, so that I +can give you some idea of the place, and tell you what route to take. +It is an out-of-the-way sort of place; and excuse me, the journey is +somewhat expensive, and----’ + +‘You are very kind. My friend Harry has money which he will lend me. +I shall soon repay him if I once get work. He won’t want it till he +is married. Let me see: the day after to-morrow--Mary will stay with +Harry’s mother. Would it be convenient if I called the day after +to-morrow, in the evening?’ + +‘The day after to-morrow--to-morrow is Mrs. Spenceley’s ball,’ said +Sebastian, half to himself. ‘Yes; the day after to-morrow will suit me +perfectly well.’ + +‘And the day after that I can go,’ exclaimed Myles, the first ray +of anything like pleasure flashing across his face. ‘I can go,’ he +repeated. + +Sebastian looked at him, not feeling at all satisfied with his victory. +All that he had ever wished to himself, with regard to Myles, had come +to pass. The latter had owned himself wrong; had apologised for his own +frowardness; had descended so far as to ask a favour, and to express +himself in tones of unmistakable emotion as deeply grateful when it was +granted. And yet--the effect was not in the least what it ought to have +been. The sensations of the victor were anything but jubilant. + +‘You seem very anxious to get away?’ he remarked, involuntarily and +inquiringly. + +‘Yes, I am; it’s the only thing I care for, just at present,’ said +Myles. ‘Good night,’ he added, rising. ‘I can’t express my gratitude to +you. You would have been justified in treating me very differently.’ + +‘Indeed I should not!’ exclaimed Sebastian; and the sense that his +victory was a barren one was borne still more strongly in upon him. + +What was it worth if, after all, it had only been won _for_ him by +Myles’s adverse circumstances, not _by_ him, through his own influence +over the conquered one? + +‘Heywood,’ he exclaimed earnestly, ‘is there nothing behind all this +that you could tell me? Can I do nothing for you but help you to get +away from this place, which seems to have grown so unbearable to you? +I do not ask from ordinary curiosity--you must know that; it is from +sympathy, and a sincere wish to be your friend, if possible.’ + +Myles shook his head. + +‘I can speak to no man of what troubles me, thank you,’ said he. ‘All +the same, I am not ungrateful.’ + +He held out his hand, which the other grasped heartily, and in another +minute found himself alone. + +All that evening, all the night, he was haunted by a vision of the pale +face and miserable eyes of Myles Heywood--a vision of suffering whose +very remembrance oppressed him. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +HUGO. + + +The few days intervening between her dispute with her son and the +Spenceleys’ ball were, as may be supposed, not particularly pleasant +ones to Mrs. Mallory. Sebastian, after his interview with Adrienne, +came home, and looking into the drawing-room found his mother alone. +She did not deign to notice him, but he, coming in, said to her, + +‘Mother, I want to speak to you.’ + +‘Well?’ + +‘I proposed to Miss Blisset this evening.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘You do not ask what reception my offer met with.’ + +‘I imagine, considering your relative positions, there cannot be much +need to inquire.’ + +‘Still, I may as well tell you that she refused me.’ + +Mrs. Mallory was profoundly astonished, of course; but as, after a +moment’s reflection, she did not perceive herself any nearer her real +and cherished object, Sebastian’s marriage with Helena, she contented +herself with uttering a sneering little laugh, and saying, in an +exasperating tone-- + +‘Really!’ + +‘So that you will not have the annoyance of knowing her your +daughter-in-law. But I think it better to mention that such remarks as +you made about her this morning must not be repeated in my presence. I +do not choose to hear anything spoken of that young lady which is not +quite respectful.’ + +‘Though she _has_ jilted you,’ said Mrs. Mallory, with an amiable smile. + +‘I was not aware of it.’ + +‘Very likely not; men seldom do know when women make fools of them. The +better for them and their conviction as to their superior wisdom.’ + +‘You may possibly be right,’ he rejoined, with perfect temper; ‘but the +point I wish to impress upon you is, that nothing disrespectful is ever +to be uttered of Miss Blisset in my presence. The other questions are +quite supplementary.’ + +She made no answer, and Sebastian, politely wishing her good night, +retired to his study. + +Mrs. Mallory sat alone, very angry, after her phlegmatic, batrachian +fashion, at what had happened, and longing very much, for the relief +of her own feelings, to punish some one in some way. It was too +exasperating that Sebastian should behave in that manner, after all +her plans for his good and welfare. Helena Spenceley was at the moment +perfection in her eyes. + +‘At any rate, he must go to the ball the day after to-morrow,’ she said +to herself. ‘It is a good chance. There is no time when a man is so +likely to fall in love with a woman as when he has just been “refused” +by another woman.’ + +But here her thoughts wandered off to Adrienne, and she felt as angry +with her for her presumption in refusing Sebastian as she would have +felt with her success had she accepted him. Indeed, her audacity in +attracting him at all was thoroughly odious; she was a little dog in +the manger, who would neither accept the man’s love herself nor leave +him free to wander aside to where beauty and a hundred thousand pounds +waited for him to lift his hand in order to utter a rapturous ‘Yes.’ + +‘For Helena _is_ in love with him, let her pretend what she likes,’ she +muttered angrily. ‘I can see it distinctly. He might have her for the +asking.... I wonder if all children are born to break their mothers’ +hearts?’ + +With which speculation agitating her brain she retired to rest. + +Her spirit was still ruffled and ill at ease all the next day, and by +degrees she concentrated her ill-temper upon a single object--a sort +of focus to her anger and vexation--and that object was no other than +Hugo von Birkenau. She had always regarded him with little favour: he +was poor, dependent, and behaved himself as if he were rich and free. +Now, everything that he said or did appeared an offence--a purposely +intended, premeditated insult directed at herself, with the purpose +of angering her--a very strange frame of mind, dear reader, and one +which, from its being so utterly unknown to you and me and eminently +reasonable persons like ourselves, would almost seem to require some +elucidation or description. + +Mrs. Mallory found the day go over, and Hugo continue to be insultingly +cheerful and conversational, without her being able to find any actual +ground for quarrelling with him. It would come, she was determined; it +should come: he was too impertinent to be tolerated without an attempt +to repress him. + +On the evening on which Myles came to see Sebastian, the latter and +Hugo were sitting together in Sebastian’s study. Hugo had heard of +Adrienne’s refusal, and though condoling, did not feel so sorry as he +considered he ought to have done. By degrees the conversation drifted +off to Hugo’s own affairs and prospects. Sebastian told him he thought +he ought seriously to think about what he meant to do. + +‘I have thought about it, and decided,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m going to write +an opera. That has been my ambition ever since I could strum upon a +piano.’ + +‘But, my dear lad, you will never learn all that you must know in +order to write an opera by staying in Thanshope. You must go away, +Hugo, to your native land, where alone true music flourishes, and +you must study. You ought to go to Köln or Leipzig or some other +conservatorium. I should recommend Leipzig.’ + +‘I have always thought of Leipzig,’ answered the boy, ‘and I will go as +soon as you like, Sebastian, but it will be very dreary without you.’ + +‘Oh, bah! Yours is a fickle, artist nature, Hugo, revelling in the +delight of the moment. You will think Leipzig heaven a week after you +get there, and all the other pupils in the conservatorium seraphs and +angels, and you will wonder how you ever lived here.’ + +‘Not fickle, Sebastian!’ he cried, with the tragic earnest which +sometimes made Sebastian think him so like Helena Spenceley. ‘Anything +but that! Anything but fickle to you! If I thought I ever _could_ be +fickle to you, I’d put an end to myself to-night, and have no qualms +of conscience about it. Such a wretch would be better out of the world +than in it.’ + +‘Oh, nonsense! But one thing I do wish you would promise me. I’ve often +thought of asking you before, but I was afraid it might seem like +trying to entrap your youth and innocence.’ + +‘What is it? Quick, tell me what it is!’ asked Hugo, his eyes ablaze +with eagerness. + +‘Well, it is this: that you will never, before you are one-and-twenty, +take any very important step, without _telling_ me what you intend to +do. I don’t say asking my permission. I trust too much to your honour +and purity of heart to keep you from doing anything bad,’ he added, +with a smile. ‘I would not harass and fetter you by any such stupid +restriction; but, as I trust you, I want you to trust me. Don’t do +anything important without telling me that you intend to do it, and +giving me a chance to offer you a specimen of my superior wisdom, you +know.’ + +‘What a question! I swear it!’ said Hugo, enthusiastically. ‘As if I +_could_ do anything without consulting you!’ + +‘Not so fast!’ said his friend, laughing. ‘Wait till the time comes. I +shall most likely seem then a wearisome old formalist, who----’ + +‘_Never!_’ + +‘But I tell you, it will be so, you obstinate young dog! There are +temptations, Hugo, and you, with your temperament, will find them as +hard to resist as if they were red-hot fiery hail. I am such a slow, +phlegmatic sort of fellow. They don’t affect me in the same way. My +temptations always come too late. By the time I begin to think I should +like to do something either bad or idiotic, the chance is over, and I +am saved. So I have got the reputation of being a very well-conducted +sort of person, and not caring for the things other fellows care about.’ + +‘At any rate, I solemnly give the promise you ask, and should have +done so if it had been ten times as binding--and there’s my hand upon +it,’ said Hugo, to whom the idea of binding himself to any particular +thing, by ‘solemn oaths and execrations,’ was especially fascinating +and delightful. It seemed to surround him and his friend with a little +romance, and to separate them from the outer crowd. It opened up vague +possibilities of self-denial, trial, and probation, and a prospect of +endurance through good and evil, thick and thin, which delighted his +ardent soul. + +‘Then that is settled,’ said Sebastian, contentedly. ‘We can talk about +your going away later.’ + +It was towards the close of this conversation that Sebastian had been +called away to Myles Heywood--the day, therefore, before the ball at +Castle Hill. + +On the following afternoon Sebastian had to go out. His mother asked +him at lunch if he intended to go to the dance, and he said yes, he +supposed he did--he must now, but he did not care about it, and did +not think it was in very good taste to be having balls at such a time. +Moreover, he had heard a rumour that Mr. Spenceley’s own affairs caused +him some anxiety. + +Mrs. Mallory said she supposed it was Mr. Spenceley’s own business; +he ought to know best whether he were able to give balls at such a +time. He could not put off his daughter’s twenty-first birthday for an +indefinite time. + +‘No,’ said Sebastian, ‘and that is just what makes the whole affair +such a melancholy farce. His daughter is very anxious not to have any +ball. She told me so, and nearly cried with vexation about it.’ + +Mrs. Mallory made no reply, and Sebastian, saying he had a meeting to +attend, went out. + +Hugo was that afternoon in one of his oft-recurring idle moods, and +wandered about, apparently not knowing what to do with himself. He was +anticipating the ball eagerly enough, having extracted from Helena the +promise of no less than three waltzes--less of a distinction than he +imagined, perhaps, since Helena, in granting them, had been thinking +chiefly of escaping from the defective dancing and fatuous remarks of +the Thanshope young men, amongst whom she enjoyed what she considered +a fatal popularity. She had wondered whether to keep any dances for +Sebastian. Would he ask her to dance at all? + +‘Of course he will!’ she thought, ‘as a matter of duty, and I think I +shall fill up my programme, and show it him without any comment when he +asks me. Then he will raise his eyebrows in that way I hate, and make +a little bow, and smile a little smile, and remark, “I see I am indeed +too late;” and stand on one side, perfectly content not to dance, since +the nicest girl he ever knew is not there.’ + +But these workings of the feminine mind could not possibly be known +to Hugo, who was only aware that he had received an indulgent smile +and a pleasant glance from Helena’s dark eyes, as she protested a +little against the three waltzes, but yielded in the end. He repaired +to the drawing-room, and, with characteristic fitfulness, spent the +whole afternoon in playing waltzes, good, bad, and indifferent, of +every kind and from every source he could think of. Waltz after waltz +flowed from his rapid fingers. Gung’l and Strauss, Beethoven, Mozart, +Schubert--ancient and modern composers, good and bad ones, were laid +under contribution, till his whole being seemed a waltz, and he was +in a state of highly strung nervous excitement and anticipation, with +which mingled the memories of past waltzes with partners of a bygone +day. Hugo felt his whole soul penetrated with music, melody, and +happiness as he sat in the shady corner of the drawing-room and saw the +sun stream warmly in at the side window. He felt life that afternoon +very full and rich and delicious, and crowded with sweet and grand +possibilities. He felt at harmony with all the world, and was sure it +was a good place to live in. + +He had just finished the solemn, passionate strains of a waltz of +Beethoven’s, and still his fingers lingered on the keys, and still his +ears drank in the glorious notes, when the door opened and Mrs. Mallory +came into the room. + +Hugo stopped playing. She did not openly request him to do so, but he +knew she disliked to hear him, and to his fastidious taste the very +presence of an unsympathetic spirit was jarring. Spontaneity ceased; +pleasure was gone. + +He rose from the instrument, went to the sunny window, and hummed over +the air he had been playing. + +‘At what time do we go to-night, Mrs. Mallory?’ he presently inquired. + +‘Go where?’ + +‘To the ball.’ + +‘At eight o’clock, I believe,’ she said, with stony coldness. Mrs. +Mallory’s anger was coming to a climax now; it would be strange if Hugo +did not say something which should cause the storm to break over his +head. Unconsciously, unwittingly, he led straight up to the point. + +‘I should like to dance every night,’ he said, rather enthusiastically, +for his music still haunted him, and even Mrs. Mallory’s chill +influence could not quite bring him down from his heights of +abstraction to the commonplaces of every day--yet. + +‘Very likely,’ she said. ‘I have noticed that the more frivolous a +thing is, the more you delight in it.’ + +‘Dancing is not necessarily frivolous,’ Hugo assured her with the +greatest solemnity. ‘It is, or should be, an art; not a mere kicking +about of the legs.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘When I grow up,’ continued Hugo, ‘that is to say, when I am _majorat_, +come of age, I mean, and come into my property, I shall devote a great +part of my time to dancing, I love it so.’ + +This was too much, far too much. It was high time that this vain, +bombastical, self-conceited pauper was put down. + +‘When you come into your property,’ she remarked with polite sarcasm, +‘then you can squander it just as you please. But I would advise you +first to make certain that you have any property to come into.’ + +‘Oh, I don’t suppose I shall be rich. Sebastian knows all about it. He +says he will explain all in good time.’ + +‘Sebastian is as foolish a young man, in some respects, as I know; and +as for you, Mr. von Birkenau, I am at a loss to understand how any one +professing to be a gentleman can behave as you do.’ + +‘As how?’ demanded Hugo, his brow suddenly clouding as he perceived +that her words bore reference to something unknown to him. + +‘Did Sebastian ever tell you, in so many words, that you had any +property, any money, estate, possessions of any kind?’ + +‘N--no.’ + +‘I thought so. He is very trying, but I have always found him sincere, +so far. I should have thought that very fact would have led you to +think a little about your own position. That you can quietly accept +another man’s bounty, and never ask the reason of it, never inquire +into your own affairs, or ask whether you are living in a manner +suitable to your future prospects--it is incredible! No one with any +sense of honour could conduct himself in such a manner.’ + +‘I do not know what you mean--Sebastian knows,’ said Hugo, a dread +suspicion beginning to creep into his heart. ‘He is my guardian, and I +live as _he_ pleases, of course. You know I do.’ + +‘Your guardian! That is about all he has to guard, I think.’ + +‘He is my guardian, and the guardian of my property, however small +it may be. I dare say, to you, I may seem almost a beggar, but +Sebastian----’ + +‘You make me pity you! I do not think it right that you should live +under such a delusion any longer. Let me tell you that you have no +property except what my son gives you. You live on his bounty. But for +him you would be a beggar.’ + +‘You are not speaking the truth!’ said Hugo, suddenly standing before +her and bending his flashing eyes upon her. ‘You know you are not +speaking the truth.’ + + ‘Where is it now, the glory and the dream?’ + +‘Am I not? You had better ask Sebastian. It was he who told me. I +thought you considered him perfect in all respects--not being his +mother.’ + +‘Sebastian told you that I lived on him--that he----’ + +‘That your mother committed you to his charge, and he took it into his +head to adopt you. That, except what he gives you, you have _nothing_. +He told me that, and I think it best that you should know it, for I +consider your behaviour and conversation very unfit for your position. +That is all that I have to say, or want to hear, upon the subject.’ + +Mrs. Mallory’s moral equilibrium was almost restored; she felt +distinctly more cheerful and better satisfied with everything. For Hugo +there remained only a hideous chaos, a general _bouleversement_ of his +fixed, contented conceptions of life and his sphere in it. + +He walked out of the room, and stood in the hall a moment. What should +he do--whither go? This was no place for him. He had no right here. He +was the object of a rich man’s pitying charity--a beggar. Mrs. Mallory +had said it, and said it after a fashion which left no doubt possible. +Instead of playing a grand piano in a luxurious drawing-room, instead +of going to balls and dancing with beautiful young women of large +fortune, and driving about, and riding fine horses--all belonging to +another man--instead of this, he ought to be--what? Well, if Sebastian +had left him at the institution where he was being brought up, the +authorities would at least have found him a trade and apprenticed him +to it: he might have been at this moment a shopman or an usher, or a +clerk, or somebody’s secretary and amanuensis. At least, he would not +have been anybody’s dependent, loaded with so many obligations that +their weight crushed and overpowered him. + +By this time he had almost unconsciously ascended the stairs, and +found himself in his own room. What must he do? It was impossible to +let such a state of things continue any longer. What remained? To go, +of course! The idea flashed like an inspiration upon him. He would +fly--now, at once, Sebastian was out; Mrs. Mallory would certainly +not try to prevent his departure. What should he take? what leave? +He made an excited rush to his wardrobe, his drawers, and began to +turn them out. Then another idea struck him. That would not do. They +were all Sebastian’s things. Not one of them but had been bought with +Sebastian’s money. He could not take any of them. It would be stealing. +He looked down with a shudder at the very clothes he wore. No--he must +take nothing; but he must go--he must get away from here, and go and +earn some money, and pay Sebastian back. + +But he never could do that. How could he repay the kindness, the +advice, the friendship--the care that had watched over him, the +generosity which had condoned a thousand impertinences and wayward +wearisome fancies? No money, no service, could ever repay these +things. But at least he must get away--must remove himself. That very +generosity which he had so often proved might, for anything he knew, +have wearied of him long ago, though it would never say so. + +He rose with the vague intention of getting out of the house with as +few impediments as possible, and, once out of it, never to re-enter it. +And then memory and conscience again asserted themselves. What was it +that he had promised Sebastian only last night? Not to do anything of +any importance without first telling him of his intention. He could not +even go, for he would not begin his new career by breaking his word to +the man to whom he owed everything. He must wait. + +‘Oh, Sebastian!’ groaned the poor boy, flinging himself face downwards +upon a couch at the foot of his bed, ‘it was cruel, cruel of you! You +should not have treated me thus!’ + +Men of Hugo’s temperament weep sometimes with almost womanly facility, +and Hugo, in his new-born anguish and despair, wept now; and when +the weeping was over, he did not rise, but remained with his face +buried in the cushions, repeating to himself every item of Sebastian’s +generosity, and his own blind, besotted self-confidence and ignorant +assumption (such it appeared to him). A thousand things rose up in his +memory, and he asked himself how he could have failed to comprehend +their meaning, to have some suspicion of his real position. He +resolved, with more and more impassioned eagerness, to _go_; to wait +till he had redeemed his promise, and then to say farewell, and bid +Sebastian forget him. How his heart ached at the thought! But no +alternative was open to him. He was a gentleman. No gentleman could +knowingly continue to live as he had been doing. + +The time went on; whether long or short he could not tell. He did not +keep count of the minutes or hours. His whole consciousness seemed to +resolve itself into a desire to be gone, which had grown overpowering +and intense, when a quick tap at the door was heard, then it was +opened, and Sebastian’s voice said, + +‘I say, Hugo, do you mean to go to this entertainment or not? Because +if--why, what _is_ the matter with you?’ + +‘I never knew, Sebastian! Upon my soul and honour I never knew +till Mrs. Mallory told me to-day!’ exclaimed Hugo, starting up and +confronting his horrified friend, with pale face, scintillating eyes, +which bore traces of recent weeping, hair wildly tossed up and down his +head, and generally demoralised aspect. + +‘Didn’t know _what_, my dear fellow? What is all this excitement about?’ + +‘Mrs. Mallory told me, just a little while ago, the _truth_ about +myself,’ said Hugo, speaking rapidly and vehemently in German, as he +nearly always did when agitated, and he began to stride excitedly about +the room. ‘It was not right ... no, no! it was very cruel! you should +not have done it. I have no right to reproach you, but you should +not have laid such a burden upon me--a burden which is greater than +I can bear ... _aber, Gott im Himmel_! what do I mean by reproaching +you, when I owe you the very bread I eat, the very clothes I wear! +Sebastian! Sebastian! It was not _right_!’ he reiterated passionately, +coming to a stop, and standing before the other, upon whose mind the +truth began to dawn. + +His mother had played the traitor--had betrayed the trust which he +had been weak enough to repose in her before he had understood her +so well as he did now, and the result must be, in any case, a very +painful explanation, and perhaps failure to convince Hugo; perhaps +the alienation of a love which he prized more highly at this present +moment than he ever had done before. For the moment, the first moment, +his heart sank very low: he suddenly seemed to see everything that he +most prized deserting him. Adrienne was lost to him, and his heart +was yet smarting under that conviction. Yesterday he had seen Myles +Heywood depart, expressing his gratitude, but, as he felt, unconquered, +untouched at heart. Now, here was Hugo bitterly reproaching him for +not having done what was right towards him. One stroke coming upon the +other almost unmanned him momentarily, for the men with warm hearts and +cool heads are necessarily more susceptible both to failure and success +than the men with cool heads and cold hearts to boot. + +Then he suddenly gathered himself together. Hugo was not gone; he was +only drifting away from him. He would make a very strong struggle to +still hold him fast to him; if he succeeded, he might take it as a good +omen for the future--if not, the future must look after itself. He came +into the room and closed the door. + +‘You startle me, Hugo. This is something I did not expect. Suppose you +tell me all about it, and we can discuss it. Shall we?’ + +‘There is nothing to be discussed. If it had not been for my promise to +you yesterday, I should not be here now. As it is, I waited; but only +to say that I am going at once--to clear myself--to tell you that I +never knew....’ + +‘Why, Hugo, how _could_ you know? If you had known, you would not +have been what you are to me, the frank, open-hearted comrade, whose +friendship and companionship have made me so happy.’ + +‘If I had known,’ said Hugo, ‘I should not have behaved myself like +a mountebank, such as I must have seemed to you many a time, with my +impertinences and fancies. Mrs. Mallory is quite right--for me to be +thinking of balls and amusements and enjoyments is folly--madness. What +an ape! what a confounded, conceited, self-important _ape_ I must have +seemed all these years! Acting as if I had great prospects before me, +while all the time I am a beggar. It is hideous!’ + +He was getting excited again. His eyes began to flash and his foot +to beat the floor restlessly. Sebastian noticed that he had not once +looked at him during all this scene, but away from him: anywhere rather +than meet his eyes. + +‘Let me go,’ he added, in a choked voice. ‘Let me go, and forget me. +That is all you and I can do, and it must be done at once.’ + +‘You will never leave me, any more than I can, or shall try to forget +you.’ + +‘Why? Because I am under such obligations to you, that you can force me +to obey you from very shame?’ asked Hugo, bitterly. + +‘Not at all, Hugo, but because you love me, and I love you (if it were +not so, after all these years, it would be strange), and you could +never find it in your heart to wound me as such a proceeding would +wound me.’ + +At last Hugo’s eyes turned to him; at last he stood still and looked +at him, and Sebastian returned the look from his inmost heart. This +soul-to-soul, searching gaze was a prolonged one, and Hugo at last, +turning away, sat down on the sofa again, put his hand before his face, +and said in a broken voice, + +‘You could always do what you liked with me, and you can now. What do +you want?’ + +‘I only want you to listen to me and _believe_ me,’ said Sebastian. ‘If +you will only believe me, all will be well.’ + +A movement of the head showed that Hugo was listening. + +‘You have called me cruel--you have said that what I have done was not +right. I cannot hear such accusations unmoved. Why have I been cruel?’ + +‘In putting me into a false position--making me believe myself to be +what I am not.’ + +‘Somewhat insincere it may have been, but I do not see how I could well +have acted otherwise. When your mother died you were equally badly off, +so far as worldly circumstances go, as you are now. _You_ did not know +it. It was her weakness that she could not bear you, whom she adored, +to know it. She had a horror of your learning that the institution at +which you were being educated was a ch--I mean----’ + +‘A charity-school--yes.’ + +‘That’s right, old fellow! Put it as spitefully as you can. If you +like, it _was_ a charity-school--and a poor coarse inadequate place +too, not the place for you. When I think of _you_ there, it is +horrible; I simply took the place of the authorities of that school +towards you. They had nothing to bind them to you; no single tie +existed. _I_ had everything. I had been your mother’s intimate friend; +she gave me, in her goodness, that which no service of mine could +repay. I reverenced her in her lifetime, and I reverence her memory +now. She knew what I wished; I discussed it with her fully and freely, +and she gave her unqualified consent. She trusted you to me--gave you +to me. Have you any right to impute wrong motives to her memory? You +remember her perfectly well. You know what she was. You must know that +she never acted but as she thought, from right and pure motives.’ + +‘I know; that alters it. But all the same it is very hard.’ + +‘I feel it so,’ said Sebastian. ‘Year by year I have been more glad +that I had you as my firm and faithful friend, who would never desert +me, whatever any one else did. I firmly believed that it was so, and +you--you have so little regard for me, that you would leave me--quit +me here at an hour’s notice, and why? Because you cannot, or will not, +rise above a few miserable, material interests; because you let a +few paltry, sordid coins (that is what it comes to) raise themselves +between you and me, and make them into a wall which neither of us +can pass. Yet you told me the other night that you _could_ not be +fickle--to me. Which am I to believe--your words or your actions?’ + +‘You may believe both now, when I tell you that I will do what you +please. Shall I stay? I will do whatever you like--just whatever you +like,’ said Hugo, in a dull, toneless kind of voice. + +‘You call that doing what I please--remaining though you hate it. I +thought--last night I was sure that it would have caused you pain to +leave me.’ + +‘It will--would, I mean, cause me agony; but what am I to think, when +you have told Mrs. Mallory, who hates me, my whole story, and kept it +from me, whom you say you love?’ + +‘There I was wrong, Hugo--utterly wrong, I own it Had I known--but I +must not say that. If I had it to do now, I should keep silence. But if +you will not allow me _one_ mistake, take your own way. Leave me alone. +My mother opposes my wishes bitterly. The girl I love won’t have a word +to say to me. I have no one left but Hugo von Birkenau--and he begs to +decline my acquaintance. So be it!’ + +He turned to leave the room. His hand was on the door-handle, when Hugo +overtook him. + +‘Stop!’ said he, almost in a whisper. ‘You know me better than I know +myself. I cannot leave you thus. If I thought I was of any good to +you----’ + +‘I suppose I should go through all this, to keep a thing I didn’t care +for. That is so like me!’ observed Sebastian. + +‘Yes,’ said Hugo, with a half-laugh, half-choke, or sob; ‘I never +thought of that.’ + +‘Of course not. You wish to repay me, as you call it, Hugo. The only +way in which you can do it is to let me watch your future, as I have +always hoped to do, till you are famous, and I am known as your +greatest friend, eh?’ + +Hugo smiled faintly. + +‘Your mother despises me,’ he began. + +Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. + +‘My dear boy, you must have seen that my mother is by no means +graciously disposed towards any one or anything that I may have the +misfortune to be fond of. As I like you better almost than any one, +she naturally dislikes you proportionately. It is not a pleasant thing +to have to say, but it is true. Surely, if you and I understand each +other, it does not matter what outsiders think of us.’ + +‘No,’ said Hugo, and once more there was heartiness and confidence in +his tone. ‘Forgive me my folly. It is over now.’ + +‘I thank you for making such a sacrifice to me.... When I came into the +room it was to see what you were doing, as you didn’t appear at dinner. +And, behold, nearly an hour has passed. The carriage will be here in +ten minutes.’ + +‘I don’t think I shall go.’ + +‘Pray do, though, or I shall have to think that this reconciliation is +only a sham one after all. Besides, Helena’s _beaux yeux_ will not turn +very amiably towards me, if I come without you.’ + +‘It depends upon yourself how Helena’s _beaux yeux_ regard you,’ said +Hugo; ‘but I will go. It would be insulting to her if I did not. I’ll +get ready now.’ + +‘I must do the same,’ said Sebastian, leaving the room. + +Hugo proceeded to dress himself. He found himself looking back upon the +afternoon, when he had sat playing waltzes, as if it had been separated +by years from the evening, and his present self was a stranger to +himself of yesterday. + +It was quite true. These few short hours had transformed him from a boy +to a man. The process, which in some cases is one of such prolonged, +lingering growth, had been with him effected at a leap, a single bound. +The change proved itself most in the fact that he accepted the cross +laid upon him; he felt himself possessed of that goodly, manly virtue, +the ability to wait; two days ago he would have tried to rush away from +pain and difficulty--now he could shake hands with them. As he dressed, +he planned his course as it should be, subject to circumstances; not +with the furious, fitful temper of an hour ago, but with calm, manly +reasonableness and judgment. + +When the carriage came round they stood in the hall, and Mrs. Mallory +looked curiously at his pale, altered, composed countenance; but she +saw in an instant, by the look that passed between him and Sebastian, +that all was perfectly clear between them. The sweet accord of two +noble natures was a thing beyond her power to grasp; but she saw that +she had not succeeded in separating them, and recognised that she had +done her cause no service by her interference. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +HOW HELENA CAME INTO HER FORTUNE. + + +The rooms at Castle Hill were nearly full, and the ball had just +begun, when the Oakenrod party arrived. Sebastian offered his arm to +his mother, and she took it, both of them having a very strong sense +of the fact that the courtesy was a mere outside show, and that they +would rather have been any number of miles apart. Followed by Hugo, +they penetrated through the large square hall and the coffee-room, +to the drawing-room, which blazed in the full splendour of unlimited +wax-lights. In the centre of the room, looking very hot and very +uncomfortable, they found Mrs. Spenceley alone. Her lord was nowhere to +be seen, though her son was stationed at some little distance from her, +helping her in the discharge of her duties with a Thanshopian grace and +dignity all his own. + +Sebastian, when his mother had finished her greetings and +congratulations, went up to Mrs. Spenceley, and in his turn paid his +_devoirs_. + +The lady bore upon her face distinct traces of uneasiness of mind. +There was something terrible and _bezarre_ in the contrast between +her expression and her attire. Helena had considerately tried to +arrange her dress for her, with the natural sense of beauty and +harmony of colour and material which she so strongly possessed. She +had endeavoured to soften down the radiant hues contemplated by Mrs. +Spenceley, and had succeeded in inducing her rather to dress herself +in a magnificent robe of black satin. Diamonds twinkled upon her +spacious bosom, and diamond pins fastened her gorgeous lace cap. Here +Helena’s efforts had ceased to produce any effect. At this point Mrs. +Spenceley’s own taste in dress asserted itself. She had thrown over +her shoulders a floating scarf of crimson gauze, intertwined with +lines of orient gold, and over which wandered abnormally large bunches +of abnormally large grapes--purple grapes, with leaves of the same +phenomenal proportions. This treasure had been put on in order, as +she explained to Helena, ‘to cover my shoulders and give me a little +colour; for, say what you will, a black satin and a white lace cap is +not full enough for a woman of my years.’ + +In despairing resignation Helena had submitted, and the result was +the apparition already described, looking, with the troubled, puzzled +expression on her highly coloured face and the restless wandering of +her gentle dark eyes, altogether so grotesque, that Sebastian’s quick +observation instantly suspected something behind the gay show which +surrounded them. + +‘I am glad to see you, Mr. Mallory,’ she said, giving him her hand, +and with an effort giving her attention to him. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy +yourself, I’m sure. We’ve done all we could think of to make people +enjoy themselves; but it is _very_ provoking, Spenceley’s not coming at +the last minute, isn’t it?’ + +‘I thought I missed Mr. Spenceley. Is he engaged?’ + +‘Oh, it’s this horrid business, you know. I said to him, I said, +“Spenceley, if business is so uncertain, it’s a very sure thing that we +oughtn’t to be giving balls in this style;” not but what I am _very_ +glad to see you, and I hope you’ll enjoy it,’ she hastened to add. ‘He +had to go off to Liverpool early this morning, and he said he _might_ +have to come home by Manchester, but he’d try to be with us before we +began. However, he hasn’t turned up.’ + +‘Very likely he has been detained.’ + +‘I expect so. These are anxious times, and it keeps a man on the +strain, with things going first up and then down, and not knowing how +anything will turn out,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lucidly. ‘But aren’t +you going to dance, Mr. Mallory? There’s lots of young ladies will +be delighted to dance with you. See! there’s little Fanny Kay sitting +out--the first dance, too. Do you know her?’ + +‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think I will dance at present. I’m looking for +Miss Spenceley, to congratulate her; but she is not here, I think.’ + +‘She’s in the ball-room. You see, she had to open the ball, being for +her own birthday, and all, and some of them were very anxious to begin. +It makes it very awkward, Spenceley’s being away. But you’ll see Helena +directly, I dare say. She said she should come straight here when the +dance was over.’ + +‘I think I will go and see if it is over,’ said Sebastian, who saw Hugo +leading off a white-robed virgin to the ball-room. + +‘Ay, do; I’m sure they must be nearly done by now,’ she replied, +drawing her dazzling scarf more closely about her, and obstinately +refusing to lessen her fatigue by sitting down. + +Sebastian crossed the hall, and at the door of the ball-room met Helena +and her partner coming out. She was leaning on the arm of an elderly +man, one of the Thanshope magnates, to whose lot it had fallen to guide +her through the mazes of a duty-quadrille, by way of opening the ball. +Helena looked bored, and the gentleman no less so. They were making +straight for the drawing-room, in order to get rid of each other as +soon as possible. + +Helena did not at once see Sebastian, and he had time to notice how +downcast and pale she looked, although so lovely. Mr. Rawson, her +partner, was at this moment ‘collared’ in a summary manner by an +acquaintance, and appeared particularly anxious to talk with him on +congenial subjects. Mr. Mallory, therefore, seized the opportunity to +advance and say: + +‘Good evening, Miss Spenceley.’ + +Helena started, and turned quickly to him. + +‘Mr. Rawson,’ proceeded Sebastian, ‘I see you are engaged. Allow me to +take Miss Spenceley to the drawing-room--or wherever else you please,’ +he added, in a lower voice, as Mr. Rawson, with evident gratitude, +gave up his charge, and they walked away, her hand resting lightly on +his arm. + +‘Now he is happy with a friend of his own age,’ remarked Sebastian. ‘I +could not find you in the drawing-room, so I came to seek you, in order +to offer you my sincere congratulations upon this occasion.’ + +‘Why so _sincere_? You speak so emphatically that I begin to doubt your +sincerity. Why congratulate me at all?’ + +‘What a question! I always understood, from your own words, that +you looked forward to your twenty-first birthday as a moment of +emancipation, when you would not be trodden down any more, and could +really show the sex which fails to meet your approval what you think of +them, and----’ + +‘I wish you would not keep talking in that way,’ said Helena. ‘It does +not amuse me in the least, and I don’t see what fun there is in it.’ + +‘Fun! I had no idea of fun! You shock me. I am in the most solemn +earnest I beg to be allowed to offer my congratulations to the heroine +of the present occasion, and to wish you “many happy returns of this +day.” You will permit me to do that?’ + +‘I am not a heroine, and the present occasion requires anything but +congratulations,’ was all Helena said. + +Her wonted brilliance and high spirits had quite deserted her, even +in the presence of Sebastian Mallory, for whose delectation they +were usually wont to flow rather more rapidly than at other times. +In this new and more pensive mood Sebastian found the charm, which +he had always owned, a strong one. He had never before found her so +attractive. Her dress was less splendid, and more airy and girlish +than usual. It was white and full and flowing, suggestive of _tulle +illusion_ and silvery clouds, and was dotted all over with little +bunches of rosebuds. There was a string of pearls around her lovely +throat; and, for all her paleness and downcast looks, her beauty came +out triumphant. + +‘She is a lovely creature!’ he thought, glancing downwards at the +serious face and the dark lashes which swept her cheek. + +‘Not a heroine!’ he said. ‘You must be one to-night, whether you like +it or not. And as for congratulations, I could offer you a hundred +reasons why people should congratulate you; but to confine myself to +one, you are Helena Spenceley. Don’t you think that is reason enough +for congratulation?’ + +They had wandered into a little anteroom, divided by curtains from one +of the other sitting-rooms, and as Sebastian asked the last question +they were standing in the middle of the room, and Helena looked at him. +Her face was sad, and her eyes were bright with tears. + +‘It is of no use; you cannot make me angry to-night, even by laughing +at me. But if you want the satisfaction of knowing that your remarks +wound me, take it: it is so.’ + +‘Helena! Miss Spenceley!’ he stammered, in confusion, for his words had +not been free from malice, and he knew it. What he had not known was +that Helena was in no mood for battle--that she did not even wish to +quarrel with him. + +‘If you are offended, I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean +anything like what you imagine. And, since you do not choose to be +congratulated, I withdraw the congratulations. May I say you have my +good wishes?’ + +‘Not unless you mean it,’ said Helena, coldly; ‘and, when you think how +different our thoughts and wishes, and hopes and objects in life are, +you will, I hope, hesitate before making more pretty speeches.’ + +‘You are very severe. I think I had better say no more upon the +subject. But,’ he added, with that air of almost affectionate interest +which Helena believed she so greatly resented, ‘you are downcast and +out of spirits to-night--not as you should be for your own birthday +ball. How is it?’ + +In so matter-of-fact a tone was the question asked, that Helena +scarcely felt it strange that he should put it, and began in a docile +manner to explain. + +‘How can I be otherwise? It is such nonsense. What is the good of +having a ball? I don’t want a ball. I wanted to be quiet. I go about +every day, from house to house, and see people starving--much better +people than I am, or ever shall be--and then I have to come home and +see money flung away on a ball--for me--because such an important +personage has condescended to live twenty-one years in this horrid, +grimy old world; and to put on a dress that has cost--no, I will never +reveal all my shame, but I could tear my dress to pieces when I think +of a woman whom I saw this afternoon, and who was crying as if her +heart would break, because she had to pawn her husband’s and children’s +Sunday clothes, and their best tea-things, that she had when she was +married. I thought of this dress, which was got on purpose for me at +Paris, and which cost about ten times as much as the materials that +made it are worth,’ said Helena passionately, ‘and when I put it on, I +felt as if I were putting on my shroud.’ + +‘I am very sorry--only you won’t believe it, because I say so, but +surely now it will be different? You must not get morbid. That never +does any good. You will have wealth of your own now, and be your own +mistress, when you can take your revenge on all these fine clothes, and +go about in home-spun, or even sackcloth, if you choose.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Helena dispiritedly, ‘I know; but I should not like it. +I love expensive things, and I hate coarse and common ones. And I am +beginning to think that perhaps I am not such a very fit person to have +money. I have heard a great deal about money lately, and I don’t fancy +it is so easy to manage as I used to think.’ + +‘Miss Mereweather will assist you,’ he said, half smiling. + +‘Don’t name Miss Mereweather to me,’ said Helena, with sudden +animation. ‘She has deceived me cruelly. I never was so cut-up about +anything.’ + +‘What _has_ she done?’ + +‘She has got married,’ said Helena, in a determined voice, as if +anxious to get the worst over. + +‘Got married!... Why ... and a very good wife she will make, if she +has got the right sort of husband. I remember thinking, that evening I +met her here, what a capital head of a large establishment she would +make....’ + +‘Did you?’ said Helena, with a curious quaver in her voice, half +laughter, half astonishment. ‘Well, you must have been right. She has +married a clergyman who is the head of a very large boys’ school--a +sort of college.’ + +‘The very thing for her. I wish, when you write, you would ask if she +remembers my insignificance, and offer my warmest congratulations and +good wishes.’ + +‘When I write!’ echoed Helena, scornfully. ‘I wrote to her once, after +I heard of it, but never again. I told her my mind.’ + +‘Did you really? What did you say?’ + +‘I said she was a traitor to her sex and her cause, and that, as I +still held my old opinions, I could not be her friend any longer.’ + +‘How awful for her! May I ask whether she made any reply?’ + +‘Oh yes,’ said Helena, her colour rising, ‘she made a very stupid +reply.’ + +‘Won’t you tell me what it was?’ + +‘No, it was too silly.’ + +‘I believe you got the worst of it.’ + +‘At least, it was too ridiculous to repeat.’ + +‘Perhaps she said, “Wait and see;” or, “Don’t shout till you are out of +the wood!” only more elegantly expressed.’ + +‘She--oh, there is Hugo coming. This is my first dance with him.’ + +‘Miss Spenceley, will you be very kind to Hugo to-night? Really and +truly, he has had a great trouble.’ + +‘I will. Poor boy!’ + +‘And have you any dances left?--a waltz? Though I can hardly hope it. +You must have been engaged long ago, for the whole evening?’ + +‘In that case you might have spared yourself the trouble of asking,’ +said Helena, rather defiantly; but as their eyes met, hers wavered. + +‘Perhaps you have still one left,’ said he, capturing her programme and +opening it. + +‘It looks very full,’ he said; ‘but--ah, yes! here is one, a waltz--two +waltzes. This is extraordinary--my luck, I mean; don’t you think so? +And may I----’ + +He paused, looking inquiringly at her as he held the pencil suspended +over the card. + +‘Two waltzes!’ exclaimed Helena, innocently. ‘Oh, but that must be a +mistake. I know when Mr. Consterdine came just now I told him I had not +one left.’ + +‘No doubt you told him what was good for him,’ said Sebastian, with +laudable gravity. ‘At least, we will make it quite sure now. There: “S. +M., 6,” and “S. M., 10.” Thank you, very much.’ + +With a bow and a half-smile he resigned her to Hugo, who came up at +that moment to offer congratulations and to claim his dance, while +Sebastian walked away to while away the time until ‘Number 6’ should +begin. + +As he danced only once or twice with any one but Helena, he had ample +opportunity of observing the general features of the entertainment, and +he soon saw that Helena’s depression was but a part of that obvious +more or less throughout the whole assembly. The rooms were dazzling, +the decorations were unutterably gorgeous, the brilliance of the lights +amounted to an absolute glare, and became oppressive and terrible. On +all sides there was evidence of the most lavish expenditure; flowers, +furniture, attendants, refreshments, all seemed to cry in loud and +blatant voices, ‘Try us; we are of the very best. No stint here, +because expense is no object, absolutely none at all.’ It would have +been exceedingly amusing, and Sebastian was by no means slow to see the +humorous side of ambitious entertainments of that kind; but the amusing +part of it was quite overcome and swamped by the great and nameless +cloud and oppression that hung over it all. What was the reason of that +cloud? Surely not the simple fact that the master of the house was +absent. That alone would have been a relief rather than otherwise. + +For he came not, and came not, and poor Mrs. Spenceley still looked ill +at ease: and at last Sebastian noticed some one else begin to look ill +at ease too, and to glance round with a suspicious, watchful air now +and then. That person was Frederick Spenceley. Something was wrong, +something lay behind it all, thought Sebastian, as he stood in the +cool hall after his first dance with Helena, that is to say, between +ten and eleven o’clock. During that dance they had quite forgotten to +flout each other, or to do anything but enjoy themselves. He had said +all he could to raise that nameless cloud from her face, and he had +been startled to find what brilliant success had attended his efforts. +Helena had soon smiled again, and had half confessed that she had kept +the two dances for him, and had even blushed and laughed when he teased +her about it. He was thinking of that waltz, and humming the tune to +which they had danced as he paced about the hall, while he still seemed +to feel Helena lightly resting in his arms, her fleet foot keeping pace +with his; and he began to wish that he had not four whole dances to +wait before his next one with her came. + +‘She is very lovely, and there is something very bewitching about her,’ +he said to himself for the second time that evening. + +A dance was going on in the ball-room, and the hall at the moment was +empty, save for himself. He paused before a huge mirror, which had been +raised at one end of it, and in front of which was erected a fragrant +pyramid of flowers and ferns, delicate hothouse blossoms, and feathery +aromatic leaves. There was a blaze of light all around, and the +staircase and part of the gallery running round the second story were +reflected in the mirror. Sebastian stood before the pyramid of flowers, +and gently first touched one and then the other, and then his eyes fell +upon the reflection of his own face, and he was surprised to see how +grave it looked; for he did not feel particularly grave at the moment, +and that interview with Adrienne Blisset seemed to hang like a dream in +the far background of his consciousness, while another face and form, +flower-crowned and glowingly beautiful, advanced to the front. + +Suddenly he became conscious, as it were, of some shadow crossing the +glass, and looking higher, to where the staircase was reflected, he +saw the figure of a man stealing carefully, softly, noiselessly up the +stairs, keeping well to the wall, with averted face, as if anxious to +get as quickly as possible out of all that obtrusive glare of light and +stream of dancing sound. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +HOW MR. SPENCELEY MET HIS DIFFICULTIES. + + +Sebastian’s first thought naturally resolved itself into the words, ‘A +thief in the night;’ some evil-disposed person who thought to penetrate +to some of the bedrooms, in the confusion, and perhaps reap a harvest +of neglected brooches, watches, or shawl-pins. In such a case, it was +his duty at once to warn the servants, and he was in the act of turning +to go and do so as quickly as possible, when the figure reached the +head of the first flight of stairs, and turned to mount the next. As +this happened, Sebastian caught a momentary glimpse of the face. He +was long sighted, and not given to making mistakes in the matter of +identity. The man who was stealing so quietly up the stairs in such +evident fear of detection was, one would suppose, the last person +who should need to act in so strange a manner. It was Mr. Spenceley +himself, the master of the house. + +With great presence of mind Sebastian checked his movement to turn +round, and neither started nor stirred, but stood pensively trifling +with a fern leaf, as he gave himself time to reflect upon what had +happened. + +The vague, floating rumours which he had heard, as to the ‘shakiness’ +of Mr. Spenceley’s commercial position, recurred to his mind. Probably +there was something in them. His own business and that of Mr. Spenceley +lay in utterly different lines: he had not come across him in any +commercial transactions; but he knew men who had, and who were of +opinion that Spenceley was playing rather a dangerous game. During +those troublous years some fortunes were made, and many were lost--lost +by men who seemed as little likely to fail as Mr. Spenceley of Castle +Hill. Sebastian pictured the feelings of his mother, supposing she were +to hear any such rumour--his mother who was probably at that moment +listening with affecting interest and politeness to some circumlocutory +history from the lips of Mrs. Spenceley, _à propos_ either of Fred or +of Helena. This was the day on which Helena was to come into--not her +whole fortune--that was only to happen at her father’s death, or if +she married--but of so much of it as would make her what many people +would call a rich woman. Sebastian thought of this, and wondered if the +fortune were but + + ‘A fleeting show + For man’s illusion given.’ + +His thoughts turned persistently to the girl with whom he had so +lately been dancing. It was all in her honour, this ghastly, hollow +mockery of an entertainment, with its spectres and shadows flitting and +stealing about. All for her! She was crowned with roses, which were +indeed the fitting flower for so beautiful a rose as she was herself. +Those great pearls round her neck, and those massive bracelets on +her slender arm--his mind recalled each item of her dress, and, as +it were, every line of her beauty; he saw her standing, as she had +stood more than once that evening, with a crowd round her, of friends +and well-wishers--for she was popular--who congratulated her, and +brought her flowers and bouquets--chiefly roses--the flowers of love +and triumph. And ever, as he pictured her thus, that shadowy, stealing +figure seemed to lurk and crouch behind them, now uncovering its face +a little, and then, with a smile of weird meaning, drawing the veil +again. He shuddered a little, and turned hastily towards the ball-room; +stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was Helena with Hugo; he +was glad she was with Hugo; smiling and laughing with him, as they flew +swiftly by, past the door, and her perfumed skirts brushed him and sent +an odd little thrill through him. + +The ball progressed, and the evening drew drearier and drearier; he +heard the excuses made by Mrs. Spenceley, and saw the care growing +darker upon her brow; he heard the regrets of the guests, and saw the +increasing uneasiness of the looks cast about him by Fred, with a +strange sense that he alone could, if he chose, point the way upstairs +and say, ‘You will find the explanation of all, if you go there and +ask.’ + +As the tenth dance was about to begin, he saw Fred make some excuse to +the lady whom he was leading to the ball-room; heard the words, ‘Very +sorry--back in a minute.’ The young lady was put on a cushioned bench +beside the wall, and Fred quickly departed, with a look of resolution +on his face. Sebastian, with Helena on his arm, looked after Spenceley. +He was going upstairs. Mallory, throughout all the dance, could not +keep himself from wondering what was taking place in one of those upper +rooms. What confession, or what revelation? Were things very bad? Was +the crisis a very critical one? + +‘You have become perfectly silent, Mr. Mallory--not to say morose,’ +remarked Helena. ‘And when I was dancing with Hugo, I saw you looking +in upon us with a sort of glare. What is the matter?’ + +‘Oh, nothing! Miss Spenceley, when did you last see your father?’ + +‘This morning, quite early: you know we have breakfast at eight, +because we are business people. He gave me these pearls that I have +on for a birthday present, and though I would much rather have had +no presents, they were so beautiful, and I am so weak, that I was in +ecstasies with them. But papa said he had very important business in +Liverpool, and he might have to go to Manchester too. Still, he is very +late,’ she added, as they began to dance again. + +The waltz was over. Every one was streaming into the supper-room; +Helena, with Sebastian, remained in the ball-room, watching the people +out, to see that all went, when voices made themselves heard: young men +were calling out, ‘I say, Spenceley!’--‘Where’s Fred?’--‘Who’s to sit +where?’--‘Fred, Mrs. Spenceley wants to ask you something.’ + +‘Where can Fred be?’ exclaimed Helena, craning her neck to look round. +‘It is very strange in him to go away just now, when he ought to be +seeing after things.’ + +They were standing beside a door of the ball-room; not that leading +into the hall, but one which opened into a passage leading to the +billiard-room, and thence to the kitchen regions and offices. Almost +as Helena spoke, the door was suddenly opened, and a young woman +appeared, with frightened face, and widely distended eyes, who, seeing +Helena, began, after the manner of her kind, to wring her hands, and +exclaim, in much agitation, + +‘Oh, Miss Spenceley! Where’s missis? Oh, how dreadful! Oh!’ + +‘What is the matter?’ demanded Helena in a clear, decided voice. + +‘Oh--master, m’! He’s----’ + +‘Stop!’ said Sebastian, suddenly and sternly, as he took the girl’s +arm, and gave it a little shake, to restore her to her senses. ‘Don’t +make such a noise! Miss Spenceley, wait here a moment. Come here!’ +he added to the girl--one of the housemaids--as he drew her into the +passage, and closed the door. ‘Now, what is the matter? Your master has +returned. I saw him. Is he ill?’ + +‘Oh, sir,’ she said, with an hysterical sob, ‘he’s dead! He’s lying on +the sofa in his room, and----’ + +‘Dead!’ repeated Sebastian, and he knew in a moment what it meant. +‘Where is Mr. Fred? Is he with him?’ + +‘No, sir. I haven’t seen him. I thought he was here.’ + +Sebastian, with a growing fear that the whole thing was much blacker +and more dreadful than he had suspected, bade the young woman wait +a moment, while he returned to Helena. He had rapidly reviewed the +circumstances, and found there was nothing for it but to go to her. +Fred was gone: he did not like to let the idea, ‘absconded,’ shape +itself, even in his mind; but all the same, it was there, like an ugly +black spectre. To burst upon Mrs. Spenceley with such news would have +been in the highest degree inhuman and improper. Helena alone remained +to take this fearful burden upon her shoulders. + +He found Helena standing in the same place in which he had left her, +and the last of the guests disappearing through the hall to the +supper-room. Helena was composed and calm, but her eyes, as they met +his, told him that she suspected a catastrophe. + +‘I want you to come with me,’ said he, drawing her arm through his, +and speaking in a low, gentle voice, and then they stood in the +passage, with the servant-maid. + +‘Show me the room where your master is, and do not speak,’ he said to +her; she was crying bitterly, in a cowed and helpless fashion, but was +less excited, less inclined to shriek out her dreadful news to every +one she met. Helena’s face grew white, but she neither trembled nor +spoke, as they followed the girl up the backstairs to a landing-door, +which she threw open, and then they found themselves standing on the +gallery which formed the landing, and from which all the bedroom doors +opened out. + +‘Which is your master’s room?’ asked Sebastian. + +The maid pointed to a door, and cried more bitterly still, while +Helena’s face grew whiter and more set every minute. + +‘Have you seen Mr. Fred at all this evening?’ + +‘I saw him run upstairs, sir, and then I saw him go to his own room; +but he’s not there now, and I’ve never seen him since.’ + +‘Very well, you can go now; but remember, you are to be silent, or it +will be worse for you. Do you understand?’ + +‘Yes, sir. I won’t say nothing, indeed!’ said the weeping young woman, +going away with her muslin apron to her eyes. + +He turned to Helena. He felt he must not defer it any longer. There was +pity and tenderness in his eyes and in his voice, as he said, + +‘Now, Helena, you are brave, and you must be as brave as you can +to-night.’ + +‘Tell me what it is!’ she said; ‘but don’t keep me waiting any longer.’ + +‘I must keep you waiting just a few moments,’ said he. ‘I want you to +sit down here, and not move, while I go to your father’s room--will +you?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Helena, seating herself with a prompt docility which +contrasted strangely with her white face and distended eyes. + +Sebastian left her, walked into the room, and found it all as he had +expected. Mr. Spenceley had committed suicide. He had taken prussic +acid, and lay dead upon the couch at the foot of his bed. Sebastian, +looking quickly round, saw a written paper lying on the floor at his +feet. It was merely a scrap of paper, with the words, + +‘DEAR LIZZIE,--I am a ruined man, and I can’t bear it. I’ve never made +you very happy, and the best I can do is to leave you. I don’t know +what will be left, but there is always your money of your own, and +Nelly’s that I----’ + +Here it broke off. It was not torn; it was as if the facts had rushed +over the man as he wrote these words, and he had failed to pen another +syllable. There was no proof that Fred had absconded, or that he knew +his father’s fate. Sebastian knew he must put the matter in the best +light; but he himself felt an absolute certainty of conviction on the +matter. + +He took the paper and went out of the room, locking the door and +putting the key in his pocket. Helena looked up as he came to her, but +said not a word. + +‘Helena,’ he began, ‘from what has happened to-night, I fear your +father has found that he is ruined.’ + +‘Is that all?’ said Helena, drawing a long breath of relief. + +‘No. That, if true, is the least part of it. Remember what this must +have been to your father. Prosperity and success were his very _life_.’ + +‘Do you mean that it has killed papa?’ asked Helena with unnatural +calm, fixing her eyes upon his face. + +‘I wish to spare your mother, or I would not tell you this. It has +killed him--that is, he could not bear to live after such a fall. My +poor child, your father has destroyed himself.’ + +‘He has--oh!’ came like a whisper from her white lips. Face, cheeks, +brow, lips, were white as the dress she wore. She caught at a chair +which stood near and supported herself upon it, looking at him with a +stare of blank, utter horror, which he felt to be almost unbearable. +For weeks afterwards he was haunted by the vision of the white figure +in its cloudy dress; the roses scattered about it, all like one white +marble figure, save the dusky hair and eyes which looked coal-black by +contrast with her face. + +‘Think of your mother,’ said he, feeling that that spell of horror +must be broken, and he gently put his arm round her, and placed her +in the chair on which she had been leaning. She did not speak for a +moment, but at last said, + +‘Oh, poor mamma! If she only need not know.’ + +‘I fear she must know a great deal of it.’ + +Then Helena put the question which he dreaded. + +‘But where can Fred be all this time?’ + +‘He is not in the house. He may have gone away to see if the failure +is complete--if anything remains to be saved,’ said Sebastian; ‘at any +rate he is not here.’ + +‘Ah, yes!’ said Helena, and no suspicion like Sebastian’s conviction +even for a moment troubled her mind. He gave her the paper he had found. + +‘I have read it; I thought it best,’ said he. ‘And now I want you to go +to your own room, and I will send Mrs. Spenceley to you, and ask all +these people to go away. You will allow me!’ + +‘You are very good,’ said Helena, calmly. + +‘You must break just what you think fit to Mrs. Spenceley,’ he added. +‘There is no one but you to do it, and she will hear it best from you. +For her sake, you will keep up this brave, calm behaviour till the +worst is over.’ + +‘Yes; and then?’ + +‘Trouble yourself about nothing else to-night. I will see to everything +until your brother comes back. I will stay here all night. You need not +leave your room again.’ + +Helena rose without speaking; looked at him with an indescribable +expression; her lips moved, as if she would have spoken; but, without +a word, she turned and went to her room. Sebastian watched until the +door had closed after her, and that silence seemed to leave an enormous +want in his heart. There was silence, except a murmur coming from the +supper-room. That reminded him of his duty. With another earnest look +at that closed door, he went downstairs. + +He made his way to Mrs. Spenceley, and asked her to go to her daughter +in her room. With a deep flush of terror and foreboding, she went. +Neither husband nor son was there to support her. A stranger took her +to the foot of the stairs and left her. Sebastian’s soul was quite +possessed with the idea of these two women; one telling, the other +learning, the extent of their awful calamity, so far as it was known. +It haunted him, but he gathered himself together, and easily catching +the attention of the startled company, he merely told them that Mrs. +and Miss Spenceley wished him to express their great regret at having +to leave their guests, in consequence of very distressing news which +they had just received. Frederick Spenceley had had to leave home +immediately, and he thought, as it was already late, the kindest thing +they could do would be to leave the house as soon as possible. + +Amidst a wild buzz of inquiries, suggestions, and speculations, the +guests dispersed. In an hour the house was quiet, and Helena had gently +told her mother the whole truth as far as she knew it. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +DOWN IN THE WORLD. + + +It was not until late in the afternoon of the following day that +Sebastian, not forgetting his appointment with Myles Heywood, found it +possible to return to his own home. + +That was a dreadful day, bringing in its course fresh disclosures of +dishonesty on the part of both father and son of the Spenceleys, fresh +shame and humiliation to the sorely proved Helena; fresh bursts of +wild, hopeless weeping and meaningless questions from her poor mother. +Mrs. Spenceley was, of course, perfectly bewildered by everything, and +could only reiterate that she had told Spenceley, over and over again, +that if business was so precarious, they had no right to be giving +balls; and she knew it would turn out badly, she had said so all along. +Then a fresh burst of weeping, and the inquiries: + +‘Helena, my dear, I s’pose we shall have to leave here. What do you +think we shall be allowed to keep? Will everything have to be sold?’ + +To all of which Helena, pale, composed, and gentle, made answers as +soothing as she could. + +It was upon her head that the cruellest shame and humiliation naturally +fell. Sebastian asked her, almost as soon as he met her in the morning, +what friends or relations there were with whom he could communicate +on the subject of her father’s death, and to whom he could resign his +present authority. + +‘But there is Fred,’ said poor, unconscious Helena. ‘He is sure to be +back soon. He will come by one of the early trains from Manchester, I +am sure.’ + +‘I doubt it,’ said Sebastian, feeling his task a hard one. ‘And even +if he did, it is not right that your friends and relations should not +be summoned. Don’t think I wish to withdraw the little assistance I +can offer you, but I have no right to the position. It is absolutely +necessary that I give the responsibility into some proper hands.’ + +‘I don’t know of any one except Uncle Robert, and papa and he were not +good friends. He is mamma’s brother. I think he would come if we sent +for him.’ + +‘Where does he live?’ + +‘In Manchester; I will give you his address,’ said Helena. + +When she had done so, Sebastian telegraphed to Mr. Robert Bamford, +requesting him to come over as soon as possible on urgent business. +An answer came to the effect that Mr. Bamford would arrive some time +in the afternoon. It was for his appearance that Sebastian waited. He +and Helena were in the library. He was trying to explain to her the +circumstances which had made it possible for her father to fail, and +Helena was giving her best attention, but, with all the goodwill in +the world, utterly helpless before the technical business terms and +details. Her sad face with its serious, puzzled look, was in sharp +contrast with that of the Helena Spenceley whom Sebastian had always +hitherto known. + +‘You see,’ said she, suddenly looking up at him with a wan attempt at a +smile, ‘you had every right to laugh at me when I boasted my business +capacities. No one could be more ignorant. I see it now.’ + +‘It was not unnatural,’ said he, gently. ‘People with a cheque-book and +a balance at the banker’s, are apt to think they understand business +when they don’t. But it is of no consequence, really. The thing has +happened, and if you had known all the secrets of the Stock Exchange +you could not have prevented it.’ + +‘No, I know,’ said Helena, looking wearily round. ‘I wonder if Fred +will come back with Uncle Robert. I daresay he has been to consult him. +Don’t you think so?’ + +‘It may be so; at least, your uncle will be able to tell us something +about him.’ + +‘How I wish it was all over,’ she went on, ‘and that we were safely +housed in, wherever we go to--some back street in Manchester, I dare +say.’ + +‘Oh, it may not be quite so bad as that.’ + +‘I never said I thought that would be bad,’ said Helena, leaning her +elbows, as if utterly tired out, upon the table, and resting her head +upon her hands. Sebastian felt a deep pity stir his heart. She had +already suffered so much--she had still so much more, and so much worse +to suffer. Perhaps all this pain would make her what people, what he +himself, would call ‘more reasonable.’ But she was very sweet in her +unreasonableness. It seemed rather sad that she must go through such an +ordeal in order that she might become like other people. + +At this point a servant announced ‘Mr. Robert Bamford,’ and Helena’s +uncle arrived. Now Sebastian felt sure some painful truths would have +to be told, and he again looked with a strange strength of compunction +at the beautiful, weary, white face of Helena. + +Mr. Bamford was a very plain, rough-spoken man indeed, who walked with +a heavy step into the room, glanced at Sebastian from a pair of shrewd, +dark eyes, and without waiting for an introduction, gave a stiff little +nod, and said, ‘Your servant, sir;’ and then turned to his niece with +the greeting, ‘Well, Helena, this is a pretty business.’ + +‘It is very sad, uncle,’ said she, facing him, pale, and with dilated +eyes. ‘I think we had better not talk about it, but see what is to be +done.’ + +‘There’s not much left to be done now that yon precious brother o’ +yours has given us the slip.’ + +‘_What?_’ said Helena, growing paler than before, and putting her +trembling hands upon the table to support herself. ‘Fred given you the +slip--what do you mean? He has gone to see about papa’s affairs. He--I +expected him to come back with you. What has he done?’ + +There was no defiance in the tone, only apprehension. + +‘Done!’ ejaculated Mr. Bamford, plunging his hands into his pockets and +almost running about the room in his excitement. ‘Done! Why, he’s taken +everything he could lay his hands on in the shape of money or money’s +worth, and he’s off--perhaps to America, but certainly to the devil.’ + +‘Do you mean that Fred has acted dishonourably?’ asked Helena, almost +inaudibly, and trembling still more. + +‘Dishonourably! Why, you know nothing. Every one in Manchester knows it +by this time. There’s been precious little honour wasted on the whole +business, my lass. We know what to think when the men make away with +themselves one way or another, and leave the women and the debts behind +them.’ + +‘But my father--it was his misfortune--he did not----’ + +‘The less said about your father’s transactions, for the last six +weeks, the better,’ said Mr. Bamford, curtly. + +‘Consider Miss Spenceley’s feelings, sir!’ interposed Sebastian, unable +to endure seeing Helena’s despair, and feeling a glow almost of hatred +towards Mr. Bamford, and what struck him as his brutality. Helena had +turned away and covered her face with her hand, as a man might do +who is sorely hit on some vital point--it was more a man’s gesture +than a woman’s. Neither groan nor cry escaped her, but Sebastian +saw that the iron had entered into her soul. That which she endured +was the keenest moral anguish--the supremest of all pains. He could +understand it. Her beauty was enhanced: the reckless, impetuous girl, +with her ‘disorganised’ ideas, which he had laughed at before now, was +transformed into the noble woman, who must bear things which only women +can or do bear--the punishment for the sins of their masculine shields +and protectors. ‘She has had a very severe shock already,’ he went on, +‘and it cannot be necessary to pain her with----’ + +‘She must know the truth, and the sooner the better,’ said Mr. Bamford, +irascibly. ‘If she is a girl of spirit, she will not wish to be +deceived, and anyhow her whole life will have to be changed, and come +down a peg or two, for the sins of her father shall be visited upon +her.’ + +‘You are very kind, Mr. Mallory,’ said Helena, turning to them again +and speaking calmly, though her face had, even in those few minutes, +taken an older, worn expression, which shocked Sebastian. ‘I wish to +know the worst at once. I can bear it. I did not know there had been +anything dishonourable. Go on, uncle. I am not afraid, and I must know +what I have to tell my mother.’ + +‘By ----, the lass has a spirit of her own!’ observed Mr. Bamford. ‘Now +that I see what she’s made of, I may try to explain things to her a +bit.’ + +‘Then I will leave you,’ said Sebastian. ‘Miss Spenceley will tell you +that I made what arrangements were immediately necessary. I shall take +the liberty of calling soon,’ he added to Helena, ‘in the hope that I +may be of some assistance to you. May I?’ + +‘You are very kind,’ she said, still with the same unmoved calm, as +she gave him her hand. ‘I shall be glad to see you whenever you call. +Perhaps, another time I can thank you better for your goodness; but at +present----’ + +‘Pray do not thank me; there is not the very least necessity,’ said he, +as he left the room. + +‘Now, Uncle Robert!’ said Helena. + +‘Who is that young fellow?’ + +‘Mr. Sebastian Mallory.’ + +‘Young Mallory of the Oakenrod, who has been acting the philanthropist +since he came from abroad?’ + +‘Has he? Yes, it is that Mallory.’ + +‘Any particular friend of yours?’ + +‘No,’ was the cold response. ‘He happened to hear first of my father’s +death last night, and as there was no one else here, and no one to do +anything, he has been kind enough to arrange things for me since. I +know very little of him.’ + +‘H’m! ha! Well, we must get to business.’ + +In a very short time Helena was made acquainted with what had happened, +and with the bare and naked outline of her approaching future life. The +less said of her brother the better, said Mr. Bamford. He believed that +the sum with which he had absconded was about two thousand pounds. As +for her father--he softened his tone a little, out of consideration for +Helena--he was to blame, too, for not drawing in when first he began to +find himself in difficulties; ‘only that would have brought him down +in the world, and he couldn’t bear it; so, instead of going one step +lower, and then climbing up again when he had a chance, he has waited, +till he had to tumble down to the ground, and can never get up again,’ +remarked the merchant drily, while Helena listened. + +She showed him the scrap of paper which Sebastian had given her. + +‘Yes,’ said Mr. Bamford; ‘that money of yours is a myth----’ + +‘I am glad to hear it,’ said his niece, in a deep, almost resentful +tone. ‘And if it had been there--every penny--I should not have kept it +now, of course.’ + +‘And what your mother was to have had--it’s all in the business; was, I +mean. It has gone with the rest.’ + +‘I am glad of that too,’ observed Helena, concisely. ‘Then no one +will have the power to say that we were well off while other people +suffered.’ + +‘Your wardrobe and jewellery will be your own, of course. Your jewels +and your mother’s must be worth a pretty good sum, Helena.’ + +‘My jewellery will be sold, and mamma’s too.’ + +‘Please yourself about your own; but if your mother is not your +father’s most pressing creditor, I don’t know who is. Of course she +will sell her jewels; but she will keep the proceeds, and you will +abstain from meddling in matters you don’t understand.’ + +‘I understand right and wrong, uncle, and I shall do what I feel to be +right.’ + +‘Eh!’ he repeated, with a kind of chuckle: ‘the lass has a spirit in +her after all.’ + +They would have to leave Thanshope. Helena must try to find some +employment. He would give them a home until that was accomplished; to +his sister as long as she chose to stay with him. If she liked she +might keep house for him, but if she chose to also try some means of +gaining a livelihood, he would do what he could to help her. More, he +thought, they could not expect. + +‘Certainly not,’ said Helena, composedly. ‘We have no right to expect +so much, and may consider ourselves fortunate in having you for a +friend.’ + +She had always asked for work, she reminded herself when she was +alone--real work, necessary work--not the fads with which rich women +try to deceive themselves by calling them work. Behold! here was every +prospect of as much work as she liked, and yet she found nothing +cheering in it. Only--anything to get away from this sham life of sham +luxury, sham state, sham riches, sham everything--away from the world’s +eyes and those of Sebastian, into obscurity and poverty, which, she +felt, would be no shams, but stern realities, with front of brass and +eyes of stone. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +IRREVOCABLE. + + +‘Good-bye, Heywood, I wish you every success, and you carry the +assurance of success in yourself. You will return to England a man of +mark.’ + +‘I trust never to return to England,’ replied Myles, standing up in +Sebastian’s study, in the act of going. ‘I am afraid it will seem +ungracious to you when I say I don’t care much about success. I want +work; I don’t care whether it’s successful or not. There’s a verse in +the Bible about “What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world +and lose his own soul?” There may be many sorts of souls, don’t you +think so?’ + +‘Yes, certainly. But I think time will soften these feelings of yours. +Some time you will find yourself wishing to return to England.’ + +Myles shook his head, with a half-smile, at once melancholy and +sceptical. He ever wish to return to the place where Adrienne lived, +Sebastian Mallory’s wife! They had left the study, and gone to the hall +door. + +Straight before them, separated only by the garden and the dirty +little river, was the broad, busy street--the beautiful building of +the town-hall rose through the dusk before them. Lights twinkled; feet +and wheels sped rapidly past. As they paused before the open door, the +chimes rang out, clear and melodious; nine struck solemnly, and the old +tune which haunted Myles, so interwoven was it with all the most sacred +feelings of his life, was borne through the air in broken, fitful gusts +of sound. + +Sebastian heard it too. + +‘Take that as an omen,’ said he, earnestly. ‘The old poet old Martin +Usteri, in his homely German town, touched a deeper truth when he wrote +that little song of his, than all our present pessimistic sages put +together can cram into their learned books. Don’t forget the tune when +you are away.’ + +‘I am not likely ever to forget it,’ said Myles. ‘Good-bye, and thank +you. I cannot say more.’ + +With a pressure of the hand he was gone. Sebastian heard his quick step +along the gravel--then he heard the gate open and swing to after him; +and then Myles Heywood’s form and footsteps were lost in the general +rush along the busy street. Sebastian was left to listen to the last +echoes of the chimes, and to hum softly to himself-- + + ‘Freut Euch des Lebens, + Weil noch das Lämpchen glüht! + Pflücket die Rose, + Eh’ sie verblüht.’ + +Myles was striding quickly homewards. In the hurry, preparation, +and excitement of the last two days his mind had regained somewhat +its vigour. It was not that he felt at all happier, or satisfied, or +contented--not that life appeared much brighter to him, only _it had +to be lived_. He set that formula before his mind, and never allowed +a doubt upon the subject to intrude, because he dared not. He felt +that his only safe, his only reasonable course of action, was to press +forward sternly and as rapidly as possible; to cast from him his old +life like a worn-out coat, and begin the new one. + +There was the prospect before him of life, struggle, striving, which +he knew was worth a hundred of the lives he had been leading, which +he knew it was his duty to accept and fulfil. The mere idea of +it--of the difficulties to be overcome, and the possibilities to be +attained--attracted him and braced him up, even while all he must leave +seemed to grow dearer and more desirable as it was thrust farther into +the background. There was no turning back now; a delay was what he most +dreaded. He had grown a little grim and hard in his resolute pressing +forward; even Mary fancied that he left them with a kind of exultation, +and grieved the more, even while she felt no surprise. + +This evening he walked rapidly up the hilly street, ‘for the last +time,’ he kept saying to himself, and hoping so too. How he had loved +this prosaic, commonplace, dingy manufacturing town! What memories +hung about it! Memories of a childhood spent amongst those he loved, +of a youth and young manhood, which had not been without their +honest, hearty struggles, strivings, and conquests, as well as their +backslidings and failures; memories of a love which had grown upon him, +stealing into his heart by such gentle, subtle degrees that he could +by no means define them--which love had become the master passion of +his earnest heart, with heaven on its side, and chaos on the other. +All this he had lived through in grimy, smoky Thanshope, with the +everlasting roar of machinery as a sort of chorus; within sound of the +melodius, chiming bells. His whole surroundings had ever been earnest +and serious as his own thoughts and bent of mind, and he felt that +no other home would ever be harmonious to him as this was. Yet he +was going to leave it all to-morrow, and his heart beat with a fierce +gladness at the thought. + +Occupied with such reflections as these, he found himself at his +own door, and went into the house. Mary was in the kitchen. All her +preparations lay neglected; she sat in her rocking-chair, with her +hands before her, looking at nothing, her eyes wet with tears. + +‘What ails you, Molly?’ + +‘Eh, you’re there, Myles! Nothing ails me except thinking o’ what Miss +Blisset’s been talking about.’ + +‘Miss Blisset!’ he echoed in a gentle voice, pausing to look at her. +‘Has she been here?’ + +‘Ay, she has so! She only heard tell this morning about poor Ned, +and she came down to say how sorry she were. Eh, but she is some and +altered; hoo’s gone so quiet, I ne’er saw nowt like it. Hoo were ne’er +a noisy one, but now----’ + +Mary paused a minute. + +‘I’d a deal to tell her--all about me and Harry, and poor Ned, and +about thy going away.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, in a dull voice. + +‘Hoo fair started when hoo heard thou were going away. Hoo were so +surprised. I told her all about it, and hoo said it were much the best +thing, and I were to congratulate you. And then hoo said it were a +long time since hoo had seen you, and, if you’d time, would you go up +to-night and see her, for she’d something she wanted to say to you. If +you do go,’ added Mary, ‘you’ll have to go now, or it’ll get too late. +It’s after nine.’ + +‘I don’t think it would be anything very important,’ said her brother, +in a measured voice. ‘And I have no time, either. I’ve a lot of things +to do to-night.’ + +‘Won’t you go?’ asked Mary, opening her eyes wide. ‘Not go and say +good-bye to her! Such friends as you’ve been!’ + +‘No,’ repeated Myles. ‘She will understand that I am too busy.’ + +‘I don’t think hoo’ll understand nowt o’ t’ sort,’ said Mary very +emphatically. ‘But go thy own gait! thou knows best.’ + +He turned away from her, and went upstairs to nail up a box with some +books of his own in it, and to put up some few things of furniture +which Mary was to take away with her when she went to the Ashworths’ +house; and as he worked his heart and his temples throbbed almost to +bursting. + +Go to her, after what had been said! And, never to mention that, why +was he to go to her? To hear something she wanted to tell him! What +could that be, but that she was going to marry Sebastian? He was to +walk up and hear that from her own lips, and then say good-bye to her, +and not betray himself! After what had happened! After he had gone +through with his bitter task, accepted favours from Sebastian--all in +order that he might never see her again! No! Of course it might be +ungrateful, brutal, uncivilised; it was nevertheless the only safe +path for him to take--to maintain absolute silence and let her think +what she pleased of him. What did it matter? She had Sebastian. He +would soon be forgotten; he would take care of that. He knew, he was +perfectly conscious all the time, that he was doing wrong. As he drove +one nail after another into the box, each stroke of the hammer seemed +to say ‘Wrong!’ And, with his eyes open, he did that wrong, because he +was utterly miserable, and for the moment utterly indifferent; because +he had suffered so much and so long that even his will felt broken, and +to deliberately go to her and court still more suffering was more than +he could do. + +The theory of the freedom of the will, says the latest philosophy, +is nonsense, and worse than nonsense. If we seriously follow out +such an idea, it leads us into a mad confusion--an insane chaos of +impossibilities piled on impossibilities. We have no power to will +this or that; we have the power of following and obeying the strongest +motives, and acting upon them. It was in strict accordance with this +principle that Myles behaved in this crisis of his fate: he followed +and obeyed the strongest motives--he stayed at home. + +Soon after eight the next morning he left. Later on the same day, +Mr. Hoyle, hearing of the disappearance of Frederick Spenceley, was +perforce reminded of the words of the preacher, and learnt practically +that he had wrought in vain; that, truly, all was vanity. + + + + +BOOK III. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE DAWN OF NEW DAYS. + + +It was August; the second August since that memorable one in 1862. This +year, that of 1864, was in many respects a remarkable one in the annals +of commerce, more especially in that branch of it known as the cotton +trade. + +Strange events had been witnessed; amongst others, a wondering world +had looked on at the great ‘scare’ which took place amongst the cotton +lords, when the first mistaken rumours of peace were spread. The +members of a trade whose greatest friend, it might have been supposed, +would be peace, turned pale and trembled when peace was mentioned, and +actually wished for the continuance of war; some of them saying that +for them the alternative was war or ruin. Things grew somewhat more +sane and better balanced, later; but the fact remained, that for once +a great industry had seriously inclined her ear unto warlike councils, +and had sought therein her profit. Despite all drawbacks, however, this +last mighty daughter of civilisation was slowly arousing, and shaking +off the paralysis which oppressed her. She stretched her huge limbs, +and found that there was still life and vigour in them. Factories +were being reopened on every side, and amongst those which were again +working full time was that of Sebastian Mallory. + +He sat breakfasting one Friday morning, alone, opening his letters, and +with the unopened newspapers beside him. He usually breakfasted alone +now, and had grown quite accustomed to it. Mrs. Mallory rather avoided +his society, and he, when he thought about the matter at all, felt the +absence to be a relief rather than otherwise. + +Two years may or may not make a great change both in the character and +appearance of a man. Sebastian Mallory was somewhat altered in the +latter respect since he had parted from Myles Heywood one evening, +which, when he thought of it, seemed a long time ago. His face had +taken an older, more decided expression; his lips were more firmly +closed; his eyes had lost much of their listlessness. He had found +plenty of work ready to his hand, and he was not one of those persons +whose work decreases. Business accumulated about him. People had +discovered that he was useful, capable, and impartial. He did not know +himself how great his influence was, or rather he had not known it +until a few days before, when, to his great surprise, he had been asked +to contest the borough in the Radical interest, so soon as a vacancy +should occur. He had promised to take the matter into consideration. +In a few days his answer was to be given. He was not wont to waver +or vacillate; generally he could sum up the reasons for and against +a course, and decide in the most prudent and reasonable way. On this +occasion he had not found the matter so easily disposed of. ‘He would, +and he would not.’ Many considerations urged him to accept; he could +scarcely assign any for declining. The only one which would have +been valid--that he felt no desire for a public life, and no wish to +increase his present occupations--was absent. He had often felt a +strong inclination for such a life; and he knew that he could manage +to give time enough to it. The core of the matter was that his heart +was not in it. As he read his letters this morning, he thought of the +coming interview with his supporters, and had an odd sensation that he +absolutely did not know what to say to them, and that it was a case +which might appropriately be settled by tossing up. + +He laid two of his letters on one side, until the business +communications were disposed of, and then he took one of them up. They +both bore the Prussian stamp of two and a half groschen, and both were +addressed in a German handwriting. He took up the first of them, with +a slight smile hovering about his lips, or ever he began to read. + + ‘DEAR SEBASTIAN,’ it began, + + ‘What an age it is since I heard from you! I look out fervently every + day for the postman, and he never comes. I suppose you are _busy_! + How completely changed you are, you who never used to be busy. I am + writing this at the midnight hour, because I have news for you. Good + news, of course; if it were bad news, I should leave it to travel to + you on its own legs. Old Biermann, the _Direktor_, and I have, so to + speak, buried the tomahawk, and sworn an alliance; and he is going to + give my little cantata, _Hermann u. Dorothea_, at the next concert + but one. This is a great step in advance. I hardly know what has + induced him to be so gracious; but his word is given now, and let him + repent him never so much, he will be obliged to carry it out. I need + not tell you, however, that I look upon it only as a step, and that + my hopes and wishes continue to turn always to the opera. I am not + hurrying about it, because I want it to be worth hearing when it is + done. Mozart was only eighteen when his first opera (it’s true it was + a comic one) was produced, and I am nearly twenty. + + ‘I am in luck’s way, too. I have earned ten pounds by my own + exertions, teaching, in the last six months. It is spread out before + me in a beautiful shining row. No money ever looked so charming + before. Please remember this, and make your next remittance ten + pounds less than usual, or else I shall not feel as if I had really + earned it. + + ‘I cannot give you any news, for there is none; still, I will + tell you what happened to me the other day. I was walking in the + _Hofgarten_, when I met a lady walking alone. I looked up, and I + thought: ‘Helena Spenceley! How did she come here?’ In the surprise + of the moment I did not look at her attentively enough, but raised my + cap, held out my hand, and was going to accost her, when she smiled + and uttered a rather astonished ‘_Mein Herr_, you are mistaken!’ She + was German, and when she smiled I saw the difference; she had not + Helena’s fire and spirit, and yet the likeness was wonderful. The + incident set me thinking about these old days. You never mention + Helena now. Do you never see her? Tell me when you write. I have + never seen any one like her. I suppose you are too busy to think of + such things. I used to wonder at your coolness all the time that she + was suffering so, in consequence of that wicked father and brother of + hers. I used to make her, in my own mind, the heroine of a hundred + tragedies and romances, in those days. And yet--forgive me for saying + so, I have always said things I ought not to say, to you--I was + nothing to her but an enthusiastic boy, to whom she was kind, and you + were a great deal--a man--I believe _the_ man. Since I met that lady + in the gardens, I have thought a great deal about it, and as I found + a little poem the other day, called _Hélène_, I composed an air for + it, and made it into a song; but I shall not sell it. You may have it + if you like; but I shall not send it until I hear from you. + + ‘Ever your devoted + ‘HUGO.’ + +Sebastian put the letter down, the smile fading from his face. The +meeting with a strange girl, a passing likeness, had set Hugo’s memory +working; had prompted him to write words which seemed striking to +Sebastian. He had thought, more than once--often--of Helena Spenceley, +but he had never seen her since, with disasters falling thick upon +her young head, she, with her mother, had left Thanshope. They had +gone to Manchester, he had heard. Once or twice he had asked his +mother if she had not heard from Helena, for he remembered that Mrs. +Mallory had told him how Helena had been a ‘kind of daughter’ to her; +but she had composedly answered ‘No,’ and had added that she did not +know their address, and had reason to think they did not wish to keep +up any of their old Thanshope acquaintances, which, she feelingly +added, was really very natural under the circumstances. At the time +of their departure, business had pressed upon Sebastian, as it had +continued to press upon him ever since. He had been smarting under the +disappointment of his refusal by Adrienne. Helena and her misfortunes +had touched him deeply; her calmness, and the real heroism with which +she met her fate, had impressed him. He had firmly intended that he +should not be one of the Thanshope acquaintances whom they dropped +entirely; but, by some means, they had slipped out of his ken, and +he had not been able to find them again. Yet, many a time, Helena’s +beautiful face had seemed to start up before his eyes, at strange +moments: sometimes when he was most busy, sometimes when he was in one +of his rare idle moods. Sometimes a song or a strain of music would +summon up the vision; sometimes in a busy street, or in a silent hour, +it would hover before him. This morning, after reading Hugo’s letter, +he saw it more strongly than ever; but with the strength of will which +belongs to daylight and activity, he thrust it away, and took up his +other letter. + +It was from his old friend, Herr Süsmeyer, who asked him if he was +never coming to see him again, and added, that he expected his son home +some time during the autumn, to take his place in the business. There +were further domestic details, and then the remark, ‘Young Heywood, +whom you sent here to me, is my right hand, now that I am somewhat +laid up; but he has been invaluable ever since he fairly mastered the +language. I should like to speak to you about him too. There will have +to be some change when Julius returns.’ + +‘Julius will return, will he?’ murmured Sebastian to himself. ‘And +Heywood is invaluable. He has gained the old man’s affections, and has +not hardened his heart against him, or indeed against any one but me. +But I know the reason, and can forgive him. It is an old story now. +Still, if ever I had the chance, I should like to test once again his +feelings, and see if he is as stiffnecked as ever.’ + +He put the letters into his pocket-book, and, having finished +breakfast, took his way to his office, pondering as to whether it +would be possible for him to get a brief holiday some time during the +autumn, run over to Eisendorf, see Herr Süsmeyer, and observe with +his own eyes how ‘young Heywood’ was getting on; then go on to where +Hugo was studying, and carry him off with him to--Italy, perhaps, or +Switzerland. He began to long all at once that he might be able to do +so, and to yearn, almost, for the sound of Hugo’s voice; to feel a +sudden weariness of this grey, dismal town--this never-ending strife +with starvation, this strained suspense, this sensation of standing on +the brink of a precipice, which had been present with him, as it was +with most men in his position, during all those troubled years. The +last two of them he had fought out alone: to-day, for the first time, +he felt the battle weary and monotonous--almost ignoble. + +‘Please, sir,’ said Ben, who still retained his place in the office, as +Sebastian entered it, ‘there’s a message from Mr. Sutcliffe to say he’s +very poorly this morning, and can’t come. He’s very sorry, and he hopes +he’ll be better to-morrow.’ + +‘Ill, is he?’ said Sebastian, going into his private room. Mr. +Sutcliffe had often been ill lately, and when he came to his work he +walked feebly, and coughed a good deal. + +‘That’s another question that must be settled, and before long, too,’ +reflected Mr. Mallory, a shade of care upon his brow, when he found +himself alone. ‘I must have a serious talk with Sutcliffe, but how I’m +to manage to make him have assistance, and yet take the same salary, I +don’t know. He is so confoundedly conscientious.’ + +After working doubly hard, in order to make up for Mr. Sutcliffe’s +absence, Sebastian found himself, shortly after eleven o’clock, in +the train on his way to Manchester, Tuesday and Friday being the +market-days in that city: the days when merchants in the streets most +do congregate, and when that impressive spectacle, High ’Change, is +wont to be even more imposing than usual. + +It was a busy day. Sebastian, after going on ’Change and visiting his +Manchester office, made certain business calls, and, in the middle +of the afternoon, found himself standing in Mosley Street, exactly +opposite the Royal Institution. + +It was a hot, close, Manchester afternoon. Scarcely a breath of air +was stirring. The smoke pressed heavily down upon the thick, yellow +air. Faintly the coppery sunbeams tried to struggle through it, +and wavered, and seemed to fail. There was a roar and a din in the +much-frequented street--all about the great black, grimy-looking +buildings, shops, offices, and warehouses. Omnibuses, carts, and +lorries were struggling in a ‘lock’ in the middle of the street, +and two exhausted-looking policemen were trying to restore order. +Sebastian’s next destination was over the way; but, surveying the scene +before him, he saw no immediate prospect of getting over the way, and +turned round towards the Royal Institution, as if to consult that +building as to what he had better do. + +Three large boards, covered with placards, caught his eye. ‘Exhibition +of Pictures,’ in large letters, stood at the top of the boards, while +profuse details followed in smaller print below. + +‘The pictures! Why not go in and have a look?’ he reflected, and +straightway walked up to the door, paid his shilling, secured a +catalogue, and ran up the steps. + +It was between three and four in the afternoon. If it had been sultry +out of doors, it was much more so within. The rooms felt stiflingly +hot, and the blaze of colour upon the walls was oppressive. There were +not very many visitors present, and those who had come were going +languidly round. The people who had secured seats upon the chairs or +divans looked nearly asleep, and those who had not secured such seats +were looking enviously at those who had, as if, with a little more +provocation, they would forget conventionality and sit down on top of +them. + +Sebastian glanced critically around. Now and then a picture caught his +eye and partially pleased it, but these were few and far between; and +he passed rather quickly from one room to another, until he came to the +end one of all, which was devoted to water-colours. The first object +that met his eye was an empty chair, and he promptly sat down upon +it. On examining the wall before him, he found that one oil-painting +had been admitted amongst the water-colours, and that it was hung +exactly opposite to him. He sat in rapt contemplation of it, feebly +endeavouring to guess what it was meant to represent. A drab-coloured +lady crouched together, nursing one of her own feet. She was scantily +attired, also in drab, and had a peculiar cast of countenance, and +an imbecile smile, showing rows of very fine teeth, and was glancing +upwards. She was adorned with ropes of pearls of a size and value which +must have surprised even the author of ‘Lothair,’ could he have seen +them. An opaque veil prevented the colour of her hair from being seen. +She was drab; the stones of the palace-steps upon which she reposed +were likewise drab. The sand of the banks, the water of the river +flowing by, were all drab. Sebastian studied the composition, and shook +his head, referring in despair to his catalogue. ‘Cleopatra by the +Nile, by ----. Price, one hundred guineas.’ If a little green ticket +stuck in the margin of the frame were to be believed, this work of +genius was sold. + +‘Some fellows do have most awful strokes of luck,’ mused Sebastian. +‘Now, the man who painted this thing--I wonder if he knew how the +chances were against his ever sell----’ + +‘You shan’t!’ + +‘I shall! I tell you I shall have that picture; it’s mine. I like that +little pussy. Mayn’t I have that little pussy, Miss Spenceley?’ + +‘Well, no, dear, I’m afraid not, unless you can persuade papa to buy +it; because, you see, we can’t take the things away.’ + +‘But I will have it! I want that little pussy for my own!’ And a howl +followed. + +‘Oh, hush, Jacky, dear! What shall we do if the man comes to turn us +out? Come here. We’ll ask papa about the pussy, shall we?’ + +Sebastian started from his chair, heat, listlessness, ‘Cleopatra by +the Nile,’ and everything else forgotten, and turned suddenly round. +The group was behind him, close to him--yes, he knew that figure again +instantly, even in its present shabbiness, compared with its former +splendour. She was bending over an urchin of four or five summers, +whose engaging countenance was ominously puckered up in readiness for +another burst of infantile music. Two other children, a girl and a boy, +both older than the would-be possessor of the pussy-cat, stood by, +wrangling with each other as to the possession of another work of art. +She still did not turn her face in his direction, but Sebastian, with +an eagerness and a pleasure which surprised even himself, exclaimed +very audibly, + +‘Miss Spenceley, have you forgotten me? Won’t you look at me?’ She +started violently from her stooping attitude, and, leaving the +recalcitrant Jacky to his fate, at last turned to him. + +‘Mr. Mallory, I--I--how you surprised me!’ she stammered, looking at +first so pale and startled that he was surprised. + +He was shocked too, after the first glance, at the change, the sad, +mournful change, in her face. + +‘You do know me again,’ he said; ‘at least you might shake hands with +me. I fear you are not pleased to renew our acquaintance.’ + +He had taken her hand, and as his fingers touched hers, Helena’s +paleness fled, and crimson dyed her cheeks. Tears rushed to her eyes; +her lips opened, but she did not speak. His eyes were still fixed +upon her face; he could not remove them; he did not realise that his +prolonged gaze distressed her. He felt unaccountably glad to meet her, +pleased, excited, light-hearted, as if he had a great deal to say to +her and ask her. He forgot all about his engagements--about returning +to the station, or going home; he wanted to talk to her, to hear her +speak, to find out all about her. + +The colour gradually died out of her cheeks, and then became again +apparent the change these two years had wrought in her. She was thin, +decidedly thin, compared with the full if delicate beauty of past days; +there were hollows in her cheeks, and under her great dark eyes; there +was a painful line about her lips, and a melancholy, which looked +as if it were settled, in her expression. She looked, what he had +never thought she could look, patient and subdued--not the impulsive, +fiery-hearted girl whom he had known and teased and quarrelled with. + +Her dress, he also saw, was sadly altered. Helena had always had a +weakness for splendid things: she delighted in a rich colour, a soft +silk, a sheeny satin--in all kinds of luxurious, and beautiful, and +fashionable things. Formerly people used to laugh at this weakness. +Other girls, whose fathers had not been so rich as Mr. Spenceley, used +to turn up their noses, and say that she was vulgarly ostentatious; +that it was exceedingly bad taste in a girl to dress herself as +splendidly as a dowager, and so on. In truth, it had been no bad +taste at all. The splendour was part of her nature--one phase of her +individuality; it belonged to her as much as her queenly shape and +melodious voice. + +But now--there was no splendour in that dress, of poor material and +last year’s fashion. The silk mantle had been handsome once--perhaps it +was a relic of palmier days; now its shape was antiquated, and it was +too good for the poorness of the rest of the toilette. The glove on the +hand, which Sebastian still continued to hold, had been often mended. +Helena looked what she used to have the strongest objection to--poor, +shabby, and unprosperous, her good looks faded---- + +But not gone. No. Sebastian, staring on in the same rude and +reprehensible manner, satisfied himself that her beauty was only +clouded over, not vanished. + +‘Do you know, I have been thinking about you a great deal to-day?’ he +said. ‘I had a letter this morning from Hugo von Birkenau: he saw a +German lady in the gardens at ----, and thought it was you. Just fancy! +He made all sorts of inquiries about you. How fortunate that I happened +to look in this afternoon!’ + +Helena seemed to have nothing to reply. Her face was still downcast; +she remained silent. + +‘It is nearly two years since we met,’ he urged; ‘and yet you do not +say you are glad to see me.’ + +‘Oh, I am! Very glad,’ murmured Helena. + +‘You live in Manchester still?’ + +‘Yes; mamma and I. We live in Woodford Street----’ + +She named one of the southern suburbs of Manchester. + +‘Do you? That is not far away. How odd that we should never have met!’ + +‘I don’t think so. Woodford Street is not a fashionable locality.’ + +‘Is it not? I must remember the name. I asked my mother where you +lived, but she said she did not know the address. But now that we have +met, I am sure you will allow me to call, will you not?’ + +‘Our house is so very small; we have so few visitors,’ she began in +some embarrassment. + +‘But, my dear Miss Spenceley, you do not seriously mean that you could +urge that as an objection,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are pleased to chaff me, +I think, as you used to do.’ + +Helena turned abruptly away; her lips set; her eyes fixed upon a +water-colour drawing immediately before them. + +‘Do you mean that you really would rather I did not come?’ he asked +earnestly, and excessively piqued at the idea. + +‘If you really wish to come,’ said Helena, rather proudly, ‘of course +we shall be happy to see you, but I am sure you will find it very +inconvenient. I am engaged until after four o’clock, and mamma----’ + +‘Until after four? I shall remember that. The evenings are long now, +and there are trains going to Thanshope till midnight, you know. How is +Mrs. Spenceley?’ + +‘She is very well, thank you.’ + +‘Have you been bringing these young people to see the pictures?’ he +inquired, for something in Helena’s manner forbade him to make the +eager personal inquiries which crowded to his lips. + +Now that the first shock and surprise of meeting him again had passed, +and she had recovered her self-possession, there was a certain +pride and distance of bearing which seemed to require considerable +deference on his part. Helena’s troubles had indeed made her into +a woman; she had most decidedly quitted the girlish stage. She had +probably, thought Sebastian, become a great deal more reasonable, and +consequently a great deal less amenable to the influence of other +persons--Miss Mereweather, for instance, and himself too. With regard +to Miss Mereweather, it might be a matter of rejoicing that Helena had +forsworn her tenets, but with regard to himself, perhaps that was not +altogether delightful. + +‘Yes,’ said Helena, calmly, as she looked at the three children, ‘I +have. They are my pupils.’ + +‘Are they good?’ + +‘I fancy they are as good as their parents will allow them to be. It +all depends upon that.’ + +‘How so?’ asked Sebastian. Anything to prolong the conversation! + +‘Mr. and Mrs. Galloway are supplied with the newest ideas upon all +subjects, education included. The new education theory is, that when +children are allowed their own way, they always do right; or if they do +wrong some one else is to blame for it. That is why I say they are as +good as their parents will allow them to be.’ + +‘And are you generally the “some one else” who is to blame?’ he asked, +wishing very much that she would utter some complaint, afford him some +chance of offering sympathy or expressing fellow-feeling. + +‘Oh no!’ she replied, quite cheerfully. ‘I only come in for my share, +and they really are very fond of me; only they show it in rather a +funny way. That is why I can’t see any one before four o’clock. I leave +them then--reluctantly, of course,’ she added, with a smile which vexed +Sebastian, because he could not tell whether it was feigned or not; +‘but still, I leave them.’ + +‘Won’t you sit down in this chair,’ he said reproachfully, ‘and tell +me all about yourself?’ He moved the chair forward for her, for he saw +that she looked tired, and indeed she was very tired, and Sebastian +looked to her wearied eyes, so kind, so handsome, and so agreeable, +that it was with difficulty she maintained her little air of dignified +reserve: but the voice within was a powerful one: ‘What right has he +to look at me in that gentle, reproachful way, as if he, and not poor +mamma and I, had been neglected? It is impertinent, and I won’t submit +to it.’ + +‘No, thank you,’ she said aloud, looking at her watch. ‘It is time to +go. We must take a Victoria Park omnibus, and it will pass in three +minutes. Come, children! Jacky, Amy, Ted! we must go.’ + +They came obediently enough, their failing appearing to be in affection +towards each other. They lavished affectionate epithets upon their +governess, and quarrelled, as Helena said, ‘because I have not three +hands;’ but they cast looks of suspicion upon each other, and took +every opportunity of falling out. + +‘Good afternoon!’ said Helena to Sebastian, and as the children crowded +round her and clasped her hands, she was not displeased to see that his +face fell. She was glad that he should see that she was not altogether +an object of pity. + +‘I am going too,’ he said. ‘I will see you into the omnibus. It will +save you a little trouble. Come, young lady, take hold of my hand, or +you will tear Miss Spenceley to pieces.’ + +The little girl put her hand in his contentedly enough, merely +informing her brothers that they were ‘nasty, selfish things,’ and the +procession went downstairs. + +As they stood on the top of the steps, waiting for the omnibus, +Sebastian, turning once more to Helena, said, + +‘You have not told me the number of your house. What is it?’ + +‘Fifty-seven,’ said Helena. ‘Jacky, dear, if you pull Teddy’s hair +again, I’ll make you sit outside the omnibus.’ + +‘Fifty-seven. Best make a note of it, for fear I should forget it,’ +he added, jotting it down, while Helena, with a brave assumption of +indifference, looked straight before her, and choked back her tears. + +‘You are not engaged until four o’clock on Sundays, are you?’ he +suddenly asked. + +‘No--but--oh, don’t come on Sunday!’ said Helena in her old tragic +manner. + +‘I solemnly swear that I will not come on Sunday!’ he said. ‘And +equally solemnly I swear I will make you tell me why I am forbidden to +come on that day.’ + +‘Why?’ said Helena, with a kind of half-laugh, not quite free from an +hysterical sound--‘why, the reason is simple enough. Because----’ + +The omnibus is almost more relentless in its punctuality than time and +tide. Not another word could be exchanged. They ran down the steps, and +went through the ignominious performance of hailing and catching the +vehicle. Sebastian, with great presence of mind, did manage to clasp +Helena’s hand once more, and to repeat the words, + +‘I shall come soon, and _not_ on Sunday.’ + +Then he stood in the middle of Mosley Street gazing after the omnibus, +until an uproar caused him to look up, and he found himself surrounded +with infuriated lorrie-drivers, swearing at him for getting into the +way, while a hansom cabman had just pulled his horse up on to its +very haunches, and was apostrophising him in a manner the reverse of +complimentary. Newspaper boys were jeering at him, and an indignant +policeman was ordering him to move on. + +With an amiable smile, and a murmured general apology, he made his way +to the footpath, and then on to the station. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +FENCING. + + +Towards five o’clock on the following Tuesday afternoon, a hansom-cab +drove rapidly up that Manchester thoroughfare known as Oxford Street, +and the address given by the man who took it had been, ‘Fifty-seven +Woodford Street.’ + +As they spun rapidly along, he looked out wondering on which side of +Oxford Street Woodford Street might lie; how far from town, and if it +would turn out to be a very poor little street indeed. He remembered +Helena’s look of embarrassment, as she said the house was small and +uncomfortable. They drove on; the cab passed the Owen’s College, passed +the ‘Church of the Holy Name,’ passed some other buildings, and at last +turned off to the right. + +Sebastian shook his head. ‘Not the best side. Poor little Helena!’ Why +did he always think of her as ‘little Helena,’ she who was taller than +most women, and whose disdainful head, set upon her long white neck, +had been wont to look over the heads of a good many even of the men +of Thanshope? Three whole days had passed since he had met her in the +Royal Institution--three whole days, and part of a fourth, because she +had told him not to come on Sunday. + +‘Why wouldn’t she let me come on Sunday?’ he had asked himself many +times, and had assigned all kinds of imaginary reasons for the +prohibition. The latest was, ‘Perhaps other people, or another person, +may be allowed to come on Sunday. I shall make her tell me--if I can. I +wonder if I can call one of those old flashing smiles to her face--one +of those looks, which ran over it, and made it more beautiful still, if +that could be?’ + +Lost in profound conjecture upon this subject, he forgot to look where +they were going, until the cab had traversed several smallish streets, +and at last pulled up suddenly before one of a row of moderately sized +houses--houses of the kind which would be called ‘respectable.’ It was +not a glaring new street: it was neatly kept, and as he jumped out +of the hansom and looked up it and down it, he did not see a single +barrel-organ--not even a perambulator. + +Neither of these things did he behold; but he saw Helena Spenceley +herself, just coming up to the gate, walking rather wearily, and +looking tired as she pushed it open. + +‘She has been walking, and I have been driving,’ he thought, with a +strange sensation of guiltiness, as he dismissed the man and joined her. + +‘You see, I have kept my word,’ he observed. ‘I have come soon, and I +have not come on Sunday.’ + +‘I am glad to see you,’ said Helena, sedately. + +They were airing themselves all this time on the top of the door steps, +Mrs. Spenceley’s domestic, or domestics, not seeming to be in any +violent hurry to open the front door; but as Sebastian was about to +make some further observation, it was suddenly flung (as much as such +a modestly proportioned door could be flung) wide open, by a young man +whose appearance seemed to indicate that he belonged to some one of the +numerous tribe of clerks. + +When he saw them he recoiled a step or two, and Sebastian, to his +great amusement, saw that he was honoured by the surprised young +gentleman with a scowl of peculiar malevolence. Clearing his brow, +after a moment, of this unbecoming expression, he addressed himself to +Helena. + +‘Good afternoon, Miss Spenceley. I hope I see you well.’ + +‘Very well, thank you. Will you allow me to pass?’ + +‘You see I am somewhat earlier to-day; in fact two hours earlier than +usual. I was, if I must tell the truth, on my way to meet _you_,’ +with great emphasis upon the personal pronoun, and a languishing but +fascinating smile. + +‘To meet _me_?’ repeated Helena, with equal emphasis. ‘Pray, on what +errand, Mr. Jenkins?’ + +‘I thought, as the evening was so beautiful, you might possibly not be +indisposed for a--a--little walk after tea of course; and if so, I----’ + +‘I am obliged, but I am engaged this evening, and I _never_ take walks +after tea,’ said Helena, with crushing coldness. ‘If you will kindly +allow us to pass----’ + +Mr. Jenkins, plunging his hand into his breast, flattened himself +against the wall, and resumed the Giaour-like scowl as Sebastian +followed Helena. She opened the door of a back room and invited him in. + +‘I am afraid you will find it rather hot,’ said she; ‘these little +houses are so thin, you know. They let the heat in, and then it never +seems to get out again, somehow. Take that chair,’ and she seated +herself languidly upon another. ‘It is our only sitting-room,’ she +added, drawing off her gloves, and speaking deliberately, as she looked +fixedly at Sebastian, to see how he would take her announcement. ‘It is +dining, and drawing-room, morning-room, boudoir, and library. At Castle +Hill we had them separately, but here mamma lets the rest of her rooms +to lodgers. Mr. Jenkins, who wanted me to go for a walk with him, was +one of them.’ + +‘I see,’ said Sebastian, tranquilly. ‘I also saw that I did not rise in +his esteem from the fact that I deprived him of his walk.’ + +‘Mr. Mallory!’ exclaimed Helena, indignantly, as she lost the languid +look and suddenly sat upright, ‘do you insult me by supposing that I +_ever_ take my walks abroad with that horrid, presuming little man? +But why should you not suppose so?’ she added with a little laugh. + +‘I supposed nothing,’ said Sebastian. ‘I only saw that he looked very +much disappointed, and I could quite sympathise with him.’ + +Here he ventured to look at Helena with some meaning in his glance, +but was met by a direct gaze of what seemed to him cheerful, blank +indifference--a gaze which chilled him; for Helena’s looks and glances +had suddenly risen to a place of high importance in his mind. Their +interview on Friday, especially the first few minutes of it, haunted +him. He could not forget her agitation, nor how she had turned, first +pale, and then red as a rose, on meeting him. He had wondered, and had +determined to find out, what the agitation meant. He had thought it +would be quite easy. The Helena whom he had known in former days had +not been adroit in concealing her feelings, but before the present +young lady he was obliged to own himself baffled. Her appearance, +attitude, expression, were languid and weary; she looked worn, and +not very happy, but her manner was composed, and a little hard in its +ostentatious cheerfulness. He could not tell what was real and what +assumed, and the desire to find out, to break down the reserve, to +conquer in short--his besetting foible--grew very strong indeed. + +‘Can you drink tea at five o’clock?’ pursued Helena. ‘We have ours +at five. Teaching makes me thirsty, and mamma likes her tea at five. +Remember, there is no dinner to follow after.’ + +‘If you invite me to tea, I am sure I shall be delighted to stay.’ + +‘Then you are invited. Now I must go and take off my things. I will try +to find mamma. You will excuse our leaving you alone for a short time.’ + +‘Pray don’t mention it,’ said Sebastian, and Helena left the room. It +was not a lofty room: the doorway was decidedly low, and he thought she +would have to stoop to pass under it. + +When he was left alone, he glanced round the room. It was rather +small, and was over-filled with furniture. Books were scattered about, +and in the most shady corner of the room there was a vase containing a +carefully preserved nosegay, such as might be bought for a trifle at +any greengrocer’s shop in the neighbourhood. Everything was exquisitely +neat and orderly, and in little touches here and there he fancied he +recognised Helena’s hand despite the plainness, and in some respects +even poorness, of the furniture. On the mantelpiece he detected two +little vases of Sevres--relics of former splendour, no doubt. There +was no piano, he noticed that. Perhaps because it would have filled +up the room too much, or perhaps because pianos were rather expensive +things to buy or hire. Yet Helena used to sing, and had a very fresh, +sweet voice. How well he remembered her on that evening when he had +first seen her--in her beauty and splendour, in her costly dress and +sparkling necklace and rings. She had sung, ‘Since first I saw your +face.’ + +That seemed a very long time ago! + +He hoped it would not be long before Helena came down again. He hoped +Mrs. Spenceley would not sit with them all the evening, and he hoped +they would not expect him to go away very early. + +Presently the door was opened, and, not Helena but her mother came in. +Sebastian was as much struck with the change in her as he had been +shocked with that in Helena, but in a different way. Mrs. Spenceley +looked better, happier, younger, and more contented, than she had done +since her husband had made his fortune eighteen years ago. And she +looked so because she was so. She did not mind the narrow means, the +small house, the two girls, and the constant necessity for her presence +in the kitchen. All that was as the breath of life to her, and she +thoroughly enjoyed it. Sebastian, with a sigh of relief, felt that here +no condolences were needed, no delicate skirting of dangerous ground. +He might look cheerful, and ask Mrs. Spenceley with confidence and +success how she was. The nature of her answer was visibly written upon +her face beforehand. + +‘Well, Mr. Mallory, this is a pleasure! I could scarcely believe it +when Helena said she had met you, and you were coming to see us. I +said, “Eh, he’ll never come, not he!” But she said she thought you +would; and she’s right, it seems.’ + +‘She certainly is. I am very glad to see you looking so well, Mrs. +Spenceley.’ + +‘Oh, thank you,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, lightly, flinging a purple satin +cap-string over her shoulder. ‘I’ve nothing to complain of, thank God! +I’ve got on much better than I’d any reason to expect, and I’m thankful +for it. It’s hard work sometimes, but I’ve a broad back.’ + +Which she certainly had. + +‘That is very fortunate,’ he said, with becoming solemnity. + +‘Yes; I’ve four gentlemen. You’d wonder where we find room to put them +all, but the house is more capacious’ (Sebastian conjectured that she +meant spacious) ‘than it looks, and we’ve room for them all. Very +nice gentlemen they are too; all in business in Manchester, you know. +They’re quiet and well-behaved, and they pay up regularly; and,’ she +added, dropping her voice, ‘none of your stand-off gents. They are all +disposed to be most friendly, all except Mr. Harrison, and he’s engaged +to his cousin, who lives in Northumberland. He hears from her regularly +twice a week.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Sebastian, with an air of the deepest interest--the air of +one thirsting for more information. + +‘But all the others, Mr. Finlay, and Mr. Smithson, and Mr. Jenkins--are +most friendly, and quite gentlemen, every one of them. Indeed, Mr. +Jenkins,’ she dropped her voice again, ‘is very much interested in +Helena.’ + +‘Is he?’ said Sebastian, still with unfeigned interest. + +‘Yes, he is. He’s getting on, too. And a perfect gentleman--on +Sundays’--Sebastian leaned eagerly forward--‘on Sundays they often go +out into the country for the day, or sometimes even for the week-end; +but Mr. Jenkins, never,’ said Mrs. Spenceley, emphatically: ‘Mr. +Jenkins dines with _us_.’ + +‘_Poor_ Helena!’ thought Sebastian, while he said, ‘Oh, indeed!’ + +‘Helena said I oughtn’t to have entered into such an arrangement; but +I think she’s mistaken, and I think she’ll come to see her mistake in +time.’ + +‘Miss Spenceley does not feel so much interest in Mr. Jenkins, perhaps, +as he feels in her!’ + +‘That I can’t say; but if she does, she conceals it, which is but +natural after all.’ + +‘Quite natural in such a case,’ assented Sebastian. + +‘Here’s the tea-things,’ continued Mrs. Spenceley, cheerfully, +producing a bunch of keys, and going to a cupboard, whence she drew +forth, to speak metaphorically, flagons wherewith to stay her guest, +and apples for his comfort--in the dry language of reality, a jar of +apple-jelly, and a glass dish containing conserves of a deeper, more +sanguinary hue. + +While Mrs. Spenceley was half-buried in the depths of the cupboard, +Helena came into the room again. She had changed her dress, and +attired herself in another relic of splendour, a black silk dress, +rich and handsome, if somewhat old-fashioned; and she had tied an +orange-coloured ribbon round her neck, and put on a little lace frill, +and Sebastian felt that she looked lovely, and began to hate those +three gentlemen who were disposed to be so very friendly, with a deadly +hatred. Her eyes fell upon the figure of her mother, half in and half +out of the cupboard. It was a very funny sight, and when she turned to +Sebastian there was a broad smile of amusement upon her face. It looked +as if it was the first that had been there for a very long time, and +Sebastian felt it only right to smile as genially in return. + +Mrs. Spenceley, emerging from the cupboard, summoned them to the table; +Sebastian felt as if it were a dream, as he handed Helena her chair, +and took his place opposite her. No surroundings, however poor, could +take away from the queenly beauty of her face and figure. She was +indeed more queenly than she ever had been before, he thought, as he +watched her across that simple board. The meal was soon over, and then +Mrs. Spenceley, rising, said, + +‘Mr. Mallory, you must excuse me if I leave you. I must first go +and see about Their teas, and then I’ve promised to go and sit with +Mrs. Woodford, next door but one. She’s a great friend of mine. Her +husband’s father built most of the houses in this street, and was a +rich man, but he never could keep anything, never! and now she pays a +rent for the very house her father-in-law built. This world’s full of +ups and downs.’ + +‘It is indeed. Then I shall not see you again this evening?’ + +‘Well, no. We shall most likely have a little supper together, and so I +shall leave Helena and you to have a little chat. But I shall hope to +see you again soon, Mr. Mallory, if you don’t mind coming all this way +out of town.’ + +He hastened to assure her that he thought it a very nice drive, and not +at all far; and Mrs. Spenceley, disturbed by the sound of a ring at the +bell, said, + +‘There’s Mr. Finlay! I must go. Good evening, Mr. Mallory.’ + +She was gone, and they were alone. Helena had taken her work-basket to +a little table near the window, and had begun to embroider a little +strip of muslin. Sebastian thought the sofa, which was just on the +other side of the little table, offered a suitable place for the +purposes of confidential conversation, and he went and sat down upon it. + +‘Is there no one in Thanshope about whom you wish to inquire, Miss +Spenceley?’ he began. + +‘I--oh, how rude of me! I have never asked after Mrs. Mallory. How is +she?’ + +‘She is very well, thank you.’ + +‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Helena, calmly; and Sebastian felt rather +uncomfortable, for Mrs. Mallory had not displayed any interest in the +Spenceley family since their downfall. + +‘Do you see much of the Thanshope people?’ continued Helena, in the +same calmly indifferent tone; not a resentful tone, but a politely +conventional one, which was much more disagreeable to Sebastian than a +resentful one would have been. It implied that Thanshope and all that +therein lived had become a name, a memory, a thing of the past to her. +‘Do you visit much?’ she added; ‘go to many parties?’ + +‘N--no. I am very busy. I am busy all day, and I don’t care much for +the Thanshope people. All my near friends, those in whom I took an +interest, I have lost.’ + +‘How very distressing! How has that come to pass?’ + +‘Hugo von Birkenau has gone to Germany. He is studying music, and +intends to make a profession of it. He has begun to give lessons +already.’ + +‘Hugo give lessons!’ cried Helena, looking up surprised. + +‘Yes, I will tell you all about it another time. I see you don’t half +believe it. But it is true. We have not quarrelled, I am glad to say; +but he has gone. He has begun life for himself, and henceforth our +paths are divided. There was another. You did not know him. I could +scarcely call him one of my friends, but I miss him. He is one interest +less. There was Mr. Blisset; he is dead. There was you--at least I hope +so.’ + +‘I don’t think we ever were really friends. I did not like your +opinions.’ + +‘But not enemies?’ + +‘Well, perhaps not exactly; at least, not at last,’ said Helena with +a sudden change in her voice. ‘But,’ she repeated, ‘I did not like +your opinions. You shut me--I mean, you denied to women the right +to participate in those larger questions which I hold they ought to +be interested in as well as men, for the sake both of men and of +themselves; and I never would give in to that as long as I live.’ + +She did not speak vehemently, but with a decision and calmness unlike +her old agitation of manner. + +‘I wonder how I shall ever make you understand my real views on that +subject,’ he said despairingly. + +‘You said you had no views on the question. Perhaps, if you had ever +tried to find out whether I had any understanding, you might have +succeeded in discovering a tiny scrap somewhere very low down. But +never mind, it is of no consequence now. I can never help forward the +questions I take an interest in, as I once hoped to do; so you need +not be afraid of my going astray. I have lost the power.’ + +‘Miss Spenceley----’ + +‘I think you have forgotten one of your friends,’ suggested Helena, +with a change in her voice, which she could not quite conceal. + +‘Have I? Which?’ he asked very meekly. + +‘Miss Adrienne Blisset.’ + +‘Ah, yes! I actually had forgotten her. I never see her now, either.’ + +‘Does she no longer live in Thanshope?’ asked Helena, bending over her +work. + +‘She still has Stonegate, but she is scarcely ever there. I think she +has taken a dislike to the place. And when she is there, I do not see +her. As you say, she is lost to me too, for we once were friends.’ + +Sebastian’s voice did not change. It was quite steady and composed. +Helena still seemed interested in her work, as she said, + +‘I should think that must be the greatest loss of all to you.’ + +‘In some respects it is. At first it was a great loss. Now I feel +it less. For two years I have been learning to live alone. Smile +scornfully to yourself if you like! You may not believe me, but it is +true all the same.’ + +‘Oh, I can believe that you found it hard to lose Miss Blisset’s +society. She was no ordinary young lady. If she had once been your +friend, it must have been difficult to resign her. And people spoke of +something more than friendship. I heard, often, that you and she were +engaged.’ + +‘Did you? I, too, have heard something of the same kind; but there was +no truth in the report. We were never engaged.’ + +‘Ah! people will talk, you see!’ + +‘Naturally, but I don’t think they talk so much anywhere as in +Thanshope.’ + +‘Perhaps they haven’t so much cause.’ + +‘That is rather too bad.’ + +‘You mean that people are not often so rude to you. I can quite fancy +so.’ + +‘You will agree with me that I have lost all my friends.’ + +‘You do not seem broken-hearted,’ said Helena. ‘You look well and +cheerful.’ She raised her eyes, and surveyed his face, straightly +and composedly. Sebastian wished the look had not been so entirely +self-possessed. + +‘I lead too busy a life to be broken-hearted,’ he replied. ‘Pray don’t +suppose that I spend my time in thinking how lonely I am.’ + +‘I never supposed anything of the kind.’ + +‘It is simply that I once had friends, and circumstances removed +them, and I have not been able to fill up their places. I have worked +hard--really hard, and I think I have learnt some good lessons in these +sad years.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Helena, looking up, with the old eager interest in her +eyes, the old brightness upon her face. ‘You must indeed have learned +some lessons. My greatest trouble in leaving Thanshope was that I +lost sight of all my friends that I had made during the distress. I +have had no interest like that since then. You have. And you have had +other interests too. I saw that they had asked you to be the Radical +candidate, when Mr. Lippincott resigned. There is a prospect before +you! Have you given your answer yet?’ + +‘My answer is due to-morrow. And upon my honour, I don’t know what it +is going to be. What would you advise?’ + +‘Mr. Mallory!’ + +‘Yes?’ + +‘Why will you persist in saying such things? Do you think it is +amusing?’ + +‘According to you, I must have the most wonderful faculty of amusement +that any man possessed. Please, do I think what amusing?’ + +‘Do you think it amusing to ask questions of that kind?--to solemnly +ask advice when you don’t want it? To consult a woman, and a young +woman, upon an important step in life? We don’t understand these +things--at least you say so, and I choose to take you at your word, +so far as you are concerned. I do not choose to be treated as you once +treated me, when I was in earnest, and then be appealed to for an +opinion. I have no opinion on the question.’ + +‘I wish I had never opened my lips upon that question. You have +never forgiven me, and you never will,’ said he, in a deep tone of +mortification. ‘I too was in earnest when I asked you to-night what you +advised. I have been vacillating, and considering and wondering what +was best, like----’ + +‘Like a woman.’ + +‘Like a lonely man who has no counsellor to whom to apply.’ + +‘How pathetic!’ + +‘Will you really not give me one word of advice? Would you accept or +not?’ + +‘You do not want my advice. You--it is absurd! You have lots of men to +advise you. What can you want my advice for?’ + +She spoke impatiently. Stung by her tone, words, and manner, he leaned +suddenly forward, saying, + +‘I do want your advice, Helena. I acted like a consequential fool +towards you at one time. When your troubles overtook you, I was made +thoroughly ashamed of myself. You behaved like a heroine. Tell me, +should I accept or refuse? Give me your opinion, and, by heaven, I will +abide by it! I can trust you.’ + +‘Then accept! With your abilities and your responsibilities, you have +no right to refuse.’ + +‘I shall accept,’ was all he said, and there was silence for a time. + +Helena went on working, with how great, how immense an effort, he could +not know. He sat and meditated on what he had done, on the fact that +he had submitted his conscience to the guidance of a girl’s voice, and +that since that voice had spoken, every hesitation, every doubt had +vanished. Not a difficulty remained. + +‘You will be almost certainly elected,’ said Helena, after a pause. +‘Then your life will be busier than ever. How will you manage?’ + +‘That is a problem which is even now troubling me. I must have some +help. I do not know where to turn for it. I am overwhelmed with +business, really.’ + +‘Are you? I wonder at you wasting your precious hours here,’ said +Helena, and the moment after she had said it her face became crimson. + +‘You think the time wasted, and you wonder that I should waste it +here?’ said Sebastian, and looked at her steadily. + +Helena did, at this point, show a return of her former sensibility. +The flush remained high in her cheeks. Her eyes fell, and her hands +trembled as she resumed her work. Sebastian was much too good a +tactician to lessen the value of the sign he had wrung from her, by +coming to her assistance with any casual remark. He remained perfectly +silent, till Helena, apparently finding the situation disturbing, +started up, exclaiming impatiently. + +‘How hot it is! Oh, how hot! My needle gets sticky, and I can’t work +with a sticky needle.... When you are elected--and you are sure to be +elected--you will, as you say, be very busy; but what an interesting +kind of business! I shall often think----’ + +She stopped suddenly. + +‘Never mind my life,’ said he, beginning to see where the power on his +side, and the weakness on hers, really lay. ‘Tell me something about +your own.’ + +‘About mine--my life!’ said Helena, with a laugh. ‘That would indeed be +an exciting history--too much for your nerves altogether, I fear.’ + +‘Tell me, or I shall not know how to think of you. It is so annoying +not to know the tenor of the life led by some person in whom one takes +an interest. What is the name of the parents of your pupils?’ + +‘Their name is Galloway.’ + +‘What sort of people are they?’ + +‘They are rich people.’ + +‘That is nothing to the point.’ + +‘They are people with fads, and yet they are very kind to me. I teach +their children--as much as they will allow me, that is. They believe in +letting the children grow up happy, and never punishing them, which +means----’ Helena smiled. + +‘Which means that every one else, and you particularly, are to grow up +unhappy, and live in a state of eternal punishment,’ said Sebastian, +resentfully; ‘disgusting people!’ + +‘They are not disgusting, and they have a right to bring up their +children as they think best.’ + +Sebastian found that Helena would not complain. She evidently accepted +the inevitable resolutely. She had become very reasonable and sensible. +He wished she had been less so. + +‘Mrs. Spenceley looks well and cheerful,’ said he at last. ‘That must +be a comfort to you.’ + +‘Poor mamma! Yes, it is,’ said Helena, with sudden tenderness. ‘What a +great deal she has had to go through, and how brave, and cheerful, and +uncomplaining she is. She makes me feel ashamed of myself, and yet I +cannot see things in the light in which she sees them.’ + +‘Mr. Jenkins, for instance, on Sundays.’ + +‘Oh!’ exclaimed Helena, and then, after a pause, ‘No; mamma and I +differ very much on the subject of Mr. Jenkins.’ + +‘You see, I know why I may not come on Sunday,’ said he, rising. + +‘Do you? I thought you would not enjoy Mr. Jenkins’s society, but now, +if you like, you may come on Sunday, and have the pleasure of meeting +him. We are glad to see our friends, if they care to visit us.’ + +‘Our _friends_!’ It was the turn of the eminently reasonable Mr. +Mallory to feel most unreasonably annoyed at being classed, along with +Mr. Jenkins, as ‘our friends.’ Helena had succeeded in turning the +tables very completely upon him. It was useless to try not to feel +mortified and snubbed. He felt both; and Helena stood, the picture of +unconscious innocence, waiting for him to finish his good-bye. + +‘You have changed, Miss Spenceley,’ said he. ‘You have developed the +power of being very----’ + +‘Rude and unkind?’ suggested Helena. ‘Perhaps adversity has soured my +temper. It has that effect upon many natures, and I never was one who +could endure thwarting as you may remember.’ + +‘May I be allowed to come again?’ he asked, almost humbly. + +‘We shall be happy to see you, whenever your other engagements allow +you to call,’ said Helena, quite coolly and distantly. The answer +chilled him and stung him, and yet he asked himself, what more would he +have had her say? + +‘You say you are so very busy,’ she continued remorselessly, ‘and if +you accept this invitation to stand, and if Mr. Lippincott resigns, +which I suppose he really intends to do now, and the election comes on, +your time will indeed be fully occupied.’ + +‘But I am not forbidden to come when I have time?’ + +‘Forbidden! Oh no! As I said, we are always glad to see our friends.’ + +‘Good-bye,’ said he. ‘Remember you are answerable for the step I am +going to take.’ + +‘You say so, but I wonder how it would have been if we had never met,’ +said Helena, carelessly. They shook hands, and Sebastian was gone, with +the words still echoing after him: ‘I wonder how it would have been, if +we had never met!’ + +‘How indeed?’ he muttered to himself. ‘And how is it to be now that +we have met? I don’t know how it will end, but you shall look at me +differently from that, Helena, or----’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +IN THE RAIN. + + +It was more than three weeks later. The month of August had almost +come to its close. The scene was again the bright and cheerful city of +Manchester, on one of its typical days. August was going out, as she +often does in Lancashire, with a sullen, streaming rain, which poured +on, relentlessly and unceasingly. Helena Spenceley had been struggling +all the morning with her pupils, who had turned refractory, and, unable +because of the rain to go out, had vented their youthful spirits in +a series of experiments upon Miss Spenceley’s endurance. They were +not bad children; indeed they had in them ‘the makings’ of very good +children, and were, as their governess had informed Sebastian, as good +as their parents would allow them to be. They had been allowed to find +out that everyone and everything in the establishment was to yield to +their comfort and convenience. They knew their power, and used it. + +The morning’s lessons were over. Usually, at twelve o’clock, Helena +took her pupils for a walk, but to-day that was impossible, so they +remained indoors, and she was understood to be amusing them. It was a +dreary kind of amusement. She had been feeling weary and exhausted all +the morning, and now, the close room, the shouting children rushing +wildly about, almost overpowered her. She felt herself growing each +moment more numb and stupid. At last the bell rang for Mrs. Galloway’s +lunch, and the dinner of Helena and the children. Pell-mell they +rushed in, and forgot for a time, in the pleasures of the table, their +quarrels and disputes, relating chiefly to the possession of certain +precious objects and fetishes, over which they wrangled with ever fresh +acrimony and avidity. + +The meal was over, and Helena returned to the schoolroom. The children +were to remain downstairs for an hour with their mother. Helena took +a chair to the window, and, resting her chin upon her hand, looked +drearily out upon the streaming rain, the dripping trees, and the misty +outlines of other houses in the park. Idle tears filled her eyes, and +a lump rose in her throat. She choked both back, and smiled drily and +drearily to herself. + +‘What a fool I was,’ she thought, ‘to expect him again! It was +a passing fancy. He is naturally polite--that means, a little +deceitful--and he could not have said anything rough or rude if he +had tried. But he will never come again. It is not likely. I was most +foolish to be so glad to see him. I might have known it would bring me +nothing but pain and sorrow. I wish we had not met again, and then, if +I had not had the pleasure, I should not have had the pain either. I +had almost given over thinking of him, and now I have nothing else to +think of, and he has everything else. Why did he come and spend that +one evening, and brighten everything, and take me into another world, +and force me to like him? Why did he ask my advice--as if he wanted +it? It was too bad, and I was a fool. But I always was that. He is not +shallow--no, it is not that. It is simply that his life is a full one, +and mine is an empty one, and that what to him is a chance meeting--a +passing act of politeness, is to me a great event--a thing to think +about. I wish I had a great deal to do--a work, a regular career. Soon, +if these miserable, restless feelings do not leave me, I must bestir +myself, and find something more absorbing than this teaching. I have +been more dissatisfied ever since I knew that he had the prospect of +making himself a name and an influence. And I will do something, too. +There must be things to be done; there must be some way of curing this +sentimental folly--some way of working it out, till nothing is left of +it. I will find a way, or I will die.’ + +She started as the door opened, and Mrs. Galloway, the mother of her +pupils, entered. + +‘Are you sitting moping, Miss Spenceley? You should never mope,’ said +she; ‘it is a very bad habit, and leads to all kinds of follies.’ + +‘Does it?’ said Helena. + +‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Mrs. Galloway, who did not look as if she moped +much herself. + +She did not either speak or look unkindly; she was only devoid of tact +and judgment. She held three books in her hands; and as she spoke she +advanced to the window and looked out. + +‘I am afraid it is not going to clear up,’ she began, looking first at +the rain, and then at the books. + +Helena also expressed the same opinion. + +‘I am rather in a dilemma,’ continued Mrs. Galloway. + +‘Can I be of any help to you?’ + +‘I was on my way to ask you to do something for me; but I had no idea +how very wet it was, and I do not think it fit for you to go.’ + +‘Was it to go out?’ asked Helena, wondering whether it would not be +pleasanter to brave the elements than to return to her task of teaching +the little Galloways that day. + +‘The fact is, Mr. Galloway forgot to take the books to Mudie’s this +morning, and we had arranged to have some reading aloud to-night, +and----’ + +‘I will go and change them for you with pleasure,’ said Helena, almost +with animation; ‘only the children----’ + +‘It will do the children no harm to miss their lessons this afternoon; +in the depressed state of the barometer, it is cruelty to make them +study. But it is such a day----’ + +‘Oh, I don’t mind. It will do me no harm; I don’t take cold easily, and +I can take an omnibus from Oxford Street, you know.’ + +‘Really, since you don’t seem to mind, I think----’ + +‘I will get ready now,’ said Helena. + +‘I can lend you a waterproof,’ suggested Mrs. Galloway, to whom it +did not seem to occur that a cab would be the most effectual kind of +waterproof. + +‘I have one, thank you; I am ready now. I will put the books in this +strap. Have you put a list with them?’ + +‘The list is quite ready. Then you will bring the books back here?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Helena, cheerfully, so pleased at the prospect of escaping +the afternoon’s lessons that she would willingly have gone if, in +addition to the rain, it had blown a hurricane. + +Mrs. Galloway followed her to the hall door, uttering deprecating +observations, and Helena, unfurling her umbrella, stepped out into the +rain. + +After a short walk through the damp, soaking avenues of the park, she +at last emerged in Oxford Street, and stood waiting in the wet until +an omnibus came by. It was nearly full, but Helena managed to squeeze +herself in between two stout ‘Turkish merchants,’ and opposite a +fat old woman with a bundle. Who does not know and love the classic +atmosphere of a crowded omnibus on a wet, close day? + +The omnibus took her to Market Street, from whence she took another +walk into Cross Street, and turned into the narrow lane, sacred to +Mr. Mudie’s library and fancy shops. Her enthusiasm was beginning +to glow less brightly. She felt very wet, very draggled, and very +tired--exceedingly tired. She went into the library, and found herself +alone there; the young man who came forward to serve her looked almost +compassionately at her, and remarked what very bad weather it was. +Helena languidly agreed with him, and presented her list. He gave her +two heavy massive volumes of travels, and she took them. They would not +go into the little strap which had held the three volume novel, and +Helena was in that mood in which a trifling inconvenience makes one +feel that it would be best to put an end to one’s existence at once. + +‘Suppose you were to take only one volume,’ suggested the young man. + +‘No, I’ll have both,’ said Helena, stoically, manfully seizing them, +and going on her way. + +As she left the library some one almost knocked up against her, some +one who was going, like herself, towards St. Ann’s Square. + +‘Beg your pardon. Oh, Helena--Miss Spenceley! What, in the name of all +that is damp, brings you here on such a day?’ asked Sebastian, stopping +suddenly and looking at her. + +To meet him thus, after her recent reflections, came upon Helena with +almost a shock: but she mastered herself quickly, and said, + +‘I have only been to the library.’ + +‘Only been to the library! Suppose you give me those books. I have +tried to call at your house again,’ he added, ‘but I have been +so awfully busy. You would see all about my acceptance and Mr. +Lippincott’s resignation in the papers.’ + +‘Yes; I did not expect you to call again,’ said Helena, distantly. + +‘Did you not? You speak as if you were offended. What have I done?’ + +By this time they were in the square, near the cab-stand, and it was +high time to decide whether they were going in the same direction or +not. + +‘Where are you going?’ asked Sebastian. + +‘To the omnibus office, till a Victoria Park omnibus comes, and then to +Mrs. Galloway’s with the books. Where are you going?’ + +‘I am going to see the pictures again,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t you +think you had better come and see them too?’ + +‘I! Oh, I am afraid I have not time,’ said Helena, taken aback by the +proposal. ‘It is nearly four o’clock, and the books----’ + +‘Oh, never mind the books. I am sure you want to see the pictures; and +you must explain to me what I have done to offend you, and we can’t do +that under an umbrella in the street.’ + +He signed to an observant cabby, who drove up, and Sebastian politely +handed Helena into the vehicle. She did not know why she got into +the cab, unless it was because Sebastian looked as if he were quite +determined that she should do so, and she did not feel able to resist. + +‘Royal Institution,’ said he, and followed her. They drove rapidly away. + +‘I ought not to have come; it is very absurd,’ said Helena, +uncomfortably. + +‘I am quite sure you ought,’ he said, decidedly. + +He saw that Helena’s manner was changed. From her gravity and almost +monosyllabic answers to his remarks he concluded that she was for some +reason offended with him. He did not know that three weeks’ absence and +silence had done more to favour his cause than three months’ assiduous +courtship would have done. + +‘Here we are! Now for the pictures!’ he observed, as they stopped +before the Royal Institution. + +Helena laughed nervously, and did not know why she laughed. They +stopped to leave their umbrellas with the porter, and she found +Sebastian unfastening her cloak. + +‘Because we shall be here a good while,’ said he, gravely. ‘The +pictures are not to be done all in a minute.’ + +Helena did not resist. It was all very strange--comical almost. She +felt as if it had been a pre-arranged meeting, and yet, she solemnly +assured herself, that was impossible. + +They went up the stairs, bestowing a very scanty meed of attention on +the much-talked-of pictures. Sebastian seemed in very high spirits, +thought Helena, unconscious that her own cheeks were burning with +their old brightness, that the actual sight of her and her eyes had +turned her companion’s head; that he had thought more of her than of +his work since they had parted; that her face, and her eyes, and an +orange-coloured ribbon, had seemed to float before his eyes by day and +by night, haunting him in all his business, and intruding themselves +in the most solemn of committee meetings or political dinners. She was +conscious that whenever she looked at him he seemed to be looking at +her, and, she thought, often when she was not looking; that there was +something in his eyes and his manner which made her tremble strangely, +and that she suddenly felt quite certain that whatever might have been +the case in the past, he did not care for Adrienne Blisset now. + +On that wet afternoon there were not more than half a dozen persons +in all the suite of rooms. They walked through one after another, and +would probably have gone on for ever, had they not found that they had +come to the last: they were stopped by a wall, and could go no farther. + +‘Sit down,’ said Sebastian, suddenly, taking her hand and drawing her +to the settee in the middle of the room, which was empty, save for +themselves. + +‘You know I am in the midst of electioneering?’ said he. + +‘I supposed so, from what I read in the papers.’ + +‘That has been the only reason why I did not call. Twice I have tried +to do so, but, with the best will in the world, I could not manage it. +And poor Sutcliffe, my manager, is ill, so I have had double duty to +do.’ + +‘I am sure you are busy,’ she repeated mechanically. + +‘It is thought that I shall win,’ he added. ‘The Conservatives seem to +have got desperate. No local candidate would present himself, so they +had down a Q.C. from the Junior Carlton. I don’t fancy he has much +chance, though he is a good fellow.’ + +‘Oh, he will have no chance. You will win. I shall be very glad.’ + +‘Will you really? You really meant what you said when you told me I had +no right to refuse?’ + +‘I am not in the habit of saying what I don’t mean.’ + +‘That is true, but you were very brief in your remarks on that +occasion. Do you think that I really can do good?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Helena, crushing down all the ungenerous remarks which +occurred to her, and answering him frankly, according to her +conviction, ‘I do. I think, with your experience of a different, +broader life than most of our young manufacturers have led, and +with the practical talents that you have too, you ought to rise to +influence. You may do a great deal. I think you have a noble career +before you, if you will follow it worthily. And--I--I shall always read +with interest of your progress.’ + +‘You really think this, though you so bitterly opposed me upon some +other questions?’ he asked earnestly. + +‘Yes, I do. I have seen not the error of my ideas, for I still believe +them to be true and just in principle, but I have seen that a man may +be utterly against them, and may yet be capable of very great things. I +believe this of you. I shall be sorry if I ever hear of your rising and +lifting your voice against these ideas that I believe in; but I shall +try to think that my cause is not so important as a great many others, +and----’ + +‘But, will you give me a hearing now, while I tell you that my views +have changed, too, as much as yours?’ + +‘Have they? How?’ + +‘I always did believe that the woman’s cause is man’s. I told you that, +even when we most disagreed and least understood each other. During +these two years in which I have lived alone, I have learned to feel +that still more strongly. I have felt that no friend, no _man_, could +give me the help and sympathy that I wanted; that no man, and no woman, +pitted each against the other, could do any good, but that “the _twain +together_ well might change the world.” I shall never uplift my voice +against those theories of yours, never.’ + +‘I am glad of that, very glad. It would have hurt me dreadfully; it +would have seemed as if--it would have cut me up,’ said Helena. + +‘How careful I shall have to be, as to what I say and do, now.’ + +‘Because of what I have said? You have a larger public than me to think +of. You must do what is right--you must say all that you know of the +truth.’ + +‘Helena, will you help me to try and discover what is right and true? I +have been wondering for a fortnight whether you would, and sometimes I +have dared to hope it. Have I been too bold?’ + +‘You mean----’ said Helena, with trembling lips and a face which had +suddenly grown pale. + +‘I mean that for a year, for more, I have loved you unconsciously, +Helena; that since I met you three weeks ago, I have known it to my +very heart-depths. Will you help me? Will you be my wife?’ + +‘You forget,’ said she, her face grown still paler, and its expression +more pained; ‘you forget.’ + +‘Forget what?’ he asked, surprised and chilled by the tone, yet unable +to think that the expression in her eyes was one of indifference. + +‘You forget whom you are asking to be your wife. You----’ + +‘I am asking Helena Spenceley to be my wife. Who has a word to say +against her?’ he asked, his face darkening. + +‘You must remember that I am not alone,’ said Helena. ‘There is the +past: my father, my brother; oh, it is not to be thought of--for you.’ + +‘Is that a roundabout way of telling me that you do not love me, and +will not marry me?’ he asked, taking her hand, and looking at her until +she looked at him. ‘I would rather you said it straight out--I am +waiting.’ + +‘But I cannot say that,’ murmured Helena; ‘I do love you.’ + +‘Then let the other things take care of themselves,’ said he +pleadingly, for something in her face forbade him to draw her to him, +or do anything more than plead. + +‘No,’ said she. ‘It is not fit that a man like you, in your position, +should marry a girl with the--connections--that I have.’ + +‘You mean this seriously?’ + +‘I am quite decided about it.’ + +‘Then good-bye,’ said Sebastian, abruptly rising; ‘I will bear it as +best I can.’ + +He was going, but suddenly turned to her again and stooped over her. + +‘Helena,’ he said, and his voice was so changed that she looked up +affrighted--‘is it that your pride is stronger than your love? Because, +if so, yours is not real love.’ + +‘My pride!’ she ejaculated. + +‘Yes, your pride, which is afraid lest it should be said that I stooped +to you? That is the secret of this objection. You would ruin our two +lives for the sake of gratifying your pride.’ + +‘Sebastian!’ + +‘Helena?’ + +‘It is not that....’ + +‘What else is it?’ + +She was silent, in pain and uncertainty, till he said: + +‘_My_ pride is not so great as my love. You have conquered me, Helena. +I would go through fire and water to win you. Once more, will you tell +me again to go?’ + +His voice had sunk to a whisper. He was leaning over the settee, and +she, with a sudden shiver at the idea his words conjured up, looked up +to him. He stooped, by an involuntary, instinctive impulse, and kissed +her. + +‘Must I go, or may I stay? Answer me, my darling.’ + +‘Do not go!’ said Helena, almost inaudibly, and Sebastian stayed; but +he could not conceal from himself that he had yet much to win, much +service to do, before he could call Helena his own. + +She loved him; she said so; she felt it, but she was proud: he had +been right when he said so. Despite her love, she was half ashamed, +half angry at finding herself conquered, and the glance was a shy and +wavering one which he met. It was a strange fact, that though he wished +very much that Helena would ask him to go home with her, though he had +a couple of hours to spare, yet he dared not venture to hint at the +invitation. All he could venture upon was to say to her. + +‘You will allow me to take you to Mrs. Galloway’s, as it is late?’ + +‘Yes, please,’ said Helena, rising. + +And they went downstairs. Sebastian gave Helena her umbrella, carried +her cloak, opened the door for her, in a strange silence. She had just +accepted him, and yet he had never felt so completely held at arm’s +length before. Helena’s own shyness and timidity effected what the +most cunningly laid stratagem could not have accomplished--they raised +her lover’s fervent admiration into absolute worship. He called a cab, +and in it they drove towards the Victoria Park. When they were nearly +there, Sebastian, unable to endure the silence any longer, said. + +‘Helena, when may I come to see you? Will you not even look at me?’ he +added, almost vehemently. ‘You cannot know how hardly you are treating +me.’ + +‘Hardly!’ she repeated. ‘I--it is so strange. It is a most wonderful +feeling.’ + +‘But pleasant, I hope?’ suggested Sebastian, earnestly. + +‘Oh, very!’ + +‘Then may I come soon to see you? To ask Mrs. Spenceley’s consent----’ + +‘Oh! there is Mrs. Mallory. I am sure she will object,’ said Helena, +suddenly, and with animation. + +‘Leave her to me!’ said he, almost impatiently. ‘See, Helena, we are +almost at the park, and you have not given me one look, one word, to +tell me that you are really mine. I have not deserved to be so treated.’ + +‘Forgive me!’ said she, suddenly, in a voice of tenderness. ‘I was so +unhappy this afternoon before I saw you, and now I am too happy for +words. I am afraid of my happiness. Come soon to see me, and I will try +to behave better.’ + +She looked at him at last with an April face, beneath whose showers lay +a broad and fathomless heaven of love. Sebastian was satisfied. + +‘And may I write?’ he asked. + +‘Yes, do!’ returned Helena, and the cab stopped at Mrs. Galloway’s +door. Helena and the books got out, and Sebastian Mallory drove away +again, to the station--and a meeting. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A CONQUEST. + + +‘My dear Mallory, I am glad to see you here at last! Were you +unexpectedly detained?’ asked Canon Ponsonby, greeting Sebastian at the +door of the room in the town-hall in which the meeting was to be held. +It began at half-past seven, and that time had been already past when +Sebastian arrived. + +‘I was very unexpectedly detained,’ replied the young man, pressing +Canon Ponsonby’s hand with a fervour which seemed a little extravagant +to that gentleman. ‘But I am quite ready now, quite fit,’ he added. +‘Suppose we go to the platform. They seem to be getting impatient.’ + +They ascended the platform, and Sebastian was surprised at the +heartiness of the greeting he received. He had not known how popular he +was, and in his present mood he felt absolutely touched by these signs +of goodwill on the part of the ‘people.’ All things combined to-night +to rouse and inspire him. One or two even of his warmest friends and +supporters, and most earnest admirers, had said they feared Mallory’s +coldness of manner might be mistaken for indifference, that he was a +little too prone to betray some of the contempt which he felt for party +and party feeling: and had a way, in the extreme philosophy of his +radicalism, of saying things which might be mistaken by the uninitiated +Thanshope mind for distinctly Conservative expressions. On this +occasion, these doubting hearts were agreeably deceived. Sebastian’s +tact came strongly into play; he made one of those fortunate speeches, +in which the right was happily touched off, and in which the truth was +told without disturbing people’s feelings. He felt himself penetrated +by an enthusiasm as rare, with him, as it was agreeable. Every now +and then he seemed to lose sight of the sea of faces below him, and to +see only one; his own voice seemed to die away, while Helena’s voice +bade him do what was right, and tell the truth as far as he knew it. +Under that influence questions which had hitherto seemed even a little +contemptible were suddenly revealed as susceptible of being raised +and ennobled; and the effort which he had at first thought of making, +chiefly in compliance with the wishes of certain friends, and because +he felt (like Myles Heywood) a thirst for constant work wherewith to +fill up his life--this effort, not a very hearty or enthusiastic one, +was now changed completely by the consciousness that there was not only +Sebastian Mallory, indolent and indifferent by nature, to be consulted, +but also Helena Spenceley, earnest, vehement, and enthusiastic, who +would exult in his success, and be bitterly disappointed by his +failure. Indeed, she was so calmly confident that he would win, that +he felt he dared not lose. All this combined in his favour that night. +There was no want of unanimity in the voice of the meeting. The speaker +was so carried away himself that he carried his audience away with him. +They separated in the highest good humour with him and themselves--full +of confidence in their candidate, and of amiable contempt for his +Conservative opponent. + +There followed a gathering of some of his friends, and supper at home. +Politics, and nothing but politics, engrossed the conversation, and +it was late when Sebastian found himself alone. He drew a long breath +of relief, but checked it again immediately--as he remembered the +interview which was to follow. + +‘Best get it over at once,’ he reflected, going to the drawing-room; +but finding it empty, he went upstairs and knocked at his mother’s +dressing-room door. + +‘Who’s there?’ she asked. + +‘It is I--Sebastian. May I see you for a few minutes?’ + +‘Come in!’ was the answer, and Sebastian entered. + +Mrs. Mallory was seated before her looking-glass, and her maid was +brushing her hair. + +‘Be quick, Emma,’ said she; ‘and sit down, Sebastian; I shall be ready +directly.’ + +He threw himself into a low chair by the hearth, and in two minutes was +lost in a pleasant, pleasant dream. + +‘Now!’ said his mother’s voice at last, and he speedily awoke to +reality again. + +The lady’s maid had twisted up her mistress’s hair into a loose knot in +the gaslight. With the soft frills of her dressing-gown round her neck +she looked a very young and handsome woman. + +‘What beautiful hair you have, mother!’ he exclaimed, struck with its +gloss and abundance. ‘Why do you cover it up with a cap?’ + +‘Is that all you have come to say?’ she inquired drily. ‘What kind of a +meeting did you have?’ + +‘It appeared very unanimous and successful. Ponsonby said it was, and +he ought to know. I wish you had been there. I saw a good many ladies.’ + +‘Very likely; but not ladies of my opinions.’ + +‘Ah! I forgot,’ said Sebastian, smiling. + +He felt soft-hearted to-night, and hardly noticed his mother’s coolness. + +‘Have all those men gone?’ + +‘Yes; the last of them has departed, and I am glad of it. But I did +not come to keep you talking about Radical meetings, mother. I wished +particularly to see you to-night; I have something to tell you.’ + +Mrs. Mallory knew in an instant the nature of the coming communication, +and prepared herself to hear something disagreeable. She had not +omitted to provide her son with many opportunities of changing his +estate. She had had plenty of visitors at her house, and chiefly young +lady visitors. None of them had had a hundred thousand pounds, but +equally none of them had been quite portionless, and all of them had +been more or less good-looking, and what are called ‘nice girls.’ She +had seen all her efforts wasted; had seen Sebastian studiously polite +and amiable, even putting himself out of the way often to attend her +and her visitors when they wanted an escort. She had seen him follow +them to concerts and dances and garden-parties; she had seen him play +the host--and nothing else--to admiration; and she had seen the look of +relief which dawned upon his face when the duty could conscientiously +be left, and he could return to his books, his plans, and his +business--that business which seemed to have become the very breath of +life to him, and from which no girl, however nice, could succeed in +drawing him away. + +But some one had at last found this power--probably some one whom she +would dislike excessively. Most probably he had met Adrienne Blisset +again somewhere; had proposed to her a second time, and been accepted. +Mrs. Mallory thought she would have preferred him to come and tell her +that he was going to marry any one--a barmaid, a milliner--any one +rather than ‘that girl,’ whom she hated with a virulence which grew +with time. + +‘Indeed!’ she made answer, and left him to inflict the blow. It was +exactly as she expected. + +‘I am going to be married, mother.’ + +‘To be married?’ she repeated mechanically. She had long ago said that +she had no power over her son, but she felt bitter at this proof of the +truth of her words. + +‘Yes. I hope you will approve my choice.’ + +‘If your choice is Miss Blisset, Sebastian, I shall never approve it, +and so I tell you distinctly.’ + +‘But it is not Miss Blisset, mother. She refused me two years ago--she +would refuse me now, and she would refuse me through all time. Then I +was a good deal cut-up about it. Now, I am very glad. No; it is some +one whom you used to like very much. At least, I always understood you +to say so.’ + +It is a fact that the idea of Helena Spenceley did not once enter Mrs. +Mallory’s mind. She had so come to believe that her son never could, +under any circumstances, turn to her former favourite, that since the +downfall of Helena and her family she had altogether dismissed them +from her thoughts. Even now, as Sebastian paused, she did not think of +Helena, but said, after a moment. + +‘I cannot imagine whom you mean, Sebastian, and I never could guess +things of that kind. Who may the lady be?’ + +‘Helena Spenceley.’ + +Mrs. Mallory actually started from her chair. + +‘HELENA SPENCELEY! What will you tell me?’ + +‘You surely cannot disapprove of that. My dear mother, you at one time +wished me to marry her. You told me so.’ + +‘You have the most extraordinary, perverted ideas of right and duty, +Sebastian. Can you suppose that I ever wished you to marry a girl whose +father committed suicide after behaving in a far from honourable way in +his business affairs, and whose brother absconded with a large sum of +money which he had stolen, and who is now--who knows where he is, or +what he is doing, or what trouble he may cause his relations even yet?’ + +Sebastian almost smiled at the utter opposition of his mother’s ideas +to his own. They never saw but one side each of the other’s nature--not +because neither had another side to show, but because of the formation +of their respective mental eyes. Yet, for the sake of appearances, he +must argue the matter out. + +‘Suppose we had married at the time you wished it,’ he suggested. +‘These things would have happened all the same. As it is, they are now +nearly forgotten. No one with any feeling would wish to remind her of +them. If you could only see her, you would forget them all, in looking +at herself. She was always a beautiful girl, but now she is lovelier +than ever, and more charming.’ + +She was silent. + +‘Will you not say you approve of this, mother! You know I will not seek +a wife with a fortune. If she had happened to have money, well and +good; but I would rather have her without, and with the beauty and the +love that Helena gives me.’ + +‘It is a mockery to ask me whether I approve of it. You will do it +whether I approve or not.’ + +‘But if you will approve--if you will hold out your hand to Helena, and +accept her as my wife, you will gratify me beyond measure. You know, +it is really your fault. You threw Helena in my way at first, and she +must have made a much deeper impression upon me than I knew, for a +few weeks ago, when I met her unexpectedly, I was scarcely master of +myself. It was all over with me from that moment.’ + +‘And suppose I do not approve?’ + +‘I should be unspeakably grieved. We are alone in the world, almost. +You are the very nearest relative a man can have; but you will agree,’ +and he stooped and gently kissed her cheek. + +She started. With that kiss seemed to come suddenly to her a great +revelation, the revelation of the love which she had thrust obstinately +away from her. She had received her son as a child, and had tried to +curb and control him; and when he acted as a man, she had enclosed +herself within a wall of icy reserve, and had repelled every advance he +had made. The truth rushed upon her mind now with overwhelming force. +She was a selfish, a profoundly selfish, woman; but somewhere, not +quite withered away within her, there lay the remains of a mother’s +heart. + +‘I am your mother, Sebastian,’ she said, with a sudden tremor in her +voice. ‘It is very strange that we should have got on so badly since +you came home.... I have had no wish but for your prosperity and +well-being, and yet----’ + +‘I know you have. I fear I have not been all that I might have been to +you. Forgive me!’ + +He refrained, and she noticed it, from even speaking of the other side +of the question--from saying, ‘You have deliberately set yourself +against every plan and project of mine, until at last, in very +self-defence, I have been obliged to be silent, and to keep my hopes +and wishes to myself.’ This behaviour was generous, and she knew it +was. It appeared that Sebastian did love her, and prized her goodwill. +The emotion she felt was not an unpleasant one. And then, as he +certainly would marry Helena, she put her hand on his shoulder and said, + +‘I consent, Sebastian, though it is a trial. No; I don’t mean that I +disapprove of Helena. I know a more lovely girl could not easily be +found. It is her--well, never mind! Are you going to be married soon?’ + +‘Thank you! I thank you from my very heart!’ he exclaimed. ‘My great +fear was lest you should be displeased. Shall we be married soon? I do +not know in the least. I am obliged to go abroad before the autumn, and +if I can persuade Helena, we will be married before then; but I am not +sure that I can. She is not by any means inclined to rush into my arms. +She is very much changed. She used to be so impulsive, and to betray +her feelings so easily; and now, I assure you, her dignity has already +almost overwhelmed me more than once.’ + +‘When you are married, or, at any rate, when you return from abroad, +you will want the Oakenrod to yourselves,’ she suggested graciously. + +‘My dear mother, I hope you will stay in it exactly as long as you feel +disposed to do so. Helena wishes very much to please you,’ he added, +drawing a bow at a venture. + +‘Does she? When next you see her give her my--my love. Perhaps I had +better go and call upon her.’ + +‘Or I will bring her over here to spend the day with you.’ + +‘Yes, perhaps that might be better. Has she given up any of her old +notions yet?’ + +‘We both find that our views on these points are considerably modified, +so that we are quite able to meet each other and agree together.’ + +‘I am glad to hear it. I think it must be getting late.’ + +‘It is indeed. You must excuse me, mother. I seem to have found more +than a wife to-day,’ he added, kissing her hands one after the other. +‘Good night.’ + +Mrs. Mallory drew her son’s face down, and kissed him, strangely moved. + +‘Good night, my son. God bless you!’ + +Sebastian left her. The conquest was won. From that day Augusta Mallory +was a happier woman than she had been. There was always a certain +distance about the intercourse between her and her son and his family, +but there was amity and concord; and later, when Helena won triumphs +by her beauty, grace, and spirit, which no money could ever have +purchased for her, and when Mrs. Mallory heard on all sides of her +beautiful and charming daughter-in-law, she began to think that after +all Sebastian had not done so badly, even in a worldly wise point of +view; and her respect for him increased accordingly. + + * * * * * + +In the course of a week the election came off, when the Radical +candidate headed the poll by a large majority. Despite the exceeding +business of that week, Sebastian had found time to pay several visits +at 57 Woodford Street, and there had used such arguments with Helena +that she had consented to the early marriage he wished for. Sebastian, +Mrs. Mallory, and Canon Ponsonby went over to Manchester one evening, +and the next day there was a small wedding at a quiet church in some +fields. + +Helena was given away by her uncle of the uncompromisingly truthful +disposition. Mrs. Mallory looked calmly dignified. Mrs. Galloway +was there, subdued by the fact that Helena had taken the liberty to +contradict her hypothesis that governesses always make disastrous +marriages. Mrs. Spenceley was there too, weeping in an obtrusive +manner; and, when it was all over, they returned to their respective +dwellings, except Helena and Sebastian, who went to the London Road +station, to a compartment in the Euston express marked ‘engaged.’ They +were on their way to Germany, but before they arrived at Euston Square +Sebastian had told Helena the whole history of his earlier love for +Adrienne, and his own misty conjectures as to how things stood between +her and Myles Heywood--a recital which aroused the romantic Helena’s +most compassionate and interested feelings--and so ended Sebastian’s +courtship. + + + + +BOOK IV. + +QUITS. + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER I. + + ‘_1st Friend._ Well, you’ve tried it: is your problem solved? + + _2d Friend._ I have lived so long in the dark, I do not know. + + _1st Friend._ Out, into the wind and sunshine then, and try!’ + + +What is the difference, save in size, between one manufacturing town +and another? How will you say, reader, on the first view, where this +town lies to which I am about to lead you? You shall have heard no +word of the language of its people, seen none of its customs, only had +a quick bird’s-eye view of it, with its long chimneys and its canopy +of smoke, its blackened grass and dingy trees. Not to make the survey +tedious, let me say that it is no English town, but a German one. Let +us not linger longer than is needful in its streets; here is a sloping +road that leads to the railway station; and here, after ascending the +hill, we are within the great noisy arena. + +Amidst the crowd of hurrying passengers and phlegmatic officials, one +figure stood perfectly still on the platform, waiting quietly, and +looking composedly around him with quick, observant eyes. Whether a +German, an Englishman, or even a Frenchman, the casual observer would +have found it hard to say until he spoke, and then the accent would +have betrayed the Englishman. + +He was much changed. The two years of absence, the better outward +circumstances, the habit of authority, the necessity of accommodating +himself to a life new and strange to him, together with whatever +inward thoughts might have had their part in moulding and shaping his +mind--all these had had their influence. He was still Myles Heywood; +but between him and himself of two years ago there was just the +difference that there is between the reflective man and the passionate +child. + +As he stood waiting, a little round, quick-looking fair-haired German +man came up to him and began to talk to him. + +‘Now, Mr. Heywood, you have finished your business in the town?’ + +‘Yes, Herr Sternefeld; I am, as you may see, waiting for the train to +Eisendorf.’ + +‘How goes all there? The old man is in rather feeble health, I hear.’ + +‘Yes. He has not been strong this summer. He thinks he will be better +when the cooler weather comes.’ + +‘Ah!’ said the little German, ‘and still he keeps grinding away at the +business?’ + +‘Yes,’ said Myles, rather indifferently; ‘or rather, I do. He leaves it +pretty much to me at present.’ + +‘Yes, to be sure,’ said Herr Sternefeld, with a somewhat significant +nod and smile. And there’s your train. Herr Süsmeyer will be glad to +see you back again. _Au revoir!_’ + +He bustled away, and Myles, stepping forward to take his place in the +Eisendorf train, soon forgot him. + +From the great manufacturing town of ----feld, the home of turbulent +spirits and birthplace of social democracy, to the mining and +manufacturing village of Eisendorf, was some three quarters of an +hour’s railway journey. The way was so thickly set with factories, +houses, great collieries, and other evidences of manufacturing +industry, that scarcely had these been left behind, and a strip of +green grass and some distant hills been allowed a chance of showing +themselves in a purer air, than they too were swamped, as it were. More +collieries, more great buildings, cranes, hoists, and a canal, became +dominant in the landscape, while the train rolled into Eisendorf. + +Myles got out of the train, and left the station. Going quickly in +the September evening through the busy main street, he presently +turned aside and went down a kind of alley, at the end of which +light and trees were visible. It was the way into a restauration +and _Biergarten_, much frequented by the middle and better class of +Eisendorf. Here, on almost every evening in the week, music was to be +heard, and here, beneath the trees, one might sit and take one’s supper. + +This was apparently Myles’s intention, for he walked through the +lighted garden, seated himself at one of the tables, and gave an order +to a waiter, who presently returned bearing a dish, a table-cloth, and +all the other paraphernalia of a supper. + +Myles did not spend a long time over this meal. The table was soon +clear again, with the exception of the indispensable bottle of yellow +wine, and the accompanying green glass. He leaned his elbows upon the +table before him and stared dreamily forward across the garden, beyond +the groups of merry guests--young men and girls, and whole families, +with _Vater_ and _Mutter_ in full amplitude; he seemed to see none of +them. The band in the orchestra, fifty yards away, were playing soft +strains; the lamps twinkled with a mild, pleasant brightness; the trees +above them looked ink-black by contrast. The sky beyond was like a +vault of violet crystal, and the lamp-like stars beamed out mildly here +and there. The breeze rustled gently now and then, but it was a very +gentle breeze, with nothing of the storm in its breath. All around was +the hum of laughter and talk, and the murmur of flirtation; now and +then the clanking of spurs and the rattling of swords as the company +was reinforced ever and anon by fresh specimens of the inevitable +lieutenant; it was all very pleasant, very calm and peaceful. Myles, +somewhat languid after a long day’s business in the de-oxygenised +atmosphere of the offices and warehouses of a large town, felt, at the +moment, perfectly neutral; neither glad nor sorry, but content, so far +as he was anything, to sit still, with his arms on the table, taking an +occasional drink of his pleasant, if not strong, straw-coloured Neckar +wine, and listening to the whispers of the band, as one instrument +after another died away in the final bars of a little serenade of +Haydn’s. He would have been content to stay there for an indefinite +time, for Myles had arrived at that mental state in which a man finds +it easiest and pleasantest to go on doing the same thing. Whether the +thing were work or idlenesss was almost immaterial to him, when he had +once begun it. It was the effort of turning his attention from one +thing to another which brought mental pain and inconvenience. All day +he had wrought hard, and asked nothing better than to continue doing +so. So long as he could go on, he was almost at ease. But when the work +was over--when the offices were closed, and men had finished their +toil, and were going home to ‘play them’--to use an idiom of his own +native dialect--then it was that despondency seized him; then it was +that he felt a sudden blank, an emptiness, a sense of being lost and +unprovided for; then it was that the effort to find some other pastime, +something else with which to fill his thoughts, was a dull pang which +he dreaded continually. It was this feeling of desolation that kept him +sitting up till all hours of the night, with book and dictionary open +before him, studying or reading until his eyelids fell over his weary +eyes, and he could go upstairs, certain that he would fall asleep as +soon as he tumbled into bed. It was this which made him dread to awaken +in the night watches, or to lie awake with nothing to do; this that, +as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning, made him rise instantly +and begin to do something. He had got an unconquerable horror of those +hours of silent thought and meditation which had once been a joy and +a privilege to him, as they are and must be to all robust, properly +ripening minds. + +It was for this reason that, being tired with his work, soothed with +eating and drinking, and pervaded by a feeling of quiet calm and +contentment unusual with him, he felt reluctant to move, and sat on, +his handsome bronzed face set in a gravity that amounted to solemnity, +and a fixed listlessness in his dark and brilliant eyes. Soon, he +knew, the transient pause would be over--for the contentment was +abnormal--soon the aching sense of desolation and unrest would return, +and he would have to awake again. + +Very soon, indeed, the spell was broken. A party of young men, +strolling through the gardens, saw him, greeted him, and sat down +beside him. They began to talk--persisted in drawing his attention to +this girl and that girl, and in asking him if he had heard this piece +of gossip or the other. + +They were well-conditioned, kind-hearted young fellows enough; they +had liked him, and had treated him with friendliness ever since his +advent amongst them, and they continued to seek his company, in spite +of his unvarying sedateness and gravity. Myles, in these latter days, +was courtesy itself to all who merited courtesy; if Adrienne Blisset +could have heard the yea, yea and nay, nay of his daily communication +at present, she would have been quite unable to accuse him of being +‘scornful’ or ‘disdainful,’ as she once had done. What she might have +felt about the little air of proud, absent, patient indifference, who +shall say? + +Despite absence and indifference, Myles was very well liked amongst +the better sort of the young men of Eisendorf. They were of various +nationalities; chiefly, however, German, Dutch, and English, with a +sprinkling of French. They were all engaged in commercial pursuits, +with the exception of one or two young professional men, and an +occasional ‘lieutenant’--that much-laughed-at, much-abused equivalent +of the English curate. It was known--Myles had never attempted to make +any secret of it--that he had left a workman’s situation in an English +town, to come and be the overlooker at Herr Süsmeyer’s works--that +since then he had rapidly risen to the post of manager and headman; +that Herr Süsmeyer had greatly attached himself to him; and it was +thought more than probable that Herr Süsmeyer’s son, Julius, would +never abandon his favourite occupation of travelling in foreign lands, +and that when Herr Süsmeyer had provided for the said Julius, he would +most likely retire, and leave his business in the hands of Myles +Heywood, who--so every one agreed--was quite the most proper person to +succeed to it. + +Myles happened to know better--to know that Julius Süsmeyer was even +then on his way home, with every intention of devoting himself to the +career of a merchant, but, at Herr Süsmeyer’s request, he had not named +the fact. + +He sat, this evening, listening to the talk and jesting of the others +for some little time, and then rose. + +‘Why are you going?’ cried one of them. ‘Why not stay here? The evening +has only just began. It’s only nine o’clock. I expect we shall have +some dancing in the _Saal_ when the concert is over.’ + +‘Thanks,’ said Myles, with a gleaming smile which lighted up his dark +face; ‘dancing is not in my line, as you know.’ + +‘No,’ said a young Englishman, laughing. ‘One would almost as soon +expect to see old Michel Angelo’s Juliano de Medici step from his +pedestal and begin to dance, as you, Heywood.... Now that I look at +you,’ he added, thoughtfully, putting his head on one side, ‘there is a +likeness actually; at least about the nose and mouth. Look here! If you +were to put your hand across your face so----’ + +‘And twist my other arm into a commanding position--thus--you would see +a man in the attitude of Michel Angelo’s ‘Pensiero’ Medici, and that +would be all. Good night!’ + +‘Odd fish, Heywood!’ murmured his countryman, shaking his head. ‘I +wonder if he was ever less solemn than he is now.’ + +The object of that speculation took his way out of the gardens and +the town, walking northwards, along a road leading to that suburb in +which lived most of the more wealthy and distinguished inhabitants +of Eisendorf. He walked for half an hour or more, till he arrived at +the house of Herr Süsmeyer, the largest and pleasantest of all these +residences. He went up the dark garden walk, and pulled the bell; soon +the great door was thrown open, and he was in the presence of his +chief, a delicate, kindly-looking old man, with a gouty foot laid up +on a stool before him, and a crutched stick leaning against the table +which stood hard by his easy-chair. The table was covered with books +and papers; a reading-lamp cast a softened light over the page which +the old man was reading. He was quite alone; there was perfect rest and +perfect stillness around him. + +He glanced up over his spectacles, and laid down his book, as if well +satisfied when he found who his visitor was. + +‘So late!’ said he. ‘I had hardly expected to see you to-night, after +your long day’s work. What business in ----feld?’ + +Myles entered into details as to the business he had done, with an +incidental disquisition upon the state of trade in general at that +time. Then the conversation drifted off into other channels. + +‘Your holiday-time will soon be here,’ observed Herr Süsmeyer; ‘you +mean to spend it in Berlin, I think you said?’ + +‘I shall go to Berlin, amongst other places,’ said Myles, who had +assumed the very attitude which the young Englishman had wished him to +take, and who sat, his hand half across his face, looking out, through +the open window, into the darkness of the garden. ‘I suppose I shall +wander from one place to another. I do not much care where I go. You +know it is your doing, sir, that I am going at all.’ + +‘I wonder that you should go to Berlin, from one town to another. I +should have thought the green woods and fresh air of Thüringen, or----’ + +Myles shook his head. + +‘No; I don’t care about the country. It is dull.’ + +‘Or to England, to see your friends?’ + +The young man started. + +‘No--oh, certainly not,’ said he. ‘The last place I should wish to +go to. No, Herr Süsmeyer; with your introductions and through your +kindness, I shall meet with friends in Berlin and other places, and +shall see a great deal that is interesting, and which I have long +wished to see. I shall come back here refreshed and ready for work +again, until your son----’ + +‘We can talk about that when Julius arrives. Time enough, time enough! +I hate changes,’ said Herr Süsmeyer. ‘Meanwhile, I have had very good +news to-day--excellent news.’ + +‘Indeed!’ + +‘Yes; a letter from Sebastian Mallory.’ + +‘Ah! Is he coming, then?’ + +‘He is coming--yes, but not alone,’ said Herr Süsmeyer, a smile of much +satisfaction playing upon his face. He will bring his bride with him. +What do you think of that? He says I must see her. But you say nothing; +you did not know?’ + +‘His bride!’ repeated Myles, in a low voice. ‘No, I did not know. +But--when does he come?’ + +‘In a few days. They are already at Cologne. They will travel through +Düsseldorf and ----feld, and come here for two nights only. Then they +are going on. It is their wedding tour. I have already given orders,’ +continued the old man, ‘to receive them. I must make much of my friend +Sebastian. It is as if a child of my own brought his bride to see me. +I have ordered the guest-chambers to be prepared, which have not been +used since the death of my blessed Amalie, my wife.’ + +Thus the good old man prosed on, with childlike pleasure in the +prospect of meeting ‘his’ Sebastian again, and of seeing his bride, +so engrossed in the anticipation that he did not even look at his +listener, who sat still, composed and pale, hearing distinctly all that +was said, and occupied, he too, in picturing the scene: how Sebastian +Mallory would lead forward his bride, who would be glad that his old +friends were pleased to welcome her. Myles could exactly realise how +she would go up to good old Herr Süsmeyer with both hands held out, and +eyes shining with happiness, and he--perhaps he need not be there at +all; but, at any rate, if he only kept sufficiently in the background +he would not be observed, and he could bear his pain alone. This stroke +had been long delayed, but it had come at last--as he knew it must. +Those words he had heard spoken in the Thanshope Park had held good. +Why there had been so long an interval he could not tell; he had often +wondered, had many a time sought the papers through with sickening +anxiety, and had never yet seen what he expected and dreaded to see. +But at last all uncertainty was over. He could never doubt again: and +now, he thought to himself, life would be much easier to live, for he +had too much sense to bewail his lot when he knew what it was; it was +uncertainty which was so wearing, and no doubt it was uncertainty which +had caused all his mental pain and distress. Now, certainly, things +would be better. + +Thus consoling himself, he rose to take his leave of Herr Süsmeyer, who +shook hands with him, and thanked him for calling, and said. + +‘You know, you too must see Mr. Mallory. He will wish to see you; +indeed, he says so in this letter.’ + +‘Yes, I shall see him, of course,’ said Myles. + +Then he went away--walked back to town to his lodgings; found his lamp +burning, and his books open as he had left them; said to himself, + +‘Now, at last, I can study with a mind at ease,’ and straightway +prepared to do so. + +In vain! Echoes from a life that he had tried to believe lived out +thronged in his mind, and resounded there. Faces seemed to flash +past him and voices to ring in his ears. All sorts of scenes vividly +recurred to his mind: always he and she were together; always there +was exquisite delight mingling with his pain, till he recalled the +scene in which Frederick Spenceley had come scowling through the +committee-room, in the great distress. It was after that that his +life had become so intolerable to him. His thoughts wandered off +to the Spenceleys in general. Of course he had heard of the great +failure; of Mr. Spenceley’s suicide; of Fred’s dishonourable flight. +What was the wretched fellow doing now? he wondered. And there had +been others: a good, homely-looking mother, who seemed ill at ease +under her greatness; and a daughter--he remembered her too--the most +beautiful girl in Thanshope, so every one had said, and Myles also had +been compelled to give her his meed of admiration when he saw her, +day after day, working with Adrienne Blisset. He had often thought +what a contrast they formed--like a beautiful crimson rose and a white +violet: the one with her fair hair and delicate, pale face; the other +with dusky locks and great dark eyes, the rich colour that came and +went, the vivid life in every movement, the splendid attire. Yes, he +remembered her--she was most beautiful; but to him a violet was more +exquisite and precious than the most gorgeous rose, and it seemed other +people shared the same opinion. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +ROSE OR VIOLET? + + +Two days later, Myles took his way, in the evening, towards Herr +Süsmeyer’s house. The travellers had arrived, he had heard, early in +the forenoon. There had been a ceremonious _Mittagessen_, or midday +dinner, at which different treasured friends of Herr Süsmeyer’s had +been present--friends also of Sebastian in former days. Myles, too, +had received a pressing invitation to be there; but, feeling that he +would much rather descend of his own free will into the crater of Mount +Vesuvius, and there spend the remainder of his natural life, than sit +a long three hours (for German congratulatory dinners are not amongst +the briefest of ceremonies) at Herr Süsmeyer’s table under the proposed +circumstances, he had declined, on the plea that it was a very busy +day at the works, and he could not possibly be spared before evening. +At the evening meal (the _Abendbrod_), Herr Süsmeyer insisted that +he should be present; and Myles, not quite sure, when it came to the +point, that the last arrangement was not worse than the first, had +perforce consented. + +The house was lighted up, he saw, as he approached. There were lights +in the windows of those guest-chambers which had once been the pride of +her life to the _selige Amalie_ of Herr Süsmeyer. There, in that house, +under that roof, he was to meet Adrienne again--no longer the girl +whom he might dare to love because she was free, but as the wife of +Sebastian Mallory, henceforth to be looked upon with other eyes. A rush +of recollections, sweet and bitter, alike filled his mind for a moment, +and were very strong. + +But his will was still stronger. He had not endured his years of +sorrow, trial, and probation, to emerge, at the last, a weaker and +worse man than he had been at first. He was prepared to endure the pain +that awaited him, _piene forte et dure_ though it might be--to endure +and perhaps, in the end to conquer it; to bear it, moreover, so that it +and its cause should be known to himself alone. + +It was with a feeling of sadness, but without any of bitterness, that +he entered the house. He felt clearly and distinctly that he could meet +his successful rival without a feeling of grudging or ill-will. + +He was ushered into the large commodious room which was Herr Süsmeyer’s +library, and in which he always sat when alone, or with intimate +friends. Myles, going in, saw his old master in his gala dress of +faultless black cloth and dazzling linen, his gouty foot laid up on +the stool before him; his best-pleased smile upon his face, looking up +to where Sebastian Mallory stood talking, his elbow resting on the top +of the piano. There was no one else in the room. Sebastian, who was +looking towards the door, changed his position quickly as Myles came +in, and went to meet him with outstretched hand. + +‘Ah, Heywood, I am glad to see you again. We were talking about you at +this instant.’ + +Myles found it strangely hard at first to return the greeting, but +he sternly beat back the grudging feeling which momentarily raised +its head, and spoke with cordiality. How well Sebastian looked! How +happy! How self-possessed, and at harmony with life and circumstances, +naturally, thought Myles. He had everything to make him so. He was +little changed. Perhaps there was a degree more of animation or +abruptness in his manner; a little more of the active combatant, and +less of the amused bystander, looker-on at the world’s game. That was +natural too, thought Myles, and to be expected, while Sebastian was +thinking he had never seen any man with manner, expression, almost +appearance, so completely changed as this ‘revolutionary weaver,’ as +Hugo von Birkenau had once called him. He could scarcely realise the +excessive change which had taken place. All the old froward defiance +appeared to have vanished, and instead there was + + ‘The reason calm, the temperate will, + Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,’ + +which were the qualities he himself most highly prized in man and +woman. They stood patent on his ex-workman’s broad brow, in his steady +eyes, and upon his firmly, though not sourly, set lips. Sebastian was +divided between pleased surprise and self-congratulation on his own +foresight; for, from the first, he had hoped and expected to see Myles +turn into something of this kind. + +Occupied with these feelings, the two young men scarcely spoke, but +left Herr Süsmeyer to do the talking, which was exactly what he wished. +The first thing that really roused them to reality again was a remark +of Herr Süsmeyer’s: + +‘Your dear wife (_Ihre liebe Frau_) is absent a long time, _mein +Bester_.’ + +‘Oh,’ said Sebastian, with a sudden flash of the eyes, which did not +escape Myles, ‘she will not be long. I told her at what time you took +your supper. She was resting when I saw her.’ + +‘So!’ said Herr Süsmeyer, adding, for the hundredth time, ‘I trust she +finds herself accommodated with all she wants upstairs.’ + +‘Oh, everything, thank you. She says she thinks German hospitality is +the most delightful she ever had.’ + +‘German hospitality!’ thought Myles. ‘Strange! She passed her happiest +years in Germany; she told me so.’ + +While he was marvelling at this (to him) peculiar remark of +Sebastian’s, the rustle of a silken gown became audible on the polished +floor of the passage; _she_ was coming now. + +‘There she is!’ said Sebastian, catching the sound too, and starting +forward to open the door. + +‘I hope I’m not very late,’ said a voice--(silvery, though not _the_ +voice)--and it was just at that moment that Myles began to wonder if he +were labouring under some wild and extraordinary hallucination--whether +long brooding and the last blow had really driven him mad. + +He was conscious, but in a dream-like, unreal manner, of rising, as +Sebastian led a lady into the room--a lady who laughed a happy laugh. +He was conscious, also dreamily, of seeing a figure which had been in +his thoughts quite lately--a tall, superbly shaped, queenly figure--not +the figure of Adrienne; of seeing a lovely face, glowing with a soft +flush of health and happiness; of meeting eyes which, for darkness and +fire, might match his own; of seeing a long, white throat, a dress of +silk and lace, rings flashing on white hands, and a dazzling smile +making the brilliant whole more brilliant still. Nothing like a sweet +violet, indeed, but a rich and gorgeous rose, in the full pride of its +queenly beauty. + +‘Helena, this is Mr. Heywood, of whom you have often heard me speak. +Heywood, Mrs. Mallory.’ + +(‘How fearfully he stared at me, dear!’ said Helena afterwards. ‘He +is really a very remarkable-looking young man, and I liked him when I +talked to him; but he stared most alarmingly at first.’) + +Myles was still dimly aware that the brilliant vision, which he kept +expecting to see fade away like a dissolving view, to be followed by +that of Adrienne, held out her hand graciously, saying something about +‘My husband has often told me about you,’ or words to that effect; and +that he took the hand and bowed over it--very creditably, considering +his state of mind. Then Sebastian placed a chair for--yes, his wife--it +must be his wife, Myles argued within himself, and the conversation +was taken up, and he listened to it in silence for a time, gradually +comprehending that he had been labouring under a delusion, but a +different delusion than he had imagined. By and by he became able to +answer some remark addressed to him by Helena, and then she continued +to talk to him, and Myles found himself being drawn out to show to the +best advantage, saying clever things which he had had no idea that he +could say, until they were elicited by the tact and sympathy of a woman +like Helena. Still, he could not altogether get rid of the sensation +that he was in a dream, and he continued to feel so for the rest of the +evening. + +When he was going away, Sebastian asked him if he could see him on the +following morning. + +‘At any time you please,’ said Myles. + +‘Then I will call at the works in the forenoon. I can soon say what I +have to say.’ + +On that understanding they parted. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +WHICH WINS? + + +The following forenoon, while it was yet early, Myles saw Sebastian +coming through the great yard, towards the office where he sat. His +face wore an expression of gravity--even of trouble--and he frowned +thoughtfully as he came along. + +Myles took him into his private room. He could not help thinking of how +he had received him on that eventful morning when he came driving up to +the office at Thanshope with Hugo beside him, and Myles smiled a little +sadly at the change. + +‘You came on business, perhaps,’ suggested Myles. + +‘Yes; but I had no idea myself, until about an hour ago, how pressing +the business was. Herr Süsmeyer and I were talking about you last +evening before you came. He tells me his son is on his way home, and +that he intends devoting himself to business.’ + +‘Yes; I believe that is true.’ + +‘Under those circumstances, I presume, your position would be somewhat +changed.’ + +‘Certainly. It would naturally become more subordinate.’ + +‘Will you like that?’ + +Myles shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Herr Süsmeyer was talking to me about it. He gave me a very high +character of you. He very much regrets your having to take a secondary +position. He says he would be very sorry to part with you for many +reasons, but not if you left him to your own advantage.’ + +‘Does Herr Süsmeyer want to get rid of me?’ asked Myles. + +‘On the very contrary. He only wishes to see your position improved. I +may as well come to the point. You would hear that I have been returned +as the representative of Thanshope, in Parliament.’ + +‘Yes. I think the Thanshope people showed their good sense there, at +any rate,’ said Myles, with a smile. + +‘Let us hope so. But you will easily understand that such a position +will take me away from home a good deal, and make me unable to attend +to my business as fully as I have done.’ + +‘Naturally,’ said Myles, with a sudden, quick glance upwards, as he +first saw the drift of Sebastian’s remarks. His face flushed, and he +rose from his chair, pacing about the room. + +‘For some time Mr. Sutcliffe has been quite unfit for the post he +held--I mean, as regards bodily health. I have wanted very much to +provide him with an assistant, but did not know how to manage it +without hurting his feelings. My conversation with Herr Süsmeyer +decided me to ask you to take the post. Since then--in fact, this +very morning--I have a telegram from Wilson with the news of poor +Sutcliffe’s death. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I liked him well. +Such faithful probity, such diligence, and such capacity, are not found +in one man in a hundred. But, long ago, I thought I had discovered +them all in you, and my errand to you this morning is to ask if you +will take Mr. Sutcliffe’s post in my business. Your energy, vigour, +and the talents for business which Herr Süsmeyer tells me you have, +would be invaluable to me, and without doubt the connection would be an +advantageous one for you. What do you say?’ + +Myles had come to a stop in his restless walk, his hands plunged in +his pockets, his brows knit, his eyes somewhat downcast. He did not +look elated. His first words were not an explicit answer to Sebastian’s +question. + +‘I think you are the most generous man I ever knew, sir,’ he said at +last, almost abruptly. + +‘That is beside the question. There is no talk of generosity, but of +a business connection, a contract entered into by us for our mutual +advantage.’ + +‘It would at least be very much to my advantage. Have you not +considered that there are plenty of men, employers like yourself, who +would be glad to see sons of theirs placed with you, and would furnish +capital too, as a premium?’ + +‘_Mon Dieu!_ yes, I know. I have had hints to that effect from more +than one already. It does not suit me to do anything of the kind. +I don’t want a young gentleman with capital, whom I shall have to +teach. I want a business man, who can really take commercial care +off my shoulders when cares of another kind are laid upon them. I am +not a fellow to do things in a hurry. The whole matter has been well +considered, and it is a great object with me to secure you. As to +terms, we could come to some satisfactory arrangement, I doubt not. +What I want to know now is, will you come to me, and take the place of +manager of my business?’ + +Again Myles began to pace the room, biting his lip and frowning +desperately. + +‘You must think me strangely callous and indifferent, not to jump at +such an offer,’ he began. + +‘No; I see you don’t want to come. I know your reasons. No,’ he added, +as Myles started, ‘not your very reason, but I know that when you left +Thanshope it was in the hope never to see it again; and that desire has +not yet changed.’ + +‘No it has never changed,’ he owned. + +‘But, if I guess rightly, there is no actual, tangible obstacle to your +return. It is a strong private feeling of repugnance on your own part, +arising from some cause or causes to me unknown. Is it not so?’ + +‘Yes, it is so.’ + +‘Well; still I ask you to come. Come and try, at least. Fight it down, +and come and revisit your city of the dead. Come and try whether there +may not be new life hidden for you there.’ + +Myles shook his head. + +‘There is not that,’ said he. + +‘Then, to put it in another light, come because I ask you, to oblige +me. Surely all that wrath and misunderstanding which once existed +between us is burnt out for ever now. I am certain we can act together +in most things. And--excuse me, I have no wish to be impertinent--but +let me tell you that Stonegate is always empty now; and if it were not, +I have introduced you to my wife.’ + +Myles turned abruptly away. Stonegate always empty! Whether empty or +inhabited, he had forfeited all right to approach it. + +‘With the best wishes in the world for friendship, that would have +divided us, would it not?’ continued Sebastian, who, when he took +up the probe, was not wont to lay it down again, with the operation +half finished, deterred by the anguished face or fainting mien of the +patient. + +‘Yes,’ was the only answer. + +‘But it is gone. I know not what life may hold for you in the future; +I do know that you have suffered in the past, and that places where +one has had that kind of suffering are haunted, and full of ghosts; +but again I urge you--come! I think you are leading a morbid, foolish +life here, rendered, by the motives which prompt it, not a particularly +healthy one, and----’ + +‘Say no more, sir. I will come. I knew I should come, as soon as you +asked me. No wish of yours could be other than a command to me now. It +was only that I could not force myself to say yes. But now I say it. I +will go whenever you like--that is, whenever Herr Süsmeyer will spare +me.’ + +‘That is spoken as I hoped you would speak,’ said Sebastian, heartily. +‘Let us shake hands upon it.’ + +‘On my agreement to take you for my lawful master, and serve you +faithfully and honestly,’ said Myles, with rather a forced smile, as he +grasped Sebastian’s hand. + +‘I suppose that is the foundation of all such agreements, but I trust +we shall be something more worthy of us both than mere master and +servant. At least, you need not be afraid of rusting. I have dozens of +plans which I have never had time or assistants to carry out. Now, with +my wife, and I hope you to help me too, I shall get along splendidly.’ + +‘I am glad to hear there is plenty of work,’ said Myles. ‘I was to +have left here in a couple of days for a holiday. Suppose I went to +Thanshope direct, instead of Berlin, and the other places I had thought +of. That would leave the field clear to Herr Süsmeyer and his son, and +I could get to work at once.’ + +‘Better take the holiday first, hadn’t you?’ said Sebastian. ‘It may be +long enough before you have the chance of another.’ + +‘Thank you; but I would much rather go straight to work. The holiday +was none of my seeking. It was Herr Süsmeyer’s doing.’ + +‘Very well. I will telegraph to Wilson that you will be there in a few +days, and he must have the books ready for you. I will just give you +an idea of how we stand at present, and leave you to shake down before +I come back, eh?’ said Sebastian, with as much nonchalance as if he +had been proposing nothing more difficult than that they should take +a stroll together. He knew, this astute young man, the kind of nature +he was dealing with. To have proposed coming to Thanshope with Myles, +and there standing by him and smoothing out his way for him, would +have been in the highest degree distasteful to the latter. The charge +imposed upon him was a heavy one; it promised him arduous and incessant +occupation for some time, at least until Sebastian’s return from +abroad. Already the idea of Thanshope looked less like a grim phantom. +The way became more practicable. He brightened visibly, to Sebastian’s +private amusement. + +‘Yes. How soon will you return?’ + +‘It is impossible to say. It will depend a great deal upon the reports +you send me. This is my wedding tour, really, though it has had a +queer beginning, and I think my wife has a right to complain of being +dragged about to German manufacturing towns in order to settle business +matters, when I promised to take her to the Italian Lakes. We shall +try to go on there, and to Switzerland, and make a regular holiday of +it, before coming back to settle really to business. You will do the +best you can.’ + +‘Yes, of course,’ said Myles. ‘I hope and think that my reports will +allow you to take a pretty long holiday.’ + +‘Then I can go,’ said Sebastian. ‘We leave to-morrow morning. Suppose +you come up to Herr Süsmeyer’s to supper to-night, as you did last +night, and we will take an hour afterwards for business--yes? And now I +must be off.’ + +These rapidly made arrangements were all faithfully carried out. +In less than a week Myles, armed with Sebastian’s explanations and +instructions, was on his way to Thanshope. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + ‘Yet, ere the phantoms flee, + Which that house, and heath, and garden, made dear to thee erewhile, + Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free + From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.’ + + +It would be difficult to overrate the completeness of the change which +had supervened, in both the outer and inner life of Myles Heywood, +between the time when he had left his native town, and now, when he +returned to it. + +He was very busy, very quiet, and very lonely. Sebastian had acted with +the soundest wisdom in leaving his new manager to take his place alone, +and alone to fight down the obstacles which he encountered, alone to +strike back the ill-will, the jealousy, and the insubordination--all of +which things raised their heads and gaped upon him with their mouths on +his first assumption of his new office. + +Myles had accepted the post calmly, but he had known perfectly well +that he assumed no light task. It would have been comparatively easy, +if there had not been the envy and prejudices of old friends to be +overcome. Thanks to the first-rate management of Mr. Sutcliffe, and +to Sebastian’s own ubiquitous eye, the whole machine was in complete +working order; but this, perhaps, only left all the more room for +smaller spites and jealousies to make themselves felt. There was, first +of all, Wilson, the faithful old cashier who had once been Myles’s +superior: he was a first-rate accountant and bookkeeper, but no manager +or man of business, and utterly devoid of the faculty of arranging +or regulating things. None knew it better than himself, yet it was +something of a trial to his feelings to see the young fellow, whom he +had known from the time when he had begun life as a ‘half-time’ of +eleven, placed over him. In justice to both the men, it must be said +that this little jealousy soon wore off. Myles won Wilson’s heart by +his manner of treating him with scrupulous respect in the presence of +third persons, and without pretensions of any kind when alone with him. +Wilson, too, was an intelligent man, who knew a clever man of business +when he met him. Myles very soon proved his perfect capacity for his +post, and after that Wilson’s soreness was at an end. He backed up ‘Mr. +Heywood’ on every possible occasion, and suffered no appeal from the +said Mr. Heywood’s behests. + +Myles found it a somewhat more difficult matter to dispose of others, +old comrades of his own, who were working away in the same old places, +no higher than they ever had been; and who, unable to rise themselves, +were lost in astonishment that he should be put over their heads. +Some of them were strongly inclined to be provokingly familiar; first +jocosely, and then maliciously, insubordinate; utterly unconscious +of the mental gulf between him and them. But the stronger brain and +will of the man who had risen beyond them was able to check these +manifestations of feeling. One or two sharp examples, and a most +unequivocal demonstration that no nonsense would be endured, reduced +them to their natural places. Ever afterwards he had the name amongst +them of having become hard, inconsiderate, and a fine gentleman. He +knew it and regretted it, but accepted it as inevitable, remembering +the time when he had resented the fact that the law did not compel all +men to live on the same level. + +The new manager’s eyes appeared to be ubiquitous--nothing escaped them; +but good work and good conduct were as keenly noted by him as bad, and +he let the approval be as distinctly felt as the displeasure. There +was, moreover, another thing which soon began to tell more than all the +others put together: he was utterly unconscious of deserving ill-will; +he was so evidently bent upon work, hard work, and nothing but work, +and not upon hectoring it over those who had become his subordinates, +that distrust gradually subsided. Sneers and scoffs had no effect +whatever upon him; they were ignored in a manner so complete as to +recoil with disconcerting effect upon their originators. That grave +absorbed face, those eyes which noted everything, that ready presence +of mind, that seemingly unwearying, untiring strength, that utter +disregard of the amount of work which fell upon his own shoulders, soon +began to tell upon individuals, and, through them, upon the mass. + +Myles wrote Sebastian regular accounts of his business transactions, +hoping they met with his approval. He never named any disputes with the +work-people, leaving his master to infer that he was, as the latter had +said, ‘shaking down’ to his new work. + +Outside that work his life was rather colourless. Mary and Harry no +longer lived at Thanshope. Harry had found work in a manufacturing +village some five miles distant; he lived in a cottage on the borders +of an open moor, where the air was pure, free, and bracing. He had +grown, physically, much stronger in consequence of the change, and +thought that his hearing, if not actually better, did not become +worse so rapidly as when he lived in the town. Occasionally, on a +Sunday, Myles would go over to see them, and nurse his sister’s little +boy on his knee, feeling a passion of tenderness which he could not +express for the little round-faced thing, with its large, solemn, dark +eyes--like his own, Mary said, with affectionate pride. He would walk +with Harry over the moors, and gratify him by shouting descriptions of +his foreign life into his failing ears. But, except for this one day +in the week, they were lost to him; their incessant toil, and his own, +preventing further intercourse. + +Very often his dead brother occupied a place in his mind. Poor Ned! +What a life he could have given him now! He could have had him to live +with him, and bought him books and pictures, and given him music, and +made his existence a poetry to him. But it was too late: Edmund slept +his quiet sleep, killed off by the want and the sorrow which had been +too much for them all, at the time of the great distress. + +One face was missing--that of Hoyle, his old enemy. Myles made some +casual inquiries about him one day, and heard that he had left +Thanshope about a year ago. He never knew the part the man had played +between him and Adrienne. + +The young men who had once been friends of his (it seemed as if it +must be hundreds of years ago), and to whose debating society he had +once belonged, received him with a mixture of timidity and admiration. +Many of them had advocated--perhaps still did so--the Proudhonistic +theory--‘all property is a crime.’ At one time Myles had believed +and ardently advocated the same delusion. He had lived faster and +grown faster than these old friends of his, and now they were divided +between embarrassment at his open support of one of the most flagrant +property-holders of the district, and admiration of his cleverness, +which had swept such gains into his own lap. Myles felt little sympathy +with them, and had the uncomfortable sensation that while they were +shy of discussing things before his face, they were very voluble, and +chiefly about himself, behind his back. + +He found his most congenial associate in Mr. Lyttleton, the Factory +Inspector of Thanshope and some surrounding towns, who lived in +Thanshope--a middle-aged, highly educated man, who was attracted, +the first time he saw him, by the keen yet sombre countenance of Mr. +Mallory’s new manager; and who, when he learnt the outlines of Myles’s +history, became still more interested in him, asked him to his house, +and there introduced him to some young professional men, of a higher +class, taken all in all, than those he had known in Eisendorf. The +benefit was mutual, and Myles’s circle of acquaintances, if not of +intimates, thus gradually extended. Almost everywhere he pleased, but +everywhere there was the constant wonder why Heywood was so reserved, +so almost melancholy in manner, and so sparing in speech; ‘much more +like a Spanish grandee,’ observed a young doctor to Mr. Lyttleton, +‘than a man who has risen from the ranks of the working-men. I can’t +make the fellow out.’ + +Very few people could make the fellow out, though many seemed to find a +decided pleasure in trying to do so. + +Thus time passed until Sebastian and his wife came home, and then +Myles found that ‘master and servant’ was indeed far from expressing +the relation which Mallory wished to exist between them. Sebastian’s +regard, once won, was dealt out with no niggard hand. He had got +Myles to yield to his will; now it seemed he wished for more than +respect--regard. The best part of Myles’s nature responded to the call; +his liking warmed each day, till it grew to an affection, reserved and +reticent indeed in outward show, but inwardly glowing as warmly as +Sebastian himself could desire. The former ill-will had burnt itself +out. Master and man were on a footing of perfect amity and accord. +The more Myles heard of Sebastian’s plans, thoughts, and schemes, +the better he liked them, and the wiser he felt them to be. He could +appreciate them now; three years ago he could only have scoffed at +them. He entered heartily into them all; he worked unremittingly till +Sebastian declared he was afraid of his energy, and refused rest, +saying he neither required nor desired it. Whatever his own private +and personal hopes, thoughts, or wishes (if he had any), he kept them +strictly and entirely to himself. Helena was very kind to him, and +they were very good friends; she, woman like, always thinking of that +background in his life, that hinted love-story, of which Sebastian had +given her some glimpses. Occasionally she and her husband would speak +of it. + +‘Sebastian, you know him best, and what he is capable of. Do you think +he is in love with that girl yet?’ + +‘I think, most reverend matron, that he is in love with that girl--who, +by-the-by, is rather older than yourself--yet.’ + +‘Then why doesn’t he find her out and propose to her?’ + +‘I have not asked him.’ + +‘He cannot think she is too good for him.’ + +‘I should not be surprised if he did.’ + +‘Absurd!’ + +‘Pray take it upon yourself to tell him so. No doubt you will succeed +in convincing him.’ + +‘You are ridiculous, sir.’ + +When he, Myles, had by any chance a leisure hour, he would go--even +after the nights had grown dark, and frosts of winter had set in--up +the dreary length of Blake Street to the wicket of the empty Stonegate, +and, leaning upon that support, would stand gazing at the emptiness +and the desolation of it. No one lived there. A woman came some few +times in the week, and spent the day there, lighting fires and throwing +open shutters and windows; but that was all. It had always, at the +best of times, been a dreary-looking, sad, cold place, but now it was +forlorn in its mournfulness. If it had not been so utterly lonely, +Myles would not have gone there. No one he knew ever came past. He had +his watch-post to himself, and probably found some kind of mournful, +unsatisfactory joy in his vigils. Always it remained the same--empty, +closed, desolate--always void of her presence--always without sign or +indication that it would ever again be gladdened by it. Her name had +never been mentioned, either by him or his friends. He was absolutely +ignorant of where she was, or how; of what she was doing, whether she +were happy or sad; of every fact and circumstance connected with her. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + ‘Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen; + Du, du, liegst mir im Sinn; + Du, du, machst mir viel Schmerzen-- + Weiss’ nicht wie gut ich Dir bin!’ + + +The spell--the long silence--was broken at last. One evening towards +the end of April, when he had been seven months in Thanshope, he first +had any news of Adrienne. The Mallorys were in London, and had been +there since the opening of Parliament in the beginning of February. +Myles had had all the work and responsibility at home laid upon his +shoulders. His work for the day was over, and, the evening being fine +and the air pleasant, he turned out for his usual stroll up Blake +Street. As he came nearer to the house, he saw a man standing in the +garden, and as he approached still nearer, he recognised the man; he +was Brandon, Mr. Blisset’s old servant and factotum. + +The windows in the front of the house were all open, and glittering +in the rays of an April sunset--mild and cool. Brandon was standing, +looking meditatively towards that sunset, and towards the moors to +which it formed a flaming background. His hands were in his pockets, +and he was softly whistling a tune. + +Myles paused, and the man turned round. There was a mutual recognition. +Brandon had been three days in the town, and had heard all the +gossip there was--all about Myles’s changed position; and while he +looked pleased to see an old acquaintance, he touched his cap as to +a superior. Myles, wishing him good evening, rested his elbow on the +gate, and said. + +‘Are you living in Thanshope?’ + +‘No, sir. I only came here for a few days on business.’ + +Myles was gratified that he could at once satisfy the deep yearning +that lay at his heart--to ask after Adrienne--and at the same time do +what was natural and to be expected; for who, if not her uncle’s old +servant, should know anything about her? He therefore inquired. + +‘Do you ever hear anything of Miss Blisset now, since Mr. Blisset’s +death?’ + +Brandon looked surprised. + +‘Hear of her, sir! I’m in her service.’ + +‘In her service?’ repeated Myles mechanically. + +‘Yes, when my late master died, Miss Blisset was good enough to say +that she particularly wished me to remain with her, unless I had other +views, which I had not. I have served her and her family for thirty +years, and I hope never to serve any other.’ + +‘I had no idea you had remained with her. I am glad to hear it. She +must require a person to--an old servant, who will be like a friend to +her as well.’ + +‘Miss Blisset was so kind as to say, when she asked me to remain, that +she looked upon me as a friend. My wife and I are the only servants she +has.’ + +‘Ah! How is Miss Blisset--or rather, how was she when you left her?’ + +‘She was quite well, sir, thank you.’ + +‘Does she live in England?’ + +‘At present she is living in London, and we have been at Florence and +Dresden.’ + +‘Indeed! Does she mean to stay in London?’ + +‘I think she will stay until autumn. Then she is going abroad with some +friends. I am not sure where, but I think to Italy. Most likely she +will take either my wife or me with her, and leave the other behind.’ + +‘Then she does not think of coming to Thanshope at all?’ + +‘No. Her lease of this house expires directly, and she is not going to +renew it. She has seen Mr. Mallory in London, and made arrangements to +give it up. I have come to see about storing the furniture.’ + +‘Yes. When shall you be returning?’ + +‘In about three days, sir, I expect.’ + +‘The house will then be empty.’ + +‘Yes.’ + +There was a pause. Myles’s heart was beating. Brandon was looking at +him inquiringly, as if he awaited some further word or some message to +be delivered to his mistress. But Myles dared not send any message. +He could not forget how he had ignored her own message to him, though +head and heart alike cried out that he was wrong. In ordinary concerns +he was clear-headed and practical enough: where his love for Adrienne +stepped in, his nature seemed changed; he became timid, nervous, and +lost all self-confidence. To have sent a mere conventional phrase +of compliments or kind regards, would, it seemed to him, have been +deliberate, insolent bravado--after what had passed. If he could have +seen her, if she would have spoken to him, he might have confessed his +fault and begged her pardon; but there was no word, no message that he +could send through even the most trusted of old servants--through any +third person. + +After a few more words with Brandon, he wished him good night and moved +on, leaving that worthy man to think how ill-mannered he was. ‘And he +used to sit and look at my young lady in a way that any one must have +noticed,’ thought Brandon, rather indignantly. + +Myles walked homewards, deciding in his own mind that he would not go +near Blake Street again until after Brandon should be gone. He pictured +Adrienne in London, with plenty of friends, visiting the Mallorys, +happy--the man had given no sort of hint that she was not happy. +Suppose he happened to be in London, to be in the same room with her, +to pass her in the street! He had forfeited the right to claim her +acquaintance; he did not think he would have the courage to address +her. He had made a great mess, a horrible mistake, when he repulsed +that advance of hers; for that it had been an advance there could be +now no doubt, since there had never been anything between her and +Sebastian Mallory. What a shock, what offence, that behaviour of his +must have caused her! The dead silence which had supervened on her part +showed how she must have taken it. + +His heart ached a good deal as he walked towards his home. What +profited him all this solitary, lonely prosperity? If he could have +exchanged it all for one more of those evenings at Stonegate in the +old days--for one more of those glances from Adrienne, which used to +intoxicate him with their half-frank, half-timid expression--he would +have flung all he had to the winds, and begun life again to-morrow, +if he could have seen her once again betrayed into such a look, such +a tone, as that with which she had said, ‘Oh, Myles!’ one Sunday +afternoon. But that would never be. She too had found that Thanshope +was not the place for her. She would never come to Stonegate again. +When next he saw it, it would be empty, dismantled, a shell. He +wondered--and immediately felt eager that it should be so--whether +Sebastian Mallory would let _him_ have Stonegate. There was no other +place in which he cared to live. A fear seized him, lest it might +already have been promised to some one else. He hastened his steps, +and as soon as he got in wrote to Sebastian, and dropped the letter +with his own hand into the letter-box. He had written urgently. If Mr. +Mallory had not already disposed of Stonegate, might he, Myles Heywood, +become its tenant, at whatever rent Mr. Mallory pleased, even to the +half of his income? Repairs and everything of that kind (he mixed up +business and sentiment in a hurried jumble) were to be his concern, and +his alone. And might he have an answer soon? He did not care whether +the reasons of his eagerness were guessed or not by Sebastian. + +By return of post he had an answer: + + ‘DEAR HEYWOOD--I am glad to find there is something you seem to + care much about, outside business. Since Miss Blisset is leaving + Stonegate, I could have no other tenant so desirable as you, and I + assure you applications have not flowed in with the rapidity you + seem to think. You are at liberty to take possession as soon as she + vacates, which I suppose will be in a few days from now. It is not + a residence which I should have exactly chosen out from amongst all + others, but _chacun à son goût_.--Yours truly, + + ‘S. M.’ + +Myles carried this note about with him in his breast-pocket, as if it +had been a magic talisman. He studiously adhered to his resolution not +to go near Blake Street till the three days of which Brandon had spoken +should have elapsed, but the shadow of the deserted house ‘haunted him +like a passion’--a longing, intense and increasing, concentrated his +thoughts upon that ‘house, and heath, and garden,’ the ‘phantoms’ of +which had been ‘so dear to him erewhile.’ + +Not until the fourth evening after this interview with Brandon did he +again take his way along the familiar street. + +It was even such an evening as that earlier one. The air was mild, the +sun, now declining, had been bright--all nature smiled. It was growing +dusk as he drew near the house. Why was his heart so low? Why had he +such a great sensation of loneliness--of being cast adrift? Why did sad +words of a sad song ring in his ears, and seem to be borne in whispers +to him with each breath of wind-- + + ‘Away! away! to thy sad and silent home! + Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth! + Watch the dim shades, as like ghosts they go and come, + And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.’ + + ‘The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall fall about thine head, + The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet, + But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the + dead, + Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may + meet.’ + +He felt the idea dreadfully prophetic; he felt as if that were the fate +he had selected for himself, as he at last rested his arms upon the +homely wicket of that lonesome abode, and looked towards the front of +the house. + +He was prepared for closed shutters, melancholy wisps of straw and +scraps of paper, doors bolted and barred--such as mark, with a brand +not to be mistaken, the deserted house. What he beheld was an open door +and an open window--the window to the right hand; he could see that the +hall was stripped of its fittings, that the windows were curtainless, +but the house was not empty--as yet, its hearth was not ‘desolated.’ + +What is that moving within the room? A figure; perhaps one of ‘the dim +shades, as like ghosts they go and come.’ So dull are our senses, when +night is falling, that even he did not recognise whose form it was; it +was not to a sight, but to a sound, that his nerves suddenly thrilled, +and his senses became tense and alert. + +As he stood, a chord was struck upon a piano within--another. A slight +shiver shook him, but still he was not convinced until a voice floated +out--the softly melodious voice which he knew in every fibre of his +heart, not loudly, but with a subdued intensity of feeling which made +him also absolutely tremble. For the song she sang brought hopes, +doubts, fears--and again, wild and tremulous, chaotic hopes, crowding +into his mind. It was the homely old German _Volkslied_-- + + ‘Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen.’ + +To every word his heart throbbed, as she apostrophised, with the +abandon of one who believes herself unheard and unlistened to, that +absent one-- + + ‘Thou, love, shrined in my heart, + Thou, love, shrined in my mind!’ + +and sang how he ‘caused her much pain, and knew not how much he was +loved.’ A pause after that, till she went on to the second verse-- + + ‘So, love, e’en as I love thee, + So, so, by thee I’d be loved.’ + +‘For,’ said the song, ‘I must ever be drawn most tenderly towards thee.’ + + (‘Die, die, zärtlichsten Triebe + Fühle ich ewig auf Dich.’) + +Towards thee--towards whom? Her voice vibrated, almost failed, as +she went on with a sad, pondering accent, to the wonder expressed in +the third verse, as to whether _he_, that absent one of the careless +spirit, might be trusted, as he might trust to her; and the notes +swelled out again-- + + ‘Weiss’ nicht wie gut ich Dir bin.’ + +Myles’s head had sunk down upon his arms. The wonder, the mystery, the +wild hope, that came surging over his heart almost unmanned him, and +still the voice floated out, as she sang the last verse of the song. +_Could_ it be? Might he dare to hope that, as she chose _that_ hour, +that place, that song in which to express her feeling, that it _was_ +he--for she was singing now-- + + ‘My love, when in the distance + In dreams thy face I see, + My heart, with fond insistance, + Turns evermore to thee.’ + +Whose face? Her voice had faltered with the energy of her own feeling, +on the last lines-- + + ‘Dann, dann, wünsch ich so gerne, + Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’ + +She sang the last cadences again, as if she could not leave them, as if +weary of waiting and separation-- + + ‘Ja, ja, ja, ja! + Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’ + +With a heart full of the wildest, most chaotic doubt, wonder, surmise, +Myles stood, his head raised again, his dark eyes burning, as their +wont was when he was agitated, upon the open window. The dusk was too +deep now for him to see anything in the room. + +His brain, his heart, all of him, were thrilling with the aspiration +conveyed in the last untranslatable words of the song--the passionate, +simple, primitive-- + + ‘Dass uns die Liebe vereint!’ + +He saw nothing, heard nothing, until a footstep paused, as if arrested +in surprise, beside him--a figure interposed itself between his eyes +and the window at which he was gazing. + +‘_Adrienne!_’ + +The name fell, like a sigh, without his will or wish, almost without +his knowledge, from his lips. He scarcely knew himself, or where he +was, or anything, except that she stood there, and had paused, stopped, +was looking at him. It was light enough to see that she had recognised +him on coming close to him, and that, when their eyes met, she was +trembling. + +When she looked into his face, her own turned paler, and a startled +‘Oh!’ fell from her lips. + +For a moment they both stood silent thus. Then Myles, seeing that she +still trembled and looked startled, remembered suddenly where he was, +and how it all was. He bared his head and stood before her, saying, in +a low voice, + +‘Pardon me! I forgot! I will not intrude. I did not know you were here.’ + +He had turned to go, was absolutely moving, when she herself opened the +wicket wide, and said, in an indescribable tone, + +‘Will you leave me without one word, as before?’ + +The tremulous appeal was a command. He entered the garden, looking at +her, as if awaiting a direction from her. But at last he said, + +‘It was that which made me fear to look at you. I can scarcely believe +you will speak to me. Do you mean,’ he added, with a sudden appeal in +his voice--‘do you mean that I may come in, and--talk to you?’ + +For all answer Adrienne held out her right hand, and closed the wicket +with the other, so that they stood together within the garden. + +Myles took that hand, but he could not at first speak. + +‘Miss Blisset, I behaved unpardonably--like a ruffian--two years ago. I +do not deserve your forgiveness.’ + +They had been moving towards the house, and they now stood in the +almost dismantled drawing-room, by the open piano. + +‘At first,’ said Adrienne, in a voice which still trembled, ‘I thought +I never could forgive you. It was cruel on your part----’ + +‘It was brutal--unpardonable.’ + +‘No; you were mad with grief--I knew it afterwards--and you could not +know what it was I had to say to you.’ + +‘What was it?’ he asked, below his breath. + +‘It was to say good-bye, and something more--to say that I feared I had +been unkind! I had seemed to desert you--in your trouble, but that +it had never been so in reality, for I had thought of you constantly; +and,’ she added steadily, ‘to tell you, too, that I had heard +something--that some report had been set going about you and me----’ + +‘You heard _that_! It was to spare you that--it was because I was +almost mad at the thought----’ + +‘It was to tell you that I prized your friendship beyond all those +slanders, and that nothing could ever shake it. I did wish to tell you +that; but after you were gone, after you had left me in that manner, +Myles, I dared not write.’ + +‘Fool that I was! But I have been paying the price of my folly for two +years without ceasing. Till seven months ago I believed you were going +to marry Sebastian Mallory. You may suppose I was anxious for nothing +so much as to be silent--to hear nothing of you.’ + +Adrienne made no answer, till Myles said, + +‘And now you are going to leave Thanshope?’ + +‘Yes, for ever.’ + +‘You have come to say good-bye to the old place?’ + +‘I never meant to come. Brandon found some difficulties about the +arrangements I wished him to make, and telegraphed for me. I came this +afternoon, and am leaving again to-morrow morning.’ + +Adrienne had lost her self-command as he gained more of his. Her voice +shook uncontrollably, as she leaned her elbow on the top of the piano. + +‘I shall always feel happy that I have been able to see you, to tell +you that, whether you forgave me or not, I have repented, and do +repent, my churlishness, and to thank you for your--your _unspeakable_ +kindness to a rough, stupid, clumsy fellow like me,’ said he. ‘Your +great goodness and your gentle influence will go with me through my +life; and--may you never know a sorrow or a care as long as you live!’ + +The aspiration appeared useless, for Adrienne had buried her face in +her hands, and was weeping with a quiet sorrow that had something of +despair in it. + +‘But before I go,’ he added, ‘will you answer me a question? Perhaps +I have no right to ask it, but I must, I have been listening to your +singing; I heard every word.’ + +‘Yes,’ was the almost inaudible answer. + +‘Tell me if you had some one in your mind when you sang that song.’ + +‘Yes,’ said Adrienne, still scarce above her breath. + +‘You had!’ he exclaimed, and forgot the solemn farewell, the almost +benediction, he had just bestowed upon her, while he hurried his words +out desperately. ‘Oh, Adrienne! forgive me if I am too presumptuous; +but have mercy! Tell me, when you sang ‘Du, du, liegst mir im +Herzen’.... But I am too bold--I----’ + +‘Do not look at me so strangely!’ she began, raising her tear-stained +face. ‘Tell me----Ah!’ she suddenly exclaimed, as with one movement +they clasped each other, ‘it is you, Myles--it was always you; but you +were so dreadfully proud.’ + +‘Do you mean,’ he asked, after a long pause, ‘that if I had come to you +that night--if I had forgotten myself, and told you, as I felt sure I +should, that I loved you, and that no “friendship” could be anything +but a wretched mockery to me--do you mean that _then_ you would have +taken me, ruined and wretched, and without one bright thought or one +hope for the future?’ + +‘If you had come then, and told me all that, you need not have gone +away without hope, and I should have spent a different two years than I +have done. But it is all right now,’ she added. ‘The probation is over, +my love, and you have borne it bravely.’ + +‘If you think so, it must be so; but at the time, I assure you, I felt +anything but brave. _Now_ I feel--I feel at rest,’ said Myles. + +There was silence. The darkness gathered. The air blew softly in at the +window, and bore with it the faint sound of an old tune, in broken, +melodious chimes. + + +THE END. + + +_J. D. & CO_ + + +_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_. + + + + +_BENTLEY’S FAVOURITE NOVELS._ + +Each work can be had separately, price 6s., of all Booksellers in Town +or Country. + + +By Mrs. HENRY WOOD. + + _East Lynne._ (150th Thousand.) + _The Channings._ (40th Thous.) + _Mrs. Halliburton’s Troubles._ + _Anne Hereford._ + _Bessy Rane._ + _Court Netherleigh._ + _Dene Hollow._ + _Edina._ + _Elster’s Folly._ + _George Canterbury’s Will._ + _Johnny Ludlow._ (1st Series.) + _Johnny Ludlow._ (2d Series.) + _Johnny Ludlow._ (3d Series.) + _Lady Adelaide._ + _Life’s Secret, A._ + _Lord Oakburn’s Daughters._ + _Master of Greylands._ + _Mildred Arkell._ + _Orville College._ + _Oswald Cray._ + _Parkwater._ + _Pomeroy Abbey._ + _Red Court Farm._ + _Roland Yorke._ + (A Sequel to ‘The Channings.’) + _Shadow of Ashlydyat._ + _St. Martin’s Eve._ + (A Sequel to ‘Mildred Arkell.’) + _Trevlyn Hold._ + _Verner’s Pride._ + _Within the Maze._ + +By FRANCES M. PEARD. + + _Near Neighbours._ + +By HAWLEY SMART. + + _Breezie Langton._ + +By Mrs. ALEXANDER. + + _Look before you Leap._ + _Her Dearest Foe._ + _The Admiral’s Ward._ + _The Executor._ + _The Freres._ + _The Wooing o’t._ + _Which shall it be?_ + +By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. + + _Ought We to Visit Her?_ + _A Girton Girl._ + _Leah: a Woman of Fashion._ + _A Ball-Room Repentance._ + +By Mrs. RIDDELL. + + _George Geith of Fen Court._ + _Berna Boyle._ + _Susan Drummond._ + +By Mrs. PARR. + + _Adam and Eve._ + _Dorothy Fox._ + +ANONYMOUS. + + _The Last of the Cavaliers._ + +By J. SHERIDAN LE FANU. + + _Uncle Silas._ + _The House by the Churchyard._ + _In a Glass Darkly._ + +By MARCUS CLARKE. + + _For the Term of his Natural Life._ + +By Baroness TAUTPHŒUS. + + _The Initials._ + _Quits!_ + +By MARIE CORELLI. + + _Vendetta._ + _A Romance of Two Worlds._ P.T.O. + +By RHODA BROUGHTON. + + _Dr. Cupid._ + _Cometh up as a Flower._ + _Good-bye, Sweetheart!_ + _Joan._ + _Nancy._ + _Not Wisely, but too Well._ + _Red as a Rose is She._ + _Second Thoughts._ + _Belinda._ + +By ROSA N. CAREY. + + _Wee Wifie._ + _Barbara Heathcote’s Trial._ + _Nellie’s Memories._ + _Not like Other Girls._ + _Robert Ord’s Atonement._ + _Wooed and Married._ + _Uncle Max._ + +By JESSIE FOTHERGILL. + + _The ‘First Violin.’_ + _Borderland._ + _Healey._ + _Kith and Kin._ + _Probation._ + +By HELEN MATHERS. + + _Comin’ thro’ the Rye._ + _Sam’s Sweetheart._ + +By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. + + _The Three Clerks._ + +By Mrs. NOTLEY. + + _Olive Varcoe._ + +By F. MONTGOMERY. + + _Misunderstood._ + _Seaforth._ + _Thrown Together._ + +By JANE AUSTEN. + +(The only Complete Edition, besides the Steventon Edition, 63s.) + + _Emma._ + _Lady Susan_, and _The Watsons_. + _Mansfield Park._ + _Northanger Abbey_, and _Persuasion_. + _Pride and Prejudice._ + _Sense and Sensibility._ + +By Lady G. FULLERTON. + + _Ellen Middleton._ + _Ladybird._ + _Too Strange not to be True._ + +By W. CLARK RUSSELL. + + _An Ocean Free Lance._ + +By CHARLES READE. + + _A Perilous Secret._ + +By Hon. LEWIS WINGFIELD. + + _Lady Grizel._ + + +_BENTLEY’S FOREIGN FAVOURITE NOVELS._ + +By HECTOR MALOT. + + _No Relations._ [With numerous Illustrations.] + +By Mrs. AUGUSTUS CRAVEN. + + _A Sister’s Story._ + +By E. WERNER. + + _Success: and how he won it._ + _Under a Charm._ + _No Surrender._ + + + LONDON + RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. + Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber’s note + + +Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Spelling of +surnames names were standardized + +Other spelling was retained as in the original except for the following +changes: + + Page 113: “Another murmer indicative” “Another murmur indicative” + Page 138: “exclaimed Alkibiades” “exclaimed Alcibiades” + Page 140: “nor was he reasurred” “nor was he reassured” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76077 *** |