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 CHARITY CHANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER RAYMOND 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "gentleman upcott's daughter," "love and 
 
 QUIET LIFE," "TRYPHENA IN LOVE," ETC. 
 
 m 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1896
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 "By Walter Raymond. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S.A.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. Babblecombe I 
 
 II. The Garden Party 5 
 
 III. A Pliant Hour 28 
 
 IV. The Miniature 38 
 
 V. Mere Money Matters .... 48 
 
 VI. Alfred Prentice ']■] 
 
 VII. The Pleached Bower .... 93 
 
 VIII. Evermore Tattling no 
 
 IX. In the Wood 120 
 
 X. HoNiTON Lace 131 
 
 XI. The Meeting 140 
 
 XII. Disclosures 155 
 
 XIII. Charity gone 182 
 
 XIV. The Settlement 204 
 
 XV. As Nursery Governess .... 219 
 
 XVI. The End ......... 240
 
 Charity Chance. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BABBLECOMBE. 
 
 To see at a glance the little hamlet of 
 Babblecombeyou must stand upon the crest 
 of the hill. 
 
 There in the coombe below, its half-a- 
 dozen houses, thatched and whitewashed, 
 snugly lie together close, like eggs of a 
 greenfinch in a nest of twigs and moss. 
 The road which wanders winding down the 
 hill runs straight in front. The woods, 
 which upon one side cover the steep, reach 
 down to the slanting gardens at the back. 
 The brook is so small and overgrown with 
 bushes, you would never know it was there 
 but for a gleam of silver where it feeds the 
 mill.
 
 2 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 You can hear the humming of the wheel, 
 the shiver of the leaves when the wind 
 sweeps up the coombe, the startled chatter 
 of the jay as the village boys run through 
 the wood. But to every sense of rural 
 sweetness and every charm of sylvan sound 
 another joy is added. The breath which 
 sets the gentle ash a-whispering to the 
 sturdy oak blows fresh with the fragrance 
 of the brine; and a mile away, a rich gem 
 set in the open gap between the cliffs, 
 stretches the broad sea, sometimes deep as 
 sapphire and sometimes delicate as pearl. 
 There also are the grey roofs and square 
 church-tower of the little town of Babble- 
 mouth, and the slanting masts of one Cardiff 
 collier, as at low water she lies in the 
 square stone harbour upon her side at rest. 
 
 Beyond the nest of cottages, but a little 
 higher on the hillside, a small mansion 
 stands apart. Whatever the essential feat- 
 ure which constitutes a house a mansion, — 
 whether a winding staircase with an oaken 
 balustrade, a yew hedge, stables with a 
 weather-cock, or two gates and a carriage-
 
 BABBLECOMBE 3 
 
 drive, — this dwelling possesses it above 
 cavil or dispute. A large pillared portico 
 amply supports that dignity, together with 
 the projecting bedroom overhead. At first 
 sight this stately adornment conveys an 
 impression that the house is mostly hall. 
 Yet it is homely, too; for clematis climbs 
 over the front, and a white rose reaches far 
 above the windows. The mansion faces full 
 toward the sea. 
 
 Great steamships of Bristol and the 
 Welsh ports pant to and fro in the dim dis- 
 tance; and sometimes, when spring tides 
 run strong, creep up the channel under the 
 cliffs. At summer noon the sunlight gleams 
 on passing sails as white as snow. At eve 
 some weather-beaten brig or schooner, 
 beating west, stands like a blot upon the 
 glory of the setting sun. They pass the 
 place unheeding, their names and destinies 
 unknown. None but the Cardiff collier 
 ever comes to Babblemouth. 
 
 The tourist has not found this haven of 
 rest. The cyclist dare not risk the hill 
 leading down to Babblecombe. An atmos-
 
 4 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 phere of old-world respectability pervades 
 everything, from the smoke, domestic, grey 
 and clean of commerce, which mantles the 
 town in mist, to the sweet shadow above 
 the open cottage door between the honey- 
 suckle and the eaves. 
 
 The coombe is a little heaven upon earth, 
 where everything you say will be repeated, 
 and everything you do is known.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 
 
 "Charity, just give me your arm, dear. 
 How warm the sun is ! I will sit in the 
 shade by the yew hedge, and they must 
 come to me there. I hope the strawberries 
 will be enough." 
 
 " More than enough, dear aunt, you may 
 rest assured," said the girl, tenderly. 
 Then she added, with sudden impatience, 
 "Enough to have satisfied the children of 
 Israel in the wilderness." 
 
 Leaning upon her silver-headed ebony 
 stick, but firmly grasping the girl's wrist 
 with a thin hand, half hidden by a lace 
 mitten, Miss Graham cautiously descended 
 the two steps where the French window 
 opens upon the lawn, and they slowly
 
 6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 walked along the path together, — Charity 
 Chance and this little lady whom she called 
 "aunt." 
 
 They were both beautiful, — Charity in 
 the glorious wealth of her young woman- 
 hood, with everything to learn, and all to 
 live, and before her the broad land of love 
 untrodden and unexplored; and the little 
 cripple, crooked and misshapen from her 
 birth, who had hobbled threescore years 
 alone, brightening every step with the light 
 of her own soul. 
 
 By the border where pinks and mignon- 
 ette were in full flower, the woman's fingers 
 pressed more closely upon the girl's arm, 
 and without a word they stopped. 
 
 "Stand where I can see you, child," she 
 said, withdrawing her hand and pointing 
 before her with a gesture half playful, half 
 peremptory. 
 
 The girl stepped a few paces aside, and, 
 laughing, stood to be looked at. Behind 
 her the grey stones of the house peered 
 between the delicate tracery of a Virginia 
 creeper. At her feet were the flowers.
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 7 
 
 "Oh, yes, it is all right," she cried, a 
 gleam of mischief flashing in her eyes. 
 "And if not, what matter.?" 
 
 "Yes," nodded the little lady, with slow 
 deliberation, — "yes, I like you in white. 
 Turn round a little, dear. Yes — and I 
 like you in the hat. It suits you well." 
 
 Her mind at rest upon these matters, 
 the striking beauty of the girl forced itself 
 upon her heart afresh. 
 
 "Charity! You might be a princess, 
 child," she burst out, in sudden enthusi- 
 asm ; then she sighed. " But you know the 
 wish of my life, dear. You know the one 
 wish of my life." 
 
 A rapid glance of understanding, and 
 the light faded from the girl's face. Her 
 large brown eyes became thoughtful, and 
 she turned away and looked toward the 
 hillside. 
 
 It was midsummer. The sky was clear, 
 the air full of light, and sunshine rested 
 upon hill and cliff. Only, far across the 
 sea, a rising cloud, capped with gold, 
 loomed through the grey haze. The woods
 
 8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 were still as if asleep; the birds silent, as 
 they often are in the heat of a summer 
 afternoon. Nature was in suspense. 
 
 Charity stood as in a picture, without 
 word or sign of answer, — a girl of nineteen 
 years, tall and shapely as a lily, her frock 
 of white nun's veiling clinging around her 
 shoulders, and falling soft as snow upon 
 her bosom. The broad Leghorn hat cast a 
 soft shadow across her cheek, but could not 
 altogether keep the sunlight from the red- 
 brown hair that hung in waves upon her 
 forehead. 
 
 Her aunt's appeal, pathetic in the love 
 which prompted it, touched no new note. 
 The hope, that could almost bring tears 
 into the little lady's eyes, had been familiar 
 for many a day. Tt could not startle; but 
 the heightened colour on the girl's cheek 
 and her quickened breathing betrayed the 
 agitation it had power to arouse. 
 
 "Well, well, child. Come along." A 
 sigh — an impatient beckoning of the long 
 thin fingers — and side by side, as before, 
 they walked along the path.
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 9 
 
 The yew hedge beginning by a corner of 
 the house reached the whole length of the 
 lawn. Beside it garden-seats and chairs 
 had been brought in readiness into the 
 shade. To the largest of these, an arm- 
 chair with a high back of carved oak, raised 
 with a cushion and provided with a foot- 
 stool, Miss Graham solemnly ascended, 
 and seated herself in state. By this device, 
 at which some people smiled, the poor little 
 lady sought to cover the unkindness of 
 Nature by concealing her deficiency of 
 stature. In her left hand she still held 
 the silver-headed stick. 
 
 Her manner of dress she had not varied 
 for many years. 
 
 A soft black satin gown open at the 
 throat; an embroidered muslin kerchief, 
 crossed and fastened with a miniature in an 
 oval frame of twisted gold, — the portrait of 
 a woman, young and beautiful, with feat- 
 ures and expression strikingly like her own; 
 a mushroom hat of plain black straw tied 
 with black ribbons underneath the chin. 
 
 The quaintness of this unpretentious
 
 10 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 attire was in keeping with the sweet sim- 
 plicity of the face, which smiled upon 
 Charity with the unchanging serenity of a 
 Madonna in the full contentment of mater- 
 nity. Her forehead was broad and smooth, 
 with fewer wrinkles than her years might 
 claim. Her hair, once fair, was not yet 
 white ; and out of her frank grey eyes looked 
 a soul, alert and happy in the confidence 
 that it could see nothing but good. 
 
 The girl's arm, taken for support, was 
 still retained from affection. 
 
 " Listen, Charity, dear ! What is that ? " 
 she suddenly cried, in alarm. 
 
 From across the sea, like a warning mur- 
 mur of discontent, came the sound of dis- 
 tant thunder, and they saw that the cloud 
 on the horizon had risen rapidly. 
 
 " It is a long way off. They have it in 
 Wales," laughed the girl, in consolation. 
 
 " If it should rain — " 
 
 The little lady stopped abruptly, and 
 raised her hands in horror at the thought. 
 " But somebody is coming, child. I can 
 hear wheels on the road, and John Sprake
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. ii 
 
 is hurrying to open his gates. Perhaps the 
 Babblemouth people and Graham. Run 
 down to the door, dear, and bring tliem 
 round here." 
 
 As Charity passed along the path, a look 
 of joy and exultation, such as belongs only 
 to a dream of love, flitted across the 
 cripple's face. 
 
 Through the gates of Babblecombe House, 
 now open wide, trotted a one-horsed wag- 
 gonette, bringing the first arrivals to Miss 
 Graham's garden party. But not the Bab- 
 blemouth people and Graham. Merely the 
 Rev. Mr. Mortimer, rector of Babblemouth, 
 round-faced and clean-shaven, with his tall, 
 lean wife, and a judicious selection from 
 his numerous daughters. 
 
 "Put him where he won't get kicked, 
 John," cried he, throwing the reins upon 
 the back of the most patient beast in 
 Christendom. 
 
 Then he greeted Charity with condescen- 
 sion. "Oh! How do you do. Miss Chance.? " 
 he asked, almost as if her presence were a 
 surprise.
 
 12 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "In the garden, dear, I suppose," piped 
 Mrs. Mortimer, with that rich smile which 
 creams iqDon the countenance when the 
 milk of human kindness has turned a little 
 sour. She pecked the girl's cheek with her 
 sharp face, and marched away as if she were 
 at home. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Charity," said Theo- 
 dosia, the eldest. 
 
 "Good afternoon," echoed Amy and 
 Amelia. 
 
 They were shy of Charity Chance, per- 
 haps a little afraid of her. 
 
 Tall and straight, and cool even in that 
 hot weather, they shouldered their tennis 
 rackets, and followed their father up the 
 garden path, like grenadiers in single file. 
 
 " Amazons ! " muttered the girl, con- 
 temptuously, between her teeth, " who never 
 read a line in their lives." 
 
 And now the guests flocked in apace. 
 Carriages came crawling down the hill, or 
 whisking along the level road from the 
 town, until they were packed in the little 
 courtyard by the stable close as mere carts
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 13 
 
 at a fair. The lawn was crowded with 
 people ; lovers already wandered in the 
 laurel labyrinth by the foot of the wood. 
 It would seem that everybody of distinction 
 in the neighbourhood was there, — colonels 
 of militia, captains of volunteers with their 
 ladies, even a Colonial bishop in gaiters, 
 stooping to play at bowls. Everybody 
 either great or impressive — and yet little 
 Miss Graham's face became anxious as she 
 glanced again toward the gate. 
 
 At last there dashed up to the portico a 
 splendid landau drawn by a pair of bays and 
 bearing on the panel a shield the size of 
 a dinner-plate. Its blazonry had often 
 awakened the curiosity and excited the 
 admiration of Babblemouth. It was under- 
 stood to be quarterly: ist and 4th az., 3 
 stags passant ar. for Poltimore, 2nd and 3rd 
 sa. , 3 ducks plucked and trussed, or beaked, 
 legged and skewered gules for Briggs. As 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs slowly descended and 
 assisted his second wife (the first had been 
 merely Mrs. Poltimore, and passed away 
 before he had assumed the arms and dignity
 
 14 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 of Briggs) to alight, many an eye was turned 
 to look at them. Even the bishop himself 
 stood erect, the bowl poised upon his ten 
 fingers, and suffered a grave smile to suffuse 
 his classic face. 
 
 For Mr. Poltimore-Briggs was a man of 
 the finest presence. Six feet tall at least, 
 and proportionately portly and important. 
 And he wore a spacious waistcoat of snowy 
 white, and a long, old-fashioned gold chain 
 around his neck, and a broad blue necktie, 
 with white spots on it, tied in a bow, and 
 shepherd's plaid trousers and spats, and 
 the blandest expression that ever veiled a 
 mortal face. He closely followed Mrs. 
 Poltimore-Briggs, who was small, sharp- 
 featured, intrepid in social enterprise, and 
 so truly British that she never knew when 
 she was beaten, and never gave up when she 
 was snubbed. And as they threaded their 
 way through the throng of guests, he bowed 
 and nodded upon all sides. For Mr. Polti- 
 more-Briggs was possessed of the most 
 admirable manners, — a different manner 
 for each different man ; so that toward the
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 15 
 
 great he behaved with deference, and to the 
 lesser folk with a dignity commensurate 
 with his great worth. 
 
 Close behind them came a young man in 
 tennis flannels and a blazer of blue. 
 
 So the Babblemouth people, as she had 
 called them, were come at last. Impatient 
 to watch them upon their way toward her, 
 Miss Graham sat erect upon her throne, and 
 her bright eyes sparkled with delight. But 
 the respectful bow and blandishment of 
 Poltimore-Briggs, who called her Helen, 
 and in his most affectionate manner inquired 
 after her health, passed unheeded. The 
 voice of Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs, shrill in 
 respectful explanation, — " It was really so 
 unfortunate, but just as we were ready and 
 the carriage absolutely coming round to the 
 door, in came Sir John, and, of course, 
 having ridden ten miles, Henry could do no 
 less than — " although audible to the sur- 
 rounding country, ran on unheard. Miss 
 Graham's eyes and ears and thoughts were 
 all for this young man. 
 
 "Graham!" she said eagerly, holding
 
 i6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 out both hands. "So you have come 
 back." 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Helen, I came down yester- 
 day." 
 
 For a full minute she looked at him 
 attentively. " How well you are looking, 
 boy!" she cried; and carried away by an 
 impulse of affection, she placed a hand 
 upon each shoulder, and, drawing him down 
 toward her, warmly kissed him upon both 
 cheeks. 
 
 The salute was not only unexpected but 
 loud. The young man stood disconcerted, 
 and blushed as if he had been smacked. 
 He had an honest, open face, not over- 
 clever, but fresh with sound health and 
 ruddy from the open air. Then, as he 
 smiled good-humouredly at the absurdity of 
 the situation, a resemblance between him- 
 self and his aunt became very noticeable. 
 He had the same frank look, the same grey 
 eyes. His hair, which was clipped quite 
 short, was fair, like the hair in the minia- 
 ture. 
 
 "Sit down. Sit down and tell me about
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 17 
 
 yourself," she commanded in her quick 
 way, pointing to the vacant chair by her 
 side. 
 
 He obeyed at once. But his eyes wan- 
 dered around the garden, narrowly scanning 
 the groups of people, as if in search of 
 some one whom he could not find. 
 
 Then she laid her hand upon his arm, 
 and there was a little falter in her voice 
 as she whispered, — 
 
 " But I must not keep you. You have 
 not seen Charity yet. Come back and 
 spend the evening when everybody is gone. 
 There she is • — in white — with the bishop 
 — by the rhododendron." 
 
 He caught sight of her at last. A glance 
 of understanding, a quick nod of dismissal 
 from his aunt, and he rose and walked 
 hastily across the lawn. She watched him 
 tenderly as he spoke to the girl. And 
 Charity turned and smiled, and looked 
 quite glad. As they slowly strolled away 
 together and disappeared amongst the trees, 
 tears almost filled the little cripple's eyes. 
 It was easy to guess the wish of her life. 
 2
 
 1 8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 But the cloud had risen above the cliff, 
 and now the sunlight faded from the hill- 
 side. A sudden gust of wind rushed up 
 the coombe, and set the woods a-rustling 
 with the rumour of a coming storm. Then 
 something struck Miss Graham smartly 
 upon the hand, and she looked down to find 
 that her mitten was quite wet. And the 
 bishop fancied he felt something, too, for 
 he turned his classic shaven face toward 
 heaven to ascertain whether it really rained. 
 There was no room for doubt. A minute 
 later the storm came down in torrents, and 
 a sudden consternation seized the guests. 
 
 Poor Miss Graham! 
 
 Dowagers from the seats beside the yew 
 hedge set stately sail; old boys came puff- 
 ing like steam-tugs down the gravel paths, 
 and men and maids went tacking in all 
 directions, making for the house; but she 
 sat still. 
 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs advanced with 
 stately strides to Miss Graham's throne. 
 "My dear Helen," he pleaded, in a tone of 
 deep solicitude, "permit me to offer you an 
 arm."
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 19 
 
 "No, no, thank you," she replied impa- 
 tiently. " Let Sprake bring round my 
 chair. Tell Sprake to bring round my 
 chair." 
 
 She was keenly sensitive, and shrank 
 from showing her infirmities. For the 
 world she would not be seen to walk even 
 those few yards. People would pity her, 
 and the thought hurt her pride. But when 
 at last she was solemnly wheeled to the 
 French window, the drawing-room had 
 already filled to overflowing; the hall was 
 crowded, too, and guests stood under the 
 portico disconsolately watching the pelting 
 rain, which pattered down more and more. 
 Mere men might laugh to see the heavens 
 play this practical joke. But what can be 
 done with more people than the house can 
 hold.'' The women understood this, and, 
 having shaken the raindrops from their 
 skirts, whispered on all sides with deep 
 feeling, — 
 
 "Poor Miss Graham ! Poor Miss 
 Graham ! " 
 
 The lawn was empty now, suddenly
 
 20 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 depopulated as a billiard-table after an 
 eight stroke. Only two people remained 
 out of doors. Like balls in the same 
 pocket, they waited side by side under 
 shelter of a tree. The white frock of 
 Charity Chance and the flannels of Graham 
 Poltimore stood clearly out from the sombre 
 shadows of the copper beech. But the girl 
 was ill at ease. She stepped hastily to the 
 edge of the overhanging branches, and 
 glanced up at the sky. A shower of rain- 
 drops fell upon her, as leaning forward she 
 struck the slanting leaves with the brim of 
 her broad straw hat. The clouds looked 
 hopeless and heavy as lead, and the storm 
 poured down in torrents. Then she sighed 
 as if she also echoed the sorrow, — 
 
 "Poor Miss Graham!" 
 
 The rector and the bishop had fore- 
 gathered in the portico. The bishop had 
 but recently returned from abroad, and may 
 be pardoned the perplexity which knit his 
 bushy eyebrows as he looked many years 
 back into the past. 
 
 "I — eh — I remember old Dr. Graham.
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 21 
 
 He was a physician at Bath. A rather 
 celebrated man in his day. But I can only 
 recall — if my memory serve me aright — 
 two daughters. One of them our good 
 friend of to-day, and the other much 
 younger, and a very beautiful girl — eh — as 
 was universally admitted. She married 
 Poltimore, much against her father's con- 
 sent. A sort of — eh — runaway match, in 
 fact, which attracted a great deal of atten- 
 tion at the time. Who, then, is this young 
 lady — this niece whom they call Charity .-* " 
 
 The rector drew closer, as if not caring 
 to be overheard. 
 
 "A child whom Miss Graham adopted 
 and brought up. She lives with her as a 
 sort of companion. " 
 
 "And, eh, no relation?" 
 
 "Dear me, no — " 
 
 "She seemed to me a very charming 
 young creature.'' " interrupted the bishop in 
 a tone of inquiry, as if, on such a matter, 
 his opinion might need corroboration. 
 
 "Yes. Yes, she is," replied the rector, 
 briefly, as a matter of fact.
 
 22 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "And are they going to make a match of 
 it?" laughed the bishop, pointing with 
 elderly pleasantry toward the copper beech. 
 
 "I fear it is extremely likely. Capital 
 young fellow, Poltimore. Might do a great 
 deal better. Miss Graham has no one else 
 with any claim upon her — no one what- 
 ever. " Then the rector drew closer still, 
 and his voice sank into a whisper. " It is 
 rather a romantic story. The child was — " 
 
 " Charity Chance ! Has any one seen 
 Miss Chance.'' Miss Graham is asking for 
 Miss Chance. " It was Theodosia Mortimer 
 who asked, and her voice sounded quite 
 eager. 
 
 This inquiry, repeated by every tongue, 
 cut short the rector's tale. The bishop 
 glanced at the weather, stepped with alac- 
 rity into the hall, and took an umbrella 
 from the stand. Thus equipped, he gaily 
 embarked upon his mission. To the admi- 
 ration of everybody, and the glory of his 
 calves, he positively ran. He placed his 
 paternal arm round her shoulder to hold 
 the umbrella over her head, and thus
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. • 23 
 
 Charity was conveyed into the house with 
 a tenderness and gallantry very beautiful 
 in gaiters and a shovel hat. 
 
 But that was always the way. Strangers 
 who talked to Charity and looked into her 
 frank eyes felt a kindness for the girl. 
 
 In the hall she took off her hat, revealing 
 the luxuriant wealth of her rich hair. She 
 laughed to see the people sitting in pairs 
 upon the stairs, as they sometimes do at a 
 dance. But everybody was making merry 
 of the mishap. People made room for her 
 as she pushed her way to the other end of 
 the drawing-room, where the little cripple 
 was now installed. They turned to talk of 
 her when she had passed. An atmosphere 
 of wonder and curiosity surrounded this 
 adopted daughter of the rich Miss Graham. 
 The girl knew this, and it made her angry. 
 
 "Charity, dear" — the lace mittens were 
 raised in a humorous gesture of despair — 
 "we must do something for them — I want 
 you to sing at once, child. But ballads, 
 dear. Something quite simple, that they 
 will all like."
 
 24 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "* Home, sweet Home,' I should think," 
 laughed the girl, impatiently. 
 
 Upon the piano was a volume of " Songs 
 of the West," a recent collection of the old 
 ballads of that country, saved by a friendly 
 hand at the last moment, ere they sank into 
 oblivion. She had been singing them to 
 please her own fancy. They v/ere quaint, 
 and fragrant of an old-world simplicity for 
 which she was always looking and loved. 
 Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs, who, by the bye, 
 had once been a governess, volunteered to 
 play the accompaniment. 
 
 The girl stood by the piano, facing the 
 guests. She was restless and angry. It 
 was a relief to stand up and do something 
 — and she sang her best. She had been 
 well taught, and her voice was low and 
 sweet. Through the open door it filled the 
 hall with the stairs, and even in the portico 
 they could hear every syllable, — 
 
 " Down in the mead the other day, 
 As carelessly I went my way, 
 And plucked flowers red and blue, 
 I little thought what love could do.
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 25 
 
 " I saw a rose with ruddy blush 
 And thrust my hand into the bush, 
 I pricked my fingers to the bone, 
 I would I 'd left that rose alone! 
 
 " I wish ! I wish ! but 't is in vain, 
 I wish I had my heart again 1 
 With silver chain and diamond locks 
 I 'd fasten it in a golden box." 
 
 There is a tender melancholy about these 
 old songs, both in the simple words and 
 melody, which is irresistible, and goes 
 straight to the heart. At the first note the 
 conversation sank into a whisper and then 
 died. As Charity finished, there was loud 
 applause, and quite a chorus of voices: "If 
 it is not asking too much, Miss Chance. If 
 it is not troubling you, Charity — " 
 
 But the girl was as ready to sing as the 
 birds in spring, from mere love of it. And 
 so she went on, — 
 
 " The lily it shall be thy smock, 
 The jonquil shoe thy feet ; 
 Thy gown shall be the ten-week stock, 
 To make thee fair and sweet ; " 
 
 until at last the rain had passed over, and
 
 26 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 again there came a sound of wheels upon 
 the gravel drive. Then Mrs. Poltimore- 
 Briggs was carried away by her lord ; the 
 rector's lady went clucking around gather- 
 ing her daughters under her wing, and they 
 filed off as they had come; the bishop was 
 translated, and the rest went home. But 
 not one failed to congratulate Miss Graham., 
 and pour praises upon Charity Chance. 
 " Thank you so much" — " Such a great 
 treat" — "But I am not sure that the last 
 quite suits you, Charity," put in Theodosia. 
 
 " Capital ! Very much obliged. Miss 
 Chance. Very much obliged, indeed," 
 blurted the colonel of militia. 
 
 "Very charming," smiled the bishop. 
 But then the men admired Charity, and 
 meant it. 
 
 "Come here, child. Come here," beck- 
 oned Miss Graham, when they were all 
 gone. " Sit down on a corner of the foot- 
 stool. I am proud of you, dear. I am so 
 proud of you." 
 
 There was silence for a minute, whilst 
 the long, thin fingers kept stroking the 
 bright hair.
 
 THE GARDEN PARTY. 27 
 
 "And is not Graham looking well ? Do 
 you know, I think he gets better looking 
 every time he comes down. Not so many 
 freckles — and the moustache improves him, 
 too. But he has such a nice face — an open 
 honest*face — an English face." 
 
 The little lady brightened with enthu- 
 siasm as she pictured it. Then she bent 
 down and kissed the girl's white forehead. 
 
 "I asked him to come back by and by." 
 
 But Charity did not speak. She knew 
 the inner meaning of all this too well. And 
 although the words were not repeated, every 
 touch, every caress, and every smile was 
 only an echo of the familiar phrase, — 
 
 " But you know the wish of my life. You 
 know the one wish of my life."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 
 
 Upon the ceasing of the rain followed the 
 sweetest eventide that ever lighted upon 
 hill or sank beyond the sea. The pinks 
 and mignonette were beaten down, the 
 petals from the white rose lay strewn upon 
 the ground. Yet the air never smelt so 
 sweet, for the brown earth itself breathed 
 forth a freshness and fragrance of its own. 
 And every bird that had a tongue, from the 
 thrush upon the tree-top to the blackbird 
 hidden in the holly bush, burst into song. 
 
 So the party was over — thank goodness 
 for that ! 
 
 Miss Graham had gone upstairs, and 
 Charity stole into the garden. She was 
 quivering with emotion, and longed for the 
 fresh air to cool her throbbing temples.
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 29 
 
 Up on a ladder by the window was John 
 Sprake, putting a nail where the magnolia 
 had been torn away by the storm. 
 
 "Massey 'pon us, Missie! There were a 
 pity, to be sure," he shouted, at the top of 
 his voice. "Why so much as ever you'd 
 'a' had time to zwank round like, and show 
 one another your new vrocks, when comed 
 down cats an' dogs. Made 'em turn tail 
 an' run to hole like rabbits. Iss did. Ay, 
 so did, sure 'nough." 
 
 A fine philosopher and observer of human 
 manners, John Sprake. He was at Babble- 
 combe before Charity, and she liked to talk 
 to him. But now she hurried by without 
 reply. 
 
 "Ay, put 'em out a bit. I'll warr'nt 
 did. So 'twould, sure 'nough," he chuckled 
 to himself, as he turned to the wall. 
 
 She strode quickly into the shrubbery, 
 where the high bushes hid her on all sides. 
 Alone at last, her pent-up indignation found 
 a voice. What did these people mean who 
 looked upon her so coldly? They were no 
 better than she. Better, indeed ! There
 
 30 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 was no one of them could do anything she 
 could not do. And yet, in some indefinable 
 way, they slighted her as a person of small 
 account. Because she was an orphan — 
 adopted, brought up on charity. Her spirit 
 rose in revolt against the narrowness of this 
 little Babblemouth world. She hated them 
 all — every one. Her heart told her there 
 was a nobility of which they knew nothing 
 — somewhere, beyond this little coombe — 
 in the great city, perhaps. She was not one 
 with these people. She was not of the same 
 blood. She longed to meet a human soul 
 suffering disadvantage, to give sympathy and 
 receive it. As to Theodosia Mortimer, sJie 
 wanted Graham Poltimore, and made eyes 
 at him. That was at the bottom of her 
 behaviour. 
 
 She walked restlessly on. At the end of 
 the path a wicket gate opened into the 
 wood, and against this she leaned. The 
 place was quite solitary, and she remained so 
 still that a rabbit in the copse went on feed- 
 ing undisturbed, a few yards from her feet. 
 
 Graham Poltimore loved her madly —
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 31 
 
 she had no doubt of it. He gave her no 
 peace, and she could no longer procrasti- 
 nate. On the April morning with the sun 
 shining between the clouds, when he came 
 to say "Good-by," his last whisper had 
 been of love. To-day, on his return, his 
 first words beneath the copper beech were a 
 passionate appeal. 
 
 It was heartless to refuse a love like that. 
 She thought she could almost love him if 
 he would only leave her alone, or do some- 
 thing more than hunt or shoot, and hope 
 that he might just scrape through — as he 
 called it — something noble and great — that 
 she could worship. She would have him a 
 scholar — a soldier. In fact she did not 
 want to marry — unless — 
 
 To hear the Mortimer girls, one would 
 think there was no aim in life but to catch 
 a husband by hook or by crook, and she 
 hated that. Her dream was of an irresisti- 
 ble passion, carrying all before it. Then 
 an icy fear swept over her like a northeast 
 wind. She had no feeling, no heart, no 
 soul, no gratitude. That was why people
 
 32 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 were cold to her. That was why she did 
 not return Graham's love. 
 
 Yet surely she did love Graham Poltimore. 
 How could it be otherwise .-* When last 
 winter a returning huntsman, riding slowly 
 through the coombe, left word that young 
 Poltimore had been thrown and hurt, did 
 her heart hesitate.'' She blushed to think 
 how she had run breathless into Babble- 
 mouth — so that even now people tattled 
 and laughed. They said she wanted to 
 catch Graham Poltimore — the fools ! 
 Sour-faced Mrs. Mortimer warned her of 
 this — out of kindness, as she said. 
 
 The voice of John Sprake broke in upon 
 her thoughts. Her ear could not distin- 
 guish the words, but his sing-song shouting 
 seemed to fill the coombe. Miss Graham 
 might be asking for her. She must go in. 
 
 At thought of the little cripple, tears 
 came into the girl's eyes. 
 
 The golden eventide rested like a crown 
 upon the head of the wood ; and every sen- 
 timent which could soften her into acquies- 
 cence burst into life and warmth within 
 her bosom.
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 33 
 
 Dear Miss Graham ! How good she had 
 always been ! And this marriage would be 
 the one perfect joy of her life, — the happy 
 ending to an idyl which was no mere dream 
 of the imagination, but a story in living 
 flesh and blood. For Miss Graham had 
 created her — made her what she was — 
 brought her up as a flower with infinite 
 tenderness, sheltered from the wind of 
 adversity and protected from the biting 
 frost of the world's unkindness. For such 
 a friend could any sacrifice be too great .'' 
 And she was capable of sacrifice — adored 
 it, longed for it — some great and noble 
 sacrifice! If he had been the cripple she 
 would have married him without a moment's 
 doubt, only to comfort his crumpled form 
 against her bosom. 
 
 Suddenly the rabbit in the pathway raised 
 itself alert and listened. 
 
 If she married him, her future was 
 secure. He, at least, did not care who she 
 was and whence she came. He was too 
 generous for that. How angry all the 
 Mortimers would be — at first, and then 
 obsequious. 3
 
 34 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 There came a quick step upon the gravel. 
 She turned, and he was by her side. 
 
 He had walked quickly, and his face 
 glowed with health and careless irrespon- 
 sibility. 
 
 " Sprake told me you were in the garden, 
 Charity," he burst out, "and I came to find 
 you at once. I was afraid you might be 
 indoors, and that I should not see you alone 
 at all." 
 
 "I was just going in," she interrupted 
 him nervously, turning toward the house. 
 
 *' But not now. Not until you have told 
 me. Charity, I think of nothing else. It 
 is the dream of my life. I cannot live 
 without you. And I cannot go on like this 
 without knowing. If it is hopeless, you 
 must say so. I come and go — at Easter 
 I came down and went again ; but you man- 
 age — you always manage — to evade me. 
 I cannot go on like this. If you know you 
 will never love me, I will go away and 
 never come back. I will turn my back 
 upon the place forever and go abroad. I 
 do not care what happens to me — whether 
 I live or die — "
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 35 
 
 In his excitement, words failed him. He 
 had spoken with the wild exaggeration of 
 young romance, and yet it was all so real. 
 How madly he worshipped her ! A womanly 
 pity pleaded for him against her doubt. It 
 were no better than heartless cruelty to 
 remain unmoved by such a love as that. 
 
 "But I am not sure," she faltered, "that 
 I — that I care for you enough for that." 
 
 "But you love me a little." 
 
 "I am very fond of you, Graham," she 
 replied, in a firmer voice. "You have 
 always known that. But it seems different. 
 Not like what you mean. Not like what 
 you say you feel yourself." 
 
 "But that will come — that will come," 
 he urged eagerly. 
 
 " If I could be sure of that ! " 
 
 The cry leapt straight from her heart, 
 and was tender with regret. There were so 
 many reasons why she should love, that this 
 coldness troubled her. 
 
 "Charity!" he cried passionately, "how 
 can you doubt it } You do love me, I know 
 you do. I can hear it in your voice ; and
 
 36 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 you say yourself you are fond of me. We 
 were made for each other, and it is the one 
 wish of poor Aunt Helen's heart. Why 
 should we delay .-* It is not as if we could 
 marry to-morrow, and I were asking you 
 to bind yourself beyond all recall. But 
 promise me now. Let us go in and tell 
 her to-night. She will be glad beyond 
 everything. And I will make you happy, 
 Charity. I love you so much I cannot help 
 making you happy." 
 
 His words almost persuaded her; but she 
 remained silent, and turned to lean against 
 the gate again. 
 
 " Let me tell her, Charity — '* 
 
 "No, no," she answered, in a voice low 
 but very clear. " Do not say a word, 
 Graham. But if you want to please me 
 very much, go away quite early, and I will 
 tell her myself." 
 
 He could scarcely believe in his good 
 fortune. 
 
 " Then — then, we are engaged .'' " he 
 cried. 
 
 " Yes. I suppose we are engaged. "
 
 A PLIANT HOUR. 37 
 
 He threw his arm around her neck and 
 would have kissed her. But she drew 
 back. 
 
 " Not now — not now, Graham dear, " she 
 said quickly. " Come, let us go into the 
 house. There is the bell."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE MINIATURE. 
 
 They were in the drawing-room, and a 
 maid was bringing in the lamp, when 
 Graham Poltimore rose to go. He had 
 scarcely spoken to his father since his 
 return, he said; and Miss Graham accepted 
 the explanation without one word of ques- 
 tion. During dinner conversation had been 
 scanty, and the little lady's quick grey 
 eyes, glancing from one to another, became 
 at first perplexed and then sad. She felt 
 that something had happened, and to her, 
 as well as Charity, his departure came as a 
 relief. 
 
 "You may leave the shutters awhile," 
 she said, turning to the maid with ner- 
 vous impatience. "The room becomes so
 
 THE MINIATURE. 39 
 
 warm when the windows are closed. Bring 
 the book, Charity, and come and sit by 
 me." 
 
 It was customary every night for the girl 
 to read or sing, and sometimes they 
 remained quite late, forgetful of time and 
 place in the bright illusions of poetry and 
 romance. Beside the sofa where they sat, 
 upon a small round table, stood the lamp. 
 But to-night the reading was slow to begin. 
 Charity waited long, the book unopened in 
 her hand. 
 
 "Did you mark the place, dear.?" asked 
 Miss Graham, with quiet self-repression; 
 then, melting into sudden tenderness, she 
 drew the girl toward her and fell to strok- 
 ing the bright hair. 
 
 "Never mind, child," she whispered 
 sadly. "I understand it all quite well. 
 When I longed for it so much, I only meant 
 if it could really be — not against your 
 heart's inclination, dear — not if it har- 
 boured a doubt. Nothing can ever lessen 
 my affection for you. Charity, — nothing. 
 You may always rest assured of that."
 
 40 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "But you do not understand, aunt. 
 Graham asked me again to-night, and I 
 accepted him." 
 
 "Then why did he go?" 
 
 " I wanted to tell you myself — all 
 alone." 
 
 " And you are quite happy .-• " 
 
 " More than happy. " 
 
 It was true. The delicacy of those tender 
 assurances had gone straight to Charity's 
 heart. They touched her deeply, and in 
 an ecstasy of gratitude and gladness she 
 threw her arms around the little cripple's 
 neck. What if this promise were a sacri- 
 fice.? The very doubt, which just now held 
 her halting, filled her soul with joy. She 
 also had something to give, — some return 
 to make for these years of kindness. She 
 was conferring happiness upon the human 
 being she most loved. Her quick, tell-tale 
 face, ever ready to betray emotion, glowed 
 with triumph at the thought. 
 
 To little Miss Graham this was all 
 natural. She interpreted that look of joy 
 in her own manner. Her eyes beamed
 
 THE MINIATURE. 41 
 
 brighter than ever, as they filled with tears 
 of joy. 
 
 "Charity, darling!" she cried, with wild 
 excitement and delight, " it has made every- 
 thing right. All I have will be Graham's 
 some day. Half of it should be his now, 
 in justice to his mother. And he shall 
 have it at once. There is no need to wait. 
 Let him go back and get his degree, and 
 you can be married next summer. I know 
 what love is. There shall be no long 
 engagement. I know what love is — at 
 second-hand — always at second-hand. " 
 
 As she repeated the words, her voice 
 sank into a wail of regret; then she paused 
 a moment, and went on in a deep, rapid 
 whisper, — 
 
 " Charity, I cannot help talking to you 
 to-night. Within this wretched, misshapen 
 little body is a real woman's heart. It 
 makes no difference, child. It is some- 
 thing of the soul. For the most perfect 
 that ever walked under God's sun had no 
 more capacity for loving, no greater longing 
 to be loved, than I, who only hobble from
 
 42 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 chair to sofa or hide my back and truckle 
 along the road on wheels. I tell you, 
 child, I was made living, and knew that I 
 could never live." 
 
 Again she stopped. Her thin fingers 
 eagerly unpinned the miniature upon her 
 breast, and she held it toward the lamp, 
 gazing lovingly upon the face. 
 
 "Look, Charity! Look at her, child! 
 She loved. How she used to come and tell 
 me ! You could never have taken her for 
 my sister, — so well-grown and graceful. 
 But she hurt me; without knowing it, she 
 hurt me. She would talk of him by the 
 hour, and always as if I could not under- 
 stand. Yet it was I who did it when they 
 thwarted her. She could only sit and cry. 
 She had given way until I stirred her into 
 revolt, and quickened her with my spirit. 
 And so she followed her heart's desire, and 
 married Poltimore in spite of all. What is 
 it Thekla sings, child? 
 
 " * Ick Jiabe gcnossen das irdische Glikk, 
 Ich habe gelebt und geljebet ! '
 
 THE MINIATURE. 43 
 
 But what a little while she lived ! And I, the 
 useless one, to stay on all these years ! " 
 
 With a sigh she laid down the portrait 
 upon the table, and, turning toward the 
 girl, placed a hand upon each shoulder. 
 
 "After she had gone, the loneliness fell 
 heavy upon me. It haunted the quiet, 
 proud old house; the street was full of it, 
 where everybody was astir, so quick and 
 strong. Her marriage was a madness, they 
 said. I was not even allowed to speak her 
 name. One night a letter came; that was 
 when Graham was born, and as I sat think- 
 ing there crept into my heart a longing. 
 I knew that I, too, was made for mater- 
 nity, — I, who was never to bear a child. 
 I wanted to know. I wanted to feel 
 the warmth of it upon my bosom. And 
 every day it grew and grew from a little 
 loneliness to a great despair: until at 
 last I found you, child. And ever since 
 my one thought has been set upon to- 
 day. Year by year I watched you grow 
 up like a flower — and waited. You were 
 so bright and warm, I could put my cheek
 
 44 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 against your hair and feel the day coming 
 when you would love and live and learn it 
 all. The hope kept my heart young. The 
 touch of you kept my blood warm. It was 
 like food and fire to keep a starving soul 
 alive. And now you are to marry, — you 
 two, who are all the world to me. Kiss 
 me. Charity. It shall be next year, and 
 you shall live here. Kiss me, dear. I 
 planned it all from the day when you first 
 ran. And he has grown up such a man ! 
 Only sometimes I feared he did not care 
 enough about things — books and poetry, I 
 mean — to please you. Do you feel it cold, 
 child?" 
 
 She stopped abruptly, and glanced toward 
 the still open window. A great moth had 
 come in and was fluttering around the 
 lamp. Moonlight fell across the lawn and 
 glistened upon the dark beech-tree. The 
 rain had left a humid chilliness in the 
 night air. But not from that did the girl 
 shiver. The eagerness of the little cripple's 
 words had moved her sympathies and made 
 her shake like an aspen.
 
 THE MINIATURE. 45 
 
 "No, no," she said quickly; "the air is 
 close." 
 
 "Yet shut it up; and at the same time 
 ring. We will not read to-night. It has 
 been a long and wearying day — but a glad 
 day, Charity, both for you and me." 
 
 "Yes, the gladdest of all," cried the girl, 
 carried away by her emotion. 
 
 "My stick has fallen. Come, give me 
 your arm, dear, and we will go upstairs. 
 You must be tired too." 
 
 But Charity was not tired. Alone in 
 her room she sat down in the square 
 window, quaintly projecting over the porch, 
 and curtained off like another chamber. 
 Never was sleep further from her eyelids. 
 Never were her senses more alert. The 
 slanting moonlight glanced between blind 
 and mullion, and she eagerly drew each 
 cord, until a flood of light filled the place 
 from floor to ceiling. She looked down the 
 quiet coombe at the roof of sleeping Babble- 
 mouth. Upon one higher than the rest, 
 standing just under the hill, the smooth 
 slates were shining like silver. How well
 
 46 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 she knew it — that largest house in the 
 little town — the home of the " Babblemouth 
 people;" to-night it stood out from the 
 rest with an import strange and new. 
 
 Half-way over the gap and above the 
 open sea hung the full moon. 
 
 Neither fleeing cloud nor passing ship 
 broke the serenity or burst in upon the 
 solitude. The ragged bushes on the brow 
 of the cliff lay flat and dark against the 
 sky, and nothing moved but the broken 
 ripple of the running tide, where the moon- 
 beams danced down a broad trackway, into 
 the harbour mouth. The hollow under the 
 hill lay hidden in gloom and mystery. 
 
 Many times before she had looked out 
 upon this moonlit sea, but to-night tran- 
 scended all experience. The surpassing 
 beauty held her senses captive, — the won- 
 der stirred her soul to some unknown, 
 unfathomed depth. 
 
 Graham Poltimore's words came whirling 
 through her memory, " Charity, I think 
 of nothing else. I cannot live without 
 you."
 
 THE MINIATURE. 47 
 
 The reality of his passion startled her. 
 It agitated her like a wild strain of some 
 strange music once heard and wanting inter- 
 pretation. But it awakened no responsive 
 echo in her heart. 
 
 There was no triumph in this love. For 
 him she felt a pity of the imagination, and 
 for herself a fear. And the passionate 
 yearning of her helpless little friend, long- 
 ing for more than life could give, haunted 
 her like a sad, sad song. 
 
 Her intention did not waver. She loved 
 these people both, and would make them 
 happy. One way lay before her, straight and 
 clear as that path of light, and she knew of 
 no other. But there had come to her an 
 undefined longing for something beyond all 
 she knew. She stood there, still in her 
 white frock, until the moon had sunk be- 
 hind the sea and the great black cliffs 
 grew dim.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 
 
 A STRANGE mixture of fine feeling and 
 fastidious sensibility was this little lady of 
 Babblecombe House. She dwelt in a garden 
 of poetry — a sort of fairy island of her own 
 — where, alas ! at times she suffered rude 
 shocks from the tempests that sweep across 
 the sea of life. Then she cowered in a 
 corner until her sorrow was forgotten in 
 sunshine and flowers, as the garden bloomed 
 afresh. 
 
 It was a heavy blow when her father died 
 unreconciled to Irene. Good repute and 
 the respectful admiration of Bath consti- 
 tuted the breath of that great physician's 
 professional nostrils, and the scandal of his 
 girl's elopement went near to break his
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 49 
 
 heart. He scented the pump-room gossip. 
 He detected the covert smiles of rival 
 medical practitioners, and they made him 
 mad. In reality he felt these more deeply 
 than the loss of his daughter, although 
 Irene had been a belle in Bath, as the good 
 bishop remembered. In his wrath he swore 
 that rascal Poltimore should never touch a 
 penny of his money. 
 
 But in little more than a year, stepping 
 from his brougham to pay a visit, he 
 dropped suddenly upon the wide pavement 
 in Milson Street, and neither spoke nor 
 opened his eyes upon the world again. 
 
 In her loneliness Helen Graham sent 
 post-haste for her sister, who hurried home 
 to the great shuttered house, bringing 
 Graham, a baby in arms. How good to be 
 restored to each other ! They wept together 
 — in sorrow for the dead, in joy of the 
 new-born. 
 
 But Dr. Graham had kept his word. 
 After the funeral it was found that every 
 farthing was left in trust for " my daughter 
 Helen," with power of appointment to her 
 
 4
 
 so CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 by will. She could not part with the 
 money during life, although she could leave 
 it as she would. 
 
 Between baser spirits this must have 
 opened an impassable gulf, but it seemed 
 only to knit the sisters in closer affection. 
 They spoke of it with bated breath, scarcely 
 daring to call in question the justice of the 
 dead or defeat his intention. After all, 
 the money might have been lost, which now 
 must be secured to little Graham. Bless 
 him! And meanwhile Helen could pay 
 Irene's bills. Then, to be near her sister, 
 the little cripple bought the mansion at 
 Babblecombe, with the cottages, the wood, 
 and the small farm let with the mill. 
 Scarcely had she come there to live, when 
 Irene died. 
 
 For a while sorrow brought closer inti- 
 macy between the bereaved neighbours. 
 Helen Graham was constantly driving into 
 the town to the little motherless boy. And 
 Henry Poltimore, then agent to Lord 
 Babblemouth, and steward to his lordship's 
 vast estates, was no less frequently at
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 51 
 
 Coombe. She could not do without him. 
 He advised her concerning the mill, the 
 cottage, and the farm. She esteemed him 
 highly. She pitied him with all her heart. 
 And if at times a manner somewhat too 
 large jarred upon her nerves, — as when he 
 boasted of his own gentility, or talked of 
 his lordship at unnecessary length, — such 
 little matters must be forgiven to a man of 
 business. She had always understood dis- 
 creet reserve and perfect self-restraint to be 
 the exclusive possessions of upper profes- 
 sional circles, and the pick of the aris- 
 tocracy. As a man of affairs, as a man of 
 heart, Henry Poltimore was perfect; and 
 he also had loved and lost Irene. 
 
 About this time one of the trustees under 
 her father's will was called to his last 
 account. She gladly appointed Henry 
 Poltimore. Who so fit to accept this trust 
 as the father of the child to whom the 
 property should some day fall .' This was 
 reasonable, and readily agreed to by the 
 remaining trustee. 
 
 Then suddenly came a blow which shook
 
 52 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 her soul's belief in human nature to its 
 profoundest depths. 
 
 It was delivered by Mrs. Mortimer, then 
 the rector's young bride, who one morning 
 hurried panting from Babblemouth, and 
 entered the French window as pale as 
 Piamlet's ghost. Not that she was affected 
 by the news she bore; but driven by excite- 
 ment, and a laudable desire to be friendly 
 and tell Miss Graham first, she had travelled 
 with inexpedient speed. 
 
 "Mr. Henry Poltimore has married 
 again ! " she gasped. 
 
 " Married again ! When ? Where } To 
 whom.-* " 
 
 "To a governess — in Wiltshire — they 
 say she is the daughter of a farmer — " 
 
 "The daughter of a farmer," interrupted 
 Miss Graham, indignantly; "I do not 
 believe it! He is broken-hearted! He is 
 inconsolable ! " 
 
 " But he has written to the rector. He 
 could not bear the solitude, he said. They 
 married quietly — nine in the morning — 
 none present, because Mr. Poltimore is
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 53 
 
 still in mourning. The rector thinks it 
 positively indecent. So very soon, you 
 know. You will certainly get a letter 
 when the post comes. But I thought you 
 would like to know at once." 
 
 It was too true. The prediction was 
 little sooner uttered than confirmed, for the 
 postman was already upon the gravel path. 
 
 " He might at least have married a lady," 
 said Miss Graham, with bitter self-control. 
 But her hand shook, and the letter dropped 
 upon the floor. 
 
 That was all she said. It was reported 
 in Babblemouth, and afterwards repeated to 
 the second Mrs. Poltimore, on the authority 
 of the rector's wife. But although she sat 
 in her chair, stiff with dignity, tears rushed 
 into her eyes at the thought of Irene, sweet 
 and beautiful as an angel, and only a few 
 months in heaven. 
 
 She was too proud to give expression to 
 her pain. When Mr. Poltimore brought 
 home his bride, she called. But her con- 
 stant visits were discontinued. They must 
 send over the little boy on every fine, warm
 
 54 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 day, she told them. She should be pleased 
 to welcome them at Babblecombe at any 
 time, of course, but she had given up going 
 out. Thus they sank into comparative 
 insignificance as " the Babblemouth people. " 
 A little later, in spite of their remon- 
 strance, she adopted Charity Chance; an 
 act of benevolence which so far had 
 brought her nothing but happiness and 
 love. 
 
 Then Mr. Henry Poltimore suddenly 
 became rich, retired from his stewardship, 
 and blossomed into Briggs. He bought a 
 small estate close to Babblemouth, and 
 farmed it to the admiration of surrounding 
 agriculturists. It was like a garden. "But, 
 la! it never couldn't pay," they said. He 
 bred prize cattle of marvellous length of 
 pedigree and price, and rented the shooting 
 of Babblemouth Park when his Lordship 
 went abroad, and added a wing to his house, 
 and built new stables, which everybody 
 said were better than most people's cottages. 
 The hillside above the town glistened 
 with his conservatories; and his grapes,
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 55 
 
 exhibited at all the flower shows, became 
 the despair of every gardener in the west. 
 
 Thus he grew and grew, and many people 
 thought he ought to be made a magistrate 
 for the county. He thought so himself. 
 His devotion to public business deserved 
 no less. For he sat on every board and 
 council in the district, and spoke, too, at 
 considerable length. Thus his name was 
 in every mouth. As elections were fre- 
 quent, it brightened every hoarding, and 
 enlivened every blank wall in the neigh- 
 bourhood. Gate-posts bloomed perennially 
 with invitations to "Vote for Poltimore- 
 Briggs. " And what a friend he was — a 
 friend to the farmer — a friend to the landed 
 interest — a friend to the poor man. Noth- 
 ing was too high or too low to be included 
 in the friendship of Poltimore-Briggs. 
 And at last this broad humanity, assisted by 
 persistent pushing of himself, was to reap 
 its reward. The Agricultural Association 
 had determined to run a candidate for Par- 
 liament, and upon whom should its maiden 
 fancy light but Mr. Poltimore-Briggs !
 
 56 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 No wonder, when at last he was left sole 
 surviving trustee, Miss Graham did not 
 appoint another. Such a thought could 
 not enter her head. For everything was 
 managed to perfection. Her dividends 
 were never a day late ; not even the rent of 
 a cottage went into arrears. 
 
 Some days had elapsed, and the buzz of 
 excitement following Charity's engagement 
 had settled down. It was a lovely summer 
 morning, and John Sprake had already 
 toiled half-way up the hill, when Miss 
 Graham suddenly leaned forward in her 
 chair. 
 
 " Have the horses been exercised, John } " 
 
 John Sprake, who, although a very steady 
 man, was no fool, hearing himself thus 
 addressed, speedily turned around the little 
 wheel, and respectfully rested. 
 
 In Miss Graham's opinion, nobody in 
 this world was so good as John Sprake — in 
 his own station in life, of course. Nobody 
 could pull the chair like John Sprake. She 
 could trust no other in the same way, for 
 several excellent reasons. He was a coach-
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 57 
 
 man, and understood driving, and had never 
 been known to go fast or have an accident 
 in his life. He was clean-shaved, with 
 white, wavy hair, which reminded her of 
 the late Dean of Bath. He had buried two 
 wives, poor man, and married a third ; and 
 brought up fourteen children and lost four; 
 and looked very respectable in church in 
 top-boots and a blue livery; and, during 
 his whole twenty years of service, had 
 never done anything giddy or lost his head. 
 Therefore she placed implicit confidence in 
 John Sprake. 
 
 "Regularly.''" She looked him keenly 
 in the face. Something evidently weighed 
 upon her mind. 
 
 Ever so small a spot upon John's con- 
 science made him unduly to protest. 
 
 " Iss, mum. Every day so sure as the 
 sun — zo to speak — unless 't is vor some 
 good reason." 
 
 "And are they in good order? " 
 
 "Zo vat's butter." 
 
 " Yes, but I mean quite quiet .-' " 
 
 "Zo quiet 's mice."
 
 58 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 " Then bring round the carriage this after- 
 noon at three. Miss Chance is going for a 
 sail, and I shall drive into town with her." 
 
 This unexpected termination to a cross- 
 examination, pressing perilously close upon 
 detection, took John Sprake's breath away. 
 As he explained at leisure, when subse- 
 quent proceedings attracted attention in 
 the village : " I wur that tookt aback, that 
 wh'er or no I wur 'pon my head or my 
 heels I could n' ha' told. There ! If you 'd 
 'a' stuck Jan Sprake wi' a knife, thik 
 minute, he would n' never ha' blood." 
 
 However, he managed to murmur, " Iss, 
 mum," and turned and plodded wisely on 
 his way. 
 
 No wonder the man was startled. Jan 
 Sprake bestriding one fat carriage-horse and 
 leading another was the most familiar 
 object in the Babblecombe landscape. He 
 did very little else, and many a distasteful 
 duty did John avoid by urging the imme- 
 diate necessity to exercise his horses. He 
 had been known to refuse to haul the chair 
 because he must take out his horses. And
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 59 
 
 this with such a serious shake of his hoary 
 old head that the poor little v/oman was 
 nearly moved to tears by the contemplation 
 of such devotion to dumb animals. She 
 had not set foot in a carriage for years. 
 The splendid chariot, its wheels picked out 
 with yellow, and the brougham in which 
 her distinguished father formerly paid his 
 visits, stood in the coach-house side by 
 side, in solemn state. She would not have 
 parted with them for the world. Some- 
 times a visitor must be fetched from the 
 station, five miles over the hill, and the 
 mere thought of a hired fly made her shudder. 
 But ten years ago, when alighting, she had 
 stumbled and fallen in Babblemouth street; 
 and since then, except upon those rare occa- 
 sions, the carriages had remained at rest. 
 
 But with Charity's engagement, over 
 everything had come a change. 
 
 The little lady started life anew. Her 
 tenderest hope, hitherto liable to be cut off 
 by any frost, was at last hardened into a set 
 purpose. She could look forward to flowers 
 and fruit.
 
 6o CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 Of late a doubt had often troubled her 
 mind. If Charity did not marry Graham, 
 she must be provided for in some manner 
 consistent with the luxury in which she had 
 been brought up. To educate and then to 
 leave her poor would be cruelty indeed, — 
 for education, in the opinion of this little 
 lady, added a grace only. It was not meant 
 for the work-a-day world. Common people 
 were better without it, with its restless, 
 upsetting influences, leading only to dis- 
 content. And the pay which an accom- 
 plished lady could command was a mere 
 pittance. Yet to leave money away from 
 her own kin seemed to savour of robbery, 
 and was scarcely a righteous act. She 
 almost fancied it might follow her beyond 
 the grave, and meet with disapproval both 
 in this world and the next. For in this 
 woman's heart was a fair mixture of fine old 
 family pride. 
 
 But now that Charity was to be her niece 
 indeed, all doubts were blown to the winds. 
 People called, letters came by every post, 
 and the very air became quite bracing with
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 6i 
 
 congratulation. In her joy, with every 
 hour Miss Graham evolved a new and 
 loftier idea. Graham should add the name 
 of Graham, as his father had taken Briggs, 
 and Charity become the mother of a fresh 
 line of Grahams. It was a noble mission. 
 Only to think of it brought the colour to 
 the little cripple's cheek. The girl whom 
 she had always loved so well was now wor- 
 shipped, and this order for the carriage was 
 an act of sacrifice and devotion. 
 
 To the intensity of this new-found fervour 
 witnessed every word and look. The real- 
 ity of it unconsciously impressed John 
 Sprake so that he hauled and wheeled in 
 silence, without stopping for argument or 
 rest. 
 
 Nor did his wisdom afterward invent any 
 specious obstacle; and the carriage was 
 brought round upon the stroke of three. 
 
 " Put the footstool closer, Charity dear, 
 and draw the shawl over my shoulder ! To 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs's, Sprake." 
 
 Thus she courageously started; but all 
 along the Babblemouth road, and down the
 
 62 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 one street which forms the town, she 
 nervously clutched the girl's hand. Trades- 
 men, scarcely able to believe their eyes, 
 popped to their shop doors to be sure it 
 was Miss Graham who passed. Two of the 
 rector's daughters upon the causeway turned 
 back at once, to carry home the news. 
 Quite a little crowd of children gathered 
 round as the carriage drew up before the 
 house of Poltimore-Briggs. 
 
 A large house of red brick, three stories 
 high, with a paved court in front, enclosed 
 with tall iron railings against the raised 
 causeway. An old-fashioned, ornamental 
 arch of wrought iron, bearing an heraldic 
 shield and a square frame to hold a lamp, 
 bent over the gates. The windows were 
 long and narrow, with thick sash-bars ; and 
 above the brass knocker on the front door, 
 in places of panels, were panes of glass to 
 light the hall. It was a fine old place, this 
 ancient house of some forgotten merchant; 
 and above the brass knocker it frowned 
 down upon street and harbour with the 
 solemn dignity of a bygone age.
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 63 
 
 Scarcely had the carriage stopped, when 
 the door quickly opened and Poltimore- 
 Briggs himself came hurrying hatless down 
 the steps and across the paved court. He 
 was carefully attired, as at the garden 
 party; his face shone with pleasure, and 
 his bald head glistened in the sun. 
 
 " Now this is kind ; Helen, this is delight- 
 ful. Let me help you. Take care of the 
 step — " Suddenly remembering Charity, 
 he gave her his hand without looking at 
 her, still talking all the while. "I saw 
 you from the window, and could hardly 
 believe my eyes. But you are in no hurry. 
 You will stay. Sprake must put up the 
 horses. Yes. Put up the horses, Sprake. 
 Really not.-* Then wait, Sprake. Take 
 care, Helen, take care. The polished floor 
 is slippery — " 
 
 And so, with blusterous zeal, he led her 
 across the hall, bending down that she 
 might take his arm. 
 
 "You have come at a fortunate moment," 
 he cried, unable to conceal his pride. "I 
 have been invited to stand for Parliament.
 
 64 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 A deputation — a most influential deputa- 
 tion, from one of the most powerful organ- 
 isations in the division — has just left me. 
 You must have passed them in the street. 
 I admit I was gratified — deeply gratified. 
 But I have not yet given a reply. We 
 shall find the others in the new room — " 
 
 " I wanted to talk to you," she whispered, 
 in that sudden way of hers which sounded 
 so abrupt. 
 
 " To be sure. To be sure. Let us go 
 in here. We shall be alone. You '11 find 
 the others, Charity, somewhere or other. 
 They are waiting for you, and the boat is 
 ready. Graham has an old school friend 
 with him. A poet or something of the sort, 
 so they say. Alfred — Alfred Prentice." 
 
 As a man of affairs, he laughed at the 
 bare idea of poetry. Then, as he opened 
 the door, he added with respect : " But 
 I've seen his name in the papers." 
 
 They went into a large dining-room with 
 three tall windows looking out upon the 
 street. It was panelled half-way up the 
 walls, and furnished with pieces of old oak.
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 6$ 
 
 picked up during many years at sales in the 
 neighbourhood. It had an odd look, as if 
 it belonged not to the place, — this flotsam 
 from the seas of bankruptcy and death. 
 Many of the chairs were out of place, and 
 on the long oak table stood empty decanters 
 and glasses, to prove how well the thirsty 
 deputation had refreshed itself. Over the 
 mantel-piece hung a life-sized portrait of 
 Poltimore-Briggs himself, smiling round at 
 a visitor, pen in hand, and upon his face a 
 light of intelligence such as, without the 
 advantage of baldness, human forehead dare 
 not hope to sustain. The attitude was 
 justified; the quill no mere poetic flight. 
 In the local newspaper he had once waged 
 bitter war, the Incidence of Local Taxation 
 being the theme. 
 
 The paint upon the picture was scarcely 
 dry, but a host of old familiar objects 
 recalled the past. A bookcase from the 
 old house in Bath; a pencil drawing, by an 
 artist of that city, of Irene, a school-girl, 
 with hair half-way down her back, — these 
 moved the little woman deeply, and for a
 
 66 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 while after she was seated she did not 
 speak. 
 
 But Poltimore-Briggs blustered heed- 
 lessly on: — 
 
 " Why, it must be twenty years, Helen, 
 since you were last here. Did you notice 
 we 've thrown the little room into the hall.-* 
 A wonderful improvement, I flatter myself. 
 Some of the deputation said frankly they 
 had never seen anything carried out so 
 thoroughly and well. You must look when 
 you go out. And you would n't know the 
 gardens now. I don't know what I 've 
 spent upon them, I 'm sure. Thousands ! 
 More than I was justified. More than I 
 shall ever see again. Lord Babblemouth 
 came in only the other day — when he was 
 down about the new quay. He wanted my 
 advice — he thinks a deal of my opinion — 
 and he was astonished. He said, * Polti- 
 more ' — he said — he always forgets and 
 calls me Poltimore still — * Poltimore, you 
 have the prettiest place in the west of Eng- 
 land — for the size, of course. ' I said, ' I 
 am gratified to find you like it, my Lord.'
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 67 
 
 And so I was, I confess. And so it ought 
 to be, for it costs a pretty penny to keep it 
 up. Four men summer and winter, and 
 sometimes five in the spring." 
 
 He paused for some note of admiration, 
 some expression of surprise, and looked 
 larger than ever, with his hands thrust in 
 the pockets of his white waistcoat. But 
 little Miss Graham had scarcely heard 
 his words. Only when he ceased she 
 became conscious of what he had been 
 saying. 
 
 "I have something to tell you, Henry," 
 she began, and her voice was tremulous 
 and very low. "A secret that you must 
 not repeat. I only tell you now because I 
 want something done. I should have sent 
 for you to come over if I had not seen you 
 to-day. I have been thinking over it for 
 some time, and I want your help and 
 advice." 
 
 Her earnestness arrested his attention; 
 she was shaking from an agitation she tried 
 in vain to repress. 
 
 "You know, Helen," he replied in his
 
 68 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 large way, with a wave of the hand, " that 
 I am always at your service. I — " 
 
 " Yes. Yes. You have been very kind. 
 You have been most good ; but — but — " 
 She paused, in doubt how to begin, and 
 then, summoning all her courage, con- 
 tinued: "Do you remember the story of 
 the Spartan boy who concealed a fox in his 
 bosom .'' " 
 
 He nodded assent. She has found out 
 that rascal Sprake, he said to himself. For 
 in his mind was the fable of the man who 
 cherished a snake, and he thought it meant 
 ingratitude. 
 
 "And then it gnawed into his heart, and 
 he died." 
 
 "What do you mean, Helen.'' What do 
 you mean.-* " 
 
 " I want to arrange and settle everything 
 without delay. I have known it for some 
 time. But I could not speak of it. And I 
 do not want any one to know. Henry, I 
 have only a little while to live. Perhaps 
 two years at most. Only two years to 
 live."
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 69 
 
 Her voice sank into a wail. But now 
 that her sorrow had found utterance she at 
 once regained composure, and she looked 
 up with her keen grey eyes, as if eager to 
 observe the effect upon him of her words. 
 
 He was standing upon the hearth-rug, 
 and the light from one of the windows fell 
 full upon his face. His brows were knit in 
 perplexity, as if he did not quite catch her 
 meaning, but the colour left his cheek. 
 He became pale with alarm. He could 
 not have appeared more startled had he just 
 heard his own doom. 
 
 " Do you mean you are ill, Helen .-*" he 
 asked eagerly, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 "Beyond hope. There is no chance of 
 recovery," she moaned. Then she burst 
 into passionate lament : " And I do not 
 want to die. I want to live. I want to 
 live for years and years." 
 
 "But what are you doing.'' Why don't 
 you take advice? Call in Bibberly. He's 
 a good man, Bibberly. I should have every 
 confidence, and — " 
 
 "Do you think I would have such as he
 
 70 .CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 prying at my poor body?" she cried, with 
 sudden nervous irritability. "No. I wrote 
 to a physician at Bath. I sent Charity out 
 for the day, and John Sprake fetched and 
 drove him back, and nobody knew. Besides, 
 I have read about it in one of my father's 
 books. Nothing can be done. He did not 
 propose anything. It must just grow and 
 grow. I can see it grow. " 
 
 "But — eh, surely — " he hesitated, grop- 
 ing in his brain for the thing to say. 
 " Surely, Helen, you will take a second 
 opinion.'' " 
 
 " It is no good. Besides, they might 
 want to do something." 
 
 She shuddered at the thought, and then 
 again came upon her this great longing for 
 life. 
 
 "And yet I do not want to go. I could 
 not lose it for the world, little as it is. 
 To be wheeled out into the sun. To watch 
 in winter for the Christmas roses in the 
 corner. And the daffodils in spring, so 
 bright in the meadow along the brook. 
 And the bluebells in the wood, quite thick,
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 71 
 
 as if the sky had fallen between the trees. 
 And I want to see Charity married — and 
 to sit like a grandmother, with children 
 running around my chair. There are people 
 who say they are tired of life — people who 
 have it all. But I was never tired. I 
 could never do enough to get tired." 
 
 She stopped in her sudden way, and 
 asked quickly : " You were not averse to 
 Graham's engagement.-'" 
 
 The look of fear vanished from his coun- 
 tenance. The question implied a doubt, 
 and again he was important and self- 
 satisfied as ever. 
 
 " I will not seek to hide from you, 
 Helen," he began slowly, and in his most 
 sententious manner, as if he were address- 
 ing a Board of Guardians, "that I had 
 cherished other hopes for Graham. My 
 position and his — his expectations, I think 
 I may say, justified me in hoping that he 
 would make a suitable match. I was ambi- 
 tious for him, I confess to you. It was 
 only natural. Personally, I say nothing 
 against Miss Chance. Thanks to your
 
 72 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 bounty, she is well brought up, intelligent, 
 accomplished — but — " 
 
 "You would be too generous to speak of 
 that," she broke in with warmth. 
 
 He graciously accepted the attribute : 
 "Well, well! Graham has chosen, and we 
 need say no more." 
 
 With his patronising wave of the hand 
 he would have dismissed the matter, but 
 she had still her errand to fulfil. 
 
 " But I want to see everything clear. I 
 love her as if she were my own, and I want 
 to know that whatever happens she will be 
 provided for," she cried with glowing 
 enthusiasm. " Of course I have left all to 
 Graham, and that is only just. But there 
 is the money that has been saved. That 
 seems to me quite different. I want to 
 give her that at once. To settle, or secure, 
 or whatever you call it. So that it can 
 never be lost or taken away, you know. 
 Now, in my lifetime, I want to do it. So 
 that if anything comes between them she 
 will have it just the same. And when 
 they marry, it can make no difference."
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 73 
 
 He turned to the window, and stood with 
 his back toward her, looking out into the 
 street. She felt that he disapproved of her 
 intention. The old opposition, she thought, 
 offered to poor Charity from the very first. 
 This made her more determined. 
 
 "You see," she urged, "I do not want to 
 have to think of these things again. Soon 
 I may have to tell Charity, and I want all 
 this settled first. As if it were for the 
 marriage, and as much for his sake as 
 hers." 
 
 He walked slowly back, and leaned with 
 his elbow upon the mantel-piece. He 
 looked ten years older than the portrait 
 now, and the lines upon his forehead were 
 very deep. 
 
 " I have been taken by surprise, and what 
 you tell me of yourself pains me very 
 deeply, Helen," he faltered. "Let the 
 matter rest. I will think how your wishes 
 can be best carried out. Leave it for the 
 present. Leave it ; I will not forget nor 
 delay. But such things want looking at — 
 careful lookins; at — "
 
 74 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 There came a step across the hall — ^ the 
 door was thrown open, and Mrs. Poltimorc- 
 Briggs, like a little whirlwind out of 
 breath, broke in upon their conference. 
 She was full of regrets, and overflowing 
 with apologies. Her rapid trivialities, 
 pitched in the highest key of exaggeration, 
 were in strange contrast to the deep sorrow 
 hidden in Miss Graham's heart. 
 
 "My dear Miss Graham! How could he 
 bring you into this disreputable room } I 
 was beside myself when Charity mentioned 
 it. I rushed away at once in the most 
 frantic haste. Why, you must be quite 
 worn out and exhausted. Now do let me 
 take you into the other room to have some 
 tea ! Let me take your arm. I won't trust 
 you to him any longer. Open the other 
 window, Henry, do. It is as close as an 
 oven." 
 
 So the interview came abruptly to a 
 close, and he was left alone. 
 
 The cool air blowing in from the sea was 
 grateful to him, and he stood looking down 
 upon the harbour mouth. It was high-tide;
 
 MERE MONEY MATTERS. 75 
 
 but below the clear, deep water he could 
 distinguish lighter streaks of sand between 
 masses of weed-covered rocks. There came 
 a moment of insight. Between the whirl- 
 ing eddies of his vanity, and the varying 
 agitations of his social ambition, he caught 
 glimpses of the unchanging realities of 
 life. 
 
 In his perplexity he passed his hand 
 across his forehead. It was wet with beads 
 of perspiration. 
 
 "Two years ! Two years ! " he muttered. 
 "He must marry her at once." 
 
 Between the cliffs lay a cutter in readi- 
 ness to go out. He could hear the creak- 
 ing of her gaff and the hoops of her mainsail 
 against the mast, as it flapped idly when 
 she rolled upon the swell of the tide. 
 
 Two members of the deputation strolled 
 down, and stood upon the quay. One of 
 them, in gaiters and with a back of the 
 broadest acreage, raised his stick and 
 pointed at her. 
 
 He knew that they were talking of him 
 — saying, perhaps with envy, that she was
 
 ^6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 his. An hour before he would have been 
 gratified, — very gratified; but now the 
 thought was bitter to him. 
 
 "I wish to God I was dead and in my 
 grave! " he hissed between his teeth. And 
 at that moment he meant it too.
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 
 
 A POET? Alfred Prentice? Yes, there 
 sometimes appeared verses in the magazines 
 signed with that name. Charity had seen, 
 but scarcely read them, or if so they left no 
 deep impression on her mind. But the 
 mere thought of a poet made her heart 
 quicken with interest and enthusiasm. In 
 her restless impatience with Babblemouth 
 and its trivialities, one thing she longed 
 for more than all, — intercourse with people 
 whose minds were lifted above littlenesses 
 upon great ideas. No poet had ever been 
 known in Babblemouth, except the little 
 shoemaker on the quay, who recommended 
 inelegant boots in limping verse, and drove 
 a thriving trade in consequence.
 
 78 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 Attracted by the sound of voices, she 
 went quickly down a long passage to a door 
 at the back of the house. It opened into a 
 paved court at the foot of a terrace, beyond 
 which a large walled garden ran up the 
 hillside. 
 
 Here in the cool several people were 
 seated. Theodosia Mortimer, with her 
 mother and some of her sisters, Mrs. 
 Poltimore-Briggs and Graham. They had 
 gathered in a semicircle around a stranger, 
 who leaned back in his chair smoking a cigar- 
 ette. Upon the ground close to his hand, 
 which hung over the arm of the chair, lay a 
 small red volume he had just put down. 
 
 As she came into the doorway, Charity 
 was greeted with a chorus of mingled wel- 
 come and regret. 
 
 "We are ready and waiting for you, 
 Charity," said Mrs. Mortimer, with her 
 never-ceasing smile. 
 
 " Oh, Charity ! What a pity you were 
 not here before ! You have lost the most 
 delightful treat,' piped Mrs. Poltimore- 
 Briggs. "Mr. Prentice has been good
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 79 
 
 enough to read us one of his most beautiful 
 poems." 
 
 "And you so fond of poetry too," chimed 
 in Theodosia. 
 
 The poet languidly rose from his seat, and 
 stood in an attitude combining ease with 
 angularity. Less than the middle height, 
 and very slight, beside Graham Poltimore 
 he looked quite small. His hair, of which 
 there was a great deal, was black as jet; 
 his shaven face thin and pale, and his eyes 
 large and bright. He wore a soft hat, a 
 velvet jacket, and a lace cravat. 
 
 At the first glance there came to Charity 
 a strange feeling of mistrust, — an intuition 
 of something new and not yet understood, 
 which brought the colour to her cheek, and 
 caused her to abruptly turn away. " How 
 happy she looks, now she is engaged ! " 
 thought Theodosia Mortimer. " What luck 
 the girl has had ! " 
 
 In the movement and flutter of excite- 
 ment, for a moment the poet seemed likely 
 to be overlooked. 
 
 "Present me, Poltimore."
 
 8o CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 The voice was deep and rich, and ahnost 
 tragic. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, old man. Mr. Alfred 
 Prentice — Miss Chance." 
 
 Graham was in the best of spirits. With 
 youth, expectations, and the superabundant 
 health which runs to irresponsibility, how 
 could he be otherwise? "Come, let us go 
 on at once," he shouted in his light-hearted 
 way. 
 
 As they walked down to the quay, he 
 looked gladly down at the girl he loved and 
 at last had won, and burst out in rapid 
 eulogy of his new-found friend. 
 
 "You will like Prentice, Charity," he 
 cried with enthusiasm. " He is not exactly 
 a Hercules, but he 's a very good fellow — 
 and clever, very clever indeed. Just the 
 sort of literary chap you will like to talk to. 
 I fell across him this morning sitting upon 
 the wall at the end of the jetty. I asked 
 him what he was doing. He said he was 
 busy. Incubating a poem, I told him. 
 We were at school together, but he is older 
 than I. Oh ! he 's a very good chap. He
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 8i 
 
 did my verses and Greek play for years. 
 That 's why he made such a reputation so 
 young in life. He got the learning meant 
 for me, in addition to his own. Those 
 verses he read just now really belonged to 
 me. He did them vicariously, you know." 
 
 Then he laughed, in his light-hearted 
 way. Now that she had promised to marry 
 him, he had not a care in the world. 
 
 With quickened curiosity the girl glanced 
 again at the stranger. He was striding 
 along by the side of Theodosia, apparently 
 rapt in thought. But then, as Charity 
 asked herself, how could a man of genius 
 talk to Theodosia.'' Inadvertently, no 
 doubt, he had brought away the little red 
 volume, and carried it, a finger between 
 the leaves. Would it surprise him, she 
 wondered, when he found this out.-* And 
 would he read again ? She hoped that he 
 would read again. 
 
 "He seems so self-conscious," she said, 
 almost to herself. 
 
 " Don't be prejudiced against him, there 's 
 a dear," whispered Graham, in her ear, for
 
 82 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 they were now upon the steps in the quay 
 side. It was easy to him to like people, 
 and Charity was always so critical. " There 
 is generally something odd about these 
 poets. But they can't help it, you know. 
 Prentice is a man of deep feeling, — of 
 really fine feeling. I want you to like him. 
 I have asked him to stay with us. Let me 
 help you. Step upon the seat. " 
 
 A boat was already waiting for them. A 
 flash of oars upon the silent harbour. Then 
 the rattle of a block as the foresail was run 
 up, and the "Halcyon" filled her white 
 wings and stood up the channel, close under 
 the cliffs. 
 
 The wind was scarcely enough to make 
 the ship heel, although at first she moved 
 through the water briskly enough. The girl 
 leaned back in her chair and looked up into 
 the clear summer sky. 
 
 Graham was lying on the deck beside her. 
 The others, with the humorous considera- 
 tion due to lovers newly betrothed, had left 
 them to themselves, but for a long while 
 they did not talk.
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 83 
 
 From a sharp rock, jutting out of the 
 water, a seagull rose and slowly wheeled 
 over the passing cutter. How beautiful it 
 was ! She could see each feather, as it 
 hung for a moment just above the mast. 
 Everything was sweet and calm, and lulled 
 her soul into contentment. For the first 
 time since her engagement, she fully acqui- 
 esced in her own happiness. For Aunt 
 Helen was so happy. Graham was so 
 happy. And yes, she was happy too. 
 
 He raised his finger and slowly followed 
 the bird as it circled overhead, as if he had 
 been pointing at it with a gun. 
 
 "I should hate you if you could kill it," 
 she cried, suddenly raising her head to look 
 at him. " Could you kill it ? " 
 
 " Not on those terms," he laughed. 
 
 The gull uttered its shrill note, dropped 
 astern, and settled again upon the rock. 
 But all her restlessness had returned. There 
 was never an escape from her own sensi- 
 bility when a sight, a sound, or even the 
 cadence of a word could awaken all the 
 vague longings of her heart.
 
 84 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "They build upon the ledges of the cliff 
 — and jackdaws in the crevices too. I 
 used to creep along at low tide and pick up 
 the young birds. They get tired and drop 
 when they first begin to fly. Once I stayed 
 too long. You see the slope where it is 
 not quite so steep.'' I had to climb up 
 there. Half-way up I got stuck. But 
 there was no going back. I had to go on, 
 and I did." 
 
 The girl glanced at the dizzy height, with 
 its meagre foothold, and shuddered. 
 
 For a moment she was silent; then she 
 spoke with animation: "You had to go on, 
 and you did. That expresses it exactly, 
 Graham. If you had to go on — you 
 would." 
 
 "What a moralist you are, Charity! " he 
 told her, with half-amused indolence. 
 " From reading so much poetry with Aunt 
 Helen, you expect every man to be a hero." 
 
 Her eyes sparkled, and the colour rose 
 upon her cheek. "I could worship a man 
 who did something," she cried. 
 
 "What.?"
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 85 
 
 "No matter what." 
 
 Startled at the feeling into which she had 
 been betrayed, and for a moment discon- 
 certed, she again leaned back and looked up 
 at the cliffs. The tide was running faster 
 now, and made a gurgling sound against the 
 cutter's side. Above it they could hear 
 the distant voice of Mrs. Mortimer, in 
 earnest discussion with Mrs. Poltimore- 
 Briggs : " Yes, of the palest apricot, cut 
 very full indeed, and interlined of course 
 with crin — " 
 
 " Listen to the words of wisdom, Charity, " 
 he whispered, with his imperturbable good- 
 humour. 
 
 " Oh, I hate it ! " And she clenched her 
 hands and quivered with nervous excite- 
 ment, "Always the same — the same — the 
 same. Except when they talk of each 
 other, and that 's worse. One would sup- 
 pose there was nothing to think about, and 
 nothing to feel. And it is all so weak and 
 insipid. It is n't living. There is no in- 
 terest in it. It is like sailing when there 
 is no wind. That always makes me long
 
 86 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 for a storm. I 've been watching the rocks 
 now, and we have n't gone five yards in five 
 minutes. I wish it would blow a hurricane 
 — and carry us over to Wales — so that we 
 had to beat back in the dead of night — in 
 the teeth of a driving rain — with all of 
 them as wet as drowned rats, and afraid 
 too. That would be sailing." 
 
 "You would be just as wet as the rest." 
 " I should n't care. I can picture it. 
 Hailstones have beaten down Mrs. Morti- 
 mer's back hair. She cannot turn her face 
 to the gale, and one long, tapering lock 
 clings round her neck like damp sea-weed. 
 The unsuspected frame is revealed to the 
 eyes of man. And her artificial set shakes 
 and chatters until the front teeth fall out. 
 Then I hold on tight and am glad in my 
 heart." 
 
 Their eyes met, and they burst out laugh- 
 ing. Whatever its intensity, her ill-humour 
 was short-lived, and died in whimsicality. 
 But it left her glowing with animation, and 
 to Graham she had never looked more 
 beautiful.
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 87 
 
 " What an emotional girl you are, 
 Charity ! " 
 
 "Oh! I don't know what I am," she said 
 quickly. " Aunt Helen would never tell 
 me. When she took me, I became hers, 
 she said. Do you know, Graham ? " 
 
 "No," he hesitated. 
 
 "But do you know.!"" she insisted with 
 increasing eagerness. 
 
 He paused. "Truly, I do not know, 
 Charity," he told her. 
 
 "Sometimes I believe that I am a differ- 
 ent animal to the rest of them, and that 
 they resent it, too. That 's common in the 
 animal kingdom, you know. Oh, you 
 haven't the least idea what you have under- 
 taken to marry, Graham." 
 
 "We have known each other long 
 enough." 
 
 "You don't know me a bit," she cried 
 with decision. " They all come and con- 
 gratulate me now, of course, — even Theo- 
 dosia. But I know what they say to each 
 other. They surmise what Aunt Helen has 
 to leave you, and what you '11 get from your
 
 88 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 father, and then they say, ' Charity Chance 
 has done well for herself. ' They hate me 
 for that. I don't care, only ' it is all so 
 mean; and it's not true. I could love 
 you ten times as much if all of a sud- 
 den you hadn't a penny, and we had to 
 begin in a house the size of a hutch — 
 and struggle on — and fight it all out — 
 and watch it all grow up. That would be 
 living!" 
 
 With growing enthusiasm her voice had 
 risen, and she stopped, as if fearing to be 
 overheard. Bvit Mrs. Mortimer had been 
 to a flower-show the day before, and her 
 store of interesting information was in- 
 exhaustible, 
 
 " A blouse of a medium shade of green, 
 accordion-kilted chiffon, with sleeves of 
 cream and pink chini silk, green satin 
 ribbon at the waist, carried three parts of 
 the way up the figure — " 
 
 Then the boom came home, and this 
 excellent woman ducked her head. 
 
 " You ought to go and talk to them ! " 
 urged Charity. "There is Mr. Prentice
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 89 
 
 receiving none of the attention he deserves 
 and longs for." 
 
 "He's all right," replied Graham, with 
 a glance at the empty sail. " Besides, 
 there 's plenty of time. The wind has 
 dropped and we sha'n't get home for hours 
 unless it freshens. I '11 break it to them 
 and come back." 
 
 The wind did not freshen. The sun 
 sank behind a sea as smooth as glass, and 
 the grey night crept along the cliffs and 
 wrapt the rocks in gloom. The " Halcyon " 
 drifted slowly homewards on the tide. The 
 girl stood with her hand upon the stay, and 
 watched the stars peer clearer and clearer 
 through the darkening sky. It was alf so 
 unspeakably beautiful and deep with mys- 
 tery that she could scarcely keep from tears. 
 The women were cackling about being so 
 late, but she did not hear them. Graham 
 had spoken more than once, but she did not 
 reply. 
 
 "We shall have to tow her in," he said. 
 "I '11 get in the boat and take an oar." 
 
 The boat was brought alongside. He
 
 90 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 stepped into her, and Charity was left 
 alone. 
 
 To the creaking of the oars against the 
 rowlocks, they slowly glided into the har- 
 bour mouth. 
 
 It was quite late. The lights of Babble- 
 mouth were mostly in the upper windows, 
 and long reflections fell in shimmering lines 
 across the black water below the quay. 
 Charity sighed. The gloom of the harbour 
 was so much sadder than the pale starlight 
 of the open sea. 
 
 " Every candle there is the beacon of a 
 tragedy. " 
 
 She started. Unobserved, Alfred Pren- 
 tice had stepped upon the deck, and was 
 standing where Graham had just now stood. 
 
 "You quite frightened me," she gasped. 
 " I did not know any one was near. But 
 surely that is not so. It would be terrible 
 to think that people are not happy." 
 
 "Only the unimportant is happy." 
 
 Certainly no gaiety detracted from the 
 importance of Mr. Alfred Prentice. He 
 was oracular out of the profoundest depths 
 of sad experience.
 
 ALFRED PRENTICE. 91 
 
 The words made a deep impression upon 
 the girl's mind; but before she could firmly 
 grasp them to reply, the moment had come 
 to go ashore. Upon the quay the party 
 quickly dispersed. It was too late to loiter, 
 and Graham walked home with her at once. 
 But along the road she was silent. " Only 
 the unimportant is happy." The phrase 
 haunted her. Yet she could not get hold 
 of it. It was shadowy and illusive — this 
 ghost of a great truth. " Only the unim- 
 portant is happy." Of course! people who 
 were satisfied with trivialities could get 
 them, — they were common as blackberries, 
 in all conscience. But " only the unimpor- 
 tant " — that was so sad. 
 
 A touch of sadness could always fire this 
 girl's sympathy, which, once aglow, must 
 needs shine on the nearest object. 
 
 " I have been quite horrid to you to-night, 
 Graham. I know I have," she confessed, 
 as they stepped under the porch. 
 
 Then she put her hands upon his shoul- 
 ders and raised her face to his.
 
 92 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 " Not at all, Charity. You have been 
 delightful, as you always are," he cried in 
 rapture. 
 
 It was the first time she had kissed him 
 of her own free will.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 
 
 The wicket-gate at the end of the shrub- 
 bery path opened into a ride through a 
 small larch plantation, whence a broken 
 footpath meandered up the coombe-side to 
 the top of the wood. The way was steep 
 and rugged. In places huge boulders of 
 smooth blue rock, hidden from below by 
 overspreading branches, stood boldly out 
 from the hill. 
 
 Upon the crest of one of these promonto- 
 ries a leaning ash formed a natural and 
 unsuspected bower. But for years the place 
 had been known to Charity. 
 
 In early childhood, no sooner was she 
 free of the wood than this wild crag capti- 
 vated her imagination. It was the back- 
 ground of all her dreams : the scene in
 
 94 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 which was re-enacted every story she knew. 
 And Charity's childhood had been brought 
 up on stories of the best; for the little crip- 
 ple to whom fable was more real than fact, 
 fascinated by the open-eyed wonder of the 
 child, would go on and on for hours. Thus 
 the place became by turns a bandit's castle, 
 the Tarpeian rock, and the cave of Poly- 
 pheme. And it was all her own ; for either 
 Graham had not heard the stories, or from 
 a tree-top looked down with lordly con- 
 tempt upon such make-believes. 
 
 This haunt had never lost its charm. 
 The fading visions of childish fancy were 
 replaced by a keen sense of the natural 
 beauty of the nook. There Charity spent 
 many a summer hour, and no one ever came. 
 The casual trespasser wandered heedless 
 by. Unaware that he was watched, the 
 village boy ran through the wood below, 
 and stopped to peer into the trees for nests. 
 And this inviolable secrecy made of this 
 bower a sanctuary to which the girl fled 
 when pursued by the spirit of her own 
 restlessness.
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 95 
 
 There also she often went to work. The 
 evening readings with Miss Graham, al- 
 though they sometimes lasted deep into 
 the night, could not satisfy her passion for 
 poetry and fiction. And there was no 
 dearth of books, besides, for strange volumes 
 from the library of the late Dr. Graham, 
 sleeping in one of the disused rooms of 
 Babblemouth House, found their way into 
 the hands of Charity Chance. 
 
 Moreover, she was writing a tale, and 
 had been for a long time: a story of village 
 life, which made little progress because she 
 never could satisfy herself with what was 
 done. In the room above the porch, at 
 night when all was still, in an ecstasy of 
 excitement and delight she would write 
 pages. It was beautiful. She could see 
 it — feel it all — and, read by the pale lamp- 
 light, it filled her eyes with tears. She lay 
 awake with gladness to dream it over again. 
 But in the morning, in the calm solitude of 
 her retreat, everything was changed. The 
 freshness had faded; the sweetness was 
 gone. It was no better than the flower
 
 96 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 plucked yesterday and withered in an hour. 
 Sometimes it seemed impossible that a 
 thing wrought with such emotion could be 
 so poor. Then in despair she cast it aside 
 and did no more for weeks. 
 
 Yet the hope never forsook her heart. 
 To the child of her imagination she must 
 at last return. And meanwhile she watched 
 eagerly to catch the soul of humble country 
 life, and the quaint ways of it, which looked 
 so much like humours and were not. 
 
 Amongst other things, she collected the 
 sayings of John Sprake. 
 
 Already they covered reams, those similes 
 bequeathed from an old world where no man 
 might be merely bald, but "so bald as a 
 bladder o' lard," and nothing crooked was 
 allowed to be less Crooked than "a dog's 
 hind leg." The furniture of John's brain 
 had been in his family for generations. 
 
 After the sail some days elapsed before 
 she again met Mr. Prentice. He mooned 
 away by himself along the cliffs, Graham 
 told her with a laugh. She could understand 
 that. He had need of solitude to mature
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 97 
 
 his great thoughts. But even to have 
 spoken to a poet reawakened all her long- 
 ings and aspirations. Again the neglected 
 manuscript saw the light, and she carried it 
 that morning with her into the wood. 
 
 The summer weather remained unchanged, 
 and through the still air came quite clearly 
 the talk and laughter of haymakers in the 
 meadows across the coombe. " Captain-ah, 
 Whoa ! " called the boy to his horses as they 
 moved the load. In one of the great oaks 
 above a wood-pigeon kept cooing all the 
 time. 
 
 There came a footstep in the wood. She 
 raised her head to listen, but she did not 
 look. What could it matter to her who 
 passed that way.'' She was secure from 
 interruption in her retreat, and with impa- 
 tience she turned again to the closely writ- 
 ten sheet. 
 
 Suddenly from below came the voice of 
 Jan Sprake raised in high expostulation. 
 
 "There idden no vootpath thik way, zir. 
 You can't go 'long there no ways 't all. 
 I 've agot my orders zo clear as the day, 
 7
 
 98 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 to turn everybeddy back out o' thcas wood. 
 Gentle or simple, back they 've agot to go, 
 sure as a gun. There idden no two ways 
 'bout it. 'T is so much as my life 's wo'th 
 if Squire Poltimore-Briggs were to zee. 
 He 'd rear the place. I have agot to be 
 kep' zo quiet as the grave — 'bout the pheas- 
 ants, you see, zir. " 
 
 From the height of argument Jan's voice 
 gradually sank into the confidential whisj^er 
 of regret. He was such a stickler for duty, 
 however painful it might be. Charity crept 
 forward and peered over the brink of the 
 rock. Jan had taken off his hat, and was 
 ostentatiously wiping his heated brow with 
 a red handkerchief. Mr. Prentice stood 
 looking at him with an evident lack of inter- 
 est as to whether he went forward or back, 
 which nothing could disconcert. 
 
 "I only came here out of the sun," he 
 said. 
 
 "You zee," Jan went on instructively, 
 " there 's a hen- pheasant — or may be two — 
 do nest here so reg'lar as the year. An' if 
 he don't vind 'em, why. Squire Briggs he
 
 THE PLEACHED BOVVER. 99 
 
 do fus about like a vly in a glue-pot. An' 
 he don't forget to talk loud, nother. But 
 there, to be sure, a gen'leman like you don' 
 want to go a-tearen about the wood like a 
 mad feller — No, no. You thought just to 
 stalkety roun' like, under the shade o' the 
 leaf like." 
 
 "It is of no consequence. I '11 get back 
 the way I came," interrupted the great man 
 in his impressive bass, and turned upon his 
 heel. 
 
 "There, you 've agot no call to do that," 
 said Jan, in a manner suddenly become 
 coaxing. "There idden a soul 'pon earth 
 to say a word to ee 'ithout 't is I myzelf, an' 
 I mus' run back zo shuttle as a rabbit, an' 
 exercise my ho'ses. Why, you mid walk 
 here till doomsday an' no man never the 
 wiser. An' you had no need to zay I 've 
 a-zeed ee. I sha'n't come up to ee no more. 
 Fags ! I be pretty well a-sweltered, sure 
 'nough. There, 't is my duty to come up, 
 fear 't is some poachen feller, look-y-zee. 
 There, vor my part, I do often wish to God 
 there were no pheasants, e'ens 's mid zay.
 
 lOO CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 For 'tis wo'th a shillen to come up here. 
 Zo 't is. Pon my life 'tis." 
 
 In vain he dramatically mopped his head, 
 for the retiring trespasser did not turn 
 round. 
 
 . " All a shillen, " reflected Jan Sprake, with 
 deep conviction. 
 
 But there was no response. 
 
 "An' more too," he growled with grow- 
 ing discontent. 
 
 "This gentleman is a friend of Mr. Polti- 
 more, John." 
 
 Jan was startled. The voice, familiar but 
 indignant, came out of the clouds. As he 
 explained later on, when subsequent pro- 
 ceedings had rendered even this small inci- 
 dent of public interest, he was that "tookt 
 aback" that he turned " so white as a hound's 
 tooth." He looked all ways to once. An' 
 there, sure enough, were Miss Charity 
 a-stood 'pon top o' the rock so bold as a 
 statute. 
 
 But Jan thought nothing of this at the 
 time. He only muttered an apology, that 
 he saw the gen'leman wur a gen'leman so
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. loi 
 
 soon as ever he clapped eyes 'pon un, and 
 if it had n' a-bin for his duty he would n' 
 a-wored out shoe-leather to a-comed up. 
 Then he turned away and went thought- 
 fully home to the house. 
 
 Alfred Prentice caught a glimpse of a 
 pale summer frock disappearing amongst 
 the leaves. Then Charity came hurrying 
 down the wood to him. 
 
 She felt ashamed, and, in anxiety to prove 
 him welcome, spoke with warmth, almost 
 with emotion. " Please do not go away, 
 Mr. Prentice. I am quite sure Miss Graham 
 would be vexed beyond measure. The fool- 
 ish man has been here so long that he be- 
 lieves the place his, and acts entirely with- 
 out authority. And as to pheasants, — there 
 are no pheasants. There was one once, 
 but, rest his soul! he's dead. You are 
 more likely, it appears, to meet with a beast 
 of prey." 
 
 "Or a Dryad, perhaps," he suggested 
 solemnly. Then noticing the roll of papers 
 in her hand, he added : " But you were at 
 work, and I have interrupted you." He
 
 I02 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 appeared pained. His brow contracted 
 with sympathetic grief, and his voice quite 
 quavered with regret. It seemed to say: 
 "Too well I know myself these terrible 
 encroachments upon the solitude of the 
 soul." 
 
 , She hastened to reassure him. " Oh ! I 
 only amuse myself. I like to go up under 
 the trees out of sight and sit alone. I have 
 found a place where no one ever comes." 
 
 "Show me such a place," he said quite 
 softly, and sighed. 
 
 Was this affectation.'' Or merely the 
 manner natural to a spirit very delicately 
 strung .-* As she led the way between the 
 gnarled trunks and under the twisted 
 branches of the oaks, she kept asking her- 
 self this question. For what was affecta- 
 tion in another might be quite natural to a 
 poet. 
 
 They reached the top of the rock. Half 
 hidden by brake and undergrowth lay a 
 slanting slab of stone, and without cere- 
 mony he sat down upon it. He took off his 
 hat, and passed his hand over his long black
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 103 
 
 hair, but for a while he did not speak. The 
 house, the mill, and the cottages below 
 looked like toys, and from this height the 
 distant line of the blue sea came almost 
 level with the brim of the cliffs. 
 
 "Those are the happy people," he said, 
 pointing down at the haymakers. "They 
 understand each other and are understood. 
 Their life is full of light and laughter. 
 They are never alone. They never seek a 
 place where no one comes." 
 
 He spoke with deep melancholy, in pity 
 mostly for himself, but partly for a people 
 so supremely happy. 
 
 " I am glad to have met you again, Mr. 
 Prentice," said the girl, warmly. "Some- 
 thing you said the other night impressed me 
 deeply. I was afraid you might be going. 
 Do you remember saying that in every house 
 is some great tragedy .-' That may be, per- 
 haps, and people keep their deeper troubles 
 hidden. But it seems to me that into every 
 life comes a great sorrow. Now these 
 people that you speak of — I know them all 
 — every one. They are too simple to hide
 
 104 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 a trouble. They seem to want to tell it to 
 get relief. That tall woman, for instance, 
 raking apart by herself is a widow. Only 
 last week she lost her son, killed in a col- 
 liery in Wales. And he was so good to 
 her too." 
 
 The girl spoke in deep earnest; and the 
 last phrase as she uttered it was rich with 
 sympathy and regret. He scarcely glanced 
 at the lonely figure in the field, for already, 
 whilst Charity was speaking, he had drifted 
 into reverie. The cadence of that sentence 
 recalled his attention. Not the real sorrow 
 of the woman, so much as the sound of 
 Charity's voice, touched his sensibilities. 
 The emotion of the girl was more powerful 
 to move him than the story itself, which 
 indeed he could not have correctly told. 
 " And he was so good to her too. " She 
 was standing on the edge of the rock, and 
 when he looked up, there was at least a 
 moisture in his eyes. Had she spoken ten 
 words more, he would have been in tears. 
 
 What a heart this man has ! thought 
 Charity. She felt humiliated to remem-
 
 THE PLEACHlfeD BOWER. 105 
 
 ber that at first she had accused him of 
 affectation. 
 
 He began to talk, quickly and with grow- 
 ing excitement. 
 
 "Yes," he sighed, "there is always a 
 deep sorrow. But the griefs that are com- 
 mon to humanity are understood of all man- 
 kind. Death comes, and people flock with 
 flowers to hide the barren blackness of the 
 bier. Even strangers lay a cool sweet leaf 
 upon the wound, and soon there remains 
 nothing but a scar, at last forgotten if it be 
 not rudely touched. But who can minister 
 to the unknown sorrows of the mind .'* The 
 lost illusion, who shall replace it.'' Or 
 who lay the haunting memory of a dead 
 hope.^ " 
 
 He paused, and looked away across the sea. 
 
 "But surely — " She hesitated. His 
 words moved her to compassion, they 
 sounded so real, and she felt shy of seem- 
 ing not to understand. " Surely it is better 
 to outlive an illusion. That is — well — 
 one step towards truth. And to bury a hope 
 is not despair. Other hopes spring up."
 
 io6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 She stopped abruptly. He had fixed his 
 eyes upon her, and she was disconcerted. 
 Her halting sentences could go no further. 
 
 " I am glad I wandered this way. From 
 the first moment I saw you at Poltimore's I 
 wanted to talk to you," he went on, speak- 
 ing quite intimately, as if he had known her 
 for years. "The other people had been 
 bothering me — making me read and that 
 sort of thing. But I knew that you were 
 sympathetic. I felt it would be a precious 
 privilege to know you. And they had 
 been saying you were so fond of poetry. 
 Ah — Have you read me ? " 
 
 Very little, she was forced to confess. 
 
 "Do you come here every day? " 
 
 "Oh, no. Only occasionally.'* 
 
 "To-morrow.'' " 
 
 " I never know beforehand. I must go. 
 I see Miss Graham in the garden. She 
 will want me." 
 
 "Come to-morrow," he whispered; "and 
 if you will permit me I should like to bring 
 you my poor book. What there is of me is 
 in it."
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 107 
 
 She thanked him heartily in her frank 
 girlish way. " I am quite sure it is beauti- 
 ful," she said; and having hastily shaken 
 hands, she hurried down the hill. 
 
 She came into the garden glowing with 
 excitement and delight. Her imagination 
 was on fire. She had talked of something 
 deeper than the babble and trivialities of 
 Babblemouth. And from what a depth of 
 sympathy and understanding he had spoken ! 
 He indeed must have suffered some great 
 sorrow, — she could feel that in every word 
 he uttered. 
 
 Miss Graham was sitting in the bath-chair 
 on the lawn. 
 
 " Why, Charity, what a colour you have, 
 child! T feel the wind here. Push me 
 down to the drooping ash. Where have you 
 been }" 
 
 " In the wood ; I met Mr. Prentice, and 
 had quite a talk with him. Graham's friend, 
 you know, — the poet." 
 
 "Poet!" flashed out the shrewd little 
 lady, with an impatient wave of the hand. 
 "That 's not a poet. I have seen him on
 
 io8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 the road several times, but to look at him 
 once is quite enough. No, dear, I have 
 met men of genius, in years gone by. Some 
 of them had odd ways, but underneath all 
 was real — soul, or passion, or a great heart, 
 with only a thin shell of folly. But there 
 is nothing real about that person — except 
 the affectation. A little farther, dear. 
 There. Stop." 
 
 The girl's face was out of sight behind 
 the creases of the leather hood, and her 
 impulse to make quick reply passed unob- 
 served of those keen grey eyes. She too 
 had harboured a like prejudice, and she 
 longed to contradict — to set this false im- 
 pression right. But there were moments of 
 rapid nervous perception, when Miss Gra- 
 ham could not brook even a difference of 
 opinion. And she had spoken with such 
 emphatic, clear decision. The moment 
 passed, and Charity remained silent. She 
 had been on the verge of speaking of to- 
 morrow and the expected book. But that 
 was not possible now, and the words died 
 on her lips. Yet she felt mean, to find she
 
 THE PLEACHED BOWER. 109 
 
 had not courage to defend this man who had 
 already interested her so much. And for 
 the first time in her life she was not alto- 
 gether frank with the woman whose tender- 
 ness had befriended her for more years than 
 memory could look back.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. 
 
 From that moment of reticence a new 
 and growing unrest began to trouble the 
 soul of Charity Chance. The finer instinct, 
 which stirred her indignation against the 
 Babblemouth folk, and made her writhe 
 under their littleness, turned upon itself. 
 Hitherto no stain of conscious meanness 
 had ever sullied her self-respect. Slights, 
 like pruning, only forced her pride into 
 stronger growth. She had never known 
 anything to hide, nor to fear, nor to reproach 
 herself with. 
 
 But on the following day she waited until 
 Miss Graham was busy with her letters, 
 and watched Jan Sprake into the stable, 
 before going into the wood. To avoid the
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. iii 
 
 open path she climbed the hill under cover 
 of the trees. The book, which was quite 
 small, she brought home in her pocket, and 
 read throughout the night in the little 
 chamber above the porch. 
 
 Some of the verses were love-songs, and 
 they had a deeper reality because she knew 
 the man who wrote them. Line after line 
 she read and re-read aloud, and in the still- 
 ness every word spoke to her. They filled 
 her brain with excitement, they set her 
 heart on fire. In the glow of it her imagina- 
 tion shaped fantastic stories of the hopeless 
 love of Alfred Prentice. He was so sad and 
 melancholy — and again to-day he had talked 
 of loneliness and sympathy. He had loved 
 — and lost. Not dead, but faithless, the 
 maiden who had wrecked his life. Fallen 
 away, because she could not understand. 
 This dream was so vivid that it imprinted 
 itself upon Charity's mind like fact. She 
 pitied him from the bottom of her heart. 
 
 One poem she could not comprehend. 
 The words were magnificent, and the sound 
 almost sublime, but the sense was illusive,
 
 112 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 and escaped her again and again. If she 
 might only hear it read, she thought, she 
 could catch the meaning. And he had 
 begged her to meet him again. To give 
 him frankly her opinion upon his poor trifles, 
 he said. 
 
 She had not promised, but the desire to 
 go became irresistible. After all she was 
 but following the habit of her leisure in 
 going into the wood. There was no harm 
 in talking to a friend of the man to whom 
 she was engaged. Yet she felt with disgust 
 that these unsuspected interviews more and 
 more engrossed her thoughts. And to 
 Graham she had not mentioned Alfred 
 Prentice's name. "You have chosen the 
 one to me the most precious," sighed the 
 poet, and read, as he assured her, with the 
 greatest pleasure. She was too shy to ask 
 him what it meant. 
 
 So the days passed on. Prentice still 
 remained in Babblemouth, lodging in one 
 of the little houses looking down uj^on the 
 quay. But when the first glory of the ris- 
 ing celebrity faded in the commonplace light
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. 113 
 
 of familiar day, there was no end to the 
 criticisms of the Babblemouth folk. They 
 sneered at his loitering ways, and laughed 
 at the length of his hair. "But then, there 
 is always something odd," said Theodosia, 
 "about people who are supposed to be 
 clever. " 
 
 Such little disparagements stung Charity 
 to the quick. Retorts came upon the tip 
 of her tongue, but she could not trust her- 
 self to utter them. Within her heart 
 smouldered an anger she dared not disclose. 
 A breath must blow it into flame. Yet 
 how ungenerous to remain silent and hear 
 a higher intelligence attacked by fools ! 
 It was hard to contain herself, yet harder 
 still to contemplate her own cowardice. 
 
 There comes at last a moment when the 
 bow snaps. 
 
 They had come over to Babblecombe 
 one afternoon, these Babblemouth people. 
 There was tea by the corner of the lawn, and 
 Graham was handing round the bread-and- 
 butter. The unwillingness of Mr. Poltimore- 
 Briggs to stand for Parliament had been fully 
 8
 
 114 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 discussed. His reluctant yielding to over- 
 whelming persuasion in spite of her entrea- 
 ties, Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs had dramatically 
 described. 
 
 " It was no good for me to say anything, 
 my dear," she assured Miss Graham; "none 
 whatever. His Lordship met him and said, 
 'You'd better stand, Poltimore. ' His 
 Lordship always forgets and calls him 
 Poltimore, you know. 'You 'd better stand, 
 and do your best to push out the Radical. ' 
 So he consented. " Then she threw up her 
 hands in despair. 
 
 "Talking of Radicals," cried Mrs. Mor- 
 timer, stopping at every few words to dip 
 her beak into the tea-cup. "The Rector 
 says — though of course he would not have 
 it repeated for the world as coming from 
 him — that Mr. Prentice is an awful Rad- 
 ical. Doesn't believe in God — nor in 
 Queen Victoria — nor tithes. Well! I 
 think any man who would rob a church 
 does n't deserve to live. But I never thought 
 he looked quite a gentleman." 
 
 "What is he doins here?" asked Miss
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. 115 
 
 Graham, carelessly. " Charity fell across 
 him the other day in the wood. Didn't 
 you say so, Charity .!• " 
 
 But before the girl could answer, Mrs. 
 Poltimore-Briggs had started again. 
 
 " My dear, that is just the way he wan- 
 ders about. No doubt he thinks the wood 
 is his. The poetic imagination knows no 
 bounds, you know. Oh, I don't know what 
 he is doing here. We asked him to come 
 to us, but he told Graham he would rather 
 be free. We didn't want him, of course. 
 We thought it would be only civil, as he 
 used to be a friend of Graham. But since 
 he prefers the freedom of old mother Dib- 
 bin's two stuffy little rooms — well, so 
 much the better. What was that she said 
 to you, Theodosia.? You told me the other 
 day." 
 
 Theodosia shone with the pride of pro- 
 prietary information. 
 
 " Oh, that was nothing ! I believe she 
 was in doubt about her rent. She only said 
 she supposed it was all right, as he was a 
 friend of Mr. Poltimore-Briggs, but she
 
 Ii6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 never took in anybody before with such a 
 few things. No more cloth clothes than 
 what he stood upright in, and only three 
 shirts to his back." 
 
 " Then no doubt you pointed out to her 
 the impertinence of talking about the private 
 affairs of other people. " 
 
 The shaft was sudden and unexpected. 
 The hot blood rushed to the cheek of the 
 wounded Theodosia, and Mrs. Poltimore- 
 Briggs was reduced to silence and aston- 
 ishment. Beside the small round table, 
 brought from the drawing-room for the 
 occasion, stood Charity, contemptuous and 
 defiant, clutching a china tea-pot in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Charity ! Charity dear ! " murmured 
 in remonstrance little Miss Graham; but 
 her lips were twitching with suppressed 
 amusement. 
 
 "I think three sufificient for Prentice," 
 cried Graham, with an air of grave deliber- 
 ation. He had thrown himself upon the 
 grass, and was enjoying well-merited rest 
 after overwhelming exertions. "You see,
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. 117 
 
 he doesn't ride 'em so very hard. He lies 
 in bed by day, and sits up at night in a red 
 damask dressing-gown awaiting the rosy- 
 footed dawn. The early morning chills the 
 imagination. The best inspiration comes 
 with a smell of parafhn. It is all tommy- 
 rot about Nature. These chaps only know 
 the names of things. Prentice can't tell 
 an ash from an Arbele poplar. I 'd bet two 
 to one whenever the leaves turn up white in 
 the wind he thinks it 's a willow. He 
 makes up a Nature of his own in bed with 
 the blind drawn down. I went to look him 
 up the other afternoon. They said he 
 wasn't down yet, and I ran up and rapped 
 at his bedroom door. ' Who 's there, what 
 do you want ? ' responded a voice muffled 
 with counterpane. ' Are you ill. Prentice.'' ' 
 I said. ' Shall I come in } ' There was a 
 brief pause whilst he struggled free of the 
 counterpane. * Go 'way, go 'way, ' he 
 yelled; 'I'm busy.'" 
 
 Charity did not join in the laughter which 
 followed. She did not take the tale for 
 truth, but only as one of Graham's irrespon-
 
 ii8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 sible stories, and she was vexed that he 
 had not sided with her. 
 
 "But I thought you liked him," she cried 
 with eagerness. 
 
 "So I did," he admitted. "But I can't 
 stand him now." 
 
 "Or understand," she retorted, quick as 
 thought. 
 
 No wonder that Charity Chance was not 
 universally beloved. But Graham loved her 
 with all his heart, and it was in admiration 
 that he whispered as he rose to his feet : 
 " I believe you see the frivolities of every- 
 body you know, and believe in the virtues 
 of everybody you don't know," His tender- 
 ness touched her. 
 
 " But you are not going yet, Graham ? " 
 
 "The Governor has an open-air meeting 
 on the down, and I must walk over to it. 
 Come to the top of the hill, Charity," he 
 begged. 
 
 So they presently went together, side by 
 side, up the white dusty road. " She is so 
 high-minded, and he has such a good heart," 
 thought the little cripple as her eyes fol-
 
 EVERMORE TATTLING. 119 
 
 lowed them every step of the way. " They 
 were made for each other," she said to her- 
 self. And indeed it looked so as they slowly 
 passed out of sight on the hill- top.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 IN THE WOOD. 
 
 No matter if she were late. Aunt Helen 
 would not mind in the least. And the 
 Babblemouth people would stay. Oh yes! 
 The Babblemouth people would be pleased 
 to stay. So Charity walked some distance 
 with Graham, being willing to make 
 amends. When at last she got back 
 to the hill-top, the sun was glowing red 
 through a belt of grey mist over the 
 sea; a hawk was hovering high above the 
 cliff. 
 
 She stood upon the ridge awhile to rest, 
 a solitary figure in bold relief against the 
 sky. The people on the lawn saw and 
 discussed as to whether it were she. Theo- 
 dosia thought the person far too tall.
 
 IN THE WOOD. 121 
 
 The embers of resentment were still 
 burning within her heart. What a little 
 world where peo^^le were so ready to be- 
 little everybody! And she had promised to 
 spend her life in this coombe, — this tea-cup. 
 Ever the same dreary little round, with 
 no true sympathy, no understanding. She 
 thought a great deal about true sympathy 
 since Alfred Prentice once used the words. 
 
 Of late, also, a question kept arising in 
 her mind to which no answer could possi- 
 bly be found. It lived with her by day, 
 it haunted her by night. It tormented her 
 like a lost word. Whence had she been 
 brought here ? To whom had she belonged 
 in nature and in love.'' who nevertheless 
 parted with her without a pang. For surely 
 they might at least have longed to watch 
 over her welfare. It flashed across her mind 
 that out of jealousy of possession Miss 
 Graham had prevented all communication. 
 "You were mine," she had told her, "after 
 I took you." In a moment of passionate 
 yearning the girl cried out that she had 
 been robbed, — that nothing could recom-
 
 122 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 pcnse for the love implanted by Nature 
 which must have filled her life. Then she 
 burst into tears of contrition at her own 
 ingratitude. 
 
 These moods of vague restlessness had 
 become very common with her of late. 
 
 In the courtyard below still remained the 
 carriage of Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs. The 
 presence of that exemplary woman relieved 
 Charity from haste. A footpath, little used, 
 ran along the hill around the brim of the 
 coombe. After the dry road the grass was 
 soft and cool, and the girl walked on 
 towards the wood. 
 
 She came upon two rustic lovers loiter- 
 ing by a stile, too absorbed in themselves 
 and each other to hear her coming footsteps 
 on the turf. In uncouth fashion the youth's 
 arm encircled the girl's waist. To let 
 Charity pass, they started back, happy, 
 blushing, conscious, but complete. "Yes, 
 these are the happy people," she said to 
 herself; "they understand each other and 
 are understood." 
 
 But Graham would never understand her.
 
 IN THE WOOD. 123 
 
 Already the engagement began to oppress 
 her soul. Why should she marry? She 
 did not want to marry. She would rather 
 go into the world, and fight, and earn her 
 living, and be free. Those people who 
 gave her up must have been poor and afraid. 
 Fools ! She would have worked for them. 
 No, no ! They were good, and out of ten- 
 derness desired for her more than they had 
 to give. 
 
 No sunshine fell upon the trees to-night. 
 The distant haze drank up the glory of the 
 light, and the leaden sea melted and was 
 lost in violet cloud. By the time Charity 
 reached the wood, beneath the heavy 
 branches it was growing dusk. It must be 
 later than she had thought. Something 
 moved, and a pigeon flew from the ivy close 
 beside her. She quickened her pace for 
 fear of being overtaken by the darkness. 
 
 "Miss Chance!" 
 
 The voice startled her. She knew it well, 
 and it made her heart beat fast. She had 
 not thought of meeting him to-night, and a 
 strange fear fell upon her — of what she
 
 124 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 knew not. She must not stay. Yet at the 
 sound of her name she stopped. 
 
 She heard him hurrying down the hill- 
 side. A loose stone came rolling amongst 
 the briers by her feet, and in his haste he 
 stumbled over an uncovered twisted root. 
 
 "I was sure I should meet you," he stam- 
 mered, still breathless from his effort to 
 recover himself. " The idea got hold of me 
 so that I was compelled to come. It was 
 an inspiration." 
 
 " I am just going in," she replied quickly, 
 for his eager manner heightened her agita- 
 tion; then she turned to continue on her 
 way. 
 
 " Not for a few minutes, pray. And I 
 will walk down with you to the fir copse. 
 Let me help you, Charity. I may say 
 Charity here in the twilight, may I not? 
 Give me your hand; the gloom of the trees 
 makes it so dark." 
 
 She could not refuse, and he helped her 
 over the broken stones and out-cropping 
 rock. 
 
 " We have had so many talks here in the
 
 IN THE WOOD. 125 
 
 wood, and my mind was full of you. I 
 could think of nothing else. You became 
 a necessity to me. Then I came out here 
 where the very leaves whisper of you. Be- 
 sides, I knew you would come. It was 
 inevitable." 
 
 She was not superstitious; but his words 
 were full of passion, and so deep with con- 
 viction that they overawed her, like the 
 utterances of an oracle unfolding unalterable 
 destiny. They had reached an open space 
 where sticks of felled timber were lying on 
 the ground. She tried to withdraw her 
 hand, but he held it fast. 
 
 " I must go. I must go at once. I can- 
 not stay," she implored. 
 
 " For one moment you must listen to me, 
 Charity — " 
 
 " I cannot listen. I am not free to 
 listen." 
 
 In her anxiety and helplessness the words 
 sounded like a lament. 
 
 "I cannot help it," he whispered. "No 
 power on earth shall prevent my saying I 
 love you. From the first moment I was
 
 126 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 certain of your sympathy. I could see in 
 every movement the quickness of your sen- 
 sibilities. And the world is so dead and 
 dull. They had been making me read, but 
 what did they care for my verses.? What 
 does anybody care.? I had ceased to care 
 myself. But you quickened me into new 
 hope — new aspiration. Every syllable you 
 spoke was like the touch of a human hand." 
 
 He was so moved at this his own picture 
 of sympathy that his voice faltered, and 
 he stopped. 
 
 Each word went red-hot to the girl's 
 heart. It had come, the thing she thought 
 impossible, — the love they spoke of as irre- 
 sistible, which she had never felt. Every 
 element that in imagination went to the 
 making of an ideal passion was present. 
 He was exceptional. He had heart, intel- 
 lect, soul. And he had need of her, — deep 
 spiritual need. 
 
 A flame of sudden joy leapt up within her 
 bosom. Then again she was afraid, and 
 her reply was angry in self-defence, — 
 
 "I — I am sorry to hear you speak like
 
 IN THE WOOD. 127 
 
 this, Mr. Prentice. You — you hurt me. I 
 have liked, yes, really liked talking to you 
 — and in future I — you have made it 
 impossible — " 
 
 " I know. That is the tale they always 
 teach," he cried bitterly. "If your heart 
 has an impulse, hide it. If it cherish an 
 emotion, crush it. They are afraid of their 
 lives to live, and that is the gospel in which 
 they bring you up. Because I love you, 
 you must refuse even to speak to me, — even 
 though you be necessary to me. And that 
 is the wisdom of the world." 
 
 As he finished, his voice sank into its 
 habitual melancholy, and he released her 
 hand. Her brain was whirling in its effort 
 to seize his deepest meaning. For he 
 seemed to say so much whilst she could 
 grasp so little. And all that stood clear 
 out of the chaos was himself, a lonely figure 
 with the world arrayed against him, crav- 
 ing for sympathy and help. 
 
 " I should have to think whether it was 
 right," she said very softly, as if speaking 
 to herself.
 
 128 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 His manner changed. He spoke with a 
 subdued tenderness, a really touching self- 
 restraint, — 
 
 "Yes. I recognise that as an inevitable 
 necessity of your nature. To me, every- 
 thing that is real is right." 
 
 " I meant really right. Not what people 
 think," she hastily explained. 
 
 Something rustled past them amongst the 
 ferns and undergrowth, and she involun- 
 tarily started aside. 
 
 "It was nothing," he assured her. "I 
 fancy a rabbit flitted across by the felled 
 tree." 
 
 "I must go." 
 
 "One moment. Charity." 
 
 But the movement had disturbed her, and 
 regardless of his entreaty she walked 
 quickly on. 
 
 In places the rough pathway was too nar- 
 row for two to pass, and he followed until 
 they came to the open ride between the 
 larches. By this time it was nearly dark. 
 She stopped abruptly and held out her 
 hand.
 
 IN THE WOOD. 129 
 
 "Good-bye, Mr. Prentice." 
 
 " I have only one thing to ask, " he pleaded 
 wildly. " My love has startled you. How 
 could I help it.? You have come into my 
 life. You have become part of me. Could 
 I stifle a generous passion at its birth, and 
 bury it out of sight like a crime .-^ Believe 
 me, life knows too little love to lightly cast 
 it aside. I cannot do so. You cannot. 
 And you tell me the hours when we have 
 met were precious to you. Come once 
 more to-mom^ow. Come with this knowl- 
 edge in your heart and talk to me again. 
 That is all I ask. Just once." 
 
 She did not promise him. Before she 
 could make up her mind, a tall figure came 
 into the ride, striding rapidly towards them. 
 It was already quite dark. 
 
 "Some one is here," she whispered in 
 alarm. "Good-night." 
 
 " Morning, noon, or evening, I shall wait 
 until you come." 
 
 And so they parted. He disappeared 
 amongst the larches, and she turned quietly 
 towards the house. 
 
 9
 
 I30 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 By the wicket-gatc she was overtaken by 
 Theodosia. 
 
 "Why, Charity, is that you?" cried she, 
 in great surprise. " I went up to look for 
 foxgloves, and found a few. Come along, 
 you shall shield me from a row. Look!" 
 and she held out the bunch of flowers in the 
 dusk. 
 
 They hurried to the house in silence. 
 For Charity's tongue clove to the roof of 
 her mouth, and her brain kept throbbing 
 with the thought. It has come — it has 
 come !
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HONITON LACE. 
 
 "To me the thing that is real is right." 
 How his phrases haunted her, and this 
 more than any. She pondered over it, per- 
 plexed. Ever and again it arose before her 
 mind, boldly claiming acceptance as a uni- 
 versal truth. The envy of those Babble- 
 mouth people was real enough, but reality 
 did not make it right. Within the converse, 
 rather. Truth lay cradled. " The thing 
 that is unreal is wrong." Unconsciously 
 she substituted this proposition, and cher- 
 ished the changeling unawares. "What 
 depth of insight he has!" she gasped, and 
 almost worshipped him for the thing he had 
 not said. 
 
 She did not go to meet Prentice the next 
 day. She trembled at the thought. She
 
 132 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 had promised to marry Graliam. Her path 
 was plain before her, and she must keep 
 to it. 
 
 In the isolation of her growing up, as the 
 fairest flower in Miss Graham's garden, she 
 had seen nothing of the outside world. 
 Lessons she had learned in the Babble- 
 mouth High School, an institution of consid- 
 erable local repute, but her real education 
 went forward at home. There she drank 
 deep in poetry, the wine of the little crip- 
 ple's life, until her whole soul throbbed and 
 glowed with high ideals. Now amongst 
 these a deadly strife had arisen. 
 
 She had promised to marry Graham. 
 Constancy was a virtue beyond compare, 
 and she must keep her word. But how 
 could she longer acquiesce in his love, and 
 act the lie her lips would never deign to 
 utter } 
 
 In her distress and misery she would 
 creep away to her room over the porch, or 
 to some odd corner of the garden, to be with 
 her own thoughts unseen. For she could 
 not hide her agitation. And she dared not
 
 HONITON LACE. 133 
 
 tell it to any one. In solitude it was a relief 
 to speak her heart aloud; and she poured 
 out her secret passion to the tall sun- 
 flowers beside the garden w^all. 
 
 " It has come. I love him ! " she cried. 
 "I love him with all my heart." Then she 
 stood silent, startled at the vehemence of 
 her own utterances. 
 
 She must never speak to him again : that 
 was the only way. But this resolution 
 brought a burden of despair, beneath which 
 her spirit was well-nigh broken. 
 
 So the days passed on. A doubt whether 
 Theodosia had seen them together that 
 night, which at first troubled her, was dis- 
 missed. She had not spoken of it. But a 
 rumour of impending dissolution had given 
 a keener interest to the candidature of Mr. 
 Poltimore-Briggs, and the Babblemouth 
 people could talk of nothing else. There 
 were meetings all over the country. To- 
 morrow there was to be a mass meeting on 
 the quay. And Graham had thrown him- 
 self into the contest heart and soul, — not 
 from any deep conviction, but with the
 
 134 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 careless gaiety of the sportsman. There- 
 fore, of him, for the time, she saw but 
 little. Miss Graham, noticing the girl's un- 
 happiness, but mistaking its cause, became 
 more than ever tender and sympathetic. 
 
 "Lay aside the book, and talk to me," 
 she said softly one evening, and gently 
 drew the girl down to kiss her bright hair. 
 " You must not mind, dear, if he seems to 
 neglect you, just for a while. There is 
 nowhere a more loyal heart than Graham. 
 Why, I would not care for him one straw, 
 if he were not eager for his father to win. 
 He would not be worth his salt. And no 
 one could love you better, Charity dear, in 
 all the world." 
 
 The little lady stopped. There were 
 tears in her eyes, but they were tears of 
 happiness. For the girl's melancholy was 
 a source of joy, since it proved the depth of 
 her affection. 
 
 "I know that Graham loves me," replied 
 Charity in a low voice. 
 
 "He worships you," cried Miss Graham, 
 her face bright with enthusiasm. " Wait
 
 HONITON LACE. 135 
 
 one moment, child. I will be back. No, 
 do not move. I can go alone." 
 
 She waved away the proffered assistance, 
 and with only her ebony stick, toiled 
 upstairs. She was gone some time. Charity 
 could hear her mysteriously moving over- 
 head, and that she dragged a box upon the 
 floor. At last she returned, bringing with 
 great care a small flat parcel wrapped in 
 blue paper. 
 
 Fatigued and out of breath, without a 
 word she took her seat. Overcome with 
 emotion, for a while she held the precious 
 burden on her lap. Then with a quick ges- 
 ture, beckoned Charity to unfasten the 
 string. The knot, tied long ago, was very 
 firm, and the girl knelt down to pick it out. 
 
 With trembling hands, herself, she opened 
 the paper, and drew forth a wealth of Hon- 
 iton lace, and amongst it a bridal veil. 
 
 " Stay, child, stay ! " she interposed 
 quickly, for Charity was about to rise. 
 
 She rapidly unfolded the veil, yellow with 
 age and very beautiful, and cast it over the 
 girl's head.
 
 136 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "There, Charity," she began in a broken 
 voice. " My mother wore it at the altar, and 
 so shall you. It was made for her. And 
 the flounce too. For more than a score of 
 years it has not seen the light. Poor Irene 
 put it on once, and laughed to look at her- 
 self. She should have worn it, but that was 
 not to be. Stand over there, dear, and let 
 me look at it again." 
 
 The girl hesitated, then obeyed. In her 
 effort to control her feelings, she held her 
 head erect, as if in pride. 
 
 "Yes, yes. You shall wear it," cried 
 the little cripple, nodding approval. She 
 paused, and then went on with growing ex- 
 citement : " Charity ! You will be a bride 
 for a king. And you shall keep it, dear, as 
 I have done, until some day you put it on a 
 child of your own. For you are mine, dear 
 — and Graham ' s — and there is no one else. 
 It shall be an heirloom for ever to the first 
 daughter who marries. No. That will be 
 always a fresh name. For the bride of the 
 eldest son." 
 
 Suddenly she stopped.
 
 HONITON LACE. 137 
 
 "Come here, child! Quick! Let me 
 take it off." 
 
 Her manner had changed, and she spoke 
 now in a frightened whisper. 
 
 "They used to call it unlucky to try on a 
 bride's things. They said so when Irene 
 put it on. And she, poor girl — Quick, 
 kneel down again ! " 
 
 She quickly removed, and was tenderly 
 refolding the precious relic to put it by, 
 when her eye caught sight of the misery 
 upon the girl's face. 
 
 "Of course there is nothing in that," she 
 said soothingly. " How foolish of me to 
 have said it, dear! " 
 
 Then the little lady laughed uneasily, 
 and again drew the girl towards her to be 
 kissed. 
 
 "There. Quick, pick me up the string," 
 she said. 
 
 But both the exultation and the passing 
 presentiment had pressed with crushing 
 weight upon Charity's spirit. The one 
 proved the marriage, and the other the 
 unhappiness so inevitable. To hide her
 
 138 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 emotion she turned away and crossed the 
 room to the piano. She stood, turning 
 over the leaves of a volume of Beethoven's 
 sonatas, but did not touch the keys. 
 
 There followed a brief moment of silence 
 and disquietude. 
 
 How sensitive she is ! thought the little 
 cripple, and loved her the more for it. 
 Then out of kindness she began to prattle 
 quite lightly upon an unimportant matter. 
 
 "Your friend the poet, Charity, seems to 
 have betaken himself to the woods. He is 
 there all the day through, so John Sprake 
 tells me, and sometimes after dark. John 
 was greatly concerned as to what he could 
 want there, and thought he could never be 
 quite right. But I told him to leave the 
 poor man in peace. I suppose it is a sort 
 of browsing on Parnassus. I would not rob 
 a poor soul of an inspiration for the world. 
 Play something, dear." 
 
 The girl gladly turned to the piano for 
 relief, and for that evening there was no 
 further conversation. She placed the book 
 upon the music-rack, and began to play.
 
 HONITON LACE. 139 
 
 But through the solemn adagio and the 
 fiercer passion of the presto movement, a 
 vision of Alfred Prentice, desolate and 
 alone, wandering in the gloom of a hopeless 
 love, haunted her imagination. He had 
 implored her to see him again. Since he 
 loved her so deeply, did she not owe him 
 as much as this ? to own the happiness of 
 his love, and then to bravely bow to the 
 inevitable, and say farewell. Only of him 
 she thought now; not of herself. It was 
 the essential quality of all her dreams that 
 they were noble. They pictured everybody 
 heroic, never yielding to selfishness or fear. 
 Except the Babblemouth people, whom, 
 when they were not present, she dismissed 
 from her mind. It was cruel to be so 
 abrupt. If not to-morrow, when the polit- 
 ical meeting might interfere, then on the 
 day following, she must meet him once 
 more, and make an end of it.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE MEETING. 
 
 Babblemouth was astir! True, it was 
 a little place, but, once aroused, it displayed 
 that phenomenal activity which is the 
 brightest attribute of a little body. Vil- 
 lagers flocked in from all around, and filled 
 the town to overflowing. A brass band 
 paraded the streets, and other attractions 
 were manifold. There was to be an orator 
 from a distance, a display of fireworks, and 
 it was rumoured that a tight-rope dancer 
 would walk from cliff to cliff upon a slack 
 wire. Many understood that Mr. Poltimore- 
 Briggs hmself would perform this feat, but 
 the event proved this a mere Radical 
 invention. 
 
 15elow Mr. Poltimore-Briggs's mansion, 
 and running parallel with the harbour, was 
 a row of ancient houses, quaint and irregu-
 
 THE MEETING. 141 
 
 lar. Between them and the quay lay an 
 open space, where fishing-boats put up their 
 spoil to auction, and country-folk pitched 
 their wares on market day. Upon this 
 forum a wooden platform had been raised 
 with seats to accommodate a hundred sup- 
 porters. There Mr. Poltimore-Briggs was 
 to address the electorate. 
 
 It was evening. The proceedings had 
 not yet commenced, but the place was 
 already crowded when Charity reached the 
 corner of this little square. She was later 
 than she intended. Above the heads of the 
 people she could distinguish Mrs. Mortimer 
 and Theodosia, sitting in state amidst the 
 dite of Babblemouth society. For her, 
 also, was reserved a seat upon the platform, 
 but how to get to it was more than she 
 could tell. For the crowd, although cer- 
 tainly good-natured, was in high spirits and 
 jocular with a coarseness from which she 
 shrank. 
 
 Close beside her a group of electors 
 loudly discussed the merits of Mr. Polti- 
 more-Briggs. Charity had so long regarded
 
 142 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 him with awe, that it startled her to hear 
 that great name thrown to the four winds 
 upon the breath of disparagement. 
 
 "Poltimore-Briggs ! Who's Poltimore- 
 Briggs.''" cried an elderly sharp -featured 
 little man, in a shrill voice, looking around 
 defiantly. "A fine fellow to put up for 
 Parliament indeed. Put up for sale, you 'd 
 buy him dear at his own valuation. Why, I 
 remember when he was nobody, I was in 
 his father's ofiice once — but that 's out o' 
 memory. We can't call that to mind now. 
 He was n't so big then. I say, that 's his 
 house — that's his horses, walking up and 
 down for show there in front, — that 's his 
 yacht out there covered with flags. Where 
 did he get it } That 's what I want to know. 
 Why, out o' Lord Babblemouth's estate. 
 Eh.-* something clinging to the hand every- 
 thing that 's done. I tell 'ee what 't is, he 
 couldn't ha' got it if he hadn't robbed 
 somebody." 
 
 There was a general guffaw, for the little 
 man winked at every other word and talked 
 like an oracle.
 
 THE MEETING. 143 
 
 Charity stood perplexed, wondering if it 
 were possible to go on. 
 
 "Oh, come, come!" drawled a country- 
 man, with a face round and red as a Dutch 
 cheese; "we do know where the man picked 
 up his money. His uncle Briggs died an' 
 lef it to un. I knew his uncle Briggs 
 well, afore he died. Had a shop 'pon Fins- 
 bury Pavement, an' died sudden. Zold me 
 hams for years. Hunderds o' hams. Capi- 
 cal hams, all sweet pickle. Ah! zixpence 
 a poun' them times an' did well. Ha! 
 Ha! " He laughed in happy recollection of 
 those hams; and then added with deep 
 earnestness, "But you can't do nothen out 
 o' pig-butcheren nowadays." 
 
 " His uncle Briggs .-• " returned the other, 
 fiercely, "under thirty thousand pounds, for 
 I saw the will in the Illustrated. And Pol- 
 timore bought land wi' it, an' farmed it 
 foolish ever since. And the land gone down 
 half since then. And who knows who 's got 
 the deeds, eh ? Aha I oftentimes a man 
 hasn't got all that goes in his name. No; 
 what he got from his uncle Briggs couldn't
 
 144 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 do it. He stole it. That 's what he did. 
 He stole it." 
 
 "I stigmatise that as a lie. A paltry- 
 lie, imported for base party purposes. 
 And any one who brings that tale here 
 will very soon find himself in the wrong 
 box. He '11 soon learn the taste of Babble- 
 mouth harbour." 
 
 Thus spoke the Babblemouth draper and 
 undertaker, a tradesman of the first magni- 
 tude, whose fine feeling and tact in seasons 
 of bereavement had earned him the respect 
 of all. Many deceased members of the 
 Poltimore family had he buried, only to 
 gain thereby a deeper interest in the liv- 
 ing. In virtuous indignation he strode two 
 steps towards the little man, and looked 
 fierce enough to kill him first and bury him 
 afterwards. The little man fell back and 
 butted against Charity. The undertaker 
 bowed with reverence and apologised. 
 
 At this moment, by good fortune, the air 
 was rent with cheers. 
 
 "Mr. Poltimore-Briggs — that is Mr. 
 Poltimore-Briggs ! "
 
 THE MEETING. 145 
 
 Every eye turned towards the platform. 
 The landau traversed the fifty yards between 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs's house and the 
 wooden island in the sea of heads, and 
 safely deposited its precious freight. The 
 applause increased as Mr. Poltimore- 
 Briggs, followed by the orator, ascended the 
 steps. Yet there was opposition too, — 
 hooting and hissing, which lasted longer 
 than the cheers. The little man plucked 
 up and cried, — 
 
 " Booh ! " 
 
 To attempt to cross the square was use- 
 less, and Charity turned to go back. She 
 did not care about politics. Hooting and 
 cheers alike disturbed her, and her only 
 desire was to get away. Around by-streets, 
 now all deserted, she could reach Babble- 
 mouth House, and there await the return of 
 the politicians and the fireworks. Speeches 
 were nothing but weariness to her. 
 
 Amongst the old houses was one much 
 smaller than the rest, with a bay window 
 almost as big as itself. As Charity passed, 
 the front door quickly opened. Some one
 
 146 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 spoke to her, and looking round she saw 
 Alfred Prentice. 
 
 "Are you going home, Miss Chance.-* 
 Will you come into my room ? There is 
 an excellent view of the people." His 
 manner was distantly respectful, then sud- 
 denly dropped into tenderness. "Yes. 
 Come, please, and talk to me just this 
 once." 
 
 So this last meeting to which her mind 
 was made up, had befallen by accident after 
 all. Ought she to accept this invitation, 
 so contrary to the code of Babblemouth .■* 
 Yet why not? He too recognised the 
 inevitable when pleading for just this once. 
 It was only natural to wish to watch the 
 crowd from some place of safety, and better 
 far than going into the wood by design. 
 Her thanks were scarcely audible. At once 
 she passed through the open door, and fol- 
 lowed him up the stairs. 
 
 The room shocked her sensibilities — it 
 was so small and mean. The corners were 
 not square. The ceiling was so low that a 
 taller tenant mio-ht have touched it with
 
 THE MEETING. 147 
 
 his hand. It had not the dignity of a 
 garret, for tlie bay-window was pretentious 
 and the paltry furniture and tawdry German 
 prints upon the wall marked it the lodging- 
 keeper's own. Theodosia was right: he 
 must be miserably poor. But hov/ con- 
 temptible to tattle of it ! And he too proud 
 to accept their patronising hospitality. 
 She loved him for that. She could have 
 been proud herself. 
 
 She stood in the window, which came 
 almost to the floor. The backs of the pop- 
 ulace were towards her, but she was in full 
 view of the platform. A stranger was now 
 speaking. He majestically pointed to Mr. 
 Poltimore-Briggs, and all the ladies clapped 
 their hands. 
 
 "A strange ambition!" sighed Alfred 
 Prentice, with the condescension of a 
 lesser God looking down upon mortals, as 
 he handed her a chair. 
 
 The little man had shouted an interrup- 
 tion, and was being hustled in the street 
 below. 
 
 "They make it all personal. They mis-
 
 148 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 represent so unjustly, when they only dis- 
 agree," cried the girl, impatiently. She 
 recollected and resented the absurd attack 
 upon the integrity of Poltimore-Briggs. To 
 know a person was, with her, to believe in 
 him; and dislike could not shake that 
 confidence. 
 
 Alfred Prentice looked at her intently. 
 She was excited, and her face glowed with 
 animation at the mere thought of injustice. 
 
 " I have missed you so much during these 
 last miserable days," he said slowly. "I 
 have neither read nor worked. I could not 
 concentrate my mind upon anything because 
 of a haunting fear that you despised me." 
 
 " Despised you ! That was impossible. 
 How could you think so } " she cried, almost 
 with resentment, for this pained her. 
 
 *' You did not come into the wood. The 
 interviews that were so precious, so rich in 
 profit to me, were at an end. I had driven 
 you from your retreat ; perhaps deprived you 
 of your greatest solace. And that reflec- 
 tion was more bitter to me than my own 
 despair. "
 
 THE MEETING. 149 
 
 He nervously thrust his fingers through 
 his long black hair. He was so emotional 
 that he quivered with excitement at the 
 sound of his own voice. Nothing could be 
 more despairing than his utterance of the 
 word " despair. " 
 
 The loud aggression of the orator from a 
 distance, driving home his points with the 
 persuasiveness of a sledge-hammer, came 
 through the open window, mingled with the 
 laughter of the crowd. Every word was 
 clear, but she did not hear what he was 
 saying. She instinctively pushed back her 
 chair. The people in the street were so 
 close, they would witness her agitation and 
 read her heart. 
 
 " I could see no good in coming after 
 what you said. It could never be unsaid, 
 or — or — forgotten," she told him sadly. 
 
 "No good!" he echoed. "When you 
 were an inspiration to me. When every 
 word was like the breath of spring, and the 
 freshness of your belief in life gave me new 
 hope, new faith, so that you became a 
 necessity. No good ! "
 
 150 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "I meant that^ — that nothing but unhap- 
 piness could result from our meeting each 
 other. I felt it was not — not honourable. 
 Yet I should have come once more if I had 
 not seen you to-day." 
 
 Her voice sank. It sounded pitiful, this 
 confession of weakness wrung from her in a 
 moment of passion. It was a lament over a 
 broken ideal. 
 
 He strode two steps across the little 
 room, and threw himself upon his knees 
 beside her chair. His arms were around 
 her; his face was close to hers. 
 
 "Yes," he whispered fiercely. "You 
 would have come because you love me. I 
 know you love me; you cannot deny it, if 
 you would. I can see it — I can hear it in 
 your voice, and feel it in your presence here. 
 But say it. Tell me the truth." 
 
 She could make no answer. Her tongue 
 dared neither utter the secret of her heart, 
 nor hide it in a lie. She made an effort to 
 be free, but he held her fast. 
 
 "Say it," he insisted, and she could feel 
 his breath upon her cheek. "A love
 
 THE MEETING. 151 
 
 unspoken is a song unsung — a jewel hidden 
 from the light — a gift of heaven rejected. 
 Tell me you love me. " 
 
 His words were impetuous and irre- 
 sistible. In a voice so low it scarcely 
 seemed her own, she murmured, — 
 
 " I love you. " 
 
 For a moment she abandoned herself to 
 drift upon the full flood of acquiescence. 
 She was carried, she knew not where, — far 
 from the squalid little room to an island of 
 enchantment and forgetfulness. The out- 
 bursts of the people in the street sounded 
 far away, like the beating of summer break- 
 ers against distant rocks. One moment of 
 joy and exultation, and she awoke with his 
 kisses burning on her lips. 
 
 She tore herself away from him, and 
 again stood up in the window. She was in 
 a tumult of resentment, and crimson with 
 shame. 
 
 "I am going now," she cried angrily, "I 
 shall go straight home. I care nothing 
 about the meeting. It is horrible to me, 
 and I wish I had not come. Look ! Look !
 
 152 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 What are they doing there? They are 
 fighting. Where are they going to carry 
 the man ? " 
 
 She pointed towards the quay-side. 
 
 The stranger whose contemptible party 
 spirit had been displayed in those absurd 
 comments upon the financial condition of 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs, by impertinent in- 
 terruptions brought upon himself the indig- 
 nation of surrounding electors. " Duck 
 him ! Duck him ! " yelled the crowd. He 
 was seized on, and civil war raged around 
 his luckless body. 
 
 The girl looked on with horror, but Alfred 
 Prentice took little heed. To him it was 
 only an argument to defeat her intention. 
 "You mustn't go yet," he said eagerly. 
 "It is not safe." 
 
 " I cannot stay. I ought not to have 
 come. But I wanted — I don't know what 
 it was — I wanted to say something — but 
 not that. I wanted to thank you — to show 
 that — " 
 
 Her anger had melted away, and in the 
 misery of hopelessness she burst into tears.
 
 THE MEETING. 153 
 
 "Charity," he begged quite tenderly, 
 "you have said you love me. Come away 
 with me. To-night it is too late. We 
 should get no carriage with all this foolery 
 going on. But to-morrow — or next day." 
 
 She stared at him with her great aston- 
 ished eyes. 
 
 " Do you mean run away .'' " 
 
 The frank wonder of the question made 
 him hesitate. 
 
 " I mean take our destinies in our own 
 hands, and live out our lives unfettered by 
 other people." 
 
 "Whatever I do shall be avowed and 
 open," she replied proudly. "Good-bye." 
 
 " It would be useless to tell. I am poor. 
 They would not let you — " 
 
 "That would be nothing to me. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 He did not take her proffered hand, and 
 she turned hastily and went out of the 
 door. He called after her by name. 
 "Charity. One moment, Charity." But 
 without a word she passed down the stairs 
 and into the street. Fearlessly she pushed
 
 154 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 her way amongst the excited jDeoplc on the 
 outskirts of the crowd; but when she came 
 upon the quiet road, she ran. Her great 
 longing was to reach unheeded the solitude 
 of her own room, and think. 
 
 But Miss Graham's quick ear heard her 
 crossing the hall. 
 
 " What, Charity, back so soon ! Come 
 here, child." 
 
 " I was late, and the place was full. 
 There was shouting and fighting. It was 
 horrid, and I hated it." 
 
 "Of course you did," purred the little 
 lady. " Why, you looked frightened into a 
 fever. Graham ought to have known."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DISCLOSURES. 
 
 What was she to do ? Days passed ; and 
 this question, always present in Charity's 
 mind, remained unanswered. She became 
 silent and distraught. The affection of 
 Miss Graham, expressed in a thousand deli- 
 cate touches, to her difficulty heaped re- 
 morse. The girl could not steel her heart 
 to hurt that tender friend. Thus life be- 
 came a constant lie, and unbearable. 
 
 Amongst the summer hospitalities at 
 Babblecombe House was one in which the 
 little lady took peculiar delight. Once a 
 year long deal tables were ranged upon the 
 lawn, an urn of huge dimensions was hired 
 from the town, and the workhouse girls 
 were regaled with unlimited tea and buns. 
 
 It was early in the afternoon, and Miss 
 Graham had been wheeled out of doors to
 
 156 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 await the arrival of lier little guests. She 
 loved to watch them coming along the road. 
 To look at these hapless children quickened 
 her sentiment and touched her heart. 
 
 "They are coming, Charity," she cried 
 with enthusiasm. "Poor little things! 
 How pretty they look in their blue cotton 
 frocks. " 
 
 The girl watched the procession marching 
 two and two along the road. She was un- 
 happy, and the sight to her seemed infinitely 
 sad. 
 
 "I resent the blue frocks," she said 
 warmly. "Why should they be marked for 
 workhouse brats .-* " 
 
 The phrase sounded unkind. "Don't, 
 dear, don't ! " expostulated the little cripple, 
 with a pained look. But as the children 
 filed into the garden, her face beamed again, 
 and she added : " How clean and well they 
 look! Set them to play at once, Charity. 
 The Mortimers will be here in a moment." 
 
 Scarcely were the words uttered when the 
 expected visitors came hurrying into the 
 garden.
 
 DISCLOSURES. 157 
 
 "So sorry to be late," gushed Mrs. Mor- 
 timer, rushing up to the chair, and kissing 
 Miss Graham upon both cheeks. " How 
 are you, dear Miss Graham? It is so sweet 
 of you. I have brought all the dear girls, 
 you see, — to make themselves useful. 
 Come, girls, come." 
 
 Her eye glanced from Theodosia to 
 Amelia and Amy, and thence to the other 
 six. The dear girls solemnly approached 
 in single file, saluted Miss Graham accord- 
 ing to priority of birth, and dispersed. 
 Then Theodosia and her mother encamped 
 upon stools, one on each side of the Bath- 
 chair. 
 
 The sun shone gloriously. Swallows 
 darted to and fro. The plaintive note of 
 the greenfinch, like a sweet wail of recol- 
 lected sorrow, came from the wood. 
 
 The workhouse children were ranged in 
 two rows, playing one of those singing 
 games, — the heritage for ever of the humble 
 who have no toys. 
 
 " We ^ve a-come to see Jinny Jo>tes, Jinny Jones, Jinny Jofies^ 
 We ^ve a-come to see Jinny Jones. How is she now ? "
 
 158 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 Backwards and forwards they tripped to 
 the rhythm of the song. The little crip- 
 ple's face glowed with pleasure as she 
 nodded her head to the time. In heart she 
 was as young as they, and enjoyed the game 
 as much, — always at second hand. Their 
 little twinkling skirts awakened a joy more 
 tender than the early daffodils, or the blue- 
 bells in the wood. Something came over her. 
 She scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry. 
 
 " Jimiy Jones is a-dying, a-dying, a-dying, 
 
 Jinny Jones is a-dying. You can't see her 7iow." 
 
 Every one else being happy and busily 
 engaged, Mrs. Mortimer found the moment 
 propitious to push forward her sharp face 
 with the hook-nose she loved to put into 
 everything. 
 
 "I wanted to say something to you, dear 
 Miss Graham," she whispered mysteriously, 
 " if you won't be vexed with me. I speak 
 from a sense of duty and from the best and 
 kindest motives, and because I feel you 
 ought to know. " 
 
 " What shall we dress her in, dress her in, dress her in ? 
 What shall we dress her in dress her i}i now ? "
 
 DISCLOSURES. 159 
 
 Miss Graham turned from the children 
 with a sigh of regret. When Mrs. Morti- 
 mer spoke under moral compulsion, she al- 
 ways said something unpleasant. 
 
 "What is it.-* " she asked simply. 
 
 "It is about Miss Chance, — Charity, I 
 mean. Dear Miss Graham, you know what 
 the Babblemouth people are, and how they 
 tattle." Mrs. Mortimer shook her head 
 censoriously. "I wouldn't say a word 
 myself for the world — only it is such a pity 
 when a girl is talked about — " 
 
 "Talked about.'"' interposed Miss Gra- 
 ham, sharply. " Oh, yes. I have no doubt 
 of it. Foolish idle tongues cannot be 
 stopped. So much the worse for them." 
 
 "Ah! How true that is!" sighed Mrs. 
 Mortimer. "And you know I have always 
 felt the deepest regard for — for Charity. 
 She is so spontaneous, so impulsive, one 
 cannot help being in love with her. You 
 see, we who know her understand and 
 appreciate these good qualities. You and 
 I, dear Miss Graham, see her true worth. 
 And of course things are always cxagger-
 
 i6o CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 ated. Perhaps I may be wrong in detail, 
 but I will find out — " 
 
 " There is nothing to find out in Charity," 
 cried Miss Graham, warmly. " Her faults 
 are all on the surface. She is so trans- 
 parent that any one may see to the bottom 
 of her soul." 
 
 "Yes. And how beautiful that always is 
 — that real ingenuousness. It endears her, 
 and makes one feel all the more that — that 
 one must speak. But this Mr. Prentice 
 with whom she has become so friendly — 
 the poet, you know — Theodosia, you had 
 better go and assist your sisters." 
 
 "Friendly with Mr. Prentice!" The 
 little lady fired up, and her eyes flashed 
 with indignation. "Friendly with Mr. 
 Prentice ! Why, she scarcely knows the 
 fellow. She met him once at Graham's; 
 and saw him afterwards in the wood, so 
 she told me. That is all. Do you think 
 she could speak to a real live genius with 
 long hair, and not come home and talk of 
 it .'' " In impatience with such nonsense, 
 Miss Graham laughed outright, and abruptly
 
 DISCLOSURES. i6i 
 
 turned her head to watch the children, 
 still singing, — 
 
 " Black is for mourning, mmcrning, motirning. 
 Black is for mozirjting. That will do." 
 
 "Then I think, dear Miss Graham, you 
 ought to be told the truth." Mrs. Morti- 
 mer pinched her thin lips in determination 
 not to shrink from an unpleasant duty. " It 
 would be no true kindness either to your- 
 self or Charity to allow you to remain in 
 ignorance. Besides, a word from you will 
 do so much. It must, if there is any grati- 
 tude in this world." 
 
 She paused, shook her head in doubt, 
 glanced at Charity towering so tall and 
 graceful above the little cotton-clad paupers, 
 and sinking her voice poured forth an un- 
 ceasing stream of whispered gossip. On 
 and on it gurgled, like rain out of a gar- 
 goyle on a wet day. How Charity had met 
 Mr. Prentice by appointment at the rock on 
 the hill-top, not once nor twice, but every 
 day for a fortnight; and Mr. Prentice was 
 there the first thing in the morning to the
 
 i62 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 last thing at night, so that Charity might 
 run out when she could ; for John Sprake 
 had seen them, and John told William the 
 coachman, who told Selina, of course, who, 
 when she was dusting the dining-room the 
 other morning, began to mention it — "not 
 that I ever allow a servant of mine to utter 
 one word about anybody, or listen to any- 
 thing that is said ; for I either check them 
 at once, or give them a severe scolding 
 afterwards ; but when I found Charity going 
 to his lodgings, and in fact with my own 
 eyes saw her there on the evening of Mr. 
 Poltimore-Briggs's meeting, I felt it my 
 duty, for the sake of the girl herself, to let 
 you know what is going on. I should have 
 walked over on purpose if we had not been 
 coming this afternoon, no matter at what 
 inconvenience. Nothing should have pre- 
 vented me. " 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer, who had been drilling 
 holes in the turf with the top of her para- 
 sol, suddenly looked up and cut short her 
 harangue. 
 
 Miss Graham, sitting more than ever
 
 DISCLOSURES. 163 
 
 erect, was white with anger and wounded 
 pride. But the little lady did not lose her 
 self-control. "You are very good indeed," 
 she said, so calmly that the compliment 
 sounded sincere, but so coldly that Mrs. 
 Mortimer felt quite uncomfortable. " If 
 Charity has talked to him unknown to me, 
 no doubt the conversation was too unimpor- 
 tant to repeat." 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer fidgeted upon her camp- 
 stool. Something within warned her to 
 desist, but the temptation to tell was alto- 
 gether too much for her. Moreover a re- 
 lentless conscience commanded complete 
 disclosure of the worst, — how Theodosia 
 had overheard, — not that she listened, dear 
 child, for none had a keener sense of 
 honour than Theodosia, — had overheard the 
 most terrible conversation that night when 
 she was picking foxgloves for the decora- 
 tions. So that at first the poor child, be- 
 lieving it must be Graham himself, from 
 feelings of delicacy crept further into the 
 wood, to let them pass by undisturbed. But 
 when she saw who it was, she was astounded.
 
 i64 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 " Nobody knows what that poor thing suf- 
 fered," sighed Mrs. Mortimer, from the 
 depths of a mother's heart. " For two 
 whole days and nights she never once closed 
 her eyes, nor ate enough to keep a sparrow. 
 She is so peculiarly sensitive to considera- 
 tions of right and wrong, she dared not 
 breathe a word for fear of being mean. She 
 could not say her prayers with such a load 
 upon her mind. She could not sleep. At 
 last she sent for me — in such a burning 
 fever that I thought of calling in Bibberley 
 — and told me all. I gave her two glob- 
 ules of aconite at once, and exhausted nature 
 slept like a child." 
 
 "I do not believe a word of it," cried 
 Miss Graham, fiercely. "I have never 
 known Charity do a wicked thing — or 
 repeat an unkind one — or repeat an unkind 
 one." 
 
 As she nodded to emphasise the repeti- 
 tion, Mrs. Mortimer winced and drew up 
 her head. 
 
 " We know how you dote on Miss Chance, 
 dear Miss Graham. It is only natural that
 
 DISCLOSURES. 165 
 
 you should. But others can be at least 
 truthful. Let me call Theodosia?" 
 
 " I want no corroboration. Nothing 
 would make me believe a word of it. 
 Duplicity and deceit are contrary to Char- 
 ity's nature. And you have always slighted 
 and looked down upon her. Every one of 
 you from the first. You are all envious of 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer clutched her parasol, for 
 after all she was the rector's wife. "Envi- 
 ous — envious of Charity Chance!" 
 
 "Yes. Envious. Because she has more 
 mind, and a finer temper, and a truer soul. 
 Hundreds of times I have seen and resented 
 it in my heart. I could never resent it 
 openly, here in my own place. But now 
 she is to marry Graham she is nearer to me. 
 Not dearer, but closer. And everything 
 affecting her touches me — touches me to 
 the quick." 
 
 Whilst speaking, the little cripple uncon- 
 sciously pressed her hand upon her bosom, 
 and a red spot burned upon her pale cheek. 
 
 Mrs. Mortimer arose from her camp-stool
 
 i66 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 with a dignity so stupendous that nothing 
 human could keep it up. 
 
 "As long as I live," she bounced out, "I 
 will never try to do a good action again." 
 The assertion sounded a little sweeping, 
 and she stammered between hysterical sobs : 
 " I mean — I mean — I meant merely to 
 give a hint for the sake of the girl. I 
 thought you ought to know. Envious of 
 Charity Chance ! Theodosia, you must walk 
 home with me, dear. I am feeling a little 
 upset. The other girls may stay if they 
 have tempers fine enough and souls true 
 enough to be of any service." 
 
 Without a protest from her indignant 
 hostess, in consort with Theodosia she 
 sailed past Charity, the workhouse children, 
 and the wondering eight, and disappeared 
 through the iron gates. 
 
 The singing had ceased. There was a 
 lull in the games. 
 
 "Go on playing, children," urged Miss 
 Graham, with a smile. She was so exasper- 
 ated that she appeared calm. But the hap- 
 piness of her little guests no longer gave
 
 DISCLOSURES. 167 
 
 delight. She was disturbed, humiliated, 
 and the excitement had brought on her hid- 
 den pain. She had taken part in a vulgar 
 altercation, — a scene. She detested Mrs. 
 Mortimer for having moved her to anger. 
 And yet, was this prejudice against Charity 
 to last to the end of time .-* What could the 
 child have done to raise such a report.? 
 Spoken to the fellow in the street, perhaps, 
 and set these Babblemouth canaille bark- 
 ing. Met him by accident in the wood, and 
 aroused the suspicions of Theodosia, indeed, 
 who would have given her eyes to marry Gra- 
 ham. Yet a girl could not be too careful. 
 She would say a word to Charity, tenderly, 
 without wounding her sensibilities by tell- 
 ing how much Mrs. Mortimer had said. She 
 sighed from the depths of her soul. Why 
 was not everybody kindly and true and 
 sweet.'' She shivered with mortification, 
 there in the warm sun. She neither heard 
 the tinkle of the tea-cups nor gloried in the 
 demolition of the buns. And when the 
 workhouse children at departure filed past 
 to courtesy before her chair, she received
 
 i68 CHARITY CPIANCE. 
 
 each salutation as a matter of course, and was 
 glad to get them gone. The Mortimer girls 
 went also. She did not ask them to stay. 
 
 "Take me indoors, Charity. I will not 
 wait for Sprake. " 
 
 Charity wheeled the chair across the lawn 
 to the French window, and together they 
 slowly mounted the three steps. But safely 
 upon the sofa Miss Graham still held the 
 girl's arm. 
 
 " Sit down. I want you, child," she com- 
 manded in her abrupt way. 
 
 With a sinking heart Charity obeyed. 
 Yet again a talk about her marriage, she 
 thought. 
 
 In her refined tenderness the little lady 
 hesitated, scarcely knowing how to begin. 
 Then in a low voice she said, — 
 
 "Charity, as you go through life, dear, 
 you will find thousands of things, indif- 
 ferent in themselves, which nevertheless 
 assume importance in their consequences. 
 Since we have to live in the world, we 
 must do as the world does. Not in its fol- 
 lies and frivolities, I do not mean that, but
 
 DISCLOSURES. 169 
 
 in the observance of its little conventional- 
 ities. It does n't do to do everything that 
 has no harm in it. It is wiser to conform. 
 There is an art of living to be learned — • 
 quite a fine art in its way. Now this Mr. 
 Prentice, whom they tell me you have — 
 How you tremble, child! I know there is 
 no harm of course — they say you have 
 met — " 
 
 "I love him. I love him with all my 
 heart. " 
 
 The cry, sudden and passionate, was 
 both self-accusation and excuse. The gen- 
 tle confidence and affection expressed in 
 every word Miss Graham had uttered, sank 
 into the girl's soul. The warm pressure of 
 those nervous fingers, still resting on her 
 arm like a caress, broke her spirit. She 
 burst into a flood of weeping. Better never 
 to have been born than to break the heart 
 that had taken and cherished her. Better 
 to be dead and in her grave. Then with 
 the caprice of passion she dashed away her 
 tears, shook off the restraining hand, and 
 stood up fearless and defiant.
 
 I/O CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "Yes. I love him," she cried again. 
 
 " Charity, you are beside yourself. You 
 let your imagination run away with you. 
 Why, you 've scarcely seen the fellow. 
 You are immodest — shameless — •" 
 
 As she threw these words like missiles 
 at the girl, the little cripple rose, and, quiv- 
 ering with excitement, leaned forward upon 
 her ebony stick. 
 
 " I wanted to do what was true, but there 
 was no help for me," wailed Charity. "It 
 seemed so easy when I said I would marry 
 Graham. It was to make everybody happy. 
 That was my only thought. But I did not 
 know my own heart. How could I know.? " 
 
 " Mere midsummer madness ! " cried Miss 
 Graham, striking her stick upon the floor. 
 " A month ago you had never set eyes upon 
 this — this rhymer. A day or so and he 
 will be gone. Do you think he will ever 
 bestow a thought upon you ? Or upon any- 
 thing when the moment of his shallow vanity 
 has passed ? " 
 
 This contempt for Prentice stung Charity 
 into resentment. No longer pleading for
 
 DISCLOSURES. 171 
 
 pity, her spirit arose in revolt against such 
 injustice. 
 
 " Whether he is a rhymer or a poet, he 
 loves me. He said so — " 
 
 "And you stooped to listen. You, hav- 
 ing promised to marry, admitted this stran- 
 ger to such familiarity that he dared to tell 
 you so. No wonder they come to warn me. 
 What they say is true. I can see it is true. 
 You walked with the man you were to 
 marry, and with his words still in your ears, 
 you crept down into the wood at dusk to 
 meet this mountebank. I can believe any- 
 thing now. And you went to his room. 
 Did you go to his room.-' " 
 
 Miss Graham stopped, but the girl did 
 not answer. For a moment they looked at 
 each other. The habitual sweetness had 
 melted out of the little cripple's eyes. 
 Only the nervous shrewd intelligence was 
 left. Lifted above all tenderness and pity, 
 she looked down from a height of virtuous 
 indignation. And a sense of wrong hard- 
 ened the girl's pride to adamant. 
 
 " I am ashamed! "
 
 1/2 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 With a deep sigh Miss Graham turned 
 away. All her hopes were dashed to the 
 ground. Her dignity was broken. No 
 words could express for her a deeper degra- 
 dation. She hobbled a few steps toward 
 the door; and then, overcome by the bitter- 
 ness of disappointment and a sense of the 
 girl's ingratitude, she could control herself 
 no longer. 
 
 " Yes. I am ashamed — ashamed that all 
 these years could do no more than this. I 
 took you from the first. I fed you — clothed 
 you — taught you from my own lips. 
 Everything that could soil your mind or 
 cast a stain upon your soul I kept from you. 
 Everything that was noble and sweet and 
 good, I set before your eyes. I poured it 
 into your ears. I could not bear to let you 
 out of my sight. When you came back 
 from the school, I watched you, — your every 
 step, every movement. I trembled lest 
 vulgarity might have breathed upon you. 
 I listened to every word, alert for a false 
 note. I said, I will shelter her, and pro- 
 vide against every ill in life, except the
 
 DISCLOSURES. 173 
 
 inevitable sorrows that nature heaps upon 
 us. But I was a fool for my pains. An 
 utter fool ! It is in the blood. I might 
 have known it when they told me so. But 
 it w'as all so pitiful that I seized you 
 eagerly. I would hear no word of counsel. 
 There are poor enough, in God's name, who 
 are well-born. I might have taken a lady. 
 I might at least have taken a child of 
 decent folk — " 
 
 The girl moaned. 
 
 " Who was I .'' " she gasped. 
 
 Miss Graham felt no compunction. Her 
 words ran on like a winter torrent, pitiless 
 and cruel. 
 
 "You were nobody!" she cried. "A 
 nameless child, cast away and picked up 
 upon the quay. A workhouse brat, as you 
 just now called them yourself, christened a 
 grotesque name, the fanciful invention of 
 a workhouse master. The pathos of it 
 touched me. I must needs take you, fool 
 that I was — " 
 
 " And everybody knows ? " 
 
 " Everybody has always known but you.
 
 174 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 I kept it from you. You might have gone 
 to your grave no wiser if — " 
 
 But the girl had already fled. Through 
 the French window, across the lawn, and 
 past the shrubbery into the wood. There, 
 like a thing wounded to death, she crept out 
 of sight between the larch-trees and threw 
 herself upon the ground. She wept and 
 sobbed in a passion of misery and shame. 
 She could not think. She did not feel. 
 Even at the height of her agony came a 
 moment of intense calm, when she told 
 herself that she did not feel. Something 
 was wanting, some moral sense, some qual- 
 ity of heart. One vital spark of true emo- 
 tion and she must have loved Graham. One 
 natural touch of tenderness and to bring 
 sorrow upon the woman who loved her 
 would have been more terrible than death. 
 
 She hid her face upon the brown earth. 
 She pressed her cheek upon the dry larch 
 spines. She wished that she was dead. 
 
 She was nothing. A friendless waif 
 thrown upon the world to be picked up by 
 charity. All her life had been unreal, and
 
 DISCLOSURES. 175 
 
 this was the awakening. Why was she not 
 left upon the quay to die.-* Why was she 
 taken from the workhouse to live a dream 
 of joy, and wake into a terror of calamity.^ 
 She clenched her teeth, and cried that it 
 was cruel. It was not pity at all. Miss 
 Graham had made a plaything of her. It 
 was like Eve in Eden, where she needs must 
 eat and be driven out upon the earth. 
 
 She must go. The quicker the better! 
 Away from this place, where every object 
 recalled her shame ; from these Babble- 
 mouth people who looked down upon her 
 with such scorn. But whither.' In her 
 whole life was only one thing real, — her 
 love for Prentice. And he loved her. He 
 was a poet, with a heart above littleness, a 
 sense beyond what was mean, — and he 
 loved her. He would take her at once as 
 he had wished to do. Her heart rose in 
 exultation. He was poor, and she loved 
 poverty. He would be great, and she 
 gloried in greatness. 
 
 A sudden doubt clouded the momentary 
 gleam. When he knew her story, would he
 
 176 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 change? Would he marry a workhouse 
 foundling without a friend in the whole 
 world ? 
 
 She cast the thought from her mind. 
 How mean even for a moment to have har- 
 boured it! With his vehement, generous 
 love for reality, he would laugh away the 
 prejudices of the narrow-minded world. 
 Was it her fault that she was Charity 
 Chance.-* She cried in anger, she would 
 rather be as she was than as the people 
 who came whispering malice and lies about 
 her. She would go to him at once. 
 
 She got up and shook the dead brown 
 spines from her white frock. She would 
 not cross the garden to the high-road. 
 Above the wood was a by-path leading into 
 Babblemouth, and she climbed up the hill- 
 side and stood a moment breathless upon 
 the steep. Evening was creeping on. 
 The harbour lamp glimmered dimly through 
 the fading light. So much the better. She 
 would reach the town unseen. Yet what 
 did it matter now .-* Babblemouth had 
 talked for years. A group of seafaring
 
 DISCLOSURES. 177 
 
 men and loafers were talking now upon the 
 quay, as they had stood and talked the day 
 that she was found. She hated the little 
 hole, and all its people. Her only longing 
 was to go, and see the place no more. 
 
 The way winded through a deep hollow 
 where between banks abrupt and ragged she 
 was quite shut in. The solitude and wild- 
 ness were in keeping with her lot. Her 
 mind was made up. If he would take her, 
 she was ready. In her excitement she strode 
 on with impulsive haste. 
 
 Upon the road she met no one, but she 
 saw the people turn to look at her as she 
 hurried down the street. They knew her 
 for the foundling and charity-girl well 
 enough. Upon the quay the loafers had 
 stopped their gossip to gaze at a -carriage 
 from "The George," drawn up before Mrs. 
 Dibbin's little bow-windowed house. 
 
 Her heart beat fast. This fell so aptly 
 with what he had said that it took away her 
 breath. She stopped, and for a moment 
 clutched the iron railings with one hand. 
 Then she went on acrain.
 
 178 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 The door of the house was wide open, 
 and before she had time to knock, Alfred 
 Prentice came running down the stairs. 
 Upon his arm was an overcoat, and in his 
 hand a small travelling-bag, which he put 
 down in the passage, to look at his watch. 
 In great haste he almost pushed past Charity 
 without recognition. 
 
 "Mr. Prentice," she whispered. 
 
 He threw the bag and coat into the car- 
 riage and came back to her. 
 
 "This is most delightfully opportune," 
 he said, speaking very rapidly. " I have 
 been called away suddenly, and there is 
 only just time to catch the night train. An 
 important editor wants to see me — " 
 
 " Something has happened," she gasped; 
 "and I came to tell you." 
 
 Again he looked at the time. 
 
 " Come upstairs." 
 
 He beckoned and led the way, like a man 
 of business with just one moment to spare. 
 She followed with faltering courage. His 
 most trivial utterance had always sounded 
 sympathetic and full of feeling, but now
 
 DISCLOSURES. 179 
 
 there was no tenderness in his tone. Even 
 in her agitation she noticed that he was 
 pale and excited. He glanced nervously 
 down at the carriage in the street, as if 
 every moment were precious to him. 
 
 " I came to tell you that everything is 
 over." Her passion was too real, and she 
 too frank to withhold or disguise anything. 
 " When you spoke to me the other day, I 
 was not free. But they taxed me with 
 meeting you, and I avowed it. I said I 
 loved you. Nothing else was possible after 
 all you have said to me. It would have 
 been as if I were ashamed of what I am 
 most proud. Then she told me I was a 
 pauper, — a nobody, without a name to call 
 my own. It is not possible to live at Bab- 
 blecombe any longer. And I came to — to 
 ask you what I must do." 
 
 He paced across the room, and anxiously 
 back to the window. He was preoccupied, 
 and she saw that he had heard her words 
 without realising the blow which had fallen 
 upon her. "You must do nothing rash," 
 he said with grave deliberation, and paused.
 
 i8o CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 Nothing rash! The most unpoetic soul 
 on earth might utter trite wisdom such as 
 that. 
 
 He passed his fingers through his long 
 black hair. Then he caught sight of the 
 look of wonder and terrified inquiry in her 
 great frank eyes, and was himself again. 
 
 " Charity, you know how much I love 
 you," he said in a voice quivering with emo- 
 tion. " But I should be the meanest man 
 who ever lived if I allowed my poor pas- 
 sion to weigh against your true welfare. 
 You must go back to Miss Graham. Self- 
 restraint is the secret of all true living. 
 Nothing can alter our love. And I will 
 think — and write to you. Yes, that will 
 be the best thing. I will write to you. 
 But I must go. It is important I must be 
 in London to-morrow." 
 
 He was tender, magnanimous, prudent, 
 and attentive to business, all in so many 
 phrases. And it was all real too — as images 
 in a reflection are real. Then he hurriedly 
 kissed her, and ran to catch his train. 
 
 The driver cracked his whip ; the carriage-
 
 DISCLOSURES. i8i 
 
 wheels rattled over the stones with which 
 the quay was paved ; and he was gone. 
 
 And was this all the help that love could 
 offer in her time of need.-* In her dream 
 he had taken her to his arms. " Come, we 
 will marry at once," he said, and carried 
 her away into a new and brilliant future 
 beyond reach of the past. She stood there, 
 as motionless as Niobe in the midst of her 
 dead hopes. Hidden and unsuspected forces 
 were shaking the garden of ideals. The 
 green island of inexperience was crumbling 
 under her feet. For the earth had opened, 
 and Charity Chance was on the brink of an 
 abyss. 
 
 At last she aroused herself to return 
 home. She did not notice the faded lit- 
 tle yellow-haired woman who asked her 
 whether Mr. Prentice lived there, as she 
 was passing out of the door.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 CHARITY GONE. 
 
 Charity was gone ! 
 
 Broken-hearted and purposeless she had 
 crept home through the darkness to her 
 little room over the porch, and cried away 
 the night. Her spirit was benumbed. But 
 dawn came rising above the brim of the hill, 
 daylight poured into the coombe, and 
 meadows and lawn glistened cold with 
 morning dew. Another day was come. 
 She bestirred herself to think what she 
 must do. She must write to Graham. She 
 seated herself at the table before the win- 
 dow and wrote him a letter imploring his 
 pardon. She was unworthy of his love, had 
 disgraced herself and him, had never de- 
 served his confidence, and he must forget
 
 CHARITY GONE. 183 
 
 her. She had learned her own .story, she 
 told him, and should leave Babblemouth at 
 once. Poor Graham ! His goodness and 
 fidelity touched her as she thought of her 
 own inconstancy. She felt a tenderness 
 towards the playmate of her childhood as 
 she penned this farewell. 
 
 But where was she to go.-* No matter 
 where, so long as she could earn her living 
 out of sight oE all who knew her. She 
 must take the first thing that offered, no 
 matter what. 
 
 It was very early, and no one in the 
 house had moved. In idleness she had 
 often scanned the columns of advertise- 
 ments in The Guardian, a paper held by 
 Miss Graham in high estimation; and now 
 she fetched the last issue from downstairs, 
 and set herself to search in earnest. Of 
 money she knew nothing. Her wants had 
 ever been anticipated. Vulgar considera- 
 tions of cash lay submerged and unsuspected 
 in a sea of unlimited credit, for payment of 
 accounts looks almost poetic upon cheques 
 of finest lithography and delicate tint. She
 
 i84 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 quickly turned over the pages, but her eye 
 first alighted upon the "situations wanted. " 
 
 "Lady CroivborougJi warmly recommends 
 Jier governess. TJioroitgh English, fluent 
 French, German (acquired abivad), Latiji, 
 Drawing, Afnsic, Singing, Calisthenics. — 
 Miss R., the Libj'ary, OldJinrst, Berks.'' 
 
 Who would recommend her? Or what 
 could she say for herself? With a sigh 
 she turned over the leaf, but found no com- 
 fort. Here every accomplishment under 
 the sun was wanted, — "Good temper, disci- 
 plinarian. Must be a lady. Care of clothes. 
 Photo and particulars. Stratford Rectory, 
 Hants:' 
 
 She clenched her teeth in anger. What 
 did they mean with their " must be a lady " ? 
 She could not answer that. 
 
 In the whole range was only one that did 
 not exclude her in advance. Mrs. Corne- 
 lius Porter of Forest Hill required a nur- 
 sery governess to take charge of five 
 children. Must be expej'ienccd in teachijig. 
 Music esse7itial. ;!^I5 to ^{^25 accordijtg 
 to qualifications.
 
 CHARITY GONE. 185 
 
 This at least displayed openness to argu- 
 ment, perhaps to conviction. 
 
 In her quick impulsive way she seized 
 her pen. It was the mere clutching at a 
 straw in her last hopelessness, but she 
 wrote. She shivered to see what she had 
 written, it looked so fraudulent, — and 
 added she would gladly accept the lower 
 sum on account of her inexperience. Then 
 she stole out in the cheerless morning, and 
 dropped both letters into the red post-box 
 in the garden wall. Having thus taken 
 her fate into her hands, she became more 
 composed. She threw herself upon the 
 bed and slept. 
 
 Some hours elapsed, and with a start she 
 awoke. The sun was shining full into the 
 window, and a maid was tapping at the 
 door. Miss Graham sent word she was 
 not well, and did not wish to be disturbed. 
 To be alone was a relief to Charity, and 
 yet the message cut her to the quick. It 
 was considerate, but it marked the fall. 
 How much weariness before now she had 
 read away ! How much pain she had
 
 i86 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 soothed by merely sitting by the bedside! 
 And that was over. Her conscience 
 groaned under a burden of ingratitude. It 
 told her again and again how deeply the 
 little cripple loved her. And she had lost 
 the wish of her heart. 
 
 When at last Charity went downstairs, the 
 house was as silent as a grave. Even the 
 servants moved mysteriously, and cast in- 
 quisitive glances at her red eyes and pale 
 face. They knew all about her, like the 
 rest of the world. Yes, the sooner she was 
 gone the better. 
 
 Thus the miserable day passed — until 
 evening. Then came a quick step across 
 the hall, and unannounced Graham rushed 
 into the room. His face was burnt by the 
 sun, he was white with the dust of the 
 road, and in his hand was the letter she 
 had written him. 
 
 "What is the meaning of it, Charity.?" 
 In his resentment he could not wait for a 
 reply. " What have they been saying to 
 you? Who has dared to comment upon 
 you.? But I know what they have said.
 
 CHARITY GONE. 187 
 
 They have even hinted it to me; and some 
 fool sent me an anonymous letter. Do they 
 think I care what they say.'* Charity dear, 
 if every tongue on earth were to tattle about 
 you, I should only love you the more. I 
 know their gossip about Prentice. Of course 
 you have talked to Prentice. There are 
 very few to interest you in this place. I 'm 
 not half good enough for you. Charity, I 
 know that. But I 'm not such a fool as to 
 listen to anything t]icy say. Why, you can't 
 do anything wrong or mean. You have a 
 mind that won't let you. Charity, I think 
 you are the noblest — " 
 
 " Oh, stop ! stop ! " she cried, placing her 
 fingers upon her ears. Pie had seated him- 
 self upon the sofa beside her, and now he 
 laid his hand upon her shoulder. But she 
 shrank away from his touch. She got up 
 quickly and crossed the room. Her back 
 towards him, she leaned against the mantel- 
 piece, and, burying her face upon her arms, 
 she sobbed and sobbed. 
 
 Just as Miss Graham's delicate confi- 
 dence, so her lover's absolute trust over-
 
 i88 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 whelmed her with shame. He followed 
 and stood by her side. 
 
 "Charity," he stammered, in a voice so 
 low that it was scarcely audible, "I — I 
 don't know how you have learnt your — 
 your story. You once asked me, and I told 
 you I did not know. But I always knew all 
 there was to know. I thought — I mean if 
 you thought I did not know, and that could 
 make any difference — Charity, marry me 
 at once. I have always known and loved 
 you for yourself. Marry me now — before 
 I go back. " 
 
 How manly and true he was ! She had 
 never glimpsed into the depth of his char- 
 acter, through the light-hearted careless- 
 ness of his life. But he did not understand 
 how his words wounded and hurt her. 
 
 She raised her head, and looked him in 
 the face with frightened eyes beseeching 
 pity. 
 
 "I shall never marry you, Graham," 
 she cried wildly, "nor any one. You will 
 never see me again. I shall go away at 
 once. I shall never come back. I shall
 
 CHARITY GONE. 189 
 
 hide my face for ever. And you must for- 
 give and forget me." 
 
 Neither argument nor entreaty could 
 sustain her against this torrent of pas- 
 sionate shame. He knew that both were 
 useless, and his love itself forbade him to 
 persist. 
 
 Then his disappointment turned to self- 
 reproach. 
 
 " I shall never forget you, and there is 
 nothing to forgive. It is my own fault. 
 I made you promise me. I cared about 
 nothing so long as you said yes. I was vain 
 enough to think it would all come right — " 
 
 Her face betrayed the depth of her dis- 
 tress. Conscious of the cruelty of his 
 words, he suddenly stopped. Then in a 
 voice subdued and quiet he went on : " But 
 you will stay with Aunt Helen. It shall 
 not be difficult for you, Charity. I will go 
 away — abroad." 
 
 There came a tap upon the door. Then 
 it opened. 
 
 Miss Graham had heard him come into 
 the house, and wished to see him at once.
 
 190 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 " I will come back and speak to you, 
 Charity," he whispered as he went away. 
 
 What would he say when he had learnt 
 the truth .-• His generosity had bruised her 
 so sorely that if he might only despise and 
 cast her from his heart it must be a relief. 
 She returned to the sofa, and sat down and 
 waited. He was so long that the time 
 seemed endless. She began to wish for him, 
 that she might learn of Miss Graham. At 
 last she heard his step upon the stairs. 
 But on it went across the hall. The door 
 closed behind him, and he was gone. She 
 felt as desolate as the marooned mariner by 
 crime cut off from humanity, and left to 
 perish upon a friendless shore. 
 
 On the second day came a letter in 
 answer to her application, accepting Miss 
 Charity Chance's services at ^15 a year, 
 and requesting that she would come at once. 
 Again the message had been sent that Miss 
 Graham would not rise to-day and did not 
 wish to be disturbed. The girl did not 
 know what to do. Her mind was made up. 
 She had taken her life into her own hands.
 
 CHARITY GONE. 191 
 
 and to-morrow she would go. This deter- 
 mination, without delay, she placed beyond 
 recall. She found her train, and bade Jan 
 Sprake despatch a telegram from Babble- 
 mouth when he went to exercise his horses. 
 Then she wrote a line, telling Miss Graham 
 what she had done, and asking if she might 
 see her once more. 
 
 The day she spent packing her one big 
 black trunk. Never in her life had she 
 been away even on a visit, and this had 
 been given her only to hold the superfluity 
 of her wardrobe. The number of her pos- 
 sessions, now all at once laid open to the 
 light, astonished and perplexed her. She 
 did not know what to take. There were 
 trinkets too, bestowed upon every occasion, 
 — at Christmas, at the New Year, and on 
 the anniversary of the day they called her 
 birthday. And the old pearl necklet fas- 
 tened with such pride around her throat 
 when she started for the ball at Babble- 
 mouth last winter. The tenderest senti- 
 ment lingered around these gifts. She 
 wept that the little cripple's love had met
 
 192 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 such poor requital. But she took none of 
 them. She instinctively determined what 
 was really personal, and the rest she left. 
 It was evening before she had finished pack- 
 ing, locked the trunk, and put the key in 
 her pocket. 
 
 Late that night Miss Graham sent for her. 
 
 The room was almost dark. One candle, 
 in a tall silver candlestick, stood upon a 
 table in the corner farthest from the bed. 
 The curtains had been drawn, and the 
 pillow, with Miss Graham's head upon it, 
 was quite hidden from view. 
 
 Charity stood by the foot of the bed and 
 waited. 
 
 " So you are going. Charity. " The voice 
 was slow and clear. Hundreds of times 
 the girl had marked a like formal precise- 
 ness when some person not in favour un- 
 consciously affronted the dignity of the 
 little cripple. "And I may never see you 
 again. I know that you must go. You 
 could not stay, and I could not bear to have 
 you here. But I wish to say that I am 
 sorry — sorry for the words uttered in the
 
 CHARITY GONE. 193 
 
 moment of anger. Don't speak, — don't 
 dare to speak to me, child. This going 
 for a governess is an absurdity. You are 
 no more fit to be governess than I am. 
 They will turn you out in three weeks. 
 But you have done it, and so you must go. 
 However, remember this, wherever you 
 are, I charge myself with your future and 
 you need have no anxiety. Beside the 
 candle is an envelope. You will have to 
 start by half-past nine, but I will see to 
 that. And when you leave this — this 
 place, I will think of something for you, if 
 I ever can think. Take the envelope and 
 leave me. Don't speak a word. I cannot 
 talk any more. And go to bed at once and 
 rest." 
 
 The girl was used to obey, and she 
 stepped towards the table to do as she was 
 bid. But in this thought for her future was 
 no tenderness. Disappointment had dissi- 
 pated the love and the delight, and only the 
 sensitive pride and shrewdness remained. 
 She glanced at the letter addressed to 
 "Miss Charity Chaitce." From early child- 
 13
 
 194 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 hood many a gift had come like this. 
 Sometimes it lay iipcjn her pillow when 
 she woke. Or she found it on the table 
 when she went to bed. It was easily thus, 
 for the little cripple would hear no thanks. 
 Had it ever before been anything but "For 
 my little one," " To my dear child,'' and of 
 late always " To dear Charity " .^ Doubtless 
 it contained money. Well, come what 
 may, she would keep herself or die. She 
 withdrew her hand, and left the letter there 
 untouched. Then without a word she 
 went away. 
 
 On the following morning at the appointed 
 time, Jan Sprake brought round the car- 
 riage to drive her to the station. 
 
 The fat horses crawled slowly up the 
 hill. Charity glanced back at the little 
 mansion, the lawn, and the shrubberies. 
 But all were blurred and out of shape with 
 tears. She could not see the eager face 
 peering after her between the blind and 
 window-shutter. Nor hear the words, half- 
 lament and half-appeal, which sobbed from 
 the bosom of the little cripple, —
 
 CHARITY GONE. 195 
 
 "Oh, Charity! Charity!" 
 At last the carriage turned over the hill- 
 top. 
 
 And Charity was gone. 
 
 Her departure was a nine days' wonder 
 in Babblemouth, and many and circumstan- 
 tial were the stories hatched in the glowing 
 imagination of that place. They sprang 
 into sudden life, — brilliant, startling, 
 erratic, like dragon-flies in a summer sun. 
 Miss Chance had come into the town to 
 meet Mr. Prentice, as she had done every 
 day for a month. He left hurriedly to 
 catch the evening train. She rose in the 
 morning, early, posted a letter, and ran 
 away before the household was up. They 
 met at Bath, and went on to London 
 together. A commercial gentleman stay- 
 ing at "The George," who knew every soul 
 on earth by sight, had seen them walking 
 up and down on Swindon platform. This 
 was a plain tale, and found favour with pro- 
 saic mortals who drank beer in the little 
 bar-parlour of the hotel.
 
 196 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 A fiction more romantic told how Graham 
 Poltimore waylaid Charity and Prentice 
 together in the wood, fell upon Prentice, 
 threatened to thrash him within an inch of 
 his life if he dared again show his nose in 
 the place, and cast off Charity, who ran 
 away in the night, leaving a letter implor- 
 ing Miss Graham's forgiveness, but hoping 
 never to return to Babblemouth. This 
 version, as being creditable to Graham 
 Poltimore, was adopted for party purposes 
 by the supporters of Mr. Poltimore-Briggs, 
 until denied upon the authority of Jan 
 Sprake, who drove Charity to the station. 
 It was then found to have been a pure in- 
 vention of the most dastardly character, set 
 about to ruin the Poltimore-Briggs family 
 in the eyes of the electorate. 
 
 It was then known to a certainty that 
 Miss Graham turned Charity away from the 
 house, and refusing food and comfort had 
 taken to her bed. Poor Miss Graham! 
 Very sad at her time of life — and so 
 afflicted too. Well ! she had always spent 
 her money in the town, every penny of it.
 
 CHARITY GONE. 197 
 
 Ay, and just beginning to get about again. 
 Every sympathetic tradesman who bent to 
 customers across his counter under the bur- 
 den of a large family repeated this story. 
 Yet scarcely had the report quickened into 
 healthy circulation, when the great carriage 
 with the fat horses went rolling down the 
 wondering street. Upon a cushion higher 
 than usual sat the little cripple; and if her 
 cheek was pale, her head was more than ever 
 erect. 
 
 When Charity disappeared beyond the 
 horizon, a smarting pride aroused Miss 
 Graham's spirit. Through the dull aching 
 of her loss came a sharp pang as she thought 
 of Mrs. Mortimer. That the event had 
 justified the warning given by that excel- 
 lent woman made no difference at all. 
 Unconsciously that proud little heart har- 
 boured the more resentment. Since Irene's 
 death she had suffered no blow like this, 
 and she summoned all her fortitude to show 
 a brave face to the world. Her sorrow was 
 deep, — so much the deeper must it be 
 buried. She rang for her hot water, and
 
 198 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 dressed at once. And she wrapped Charity's 
 departure in a tissue so fine that it cannot 
 be deemed a fib. 
 
 "Put Miss Charity's room tidy," she said 
 to the maid who was lielping her downstairs. 
 " Then lock the door and bring me the key. 
 She may be away some time, and nothing 
 shall be touched until she comes back." 
 
 "We must take great care of Miss Char- 
 ity's myrtle, John, this winter," she told 
 Jan Sprake when next he wheeled her chair 
 round the garden. " I don't know what she 
 will say if anything happens to it whilst 
 she is away." 
 
 Such things repeated mystified the world. 
 Outwardly she triumphed over herself, but 
 in secret her courage failed. She knew that 
 Charity would never come back. She was 
 angry and regretful by turns, because the girl 
 had not taken the envelope. The evenings 
 began to get chilly. There was no music 
 in the house, and she had not the heart to 
 read. She was nervous, and wrote to Polti- 
 more-Briggs to hurry on the settlement. 
 
 Within a week Mrs. Mortimer's curiosity
 
 CHARITY GONE. 199 
 
 got the better of her pique. There was 
 absolutely no reliable information, for 
 Graham told nothing, and she was not even 
 certain that the engagement was broken off. 
 After all, one must not cherish anger, and 
 the mortification of pride is a Christian 
 virtue. So she magnanimously marched 
 over to Babblecombe at the head of her 
 daughters, and was quite cordially received. 
 
 "I could not help coming, dear Miss 
 Graham," she acknowledged with perfect 
 truth, "when I heard you were alone. So 
 I came early, to have a long afternoon. 
 And the girls wanted to ask, if it would not 
 be too much trouble, if the tennis net might 
 be put up. They can mark out the court 
 themselves quite easily." 
 
 It would be no trouble whatever. Miss 
 Graham assured them. So the maid ran, 
 the young man who worked in the garden 
 helped, Jan Sprake muttered and perspired, 
 and the thing was done. 
 
 " So Charity has gone away, they tell 
 me," said Mrs. Mortimer, settling down to 
 be sympathetic.
 
 200 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "Oh, yes," chirped Miss Graham, and 
 she did not wince. 
 
 " But not for long, I suppose .-' " The 
 sweetness of Mrs. Mortimer became quite 
 insinuating. 
 
 " It is not quite decided how long she 
 will stay." 
 
 " You must miss her very much .'' " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The plucky little woman could not hide 
 it all. In spite of herself the sadness 
 would betray itself in her voice. 
 
 "Has she gone a long distance.-'" con- 
 tinued Mrs. Mortimer, greatly encouraged. 
 
 Miss Graham thought a moment before 
 replying. Then she looked Mrs. Mortimer 
 quite frankly in the face. 
 
 " I am not quite sure whether — I mean, 
 I have some little delicacy in talking about 
 it — for the present, that is. It was her 
 own private affair, and Charity decided for 
 herself. There are occasions in life when 
 one must decide for oneself. And this was 
 quite sudden. She got a letter one day, and 
 went the next. She followed the dictates
 
 CHARITY GONE. 201 
 
 of her conscience, and I dared not influence 
 her in the matter. But I do not think I 
 must talk about it — just for the present." 
 
 " I would not hear a word for the world, 
 — not for the whole world," cried the ago- 
 nised Mrs. Mortimer, dramatically, putting 
 her fingers to her ears to deliver Miss 
 Graham from temptation. " What can have 
 happened.'*" she was thinking to herself. 
 A brilliant thought illuminated her brain. 
 
 Four-and-twenty hours later the Prentice 
 stories were laughed to scorn in Babble- 
 mouth, and it was freely asserted that Miss 
 Chance had received a mysterious commu- 
 nication from her natural friends. 
 
 But now the disinterested character of 
 Mrs. Mortimer's visit was to be revealed. 
 
 " However, it was not to ask questions 
 that I came," she went on, hiding her dis- 
 appointment in an artificial smile. "When 
 I heard you were alone, I spoke to the Rec- 
 tor at once. I said — perhaps dear Miss 
 Graham would like Theodosia to be with 
 her for a while, to be company for her, and 
 to read to her, and so on. And if you
 
 202 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 would, dear Miss Graham, I would do my 
 best to spare her, even if it were all the 
 winter. I am sure she would be only too 
 glad to do anything for your comfort." 
 
 A scarcely perceptible shudder shook that 
 sensitive little creature. She did not accept 
 the loan of Theodosia, but her thanks were 
 profuse. She was not strong enough at 
 present to entertain a visitor. It would be 
 too dull for the poor girl — perhaps, a little 
 later — she excused herself. 
 
 The dear girls came in glowing like 
 tulips. They were hot, and filled the room. 
 They were breathless, and consumed all the 
 air. Their superabundant health jarred 
 upon Miss Graham's sensibilities. Yet 
 they did nothing amiss, and said nothing 
 whatever. She could not help comparing 
 them with Charity. Charity was as strong 
 as they, yet fifty Charities could not have 
 been so obtrusive. 
 
 "Perhaps Miss Graham will allow you to 
 come again," suggested their mother when 
 they rose to depart. 
 
 They came again. In a little while they
 
 CHARITY GONE. 203 
 
 came daily, and brought their friends. 
 They went on playing, right into the win- 
 ter, when the grass was wet and slippery, 
 and they trampled down the Christmas 
 roses searching for the balls. The lawn 
 got bald in patches. " So bare as the back 
 o' your han','' said Jan Sprake. 
 
 And the little cripple, with whom none 
 before had ever dared to take a liberty, 
 looked on in silence. She did not care 
 about anything now Charity was gone.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 
 
 Thus the months passed until spring came, 
 and again the meadows of the coombe were 
 studded with daffodils. But there was no 
 longer any glory in their gold, and Miss 
 Graham scarcely turned her head to look at 
 them. A fear as dark as winter clouded all 
 her thoughts and chilled her heart. She 
 dreaded to hear that Charity had married 
 Prentice; for dearly still she loved the girl, 
 and her dislike to this man — to whom she 
 had never spoken — was instinctive and 
 deeper than prejudice. It worried her, too, 
 that Poltimore-Briggs, being engrossed in 
 public business, found no time to attend to 
 her request about the settlement. This 
 neglect irritated her the more since he had 
 almost a personal interest in the matter. A
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 205 
 
 gentleman, she told herself in her proud 
 way, under such circumstances, would not 
 lose a moment. She began to suspect him 
 of purposely putting it off. Mistrust set- 
 tled like a dust in the mansion of her mind, 
 and to know it there hurt her self-respect. 
 She worried herself with thoughts of taking 
 the matter into her own hands by altering 
 her will, and procrastinated through fear 
 of hurting the feelings of Poltimore-Briggs. 
 And she had no one to share the burden 
 of this anxiety, for Graham had gone 
 away. 
 
 The dread haunted her that "something 
 would happen " before her wishes were ful- 
 filled. At last she wrote to Poltimore- 
 Briggs, telling him to take no further 
 trouble. She had changed her mind, she 
 said, and determined to leave not only the 
 money as arranged, but the Babblecombe 
 estate to Charity. It would not be long to 
 wait. 
 
 He replied in haste that the business was 
 already put in hand, and urging her to do 
 nothins: until she had seen him. He would
 
 2o6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 come to Babblccombe in a few days, he 
 promised. But weeks passed, and her 
 wishes were still neglected. The early 
 summer came, and she had heard nothing 
 further. 
 
 One afternoon in June she was sitting 
 out of the sun in the old corner by the 
 yew-hedge. The Mortimers were not there 
 that day. It was quiet, and she was able 
 to think. The time for the garden party 
 drew close upon her, and she was wonder- 
 ing what she would do. Every year since 
 she came to Babblecombe had this great 
 function taken place without a break. But 
 now she was weighing inclination against 
 duty. She did not feel fit for it. She 
 could not bear the fatigue. Yet responsi- 
 bilities rest upon wealth and position, and 
 she recognised her obligation to the neigh- 
 bourhood. 
 
 Strangers would inquire about Charity 
 — and what was she to tell them.? And if 
 she did not have it, the Babblemouth people 
 would talk, and say she moped because the 
 girl was gone. A dozen times she changed
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 207 
 
 her mind, and still came no nearer to a deci- 
 sion. Then her meditations were disturbed. 
 The gate fell to behind an approaching 
 visitor, and Poltimore-Briggs walked up 
 the path. 
 
 She was aware of something unusual in 
 his appearance. He had walked from 
 Babblemouth, and his boots were white 
 with the dust of the summer road. That 
 in itself was strange. For. years she had 
 not known him go so far on foot. And his 
 face looked altered. It was thinner than 
 formerly, and quite pale and drawn from 
 anxiety and overwork. At once her doubts 
 were changed to sympathy. He had man- 
 aged everything so well for years, and now, 
 when he was overwhelmed with cares, her 
 thoughts had been ungenerous and unjust. 
 She welcomed him warmly. For a moment 
 she held his hand quite affectionately, then 
 pointed abruptly to the seat by her side. 
 
 " I have been hoping to see you, Henry, 
 for a long time," she said. "And now I 
 cannot help feeling how kind it is of you 
 to come."
 
 2o8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 He sat down slowly, in obedience to her 
 gesture. With one elbow upon his knee he 
 leaned forward, and, resting his forehead 
 upon his hand, looked down at the yellow 
 gravel. 
 
 "I know, Helen. I have been remiss, I 
 know," he stammered uneasily. "But I 
 haven't been able to call my soul my own. 
 Not for years, ■ — ■ I mean for months, — 
 since I undertook this Parliamentary busi- 
 ness. Otherwise your wishes would have 
 received my first attention — as they always 
 did, Helen — " 
 
 "Yes, yes. I don't know how I should 
 have managed," she said warmly, and with 
 real gratitude. Her quick eye observed 
 him attentively. His white waistcoat, 
 always so spotless, was soiled with the 
 dust, and there was a black mark from the 
 rubbing of the long gold chain. "He 
 knows he will lose the election," she 
 thought, "and that is a blow to his pride." 
 At the sight of his dejection a dead kind- 
 ness revived, — a tenderness of long ago, 
 when a lover, spic and span, used to steal
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 209 
 
 to the old house in Bath, at the hour when 
 her father was from home. It seemed only 
 yesterday. She pitied him. Life is so 
 little, yet disappointment goes so deep. 
 All that she understood, as in mute 
 sympathy she laid her hand upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And you must not altogether blame 
 me," he went on quickly, in self-defence. 
 "These lawyers are so dilatory. But I 
 have looked over the deed at last. It will 
 be ready to sign in a few days. I quite 
 agree that you could do no less. I have 
 made it that should she die without issue 
 the money will come back to Graham, or 
 his children if he have any." 
 
 "How wonderfully you think of every- 
 thing! " she cried in admiration. And this 
 was the man whom she had suspected. 
 
 " But I came over to speak about some- 
 thing else. I — I want you to do me a 
 favour, Helen." 
 
 "Of course. Of course." In her con- 
 trition she was quite eager to grant him 
 his request unheard. 
 
 14
 
 2IO CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 He moved restlessly in his chair. He 
 was so nervous that his hand shook like a 
 drunkard's, and he kept swallowing as if 
 something choked his utterance. Then, 
 reassured by the readiness of her consent, 
 he found his tongue at last. 
 
 "Some years ago I made a very bad in- 
 vestment. A speculation, in fact, which 
 proved disastrous. Anybody might have 
 been deceived. And since then I have 
 been — eh — hampered — at times sorely 
 hampered for — eh — ready money. And 
 we have lived extravagantly, I own that. 
 Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs and myself have 
 never — well, have never got on. Every- 
 thing would have been different if poor 
 Irene had lived." 
 
 He stopped and sighed. Deep in his 
 heart, then, was still the recollection of 
 Irene. No misfortune could have recom- 
 mended him to the pity of the little cripple 
 like this one touch of sentiment. 
 
 "And you want money, Henry .^" she 
 cried quite cheerfully. 
 
 A gleam of eager expectation flashed
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 211 
 
 across his face. He drew a long breath, 
 and sat upright as if in relief from a heavy 
 burden. He became more himself, and 
 regained something of the large manner she 
 had always disliked so much. 
 
 "The fact is, a man is pressing me at 
 a very inconvenient moment. There is 
 political animus without question. But 
 that makes it the more incumbent to meet 
 him without delay. I should prefer, if 
 possible, not to postpone payment a day. • 
 Of course, in a week or so, when rents 
 come in, and so on, it would be easy enough. 
 But I will admit to you, Helen, candidly 
 admit to you, my self-esteem — my — my 
 pride will not permit me to ask a favour. 
 If you could lend me a couple of hundred 
 pounds, — say until the beginning of next 
 month, when I pay you your dividends, you 
 would do me a great service. I should be 
 really grateful. " 
 
 His momentary elation had subsided, and 
 he leaned forward in anxiety for her reply. 
 
 Was that all, she thought, and felt quite 
 glad to be of use. Yet to a vain man it 
 must be hard indeed to ask.
 
 212 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "Of course, there is no difficulty about 
 that. I should have had to get you to take 
 care of it, so it is quite the same thing," 
 she told him, laughing to make light of his 
 needless distress. 
 
 " Could I have it before the bank closes, 
 Helen?" 
 
 Leaning upon her ebony stick, she rose. 
 "No. Don't move. I can go very well. 
 Stay here in the cool and rest. I will go 
 in and write you a cheque." 
 
 He watched her slowly pass along the 
 path, until by the steps into the drawing- 
 room she stopped to rest. Then she turned 
 towards him and asked, "Are you sure that 
 will be enough } " 
 
 He hesitated a moment. 
 
 "Yes, quite enough," he answered 
 hoarsely. 
 
 The time was endless until her return, 
 and he kept glancing at the open door. 
 His dejection had vanished. He had taken 
 heart at her readiness to assist him. His 
 head was raised, alert and listening for the 
 slightest sound; but in his uncontrollable 
 impatience he bit his nails to the quick.
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 213 
 
 At last she came. 
 
 The serenity of human kindness smiled 
 upon her face as she beckoned to him 
 before cautiously descending the step. 
 She had enclosed the cheque in an envelope. 
 That looked so much less like lending 
 money. She carelessly handed it to him 
 between her long thin fingers. 
 
 "Come, I must not keep you." 
 
 Her tone was dictatorial, as it sometimes 
 used to be with Charity. She did not give 
 him time to speak, but, taking his arm, 
 turned towards the entrance gates. 
 
 " I have handed over my hoard ; so now, 
 until you bring me more, I shall be penni- 
 less," she laughed gaily. Then her voice 
 sank into a whisper, tender and confiden- 
 tial. " But make what use you like of it. 
 What you have told me quite troubles me, 
 Henry. It makes me feel that things have 
 not been just. It is wrong, of course, but 
 the very poor do not appeal to me like 
 people who have been affluent and become 
 pinched. That seems so painful — to be 
 straitened and pinched. I could never
 
 214 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 have lived if I had been driven to worry 
 about pennies. But there is nothing to 
 save for now. Graham will have plenty. 
 Charity you have seen to. There is nothing 
 wanting — that money can supply. And 
 my little superfluity, I suppose, may make 
 all the difference to you.-* " 
 
 They were at the corner of the house, and 
 she stopped, waiting for an answer to her 
 inquiry. 
 
 But her kindness touched him. He 
 looked quite dazed, and could not speak. 
 
 "Will not that make it right.? At least, 
 whilst I am here. And then Graham is 
 goodness itself." 
 
 She spoke so cheerfully, making the best 
 of it to comfort a sad heart, that he made an 
 effort to cover his confusion. 
 
 " God bless you, Helen. God bless you," 
 he stammered with emotion. 
 
 She held out her hand quickly to prevent 
 his thanks. 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye." 
 
 He was so deadly white, and stared at her
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 215 
 
 so strangely that she was filled with alarm. 
 He staggered as he turned towards the gate. 
 
 Between the stable-yard and the Babble- 
 mouth road is a low stone wall, and above 
 it a slanting laurel hedge. There, a short 
 distance away, Jan Sprake was trimming 
 back pretentious shoots which pressed be- 
 fore their fellows. 
 
 "You are not well. You ought not to 
 walk in the sun. Let me have you driven," 
 she urged anxiously. 
 
 He shook his head in refusal. "I — I 
 did not wish my visit known," was all he 
 said. Then he waved his hand to her and 
 was gone. 
 
 Jan Sprake peered down at him inquisi- 
 tively as he passed down the road. 
 
 Beside the laurel hedge he stopped, 
 opened the envelope Miss Graham had 
 given him, and drew out "a long leaf o' 
 paper like." He was so close that Jan 
 could have read the wording himself, if he 
 "had but a-bin a bit of a scholard. " His 
 hand shook like an ague. The man cried 
 like the rain.
 
 2i6 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 " Poor Helen ! Poor little Helen ! " 
 
 Those were the words he muttered, Jan 
 could take his Bible oath of it, any day of 
 the week. Then of a sudden he tore the 
 paper into shreds, and threw them fluttering 
 upon the road-side. For many a summer 
 day the tiny pink scraps lay there amongst 
 the dusty grass in silent testimony to the 
 truth of Jan Sprake's statement. And 
 Poltimore-Briggs did not go straight home 
 to Babblemouth. He turned off where 
 a lane leads to the pathway over the 
 cliff. Jan Sprake stood among the 
 laurels and, wondering, watched him out 
 of sight. 
 
 On the afternoon of the following day 
 there rustled around Babblemouth a rumour 
 so ridiculous that no one with any sense in 
 his head could find patience to listen to it. 
 Nevertheless, being constantly repeated, it 
 grew and grew. It was said that bailiffs 
 had been in the house of Mr. Poltimore- 
 Briggs for a week past, and a sheriff's ofificer 
 was aboard the yacht. 
 
 Certainly this had been kept marvellously
 
 THE SETTLEMENT. 217 
 
 quietj but things will leak out at last. 
 Servants will talk. A leading tradesman 
 of the town first got wind of it, and with- 
 out delay strolled mysteriously down to 
 the house to present his little account. 
 Mr. Poltimore-Briggs was not in. The man 
 would wait. Mr. Poltimore-Briggs was 
 away from home. 
 
 The matter was of particular importance, 
 and could Mrs. Poltimore-Briggs grant the 
 favour of Mr. Poltimore Briggs's present 
 address .'' But Mr. Poltimore-Briggs had 
 been called unexpectedly to London, and 
 his address was uncertain. 
 
 Before night the little town was all astir. 
 It became known to all the world that 
 Poltimore-Briggs, having laid hands on 
 every penny he could get hold of, had 
 absconded, it was believed, to Spain. And 
 not an hour too soon. There was vague 
 talk of money obtained by fraudulent repre- 
 sentations, and it was no secret that a war- 
 rant had been issued for his apprehension. 
 The place was in a ferment. Political 
 opponents had always anticipated that
 
 2i8 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 something of the sort must happen one of 
 these days. Supporters, who for the most 
 part were also creditors, declared that he 
 was the last man upon earth of whom any 
 one would have thought it. There were 
 bets at "The George " as to how soon he 
 would be taken. 
 
 Only one "person remained in ignorance 
 of these proceedings. Little Miss Graham, 
 happy in the belief that she had helped him 
 over his difficulty, was the last to hear. 
 The thing was altogether so unexpected 
 and astounding that for the moment Mrs. 
 Mortimer was mute.
 
 CHAPTER XV, 
 
 AS NURSERV GOVERNESS. 
 
 A LONG room covered from floor to ceiling 
 with a yellow, varnished, washable paper, 
 except in one corner, where delinquent 
 finger-nails had picked bare patches before 
 Charity came. How the wall glistened 
 behind the solitary gas-jet jutting out 
 above the mantelpiece ! The flame was 
 naked, the children having long ago smashed 
 the globe, which had not been replaced. 
 And it had to be kept low, being liable to 
 flare and run wild when turned up. But 
 everything in the place was bare, except 
 the spiritless little fire fast sinking to dust 
 and ashes behind the bars of an iron fire- 
 guard. Maria, the housemaid, had for- 
 gotten to bring up more coal.
 
 220 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 It was late at night. The children were 
 long ago in bed and asleeii, and Charity had 
 been sitting up at work. Her supper, sent 
 upstairs on a tray, remained untouched upon 
 the little ink-stained table by her side, just 
 where Maria had banged it down some 
 hours before, when she flounced in and 
 flounced out, slamming the door behind her 
 as a protest against waiting upon anybody 
 who got no more wages than herself. That 
 was the knell of parting day. Nobody ever 
 came near Charity after that. 
 
 Dispirited and exhausted, she leaned back 
 in her chair. The light glared upon her 
 face. From the opposite wall a map of the 
 world in hemispheres stared down at her, 
 shining and binocular. She lifted a pile of 
 papers from her lap and placed them on the 
 table. 
 
 "How poor it all is!" she cried, and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 The ugliness of the place was as remote 
 from her mind as the antipodes. It was the 
 last moan of a struggling swimmer who, 
 overcome with fatigue, consents to sink.
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 221 
 
 The whole course of her miserable exist- 
 ence since she entered the service of Mrs. 
 Cornelius Porter passed through her mind. 
 
 She had now been a nursery governess for 
 months, and was accustomed to her duties. 
 At first, to her inexperience, the thing was 
 hopeless. But from the day of her arrival 
 she grappled with her difficulties with the 
 grim fierceness of despair. It seemed to 
 her that if she failed to fill that place there 
 was no other for her in the world. And a 
 quite extravagant success rewarded her 
 efforts. Before the second week was out 
 Mrs. Cornelius Porter, a middle-aged 
 matron, well nourished, and of the finest 
 Britannia-metal, intimated to Miss Chance 
 that with a little closer attention to the 
 darning she was likely to give every 
 satisfaction. 
 
 They were a prosaic race, these Porters, 
 and their days were all alike. 
 
 They breakfasted at half-past seven in 
 order that Mr. Porter might catch a train. 
 Upon this point Mrs. Porter waxed senti- 
 mental to the verge of poetry. If the chil-
 
 222 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 dren were not there, they would never see 
 their father, and that was so sad. Daily 
 at this hour, expectant and somewhat over- 
 awed, they were ranged around the table. 
 At a quarter before eight Mr. Porter ap- 
 peared, late, hurried, and inclined to be 
 irritable. He glanced hastily at the great 
 gilt timepiece upon the mantel-shelf. 
 
 "Eight minutes and a half," he muttered 
 morosely, "if the clock is right." 
 
 "The clock is always right," retorted his 
 wife; and it was a dogma for which she 
 would have died. 
 
 "Always.?" 
 
 "Always!" 
 
 He swallowed his boiling coffee, bolted 
 his roll, flashed across the little domestic 
 heaven like a meteor, and was gone. 
 
 A nervous, sallow little man, with a long 
 black beard, who returned at eight in the 
 evening. That was all Charity knew, for 
 only once had she been privileged to speak 
 to him. 
 
 " You will take supper with us to-night, 
 Miss Chance," exclaimed Mrs. Porter, on
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 223 
 
 the afternoon of Charity's arrival, "and see 
 Mr. Porter. Afterwards, perhaps you will 
 play us something. We are both anxious 
 about the children's music. You noticed 
 music essential, I have no doubt. Oh ! and 
 I hope you don't mind making your own 
 bed. Any other little thing I will mention 
 as it arises." 
 
 The girl was nervous and uneasy, and 
 the ordeal of playing haunted her through 
 a silent, melancholy meal. It was to be a 
 test of her ability, and, feeling it to be such, 
 when the time came she played with care. 
 The familiar sonata was like company to 
 her in the strange place, but she rose from 
 the piano dissatisfied and in doubt. 
 
 "Now, do you really like classical music, 
 Miss Chance .-'" asked Mr. Porter, in that 
 confidential tone which invites and deserves 
 a candid reply. 
 
 Charity pledged her word to it. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," he reflected. "I 
 like something a little gay. What 's the 
 use of music, except to take you out of your- 
 self after a day's work, and 'liven you up a
 
 224 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 bit? Now, classical music always makes 
 me feel unwell." 
 
 " We have a little music on Sunday after- 
 noons, Miss Chance," put in Mrs. Porter, 
 in fulfilment of her promise to mention 
 little things that might arise. "Mr. Porter 
 is at home, and it is nice for the cliildren 
 to come down. Now you would like to go 
 upstairs." 
 
 Charity did not see much of Mr. Porter 
 on those occasions. She played hymn 
 tunes by the hour, whilst the children 
 sang. But the head of the house, hidden 
 in a silk handkerchief, reposed on a red 
 sofa-cushion and restfully slept. 
 
 Charity had never seen people like these. 
 Sometimes their destitution in the percep- 
 tion of everything that made life beautiful 
 to her was more pitiful than the sight of 
 poverty. The atmosphere of the house 
 oppressed her like a nightmare. The chil- 
 dren overwhelmed her with a weight of care 
 under which she could scarcely breathe. 
 They broke everything. They hurt them- 
 selves and each other. They quarrelled and
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 225 
 
 cried. They were more mischievous than 
 goblins without the mirth. And when she 
 had struggled with all her might, the good- 
 will of Mrs. Porter came like a last straw 
 added to her load. 
 
 With the desire to be kind, that most re- 
 spectable matron became inquisitive. 
 
 "And how many years did you live with 
 Miss Graham.'' " "And where is your own 
 home, Miss Chance.-*" were amongst the 
 friendly inquiries with which poor Charity 
 was plied. 
 
 For some time the discomforts of her new 
 position had no power to wound her deeply. 
 She hardened herself against everything 
 with the great thought that Prentice had 
 promised to write. As the days passed and 
 nothing came, she became more wildly 
 expectant. She studied the table of "in- 
 ward mails," and listened for the postman's 
 knock. Surely it would come now. Other 
 letters delivered at Babblecombe were sent 
 on, but the one so madly desired was not 
 amongst them. She became a prey to all 
 the fears and doubts that love can conjure 
 IS
 
 226 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 out of longing and disappointment. He 
 had changed towards her. Found out her 
 story and changed before she went to him. 
 How else should one so emotional, so sen- 
 sitive to the slightest word, remain unmoved 
 by her deep humiliation.-' She might write 
 to him under cover to Messrs. Pickering 
 and Co., his publishers. She fetched his 
 book to find the address upon the title-page. 
 Then she grew proud again. He had 
 parted from her with no word of love or 
 help or kindness. He was angry with her 
 boldness in rushing to him so eagerly, and 
 disgust upon the instant changed so sensi- 
 tive a man. Or perhaps prudence had made 
 him silent. He was poor — had not means 
 to marry; and in a calmer moment became 
 wise. With that thought again she loved 
 him tenderly. He would never change, 
 and her heart was his through all eternity. 
 
 At last the hope of hearing from him 
 waned. Then in the after-supper solitude 
 she fell to taking up the threads of her old 
 life. But the strands were all ravelled and 
 tangled. Nothing remained unbroken but
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 227 
 
 the slender story she had tried to weave in 
 the leisure of her girlish happiness, and 
 that lay at the bottom of the great black 
 trunk, untouched by fate or fortune. She 
 thought of it, and brought it to the light. 
 
 Now she read with other eyes, and saw 
 with deeper insight. What she had written 
 was but idle fancy-work, beside the gorgeous 
 fabric woven in the loom of human life. It 
 was a village tragedy, and the story held 
 and fascinated her as at first. But when 
 she wrote she had not understood. Passion 
 and shame had come, — crushing self-abase- 
 ment had fallen upon her since then. A 
 hurricane had swept away the rose-clad 
 walls that sheltered whilst they shut her in 
 from the world. And she stood alone — 
 nothing, unless she could be something of 
 herself. A hope, familiar of old in the 
 dappled sunlight of her hill-side bower, 
 revived within her. She would make some- 
 thing of that story. In growing excitement 
 she rose and paced the narrow little school- 
 room. Her brain was in a ferment, her 
 soul on fire. Yes. She, the nameless,
 
 228 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 base-born foundling, would win herself a 
 name. 
 
 Not a moment must be lost. She drew 
 a chair to the table and sat down before the 
 sheets, all faultlessly copied in the days when 
 time was plentiful and she had little to do. 
 
 The opening chapter was poor, indeed. 
 But she would improve that. Her fingers 
 burned to begin at once. She fetched the 
 ink, and pen in hand set to work to read. 
 All night through she went on, scoring, 
 interlining, and blotting out until only here 
 and there the girlish penmanship, like the 
 pale face of a prisoner condemned to death, 
 peered through the prison bars of her ruth- 
 less alterations. 
 
 She laid aside the pen and burst into 
 tears to see what she had done. So this, 
 like all the rest, was nothing. It would 
 be far easier to begin afresh. With a 
 heavy heart she put it all away until another 
 night. But from that time forth, the expec- 
 tation of these silent hours triumphed over 
 the drudgery of the day, and she was never 
 lonely and never without hope.
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 229 
 
 She worked with such eagerness that the 
 story grew apace. It held her imagination 
 with a force so vivid and irresistible that 
 her real life passed like a dream, and this 
 phantasy assumed the boldness of reality. 
 It was interwoven with her deepest emo- 
 tions. Not that she confided to the page 
 the secrets of her heart, but the romance of 
 it glowed with her passion for Prentice, 
 and the tenderness was a recollection of her 
 love for the little cripple, and to the misery 
 her own pride and shame gave bitterness. 
 
 Last night with a thrill of joy she fin- 
 ished. To-night she had read it from be- 
 ginning to end. Now she turned round to 
 her dusty little fire, and in spite of herself 
 the words sobbed up from the bottom of her 
 heart, — 
 
 " How poor it all is ! " 
 
 In her enthusiasm she had hoped so 
 much. It was to redeem her from drudgery 
 — to make her worthy of Prentice — to prove 
 the little cripple's kindness not all in vain. 
 She had resolved to send it to Prentice's 
 publislicr. But what avail to send it any-
 
 230 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 where? No one would look at it. It was 
 poorer than before, and with this hopeless 
 difference, — that then she altered without 
 hesitation, and now, for the life of her, she 
 did not know what more to do. 
 
 Nothing more could be done, and she cast 
 the papers from her in disgust. Suddenly 
 the door opened; the portly figure of Mrs. 
 Cornelius Porter, magnificent in a brocaded 
 evening wrap, sailed into the room. " You 
 are sitting up very late. Miss Chance," she 
 said severely. "I saw the light in your 
 window as we came in, and Maria tells me 
 you always sit up half the night. It is 
 quite impossible you should do your daily 
 duty, unless you retire at a reasonable hour 
 and take proper rest. I must request that 
 by eleven, so long as you remain in this 
 house, — not later than eleven, — your gas 
 shall always be turned out." 
 
 There was an assumption of superiority 
 in the tone which Charity had never before 
 noticed. Vulgar the w^oman bad always 
 been, but good-natured enough, and even 
 kind. Now she stood there large and arro-
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 231 
 
 gant. The very glance which she threw 
 down upon the girl was an insult. 
 
 " I had something to do for myself, and 
 no other time to do it," returned Charity, 
 coldly. "But now it is finished." 
 
 The answer sounded rebellious, and did 
 not please Mrs. Porter. 
 
 " I think I ought to tell you. Miss Chance, " 
 she went on, with the satisfaction which a 
 small soul lodged in a comfortable body 
 takes in the contemplation of its own virtue, 
 "that I have heard a great deal about you 
 to-day. A gentleman who visits Babble- 
 mouth regularly on business has told us all. 
 He says you were the talk of the town. He 
 even saw you himself at Swindon Station." 
 
 "He is mistaken," interrupted the aston- 
 ished girl; "I have never in my life been 
 to Swindon. " 
 
 "At Swindon Station," repeated Mrs. 
 Porter, with louder firmness. " In what 
 class of company I should be ashamed to 
 say. You can read for yourself in yester- 
 day's paper. Then no further comment of 
 mine will be required. I need not add that
 
 232 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 you can scarcely expect to retain a home in 
 a respectable family." 
 
 With this withering sarcasm Mrs. Cor- 
 nelius Porter left Charity to her perplexity. 
 There was more of Cornelius than Porter in 
 the dignity of her bearing as she passed out 
 of the schoolroom door. 
 
 "Swindon Station," the girl kept repeat- 
 ing. "What does she mean by Swindon 
 Station.?" 
 
 If an apparition had broken in upon her 
 midnight vigil, she could not have been 
 more bewildered. An awful suspicion 
 crossed her mind that an evening's enter- 
 tainment must have resulted in the inco- 
 herency of Mrs. Porter. The thought was 
 so horrible that for the moment Charity 
 forgot she was again a waif. Anything to 
 get away from such people and such a 
 place. In desperation she got up, packed 
 the re-written story, poor as it was, and 
 addressed it. 
 
 She left it ready upon the table. In the 
 morning she rose earlier than usual, and 
 ran out with it to the post. Her heart sank
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 233 
 
 within her as the packet fell with a thud 
 into the letter-box. 
 
 But Mrs. Porter's words, "You can read 
 for yourself in yesterday's paper," kept 
 ringing in her ears as she hurried back to 
 the house. She would go into the dining- 
 room and see what that meant. The fire 
 was as yet unlighted. She was fortunate 
 enough to rescue the newspaper from the 
 scuttle of Maria, and she glanced at the 
 headlines as she carried it upstairs. 
 
 TIic Prentice Case. 
 
 Breathless she stopped beside the landing- 
 window to read. It was a suit brought 
 against the poet by his wife. 
 
 "Married! Impossible! A lie begotten 
 of envy to besmirch the reputation of a man 
 of genius." 
 
 With this cry of passionate and indignant 
 denial, she threw down the paper in angry 
 refusal to learn evil of one she loved. It 
 was like listening to a tale behind his back. 
 Then that was why she had not heard. 
 How could he write under the weiirht of
 
 234 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 this great trouble? How deeply this must 
 cut his pride! Yet she must read to learn 
 how much he suffered, — to hear his refuta- 
 tion and delight in his triumph. 
 
 She picked up the newspaper and carried 
 it to her schoolroom. There was still time 
 to spare before the day began, and she 
 glanced down the long columns, and eagerly 
 turned to read. But as she went on she 
 grew sick at heart. The print became dim 
 before her eyes. It was a tale of heartless 
 desertion, and in spite of herself the 
 woman's misery forced itself upon her 
 sympathies. 
 
 " But they were unhappy, unsuited to 
 each other," she cried, in contradiction to 
 herself. " It was pitiable, but they were 
 wise to part." 
 
 Then Prentice came into the witness-box, 
 bantering with counsel. He treated the 
 matter lightly, and was witty merely for 
 effect. He, who had talked so sadly of 
 human woe, as if the weight of all human- 
 ity oppressed his soul, went through the 
 tragedy of his own making grinning like a
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 235 
 
 comedian. The words of Miss Graliam 
 came back to lier, — tliat underneath the 
 folly of genius was soul or passion or a 
 great heart. And this man had none of 
 these. Her illusion was dispelled. She 
 could not look at this and longer believe in 
 him. 
 
 And for him she had forfeited an affec- 
 tion which had enriched her life. Then his 
 love was all the world, but now, in the 
 moment of her disenchantment, how she 
 longed for the tenderness of her one friend, 
 — the friend who had given everything, — 
 the benefactress who, deceived and disap- 
 pointed, turned away her face in shame. 
 She wanted to make amends. If she might 
 only say, " You were right, but I knew no 
 better then," and feel just once, in under- 
 standing and sympathy, the pressure of 
 the little cripple's cheek against her hair, 
 she could take heart against the world's 
 vulgarity. There came to her an impulse 
 to go back, — just for one day, — to 
 give her gratitude expression and implore 
 forgiveness —
 
 236 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 The shutting of a door at the other end 
 of the passage broke in upon her thoughts. 
 In a few weeks she would be homeless. It 
 would look like beggary even to write to 
 Babblemouth at this moment. And she 
 was only Charity Chance, after all. She 
 hastily laid aside the paper. She had loi- 
 tered too long, and already the steps of Mrs. 
 Cornelius Porter were creaking down the 
 stairs. 
 
 It was now the early spring, and Charity 
 once more found herself face to face with 
 the problem of how to earn her bread. She 
 was to leave in the summer. "That will 
 be the most convenient, and give both par- 
 ties time to look around," explained Mrs. 
 Porter, thinking only of herself. "And 
 anything that I can say as to your compe- 
 tency. Miss Chance, I shall be very pleased, 
 I am sure." At once the girl began to 
 scan and answer advertisements. But the 
 time was too far off, and no one ever 
 applied to Mrs. Porter. 
 
 Now that the manuscript was gone, her 
 evenings were lonely, indeed. The little
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 237 
 
 group of phantoms vanished from her 
 hearth. Their story faded into the forgot- 
 ten past. She had no hope that any one 
 would print it, but to write had been a 
 relief, and out of the ferment of her emo- 
 tions a new fable began to take shape in her 
 imagination. Then, again, she forgot her 
 troubles in work. 
 
 Yet her mind was alert with expectation. 
 She looked for no great tidings ; neverthe- 
 less, as days grew into weeks and no answer 
 came, she became conscious of the depth of 
 her disappointment. She began to fear. 
 The parcel might have gone wrong. Per- 
 haps it was lost. Perhaps, unsolicited, it 
 should not have been sent, and therefore, 
 being useless, had not been returned. She 
 realised that it was nothing, and yet she 
 was consumed with anxiety. 
 
 One evening, having laid down the 
 supper-tray, Maria loitered. 
 
 " There 's a letter, Miss Chance, came last 
 week. It was left in the kitchen. I meant 
 to bring it up, and then I forgot it. I hope 
 it isn't any difference, I 'm sure."
 
 238 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 Fully determined to demean herself no 
 further, Maria withdrew in haste. 
 
 The publisher's device was upon the 
 envelope. So there was to be a verdict, 
 after all. Now that the time was come, 
 although she had no hope, her agitation 
 was so intense that her trembling fingers 
 could not break the seal. Then, with sud- 
 den nervous energy, she tore it open. 
 
 The contents were very brief, but glanc- 
 ing over the letter her eye caught in 
 snatches the whole pith of the matter. 
 
 " Prepared to undertake the pitblieation of 
 tJie same . . . of course with an author s 
 first zvork it is not possible to offer . . . 
 royalty of I o per cent, upon zvJiieli we zvould 
 pay a small sum — say ^20 — ?ipon account." 
 
 A commonplace communication, sure 
 enough, yet one which read with all the 
 wealth and wonder of an Arabian romance. 
 Twenty pounds ! Now that she had earned 
 it herself, it was a mine as inexhaustible 
 as the Indies. Her imagination ran riot 
 over the magnificence of the sum. And 
 royalties run on for ever. The occasion
 
 AS NURSERY GOVERNESS. 239 
 
 justified a revel, and she took it in elemen- 
 tary arithmetic. Twenty pounds ! She had 
 rewritten the book in six weeks. She 
 would finish the new one by June. Twenty 
 and twenty make forty, and then her stipend. 
 She would walk out into the world worth 
 fifty pounds. Then she would take a room, 
 and write, and write. 
 
 But the latter portion of the letter was 
 still unread. 
 
 " Should you accept these terms, please 
 reply zvithotit delay, as we should like to print 
 at once, to publish in our series during H lay. " 
 
 And a week had elapsed! They might 
 refuse to stand to their offer now. At once 
 she wrote a letter of acceptance loaded with 
 apologies. They replied with a printed 
 contract. Then proofs showered down upon 
 her. Revises followed like the April rain. 
 At last came that early copy of the first 
 book, a joy like the gladness of a new 
 spring. She turned it over in her hand, 
 and a thrill of pride leapt within her bosom. 
 She, the nameless waif, was about to jus- 
 tify her being.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Charity had taken apartments — two 
 rooms the size of cupboards — in a little 
 street near the residence of the Porters, 
 and here she worked in peace. Her only 
 luxury was a daily paper, which she searched 
 for a review. The purchase was an excite- 
 ment, like drawing from a lucky-bag; but 
 once or twice she drew a prize. They were 
 praising her, she found, in terms some- 
 times extravagant, which pleased her none 
 the less. But work and solitude began to 
 tell upon her. She wanted to speak to some 
 one. This feeling grew so strong that at 
 last she determined upon an expedition. 
 She would call upon her publisher. 
 
 It was a hot July morning, and she walked 
 down Paternoster Row.
 
 THE END. 241 
 
 The firm of Pickering and Co. announces 
 itself in letters of blazing gold, which he who 
 runs may read; and without difficulty she 
 found the house. She entered a sort of ware- 
 house, where a clerk was writing at a desk, 
 and asked if Mr. Pickering was disengaged. 
 
 "What name.''" inquired the youth, 
 shortly. 
 
 "Miss Chance." 
 
 His manner changed. Alighting from 
 his high stool with alacrity, he requested 
 Charity to "step this way, if you please," 
 ushered her upstairs to a waiting-room, 
 invited her to take a seat, and assured her 
 Mr. Pickering would not be long. 
 
 She waited some minutes, and the time 
 seemed endless. Mr. Pickering probably 
 cherished no great desire to see her. She 
 began to wonder at her temerity in calling, 
 and to wish she had not come. Two large 
 etchings adorned the wall, and she got up 
 and stood looking at one of them. Then 
 the door behind her opened. She turned 
 round quickly, and was face to face with 
 Alfred Prentice. 
 
 16
 
 242 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "Charity," he cried with rapture, just as 
 when he met her unexpectedly in the wood. 
 " How glad I am ! I was going to write, 
 and came here to-day to be sure of your 
 address." 
 
 As he stepped towards her, she recoiled 
 with aversion from his outstretched hand. 
 
 At once he stopped. His manner changed. 
 But trouble had taught her much. A finer 
 sense had replaced the freshness of her inex- 
 perience, and when he spoke again she could 
 feel the vanity at work beneath his words. 
 
 " I wanted to congratulate you upon your 
 book. It is fresh and sweet. A new note. 
 Delicate, passionate, and shy, like the whis- 
 per of some woodland bird. Yet fierce in 
 its relentless grip on an inevitable human 
 destiny." 
 
 His voice sank into a whisper as he spoke 
 of the bird he did not specify, and he 
 clenched his fists and crushed the tragedy 
 of all humanity between his set teeth. 
 
 Then he thought of himself, and became 
 low and mellow as of old. 
 
 "But above all, I felt something due to
 
 THE END. 243 
 
 you, and still more to my own heart. 
 When we loved each other so madly, and 
 I would have carried you away," — he raised 
 his hands towards heaven to show how far 
 he would have carried her, — "the greatness 
 of your soul overcame me. You showed 
 me the crime I was committing, and the 
 inevitable consequence. I knew my weak- 
 ness, and at least had strength of mind to 
 flee. Your story touched me deeply. I 
 saw your soul suffering the burden of an- 
 other's wrong, and my heart melted with 
 pity. I could not write. Then, the sorrow 
 of my own poor life was thrown open to the 
 world. Ah! sad, sad! All is sad!" 
 
 Moved by the picture of his own magna- 
 nimity, he was quite overcome. His eyes 
 filled with tears. Unable to proceed, he 
 turned away and covered his face in' his 
 hands. 
 
 The girl took one quick, impulsive step 
 towards him. Doubtless he loved her, what- 
 ever his misfortunes, and love demanded 
 sympathy at least. Then the recollection 
 of his coldness to her distress rushed into
 
 244 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 her mind. He could never have loved her. 
 With sudden insight she perceived that this 
 man deceived himself, and had no stake in 
 human life. Imagination and he played 
 a game of chance, with mere words for 
 counters. 
 
 Recalled to himself by her movement, he 
 came towards her. 
 
 " Please do not speak to me, Mr. Pren- 
 tice," she cried impatiently. "The past is 
 gone and better forgotten." 
 
 Her tone was so angry and contemptuous 
 that it hurt his pride, but the smart of the 
 injury completely restored him. He con- 
 tinued to explain himself. 
 
 "Then your book came into my hand. 
 Again I was about to write when I read of 
 the terrible affair at Babblemouth. I dared 
 not intrude upon your sorrow at such a 
 moment — " 
 
 "What do you mean.^" she interrupted 
 him. 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 " Is it possible you have not heard of 
 Poltimore-Briggs .-* "
 
 THE END. 245 
 
 "I have heard nothing." 
 
 At once his manner became quite com- 
 monplace. He had no emotion to expend 
 on a mere historical fact. 
 
 " He committed suicide by throwing him- 
 self over the cliff. The jury brought in an 
 open verdict, but his affairs were in an 
 awful state, and everybody knows what 
 really happened. He had been living on 
 the money of your little crippled friend for 
 years. He was her trustee, and spent every 
 penny or lost it in speculations. They 
 thought he had run away. That yacht we 
 sailed in was seized and sold. They found 
 his body by the rocks where we lay be- 
 calmed after he had been gone a week. " 
 
 "Mr. Pickering will see you now, " said 
 a voice beside her. 
 
 The clerk was standing by her elbow. 
 She had not heard him come into the room. 
 Like a person hypnotised and obeying a 
 suggestion, she followed him along a pas- 
 sage, and was shown into an office. As she 
 entered, a large man with red hair rose 
 from his chair behind a table strewn with
 
 246 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 books and papers, and greeted her most 
 cordially. 
 
 "How do you do, Miss Chance.^ I am 
 most happy to make your acquaintance. 
 You want to hear about your book. Well, 
 I am glad to say it is going well, — fairly 
 well. We 've pushed it in every way — 
 advertised it heavily — almost too heavily, 
 perhaps." Here he smiled benignly. 
 "And it has been well reviewed. You 
 would like to see some notices." 
 
 He laid upon the table before her a large 
 volume into which press-cuttings had been 
 pasted. 
 
 It should have been a moment of eager 
 anxiety and triumph, but Charity could not 
 read a word. Mr. Pickering was there as 
 large as life. She saw him. She heard 
 clearly every word he uttered, and she 
 stared upon the open page. But she was 
 not there at all. This was all a dream. 
 The real Charity was far away at Babble- 
 combe with poor Aunt Helen, deceived and 
 penniless ! What could become of her in 
 such a situation.''
 
 THE END. 247 
 
 Mr. Pickering stood rubbing his hands. 
 
 "And what are you doing now, Miss 
 Chance.^" he asked witli friendly conde- 
 scension. 
 
 There was a pause whilst the question 
 pierced its way through her preoccupation. 
 A minute later she remembered having 
 heard it, and replied in haste, — 
 
 "I am finishing another book." 
 
 "We shall be very pleased, indeed, to 
 see it. Miss Chance." 
 
 He nodded his head, and in smiling 
 expectation awaited her reply. 
 
 But Charity did not answer. How could 
 poor Aunt Helen support the want of those 
 requirements which wealth had always pro- 
 vided.-' That was the thought which kept 
 her dumb. 
 
 Such reticence on the part of a budding 
 authoress was rare. A suspicion crossed 
 the mind of Mr. Pickering that Charity 
 must have been approached from elsewhere. 
 
 "Of course. Miss Chance," he explained 
 in quite a lordly way, "we can do much 
 better for you with a second book. We
 
 248 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 should increase the royalty and the ad- 
 vance. Of this I am quite sure, no one in 
 the trade could do better for you than we." 
 
 Still no response. Nothing but a direct 
 question could win a word from Charity. 
 
 "We might be able to run it in our mag- 
 azine." He went on now very serious, and 
 stroking his fat chin. " On consideration, 
 I think we should like to look at what you 
 have done at once. If it is suitable, and 
 we give you, say, a hundred pounds for 
 serial publication, and then — " 
 
 The girl looked up with disconcerting 
 suddenness. 
 
 "How quickly could you let me know?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " In the course of a day or so we would 
 communicate our — " 
 
 She gave him no time to finish his 
 sentence. 
 
 "I will fetch it at once and bring it to 
 you. I hope there will be no delay. I am 
 going into the country. I will give you 
 my address. " 
 
 She glanced at the table. He handed
 
 THE END. 249 
 
 her paper and a pencil, and she wrote: 
 C/o Miss Graham, Babblecombe House, Bab- 
 hlemouth. Then before he could cross the 
 room to open the door for her, she was fly- 
 ing down the stairs. 
 
 "Somebody has made that girl an offer," 
 he muttered to himself. " I should really 
 like to know how much they have said." 
 
 But Charity had only one thought, — to 
 bring her precious manuscript and get to 
 Babblecombe as quickly as she could. She 
 looked for no train. She made no plan ; but 
 hurried thither and back, and at last must 
 wait an hour upon the platform before she 
 could depart. 
 
 She would return, and throw her arms 
 around the little cripple's neck, without 
 words or explanation, trusting only to the 
 abiding power of their love. And she 
 would keep her in poverty. And pay the 
 debt of many years. And tend her as no 
 hireling hands can ever tend. 
 
 It was evening when she reached the hill- 
 top and once more looked down upon the
 
 250 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 little mansion in the coombe. How quiet 
 it all was ! Not a leaf of the ivy stirred. 
 There was no one in the garden, and Jan 
 Sprake was not in the yard. 
 
 She had brought nothing home, and above 
 the cottages she stopped the hired fly she 
 had taken at the station, and got out. She 
 would rather walk down unobserved. 
 
 The door was open, and she went in as if 
 she had but come back from the town. She 
 wandered across the hall and into the 
 drawing-room. The French window was 
 closed and fastened, and the place had the 
 close air and wore the dusty look of a room 
 not used. 
 
 A spirit of change and disaster brooded 
 everywhere. The things remained unal- 
 tered, but something had fled. No open 
 book lay upon the table, no paper had been 
 dropped in haste upon the floor. And the 
 chairs stood back against the wall, lacking 
 significance. 
 
 She heard a sound, — a man's step has- 
 tening out of the house. She ran back, 
 just in time to catch sight of the departing 
 
 %
 
 THE END. 251 
 
 figure of Bibberly, the bluff, fox-hunting, 
 local practitioner, whom Miss Graham 
 regarded with contempt bordering on abhor- 
 rence. Then Aunt Helen must be ill, — 
 ill indeed to submit to his presence. How 
 carefully he closed the door to make no 
 noise! 
 
 She went upstairs and listened. She 
 was afraid this suddenness of arrival might 
 be ill-timed, and she did not know what to 
 do. From the room where Miss Graham 
 used to sleep came a low moan. 
 
 Charity stealthily opened the door and 
 looked in. The little cripple lay upon a 
 low chair beside the open window. The 
 evening breeze bulged the white curtain and 
 fanned her face. Her cheek was yellow 
 like parchment, and bloodless like death. 
 Yet her senses were alert, for the shrewd 
 grey eyes, brighter than ever and very 
 large, glanced round as the quickening cur- 
 rent of air told her that some one was 
 silently entering the room. At once they 
 glistened with delight. She had gone too 
 far upon the journey of life to feel surprise.
 
 252 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 She tried to beckon with her finger as of 
 old. 
 
 Charity ran to her. 
 
 " I was just thinking of you, child. Kiss 
 me, Charity. Put your hair against my 
 cheek. I knew you would come. Graham 
 has been reading to me, Charity. Charity, 
 you have it all, dear." 
 
 She quivered with excitement. In the 
 intensity of her feeling her voice broke 
 into a whisper. 
 
 The girl did not understand. 
 
 "Don't you remember what I once said.-* 
 Soul, or passion, or a great heart. Gra- 
 ham has been reading to me — the book — 
 my book — for I made you, child. He was 
 sent for when the — when the trouble came, 
 and he stays here for the present. He sat 
 up with me last night. I made him go and 
 lie down. I cannot sleep because of the 
 pain, and the maid has run in for the 
 draught. The Mortimers have gone to a 
 garden-party to-day, and so I was alone. I 
 was thinking of you. I knew you would 
 come."
 
 THE END. 253 
 
 She paused, and gazed into Charity's 
 eyes with such affection that the girl could 
 not speak. 
 
 "It will be a very short time now, 
 Charity," she said sadly. "I am quite 
 ready, and have thought of everything. 
 But I don't want to go. I want to stay — I 
 want to stay more than ever." 
 
 Her thin hands firmly clutched the girl's 
 shoulders, as though upon the secure sta- 
 bility of that young life her drifting spirit 
 could anchor itself to earth. Then she 
 became resigned. 
 
 "But everything is arranged, and my 
 mind is at peace. The thought of John 
 Sprake troubled me. For when the horses 
 had to be sold, what was he to do .'' And 
 he had been here twenty years, always 
 faithful and safe. But what do you think, 
 Charity.? He has taken the George Hotel! 
 I wrote to the justices about him. He has 
 been really a wonderful man, so steady and 
 saving. I can't think how he saved it all 
 on fifteen shillings a week. But it was such 
 a relief, child." One illusion at least had
 
 254 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 never been dispelled, and she smiled upon 
 the girl as she went on. " Charity, there 
 is the house and land, and seven hundred 
 pounds in the bank that was not drawn out. 
 That will keep you, just keep you, dear." 
 
 Suddenly she summoned all her energy. 
 She raised herself in the chair. She spoke 
 and pointed in the old way that Charity had 
 never dared to disobey. 
 
 "Go and knock at Graham's door, child. 
 Tell him to come at once." 
 
 Graham came in haste. He and the girl 
 stood side by side, and through the window 
 shone the last glow of the evening sun. It 
 astonished Charity to see how greatly he 
 was changed. A new ruddiness of travel 
 was on his face. Trouble had hardened his 
 will and given character to his features. 
 
 "What did you want, Aunt Helen.''" he 
 said tenderly. 
 
 Miss Graham looked at them, and the old 
 desire came back. One last gleam of 
 romance flashed from her departing soul, 
 vivid as the momentary streak of flame that 
 sets on fire a western cloud.
 
 THE END. 255 
 
 "Marry," she cried, — "marry at once. 
 There will yet be time. And I shall see 
 the wish of my heart." 
 
 He turned towards the girl in doubt. 
 Even if she would marry him, could he dare 
 to take advantage of the weakness of this 
 moment ? 
 
 "Marry!" repeated the little cripple, 
 with wilder urgency. 
 
 The girl saw his hesitation. He was 
 poor and unfortunate. The disgrace and 
 death of his father must for ever overshadow 
 him like a cloud. She could understand all 
 that. Her heart went out towards him with 
 a force of love it could never have known 
 in the old summer days. She could com- 
 fort him, and help him, — yes, and earn 
 money for him, too, if he would only ask 
 her now. But the time was past. She also 
 had lost an illusion. Nothing could bring 
 back that. 
 
 As he looked, the light of love came into 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Charity," he whispered quickly, "we 
 have never broken it off. "
 
 256 CHARITY CHANCE. 
 
 "We have never broken it off," she 
 echoed. 
 
 With a smile of satisfaction the little 
 cripple sank back exhausted and said no 
 more. She had got the wish of her heart, 
 and that night she slept. 
 
 In the cold grey of early morning she 
 passed away content. 
 
 They were married that summer in the 
 little church beside the cliff looking down 
 upon the quay, where Charity was left a 
 waif. No one ever knew whence she came. 
 They sold the little mansion, arid left Bab- 
 blemouth at once, and no one asked whither 
 they went. 
 
 Her signature is on the register, and that 
 is all. 
 
 That was the last of Charity Chance.
 
 Pl'i 
 
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