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ADRIENNE. 
 
PROBATION 
 
 & |Ubd 
 
 BY 
 
 JESSIE FOTHERGILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' THE FIRST VIOLIN,' ' KITH AND KIN,' ETC. 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. 
 
 ^ubltsfjcrs in ©rlimarg to fljer Iflajtstg tfje ©uem 
 
 1887 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
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 l??7 
 
 BOOK I. 
 PRIDE AND PLENTY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF AN ABSENTEE EMPLOYER. 
 'The perfection of mechanism, human and metallic' 
 
 You, at any rate, Lancashire reader, know this place ; the 
 large somewhat low room ; the long lines of looms ; the 
 wheels, straps, and beams ; the rows of standing workpeople, 
 men, women, and children ; the dimness of the dust-laden 
 atmosphere. You know, too, the roar of noise — how deaf- 
 ening, stunning, and overwhelming it is to the stranger who 
 may happen casually to encounter it, yet how easily those 
 in the habit of working in it can make themselves intelligible 
 to one another. You know all this, and your accustomed 
 eye recognises at once one division of the ' weaving shed ' 
 of a large cotton factory ; which forms, with its perfect 
 mechanism, the ' metallic and the human,' a most wonderful 
 sight to any eyes but the too careless or the too accustomed. 
 There is an air of calm, leisurely ease about the process 
 which might be apt to lead the uninitiated astray, and 
 make him suppose that not so much accuracy of eye, 
 delicacy of manipulation, sensitiveness of touch, was re- 
 quired as is really the case. Which are the most alive — 
 the girls in the cotton dresses, and the men in their fustian 
 clothes, who move lightly to and fro, adjusting their work, 
 keeping watch and ward over the flying shuttle ; or that 
 flying shuttle itself, which seems instinct with vitality, 
 
 860 B 
 
PROBA TIOX. 
 
 darting with vivid, almost oppressive, regularity of activity 
 backwards and forwards — indulging sometimes in a mali- 
 cious vagary, worthy of a human being, such as flying 
 suddenly out from its groove, and perhaps striking its 
 human fellow-worker a sharp blow on the forehead, or in 
 the eye ? It would be difficult to say — the definition at 
 the head of the chapter forms also the best description of 
 the whole — ' the perfection of mechanism, human and 
 metallic' 
 
 It was during the afternoon hours of work ; the day's 
 labour was drawing to a close ; the great ceaseless roar and 
 buzz and rush seemed to grow rhythmic, harmonious in its 
 monotonous continuity; through the thick-ribbed panes of 
 glass, distorted yellow sunbeams came streaming, golden, 
 hazy, smoky, dusty, striking here and there upon the face 
 of some laughing or languid girl ; here into the eyes of 
 some lad — an imp of mischief — or a youth of thoughtful 
 and serious aspect. 
 
 That was the head over-looker who came in, looked 
 round, stopped the loom of one of the said laughing girls, 
 fingered the cloth, remarked warningly, ' Now, Sarah Alice ! 
 this won't do ! You must look out, or there'll be some 
 mischief;' then passed on his round, stopping more looms ; 
 examining more cloth, and then went out of the room 
 altogether. 
 
 A steady progression, for a time, of the rhythmic toil, till 
 the same door was again opened, and a young man, who 
 also appeared to be a person of some authority, stepped in. 
 and paused, notebook and pencil in hand. This was the 
 second over-looker, a person who of necessity must possess 
 considerable intelligence — being generally, as in this case, a 
 working man born and bred — some discrimination and tact 
 also, since he fulfilled the duties, in some measure, both of 
 a workman and a superior. In addition to his position as 
 over-looker, he also performed the functions of what is 
 known in factory parlance as 'head cut-looker:' and a 
 cut-looker is a man who examines each piece or ' cut ' of 
 cloth after it leaves the loom ; notes the flaws, and deducts 
 from the wages of the weaver in compensation for the same. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 Perhaps this 'cut-looking' and over-looking may be like 
 criticising — they may have a tendency to produce a turn of 
 mind sceptical as to the merits of the work with which the 
 cut-looker, or the critic, has to do. Incessant flaws, 
 ' scamped ' work, broken threads, ill-joined ends, an uneven 
 weft, a rough warp — the parallel is certainly a striking one ; 
 and a long career of cut-looking, to say nothing of criticising, 
 may tend to make the temper quick, and the tone just a 
 little imperious. 
 
 The individual whose occupation was something like 
 criticism was a tall young man, dressed in grey clothes, 
 which looked in some way cleaner, or better, or different 
 from the clothes of the others, and a white linen jacket, 
 which gave a cool and airy look to the whole costume, and 
 was far from unbecoming to the spare, yet very strong, 
 well-built figure, and to the dark, handsome, sharply cut 
 face belonging to it. 
 
 A right workmanlike figure. There was power and 
 capacity- — skilled power and capacity, too, in the supple, 
 lissome figure, in the brown hands, long and slim, yet 
 strong and muscular, which looked as if they were well- 
 accustomed to do fine work, and to do it well. The loose 
 linen jacket was by no means new, though clean ; it bore 
 here and there traces of having been mended, and sat in 
 the easy creases and folds of a much-worn old friend, from 
 whose shape no washing and starching can quite banish the 
 accustomed outline, given by the wearer's form. Above 
 the collar of this jacket was a narrow line of grey waistcoat ; 
 then a white collar, and a narrow black tie. The whole 
 costume was as pleasant and as becoming to look at as it 
 was practical, fit, and workmanlike. 
 
 The face was rather thin and rather square ; the complex- 
 ion pale. The eyes were very dark and very steady — at 
 the moment very quiet, though with a touch of defiance in 
 them which was habitual ; the forehead broad and thought- 
 ful — the level eyebrows had a trick of contracting sharply, 
 which took away from the calmness which might have 
 seemed at first the dominant characteristic of the ample 
 brow. The nose was rather long and sharp — the mouth 
 
PROD A TJON. 
 
 firm, and a little cross : the lips looked as if they would 
 more readily tighten in irritation at the stupidity of others, 
 than part in wonder or amaze at their cleverness — and their 
 expression did not belie the truth. The whole face was 
 more clearly cut, more decided in feature, more distinct in 
 expression than the faces of many — nay, of most of his 
 class in the same place. Perhaps it answered to a clearer 
 mental outline — was the distinct objective side of a well- 
 defined subjectivity. Be that as it may, the figure was a 
 manly and a good one — the face no less so. 
 
 This young man, holding his pencil suspended over his 
 notebook, looked reflectively around the room, standing 
 erect, though the wall was just behind him to lean upon. 
 Walls to lean upon, moral or material, are irresistible to 
 some people. His eyes fell upon the different workers as 
 they moved hither and thither, adjusting their work, or 
 stepping from one loom to another. Those eyes presently 
 fell upon a young woman who was standing at the far end 
 of the room, and whose face happened to be turned towards 
 him. Her glance met his : they nodded and smiled to one 
 another, and his smile flashed across his dark face with an 
 effect which the smiles of fair faces and light eyes can 
 never have. 
 
 This young man's name was Myles Heywood, and the 
 scene of his labours was the factory of Sebastian Mallory, 
 the largest mill and property owner but one in the town of 
 Thanshope, in Lancashire. He was, then, clever, honest, 
 proud to excess, and self-opinionated, though few people 
 could help liking him, even when his opinions and preju- 
 dices, with both of which articles he was well provided, 
 might rub against theirs. One thing deserves recording of 
 him, which alone would have shown him to be somewhat 
 aloof from his fellow-workmen — he had no nickname ; and 
 in that district, where often a man's real name was quite 
 hidden under a cloud of bynames and nicknames, this was 
 at least peculiar. 
 
 Myles Heywood, after spending a few moments looking 
 down the shed, through the mist of cotton fluff which made 
 the air dim and the lungs irritable, turned and went into a 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 neighbouring room, where they were twisting — a monoton- 
 ous task — the rapid twisting together of the ends of cotton 
 of two warps, paid for at the rate of threepence per thousand 
 ends — a fact which had caused our critic in the linen jacket 
 much thought at different times. 
 
 Out of this twisting-room into a large square yard or 
 court, with the engine-house and its neighbouring boilers 
 on one side ; offices on another, and the great wall of the 
 mill on the third. On the fourth, a blank wall and huge 
 gates, at present standing open, and affording a glimpse 
 into the dingy street. 
 
 The engineer, this warm August afternoon, was standing 
 in the full glow of the furnace : his face was black, and 
 shone as if recently it had been anointed with oil. His 
 arms were bare and sinewy, and they were black too. His 
 shirt, whatever its original hue, was black now, and his 
 other garments, reduced to as scanty a quantity as was 
 compatible with decency, were black also with oil, and 
 grease, and coal-dust. He paused to mop away a swarthy 
 perspiration with a dingy-looking handkerchief, as Myles 
 went by, looking clean and cool, and aggravatingly comfort- 
 able. 
 
 ' Hey, Miles, lad, what time dost make it? I'm too hot 
 to get my watch.' 
 
 ' Ten to six,' said Myles, looking at his watch. 
 
 ' The Lord be praised ! ' responded the engineer piously, 
 ' and send us a speedy deliverance. It's as hot as hell 
 here of a summer afternoon, and no jokin'. Hast had thi' 
 baggin?' 1 
 
 ' I don't take baggin,' said Myles, a little contemptuously, 
 as he took his way to the office, where he found a man and 
 a boy behind a desk, on which was a heap of gold, silver, 
 and copper coins, and a number of books and papers. It 
 was Friday afternoon — pay-day. 
 
 ' Oh, you're there, Myles,' said the man. ' You may 
 take your wages now, if you like.' 
 
 ' All right !' said Myles, picking up two sovereigns from 
 
 1 'Baggin' is not only lunch, but any accidental meal coming 
 between two regular ones. 
 
PROBA TIOX. 
 
 the heap of gold, and slipping them into his pocket. Then 
 he twisted himself over the counter and seated himself on 
 a high stool beside the desk. 
 
 ' By your leave, I'll just wait here till my lass comes, and 
 then we'll go home together.' 
 
 Wilson, the head-overlooker and cashier, assented. 
 Myles folded his arms before him, and began to whistle a 
 tune to himself. It was the tune of the song, ' Life let us 
 cherish ! ' and when Myles had nothing else to do, he 
 generally did whistle it — unthinkingly, almost unconsciously. 
 While he whistled he looked through the dingy panes of a 
 small window upon a prospect as dingy as the panes. 
 
 There was nothing but a short patch of grey-looking 
 street, and over the way the multitudinous windows of a 
 great foundry, from the back premises of which came loud 
 sonorous clangs, as of metal striking against metal — a mad- 
 dening and a deafening sound to ears unused to it, but 
 which, from long habit, failed to disturb the workers in 
 ' Mallory's Factory.' It had become not exactly inaudible 
 to them, but part of the day's features — as clouds, or wind, 
 or rain. They would, to use a Hibernicism, only have 
 noticed it if it had left off. 
 
 It still wanted some eight or nine minutes to the time 
 when the bell would ring for 'knocking off' work, and that 
 interval was used by those present to discuss with their 
 tongues that with which their heads happened to be con- 
 cerned, for the truth is, that out of the emptiness of the 
 head, much oftener than out of the fulness of the heart, 
 does the mouth speak. 
 
 ' Hast heerd news, Myles? ' inquired the lad. 
 
 The whistle ceased for a moment. 
 
 ' What news ? ' 
 
 ' We have heard say,' said the other man, ' as how he's 
 coming home.' 
 
 ' Who ? ' 
 
 Wilson pointed northwards, over his shoulder, with his 
 thumb. 
 
 1 Oh, him ! ' said Myles, with again the touch of con- 
 tempt which came a little too often to his voice. And he 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 shrugged his shoulders — another gesture betraying his un- 
 likeness in temper and temperament to those with whom he 
 was surrounded. 
 
 ' Ay, him ! ' 
 
 ' Is it true ? ' inquired Heywood. 
 
 'Don't know. I've only heard say so.' 
 
 ' Who said so ? ' 
 
 ' Why, I believe it were one of the men from the stables 
 at Mrs. Mallory's.' 
 
 ' Servants' gossip! ' said Myles, trenchantly, unsuccessfully 
 trying to turn up his nose. ' Never believe what they say. 
 Flunkeys by trade, and liars by nature, the whole lot of 'em, 
 or they wouldn't be where they are.' 
 
 ' I'm none so keen about believing everything that any 
 one says to me,' said Wilson, with a slightly offended air, 
 ' but this seems to me so uncommonly probable, with things 
 in the state that they are. Why shouldn't he come back?' 
 
 'Ay, why shouldn't he?' echoed Ben, the office boy, 
 feeling a dawning sense of coming pleasure in the idea of 
 having given Myles a poser. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't he ? ' began Myles. 
 
 ' That makes three times as it's been said,' observed 
 Ben, with an intelligent smile. ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Young one, keep your fingers out of the pie ! ' said 
 Myles, ' and answer me this — why should he ? ' 
 
 Crestfallen silence on the part of Wilson and Ben, till the 
 former began rather feebly, 
 
 ' Well, he's been abroad for years and years, and when 
 he's a fine property like this awaiting for him to step into, 
 as it were, and a fine house, and a fine mother ' 
 
 ' Ha, ha ! ' said Myles, and his laugh was by no means 
 one of unsophisticated enjoyment. 
 
 ' And with things in the state that they are,' Wilson again 
 repeated, as if much impressed with that state. 'With 
 these Yankees and Southerners at it like cat and dog, and 
 cotton going up, and no prospect of any end to it yet. Mr. 
 Sutcliffe said to me, he says, ' Wilson, we don't know what's 
 before us yet. If I'm not much mistaken,' he says, ' there'll 
 be a famine in the land before this time next year.' And I 
 
PROBA 770 A". 
 
 say, if a master shouldn't come home under those circum- 
 stances, when should he ? ' 
 
 ' Should ! Ought ! ' repeated Hey wood, in sarcastic 
 tones ; his scornful smile lighting his face and gleaming in 
 his eyes. ' What's that to do with it ? I'll tell you why 
 he couldn't, and shouldn't, and won't come.' 
 
 The others settled themselves more attentively in their 
 positions to hear the riddle answered. 
 
 ' Because he's proud and lazy, and likes amusing himself 
 better than working,' said Myles, with a strong flavour of 
 contempt and dislike in his voice. ' Because the money's 
 there, and let who may have made it, choose how they've 
 sweated for it, it's got into his hands, whether he deserves 
 it or not, and it's his to do as he likes with — so he does 
 what he likes with it. He's got such a manager as there 
 isn't another like him in Lancashire. Mr. Sutcliffe can do 
 anything; it's he that has slaved and made this business 
 what it is — the biggest in Thanshope, next to Spenceley's. 
 He's got this manager, and if he chooses to think that he 
 hasn't got a duty in this mortal world, except to muddle his 
 head with foreign politics, as I hear he does, and amuse 
 himself by dancing attendance on a lot of fine ladies, and 
 stroll about foreign countries, and stare himself blind up at 
 pictures as big as the side of a house, and as black as my 
 hat, and figures of men and women without any clothes 
 on ' 
 
 ' Lord !' said Ben, awestruck and shocked. 
 
 ' And go rambling about, admiring scenery, and wonder- 
 ing what to do with himself next — well, what is it to us?' 
 
 As Wilson and Ben really did not see what it was to 
 them, but had an uncomfortable sensation that their hitherto 
 revered and honoured Mr. Sutcliffe was in some way a 
 wronged and slighted individual, and that they ought to 
 feel it all to be a great deal to them, and a subject of sore- 
 ness and offence, they waited humbly for the keynote, 
 nodding their heads, and trying to look wise. 
 
 ' It's true,' went on Myles, more warmly — ' it's true, he's 
 got this big business here, which makes his money, and 
 hundreds of hands who work for him, and who are, so to 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 speak, under his care ; and it's true that some people — old- 
 fashioned idiots, of course — might think that a big property 
 has its duties as well as its pleasures, and that a capitalist 
 has, or ought to have, something else to do than take and 
 spend his money, and never inquire how he got it, nor what 
 state the machine is in that made it for him ; but what is 
 that to us ? If we're going to have a famine in the land, 
 it would be unpleasant for a person not accustomed to this 
 kind of thing — all the more reason for him to keep away. 
 My lord likes the company of lords and ladies, and he 
 thinks Thanshope is only fit for tradespeople.' 
 
 ' I bet he's ne'er seen nowt finer nor the new town-hall, 
 choose where he may have been ! ' said Ben, aggressively. 
 
 ' And,' went on Myles, whose mouth had grown very 
 cross indeed, and whose eyebrows met in a straight line 
 across his frowning brow, 'he's a Tory — a Tory; if I'd 
 said that at first, I shouldn't have needed to say all the 
 rest. A Tory, in these times, and in Thanshope ! ' 
 
 Wilson and Ben laughed, but not quite a whole-hearted 
 laugh. A Tory — every species of Conservative — was a 
 poor thing, was the general Thanshope opinion, but they 
 had always thought of Tories more as harmless old women, 
 or vulgar 'risen' men, like Mr. Spenceley, than as anything 
 so actively mischievous and to be eschewed as their 
 absentee employer, Sebastian Mallory. 
 
 ' He's ashamed of the place, and the people, and the 
 business that has made him what he is. And that's why 
 he won't come back.' 
 
 'I say, Myles, who told you all this?' inquired Wilson, 
 deferentially. 
 
 ' That I'm not at liberty to say ; but not one of the men 
 from the stables, old lad,' said Myles. ' But my authority 
 is a good one, and it's what I've suspected for years. I've 
 heard of his doings. He goes about with parsons. He's 
 trying all he can to shake himself free of trade. He'll try 
 to do it by marrying a lord's daughter — that's what these 
 shoddy Conservatives always do — she'll spend his money 
 for him, and if he says anything, she'll tell him it smells of 
 cotton, and she wants to get rid of it.' 
 
PROBA TIOX. 
 
 1 Nay, nay, now !' interrupted Ben, with feeling. 
 
 ' But she will,' said Myles, looking as angry as if the fair 
 and contemptuous aristocrat stood in person before them. 
 ' I know. Don't we all know what happened to Jack 
 Brierley's lad, and how ' 
 
 Clang, clang, clang ! went the great bell in the courtyard. 
 It was two minutes past six. Wilson raised himself rapidly 
 from his recumbent attitude, and began to turn over his 
 papers, calling Ben to his side to help him. The discus- 
 sion as to the merits or demerits of Sebastian Mallory, 
 who certainly formed a striking instance of the theory 
 that les absents out tonjours tort, was over ; soon the office 
 was filled with a pushing, elbowing crowd, waiting more 
 or less impatiently to receive the hire of their week's 
 labour. 
 
 Myles sat upon his high stool in the background, and 
 watched, while Wilson and his assistant paid out the wages. 
 It was rather a dingy-looking crowd that he saw, and was 
 apparent to nose, as well as to eye, by the unmistakable 
 odour of oil and fluff which emanated from it. Bare-armed 
 girls with long, greasy pinafores, loud voices, and ungainly 
 gestures, elbowing their way through the lads, and ex- 
 changing with them chaff of the roughest description. 
 Small, pale, stunted-looking men ; sometimes downright 
 hideously ugly and mean-looking, or again, only sallow, 
 pale, and subdued by a sedentary occupation, with here 
 and there a tremendous massive brow ; here and there a 
 pair of eyes so deep and glowing as to cause a shock and 
 thrill to one who encountered them ; here a mouth ot 
 poetical delicacy and sensitiveness ; there a jaw so strong 
 and heavy, that, comparing it with the eyes, brows, and 
 mouths before spoken of, one no longer felt cause for sur- 
 prise in hearing such aphorisms as ' Manchester rules 
 England,' 'What Lancashire thinks to-day, England thinks 
 to-morrow.' It was, taken all in all, an ugly crowd, but in 
 its way a commanding one. It might have moved the soul 
 of a ' Corn-Law Rhymer,' a Gerald Massey, a ' Lancashire 
 Lad;' it would probably have been repulsive to more re- 
 fined bards and writers, and the poet of the brush and 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 canvas would have found absolutely nothing here with 
 which to gladden his eye. 
 
 Myles, a striking exception to almost every one of the 
 men in point of good looks and fine physical development, 
 if not in point of intelligent expression, sat upon his stool ; 
 and his monotonous whistle continued as he scanned the 
 faces, and returned a nod here and there. Many a girl 
 looked at him, and smiled her brightest as she caught his 
 grave eyes. 
 
 He was not quite like the other workmen in more things 
 than beauty, and a somewhat higher position, and none 
 knew that better than the workwomen. The smiles and 
 amiable looks provoked little answer. Myles was not rude 
 to girls ; he never chaffed them in the rough manner of 
 some of his fellow-workmen ; but, on the other hand, he 
 very seldom took any notice of them at all, having very 
 little to say to any young woman out of his own family. 
 
 They passed before him in varied array ; ugly, and pretty, 
 and mediocre ; fair girls and dark girls, stout girls and thin 
 ones, tall and short, stupid and intelligent-looking. Here 
 and there a pale, pensive face, with a head of flaxen hair, 
 and long, delicate, Madonna-like features ; now a brunette, 
 with high complexion, and flashing black eyes, that showed 
 the brighter under the thick white powdering of cotton 
 fluff with which her head was covered ; piquante and placid, 
 merry and melancholy ; but not for one in all the crowd 
 did his cheek flush in the least, not once did the calm 
 indifference in his eyes change, nor did his low, careless 
 whistle cease for an instant. He stared over or between 
 their heads, or — which was the most irritating of all — right 
 at them, without once noticing them, until a girl, somewhat 
 taller than the majority of her companions, came in, and 
 stood waiting with a group of others near the door, until 
 her turn should come to go up for her wages. 
 
 Then Myles stopped whistling, and got off his stool, 
 remarking, half to himself, ' There's Mary, at last ! ' and ap- 
 plied to Wilson for the sum of eighteen shillings, that being 
 the amount of his sister's wages. He received the money, 
 and made his way through the crowd towards the door. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Eh, Myles, art there ?' said the young woman. ' Wait 
 of me a minute, while I get my wages.' 
 
 1 They're here,' said he, putting the money into her hand. 
 ' So come along, lass ! Let's get out of this shop.' 
 
 They passed out at the door, and walked together down 
 the sloping street — a tall and well-looking pair. It was 
 very seldom, indeed, that Myles Heywood and his sister 
 Mary failed to walk home from their work together. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 ' And I will say to my soul, Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for 
 many years ; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.' 
 
 It was August of the year 1861 — the year succeeding that 
 which might almost be called the apotheosis of the cotton 
 trade. The goods of Lancashire were piled in every port ; 
 her merchants were a byword for riches and prosperity. 
 'Cotton lords' — the aristocracy of the land — that grimy, 
 smutty, dingy, golden land, whose sceptre was swayed by 
 King Cotton. 
 
 Day after day the goodly ships had borne their load 
 across the Atlantic, from New Orleans and the other cotton 
 ports ; day after day those Liverpool cotton lords had 
 received that load upon their docks, and those Manchester 
 cotton lords had bartered with them and bought it ; and it 
 had been borne slowly along, piled up on great lorries, or it 
 had been whirled along the iron road, and unloaded, and 
 carried to a thousand factories in Manchester, and Bolton, 
 and Oldham — the giant consumers ; in Rochdale, and 
 Bury, and Burnley ; Blackburn and Wigan, and Ashton 
 and Stockport ; to the great, young, growing towns ; to 
 strange moorland villages, younger sisters of the towns ; and 
 there thickset spikes had whirled it about, and combs had 
 smoothed it out ; revolving spindles had spun it into the 
 thickest or the most fairy threads ; rows and rows of shining 
 
PROBATION. 13 
 
 looms had received it, and woven it into every conceivable 
 variety of texture and colour, and breadth, and length, and 
 pattern. Skilled workmen and workwomen, deft-handed, 
 lissome, soft-fingered craftsmen and craftswomen had stood 
 by their wooden and metal fellow-workers, and fed their 
 untiring jaws ; then it had gone to the white-looking ware- 
 houses, to be piled in great masses, like little mountains for 
 height and solidity, and from thence removed to ships again, 
 and borne over the seas to India, and China, and America, 
 and to every town in Europe where men and women needed 
 clothing and had money to buy it. 
 
 The glory of King Cotton at this period of his reign, and 
 the splendour of him, cannot be better summed up than 
 in the graphic words of one who has thought and written 
 on that great subject : — 
 
 'The dreary totals which Mr. Gladstone's eloquence 
 illuminates, and the rolling numerals of the National Debt, 
 become almost insignificant beside the figures which this 
 statement (the statistics of the cotton trade) involves. 
 Arithmetic itself grows dizzy as it approaches the returns of 
 the cotton trade for i860. One hundred years back, and 
 the cotton manufactures of England had been valued at 
 ^"200,000 a year. Had not French, American, and Russian 
 wars — had not railways and telegraphs, had their part and 
 lot in this century, surely it would be known as the Cotton 
 Age. This year, i860, was the annus mirabilis of King 
 Cotton. In this year his dependents were most numerous 
 and his throne most wide. There was no Daniel at hand 
 to interpret to him the handwriting on the wall, which 
 within twelve months should be read by all who ran, in 
 letters of blood. What cared he ? An argosy of ships 
 bore him across every sea and into every port. He listened 
 to the humming of his spindles and to the rattle of his 
 looms ; he drank of the fulness of his power and was 
 satisfied, for he was great — yes, very great. . . . The total 
 value of their (the manufacturers') exports for the year 
 amounted to ^52,012,380. If figures can ever be mag- 
 nificent — if naked totals ever reach to the sublime — surely 
 the British cotton trade for the year i860 claims our ad- 
 
H PROBATION. 
 
 miration. Its production for this single year equalled in 
 value ^76,012,380, or nearly six millions more than the 
 gross revenue of the kingdom for the same period.' 
 
 Surely the land which was the chief home of this monster 
 trade deserved the title of ' The Land of Plenty,' and such 
 it was — ' a goodly land,' in fact, if not in outward show, ' a 
 land flowing with milk and honey,' or at least their modern 
 English equivalents — a land where wealth was profuse — 
 where masters and men vied with each other in pride of 
 bearing and dogged independence of spirit. Such was that 
 rough, dark land at the end of i860; such it was still at 
 the end of August 1861 ; what it was in August 1862 only 
 those know who dwelt in it, and saw its thousands of 
 perishing children, and noted their stoic endurance of their 
 sufferings. 
 
 Even now, even in this month of August 1861, rumours 
 were gaining ground that the war in America would not 
 soon be over. The price of cotton was beginning to go 
 up ; the days were hastening towards that month of Octo- 
 ber when prices sprang up, mounting daily higher and 
 higher, and factories began to close — not in ones and twos 
 as heretofore, not to run short time, or half-time, or even 
 quarter-time, but to close bodily, in dozens and scores, 
 with no prospect of their opening again for an indefinite 
 period of want and woe. It was a vast, dark, pitiless 
 cloud, that which was even now rolling up from the West, 
 bearing in its huge womb lamentation, and mourning, and 
 woe. 
 
 But still Lancashire was the land of plenty and of hospi- 
 tality ; still her generous fires burnt merrily upon her ample 
 hearths, making the stranger forget her murky skies, and 
 the smoke-dimmed countenance of her landscapes. Her 
 workpeople still got the largest wages, her masters still made 
 the greatest fortunes of any masters and workpeople, taken 
 collectively, in England ; and nothing was said about the 
 over-production of the last plethoric year, nor of the piled- 
 up goods in the overstocked warehouses. 
 
PROBATION. 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 RIFTS WITHIN THE LUTE. 
 
 The brother and sister walked together down the sloping 
 street already mentioned, and which was, as usual at that time, 
 full of workpeople, streaming out of the numberless factories 
 which formed the staple of Thanshope buildings. Arms were 
 swinging, and clogs were clattering ; tongues were wagging 
 furiously in the reaction of the release from work, and the 
 inhalation of the air, which, though close and thunderous, 
 was yet fresher than that in the great hot factories. 
 
 Thanshope was built on a situation with considerable 
 claims to natural beauty, and there were days, even now, 
 when it looked beautiful. Its streets all climbed up and 
 down steep hills. Whenever the day or the smoke was 
 clear enough, hills might be seen surrounding it on all sides 
 in the distance, except to the south, where Manchester lay. 
 
 There was a river — the river Thanse — running through 
 the town, which unfortunate stream formed a fertile source 
 of bickering and heart-burning amongst the members of the 
 town-council, the medical men, and the people who write 
 to the newspapers : one party of them contended that there 
 was nothing the matter with the river Thanse, it was a good 
 and wholesome stream, which purified the town ; while the 
 other party said that it and its unspeakable uncleanness were 
 at the root of all the ills that Thanshope flesh suffered from. 
 
 Altogether, the verdict of a stranger would most likely 
 have been that Thanshope was a dim, unlovely, smoky 
 place, in which no one would choose to live whose business 
 did not oblige him to do so — a place where substantial dirt 
 was the co-operator of substantial prosperity, where grime 
 and plenty went hand in hand. 
 
 Yet there were people who loved this dirty town, and 
 who lived contented lives in it — people not belonging to the 
 great swarm of workers who were obliged to live there, and 
 who, perhaps, thought more about the rate of wages than 
 about the aesthetic condition of their surroundings. 
 
1 6 P ROB ATI OX, 
 
 Myles and Mary Heywood, having come to the end of 
 the sloping street, turned a corner to the left, and soon 
 found themselves in another street, quieter, wider, with 
 terraces of small houses on either side, whose monotony 
 was diversified by various chapels, meeting-houses, and 
 schools. Uphill for a short distance, till the street grew 
 wider and the houses better, and Myles and Mary, turning 
 down a side street to the right, emerged upon one side of 
 a wide, open, square space, called Townfield, or the Town- 
 field, and elevated so high that the rest of the town lay 
 below them as in a basin. All along that side of the Town- 
 field where they stood was a row of neat, small houses, each 
 exactly like all the others ; the only room for the individu- 
 ality of the owners making itself apparent being in the ar- 
 rangement of the little strip of garden spreading before each. 
 
 Half the Townfield had been cut off, a couple of years 
 ago, to furnish a small park or pleasure-ground ; but looking 
 across the open space to the north-west, they could see the 
 old part of the town in its hollow ; the old church of the 
 parish on ground almost as high as the Townfield itself ; the 
 gilded spire of the town-hall rising ambitiously from the 
 hollow (it chimed a quarter after six with mellow tone as 
 they stood there), and all the other churches and chapels 
 and public buildings strewn here and there about the town. 
 A great cloud of smoke came up and dimmed the air ; on 
 every side was a fringe of long chimneys ; different big 
 factories were familiar features in the landscape, and formed 
 landmarks to Mary and her brother — had formed landmarks 
 to them from infancy. 
 
 Away to the north-west were undulating lines of blue, 
 lofty moors. They were part of Blackrigg — that mighty 
 joint of England's irregular spine. It was not exactly an 
 enlivening prospect, but it had certain beauties of its own ; 
 and at least this town, full of rough, busy toilers, had a fit- 
 ting and harmonious frame in that semicircle of bleak and 
 treeless moors. 
 
 Mary and Myles went up one of the strips of garden 
 about the middle of the terrace, and opened the door of the 
 house. 
 
PROBATION. 17 
 
 ' Pah ! how hot and close it feels ! ' said Myles, as they 
 closed themselves in. ' Now I wonder how that lad is !' 
 
 They went along a little passage, to the left of which was 
 the ' parlour,' arranged in the approved style of such parlours, 
 with a brilliant, large-patterned carpet in red, yellow, and 
 blue ; bright green merino curtains, a 'drawing room suite' 
 in rosewood and crimson rep, a pink cloth upon the centre 
 table, upon which were negligently arranged albums, Sunday 
 books, paper mats, and a glass shade, under which reposed 
 waxen apples and grapes of a corpulent description. On 
 the mantelpiece, two green glass vases, and a china grey- 
 hound of an unknown variety, more frilled paper mats, 
 and little piles of spar and crystal. On the walls, photo- 
 graphs and a rich collection of framed funeral cards, together 
 with the chef-d' cenvre of the whole establishment — a work 
 of art which Mary regarded with feelings little short of 
 veneration — 'Joseph sold by his Brethren,' executed in 
 Berlin wools, the merchants all squinting frightfully, and 
 Joseph with a salmon-coloured back and a decidedly ruddy 
 countenance, though one not of such remarkable beauty as 
 quite to account for his subsequent adventures. 
 
 Past the door leading into this epitome of art and 
 beauty went these young people, into the kitchen, which 
 was, of course, the general living-room of the family. 
 Upon a couch beneath the window, with the crinkling of 
 the cinders and the ticking of the clock for his only com- 
 panions, lay the failure of his family — a cripple lad of 
 eighteen. 
 
 'Well, Ned, lad, how dost find thyself?' asked Myles, 
 going in. 
 
 ' I find myself as usual — wishing I was dead,' was the 
 encouraging reply, as the lad turned a pale and sallow face, 
 not without considerable beauty of feature, but stamped 
 with a look of ill-health, pain, and something deeper and 
 more sorrowful than either, towards the strong, handsome 
 brother who stooped over him. 
 
 ' Nay, come ! Not quite so bad as that,' said Myles, 
 smoothing Edmund's hair from his hot forehead, and seat- 
 ing himself beside the couch. He looked into his cripple 
 
 c 
 
1 8 PROBATION. 
 
 brother's eyes with a glance so full of life, and hope, and 
 strong, protecting kindness, and withal so contagious a 
 smile, that an answering, if a reluctant one, was wrung 
 from the lad's dull eyes and down-drawn mouth. 
 
 1 I'm that thirsty!' he said. ' Molly, do get the tea ready.' 
 
 ' I'm shappin' ' (shaping) ' to't now, lad,' she returned, 
 hanging up her cotton kerchief and poking the fire to 
 settle the kettle upon it. 
 
 'And you read a bit, Myles, wilta?' pursued Edmund. 
 ' Mother won't be home for half an hour, and I could like 
 to know how yon Lady Angiolina got on at the castle.' 
 
 Myles took up a book from a table and began to read 
 aloud : 
 
 ' " As the groom of the chambers announced the Lady 
 Angiolina Fitzmaurice, every eye turned towards her. She 
 advanced with the step of a queen. Her trailing robe of 
 black velvet set off her superb beauty to the utmost ad- 
 vantage," ' and so forth. 
 
 Edmund listened with face intent and a pleased half- 
 smile upon his lips. Mary moved noiselessly about, getting 
 the tea-cups out of the cupboard and setting them on the 
 tray with gingerly hand, so as not to disturb the literary party 
 in the window. 
 
 The reading was continued only for the space of some 
 quarter of an hour. The story was a novel of ' high life.' 
 No agent in it was of lower rank than a baronet ; no menial 
 less distinguished than a groom of the chambers or a major- 
 domo was permitted to appear in its truly select and ex- 
 clusive pages ; the action took place in Mayfair, in Belgravia, 
 and in the ancestral halls of dukes and earls. Manchester 
 was alluded to by the refined author much as if it had been 
 of about equal importance with Timbuctoo ; the whole a 
 very tawdry tinsel, pasted together in a very poor, second- 
 rate manner. 
 
 Myles read on and Edmund listened. Perhaps he was 
 aware that the story was rubbish, but it took him into a 
 world which by contrast with his own was beautiful : it 
 spoke of something else than the Townfield as a pleasure- 
 ground, grey factories, smoke and chimneys by way of a 
 
PROBATION. 19 
 
 prospect. It pointed out another sort of existence than 
 that led by him and his. 
 
 Edmund had an intensely poetic temperament. Poetry 
 of some sort, in real life or in books, he must have or die. 
 It was not forthcoming in real life : Myles never read novels 
 for his own pleasure, therefore Edmund had no beneficent 
 hand to point out to him the shining treasures of real poetry 
 with which our English literature abounds, so he had to 
 rely on the titles in the catalogue of the Thanshope Free 
 Library, and often received a stone instead of bread, in the 
 shape of such jingling nonsense as he was greedily listening 
 to just now. 
 
 Myles was a great reader of politics and science. The 
 romantic and poetic side of his nature had been left to 
 itself; the soil, whether sterile or fruitful, had never received 
 the least touch of cultivation — yet. He had some strong 
 convictions on the subject of ethics, which will be best left 
 undescribed, to display their results in his actions as circum- 
 stances put his theories to the test. 
 
 There was something striking and uncommon in the 
 appearance of all three of this group of brothers and sister. 
 Mary was comely — a tall, well-formed, well-grown young 
 woman, with the pale but clear and healthy complexion, 
 dark eyes and hair of her elder brother — a calm, sensible 
 face, not destitute of a certain still, regular beauty, but 
 lacking the impetuousness and intensity of Myles's expres- 
 sion. She sat knitting a long grey woollen stocking, and 
 looked with a large steady gaze now at Myles, now at 
 Edmund, whose face was equally sharp cut as his brother's, 
 but worn and drawn with pain and ill-health. 
 
 Edmund was nineteen; Mary, two-and-twenty ; Myles, 
 six-and-twenty ; another, born between them, had died an 
 infant. 
 
 At this juncture the back door was heard to open. Some 
 one entered, and in the pause made by Mylesin his reading 
 there was distinctly audible a heavy sigh — almost a groan. 
 Glances were exchanged between Myles and Mary ; both 
 looked as if they braced themselves to meet some ordeal. 
 Edmund's face darkened visibly. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Is that you, mother ? ' called out Mary cheerfully. 
 
 ' Ay, it's me ! ' replied a rather grating voice — a voice 
 high, though not loud, and complaining in the midst of an 
 ostentatious resignation. 
 
 ' Go on, Myles ! ' said Edmund, in an undertone. 
 
 ' Can't, my lad. You know mother can't abide it.' 
 
 ' Why am I never to have a bit o' pleasure ? It's 
 precious little as I get,' grumbled the lad, as he turned 
 away, and lay with his face concealed. 
 
 ' See, lad ! Tak' the book, and read for thysel',' said 
 Myles, who indulged in a tolerably broad dialect when in 
 the bosom of his family. 
 
 Edmund shrugged his shoulders irritably and made a 
 gesture of aversion. Myles closed the book, rising from 
 the side of the couch and going to the table, as a woman 
 came in from the back kitchen — a small, sharp-featured 
 woman, comely yet, with a bright cheek and a dark eye. 
 She was the mother of all those tall children, though she 
 was only five-and-forty, having been married, as too many 
 of her class do marry, at eighteen. The great wonder was 
 that she had remained a widow so long, for in addition to 
 good looks, clever fingers, and a stirring disposition, she 
 possessed property to the extent of thirty pounds per annum 
 left by a rich relation to her years ago. 
 
 An ignorant observer, looking at the family party just 
 now, would have said what a good-looking, prosperous, 
 well-to-do party they were. But Mrs. Heywood had 
 scarcely spoken yet. 
 
 ' Evenin', mother,' said her eldest son, civilly, but, it 
 must be owned, hardly cordially. 
 
 ' Good evenin',' she returned, in her high-pitched, dubious 
 voice. ' What ! you've managed to get th' tea ready, lass ? 
 But I know what that means. Just twice as much tea in the 
 pot as we've any need for, or as I should 'a put in mysel'. 
 Waste, waste, on every side ! ' 
 
 As this was Mrs. Heywood's invariable remark when she 
 came in from her occasional day's sewing at one of the 
 large houses of the neighbourhood and found the tea pre- 
 pared, it excited neither comment nor indignation, and the 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 excellent woman, seating herself, cast a sharp, discontented 
 look around, as if wishing that some one would give her an 
 opportunity of saying something disagreeable. 
 
 ' Eh, bi' the mass ! It is some and hot ! If some folks 
 had to walk as far as me, mayhap they'd understand what 
 I feel at this moment.' 
 
 Again no answer. Myles was buttering a piece of bread. 
 His eyebrows were contracted again. The serpent in that 
 Eden was the contentious woman. Myles never answered 
 her complaints, on principle, for fear of saying something 
 , outrageous and unbecoming, but it was often with a sore 
 struggle that he abstained : he did not want to become a 
 household bully, or he knew — he had found it out by 
 accident one day — that a certain look and tone of his could 
 quell Mrs. Heywood's temper in one minute. He was very 
 much afraid of using it too frequently, though often sorely 
 provoked. 'Such people as Sebastian Mallory,' he reflected 
 (whose mother was said to live for him and his happiness), 
 ' were not obliged to stay in one room, listening to maddening 
 complaints, like the continual dropping of a rainy day, with 
 no alternative but solitude, silence, or the taproom.' 
 
 Edmund's shoulders were drawn up to his ears, and his 
 back expressed distinctly that he felt himself jarred and 
 grated in every fibre of his being. 
 
 'Now, then, Edmund,' said his mother, in her thin, 
 penetrating voice ; ' art comin' to the table, or mun thou 
 have thy tea carried to thee, to drink on th' sofa, like a 
 lady, eh?' 
 
 Answering to this appeal, he raised himself, his face 
 darkened, his lips quivering with anger. 
 
 ' That's right ! ' said he, bitterly. ' Do insult me a little 
 more ! It's so nice to be ill, and so pleasant to spend your 
 days by yourself upon a sofa in a kitchen. I'm likely to 
 keep it up as long as ever I can. So would you if once 
 you knew how agreeable it was.' 
 
 He had supported himself by means of a stick to the 
 table ; and as he limped along to the chair which Mary had 
 placed for him, one could see how much deformed he was, 
 and how clumsily he moved. No look of pity warmed the 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 woman's face as she saw him. He was not, like many a 
 weakly or deformed child, the object of the mother's divinest 
 love and tenderest care. He had been born three months 
 after his father's sudden death. Mrs. Heywood had never 
 been noted for enthusiastic devotion to any of her children, 
 or to her husband, or, indeed, to any one but herself and 
 her own interest. Myles could influence her ; but she 
 seemed to have a positive aversion to Edmund, who used 
 to say that his real mother was Mary. 
 
 ■\Yhen the meal was over, there was a little movement. 
 Edmund looked wistfully towards Myles and the book ; , 
 but Myles did not offer to resume it. He had begun to 
 think over that conversation in the office before pay-time, 
 and was wondering whether it could be really true that 
 Sebastian Mallory meant to return. 
 
 Sebastian Mallory was, and had been for years, his bete 
 noire. He had seen him once, ten years ago, a handsome, 
 fair-faced, 'yellow-haired laddie' of sixteen, who had come 
 to look round his own works, with a somewhat listless gaze. 
 Myles's vigorous soul had been filled with contempt for him 
 at that moment, and he had never seen fit to alter that 
 feeling. All he heard of Sebastian Mallory was exactly 
 contrary to his ideas of what a man — unless the man were 
 some irresponsible person, with neither business nor estate 
 in the background — ought to be and do. He had a very 
 strong sense of duty himself, and never, so far as he knew, 
 left a duty unperformed. He struggled hard, according to 
 his light, to do what was right ; consequently he felt himself 
 in a position to be somewhat censorious upon those who, he 
 considered, obviously did not fulfil their duties — duties to 
 their property, their dependents, their privileges, to him — 
 such persons as this very Sebastian Mallory. Therefore he 
 smiled somewhat grimly to himself as he imagined that lily- 
 handed, yellow-haired, delicate-looking young man coming 
 to take his place at the head of affairs at such a crisis as 
 was striding towards Lancashire — a storm which it would 
 take the keenest heads, the strongest hands, the most 
 practised eyes of the wariest business men who should 
 succeed in weathering it. Probably Mr. Sebastian Mallory, 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 if he did come, would cut a sorry spectacle, and would 
 soon be glad to retire again to more congenial scenes 
 abroad. 
 
 He did not feel it his duty to excite Mrs. Heywood's 
 disagreeable remarks by reading aloud what he justly con- 
 sidered ' balderdash' to Edmund; he therefore suggested 
 that they should go and take a turn on the Townfield. 
 
 Edmund, who for some reason was in a more unhappy 
 temper than usual, shrugged his shoulders, and said he did 
 not feel inclined to go out. 
 
 ' No ? Then I must go by myself, I suppose,' said Myles. 
 
 But he made no immediate effort to leave the house. 
 He seated himself at the table with a book, and might 
 possibly have remained in the house, but for his mother, 
 who having ascertained that his book was entitled ' The 
 History of Rationalism,' announced that the bitterest grief 
 of her declining years consisted in having to see a son of 
 hers growing up an infidel, or worse. She hunted under 
 the Family Bible, and produced a tract, which she offered 
 him in lieu of the work he was reading. It bore the alluring 
 title, 'Thou also, Worm !' And on his refusing this tit-bit 
 of religious badinage, she put it aside with a bitter smile, 
 and an audibly expressed hope that it might not in the 
 future go too hardly with those who had spurned the means 
 of grace proffered by a mother's hand. 
 
 Myles endured these, and a succession of similar remarks, 
 for some little time, while he appeared to go on with his 
 book without heeding them; but, as none knew better 
 than she who made them, the contracted eyebrows and the 
 impatient twisting of his moustache covered considerable 
 inward irritation. He at last abruptly rose, and took his 
 cap from the nail on which it hung. 
 
 ' Out again ! ' said Mrs. Heywood, in the same maddening 
 voice ; ' and if a mother may ask, what pothouse are you 
 going to now?' 
 
 ' No thanks to you, mother, that I've not taken to the 
 pothouse long ago,' replied the young man curtly, slapping 
 his hat upon his head and leaving the room. 
 
 ' If he doesn't break that door off its hinges some fine 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 day, in one of his tempers, my name's not Sarah Ann 
 Heywood,' remarked his mother. ' It's a grievous thing to 
 have an ungovernable temper. His Bible, if he ever read 
 it, would tell him that the tongue is a little member, but a 
 consuming fire.' 
 
 ' The Bible never said a truer word,' retorted Edmund, 
 witheringly ; and Mrs. Heywood, returning to her knitting. 
 with the pleasant sense of having driven out the strongest, 
 sank into silence. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ADRIENNE. 
 
 ' I love my lady ; she is very fair ; 
 Her brow is wan, and bound by simple hair : 
 Her spirit sits aloof, and high, 
 But glances from her tender eye, 
 In sweetness droopingly.' 
 
 Myles left the house, and, traversing some sideways, found 
 himself presently in a steep, hilly street, which he descended, 
 arriving at last at a sort of square, through the middle of 
 which ran the river Thanse, and on both sides of which 
 were rows of shops. Then, walking on a hundred yards or 
 so, he emerged in another still larger open space, opposite 
 a large and beautiful building, which, in its delicate and 
 multiform Gothic tracery, and noble dimensions, with the 
 springing gilded spire leaping aloft at last, offered a startling 
 contrast to its sordid surroundings — the shabby, low houses, 
 narrow streets, and grimy factories which crowded round, 
 as near as they dared. The river here made a bend, and 
 passed the front of the town-hall. A kind of boulevard had 
 been made, planted with trees, and immediately across the 
 river, fronting the town-hall, was a house standing in a garden, 
 divided by the river from the road. It was a fine old house 
 of red brick, which had no doubt originally been ' in the 
 country.' There was a look of stateliness and substance 
 about it — the brick was relieved by handsome stone mullions. 
 copings, and chimney-stacks. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 The trees had been stunted by smoke, but they lived 
 yet. Much ivy, strong and tenacious from advanced age, 
 clung about it. The grounds were thoroughly well kept. 
 The parterres were blazing with the passionate, glowing 
 colours of late summer flowers ; the windows were glazed 
 with sheets of plate-glass. Here and there a bow had been 
 thrown out. Behind were extensive stables and outhouses. 
 It was, though dingy, and miscellaneous in architecture, a 
 fine, imposing old mansion ; it instantly caught the stranger's 
 eye, and was known from infancy to every inhabitant of 
 Thanshope as well as the old church on the hill behind the 
 town-hall, or as the great co-operative stores on another hill 
 at the other side of the town. 
 
 To-night Myles looked more earnestly than usual at this 
 old house. It was called ' The Oakenrod,' and was the 
 property of Sebastian Mallory, tenanted during his absence 
 by that stately dame, his mother. 
 
 ' There it is ! ' said Myles within himself. ' Cumbering 
 the ground — kept like a palace for a fellow who doesn't 
 care two straws for it ! ' 
 
 Again he shrugged his shoulders, and turned somewhat 
 abruptly to the left, making for one of the side doors of the 
 town-hall. He went in, and ran up a great many flights of 
 stone steps, past corridors and branching passages, till he 
 could go no higher, for the excellent reason that he was at 
 the top of the building. Pushing open the glass door, 
 which swung to behind him, Myles found himself in the 
 holy of holies — the library. A door to the right led into 
 the reading-room, and thither he directed his steps. It was 
 a large, lofty, handsome room, with many tables and chairs, 
 and plenty of pens, ink, newspapers, and periodicals scat- 
 tered about. When Myles entered, the room was almost 
 empty. One or two men were reading newspapers, and at 
 one table in a window sat a girl, who had a great book open 
 before her, but whose eyes were at the moment intently 
 fixed upon the old house, the Oakenrod, which lay directly 
 beneath. 
 
 Myles, searching about, found a number of the West- 
 minster Review, and took it to his accustomed place, at the 
 
26 PROBA TION. 
 
 table next to that where the girl sat He noticed no one 
 to right or to left of him — not even her who was almost 
 the only lady visitor who ever entered the reading-room. 
 
 She was already a familiar figure to his eyes. For some 
 months past he had seen her nearly every evening, sitting 
 at the same table, even at the same side of that table, with 
 a book — generally some large and weighty volume — open 
 before her, and a small thick note-book, in which she wrote 
 extracts or abstracts of what she read. 
 
 Myles knew quite well the tall, slim figure, the two dresses 
 which she alternately wore — one a soft, flowing black one 
 — another, soft and flowing too, of a blue so dark as to be 
 nearly black. He knew that the lines of her dresses flowed 
 gracefully, and were agreeable to the eye. He knew, too, 
 the little black fichu which she usually wore — a sort of 
 apology for a mantle, which she never discarded on the 
 hottest days ; the modestly shaped white straw hat, with its 
 carefully preserved black lace scarf, and bunch of daisies at 
 one side, which hat she always ended in taking off after she 
 had sat there ten minutes or so. She had a pale, clear, 
 fair complexion, bright, warm chestnut hair, and a face 
 which, not conventionally beautiful in outline, was full to 
 overflowing of the subtler, more bewitching charm of a 
 beautiful spirit. It — her face — had a youthful softness of 
 outline — not full, but not thin, with a charming rounded 
 chin, melting into the full white throat ; a mouth whose 
 lines attracted irresistibly, so good, so spiritual were their 
 curves ; an insignificant but well-cut nose ; a pair of large, 
 luminous, expressive eyes, which in some favourable lights 
 might appear grey, but which an impartial observer must 
 inevitably have confessed had a shade of green in them. 
 
 Myles and this young lady had sat at neighbouring tables 
 in the public reading-room almost every evening throughout 
 the spring and summer months of that year. Whenever 
 Myles came into the room he had found the young lady 
 there ; he could not, of course, tell whether she came when 
 he was not there. 
 
 Conversation in the reading-room was against the rules ; 
 but ' conversation ' is an abstract noun of considerable in- 
 
PROBA TION. 27 
 
 definiteness, and one to which different minds may attach 
 different meanings. A few words exchanged, of greeting or 
 courtesy, could scarcely have come under the head of 
 ' conversation,' or if it did, the rules were infringed every 
 day. A little remark, as one passed the paper to the other 
 — fifty little things might have been said (and were said by 
 some frequenters of the room) without in the least disturbing 
 the peace of the studious. 
 
 But between Myles and his neighbour those words had 
 never been spoken. They had never exchanged a syllable 
 — Myles because of a certain British-workmanlike shyness, 
 and a general sense that she belonged, despite the simplicity 
 of her appearance, manner, and attire, to the class of ' fine 
 ladies ' whom he disliked and distrusted — the class which 
 was typified for him in the person of Mrs. Mallory of the 
 Oakenrod — and of whom he had the idea that they were 
 silly, pretty, useless, expensive things, good for nothing but 
 to spend a man's money, and make him miserable with their 
 tricks and antics — and break his heart if he were fool enough 
 to give it into their keeping — incapable of taking any part 
 in the serious things of life. That was his opinion of ' ladies.' 
 For the women of his own class he had a hearty respect 
 and admiration : they could earn wages ; they could work ; 
 they did not meddle with things out of their sphere ; they 
 had a distinct use and purpose ; he never uttered an ill 
 word to or of any one of them. 
 
 He had never spoken to his neighbour, because he was 
 shy, and did not know how to begin a conversation ; but he 
 would have scorned to own it : he would have said, 
 
 'Speak to her? Why should I speak to her? I've 
 nothing that I want to say to her.' 
 
 Which would have been untrue ; for there was such 
 intelligence, such sympathy in her face, that he many a time 
 caught himself, on reading any striking passage, wondering 
 what she would think of it if she had read it. 
 
 She had never spoken to him — because — why — because 
 — well, what did it matter ? possibly because she was a little 
 more sensible than most girls, and felt no wish to speak unless 
 she had something to say. 
 
28 PROBATION. 
 
 They met without sign of recognition. He would take 
 his place — she hers ; she always had some book under her 
 arm, for which she had stopped to ask the librarian on her 
 way in, and they would often pass a couple of hours thus 
 almost without a word or a look. She read earnestly and 
 hard — not as if she read for pleasure, but for work — with a 
 purpose. Privately, Myles was mighty puzzled to know what 
 she could be reading, or rather, with what object she read 
 what she did. Once he had been quite excited (silently) to 
 see her poring over a musical score ; reading it as if it were 
 a book. One of the specialities of the Thanshope Free 
 Library was its musical department, which was richly stocked 
 both in scores and in treatises on music and musicians. 
 
 During the summer the room was generally nearly empty. 
 The people were otherwise employed, so that often not more 
 than half a dozen readers were to be found in all the large, 
 airy room — sometimes Myles and the studious, unknown 
 ' reading girl ' were all alone there. 
 
 Myles opened his Review, and his eye fell upon an article 
 on the governing classes which instantly caught his attention. 
 In the hope of finding some follies and weaknesses of the 
 governing classes sharply castigated, he settled himself with 
 pleased expectation to his book. 
 
 Half an hour passed. One by one the other occupants 
 of the room walked away. The workman and the young 
 lady were left alone together. She looked every now and 
 then out of the window. Her note-taking did not seem to 
 flow so smoothly as usual. Spread open on the table before 
 her, she had a fine edition of the ' Fugues ' of Domenico 
 Scarlatti, which she studied a little now and then, but oftener 
 looked out through the window. Now, from that window 
 she had a tolerably wide prospect ; and immediately beneath 
 her eyes was the handsome old red-brick house, with 
 its flower-beds, and its lawns, smooth, and green, and 
 well-watered — a rural fastness in the midst of the dusty 
 town. 
 
 There was silence that was almost solemn in the big room, 
 which was growing dusk : it was so high and airy, and so 
 isolated ; raised far above the town and its troubles ; the din 
 
PROBA TION. 29 
 
 hushed ; the rolling vehicles and the passing throng dwarfed ; 
 books on every side, and silence like a garment over all. 
 
 As chimes broke that silence, and eight o'clock struck, 
 the girl, with a sigh, turned resolutely away from the outside 
 prospect, and applied herself again to her score. 
 
 Myles, half roused by the chiming, half pleased with a 
 particularly hard hit at the governing classes, which especially 
 took his fancy, raised his head at this moment, and his eyes, 
 without any thought of his neighbour. It is a gesture 
 which every one makes sometimes in reading. Smiling with 
 satisfaction at what struck him as a masterly argument, Myles 
 let his eyes fall upon her. 
 
 She too was looking up — not at him, but past him. Her 
 eyes were turned towards the door, and quick as thought 
 there passed a subtle, inexplicable flash of dislike, tempered 
 with alarm, across her face. She made a movement as if 
 to rise — as if to escape ; then sat down again, with a flush, 
 more of annoyance than confusion, mantling in her cheeks. 
 Then, bending to her book, she seemed to make some effort 
 to keep her eyes firmly fixed upon it. 
 
 This little bit of by-play roused Myles's attention. He 
 turned his head towards the door, which was behind him, 
 and he saw how it was opened, and a man came into the 
 room. A gentleman? he speculated, as he first saw the 
 figure, in the obscure background. The visitor gradually 
 approached, and Myles, staring unceremoniously at him, 
 experienced a feeling of surprise, disgust, and sudden en- 
 lightenment as to the cause of the young lady's disturbance. 
 
 The new-comer was a young man with a somewhat high 
 colour, dark hair and eyes, a full beardless face, and a coarse, 
 animal mouth. He was well, even foppishly dressed, and 
 bore the outward stamp of a person to whom money is not 
 a subject of painful study or consideration. But, as Myles 
 knew, he was not sterling coin. His manner, even of 
 entering that room, was less than second-rate ; confidence 
 became a swagger ; independence was metamorphosed into 
 self-consciousness. The expression of his face was bold 
 and vulgar. Perhaps no greater or more telling contrast 
 could have been found, than that between the workman in 
 
3Q PROBA TION. 
 
 his work-a-day dress, and the would-be dandy in his gloved, 
 perfumed, over-dressed vulgarity. 
 
 This person came forward ; his eyes fell upon Myles ; he 
 removed them. A workman — a person not demanding his 
 attention, one of the " fellahs " who came to the reading-room. 
 
 Nevertheless, he seated himself at Myles's table and drew 
 a Daily News towards him, without speaking and without 
 removing his hat. Myles glanced at the young lady without 
 letting her see that he did so ; her eyes were fastened upon 
 the page before her, but he had studied her expressions, 
 and knew that she was not reading. 
 
 ' Now, I should like to know,' speculated Myles inwardly, 
 ' what you may want here, Mr. Frederick Spenceley?' 
 
 He had recognised the man — the son of a rich manu- 
 facturer of Thanshope, who had earned his fortune as a 
 Radical, and was living in state now as a Conservative and 
 a supporter of the aristocracy, Church, State, and landed 
 gentry interest. His son, as Myles was well aware, had 
 assuredly not visited the reading-room for purposes of mental 
 instruction. 
 
 Myles apparently applied himself again to his book, but 
 the argument had lost its charm for him. He had not 
 known until now how lively was the interest he had taken 
 in his graceful young neighbour. Placing his book so as 
 to shield his face, but yet so that he could observe what 
 was going on, he said to himself, 
 
 1 I'm glad I didn't go away ten minutes ago.' 
 
 After bestowing a very short and scant need of attention 
 upon the Daily News, Mr. Spenceley cast his eyes around 
 him. Myles watched him, and saw the leisurely impudence 
 of the stare with which he favoured the young lady, and 
 his ears began to tingle. He — my poor Myles — was of a 
 fiery temperament, could not endure to see even a ' fine 
 lady' insulted without cause, and was dangerously ready to 
 take up the cudgels for the unprotected or ill-used. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Frederick Spenceley, lean- 
 ing towards the girL ' Do you want that paper?' 
 
 He stretched his hand towards a newspaper which lay 
 upon the table at which she sat, but he was looking at her 
 
PROBATION. 31 
 
 with a stare, perhaps intended for one of gallant admiration, 
 but which, from the unfortunate ' nature of the beast,' suc- 
 ceeded only in being impertinent. 
 
 Without looking at him, she raised her elbow from the 
 paper on which it had rested, and continued, or seemed to 
 continue, her reading. 
 
 'You don't want it?' he said, with what may have been 
 meant for a winning smile. 
 
 ' No,' came like a little icicle from her lips. 
 
 Myles with difficulty sat still ; but, making an effort, con- 
 tinued quiet, though watching the game with a deeper 
 interest than before. 
 
 The twilight had grown almost into darkness by this time. 
 The attendant, perhaps not knowing that any one was in 
 the room, had not yet lighted the gas. 
 
 Mr. Spenceley took the paper, but, without even pretend- 
 ing to look at it, said in a tone of under-bred badinage, 
 
 ' Isn't it rather dark to be reading, Miss — a ' 
 
 She raised her eyes this time, and caught those of the 
 speaker fixed full upon her. Her own were instantly 
 averted, with an expression of cold contempt and disgust, 
 and she made no reply. 
 
 " I assure you it's very bad for the eyes to read by this half- 
 light — very trying. Hadn't I better tell the fellah to light the 
 gas ? I am sure you will spoil your eyes, and that would be 
 a pity,' with a winning simper, which made Myles's fist clench 
 with an intense desire to do him some horrible violence. 
 ' Don't you really think I had better ?' he pursued, evidently 
 bent upon making her speak. At last he succeeded. 
 
 ' Be good enough to mind your own business, without 
 addressing me,' said she, in a voice which, thought Myles, 
 was sufficient to have rebuffed the veriest cur that ever 
 called itself by the name of man. 
 
 With that she quietly, by slightly altering the position of 
 her chair, turned her back upon Mr. Spenceley, while her 
 profile, with frowning brow and indignantly compressed lips, 
 was plainly visible to Myles. 
 
 Mr. Spenceley laughed, not so musically as a lady-killer 
 should be able to laugh, and remarked : 
 
3* PROBATION. 
 
 ' I feel it my business to prevent a young lady from 
 spoiling her eyes, and ' 
 
 Steadying his voice with some difficulty into something 
 like indifference, Myles turned to him and said, 
 
 ' Don't you know that talking is forbidden here ? ' 
 
 The look which he received in answer made him smile, 
 despite his inner indignation. Mr. Spenceley contemplated 
 him with a stare, which was unfortunately not so regal as it 
 might have been ; then, raising a single eyeglass, he stuck 
 it into one eye, and surveyed the audacious speaker anew, 
 as if his wonder at what had occurred could never be 
 sufficiently satisfied. 
 
 ' Will yah mind yah own business, and leave gentlemen 
 to mind they-aws?' he at last drawled out, with magnificent 
 disdain. 
 
 ' When I see the gentleman I shall be quite ready to leave 
 him to mind his own business,' was the placid retort. ' In 
 the meantime, as the young lady wishes to read, and I wish 
 to read, and you disturb us with your chatter, perhaps you 
 will kindly hold your tongue.' 
 
 Here Mr. Spenceley resolved upon a master-stroke. Turn- 
 ing his broadcloth-clad back upon Myles, he tilted his chair 
 back so as to see the young lady better, and inquired, 
 
 1 Do you know the fellah, Miss — a ?' 
 
 Before she could reply (supposing that she had any inten- 
 tion of replying) Myles had leaned a little forward, and 
 tapped Mr. Spenceley on the shoulder. With a great start, 
 quite disproportionate to the circumstances, the latter 
 brought his chair to its normal position again. Myles saw 
 the start, and stifled a smile. 
 
 ' Excuse me, my good sir, I don't remember ever to have 
 seen you here before, so perhaps you won't mind showing 
 me your ticket — I mean your member's ticket — other- 
 wise ' 
 
 ' Will yah hold yah tongue?' retorted the other, in a 
 tone of scornful exasperation. 
 
 1 No,' replied Myles. ' If you've any right to be here, 
 show me your ticket, and hold your tongue, according to 
 rules; if you haven't that right, walk out at once.' 
 
PROBA TION. 33 
 
 ' I can tell yah, yah don't seem to know who ya'h speak- 
 ing to,' observed Mr. Spenceley, apparently lost in astonish 
 ment. 'Are yah one of the authorities here?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I know you,' said Myles, who saw that the 
 young lady was now watching the dispute with undisguised 
 interest. ' And I'm that much of an authority that I can 
 prevent you from disturbing and annoying people. Once 
 for all, will you show me your card of admission?' 
 
 'No, I won't' 
 
 'Then you'll excuse my going to the librarian and telling 
 him you are here without right — unless you prefer to save 
 that trouble to me, and ten shillings to yourself, by walking 
 yourself off now, this moment,' said Myles, who began to 
 find a delicious piquancy in the sensation of dealing thus 
 summarily with a person of the consideration of Frederick 
 Spenceley. It was an ignoble feeling, and we all have 
 ignoble feelings sometimes, or what is the meaning of the 
 constant injunctions to bear and forbear which we receive 
 from different sources ? 
 
 'Haw! Wha— at?' 
 
 ' The fine for using this room without belonging to it is 
 ten shillings. There's another fine for talking and disturb- 
 ing people, too,' said Myles, who had never lost his look of 
 perfect ease and calmness, and who did not for a moment 
 remove his eyes from the other's face. 
 
 Mr. Spenceley did not appear to like the mention of fines. 
 His face fell ; his hand involuntarily sought his pocket. 
 
 'Tender in that direction, poor fellow!' thought Myles 
 to himself. 
 
 ' Confounded radical place, this ! ' observed Mr. Spenceley. 
 ' Not fit for gentlemen to live in.' 
 
 ' Not when they have only been gentlemen since the last 
 general election,' said Myles, politely. 'I quite agree with 
 you.' 
 
 ' Well, I shall go and see what the librarian says to all 
 this,' said Mr. Spenceley, by way of covering his retreat ; 
 and then, after a prolonged stare at the girl in the window, 
 he retired, not so jauntily as he had entered. 
 
 Myles picked up his book again. The girl watched her 
 
 D 
 
34 PROBA TIOX. 
 
 tormentor, until the noiseless door had swung to behind 
 him, and she had seen his shadow pass towards the stairs. 
 Myles feigned to read, but he could not help seeing how 
 she trembled as she sat there. 
 
 He did not speak to her. Something — he knew not 
 what — held him back. But he suddenly felt a light touch 
 upon his arm, and, looking up, saw the young lady standing 
 beside him. 
 
 ' Do you think he is really gone?' she asked, scarcely 
 above her breath. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! That sort of cur slinks off when you stoop 
 for a stone, with his tail between his legs. It's only when he 
 has his kennel w r ell behind him that he turns upon you and 
 snaps,' replied Myles, with homely if expressive metaphor. 
 
 She drew a long breath, raised her head again, and said, 
 with a mixture of dignity and gentleness which appealed 
 intensely to his strongest feelings of admiration, 
 
 ' I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you ! ' 
 
 ' Don't mention it, miss,' said he ; and it was odd that, 
 while Mr. Spenceley's ' miss ' made every right-minded per- 
 son pant to knock him down and pound him well, Myles's 
 ' miss ' was not in the faintest degree offensive. 
 
 ' You spoke as if you knew who he is. Do )-ou ? ' she 
 added. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! He's well enough known ; he's the only son 
 of that Spenceley who has the big factories down at Lower 
 Place — " Bargaining Jack" they call him.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I know who you mean. Poor man ! How I pity 
 him for having such a son ! ' 
 
 ' Had you ever seen him before ? ' asked Myles, confirmed 
 in his impression that she was not a native of Thanshope, 
 and finding conversation easier than he had expected. 
 
 • I have seen him several times lately. I seem always to 
 be meeting him. Once I thought he had followed me, and 
 then I thought how absurd to imagine such a thing ; but he 
 must have done it all the same.' 
 
 Myles had had inexplicable sensations while she spoke. 
 He had known her so long without a voice, that now, when 
 he heard it, she seemed to become a stranger again ; and 
 
PROBA TION. 35 
 
 yet not a stranger. She had a sweet, low voice, clear and 
 penetrating, and she spoke with an accent that had some- 
 thing not quite English in it. 
 
 It would have been difficult — to Myles in his ignorance, 
 impossible — to say in what the foreign element lay; but it 
 was assuredly there. When she spoke she looked at him 
 with fleeting glances which had nothing insincere in them, 
 and her face lighted up and became lovely — and more than 
 that, distinguished, spiritual; the slender figure was balanced 
 with such a graceful poise ; the delicate hands were free 
 from all nervous restlessness. Her chestnut hair was 
 abundant, and its dressing so simple and beautiful as alone 
 to make her remarkable. Myles realised that she was most 
 distinctly a ' lady,' but he could not make himself feel her 
 to be either trivial or stupid. There had been nothing 
 trivial in her behaviour. Her treatment of him flattered 
 his discrimination when he remembered her late treatment of 
 Mr. Spenceley. At that time of his life he had very wrong 
 ideas on the subject of gentlemen, having mistaken notions as 
 to their power and character ; but the best part of his nature 
 was soothed and pleased when so perfect a piece of refine- 
 ment as this young lady treated him entirely as a gentleman. 
 
 ' And I thank you again, very much,' she added, smiling, 
 and holding out her hand. 
 
 Myles forgot to be confused as he accepted the hand so 
 frankly extended, and felt encouraged to do what he had 
 thought would be right from the moment she had spoken 
 to him. 
 
 ' I am very glad to have been of service. May I ask 
 how far you are going ? ' 
 
 'To Blake Street, if you know it.' 
 
 ' I know it well. It is too far for you to go alone, if you 
 will excuse my saying so. It is quite possible that fellow 
 may be hanging about yet. I'll go with you, if you will 
 allow me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! you are very kind,' said she, with visible relief. 
 ' I cannot refuse, though I am sorry to take you away.' 
 
 ' Not at all. I can't fasten to it again,' said Myles, sin- 
 cerely. 
 
36 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Then, if you would be so good, I should be very 
 grateful,' said she ; and she looked so relieved and so 
 pleased, that Myles felt himself rewarded an hundredfold 
 for the act which had occurred to him as one of simple 
 civility — nay, of almost obvious necessity. 
 
 They left the town-hall when she had returned her book 
 to the librarian, and passed out into the street turning to 
 the right. 
 
 ' This is the shortest way, miss,' said Myles, distracted as 
 to what he should call her, feeling ' miss ' disagreeable, he 
 hardly knew why, but, despite the wealth of the English 
 language, having no other alternative than a bold ' you.' 
 
 She relieved his mind as if she had understood his thoughts. 
 
 ' My name is Adrienne Blisset,' said she. ' I should like 
 to know yours, if you will tell it me ? ' 
 
 ' Myles Heywood.' 
 
 ' I like it — it is so English, so Lancashire.' 
 
 ' It's not like yours, then,' said he. ' It sounds foreign.' 
 
 ' Adrienne ? Yes ; that is French for Adriana ; but I 
 pronounce it in the German way — Adrien-ne. Don't you 
 see?' 
 
 ' I never heard such a name — for an English young lady," 
 said Myles, simply. 
 
 ' I am not altogether an Englishwoman. I am half 
 German. I was never in England till eighteen months ago.' 
 
 1 Never in England ! ' echoed Myles, incredulously. 
 ' Then you speak English amazingly well.' 
 
 Adrienne laughed, and Myles asked, 
 
 ' How do you like England, now that you are in it ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know England. I only know Thanshope, 
 and I — cannot say — that I do like it much — if you will 
 excuse me.' 
 
 ' Oh, we don't expect every one to like our town,' said 
 Myles, magnanimously. ' It is a rough sort of a place, I 
 fancy. And I should not think you would like it either. 
 You are not like most of the ladies here.' 
 
 'No?' 
 
 ' There isn't another lady in the place who would come 
 to the reading-room as you do.' 
 
PROBA TION. 37 
 
 'Indeed. Why?' 
 
 ' They are too fine, I suppose,' said he, contemptuously. 
 
 ' Too fine ?' 
 
 ' Ay. We have a lot of fine ladies here. There's Mrs. 
 Spenceley, mother of that fellow who was annoying you 
 this evening ; but she's not so fine, certainly, poor thing ! 
 But there's her daughter !' Myles shrugged his shoulders 
 and turned his eyes to heaven. 
 
 ' Is she very fine?' 
 
 ' Whenever I see her she is as fine as fine can be ; but 
 perhaps she has some excuse for it, for she is very hand- 
 some, and she has a kind face too ; one would wonder how 
 she could be that fellow's sister. Then there's Mrs. Shuttle- 
 worth, that has the grand yellow carriage, but she is better 
 than some of them ; and she looks ill, poor thing ! so 
 perhaps her finery only gives her very little comfort.' 
 
 ' It seems to me that you have an excuse for them all,' 
 said Miss Blisset. 
 
 ' Perhaps I have — for all but one — the proudest and the 
 finest of the whole lot. I'd rather have any of them than 
 her — and that's Mrs. Mallory of the Oakenrod.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Mai ' began Adrienne quickly, and then 
 
 stopped abruptly. ' Do you know her?' she added. 
 
 ' I know this much of her, that I work in their factory, 
 and she comes looking round now and then, behaving as 
 if she thought that I, and the factories, and the town, and 
 the world in general were made for her pleasure and service. 
 Oh, she's a proud, insolent woman, Mrs. Mallory ; all the 
 Mallorys are proud and insolent. It would do them good 
 to be humbled, and I hope they will be.' 
 
 ' Oh ! how can you be so bitter against them?' said she, 
 as if shocked. 
 
 ' No, I'm not bitter ; but I don't like to see people like 
 that giving themselves airs, looking as if the world's pros- 
 perity depended upon their continuing to favour it by living 
 in it, when any one knows that if they had their bread to 
 earn they couldn't do it. I like justice.' 
 
 ' Justice, and a little generosity with it,' said she, gently, 
 smiling in what appeared to Myles a very attractive manner. 
 
38 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' We are here in Blake Street,' said he ; ' which way do 
 we turn ? ' 
 
 ' To the right, please. My uncle's house is at the very 
 end of the street.' 
 
 ' The end — it must be lonely,' observed Myles. 
 
 ' Yes, it is, rather. He lives at Stonegate.' 
 
 'Stonegate!' echoed Myles. 'I've often wondered who 
 lived there, and never knew. Why, it is part of the 
 Mallorys' property,' he said suddenly. 
 
 • Yes ; I believe it is,' she replied composedly. ' My 
 uncle has lived there for ten years now.' 
 
 There was a little pause, and then Myles said, 
 
 ' You will excuse me, but I don't really think it is fit 
 for you to walk all that long way of an evening, especially 
 now that it gets dark so soon, and after what has happened 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' I suppose I shall have to give it up. Luckily I am 
 nearly at the end of my task. So I shall try to finish it.' 
 
 'Your reading?' he said inquiringly. 
 
 ' Yes. References for my uncle's book. He is writing 
 a book about Art and the Development of Civilisation : he 
 is too infirm to go to the library himself, and I like going 
 there. I have been reading up music for him all summer.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's it !' said Myles, in a tone which betrayed in- 
 genuously enough that he had thought often and deeply 
 upon the subject. 
 
 'Yes, that is it. I must really try to go a few times 
 more, because those books may not be removed from the 
 library ; and then I shall not need to go any more.' 
 
 ' But you have not been here long, you said?' said Myles. 
 
 ' No. Only eighteen months, since my father died 
 abroad, and my uncle asked me to come and live here with 
 him, else I should have had no home.' 
 
 She spoke with a quietness amounting to sadness, and 
 Myles felt sure that there was sadness in her life, though 
 she spoke so cheerfully. 
 
 'Were you sorry or glad to come to England?' he 
 ventured to ask. 
 
 ' Oh, sorry. Every association I had with it was un- 
 
PROBA TION. 39 
 
 pleasant ; whereas I had had many pleasures at different 
 times abroad ; and it is so cold, and dull, and tfiste here.' 
 
 ' For any one that has no friends ' he began. 
 
 ' Like me,' she said. 
 
 ' It must be rather dull. Here is your place, I think.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Adrienne, pausing with her hand on the latch 
 of the gate. ' I would ask you to come in, only it would 
 disturb my uncle so much. But I shall see you again, and 
 another evening I hope you will come in — will you?' 
 
 'You are very kind,' said Myles, secretly feeling im- 
 mensely flattered at the invitation. ' If it wouldn't be 
 intruding ' 
 
 ' Not at all. I should like to know what you think about 
 one or two things. I know you think, by the books I have 
 seen you reading, and I have a burning curiosity to know 
 what you think.' 
 
 Myles suggested that his subjects — work, wages, politics 
 — might not be very interesting to a young lady. 
 
 ' It depends so much upon the kind of young lady, I 
 think,' said she, smiling. ' Well, good night ; I am obliged 
 for your kindness.' 
 
 With a gracious inclination of her head she was gone — 
 had passed swiftly up the walk, opened the door, and 
 entered the house. 
 
 Myles stood for some time on the spot where she had 
 left him, staring at the house. He looked at it well. 
 ' Stonegate. Blake Street' The whole of Blake Street was 
 part of the Mallorys' property — Sebastian Mallory's property, 
 to gain which he had toiled not, neither had he spun ; but 
 it had come to him, and was his to do as he would with. 
 
 Blake Street was a long street, composed, for about half 
 its length, of smallish houses, in which lived quiet, steady, 
 proper people. Several of the door-plates bore the indica- 
 tions of dressmakers ; there were two dentists, a veterinary 
 surgeon, and an undertaker. The rest were quiet, dull, 
 dingy-looking private residences. 
 
 Beyond a certain point all this changed. Blake Street 
 became a mere confusion of pasteboard terraces, half-finished 
 houses, single strips of houses, and general disorder and 
 
40 PROBA TION. 
 
 chaos — a brick and plaster abomination of desolation. 
 And then came a lonely stretch of street, quite without 
 houses, with an unfinished footpath on either side, skirting 
 a waste of what really had been heath, and was now little 
 else. Some tufts of heather might be found growing there 
 in their season, and the air that blew over it was sharp and 
 keen. 
 
 Across this common one might see the lights of the town ; 
 dim outlines of factories and churches, and masses of build- 
 ings — the tortuous lines of light creeping up steep streets 
 and lanes, and the indistinct outlines of the long range of 
 the Blackrigg moors. On the left side of the road stood 
 one solitary house, in a moderately sized garden — the Stone- 
 gate where Adrienne lived with her uncle. It was an old 
 house of dark grey stone ; square, solidly built, and of 
 moderately large proportions. It was contemporary with 
 the Oakenrod, and had been built by some far-back, dead 
 and gone Mallory (they were lords of the manor of Thans- 
 hope) as a dower-house. In the garden the trees were 
 shrivelled up, the flower-beds were adorned with nothing 
 but a few evergreen bushes, and the grass was not kept as 
 was the grass in the Oakenrod garden. 
 
 Behind the house was the lonely-looking waste of heath 
 or common which was out of Sebastian Mallory's jurisdiction ; 
 and in front a low wall, with a wicket-gate in it, bounded 
 the garden. From the wicket to the door was a flagged 
 walk, raised a little above the grass border on either side of 
 it. On each side the door two windows ; on the second 
 story five windows. The shutters of the lower windows 
 were closed — the whole face of the house presented a blank, 
 staring void, till at last Myles, looking intently upwards, saw 
 a light appear in one of the upper windows, and a shadow 
 pass the blind. That must be Adrienne's room. Then he 
 glanced at the surroundings of the house. 
 
 'A lonely place enough!' he decided within himself. 
 ' I'm glad I came home with her. If that blackguard had 
 been at the trouble to follow her ! I hope he doesn't know 
 where she lives : it hardly looks as if he did, or he wouldn't 
 have chosen the public library to molest her in. I don't 
 
PROBATION. 41 
 
 believe that if she called out, in this street, any one would 
 hear her ; and if they did, they're a poor lot — tailors, and 
 women, and 'pothecaries : they wouldn't know a woman's 
 screaming from a cat's miauling.' 
 
 'It is a nasty place ! ' he muttered again to himself, 
 lingering unaccountably, reluctant to go. ' It looks as if 
 there were a blight, or a curse, or something upon it.' 
 
 At last he tore himself away, and took his homeward way. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY AND FASCINATION. 
 
 ' A tenderness shows through her face, 
 And, like the morning's glow, 
 Hints a full day below.' 
 
 Myles walked home, not in the ' kind of dream ' proper 
 for a hero under the circumstances, but thinking very lucidly 
 and very connectedly during his pretty long walk, from the 
 end of Blake Street to his house on the Townfield, chiefly 
 of what had happened that evening. He thought of 
 Adrienne — of all those summer months of silence, and then 
 of the sudden, quick acquaintance. 
 
 ' She's certainly different from other people,' he said to 
 himself : and in that matter he was right, if he meant that 
 she was not like the ordinary Thanshope lady. But the 
 ordinary Thanshope lady had not been brought up as 
 Adrienne Blisset had been, and Myles did not know then 
 what patient struggles with sorrow and poverty and adverse 
 circumstances had made her what she was. At one-and- 
 twenty she had lived in many lands, and her mind had 
 come in contact with many other minds, often minds of a 
 far from common order. Very few English girls in her 
 class have had that experience at that age — nor would those 
 who wish a girl to be innocent and happy desire such experi- 
 ence for her, if it had to be paid for with such a heavy guer- 
 don of sorrow and suffering as Adrienne had paid for hers. 
 
 Myles knew nothing of that, he only saw the difference. 
 
42 PROBA TION. 
 
 He felt a curiosity about her, blended with some admiration. 
 He admired her grace, her spirit, her sweet voice, her quick 
 intelligence ; and he thought a great deal about her as he 
 walked home, and wondered if he should see her again to- 
 morrow — if she would be as gracious as she had been 
 to-night ; he thought of Frederick Spenceley, and classed 
 him in his mind with ' Mallory and that lot,' and was glad, 
 quite revengefully glad, that he had been able to treat him 
 as he had done, and that was all. 
 
 Perfectly unexpectant, unconscious, unaware of the web 
 which circumstances, past, present, and to come, were 
 weaving about his head, he paced the well-known streets — 
 a son of toil, the descendant of generations of sons of toil, 
 but with a whole world dormant in him, or rather nascent — 
 a whole realm of suffering : love, hope, grandeur, baseness, 
 which this night had first stirred into a premonitory natal 
 activity. 
 
 Saturday morning came, and work, and the business of 
 life ; Saturday afternoon, and holiday. Myles and Mary 
 walked home together about two o'clock ; and his sister 
 looked at him more than once, as his head and his eyes 
 turned quickly from one side to the other, so often that at 
 last she said, 
 
 'Why, Myles, dost expect to see some one thou knows?' 
 
 ' Me — no !' said he, hastily, and with a forced laugh. He 
 had been half unconsciously looking for Adrienne,but in vain. 
 
 In the evening he repaired to the reading-room as usual. 
 He went straight to his seat in the window ; but she was 
 not there, so he picked up the Westminster, which no one 
 had disturbed since last night, and resumed the article on 
 the governing classes. 
 
 But he could not, to use his own expression, ' fasten to 
 it,' until he heard the soft opening and closing of the swing- 
 door in the background, and the faint sound, almost im- 
 perceptible, of a girl's light footfall and undulating dress, 
 came nearer and nearer. Then, when he looked up, she 
 was there, looking just the same as usual — which was 
 surprising, after all his dreamy thoughts about her. 
 
 She bowed to him, with the smile which lent such a 
 
PROBATION. 43 
 
 charm to her fair face. For she was fair, Myles decided, 
 as he saw that look of recognition ; and he was right. She 
 was one of those women who are not anything, neither ugly 
 nor beautiful, until one knows them, and then they are 
 lovely for ever. 
 
 With the ' Good evening ' and the smile they exchanged, 
 he felt at rest, and could turn to his book again, and read, 
 and understand. For not yet did he know that he had 
 met his fate — good or evil as the case might be ; there was 
 a sweet, momentary pause before there came that fever of 
 unrest which love must be to such men as he. 
 
 Miss Blisset made her notes, and studied her music with 
 diligence, until nine o'clock came chiming from the steeple 
 above their heads, and there rang out after the chimes the 
 music of the tune ' Life let us cherish ! ' 
 
 Adrienne put her books together, and rose. 
 
 ' Mr. Heywood, I told my uncle about what happened 
 last night, and he told me to ask you to come and see him 
 this evening. Will you ? ' 
 
 ' I shall be very glad to do so,' said Myles, looking up, 
 pleased and somewhat surprised. He had thought Miss 
 Blisset's gratitude to him natural, under the circumstances, 
 and had quite supposed that she would treat him with friend- 
 liness afterwards ; but he had smiled at the idea of the uncle 
 of whom she spoke troubling himself about him. If he let 
 the girl take that disagreeable walk to the town-hall every 
 evening, he was not likely to care much whether she were 
 annoyed or not, so that his work was done. That was the 
 conclusion Myles had come to ; and it was a conclusion 
 quite in harmony with his character. 
 
 They left the hall together : it was Saturday night, and 
 the streets were thronged with a rough-spoken, roughly 
 mannered Lancashire crowd, pushing and talking, and, too 
 many of them, reeling about, with the absence of ceremony 
 peculiar to them. They soon left the thoroughfare, and 
 found themselves first in the narrow cross-lane, and then in 
 Blake Street. 
 
 ' Only one more evening,' said Adrienne, ' and then my 
 work will be done : and I shall not need to come any more.' 
 
44 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' I'm glad to hear it,' said Myles, abruptly. 
 
 ' You like reading,' said Adrienne. ' Have you read 
 much?' 
 
 ' I don't think I have,' he owned frankly. 
 
 ' The Thanshope library is not a bad one in its way,' 
 she remarked. 'Rather behind the time though, in the 
 matter of science and philosophy.' 
 
 ' Well, you see, it's like the gentlemen who have the 
 managing of it, I suppose,' said Myles, apologetically. 
 ' They are a little behind the time, too.' 
 
 ' Fortunately they have been allowed to exercise no con- 
 trol over my department, the music, since it was all be- 
 queathed by a good and enlightened man to the town ; and 
 all those worthy committee people had to do, was to accept 
 it gratefully, and find a room to put it in. And then, too, I 
 don't think they would know anything about the orthodox 
 and heterodox in such matters.' 
 
 ' Is there orthodox and heterodox in music ?' asked Myles. 
 
 ' I should think so ! The adherents of the different 
 musical creeds are given to a " bear and forbearance " equal 
 to that of adherents of different religious creeds.' 
 
 Myles laughed a little at this and said, 
 
 'Then I'm sure ignorance is bliss in that case. We're 
 somewhat overrun with parsons in these parts. The women 
 make so much of them that they seem quite to lose their 
 understanding — what they have of it. But the vicar — 
 Canon Ponsonby — he is quite different ; and he keeps a 
 pretty tight hand over his parsons. I've heard that he shows 
 them their place sometimes as if they were schoolboys. He 
 ought to have been a prime minister, ought Canon Ponsonby.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know him,' said Adrienne. ' He and my uncle 
 are great friends. He is a grand old gentleman ' 
 
 Here they turned in at the wicket of Stonegate ; Adrienne 
 opened the door, and Myles for the first time — not for the 
 last by any means — stood within that sad-looking, lonesome 
 old house. 
 
 It was a square, matted hall in which they stood ; dimly 
 lighted by a Japanese lantern, also square, hanging from the 
 roof. On a great oaken table in the centre, stood a large, 
 
PROBA TION. 45 
 
 beautiful vase of grey-green Vallouris ware. Over the 
 carved mantelpiece hung an oil-painting — a fine copy of 
 that beautiful likeness of Goethe — the one with the dark 
 rings of curling hair, and the magnificent face ; that likeness 
 which always reminds one of the herrlichen JiingWig 
 described by Bettina as the hero of a certain skating scene, 
 when he stole his mother's cloak — der Kdlte wegen. Op- 
 posite to this picture stood, on a pedestal, a bust of Orfila. 
 These were the only ornaments in the place : every other 
 available corner was filled with book-shelves loaded with 
 books. A dome-light gave light by day to this hall. 
 
 ' This way,' said Adrienne, opening a door to the left, and 
 Myles followed her into the room. This room too was 
 lighted with lamps and candles. There was a table in the 
 centre — a writing table in one of the windows, piled with 
 books, and papers, and manuscripts. In an easy-chair, 
 beside this writing-table, reading, was a man — presumably 
 the ' uncle ' of whom Adrienne had so often spoken. 
 
 ' Uncle ' said she, going up to him, and touching his arm, 
 ' here is Mr. Heywood, of whom I spoke to you.' 
 
 He looked up, and Myles beheld a strange, long, pale 
 face, with hollow eyes, and a large and, as it seemed to 
 him, an expressionless mouth. It was a deathlike face ; its 
 expression neutral to impassiveness. 
 
 ' Mr. Heywood — oh, I am glad to see you. Take a 
 seat.' 
 
 Somewhat chilled by this unenthusiastic greeting Myles 
 complied without a word, feeling remarkably small and in- 
 significant, while Adrienne produced her papers, sat down 
 at the desk, and began to arrange them. Mr. Blisset turned 
 towards her, but did not move his chair. He merely ob- 
 served to Myles, 
 
 'You will excuse us a moment, Mr. Heywood,' and then 
 gave his attention to the remarks which his niece, in a low 
 tone, made to him. It was with a kind of shock that 
 Myles soon perceived the man's lower limbs must be para- 
 lysed. That was what Adrienne meant when she spoke of 
 his being unable to..eame to the library. That was why he 
 was so shy and, reserved, .that he must be prepared for the 
 
46 PROBA TION. 
 
 visit of a stranger. Myles understood it all now, and, from 
 his experience of Edmund, knew what it meant, only that 
 this was far worse, far more of a living death than that in 
 which Edmund lived. 
 
 The writing and reporting over, Adrienne left the room. 
 Myles and the strange-looking, corpse-like man were left 
 alone ; and now Mr. Blisset turned to him and said, still in 
 the same cold, measured voice, 
 
 ' You rendered a very kind service to my niece last night, 
 and I am much obliged to you.' 
 
 ' Pray don't mention it. No one could have sat still and 
 seen a young lady annoyed by a fellow like Frederick 
 Spenceley.' 
 
 ' Spenceley — surely I have heard the name !' 
 
 ' Very likely. His father is the richest man in Thanshope.' 
 
 ' Oh — ah ! Naturally I have heard of him then. So 
 that was the name of the individual who insulted her?' 
 
 ' That is his name,' said Myles, concisely, ' and it's another 
 name for a cad and a blackguard.' 
 
 ' Oh, is it? You know something about him?' 
 
 ' There are few people in Thanshope who don't. He is 
 a born ruffian — Spenceley. Some day the ruffianism will 
 come out through the veneering, and, once out, it will never 
 be polished over again.' 
 
 Mr. Blisset assented half-inquiringly, surveying Myles 
 all the time from his impassive eyes, and then he said, 
 
 ' I am sorry my niece should have to go to the reading- 
 room. She tells me that one evening more will finish what 
 she has to do, otherwise I should not permit it. But I 
 should think you have frightened the fellow away for a 
 time?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! He won't trouble her again,' said Myles, with 
 contemptuous indifference, forgetting that beaten-off insects, 
 with or without stings, have a habit of returning with blun- 
 dering persistency to the attack. ' But couldn't she go in the 
 daytime?' he asked suddenly. 
 
 Mr. Blisset shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' There is so much work to be done in the daytime,' said 
 he — ' correspondence, and reading, and manuscript to copy. 
 
PROBA TION. 47 
 
 But I spare her as much as I can. I never ask or wish her 
 to work after she returns in the evening. The rest of her 
 time is her own.' 
 
 'I should hope so! — from nine o'clock !' thought Myles, 
 a little surprised. ' She must be ready to go to bed at ten, 
 after such a day as that. I wonder at what time it begins. 
 Why, I am better off than that.' 
 
 ' The rest of her time is her own,' repeated Mr. Blisset, 
 as if he clung to that concession with fondness and pride, 
 feeling that it made up for all other privations which her 
 day's work might entail — which indeed was the case. His 
 infirmity — his long confinement to one house and one spot 
 — the absorbed concentration of his faculties upon one work 
 — a work which he was determined should burst upon the 
 world, and make him illustrious — all this, and above all, 
 Adrienne's own devotion to him and his pursuits, since she 
 had come to live with him, had fostered his natural egotism ; 
 till now he verily believed that his yoke was easy and his 
 burden light to the young creature who bore it, and that 
 that hour ' after she came in ' was an elastic period, in 
 which any amount of private work and reading could be 
 done, and pleasure enjoyed. 
 
 Yet he was not a hard-hearted man, and if Adrienne had 
 been by any cause removed from him, it would have been 
 her gentle presence and the charm of her company that he 
 would have lamented — not the loss of her services in read- 
 ing, writing, and research. 
 
 His intense and almost forbidding coldness of manner was 
 soon understood by Myles, who discovered before long that 
 it arose chiefly from physical weakness and languor — not 
 from any want of interest in the questions of the day, or in 
 the men and things about him. 
 
 'You are writing a great book, sir?' inquired Myles, 
 by way of something to say. 
 
 ' A book,' corrected Mr. Blisset — a slight but ineffable 
 smile playing upon the marble of his face. ' Let no men 
 and no generation call any of their own achievements — 
 whether in literature or legislation — great. That is for pos- 
 terity to decide.' 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 (' Humph ! ' thought Myles. ' That implies that posterity 
 will take some notice of it, in which case — but the reflec- 
 tions opened up were too large to be fully followed out 
 then.) 
 
 ' One branch of knowledge, and one alone, can produce 
 works which at the very time of their appearance may be 
 safely pronounced great — and that is science, of course,' 
 resumed Mr. Blisset half-closing his eyes. 
 
 ' Then yours is not a scientific work,' said Myles politely. 
 
 ' It is chiefly historical and speculative, but based, I trust, 
 on the truest and most profoundly scientific principles. It 
 is an inquiry into the question whether highly advanced 
 civilisation and an art-spirit living, original, and capable of 
 producing new and great works, can exist together — whether 
 they are ever likely to go hand in hand.' 
 
 ' And what do you conclude?' asked Myles. 
 
 ' I began in hope,' said Mr. Blisset. ' But the hope has 
 died away. Music still remains — a wide, only partially 
 
 trodden field, but for the rest ' he shook his head. 
 
 ' Of course it is a gigantic undertaking,' he went on, ' and 
 I have been engaged upon it for twenty years. But I think 
 when my work is complete, that I shall have pretty well ex- 
 hausted the subject' 
 
 ' And your readers, too, perhaps,' thought Myles, unwill- 
 ingly forced to wonder whether there were much use in Mr. 
 Blisset's gigantic undertaking. 
 
 At this juncture Adrienne came into the room again ; 
 and Myles, beholding her for the first time in indoor dress, 
 was sensible of a warmer, deeper feeling of admiration than 
 he had hitherto experienced. There was a nameless foreign 
 charm about her, which worked like a spell upon him. 
 She held some trifling work in her hand, and coming 
 quietly in, seated herself, and lent her attention to her uncle as 
 he went on discoursing in a monotone, which by degrees fasci- 
 nated Myles, so that he listened intently, and nolens volens. 
 
 Jt was only afterwards, in thinking it all over, that he 
 remembered what a sad, dreary life it must be for the young 
 girl, alone with this stupendous egotist, listening while he 
 discoursed of — himself; helping him in his great work ; 
 
PROBA TION. 49 
 
 writing letters relating to his vast undertaking ; studying 
 hard in order to supply him with facts. That was all true : 
 but at the moment Myles did not think of it, for Mr. Blisset 
 spoke upon subjects that the young man had thought about 
 himself — subjects that made his heart burn — of governments 
 and peoples, and the lessons which history may teach us. 
 
 And when Myles heard the treasures of learning and re- 
 search,' which Mr. Blisset had undoubtedly accumulated, 
 brought to bear upon his own view of the question, and 
 found that the speaker too was one of those whose watch- 
 word is — 
 
 ' The people, Lord ! the people ! 
 Not crowns and thrones, but men !' 
 
 his admiration speedily grew to enthusiasm, and he sat 
 listening, his handsome face all flushed with eagerness, and 
 was disposed, before the evening was over, to rank Mr. 
 Blisset as a demigod. 
 
 Mr. Blisset was pleased, like other philosophers, with the 
 admiration he excited, and surveyed the young man with a 
 favouring eye. 
 
 ' You must come and see me again,' said he. It is always 
 a pleasure to me to know one who has thought and felt 
 upon these subjects. But I have talked till I feel almost 
 exhausted. Adrienne, my love, suppose you give us some 
 music' 
 
 ' Yes, uncle,' said she ; ' I like you to talk in that way, r 
 she added, touching his forehead with her lips. ' Then you 
 do yourself justice.' 
 
 There was a piano in the room, and Adrienne's playing 
 for her uncle when the day's work was quite over — a sort 
 of requiem upon the toil they had passed through — was as 
 regular a thing as the falling of night upon the earth. 
 There, in the world of harmony, was her kingdom — there 
 she ruled ; from thence she could sway the hearts of men. 
 
 The harmonies she made for them that evening were 
 calm and grave — a pathetic Tenia of Haydn's ; a solemn 
 Ciaconna of Bach's ; a slow movement, the ' singing together 
 of the morning stars,' of Beethoven's. 
 
 E 
 
5o PROBA TION. 
 
 Mr. Blisset shaded his long pale face with his long pale 
 hand, and sat, with closed eyes, listening. Myles was 
 listening too, but ear, with him, was subservient to eye and 
 to thought. His gaze never left Adrienne, and the longer 
 he looked, the deeper became the charm. There had 
 slumbered in his mind, throughout these years of toil and 
 striving, a latent, dormant, ideal of loveliness, purity, and 
 fitness for worship, and it was as though, when Adrienne's 
 fingers touched the keys, that the door of heaven was opened, 
 and a ray, falling upon her fair head, proclaimed her his 
 soul's dearest wish. 
 
 With a sigh, promptly repressed, he rose from his dream 
 as she finished, and took his departure, after Mr. Blisset 
 had made him promise to come again. 
 
 It was Saturday night, and Myles found the din of the 
 town not yet hushed. He saw sights which were familiar 
 enough to his eyes, heard sounds to which his ears were 
 accustomed — drunken men reeling out of the public-houses 
 which must be closed, brawling songs shouted hoarsely up 
 and down — all the ugliness of rude, coarse natures taking 
 their pleasure. He had never in his life found pleasure him- 
 self in such things ; but equally, he had grown accustomed 
 to the fact that others — men with whom he was on good 
 terms — did take pleasure in them. He thought of the 
 scene he had just left, and there shot a sudden sense of 
 chill doubt and discomfiture through his frame of musing, 
 high-strung happiness, a desperate feeling that those whom 
 he saw about him in the streets now, were his class, his 
 companions ; that, ever since he had begun to hope and 
 think, he had hoped for their advancement, their good, 
 and he must not be untrue to them. 
 
 ' Pah ! ' said he to himself, ' as if she could ask a man to 
 be false to what he ought to be true to. She's like truth 
 itself 
 
PROBATION. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FINE LADIES AND FOLLY. 
 
 Monday morning, with the business of this work-a-day world 
 in full swing, or rather in preparation for the week's swing 
 of labour. In the freshness and rawness of a six o'clock 
 morning air, Myles walked with his sister to his work. He 
 and Mary were accustomed to do all their private conversa- 
 tion during these walks. They sometimes discussed their 
 mother and her doings, and the discussion took away from 
 the bitterness which silence would have left to rankle there. 
 
 To-day Myles was exceedingly silent, but Mary, who 
 knew him and loved him better than any other soul, felt 
 that the silence was -no sign of dejection. 
 
 The brother and sister separated on arriving at the 
 factory. Mary went to the weaving shed, and Myles to the 
 warehouse. After breakfast the same arrangement took 
 place ; but the day was not destined to be one of pleasant 
 memories for Myles. 
 
 In the course of the forenoon he was in the outer office, 
 with Wilson the overlooker, when the latter, glancing through 
 the window, remarked, 
 
 'There's Mrs. Mallory coming. I see her carriage.' 
 
 Myles made no answer, for the information did not seem to 
 him of any particular importance ; but Wilson went on, in a 
 voice which had grown by anticipation smooth and respectful, 
 
 ' I expect she wants to see Mr. Sutcliffe, and he's out. 
 So she'll have to put up with me.' 
 
 With that he stepped up to a square of looking-glass, 
 which he retained despite all Myles's gibes and jeers, over 
 the mantelpiece, and smoothed his hair. 
 
 'And Myles, lad, as Mrs. Mallory's coming, and may 
 have business to speak about, perhaps you'd better ' 
 
 ' Go ? ' said Myles, tranquilly, though the suggestion was 
 highly irritating to him. ' That I'm not going to do, old 
 chap. I've got these figures to write down ; and here I 
 stay and write them, if fifty Mrs. Mallorys were coming.' 
 
52 PROBA TION. 
 
 Wilson made no answer. Myles's position was too near 
 his own for him to be able to order him out of the office ; 
 but, not quite satisfied, he waited, snatching up bundles of 
 papers and sample cops, shoving an empty skip aside, and 
 endeavouring to make the rough office look a little tidier. 
 
 ' What a pity,' remarked Myles, sarcastically, ' that you 
 haven't got a few evergreens and some paper roses. I'd 
 invest in a few, if I were you, and keep them in the cup- 
 board, ready for such an occasion as this.' 
 
 With which he seated himself at the desk in the window, 
 which commanded a view of the street, and began to write. 
 
 Wilson walked up and down, watching the carriage as it 
 drew nearer, and Myles felt contemptuous and superior. 
 
 ' She's got Miss Spenceley in the carriage with her,' 
 observed Wilson, reconnoitring over Myles's head. ' They 
 go a deal together, those two.' 
 
 Myles looked up sharply as he heard this. The carnage 
 had stopped ; Wilson had rushed to open the door. Myles 
 saw the open carriage standing at the gates, and how one 
 lady sat waiting while the other got out. The face of the 
 waiting lady was turned towards the office. 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley ' — the sister of the man who had dis- 
 played his contemptible character to Adrienne Blisset the 
 other night. It was not likely that Myles should glance at 
 her with very amiable or respectful feelings. He saw a 
 graceful figure leaning nonchalantly back in the carriage ; 
 he had a general impression of a brilliantly beautiful brunette 
 face, large dark eyes, an extremely elegant costume, a hat, 
 or bonnet, with a waving plume, a parasol covered with 
 lace — and that was all. But he had long sight ; he saw none 
 of her brother's expression on the girl's countenance, which 
 was frank and open, as well as beautiful. 
 
 ' I'd bet something they don't get on well together,' he 
 thought ; and then he heard a silk dress rustle over the 
 threshold, and a woman's voice answering indifferently 
 Wilson's profuse salutations. Myles could not help looking 
 up, though he tried not to do so. He had often seen Mrs. 
 Mallory before ; but she had never seen him. Now she 
 was looking full at him. 
 
PROBA TION. 53 
 
 She was a handsome woman, of some forty-six years of 
 age, but looking younger when one did not notice certain 
 lines about her eyes and mouth — lines of meanness as well 
 as of pride. She was very richly dressed in black ; there 
 was silk, and lace, and perfume about her. She was tall, 
 fair, pale, and inclined towards embonpoint. She looked 
 Myles over from head to foot ; then, turning to Wilson, 
 said, 
 
 'Is Mr. Sutcliffe in?' 
 
 ' I'm very sorry, 'm ; he isn't. He has had to go to 
 Bolton, and won't be back till afternoon.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said she, pausing as if in thought ; and then added, 
 ' Give me the papers Mr. Sutcliffe was speaking about the 
 other day ; they are sure to have been left ready. I will 
 take them home with me, and look them over.' 
 
 Myles had turned again to his work, and was bending 
 over a page of figures, wroth with himself that, instead of 
 being able undisturbedly to add up the figures he had put 
 down, he could not help listening to Mrs. Mallory's voice. 
 
 ' Yes, 'm ; I'll find the papers. They'll be in Mr. 
 Sutcliffe's room. But won't you sit down 'm, while I look 
 for them ? ' 
 
 ' No ; make haste, please,' was all she said, a little im- 
 patiently ; for Mr. Wilson's manner was, to put it mildly, 
 fussy ; and Myles, feeling the influence of that tone, despite 
 all his efforts, began to count half aloud : 
 
 ' Three and five, nine — eight, I mean ; and seven fifteen, 
 and ' 
 
 ' Here they are, 'm. Allow me to make them into a 
 parcel, 'm : it will be more convenient.' 
 
 ' No ; you can take them to the carriage, and I will 
 look them over when I have time.' 
 
 ' Myles, lad, suppose you were to take the papers to the 
 carriage,' said Wilson, wishing to appear superior. 
 
 Myles looked up, surprised ; he could read the simple, 
 fussy character of the faithful old cashier to its very depths, 
 and knew his motives exactly. He had no wish to disoblige 
 him, and, with an amused half-smile, took the papers and 
 walked to Mrs. Mallory's carriage. 
 
54 PROBA TION. 
 
 The young lady, Miss Spenccley, was looking somewhat 
 impatiently towards the office. 
 
 1 Oh !' said she, when she saw Myles, ' is Mrs. Mallory in 
 there ? Has she nearly finished her business, do you think ? 
 
 Myles had seen the girl many a time before ; she was 
 the beauty and the heiress, par excellence, of Thanshope ; 
 the only daughter, as her brother was the only son, of her 
 parents. The young man, looking at her more attentively 
 than ever before, could find no trace of likeness, or his 
 scorn of her relative might have displayed itself in his voice. 
 
 ' I really don't know,' said he, in answer to her question. 
 ' She is talking to the cashier.' 
 
 ' Oh, thanks !' said she, turning abruptly away, and 
 looking impatiently up the street. 
 
 Myles returned to the office, and as he re-entered it 
 Mrs. Mallory was saying to Wilson, 
 
 ' Because I expect my son — your master — will be at 
 home again shortly, and of course he will wish to inquire 
 into everything that is going on.' 
 
 There was something in the tone in which this was said 
 which rasped upon Myles's feelings — a calm superiority 
 which he felt to be extremely needless. 
 
 ' Then we may expect Mr. Mallory to come and take 
 possession some time soon?' Wilson hailed the news as if 
 it were a personal favour. 
 
 ' I expect so. I do not know the exact time ; but of 
 course everything will be ready for him?' 
 
 'Will lie be ready for everything?' thought Myles, with 
 strong contempt ; his old spite — it deserves no nobler name 
 — against the absent, unknown Sebastian Mallory rose 
 angrily to the surface again. 'Our master, indeed !' he re- 
 flected angrily. ' I wonder if he's ever proved himself his 
 own master yet?' 
 
 Wilson, by an unlucky combination of circumstances, 
 was at this moment inspired to turn pointedly to Myles 
 and remark : 
 
 ' Now, Myles, do you hear what Madam Mallory says ? 
 I told you the master was coming, and you wouldn't 
 believe me.' 
 
PROBATION. 55 
 
 ' It remains to be seen whether " master" is the right 
 word to use,' said Myles, with deliberation. ' In this case 
 I have my doubts about it.' 
 
 He bent to his book once more, but not before he had 
 seen the stony stare in the light blue eyes of Mrs. Mallory, 
 and the gaze of haughty astonishment upon her pale, high- 
 featured face — a stare which seemed to say, ' I have seen 
 human nature in many obtrusive and ill-bred aspects, but 
 never in one which so much required putting into its proper 
 place as this.' 
 
 Myles smiled rather grimly to himself; he hated to ex- 
 change such civilities with any one, most of all with a 
 woman, but his spirit could ill brook the unquestionably 
 haughty and supercilious manner of Mrs. Mallory, and the 
 profuse mouthing of the word 'master' by Wilson's com- 
 plaisant lips. Myles had, up to now, utterly refused to call 
 any man master, and he was not going to begin it in the 
 case of a man whom he had never seen ; and to whom local 
 report gave anything but a decided or master-like character. 
 
 ' There's no call for you to be so rude,' said the cashier, 
 shocked and reproachful. 
 
 Myles turned to him. 
 
 ' Will you understand,' said he, with lips that had grown 
 tight, ' that a man can't both do arithmetic and talk?' 
 
 'Who is the young man?' inquired Mrs. Mallory of the 
 discomfited Wilson. 
 
 ' You must excuse him, 'm. He's one of the foremen : 
 he knows no better.' 
 
 Myles made no sort of comment upon this apology, con- 
 tent that they should say what they liked about it, so long 
 as they did not require him to acknowledge an unknown 
 ' master.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory, after another and a prolonged stare of the 
 said haughty astonishment, which stare wasted itself upon 
 the back of the delinquent, swept away, leaving Myles with 
 his lips twisted into a fine sneer — an expression to which 
 they were wont too readily to bend. 
 
 ***■*#■ 
 
 Myles's temper had assuredly not been improved by the 
 
56 PROBA TION. 
 
 occurrences of the morning. It was destined to be yet more 
 severely tried before his return to work in the afternoon. 
 
 On leaving the factory he parted from Mary, as he had 
 an errand in the town, and told her he would be home in 
 half an hour for dinner. He did his errand, and took his 
 way home. And as he arrived at his own gate there came 
 out from it a man whom Myles recognised as a person to 
 whom he bore no friendly feelings. He was named James 
 Hoyle, and was by trade a small shopkeeper, in the sta- 
 tionery and evangelical-religious-book line : occasionally he 
 acted as a preacher of a denunciatory and inflammatory de- 
 scription ; always he was a missionary — so, at least, he said. 
 
 To him and to his style of preaching and piety Myles 
 had a most thorough dislike ; he believed him to be a 
 hypocrite, and in this case his dislike was well grounded 
 enough, and founded on facts. 
 
 1 Good morning, Myles. The Lord bless you !' observed 
 Mr. Hoyle, holding out a dingy, fat hand. No lowest scum 
 of the Levites, of whatever section, whatever persuasion, 
 could have looked, thought Myles, sleeker, or more as if 
 his sleekness were an ill-gotten gain. 
 
 Out of tune as Myles was with all the world, this appari- 
 tion and his tone of familiarity was not of a kind likely to 
 restore harmony to the jarring notes of his life's music. 
 Drawing up his proud figure to its utmost height, and look- 
 ing with his contemptuous eyes down upon the pudgy in- 
 dividual who addressed him, he said, 
 
 ' Good morning. I'll thank you not to make so free with 
 my name. Who gave you leave to call me " Myles " ?' 
 
 He ignored the outstretched hand, having an objection 
 to touching what he considered to be both literally and 
 metaphorically dirty fingers. 
 
 Hoyle looked up at him, and his eyes twinkled. 
 
 ' I've been taking spiritual counsel with your mother, my 
 dear young friend. A sweet, precious soul ! It is a privilege 
 to converse with her ; she teaches one so much.' 
 
 ' Does she ? It's a pity but she could teach you to be 
 sober and honest,' said Myles, with distinct enunciation and 
 scornful mien, holding himself somewhat aloof from Mr. 
 
PROBATION. 57 
 
 Hoyle. ' Anyhow,' he continued, ' until you've managed it — 
 the soberness and honesty, I mean (you needn't look as if you 
 didn't know. I saw where you came out of at eleven o'clock 
 on Saturday night) — till then, you'll please give this house a 
 clear berth, and my mother may take her spiritual counsel — 
 if she wants it — with a different sort of person from you.' 
 
 He was about to turn in at the gate, but, with his hand on 
 the latch, was arrested by an expression on the face of the 
 other. 
 
 ' The day will come, young man, when you will wish you 
 had treated me — me, of all people — with more respect,' 
 said he with a smile, for he had a flexible face, which 
 appeared to lend itself even more easily to smiles than to 
 other expressions. Yet the smile was an evil one. 
 
 He turned and walked away, and Myles, in some annoy- 
 ance, went into the house. Usually Mrs. Heywood had 
 the field to herself in the exercise of her tongue. Edmund 
 occasionally indulged in a burst of temper, but always to 
 his own disadvantage. Mary never answered at all. Myles 
 alone, as has been before said, could, with a certain look 
 and tone, show himself master of the fretful, repining 
 embodiment of scolding and selfishness whom they had the 
 misfortune to call mother. To-day he was in no mood to 
 ' stand nonsense,' and as he went into the kitchen he said, 
 hanging up his cap, and taking Edmund's hand, as he seated 
 himself beside him, 
 
 ' What does yon James Hoyle want always hanging about 
 here? The chap is never out of the place, and I can't 
 abide him. If he doesn't give us a little more of his room 
 and less of his company I must speak to him. Mary, lass, 
 I hope thou'rt not got agate of meeting-going.' 
 
 He spoke with perfect good-nature and good-temper, not 
 suspecting anything but that all the rest of the company 
 were equally averse with himself to Mr. Hoyle's visits, and 
 he smiled a little as he looked at Mary. 
 
 1 Me ! ' said his sister, laughing. ' Nay, I'm not come to 
 that. As long as I live I'st go to th' parish church every 
 Sunday, and sit in th' old place ' 
 
 ' Alongside o' Harry Ashworth,' put in Edmund, gravely, 
 
5S PROBATION. 
 
 at which Mary's cheeks flushed, and she went on somewhat 
 more rapidly. 
 
 'For I make nowt at o' out o' the meetin'-house.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you'll end by leaving th' owd place for an older, 
 and going clean over to Rome,' said Mrs. Heywood, who 
 had been bending over the fire, looking at a pan of potatoes, 
 and who now raised rather a flushed face from that occupa- 
 tion ; ' choose how, there'st nowt be said here against James 
 Hoyle, the godly man ! and it's more than likely that you'll 
 see more of him than you have done yet.' 
 
 'How do you mean?' asked her eldest son, turning 
 towards her ; ' you mean that Jimmy Hoyle would come 
 here a second time after I'd forbidden him the house?' 
 
 He laughed, as if he thought it rather a good joke. 
 
 ' You'd turn him out of the house ? That's like you ! ' 
 said Mrs. Heywood, emptying the potatoes into a tureen. 
 
 ' I really don't know what you're talking about,' said 
 Myles, in some surprise at her whole demeanour. 
 
 ' Well, you'll get to know, then,' she retorted, without 
 meeting his eye. ' A good man is like the salt of the earth. 
 He can make even a sinful house holy, and bring a blessing 
 on it. James Hoyle and me is going to be married. We'st 
 be wed this day three week, and then I'd like to know 
 how you'll forbid him the house.' 
 
 There was a momentary silence, during which Myles, who 
 had risen, stared at his mother in an incredulous manner. 
 Mary, after a moment, turned pale, and sat down upon a chair 
 in the background. Edmund's lips were curled into a sneer. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' said Myles, confronting her, and somewhat 
 forcing her eyes to meet his. ' Is this a joke that you're 
 playing upon us ? Because, if so, it's a very poor one.' 
 
 ' Joke !' she retorted, her voice rising to shrillness. ' What 
 should it be a joke for, I'd like to know? Have I such 
 comfort in my children that I shouldn't be glad of the help 
 of a godly man — oh, and he is a godly man — like that?' 
 
 ' That's a poor answer, mother,' said Myles, who had 
 thrust his hand into his breast, as if to repress some anger 
 or emotion. ' Your children have never done anything to 
 cause you uneasiness.' 
 
PROBATION. 59 
 
 'Do go on blowing your own trumpet !' Mrs. Heywood 
 exhorted him. 
 
 ' Nay, I've no more to say about it. But I want a better 
 answer than that your children's conduct drove you to 
 marry that great, idle, greasy, sanctimonious, all-praying, 
 no-doing brute — he isn't a man. I can understand him 
 wanting to marry you, you've thirty pounds a year of your 
 own : but that you should look at him ! ' He made an 
 expressive gesture of contempt. 
 
 ' So it's my money he's marrying me for,' said Mrs. 
 Heywood ; and no girl of eighteen could have spoken with 
 more anger at the suggestion. ' That's it, is it ? Ay, ay ! 
 " Honour thy father and thy mother" — do !' 
 
 ' Are you giving us an example of honouring our father ? ' 
 he inquired, growing quieter in tone as his anger and dis- 
 gust grew more intense, and her determination (he saw) 
 more fixed. ' Or is your present plan likely to lead us to 
 honour you ? No, mother ; I can't see what a woman like 
 you wants with marrying again ; though if it had been a 
 decent man, let him be never so rough, I'd have put up 
 with him, but that — why, I saw him on Saturday night 
 coming out of the lowest public-house in Thanshope — half- 
 drunk — as plain as I see you. But here's the long and 
 short of it. That man certainly never enters this house 
 again. I'll let him know that. And if you do marry him, 
 he'll please to find a home for you ; for neither he nor you 
 will share ours. Mark my words — if you go to him you 
 leave us for ever.' 
 
 ' Mother, thou'll ne'er be so wicked,' said Mary, from her 
 corner, in tears. 
 
 ' Hold thy tongue, thou hussy ! calling thy mother 
 wicked,' said Mrs. Heywood, sharply. 
 
 ' I'll not have Molly called by that name,' said Myles, 
 composedly. ' Remember, it's I that am master here, when 
 all's said and done. I'll have no such nonsense carried on. 
 So let us hear — do you intend to be a wise woman or a fool?' 
 
 The words were not at all rudely spoken, but they were 
 unfortunately chosen. They incensed Mrs. Heywood, and 
 she replied sharply, 
 
6o PROBA TION. 
 
 ' I intend to marry James Hoyle.' 
 
 ' Then,' said he, slowly, as if giving her an opportunity 
 to recant, ' it's settled that I intend to have no more to do 
 with you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Myles, don't be so hard on her !' implored Alary, 
 coming forward and laying her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ' My good lass,' said he, ' dry thy eyes, and be glad 
 thou'rt not called upon to be hard, as thou calls it.' 
 
 Mary did not expostulate. Under the gentleness of the 
 words she read a decision which she did not attempt to 
 combat. 
 
 ' Mary's our good angel,' remarked Edmund from the 
 couch ; and his eyes, too, fell upon her with affection. 
 
 ' A nice angel you'll find her when I'm gone,' grumbled 
 Mrs. Heywood. 
 
 ' Once more/ broke in Myles's voice, ' I tell you, mother, 
 I have spoken to you for the last time, unless I hear that 
 this abominable thing is given up — for the last time.' 
 
 'Myles!' implored his sister. But she might as well 
 have tried to move one of the great boulders on Blackrigg 
 as make him soften or yield one jot. 
 
 'Come, lass!' he observed to her. 'Those that must 
 work must eat. The time's gone by in this precious 
 palaver, and we've only twenty minutes left' 
 
 He sat down and helped himself, and tried to look as if 
 nothing had happened ; soon, however, he laid down his 
 knife and fork, and told Mary, who had not even pretended 
 to eat, that it was time to go. 
 
 She put her shawl over her head, and, saying good after- 
 noon to Edmund, they went out. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SANS FACON. 
 
 Six o'clock was the time at which the work-people ' knocked 
 off.' Myles and Mary had not spoken as they went to 
 their work, and of course not during the afternoon ; and it 
 
PROBATION. 6 1 
 
 was only as they were coming home again that they first 
 named the subject which at that moment lay nearest their 
 hearts. Mary was all for mildness and temperate measures. 
 
 ' I think, Myles, that if we was to be kind to her, and 
 talk to her, hoo'd likely give it up,' said the girl, in her 
 soft, broad, Lancashire dialect. 
 
 ' Not she, Molly. She's no intention of giving it up.' 
 
 'I never could abide yon Hoyle,' went on Mary. 'A 
 false, sneakin' fellow, he always seemed to me. I reckon 
 he's after mother's bit o' brass ; but how hoo can gi' so mich 
 as a thought to him — nay, it fair passes me !' 
 
 ' Ay ! you may well blush ! I don't wonder ! ' said Myles, 
 grimly. ' It looks as if some people's minds were fair 
 crooked, or set up on edge, or upside down, or something.' 
 
 They went into the house, and found Edmund alone. 
 
 ' She's not coming back,' said he, by way of salutation. 
 ' She's gone to some of his relations. She says she's lived 
 through a deal o' trouble, and has found out at last what 
 it was to be turned out of doors by her own children.' 
 
 Neither Mary nor Myles made any answer to this an- 
 nouncement. Mary got tea ready, and they sat down. 
 It was a silent painful meal. Myles rose from it with a 
 sense of relief, and taking Edmund's book to change, said 
 he was going down to the reading-room. 
 
 ' Would thou mind calling at th' saddler's in Bold Street 
 for yon strap o' mine ? ' said Mary. 
 
 'What strap, Molly?' 
 
 ' It's a girder as I took to have a new un made like it. 
 He'll give you both th' old and th' new un. I could like 
 to have it to take wi' me to-morn. I've been using Sally 
 Rogers' ; but hoo's comin' back again to-morn, and hoo'll 
 want it hoo'rsel'." 
 
 ' Ay, I'll get it,' said Myles, putting on his cap and going 
 out. 
 
 He made a little detour from his usual route, in order 
 to go to the saddler's on his errand for Mary. Bold Street 
 was one of the principal streets of Thanshope, and close to 
 the very shop to which Myles was going was a place known 
 to the vulgar as ' th' Club.' This was a billiard and whist 
 
62 PROBA TION. 
 
 club, frequented by the golden youth of the promising 
 town of Thanshope. 
 
 It was a spot not exactly loved of the mammas of the 
 said town, and much discussed by the young ladies of the 
 same. Much iniquity was vaguely supposed to be per- 
 petrated there : some of the piously disposed spoke of it as 
 a ' den ' ; others, who knew nothing, and wished to appear 
 as if they knew a great deal, said it was ' as bad as the 
 worst of London clubs,' which remark may serve as a speci- 
 men of the mighty self-consciousness of little provincial 
 towns — and ' den ' is a word which has about it a fine 
 abstract flavour of awfulness. 
 
 It is probable that, as a matter of fact, much bad whist 
 was played there ; billiard balls were knocked up and down, 
 and bets made ; too much spirits were probably consumed ; 
 as many dull, coarse, or vulgar tales were told, as much 
 aimless scandal was talked, as many praise-worthy efforts 
 were made to ape the manners and tone of metropolitan 
 clubs, as in most provincial institutions of a similar kind. 
 
 Myles went to the saddler's, which was next door to this 
 temple of hilarity, fashion, and fastness ; got the straps 
 which Mary had spoken of, and then came out to take his 
 way to the town-hall. As he passed the portico of the 
 club, he saw just within it a back which he remembered, 
 clothed in broadcloth. Beside this figure was another, that 
 of a mere lad, with a babyish face and no chin to speak of, 
 who would have been better in the cricket-field, or even 
 grinding at his Latin grammar. On his small-featured in- 
 significant face was stamped an expression of foolish glee 
 and admiration. 
 
 The first individual was speaking ; Myles, strolling 
 leisurely past, heard the words, in the loud, strident voice : 
 
 ' Such a chase, my boy ! but I succeeded. I found out 
 where she lives, and waylaid her ; gave her my protection 
 whether she liked it or not. Unless I'm much mistaken, 
 we shall soon be very good friends. She's a deep one — 
 those little demure things always are. Ha, ha !' 
 
 ' I say, Spenceley ' 
 
 ' Doosid pretty, though. D — d good eyes she has, and 
 
PROBA TION. 63 
 
 knows how to use them. Look here ! do you want your 
 revenge for Saturday night ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! Come along ! ' 
 
 They walked forward to the interior of the hall, and were 
 lost to view. 
 
 Never before had Myles felt the singular sensation which 
 just then clutched him — a kind of tingling, half of rage, 
 half of shame, from head to foot — a tempest of his whole 
 mental being. He was in a white heat of fury, and only 
 two ideas were distinct in his mind : to find Adrienne, and 
 to punish her insulter. 
 
 Almost unknowing how, he hurried to the town-hall, up 
 the stairs, through the library, into the reading-room. 
 Would she be there ? Yes, she was there, in her usual 
 place. He strode towards her. She was not even pre- 
 tending to read or write. She was pale as ashes, and 
 trembling, as he saw in his approach. 
 
 'Miss Blisset!' he almost whispered, as he went up to 
 her, and bent over her, his face dark with suppressed indig- 
 nation, his eyes aflame. If she too had not been moved 
 out of all conventional calm, she must have started at the 
 expression which flashed from his face upon hers. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Heywood, will you be so very good as to go 
 home with me now, at once ? I have been so frightened 
 and — insulted.' 
 
 Her voice broke, though her eyes flashed. How proud 
 a front soever she might have showed to her insulter, the 
 reaction had set in : the remembrance was not to be borne 
 unmoved. 
 
 ' I know you have, said he in a low emphatic voice ; and 
 a tremor shook him too as he looked at her and saw how 
 beautiful she was. He had admired her as she sat in repose, 
 but now every fibre of his nature bowed to her, and he felt 
 a passionate desire to do something, anything, which should 
 set him apart in her eyes from others. Yet after his first 
 swift glance, he scarcely looked at her, and said very little. 
 Words appeared weak and trivial — he could not express in 
 them his detestation of the conduct of that other man, or 
 how profoundly he reverenced her. 
 
64 rROBA TION. 
 
 'How was it?' he asked, speaking composedly, but 
 clenching his hands, and crushing together what he held in 
 them. 
 
 ' It was that man,' said she, in a low breathless voice, 
 ' that hideous man. I don't know where he saw me. I 
 think he must have followed me, but when I got to that 
 little lane, he suddenly overtook me, and spoke to me. I 
 could not turn back. It would have been much farther — 
 and so lonely. I did not answer him ; I went on very fast, 
 but he detained me so long in that lane — he would not let 
 me pass. I thought I should — bah ! I thought, when we got 
 into the town, that he would have left me, but he did not. 
 He came to the very door of this place, and I dare not 
 go out for fear he should be there yet. Oh, I am so glad 
 to see you ! I thought you were never coming.' 
 
 She had leaned her head upon her hand, or she must have 
 seen the light that flashed suddenly into his eyes — not the 
 light that had been there at first He drew a long breath, 
 but succeeded in not betraying for a second his emotion, as 
 she turned, pale and quivering with excitement, and put her 
 two little slender hands upon his, saying earnestly, 
 
 ' You have been very kind to me. What should I have 
 done if you had not helped me?' 
 
 ' It has been a pleasure to serve you,' he said constrainedly. 
 ' Do you feel fit to walk home now ? ' 
 
 'Oh, quite!' she answered, picking up her note-book; 
 and they went away together. 
 
 Myles walked with her to the gate of her uncle's house, 
 and said, as they paused there, 
 
 ' Of course you will never come again, Miss Blisset?' 
 
 ' Never. Of course not.' 
 
 ' Then — then — ' he faltered, unable to say what he wished. 
 
 ' But I shall see you again, of course,' said Adrienne, 
 quickly. ' You will come again. My uncle wishes you to 
 come again. And you will — yes?' 
 
 'You are sure it wouldn't be an intrusion?' said Myles, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 ' Very far from an intrusion,' she answered. ' You will 
 be welcome — and you will be expected until you come.' 
 
PROBATION. 65 
 
 With which, and with a warm hand-shake she disappeared. 
 
 Myles did not pause to-night to contemplate the street, or 
 to look out for the light in the window. He took the 
 shortest and straightest course into the town again, went 
 direct to Bold Street, and stopped before the club. 
 
 There was a light in the vestibule of that building, and a 
 waiter stood at the door surveying the passers by, and feel- 
 ing no doubt that he looked negatively fascinating. 
 
 'Is Mr. Frederick Spenceley here?' inquired Myles, 
 quietly and politely. 
 
 'Mr. Frederick Spenceley?' repeated the waiter, while an 
 expression of ill-humour crossed his face. ' I rather think 
 he is, and in a deuce of a temper too. If Mr. Frederick 
 Spenceley keeps on coming here, I shan't stay. Well, do 
 you want to see him?' 
 
 ' I should like just to speak to him,' said Myles, ever 
 calmly and politely ; his one object being to penetrate to 
 Mr. Spenceley's presence, content to pocket his burning fury 
 until he was face to face with him. 
 
 Mr. Spenceley evidently enjoyed little favour in the eyes 
 of the waiter, or the latter would hardly have allowed a 
 working-man to penetrate into that sanctum sanctorum, the 
 billiard-room. As it was, he said, 
 
 ' Well, if you go straight ahead upstairs, you'll find him 
 in the billiard-room, I expect. But perhaps you want to see 
 him down here?' 
 
 ' Oh no ! I can go to him. Upstairs, you say?' 
 
 The waiter nodded ; and Myles obeying his direction, 
 found himself on the first landing, opposite a door inscribed 
 ' Billiards.' 
 
 He knocked, but no reply was given, which was accounted 
 for by the loud and overpowering voice of Frederick 
 Spenceley, whose accents drowned all other sounds. 
 
 Myles opened the door, and walked into the room, which 
 was like most other billiard-rooms: four green-shaded lights 
 above the table ; the marker, standing in his place, looking 
 sulky — he too having received his share of the compliments 
 of Mr. Spenceley that evening. 
 
 (It was a significant fact, that not one of Frederick 
 
 F 
 
66 PROBA T10N. 
 
 Spenceley's inferiors would have felt anything but pleasure 
 in his degradation or humiliation.) 
 
 There was Charlie Saunders, the insignificant-looking boy 
 whose pretty pink-and-white face was now a good deal flushed, 
 and who laughed foolishly now and then in high-pitched 
 voice. Opposite, with his burly back towards the door, 
 was Frederick Spenceley, shouting very loudly, and freely 
 expressing his opinion that the cloth was a confounded bad 
 one, and that the table was not level. 
 
 ' It's your eye that's not level, Freddy, my boy,' said his 
 youthful opponent ; ' and your cue too. Look out what 
 you're doing.' 
 
 ' D — n it ! it isn't. Where's the cha-alk ? It's my beastly 
 luck,' roared Spenceley, against whom the balls had broken 
 most unfavourably the whole evening. 
 
 Had the fellow been in the least intoxicated, Myles 
 would have retired ; but he was merely noisy and ill-tem- 
 pered, and accordingly the workman chose that moment 
 to step forward and touch Mr. Spenceley on the shoulder. 
 
 With a violent start, which contrasted somewhat curiously 
 with his previous bluster, he turned ; and when he saw 
 Myles, his face assumed a deep hue of anger, and perhaps 
 of some less noble feeling. 
 
 ' I want a word with you,' said Myles, curtly ; and young 
 Saunders paused to stare at the new-comer, while the 
 marker turned and looked on too. 
 
 Be it observed that neither of these men loved Frederick 
 Spenceley. A billiard-marker, however, is not always in a 
 position to resent affronts, and Charlie Saunders was a per- 
 son of less importance than Spenceley, whatever might be 
 his private opinion of him. Moreover, the whole proceed- 
 ing took them by surprise, or — perhaps they might have 
 interfered. 
 
 ' If you like to come to another room, where we can be 
 alone,' pursued Myles, composedly, ' lead the way. I don't 
 care where it is.' 
 
 ' What the do you want, you ? ' growled 
 
 Spenceley, recovering his pluck, or what he was pleased to 
 consider his pluck. 
 
PROBA TION. 67 
 
 ' I think you remember me. I don't need to introduce 
 myself,' said Myles. ' Now look here ! You've been be- 
 having like a blackguard again — perhaps you can't help 
 that — but, in any case, you'll be pleased to take your 
 attentions to some other quarter than that one. You know 
 what I mean.' 
 
 ' I'll be — ' (a volley of the dash dialect) — ' if I do, you 
 fool ! Be off, and don't annoy gentlemen. Clear out, I 
 say, or I'll call the waiter, and have you kicked out.' 
 
 There was that in Myles's face, so far removed from 
 brutal violence, which was conspicuous in every word and 
 gesture of Spenceley, that the others were quiescent. How 
 he had got there was a mystery to them ; but being there, 
 they were Englishmen enough to wish for fair play, and had 
 sufficient sense to perceive that the workman was no black- 
 guard, whatever his interlocutor might be. 
 
 ' You were in Markham's Lane, to-night,' went on Myles 
 composedly, though his face had become white, and his 
 lips were set. 
 
 ' What's that to you ? What business have you to come 
 spying on gentlemen ? ' 
 
 ' If I were you, I wouldn't say too much about spying. 
 You know what happened there — in Markham's Lane I mean. 
 If anything like it happens again — just once again ' 
 
 He paused. 
 
 'Well?' said Spenceley, with a sneer and a taunt, 'what 
 will be the consequences, my fine fellow?' 
 
 'They will be unpleasant to you, for I'll thrash you 
 within an inch of your life.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ha P roared Mr. Spenceley, but somehow 
 there was a false note in the full chord : it failed of rounded 
 complete harmony. 
 
 ' Freddy, what have you been up to ? ' cried Charlie 
 Saunders, in amaze ; but he did not ask what the other 
 man had been ' up to.' It appeared to be taken for granted 
 that he had good ground for his complaint. 
 
 ' Look here, you beggar,' observed Spenceley to Myles ; 
 ' just get out of this, before you are turned out, and don't 
 interfere in things you don't understand.' 
 
68 PROBATION. 
 
 ' 1 go when I have your promise to behave yourself in 
 future — not before.' 
 
 'Wha-at? Promises? I don't make promises to cads.' 
 
 ' Then I suppose you've never promised yourself what 
 you deserve. I'm waiting for a promise to me, not a cad, 
 and I'll stay till I get it.' 
 
 ' D — n you ! will you be off? ' shouted Spenceley, in a 
 sudden passion, as he saw the cool, scornful face of Myles, 
 and his eyes contemptuously measuring him from head to 
 foot ; and took in with a side-glance the scarcely concealed 
 smile upon the faces of the others. ' Will neither of you 
 fellows ring the bell, and have this fool turned out ? ' 
 
 The rules of the club not providing for such an emergency, 
 they took no notice of what he blustered at them, while 
 Myles replied coolly as ever, 
 
 ' When I've got what I want, I'll be off, as I said.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you want to keep the little darling to yourself,' 
 began Spenceley. 
 
 ' Drop that !' said Myles, sharply, for the first time losing 
 his perfect self-command. 
 
 ' Ah, that's it ! We don't want to be disturbed in our 
 little game. We are so very industrious and literary in our 
 pursuits ' 
 
 In clenching his hand, Myles felt something in it which 
 he had forgotten — the parcel containing Mary's straps. 
 The paper which enwrapped them had got loose. One 
 strap had fallen coiling upon the floor ; one remained in his 
 hand. He looked at it, and felt very strong to wield it. 
 He turned once more to Spenceley, saying, 
 
 ' Do you promise never to speak to, or molest the lady 
 again ?' 
 
 ' Make promises to you, about that little jade . . .' began 
 Spenceley, jeeringly, but he did not finish the sentence. 
 
 Myles's hand, like an iron vice, was at his throat, and 
 during the paralysing astonishment and bewilderment of the 
 other two, Frederick Spenceley received such a thrashing as 
 he had many a time deserved, but which circumstances had 
 hitherto denied to him. Myles's hold, strengthened by a 
 passion which lent him irresistible power, did not for one 
 
PROBA TION. 69 
 
 moment relax. At last Saunders turned and rang the bell ; 
 but not before the fine broadcloth coat was in ribbons upon its 
 owner's back, and the face above it purple and almost suffo- 
 cating, did Myles fling him away from him, remarking coolly, 
 
 ' Perhaps that will answer as well as a promise. If ever 
 it's necessary, there's the same thing, and worse, ready for 
 you a second time.' 
 
 He turned to find the door open, and the waiter staring 
 in, aghast. 
 
 'Kick him out! Fetch some water!' cried young 
 Saunders, bending over the prostrate figure of his friend. 
 ' Kick him out, I say ! ' he reiterated. He was remarkably 
 small and slender in figure, and doubtless felt that it would 
 be a mockery to attempt the deed himself. 
 
 Myles turned towards the waiter, who still blocked up the 
 doorway. 
 
 ' Well/ said he, tranquilly, ' I am waiting ; which are you 
 going to do? Kick me out — or let me pass?' 
 
 The billiard-marker had made no attempt to interfere. The 
 insults received that very evening from Spenceley rankled in 
 his mind ; he was well pleased at the humiliation of the bully. 
 The little waiter looked up for a moment at the tall, mus- 
 cular, sinewy young man who towered above him, with a pale 
 face, and a look of inflexible determination and power about 
 his eyes and mouth, and a frown of anger, terrible in its in- 
 tensity, on his brow. He stood aside silently. Myles 
 turned and said, 
 
 ' If I'm wanted again about this business, my name is 
 Heywood, and I live on the Townfield. I can easily be found.' 
 
 No answer was returned : he composedly picked up his 
 second strap, and walked away. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHTS. 
 
 ' What ails thee, Myles?' asked his sister, as he came into 
 the kitchen. 
 
 ' Me ? Nothing, lass. Here 's your straps. The new 
 
70 PROBA TION. 
 
 one has had a kind of inauguration, but I reckon it will have 
 done it good more likely than harm.' 
 
 'What dost mean?' she asked, staring at him. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ! ' said he, with a slight laugh, as he leaned 
 against the mantelpiece with his arms folded behind him, his 
 favourite attitude. 
 
 'Hast changed my book, Myles?' inquired Edmund. 
 
 ' Eh, I clean forgot it,' replied M yles, with a start. ' I'm 
 very sorry. Fact is, I was called off, and I never thought 
 of the book again.' 
 
 ' Well, it doesn't matter,' answered Edmund, who was in 
 high good humour at his mother's absence. 
 
 Mary also seemed less constrained, though nothing would 
 have induced her to own that she was glad her mother had 
 left them. She moved about more freely, and as she passed 
 to and fro, ' putting things to rights,' she was heard to sing 
 snatches of no less a song of praise than the 'Old Hundredth.' 
 And when her household work was done (for Myles's ad- 
 venture had not taken long, and it was now barely eight 
 o'clock) she brought her work, and sat down with her 
 brothers ; and though there were shadows brooding over 
 them all — darker shadows, and deeper, than they imagined 
 — they formed a very happy trio. 
 
 Mary especially felt happy and contented. She was 
 devoted to her brothers — loved Edmund with a mother's 
 and a sister's love combined, while she looked upon Myles 
 as her ideal of all that was good and manly. He had given 
 her no cause to think otherwise. With regard to her own 
 merits, she w r as humble ; but let any one impeach in the 
 slightest degree those of Myles or Edmund, and she became 
 fierce, proud, and resentful. Something in Myles's mien to- 
 night disturbed her, she knew not why. 
 
 'Wilt have thi pipe, lad? It's theer; I'st get it in a 
 minute.' 
 
 ' No, thank you, Molly. I don't care about smoking to- 
 night' 
 
 ' Did iver ony one see sich a chap ?' said Mary, secretly 
 filled with pride in him. ' He ne'er drinks, and he ne'er 
 hardly smokes, and he ne'er does nowt disagreeable.' 
 
PROBATION. 71 
 
 ' He hasn't a redeeming vice,' said Myles, ironically, 
 watching her fingers as she plied her needle, and forcing 
 himself to speak, though he did it half mechanically. What 
 was she making? he asked. 
 
 ' A shirt.' 
 
 ' For whom ? ' 
 
 ' Why, for thee, lad !' said Mary, with a laugh and a look 
 at him ; and Myles returned the look with a smile, and 
 instantly became lost in a long train of reflection. 
 
 Edmund and Mary loved him, and looked up to him as 
 to a superior being, as the centre figure in their lives, and 
 the person around whom clustered their hopes, fears, and 
 loves. Beyond them, out of their circle, was Adrienne 
 Blisset ; was it in the nature of things that she could ever 
 behold him with eyes like theirs ? No, never ; because she 
 was instructed, and they were ignorant. Well, was adoration 
 the best thing for a man ? Was it not better to adore ? 
 Could there be any shame in the worship of a woman like 
 Adrienne? He decided, no. It was not the giving up 
 of independence — it was the bending to a superior being, 
 which, when that attitude was self-elected, was the highest 
 independence. Here all was secure, safe, assured. Nothing 
 would ever change the love of these two for him : outside 
 there, where Adrienne was, all was storm, cloudy, feverish, 
 uncertain : he knew not what she thought of him — what 
 feelings or no-feelings her gracious manner might cover. 
 
 He had defended her — from the first moment of their 
 intercourse his attitude had been made by circumstances 
 a protecting one : he felt at once an inferiority and a su- 
 periority to her, which two things do surely form part of the 
 primal basis of pure and holy love. He stood still, leaning 
 against the chimney-piece, thinking of what he had this night 
 done for her sake, and his face flushed at the remembrance. 
 
 ' Can she ever be like another woman to me ?' he thought. 
 ' It is impossible. If it were possible I should be a clod.' 
 For what he had done counted for something with Myles : 
 he was not one of those heroes who will thrash you half a 
 dozen fellows, twice as big as themselves, and then require 
 to be reminded of such a trifle. 
 
72 PROBA TION. 
 
 He was not quite sure, even now, that he felt unmixed 
 satisfaction in the deed. To thrash a cowardly bully, who 
 seemed unable to express himself without the assistance of 
 copious volleys of oaths, was one thing, and Myles contem- 
 plated with some complacency the fact that he had done 
 it. But if any evil consequences should ensue to Adrienne! 
 
 After a moment he reassured himself. He did not believe 
 that Spenceley knew her name. He had not mentioned it. 
 Myles would have died rather than utter it himself in that 
 company — that would indeed have been a casting of pearls 
 before swine, of which he was naturally incapable. 
 
 If Mr. Spenceley chose to prosecute him he would own 
 himself guilt)', and take his punishment — anything rather 
 than drag her name into the discussion ; but he doubted 
 much whether Spenceley would wish to draw public attention 
 so pointedly to the fact that he had been flogged by a 
 workman in the billiard-room of his own club. That would 
 have been to expose his own brutal insolence and violence, 
 and to hint, moreover, at some discreditable deed in the 
 background which had called forth the attack. Myles 
 began to wonder how that beautiful sister of his, whom he 
 had spoken to that morning — could it be that morning ? — 
 would receive her brother. Then his thoughts wandered 
 off again to Adrienne. 
 
 ' At any rate, I can't face her yet. I must stay quiet 
 awhile until it has blown over. Perhaps, as she's so very 
 quiet, and goes out so little, she'll not hear about it ; and 
 then I could call, and not mention it, and it would all pass 
 over.' 
 
 A knock at the back-door roused him. 
 
 Mary lifted her head, and cried ' Come in !' but after a 
 pause the knock was renewed. 
 
 ' It's Harry,' observed Edmund. ' Thou mun open to 
 him, Myles, or he'll go on knocking for half an hour.' 
 
 'Ay, poor lad, I suppose he will,' said Myles, going 
 towards the door, while Mary maintained absolute silence, 
 continuing her work. 
 
 Myles soon returned, accompanied by a young man. 
 slight and somewhat delicate-looking, pale-faced and fair- 
 
PROBATION. 73 
 
 complexioned, whose calm, open countenance was pleasant 
 to look upon, despite a certain vagueness in its expression 
 — not a want of intelligence, or anything approaching 
 vacancy, but rather as if something escaped him and left 
 him apart from other people. 
 
 ' Good evenin', Mary — evenin', Ned,' he said, in the very 
 softest and gentlest of voices. 
 
 'Sit down, Harry, and have supper with us,' said Myles; 
 and when he spoke, Harry Ashworth's infirmity became 
 apparent. 
 
 Myles had to go close up to him and speak, not very 
 loudly, but very slowly and clearly. He was almost deaf, 
 in consequence of a fever he had had when a boy of twelve. 
 He was twenty-five now, and the weakness increased each 
 year : it was probable that in a few more years he would 
 be stone-deaf. He was a frequent visitor at the Heywoods', 
 and a great friend of Myles and Edmund ; Mary and he 
 had little to say to each other beyond the words of greeting 
 and farewell. 
 
 There was a certain constraint this evening immediately 
 after his entrance, on account of what had happened in 
 regard to Mrs. Heywood, but this constraint was dissipated 
 by Harry himself. 
 
 ' I hear your mother has gone,' he remarked. 
 
 Myles assented in a grave sort of way. 
 
 Mary's cheeks flushed, and she did not raise her eyes 
 from her work. 
 
 'She thinks of being married soon, then?' 
 
 ' I expect so,' said Myles. 
 
 ' Ah,' said Harry ; and then, without any embarrassment, 
 changed the subject. 
 
 ' We may expect changes soon, Myles, I reckon.' 
 
 'What changes?' asked Myles, who had come close to 
 Harry, while the latter had placed his chair beside Edmund's 
 sofa. 
 
 'The master's coming back — so I hear.' 
 
 ' Oh, him ! ' said Myles, again trying to turn up his nose, 
 and again failing to do so. 
 
 Harry laughed, and Mary remarked, 
 
74 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Eh, but I could like to seen yon chap. He mun be 
 some and clever.' 
 
 ' Molly thinks he must be clever,' said Myles to Harry, 
 who nodded 
 
 ' I don't see why he shouldn't be, choose how. I think 
 you're a bit hard on him, Myles. We know no harm on him.' 
 
 ' Yes, we do. We know he's neglected his business and 
 his property. He's six-and-twenty if he's a day, and he's 
 never looked in upon us since he came into possession. 
 He's a gawmless chap — he must be.' 
 
 ' Well, we'st see that when he comes. Have you heard 
 as Mr. Lippincott, his health's iailiir, and he's ordered 
 abroad? They say he can't live.' 
 
 Mr. Lippincott was the sitting member for Thanshope. 
 
 ' Nay, I heard nothing of that,' said Myles, reflectively. 
 ' Then, suppose he dies, we shall have a fresh election.' 
 
 ' Ay ; and I have heard,' pursued Harry, not without a 
 twinkle of humour in his eyes, ' as it's possible Mr. Mallory 
 may stand, if Mr. Lippincott resigns or dies.' 
 
 ' What ! ' ejaculated Myles. ' And who is to oppose him ? ' 
 
 ' Spenceley — Bargaining Jack.' 
 
 'Why, Myles, thou'd be hard set to know who to vote 
 for,' said Mary, innocently. 
 
 Myles suddenly recovered his presence of mind, and 
 shouted to Harry, 
 
 'You've heard wrong, lad. Mallorys are all Tories, and 
 always have been — it's bred in the bone ; and Bargaining 
 Jack reckons to be a Conservative too, so far as he's any- 
 thing. Conservatives manage better than us. They would 
 never run two candidates in Thanshope — in fact, they only 
 run one for the look of the thing. They can't get the 
 wedge in here.' 
 
 'Well. T have heard too,' continued Harry, 'as how 
 Mallory is a Radical — a Liberal, choose how.' 
 
 ' That I'll never believe till I hear him say it himself,' 
 said Myles, decidedly. ' And from all I've heard, I think 
 you've been misinformed, Harry. 1 
 
 ' Well, perhaps I have,' said Harry, peaceably. 'It doesn't 
 matter to me which way it is.' 
 
PROBATION. 75 
 
 Nor did the others appear to take much interest in the 
 subject, for it dropped, and Mary began to get supper ready. 
 At that meal the conversation was carried on almost 
 entirely between Harry and Myles. Harry was a spinner, 
 in receipt of a large wage. He was, as has been said, a 
 pleasant, comely-looking young man, and if not very robust, 
 did not look unhealthy. Many of his friends wondered 
 why he did not marry ; for he was turned twenty-five. He 
 and Myles and Mary Heywood were beginning to be looked 
 upon as drifting into the old maid and bachelor ranks. 
 
 At all times, early — terribly early — marriages are the rule 
 in Lancashire ; but in those halcyon years of plenty and 
 golden prosperity preceding the American Civil War, they 
 had been more numerous than ever. 
 
 After supper Edmund, stretching out his arms, said in a 
 muffled kind of voice, 
 
 ' Eh, I say, it is some and hot here. I wonder what it's 
 like outside.' 
 
 ' Why, the air's pleasant enough on the Townfield,' said 
 Harry. 
 
 ' I could like to feel it,' remarked Edmund. ' I've not 
 been out these three days.' 
 
 'Well, come along and take a turn,' said Myles, good- 
 naturedly, well knowing that Edmund's motive for suggest- 
 ing such a thing at that time was that the dusk was rapidly 
 gathering : there were fewer people about, and he was less 
 likely to be observed. 
 
 Edmund jumped at the offer, and Myles, giving him his 
 cap, and taking his own, drew his brother's arm through 
 his, shouting to Harry, 
 
 'Wilt come with us, or wilt stay with Molly?' 
 
 ' I'st stay and have a pipe till you come in, if Mary's no 
 objection,' said Harry ; and Mary, by way of answer, pointed 
 to a china basket on the mantelpiece, in which stood half 
 a dozen neatly made ' spills.' 
 
 These spills were a mystery to the household. Mary 
 gave it out that she liked to have them. They looked tidy 
 like, and did for lighting the pipes ; but it was a well-known 
 fact that Edmund did not smoke at all, that Myles pre- 
 
76 PROBA TION. 
 
 ferred to light his pipe with a coal or a match, and that the 
 only visitor who enjoyed the privilege of smoking in that 
 kitchen was Harry Ashworth. Yet no one ever suggested 
 that the lighters were kept in stock for Harry's benefit, 
 though Edmund had been perilously near doing so once or 
 twice. Had he or any one else uttered that theory, it is 
 impossible to imagine what Mary would have said — possibly 
 nothing at all, for she was, in practice at least, a strong 
 upholder of the theory that ' silence is golden.' 
 
 The two brothers went out, leaving the door open, and a 
 waft of the somewhat cooler outside air penetrated to the 
 kitchen. The gas was not lighted ; the fire had burnt low ; 
 the room was almost dark. Mary could no longer see to 
 work, and sat, with her head thrown a little backwards, in 
 the high-backed, red-cushioned rocking-chair. The clock 
 ticked : everything was very still. It was Harry who spoke 
 first, in his soft voice. 
 
 ' Warm and close, this here weather, Mary.' 
 
 'Ay,' said Mary, ' 'tis.' 
 
 ' How does Ned get on ?' he asked ; for though she did 
 not speak very loudly, she spoke deliberately, and he ap- 
 peared to hear her easily. 
 ■ ' He feels th' heat aboon a bit,' replied Mary. 
 
 ' Ay ! I dare say.' 
 
 A pause, while Harry puffed away at his pipe, and Mary 
 offered no further observations on men or things. 
 
 ' I took a long walk o' Sunday — yesterday,' observed 
 Harry at last. 
 
 'Did you? Whereto?' 
 
 ' Reet o'er th' moors to th' top o' Blackrigg.' 
 
 ' It's to' far. Thou'rt none strong eno' for sich like walks.' 
 
 ' Yea, but I am. I set me down on the heather, and 
 listened wi' all my might, and I thowt I heard a bird 
 singing.' 
 
 ' I Iappen a lark?' said Mary, after a perceptible pause. 
 
 ' Happen. I should ha' gone to church in th' evenin', 
 but I can't hear — nowt distinct, that's to say — and I'm 
 a'most inclined to think that I didn't hear yon lark, but 
 only thowt I did, from memory, thou known.' 
 
PROBATION. 77 
 
 'Ay,' assented Mary. 
 
 ' And when I go into church, and hear the organ buzzin' 
 and th' voices all mixed up wi' it, and can't make out what 
 it is, it fair moithers me ; same as when I look up, and see 
 th' parson speakin', and don't know what it's about.' 
 
 'Ay,' said Mary, laconically as ever, but this time there 
 was the faintest possible vibration in her voice. 
 
 And there was another long pause, while Mary's eyelids 
 drooped. He did not see that — it was too dark ; and had 
 he seen it, he could not have known that those eyelids were 
 sore with repressed tears, which burnt them, and which she 
 would not allow to flow. 
 
 ' Sometimes,' his voice broke in again, ' I get discontented. 
 I'm main fond o' music, as you know, Mary.' 
 ' Ay, I know thou art.' 
 
 'And it troubles me above a bit sometimes as I should 
 be deaf, for it just takes away my greatest pleasure. Some- 
 times I wish I'd been blind instead.' 
 
 No answer from Mary, till Harry, in a hesitating voice, 
 said, 
 
 ' What dost think, Mary ? Is it very wrong to have such 
 thoughts?' 
 
 ' No, I dunnot,' replied Mary. ' I call it very nateral. 
 If I was deaf, I reckon I should make more noise about it 
 than you do. I wonder what them chaps is doin.' It's 
 time they was comin' in.' 
 
 ' Don't thou go out. I'll find 'em, and tell 'em, for I 
 mun be goin' too,' said Harry, rising. 
 
 Mary had begun to poke the fire violently, and now let 
 the poker fall with a loud rattle, as Harry, without her 
 knowing it, had advanced close to her, so that her elbow 
 struck against his outstretched hand. 
 
 ' Dule tak' th' fire-irons ! ' said she, impatiently. ' I conna 
 think what ails 'em. Good neet to you, if you mun be 
 going,' she added, shaking hands with him, and, as soon as 
 he was gone, lighting the gas. 
 
 Presently her brothers came in. The house was locked 
 up. Mary went to bed, followed by Edmund. Myles was 
 left by the dying-out kitchen fire, with a book on the table, 
 
78 PROBA TION. 
 
 which he never opened, but sat till far into the night, living 
 through some of those strange hours of still, silent, yet vivid, 
 rushing, mental life which come to all of us sometimes in our 
 youth, and which are like no other hours in our experience. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A TEA-PARTY. 
 
 ' Mir war's so wohl, so well ! ' 
 
 After that evening Myles found himself in a position 
 which he at least found full of difficulties. Two things 
 happened, both of which he had looked upon as probable ; 
 the news of what had happened spread, and Frederick 
 Spenceley did not prosecute. The waiter who had allowed 
 Myles to go into the billiard-room was dismissed ; the 
 billiard-marker who had stood by shared the same fate. 
 
 It would be difficult to guess what object, real or sup- 
 posed, was gained by this measure ; but it seemed to afford 
 great satisfaction to many minds. Spenceley found it con- 
 venient to leave home for some weeks, and Myles heard 
 no more of his share in the transaction. 
 
 There were endless tales in circulation — the facts, the 
 names, the causes of the affair, all got mixed up in the 
 wildest and most inextricable confusion, as in such cases 
 they always do. The principals maintained absolute silence, 
 and let report work what wonders it would or could. 
 
 ' Bear not false witness ; let the lie 
 Have time on its own wings to fly !' 
 
 They adhered to the precept, and the result was that 
 they and their grievances were soon completely obscured 
 in the buzz of talk, conjecture, wrong guesses, and wild 
 surmises which gathered about them like a thick cloud. 
 One thing soon became apparent ; and, once secure of that, 
 Myles cared nothing for the rest. Adrienne's name was 
 not known. The cause of the fracas was generally supposed 
 to be a woman ; but the tale which gained the greatest 
 
PR OB A TION. 79 
 
 favour was one taking the side of the workman — that 
 mysterious 'workman' whose name had somehow dis- 
 appeared in the midst of contradictory reports, and whom 
 no one could distinctly specify, because there were so many 
 workmen in Thanshope. How was a genteel person to 
 know one linen jacket, or its wearer, from another? This 
 report, which preserved a kind of likeness amidst all its 
 variations, was to the effect that Frederick Spenceley had 
 deserved his thrashing ; for that he had been taking undue 
 liberties with the young man's sweetheart — and her name was 
 Sally Rogers, was Frances Alice Kershaw, and she was a dress- 
 maker, was a mill hand, and lived in half a dozen places, and 
 worked in as many factories, quite certainly and positively; 
 she was very pretty, and he was very jealous; or, she was not 
 a particularly good-looking girl, but Fred Spenceley had had 
 words with the young man before, and had wished to insult 
 him. 
 
 Myles maintained a rigid silence upon the subject, even 
 when Mary came in one day in a state of unusual excite- 
 ment, exclaiming, 
 
 'Eh! Ned, Myles, have ye heerd tell o' what's happened?' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' Jack Spenceley's lad has had such a leathering,' said 
 Mary ; and told the rest of it with much excitement and 
 volubility, for her. 
 
 Edmund manifested a lively interest in the story, and 
 Myles admitted indifferently that he had heard something 
 about it. 
 
 They were, however, not much given to gossiping at 
 that house, and the subject soon dropped. 
 
 Then came Myles's other difficulty. He did not know 
 whether boldly to go and call at Mr. Blisset's, as he longed 
 and desired to do, or whether to remain away. He plagued 
 himself with wondering what she thought about it, and then 
 tried to believe that she had perhaps not even heard of it 
 — her life was so very retired, she saw and heard so little of 
 what was going on outside. Then he might go ? But 
 suppose she did know, and he appeared as if he came to 
 be thanked and made a hero of? He contradicted himself 
 
8o PROBA TION. 
 
 ten times a day; decided to go — to stay — to go — and stayed 
 because he absolutely could not decide which was best. 
 
 So the days went on until Saturday, and he had not had 
 a glimpse of her — only the remembrance of her grateful 
 eyes and the pressure of her hand, as she bade him good- 
 bye at her uncle's gate before it had all happened. When 
 Saturday afternoon came, his longing to see her was grow- 
 ing almost unbearable, and he had the sensation that if he 
 went out of the house, his feet would turn mechanically 
 towards Blake Street. 
 
 It was Saturday afternoon ; the clockhands pointed to 
 five; Mary's 'cleaning' was over, and the house was quiet. 
 Edmund lay upon his sofa with a headache, and Myles was 
 softly reading to him, glad of some monotonous occupation 
 which should divert his thoughts somewhat from the topic 
 which at present tyrannised over them. 
 
 Edmund had been reading in a magazine about the works 
 of the Bronte sisters, and Myles had procured him ' Jane 
 Eyre ' and ' Wuthering Heights ' from the free library. 
 ' Wuthering Heights ' lay as yet untouched ; it had not 
 yet laid its strong and dreadful spell on the boy's spirit 
 They were deep in 'Jane Eyre.' It proved a spell which 
 caused Edmund to forget his headache, and enchained 
 the attention of Myles himself, with its passionate expres- 
 sion of the equality of soul and soul, and its eager con- 
 viction of the supremacy of mind over the differences of 
 rank or place. Its burning radicalism went straight to 
 Myles's soul, while its deep poetry touched Edmund's in- 
 most heart 
 
 At this moment they were wandering with ' Jane ' over 
 the summer moors, homeless, friendless, foodless, penniless ; 
 and they had forgotten all outside things with her, as she 
 reposed herself beneath the broad sky, on the friendly 
 bosom of her mother — Nature. 
 
 'Hist !' said Edmund, suddenly, 'there's a knock.' 
 
 Myles paused. Some one knocked at the front door. 
 Mary had heard it, and rose from her rocking-chair. 
 
 ' Thee go on wi' thi' readin',' said she, going out ; and 
 
PROBATION. 8 1 
 
 they heard her open the door, and a low voice — a woman's 
 voice — ask her some question. 
 
 With an inarticulate exclamation, Myles half rose, the 
 book open in his hand, and as Edmund was in the act of 
 inquiring what was the matter, Mary came in again, looking 
 rather bewildered, and saying, as she turned to some one 
 who followed her, 
 
 ' Myles, here's a lady wants to speak to thee.' 
 
 'Why did you not come?' said Adrienne, going straight 
 up to Myles. 'Why have you never been to see me? I 
 have waited and waited, until I could wait no longer.' 
 
 He stood, crimson, unable to speak a word, but looking 
 at her with eyes that must have told their tale — which must 
 have warned her had she been less excited and earnest. 
 
 ' How could you go and do a thing like that, and then 
 never take any further notice of me?' she continued. 'I 
 have thought of nothing else since I heard of it. It was 
 most wonderfully foolish — oh, very foolish ; but oh, I do 
 thank you, and honour you for it, with all my heart. It is 
 exactly what such canaille deserve, and it was nobly done — 
 it was indeed !' 
 
 ' Miss Blisset . . . you . . . you — it was nothing. Any 
 one would have done it. I couldn't have rested or slept till 
 I had punished him. I was obliged to do it.' 
 
 ' Ah, that is how you put it, no doubt — but any one would 
 not have felt so — only you would. I can never thank you 
 — never.' 
 
 ' Well, don't then ! I — it makes me ashamed of myself 
 — it does indeed,' said he, earnestly. 
 
 'But whativer is it o' about, miss?' said Mary, putting 
 
 into words her own and Edmund's boundless astonishment. 
 
 *'Is it possible,' said Adrienne, turning with wide-open 
 
 eyes to Myles — 'is it possible that you have never told 
 
 them? Did he not tell you?' 
 
 ' Nay, he's ne'er told us nowt,' said Mary. 
 
 'I never heard of anything so extraordinary,' said Ad- 
 rienne, with still a vibration in her voice, which showed 
 how much she was moved. ' You must have heard about 
 that man — Spenceley — who insulted me, and ..." 
 
 G 
 
Sa PROBA 770 N. 
 
 ' Thank heaven, your name has never been uttered,' 
 interposed Myles, hastily. 
 
 ' And your brother, who had once before sent him away 
 when he tried to annoy me at the library, went to make 
 him promise to behave himself, and he would not. Was 
 not that it? So he flogged him.' 
 
 'Eh — Myles!' said Mary, with a long-drawn intonation, 
 compounded of incredulity, pride, and pleasure. ' Eh — h 
 — Myles ! I niver did — no niver !' 
 
 ' So it were you, Myles,' said Edmund. ' Thou hast kept 
 some and quiet about it. But I'm glad thou did it.' 
 
 ' And he has never come near my home — never given 
 me a chance of thanking him,' pursued Adrienne. ' You 
 must understand, now, why I have come.' 
 
 ' Ay, I can so,' said Mary, regarding her with great favour 
 and cordiality, for this praise of Myles touched her to the 
 very heart. 'Won't you sit down?' she added. 
 
 ' I don't wish to disturb you,' said Adrienne, hesitating. 
 
 ' Eh, no sich thing. Sit you down,' said Mary, drawing 
 up the rocking-chair, in which Adrienne sat down, and 
 Myles stood leaning against one end of the mantelpiece, 
 feeling the need of a support of some kind ; for he felt a 
 sort of intoxication and a bewilderment, and a strange, 
 subtle, new life in the very fact of Adrienne's presence. 
 
 ' I had to inquire where you lived,' she said, looking up 
 at him. ' You did not even tell me that. You once men- 
 tioned that you lived on the Townfield, and I thought I 
 should never find your house ; but the first person I met 
 told me where you lived. But would you never have 
 come?' 
 
 ' I — I hardly liked to come. I did not know whether 
 you might have been — displeased, perhaps,' he said, with 
 some embarrassment. 
 
 ' My uncle has often asked when you were coming. He 
 wants to see you again. But now you will come soon — yes?' 
 
 ' I — yes. I should like to,' said he. 
 
 ' I hope you don't mind my coming here,' said Adrienne 
 to Mary. 
 
 ' Eh, no ! Lord, no ! ' said Mary, earnestly. ' I'm reet 
 
PROBATION. 83 
 
 glad to see you. Yon chap would ne'er ha' told us what 
 he'd been doin'. He's so— stupid.' 
 
 ' Yes — so I should think,' said Adrienne, meeting Mary's 
 eyes with a smile. 
 
 And then, looking at Edmund, she said, ' I've heard of 
 you, too. You are not strong.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mary, answering for him. ' He's ne'er one o' 
 th' strongest, and to-day he's getten a headache.' 
 
 ' Don't you do anything for your headaches?' 
 
 ' Nay, I jist bide 'em out' 
 
 ' That is a pity. I could do something for them — if I come 
 again, I will bring you something that will do them good.' 
 
 She went on talking to Mary and Edmund, who seemed 
 to feel no embarrassment in the intercourse. Adrienne 
 certainly possessed in a high degree the art of putting 
 people at their ease in her company. Mary and Edmund 
 were not usually communicative in first interviews with 
 strangers ; but this stranger appeared to take their hearts 
 by storm, and quickly succeeded in making them forget 
 that there was any difference in station between them. She 
 apologised for her intrusion much more particularly than 
 she would have done to a woman whose servant had opened 
 the door, taken her card, and announced her with a flourish. 
 This demeanour was not put on — it was her natural, spon- 
 taneous manner, springing from instinctive politeness and 
 geniality of nature. Everything about her was true and 
 pure — what Myles was accustomed to call in the vernacular 
 'jannock.' Mary, also, was nothing if not jannock; and 
 the two girls — the lady and the factory-worker — seemed 
 instinctively to get on. 
 
 ' I must not detain you any longer now,' said Adrienne, 
 at last. ' I see you are going to have your tea. But I 
 should like to know you. Would you mind if I came 
 again, now and then?' 
 
 ' Eh, I'st be vary glad,' said Mary, ' if so be we're not 
 too simple and plain like for you. Yo'seen we're nobbut 
 working folk . . .' 
 
 ' Well, I am a working person too, and like seeks like,' 
 said Adrienne. 
 
84 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' I reckon you're a different male' o' worker fro' us,' said 
 Mary. 
 
 ' I am sure I work as hard as you at least, and am as 
 tired and as glad of rest as you, when my work is done.' 
 
 ' You look tired now,' said Mary, fixing her large, clear 
 eyes upon Adrienne's pale and somewhat weary face, from 
 which the glow had faded. 'Where do you live?' 
 
 ' Up at Stonegate, in Blake Street.' 
 
 ' My certy ! But that's a good step ! ' said Mary, who, 
 like many of her class, was nothing of a walker. ' We're 
 just goin' to have our tay — won't you draw up and have a 
 sup, and a bit o' summat to eyt?' 
 
 That homely, cordial Lancashire invitation, ' Come and 
 have a sup, and a bit o' summat to eat' — what Lancashire ears 
 are there that do not know it and love it for the kind thoughts 
 it arouses ? It went straight home to our lonely Adrienne : 
 a mist rushed over her eyes ; she said somewhat hesitatingly, 
 
 'Oh, I should like it. You are very kind, but I fear 
 ' she half turned to Myles. 
 
 ' Myles, coom out o' yon corner, and behave thisel', mon ! 
 Thou can when thou's a mind to,' said Mary, briskly. 
 ' Now draw up,' she added to Adrienne. ' Tak' off your 
 hat, and I'st hang it up, so ! And Myles'll see you home. 
 He's got nowt to do to-neet.' 
 
 Mary must have been inspired when she made this 
 suggestion. 
 
 ' Oh, I need not trouble him now,' said Adrienne, with a 
 radiant smile upon the approaching Myles — ' unless he has 
 forgotten the way to my uncle's house, as I begin to think.' 
 
 ' It's much better I should go with you. It's Saturday 
 evening,' said Myles, seating himself beside her, and throw- 
 ing a fleeting glance towards her face. 
 
 She was content, pleased, even flattered at the friendly 
 way in which she had been received. Her expression said 
 that as plainly as words could do. Myles began to lose some 
 of his bewilderment, and to gain somewhat more confidence. 
 
 ' Eh, I've forgotten th' mowffins ! ' said Mary, suddenly, 
 a shade crossing her face. ' We mun really wait while I 
 toast the mowffins.' 
 
PROBATION. 85 
 
 She jumped up and produced tea-cakes out of a cupboard, 
 and Myles suggested that perhaps it did not matter about 
 the muffins. Mary was, however, firm, and bade him cut 
 some bread-and-butter while she toasted. 
 
 'And mind thou cuts it nice and thin, and not all i' 
 lumps,' she added in admonitory tones. 
 
 Myles, much too simple-minded to see anything deroga- 
 tory in cutting bread-and-butter, began, but in half a minute 
 Adrienne had jumped up and laid hold of the knife. 
 
 ' Stop ! That is clearly not your sphere,' said she, laugh- 
 ing into his embarrassed, yet ever-attractive face. ' It is not 
 stern enough — not commanding enough. Let me do it.' 
 
 Unaware of the distinguished example set by the Wetzlar 
 heroine in the bread-and-butter cutting line, Myles watched 
 the deft fingers of his enchantress as if no woman had ever 
 been known to cut bread-and-butter properly before. 
 
 Mary, who grew visibly and every moment more satisfied 
 with her guest, toasted the ' mowffins,' buttered them, and 
 tea was proclaimed ready with acclamation. 
 
 Then Edmund came to the table ; they all sat there, and 
 Mary made tea in state, apologising for not having the best 
 tea-things because of the impromptu nature of the visit. 
 
 'I am sure these seem delightful tea-things,' said Adrienne, 
 smiling. 
 
 The festivity was altogether successful as regarded 
 Adrienne, Mary, and Edmund. But Miss Blisset cast 
 every now and then fleeting glances at Myles, and was not 
 quite at her ease about him, for he alone of all the party 
 was silent and grave. It was the deep intensity of the 
 delight within him that caused this, but Adrienne could not 
 be supposed to know that — in very truth, as yet she 
 honestly believed the greater admiration and liking to be 
 on her side. That delusion was soon to be ended, but at 
 present she was under its influence. 
 
 The meal was not long over when she said she must go, 
 and promising Mary to come again, she went away, accom- 
 panied by Myles. 
 
 Their way lay through what was called ' the Park.' They 
 turned in at the large iron gates of a town pleasure-ground, 
 
86 PROBA TIOX. 
 
 laid out in gravel walks, grass plots, seats, and flower-beds. 
 They were on a height. The town lay below, with the 
 gilded spire of the town-hall cleaving the air, and the hazy- 
 looking blue wall of Blackrigg to the north and north-west. 
 
 As they walked slowly along a broad terrace, unoccupied 
 save by themselves, Adrienne asked, in her quick foreign 
 way, 
 
 'Say to me, Mr. Heywood — you are vexed that I came?' 
 
 ' I — vexed — nay ! ' was all that he could say. 
 
 The current which for the last week had ever been hurry- 
 ing more and more quickly forward had now arrived at the 
 verge. It leapt over it in a bound, and carried everything 
 before. He was madly in love, and all he could do was to 
 say as little, be as brief as possible, for fear of showing her, 
 startling her, perhaps repelling her ; for he was intensely 
 conscious of the difference ; all his dearly loved, passionately 
 cherished theories of equality could not blind him to the 
 fact that they were not equals — that while he loved her with 
 a strength that shook his nature with its power, yet the bare 
 thought of touching her, holding her hand, speaking to her 
 on easy and familiar terms, came to him with a sense of 
 impropriety — brought him the conviction, non sum dignus. 
 
 1 You were so quiet,' said she. ' You would hardly speak 
 to me. I was afraid I had offended you.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said poor Myles, unable to say more lest he 
 should say too much. 
 
 ' I am sure,' pursued Adrienne, stopping in her walk and 
 looking earnestly at him — ' I am sure you know that I did 
 not mean to offend you ; and you could not be so hard as 
 to wish me to keep silence. You behaved splendidly. I 
 felt that I must thank you for it.' 
 
 It was growing too much for him to stand there quiescent, 
 and hear that voice, which contained all melody for him, 
 and to see that face, those eyes, looking at him so. The 
 eagerness of desperate love came storming down upon 
 prudence, and hurrying words of devotion to his lips. 
 Mastering himself by a strong effort, and clasping, or rather 
 clenching his hands behind him, he said, in what seemed 
 to Adrienne a singularly calm, colourless voice, 
 
PROBATION. 87 
 
 ' You make too much of it. I would rather not be 
 thanked for it.' 
 
 ' You are hard upon me to say that. It gives me such 
 pleasure to thank you, but you deserve at my hands that I 
 should comply with your wishes — after what you have done 
 for me. But you cannot guess what a delightful feeling it 
 is to one so lonely as I, to suddenly discover that there is 
 some one who has been not afraid to stand up for her — 
 and to some purpose.' 
 
 ' I should have thought you would have many friends,' 
 remarked Myles, endeavouring to change the too-fascinating 
 subject. 
 
 ' I — no indeed. I don't think any one with fewer friends 
 ever lived.' 
 
 ' But you may have left friends behind you on the 
 Continent?' 
 
 A momentary pause while he looked at her. It was as 
 though some sudden blow had struck the words back from 
 her lips to her heart — then she said steadily, 
 
 ' Some few ; but chiefly benefactors rather than friends — 
 benefactors who befriended and helped me in my loneliness 
 and destitution, for my father and I were sometimes almost 
 destitute.' 
 
 'Destitute?' echoed Myles, shocked. 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I have not always lived in Lancashire, you 
 know. No one seems to be poor here. I have known 
 what it is to look at a piece of money worth sixpence, and 
 know that if I spent that upon my supper I should not have 
 a penny in the morning to buy breakfast with.' 
 
 ' But not seriously?' 
 
 ' I assure you it seemed very serious to me. I have 
 sunk lower. I have known what it was to go supperless 
 to bed, wondering what poor little trinket or book I could 
 spare in order to get a breakfast next morning.' 
 
 Myles was silent, and Adrienne continued, 
 
 ' That, you know, is what is not considered respectable 
 for a young lady.' 
 
 ' Hang respectability ! ' was all he said. 
 
 ' Not at all ! I like it. After all the fever and the tur- 
 
88 PROBA TION. 
 
 moils, and the ups and downs, and dreadful uncertainties of 
 that life, my present one is like Paradise. Oh, rest is a 
 very sweet thing — rest and security, and a strong arm to 
 help you.' (Myles turned to her with parted lips.) 'Your 
 home is beautiful. That sister of yours is so calm and good. 
 I love her already. She must be very dear to you.' 
 
 ' Ay, I love Mary dearly.' 
 
 ' Yes. Both she and you, and all of you, look as if you 
 had had a home all your lives. Do you think I might go 
 to see them again?' 
 
 ' They'll only be too glad. I never thought you could 
 sympathise so much — with our sort,' said Myles, con- 
 strainedly. 
 
 ' To-morrow you will come to Stonegate, will you not? and 
 then I will tell you my story, and you will perhaps under- 
 stand how it is that I sympathise with "your sort," as you 
 call it, and why I think so much of what you have done 
 for me.' 
 
 ' I will come with pleasure.' 
 
 'To-morrow afternoon, then, I shall expect you.' 
 
 They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Myles 
 left her at the gate. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' Deeper and deeper still.' 
 
 It was a lovely Sunday afternoon on which Myles took his 
 way to Stonegate. He found Adrienne alone. She said 
 her uncle was taking his afternoon airing in his bath-chair 
 in the garden, and did not wish to be disturbed ; his old 
 servant, Brandon, was with him. 
 
 ' But sit down,' she continued, ' and we can have a talk.' 
 
 With that she picked up her knitting and began to work. 
 
 ' You will talk,' said Myles, ' if you keep your promise. 
 You promised to tell me about yourself.' 
 
 ' Do you really want to hear that?' 
 
 ' I came on purpose.' 
 
PROBA TION. S 9 
 
 ' Well, I will tell it you, and I hope it will have the effect 
 I intend.' 
 
 'What effect is that?' 
 
 ' You are determined to look upon me (I have seen it, so 
 don't be at the trouble of denying it) as something fine and 
 delicate, and unused to roughness and hardship.' 
 
 ' Yes, one can see plainly enough that you are that.' 
 
 ' Can one ? Well, I'll begin my story, and you shall learn 
 how appearances may deceive.' 
 
 Adrienne related well. She did not exaggerate ; there 
 was nothing strained, no striving after effect ; but there was 
 colour, pathos, life, in her tale, and a subtle poetry thrown 
 over all, by her way of looking at things. 
 
 Myles, in listening, felt as if he were actually wandering 
 with her on that nomadic life she spoke of; through the 
 great foreign capitals, and the country villages, and the 
 towns, big and little ; to be sojourning with her in the gay, 
 feverish watering-places ; to survey the distant, rose-tinted 
 Alps. He utterly forgot where he was, and knew only her 
 and her life. 
 
 There had been two brothers, she told him, of whom her 
 father was the younger, and her uncle the elder. Kith 
 and kin, they had none, and their patrimony was small. 
 Both were gifted, but in different ways. Adrian, her father, 
 was artist to the marrow of his bones. Richard, her uncle, 
 had also some taste for art, but more of the analytical and 
 critical than of the synthetic description ; he had been, 
 moreover, at one time, a practical man of business, and had 
 made money — he was not rich, but thoroughly independent. 
 Her father had had the gift of spending, not of making. 
 The brothers had parted early. Adrian, as soon as he was his 
 own master, had said farewell to home, and had gone, first to 
 Germany, there to study the music which his soul loved, and 
 which had beautified his otherwise weary, disappointed life. 
 
 Some time was spent in Germany ; then two or three 
 years in miscellaneous and somewhat aimless travel ; then 
 back again to Germany, to music, and to love. The fair, 
 clever, and penniless daughter of a poor professor and man 
 of science won his heart, as he hers, and they married. 
 
9o PROBA TION. 
 
 With marriage came the feeling of an insufficiency of 
 means, and the desire to augment them led him into busi- 
 ness speculations of a nature which he did not in the least 
 understand : the bubble burst, and Adrian Blisset found 
 himself a ruined man in less than a year after his marriage. 
 Adrienne's mother died at her birth ; the girl had never 
 known that holy bond, however much she might have longed 
 for it. Her father chose to lay part of the cause of his wife's 
 death to the anxiety induced by his extravagance and folly 
 — moreover, he had adored her, and from the hour of her 
 death he had been a changed man. He had his own living 
 and that of his child to gain, but he settled nowhere. His 
 life became nomadic. He and the little one did not sojourn 
 long in the tents of any particular tribe. Scarce a city or a 
 town of any importance in Europe, but had sheltered the 
 unconscious head of the infant, or been trodden by the 
 child's uncertain feet, or by the sedate step of the maiden, 
 careworn before her time, while she knew intimately many 
 an out-of-the-way nook, unnamed by Murray, Bradshaw, or 
 Baedeker, amongst Italian hills, deep in the sunny lands of 
 France, Thiiringian woods and slopes, or sleepy red-roofed 
 Rhenish hamlets. 
 
 A restless ghost drove the musician with his child and his 
 violin hither and thither, never permitting him to stay long 
 in any one place and gather substance ; but ever, so soon as 
 the novelty had worn off, seeming to drive him forth on a fresh 
 search after — what? Adrienne had learnt at an early age to 
 ask herself that question, and sorrowfully to give up the answer. 
 
 Sometimes he was in funds, when he showered all kinds 
 of presents upon her, and called her his dear child, his 
 Herzallerliebste ; but oftener they were plunged in poverty, 
 sore, sordid, dreadful poverty. His moods varied distress- 
 ingly, from kindness that had in it something fitful and 
 sinister, up to the dark melancholy silence which was his 
 most frequent humour. He was proud, and his pride was 
 of a touchy and intractable kind ; it offended men of busi- 
 ness, and estranged friends and pupils. 
 
 Adrienne had had many teachers and many strange lessons, 
 and the whole had combined into a varied and truly most 
 
PROBATION. 91 
 
 unconventional education. Her father had lavished musical 
 training upon her. At Florence, where they stayed a whole 
 year, longer than anywhere else, she had wandered about 
 with a kind-hearted old artist, who led her about with him 
 to the great galleries, and showed her the grandest pictures, 
 and made her know the beautiful buildings, till she had 
 imbibed the undying loveliness of such masterpieces as 
 Giotto's Campanile, or Michael Angelo's Duomo, and had 
 discovered that her favourite thing in Florence was the 
 ' Pensiero ' Medici of the last-named artist 
 
 ' You remind me of him,' she added, suddenly looking 
 at Myles. And she had sat, at thirteen years of age, for a 
 picture of ' Gravity.' 
 
 ' Was that what he called you ?' asked Myles. 
 
 ' Yes. Gravity, or Sedateness was his name for me — and 
 it suited me.' 
 
 She had had to part from her good old friend, and that had 
 cost her the pain which parting brings to those who know 
 they will not meet again. 
 
 In Paris, Adrienne had had lessons in democracy from a 
 young universal genius, whose talents were too vast to stoop 
 to any ordinary walk of life. He lived in a garret, and 
 planned schemes of a perfect republic. Adrienne had not 
 felt much grief on parting from him. 
 
 A monstrous learned professor, who lived at Bonn, in a 
 Schlafrock, slippers, and spectacles, had taught her a little 
 store of Greek and Latin. But her greatest teacher had 
 been a strange, absent-looking professor, in Berlin — a man 
 of literature and philosophy, who had been very fond of 
 her, and had given her freely of his very best. Her uncle, 
 Mr. Blisset, looked upon this as a providential circumstance, 
 for he found when she came to him, that he had no tyro to 
 deal with, but one already instructed in philosophy and its 
 terminology. 
 
 Two years ago her father had died ; and just before his 
 death she had learnt for the first time that they possessed 
 any relation in the world. She had received a letter to give 
 to her uncle. She fulfilled the behest, and that was how 
 she first met Mr. Blisset. 
 
92 PROBA TION. 
 
 'And what did he say? How did he receive you?" 
 asked Myles, eagerly. 
 
 ' I was chilled,' said she, ' as I sat opposite to him and saw 
 his pale, impassive face, and watched how he raised his eyes 
 now and then from that letter. He gave me no reply that 
 night ; told me nothing ; did not intimate whether he were 
 pleased or displeased to see me, but ordered a room to be 
 prepared for me ; and the next day he told me that my 
 father had asked him in his letter to give me a shelter until 
 I was able to find some employment by which I could sup- 
 port myself. My uncle said that if I could endure to live 
 buried alive with an old man, and work hard at a sedentary 
 employment, he would give me a home and pay me a cer- 
 tain sum every year. I accepted his proposal gratefully, 
 and have never repented it ; and I trust he never will, 
 either.' 
 
 There spoke the true Adrienne Blisset. 
 
 'And you are happy here?' 
 
 ' As happy as I expect to be. It is a great thing not to 
 be miserable.' 
 
 ' That's what our rulers appear to think we working-men 
 ought to feel,' said Myles, sardonically, his thoughts for the 
 moment flying off at a tangent. 
 
 ' Are you bitter against your rulers ?' asked Adrienne, 
 tranquilly. 
 
 ' I am bitter against some of them — a pampered set of 
 rich men, who never had a care in their lives, but don't 
 mind how many other people have to bear. There are 
 some, now — Bright, and Cobden, and the like — for them I'd 
 die. There's that in their faces which says they have not a 
 mean thought, nor a desire but for our good ; but the most 
 of them ' — he shrugged his shoulders — ' those lily-handed 
 politicians who call themselves Radicals in these days, and 
 plan how to prevent a working-man from getting his beer, 
 but have half a dozen sorts of wine at their own tables, and 
 go mincing about at publie meetings, talking lightly of trials 
 that would make them cringe if they had to face them ; 
 talking about "supply and demand " and how to improve 
 the conditions of the lower orders — isn't that the phrase? 
 
PROBA TION. 93 
 
 Much they know about the lower orders, and how to improve 
 them ! They don't know what ails them yet.' 
 
 He laughed sarcastically. 
 
 ' It is true, they are a somewhat emasculate type,' said she ; 
 ' but I don't see what right you have to blame them much. 
 It is the working-man's own fault that they can do no more 
 for him.' 
 
 ' His own fault ! ' he echoed incredulously. 
 
 ' Now don't eat me up, please ! I wonder if you and I 
 differ essentially in first principles on this subject. You 
 have thought about it, haven't you ? ' 
 
 1 Ay, I have. I've plenty of reason to think about it, 
 when I see such fellows as Frederick Spenceley and young 
 Mallory living on the fat of the land, without having lifted 
 a finger to get it, or proved by a single act that they merited 
 it' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory,' said Adrienne, slowly, ' you say you have 
 seen him : has he come home ? ' 
 
 ' No. I meant to speak figuratively. I don't see him ; 
 but I know it is so. If I don't know him, I know the likes 
 of him ' 
 
 ' But — but what about him ? ' she asked, still with the 
 same slowness and a kind of hesitation. ' What has he 
 done wrong ? ' 
 
 ' He has done nothing ; that's what he has done wrong,' 
 said Myles. ' Well, he's coming home soon ; we shall see 
 how he breasts the storm — for we are in for a storm, sooner 
 or later. But don't you think, Miss Blisset, it must make 
 a man think to see these contrasts — a man who has the 
 least bit of a power of thought ? ' 
 
 ' No doubt. And what conclusion have you come to in 
 the matter ? ' 
 
 ' The conclusion that it's a crying injustice.' 
 
 ' To whom ? ' 
 
 ' To — well, to put it broadly, we'll say to the working- 
 man — but I mean to those in general, who work very hard, 
 and get very little.' 
 
 ' In what way?' 
 
 ' Miss Blisset ! Where is the justice of fellows like that 
 
94 PROBA T10N. 
 
 having that money without either rhyme or reason j and of 
 fellows like ' 
 
 ' You,' suggested Adrienne, demurely. 
 
 ' I don't mean me in particular, but my class in general, 
 earning from thirty to sixty shillings a week — the very best 
 paid of us — in payment for hours and hours of close, hard 
 work.' 
 
 ' I suppose it is not the work you object to ? ' 
 
 ' No. I like work. I should be lost without my work.' 
 
 ' The property which those young men enjoy has been 
 earned with trouble as great, or probably, from an intel- 
 lectual point of view, greater than your weekly wages.' 
 
 ' But not by them.' 
 
 ' Suppose it had been earned by you, and you wished 
 to leave it to your only son, whom you had educated with 
 a view to his inheriting it, and the law stepped in and said 
 you should not, but should leave it amongst a number of 
 working-people whom you had never seen or heard of — 
 how would you like that ? ' 
 
 ' But that is an exaggerated view of the case.' 
 
 ' I don't see it. I don't believe you have ever considered 
 the subject fairly. And answer me this ; suppose the 
 average working-man became possessed of that money, 
 or of part of it — money which he had not earned — money 
 which had become his by a lucky chance : do you think 
 his use of it would be worse, or as good as, or better, than 
 the use made of it by those two of whom we are speaking? 
 Do you think it would do him a real and permanent good : 
 increase his self-respect, lessen his self-indulgence, make 
 him steadier, soberer, more inwardly dignified, worthy, and 
 honourable ? ' 
 
 She was looking earnestly at him, and Myles frowned, 
 the words driven back from his lips. Did he know one 
 man amongst his fellow-workman on whom the possession 
 of such money would have such an effect ? Would it have 
 such an effect upon himself? The generalities of the writers 
 who cried up the working-man and his wrongs seemed sud- 
 denly to grow small, and to shrink into the background. 
 
 'Oh,' went on Adrienne, 'I don't think you working-men 
 
PROBA TION. 95 
 
 know in the least how noble your work intrinsically is. 
 You only see that others are outwardly better off than you, 
 and you clamorously demand a share of that wealth. You 
 don't see how disastrous to your best interests such an 
 acquisition would be.' 
 
 Myles had started up, feeling terribly humiliated. 
 
 'You think so ill of us!' he exclaimed. 'You could 
 come and see us yesterday, and talk to my sister as if she 
 had been your sister — and now you reproach us in this way. 
 Good-bye!' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' said she, laying her hand upon his arm, and 
 looking earnestly into his face. 'How wild and impatient 
 you are ! Think a moment ! It is not of you I am speak- 
 ing. Do you know any other working-man to whom I 
 could speak in this way ? ' 
 
 She paused. It was true. Perhaps Harry Ash worth 
 might hear those words and bear them — he knew of no 
 other who would do so ; and while he was stung and tor- 
 tured by what she said, he felt a bitter consciousness that 
 it was true. But he stood still, and waited to hear the end. 
 
 ' I am speaking to you with a purpose,' Adrienne went 
 on in the same tone, low and quiet, but full of vehemence. 
 ' Since that night when you stepped forward in my defence, 
 I have thought much about you — very much. I have 
 studied you, and you do not know how well-used I am to 
 studying people. The more I have studied you, the more 
 I have felt that you were both generous and high-minded — 
 and terribly hot-tempered,' she added, with a smile, which 
 Myles thought must have charmed the temper of a raven- 
 ing wolf. ' Just think what you, a workman, might do by 
 setting an example to your fellow-workmen. Take the right 
 side. You are too good for the common-place career of an 
 ordinary " intelligent working-man," for a blind submission 
 to trade-union rules, and for an obstinate resistance to your 
 masters, just because they are your masters, or because your 
 union bids you resist them. Don't be a tool ; use your 
 reason ; consider the why and wherefore of things. Be 
 answerable to your conscience alone for all you say and do. 
 Help to show your fellows that all improvement in their 
 
96 PROBA TION. 
 
 condition must arise actively from within, not be received pas- 
 sively from without — you know that, and own it, don't you?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, quickly, folding his arms and leaning 
 against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed upon her, as she 
 stood before him, with her head a little thrown back ; her 
 eyes alight, looking beautiful in her energy and excitement. 
 
 ' I wish,' she said, ' I often wish that I were a working- 
 woman, like your sister. I would show you what I meant ; 
 how toil could be ennobled.' 
 
 She paused. Myles's heart was beating wildly. Some- 
 thing, whether God or devil he had no time to think, 
 hurried quick words from his lips ; in a voice as low, as 
 vehement as her own had been, he said, 
 
 ' Do you ? And suppose it ever came to the point ? 
 Suppose some day some working-man came to you, and 
 told you he loved you ; that he could see how toil might 
 be ennobled, if you would help him to do it — there would 
 be an end of your philosophy. You would think of the 
 cottage to live in, the floors to scrub, the rough neighbours, 
 the coarse common life, the children to tend, and make, 
 and mend, and sew for ; and if you could get over that, there 
 would be the man himself — a great rough fellow — a work- 
 man, not a gentleman, a man of rough speech, like — like 
 our sort. You would have to work for him, too ; to cook, 
 and sew, and wash for him ; to obey him — you. When he 
 said, " Do this," you must do it, and when he called, " Come 
 here ! " you must go to him. That's the way amongst us 
 working people. What about the ennobling of toil then?'' 
 
 He spoke jeeringly, and hated himself for doing so ; and 
 listened for her answer in a state of wild, if silent, excitement. 
 
 Her hands had dropped, her eyes had sunk, her face was 
 burning ; she turned away. If he could have trusted him- 
 self to move or speak, he would have fallen upon his knees 
 and begged her pardon. 
 
 1 Oh, Myles !' said she, at last, in a very low voice. He 
 bit his lip till the blood came, at that sound ; the most 
 maddening in its mingled sweetness and bitterness, he had 
 ever heard. ' I suppose I gave you the right to say that,' 
 she said, ' and to demand an answer too. You put it 
 
PROBATION. 97 
 
 tersely, certainly. As you speak, I can see the very life 
 rising before me that you picture.' 
 
 'And yourself in it !' said he, still with a sneer, though 
 he would have given the world to ask her to forgive him. 
 
 ' No. You forget something,' she replied, walking to the 
 window, while he still leaned against the mantelpiece. 
 ' You made it all hard and sordid. You forgot the very 
 "ennobling" that began the discussion. I could fancy myself 
 in such a home— a working-man's wife — but to become 
 that, I must love that man ; and in the life you described 
 there was no love. The man I loved, be he workman or 
 prince, must be a gentleman — not a brute. ' 
 
 ' Ah ! and supposing you met this working-man — or who- 
 ever he might be?' suggested Myles, in a calm, restrained 
 kind of voice. 
 
 ' If I met him, and if I loved him, and he loved me, and 
 asked me to marry him, I would say "yes ;" and I would 
 love him, and serve him faithfully to the end of my life.' 
 
 The words fell softly and gently, almost timorously, as if 
 she hesitated to speak of such a thing ; and yet with a 
 certain gentle firmness which said that they were no senti- 
 mental verbiage, but expressed the steadfast feeling of a 
 steadfast heart. But each word was like a drop of liquid 
 fire in the young man's veins. She seemed suddenly to be 
 close beside him — a possibility, a thing he might dream of 
 — and fifty thousand times higher and farther off, and more 
 impossible to him than ever. How could he ever hope to 
 bend that heart to love him ? The very thought was insanity. 
 
 He mastered his emotion, and walked up to her. She 
 turned, but did not look at him. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, most humbly,' said he. 
 
 ' It is granted freely. I dare say it has been good for 
 me ; it has reduced my vague theories to the language of 
 common-sense. I had no right to reproach you with the 
 faults of your class, and expect nothing but milk and honey 
 from your lips in return. We understand each other. Oh, 
 but yours is a biting tongue ! It cuts like a knife.' 
 
 ' It forgot itself when it turned against you. But, remem- 
 ber, your words had roused me. You made me blush for 
 
 H 
 
98 PROBA TION. 
 
 my own " vague theories," as you call them. If you could 
 not have said what you did, to any other workman, do you 
 suppose I could have spoken so to any other young lady?' 
 
 ' Xo, no. I suppose not,' said she, but her face was still 
 downcast. The glance which he at last received wavered 
 almost timidly. She resumed her seat and her work, saying, 
 ' And you will think of what I have said?' 
 
 ' I will — seriously. I believe you are right, but the thing 
 was too wonderful for me. I could not attain unto it — all 
 at once.' 
 
 The conversation was turned, as if by one consent, to 
 books. Adrienne's heart was beating unwontedly fast ; her 
 knight had not only surprised, but somewhat subdued her ; 
 delighting her at the same time. He was no tool ; he could 
 turn upon her, and he had the front of a ruler. That glance 
 and that voice were not to be forgotten. She thrilled as 
 she remembered them. She was glad he had not gone ; 
 the sensation that he was still there was pleasurable, with a 
 strange potency of strength. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Blisset was wheeled in, and 
 a servant brought afternoon tea. Then Mr. Blisset began 
 to talk, and Myles to listen. Mr. Blisset had some of his 
 niece's conversational power. The time flew insensibly, 
 till supper was announced. Myles rose, fearing he had in- 
 truded too long. 
 
 ' No,' said Mr. Blisset. ' Stay, unless you are tired, and 
 my niece will give us some music' 
 
 He looked at her, and she said, 'Yes, do stay!' And 
 Myles stayed. 
 
 That evening Adrienne sang some songs. She finished 
 with ' Neue Liebc iwues Lcben,' and Myles went home with 
 its last passionate words ringing in his ears : 
 
 ' Liebc, Liebc, /ass' mich los !' 
 
 Would it ever ' let him loose,' that love which had sprung 
 up so suddenly and strongly, making every other feeling 
 weak in the glow of its might and strength ? 
 
PROBA TION. 99 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 PROMISES. 
 
 That visit was but the first of a long series. Mr. Blisset 
 was pleased to see the young man who listened so patiently 
 and so deferentially to him, and Myles had an ever-growing 
 conviction that Mr. Blisset's views of men and things, of 
 right and wrong, were deeper and sounder than his own ; 
 riper, truer, and most justly balanced. Myles learnt much 
 in these visits and conversations. 
 
 Adrienne had been many times to the cottage on the 
 Townfield, and had completely won the hearts of Mary and 
 Edmund. She had opened up a new field of delight and 
 wonder to the boy, by putting him in the way of studying 
 botany, and his enthusiasm knew no bounds. She lent 
 him books and specimens, and Harry Ashworth, who was 
 a great walker, brought him all kinds of plants, and ferns, 
 and mosses, from the moors on which he was wont to spend 
 his Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings. 
 
 When Myles and Adrienne were in his house at the same 
 time, they seemed to have little to say to each other ; which 
 was, perhaps, not surprising, for their subjects were not 
 those discussed by Mary and Edmund. Harry Ashworth 
 had a great deal to ask Miss Blisset about music ; she com- 
 forted him, too, for she helped him to some scientific 
 understanding of the mighty harmonies of which he was 
 fast losing the outward apprehension. Harry had not read 
 much about music or musicians ; he had, while his hearing 
 had been pretty good, contented himself with drinking in 
 the sounds themselves. Adrienne soon discovered that the 
 sorrow of his life was his failing hearing, and one evening 
 it occurred to her to tell him the story of Beethoven. Mary 
 and Harry and she happened to be alone. Adrienne began, 
 and related that saddest of stories. It had the effect she 
 intended. 
 
 Harry sat with one hand shading his face, in an attitude 
 which he had assumed soon after she began the story, when 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 she said, ' And at last he wrote to one of his friends and 
 confessed that he was growing quite deaf — that if he went 
 to the opera, he must sit close to the orchestra, and even 
 then, even leaning over towards it, he could scarcely hear.' 
 
 Mary went on knitting. Adrienne's voice, somewhat 
 raised, slow, distinct, and clear, told the tale of that mighty 
 genius — Christlike in the immensity of his woe and the 
 utterness of his separation from those around him. She 
 went through it all. She told him about the great sym- 
 phonies, about Beethoven's one or two sad, luckless love- 
 episodes ; his poverty ; his love for the thankless young 
 profligate, his nephew ; the performance of the Choral 
 Symphony — of that great adagio ' in which we discern the 
 slowly stalking movement of a god ! ' 
 
 'When it was over,' Adrienne went on, 'the audience 
 were almost mad with rapture and delight, and the applause 
 was deafening — thundering — it resounded through and 
 through the great room ! the master still stood with his 
 baton in his hand, his back to the audience, till one of the 
 vocalists gently turned him round, and he saw them all — 
 how they were wild with pleasure and emotion ; he had 
 thus moved them by his heavenly music to 'joy,' and he had 
 heard no sound of it all.' 
 
 She paused. It was the life which she most loved in all 
 truth or poetry ; to her Beethoven's sufferings were as actual 
 as his genius or his grandeur. 
 
 She saw Harry look at her with an expression which told 
 her that he too understood, and she went on to the end — 
 told of the bitter loneliness of those last years, that death 
 in harmony with the life — that passing away of the Titan 
 soul in the sublime music of the spring thunderstorm, and 
 then she was silent. 
 
 Harry looked at her for a moment, started up, and took 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Thank you, miss,' said he, and left the house. 
 
 ' Eh, Miss Blisset,' said Mary, wiping her eyes, ' you're 
 like no one else as ivver I heerd tell on afore. You've 
 done a kindness to yon poor lad, such as he never had yet.' 
 
 ' I'm very glad if you think so.' 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Yo've gi'en him summat to console him. He'll go 
 about now, thinking he may bear his deafness quite easy 
 like, seein' yon man as yo' towd us on were so great and 
 patient. His mind is fair beautiful — Harry's mind is,' said 
 Mary, moved out of all reticence. 
 
 'I like him very much,' said Adrienne, 'very much indeed.' 
 
 ' Ay ! He's good — good to th' marrow of his bones, he is.' 
 
 ' Like you, Mary. You and he are well matched.' 
 
 ' Eh, nay ! Eh, don't think o' that ! He's ne'er said 
 nowt about it.' 
 
 ' He will some time ! ' 
 
 Mary was silent, with a downcast face, till at last she said, 
 
 1 1 know you'll ne'er say a word to no one about it. I 
 can trust you to tell you this, as whether he ever says owt 
 about it or not, the vary thowt of ony other mon than him 
 fair gives me a turn.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Adrienne. ' And you do deserve to be happy, 
 Mary. I wonder how it is that you and all yours are so 
 different from other people. I always feel well, and happy, 
 and right with the world, when I am with you.' 
 
 Later, as Myles walked with her up Blake Street, Adri- 
 enne remarked that the end of September was approaching 
 and the evenings darkened earlier. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, ' soon winter will be here. And 
 then . . . now then, you,' he added to a passer-by, who 
 gave Adrienne a very close berth ; ' mind your manners 
 when you're passing a lady.' 
 
 ' I didn't know you had lady-friends, Myles Heywood,' 
 replied a smooth voice, as the offender paused, and looked 
 at them. 
 
 'Oh, it's you!' said Myles, with trenchant contempt. 
 ' If I'd known, I wouldn't have troubled to speak to you.' 
 And he passed on. 
 
 ' Who is the man ? ' asked Adrienne. 
 
 ' He's my — step-father,' said Myles, in a peculiar voice. 
 Adrienne had heard the whole story from Mary ; Myles 
 had never been able to speak of it. 
 
 ' Oh, forgive me for saying it, but I wish you had not 
 spoken to him in that way.' 
 
PRUBA TION. 
 
 'Why? How?' he stammered. 
 
 ' Has he ever done you any harm ?' 
 
 ' Not directly ; but I can't abide the very looks of him.' 
 
 ' There !' said she, with a somewhat nervous smile ; ' you 
 are too contemptuous. Reverence is better than contempt : 
 it is indeed.' 
 
 ' Reverence ! Would you have me reverence him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. You ought to reverence human nature — your 
 own nature— in him. If you could have heard yourself 
 speak ! Do you know what you would do, if any one 
 spoke to you in that way?' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' Why, you would — I think you would shake him. I can 
 just see you make one stride towards him, and fasten upon 
 him — poor fellow! — to teach him manners.' 
 
 ' You mean that I have none myself. Well, you may be 
 right.' 
 
 'Are you offended?' 
 
 ' Miss Blisset — you could not offend me.' 
 
 ' I think I could. But do think of what I have said ; 
 and try not to be so contemptuous. Will you?' 
 
 ' The next time I meet Jim Hoyle, I'll take off my hat 
 to him politely — since you wish it.' 
 
 ' You will drive me to despair ! How different you are 
 from your reasonable sister, who sees the right bearings of 
 things at once ; and from your sensitive brother, who . . .' 
 
 ' Yes, Ned is like a girl for delicacy,' said Myles, a sar- 
 castic flavour in his voice. ' Well, Miss Blisset, I will try 
 hard to please you. Next week there's a fellow coming 
 that I have a contempt for, if I ever had for any one.' 
 
 'Who may that be?' 
 
 ' Mr. Sebastian Mallory, our so-called f/iaster! 
 
 A pause. Then a hesitating, ' In-deed ! ' from her, the 
 intonation of which Myles did not remark. 
 
 ' So I'll try to be polite to him, if our paths cross — which 
 I hope they won't.' 
 
 ' Perhaps they may not. But now do try,' said she. 
 • You may find it easier than you think.' 
 
 They parted at the wicket, and Myles went home, to find 
 
PROBATION. 103 
 
 Edmund gone to bed, and to sit up himself, reading ' My 
 Beautiful Lady,' which Adrienne had lent to Edmund, 
 never supposing that Myles would look at it, or that he 
 would take any interest in it if he did. But he pored over 
 it, and his heart-strings trembled to the poet's notes : it 
 was he himself, his own thoughts put into poetry as the 
 lover waited his lady's coming. And as for the end, Myles 
 read it differently ; to please himself, he allowed common 
 sense to step in — Adrienne was not consumptive. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MR. MALLORY'S POLITICS. 
 
 ' Philinte. — Mais on entend les gens au moins sans se facher. 
 Alceste. — Moi, je veux me facher, et ne veux point entendre.' 
 
 Le Misanthrope. 
 
 During the following forenoon Myles sat alone in the outer 
 office, employed exactly as he had been on the day of Mrs. 
 Mallory's visit, weeks before. Wilson was going his usual 
 round in the works, and Mr. Sutcliffe, the manager, was out. 
 
 Pausing at the end of a column of figures, he raised his 
 eyes and saw coming down the street something which 
 caused him to open his eyes in surprise, though surprise 
 was not his usual expression. 
 
 It was a very high and very swell phaeton, with a pair of 
 magnificent bays, which danced along the street, as if its 
 shabby, clog-worn stones caused much distress to their 
 aristocratic hoofs. The driver of this (in Thanshope) unique 
 conveyance was a young man in light grey clothes and a 
 round cloth cap — no English cap : indeed there was, at 
 least to the uninitiated Thanshope eye, something un-English 
 in his whole appearance. He was, however, master of his 
 cattle, as even Myles could see. Beside him sat a slight, 
 dark boy, with a plain, queer, but attractive face ; and 
 behind was a very correct-looking groom. 
 
 'Who on earth is that chap?' was Myles's first very 
 natural thought, as he forgot his work, and gazed in the 
 
io4 PROBATION. 
 
 blissfulness of ignorance at the vision. The next moment 
 he could have bitten off his tongue could he have had the 
 feeling that he had not bestowed a second glance upon 
 the whole affair, for the dancing bays came sidling down 
 the street, and the driver pulled them up before that very 
 office door ; moreover, he had caught sight of Myles staring 
 at him, and had given him in return a lazy look from a pair 
 of rather sleepy eyes. 
 
 Now Myles knew it was the 'so-called master' — it was 
 Sebastian Mallory : a second glance at the fair though 
 bronzed face, the yellow hair and moustache, the proudly 
 cut features, and the indifferent expression, displayed suffi- 
 cient likeness to his mother to make the first intuitive con- 
 viction a certainty. 
 
 Furious with himself at having been caught staring openly 
 and wonderingly, Myles forgot his voluntary promise to 
 Adrienne, and, in order to prove that, whatever his open 
 eyes might at first have seemed to intimate, yet that he was 
 not really at all struck by anything he had seen, he turned 
 his back to the door, and was apparently bending with 
 the deepest attention over his work, when that door was 
 opened ; he heard a voice conclude some injunctions to the 
 groom, and the answer which followed : 
 
 ' Jawohl, tnein Hcrr. ' 
 
 ' Foreign servants, even ! ' murmured Myles, shrugging 
 his shoulders. 
 
 ' Good morning, my good man,' was the next thing he 
 heard, in an accent as different from that of the Thanshope 
 ' gentleman ' as Adrienne's was different from that of the 
 Thanshope lady. 
 
 He turned round and looked up ; he was forced to do so 
 now, and, without noticing the lad who stood in the back- 
 ground, he faced Mallory. The two young men con- 
 fronted each other for the first time. 
 
 So far as expression and complexion went, they were as 
 great a contrast as could be imagined. Both were tall, 
 spare, and well-built, and there the resemblance ended. 
 Myles was, as has been said, quick, passionate, lithe, alert, 
 with a temper that sprang into action on every possible 
 
PROBATION. 105 
 
 occasion, with eyes that flashed, brows that contracted, very 
 often in the course of the day. Sebastian Mallory was 
 graceful, but there was some languor, real or assumed, in 
 the grace. He was handsome, but the good looks were 
 certainly marred by the bored expression on his pale, fine 
 features. His eyes moved slowly; they were very good 
 eyes, luminous, and hazel in colour, but they did not look 
 as if they would easily flash. He spoke, looked, moved, as 
 if he found life rather troublesome, and scarcely worth the 
 trouble when it had been taken. He had taken off his 
 cap when he entered the office — foreign fashion, and Myles 
 saw that his face, all save the forehead, was somewhat 
 bronzed ; but it was with the bronze of a hot sun — not 
 nature, naturally he was pale. His hair, too, seemed to 
 have caught the sun at the ends, elsewhere it was just yellow 
 hair. Every gesture and movement was full of the polished 
 ease of high cultivation. 
 
 Myles, looking straight at him, said to himself, ' One of 
 your languid, heavy swells, are we ? I'm afraid we shall 
 ruffle his fine feathers in this horrid democratic place.' 
 
 He had Mrs. Mallory in his mind's eye as he surveyed 
 her son ; her principles were well known — the divine right 
 of kings — the Conservative side through thick and thin, 
 good report and evil report ; Church and Constitution 
 intact through every storm ; our greatest Premier, the late 
 lamented Duke of Wellington ; the working-man in his 
 proper place (wherever that may be) ; rich and poor, gentle 
 and simple, a providential arrangement which it would be 
 sinful and impious to think of disturbing. 
 
 Thinking of all this, Myles surveyed Sebastian Mallory, 
 and as he found him entirely different from any young man 
 he had ever seen before, and as most of the Thanshope 
 people, great and small, were of the Radical persuasion, he 
 immediately concluded that he was right — what had been 
 bred in the bone must come out in the flesh, and it was 
 quite clear that Mr. Mallory was a Conservative of the 
 bluest dye. 
 
 Meanwhile Sebastian had been looking at Myles, too, 
 surprised at receiving no answer to his remark, and still 
 
io6 PROBATION. 
 
 more surprised to observe that the eyes of the 'good man ' 
 were fixed intently, criticisingly, and with unabashed stead- 
 fastness upon himself, and appeared to measure him over 
 from head to foot, in a manner which was, to say the least, 
 singular. The cap of the young man remained on his head ; 
 he did not rise ; he did not ask what he could do, nor the 
 visitor's business ; he simply looked at him with a pair of 
 remarkably keen, piercing, dark eyes, and Sebastian returned 
 the look, until at last a gleam of amusement appeared in 
 his sleepy eyes. 
 
 That look of amusement was not lost upon Myles ; it 
 irritated and angered him. He was so terribly in earnest 
 about all he did, thought, or believed, as not readily to see 
 the comic side of a question, while it was Mallory's chief 
 foible to take everything in this world that came to him as 
 rather amusing — if not too troublesome. 
 
 i MafoiT he observed, with a quaint look, but very good- 
 naturedly ; they told me in the train that I should be 
 surprised at the Thanshope people, and so I am !' 
 
 ' Perhaps they'll be equally surprised with you,' said 
 Myles, concisely. 
 
 ' Well, they may,' replied Sebastian, coolly. ' Do you 
 know who I am?' 
 
 Myles hesitated a moment, much wishing to say, ' No, I 
 don't,' but integrity got the upper hand ; he only put the 
 fact as disagreeably as he could. 
 
 ' I should suppose you are Mrs. Mallory's son.' 
 
 Sebastian turned to the brown-faced, dark-eyed boy who 
 stood behind, and remarked smilingly, 
 
 'You see, / am nobody, Hugo ; only my mother's son ; 
 and yet here I am upon my own property.' 
 
 The youth nodded, and glanced thoughtfully at Myles, 
 who could not resist going on with the rather perilous game 
 he was playing, and who remarked drily, 
 
 ' You'll find that we count a good deal by residence and 
 relationship here.' 
 
 'So!' said Sebastian, with the amused half-smile still 
 playing about his lips and in his eyes, to the intense exas- 
 peration of Myles, who naturally saw nothing at all to laugh 
 
PROBATION. 107 
 
 at in the situation. There was something, too, about Mallory, 
 which struck a subtle blow at his pride and self-esteem — 
 something which in his innermost heart he knew to be 
 superior to himself, though he passionately refused to admit 
 the idea. 
 
 ' Your guess is correct,' went on Sebastian. ' I am Mrs. 
 Mallory's son. And now I should be glad to know who 
 and what you are — one of my work-people, perhaps?' 
 
 The young man did not seem to be at all annoyed at 
 what was taking place ; indeed, there was that in his man- 
 ner which said that he was mildly amused with the whole 
 affair. He looked around as he spoke, with a lazy, criti- 
 cising glance, but it was the glance, as Myles keenly felt, of 
 a master, and of one who was accustomed to be a master. 
 He was surveying his property, and questioning one of his 
 servants. All the revolutionary element in that servant 
 was in perturbation. 
 
 'What am I?' he began, when Sebastian, who had taken 
 off his cap on entering the office, said suggestively, 
 
 ' Hadn't you better take your cap off?' 
 
 ' That is a matter of opinion,' said Myles, the blood 
 rushing to his face. ' It is not the fashion here. As for 
 me, I doff to no man, and but few women.' 
 
 ' Ah ! well, we won't quarrel about it. As you say, it is a 
 matter of opinion,' said Sebastian, politely ; but there was 
 something in the tone which made Myles feel small, and as 
 if he had been behaving childishly — not a comforting feeling. 
 
 ' But I interrupted you,' continued Mallory, who seemed 
 to be acquiring gradually a sort of interest in the conversa- 
 tion ; 'you were going to tell me who you are?' 
 
 ' My name is Myles Heywood, and my business is cut- 
 looking and part of the over-looking in this factory,' said 
 Myles. 
 
 ' Heywood,' repeated Sebastian, his eyes losing their lazy 
 look, ' Heywood,' where have I — ah, yes ! A cut-looker — 
 I don't know what that is.' 
 
 ' Likely enough not,' said Myles. 
 
 ' But it is quite certain that I must learn it,' pursued 
 Sebastian ; ' what is it, if I may ask ? ' 
 
ioS PROBATION. 
 
 An uncomfortable sense began to steal over Myles, that 
 Mr. Mallory was courtesy itself, and that too under consider- 
 able provocation. He gave a short sketch of his business. 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Sebastian. ' And now — by-the-by, I am 
 absolutely forgetting my business — is Mr. Sutcliffe in?' 
 
 ' Not now : he will be in about an hour.' 
 
 ' In an hour ? Then I must go over the works without 
 him. Is there any one here who knows all about it — you, 
 perhaps ?' he added quickly, as if struck by a happy thought. 
 
 The idea of leading Mr. Mallory round the works excited 
 the liveliest aversion in Myles's mind. 
 
 ' Wilson, the head overlooker, is above me. He gene- 
 rally does that,' said he. 
 
 ' Wilson — I ought to remember Wilson. He has been 
 here a long time, hasn't he?' 
 
 ' He has,' said Myles, rather emphatically. 
 
 ' I thought so. Well, where is he?' 
 
 Myles, despite himself, very much despite himself, felt the 
 influence of Sebastian's manner. He would have been glad 
 could he reasonably have classed him with Frederick 
 Spenceley, but no such classification was for a moment 
 possible. He wished he had not made that difficulty about 
 going through the works. He suddenly remembered his 
 voluntary promise to Adrienne, and felt that he could not 
 tell her he had kept his word. But too proud, or perhaps 
 too shy, to suddenly change his manner, he said, in the 
 same curt tone, 
 
 ' He's going round the works. If you'll wait a minute 
 I'll send him to you.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Mr. Mallory. 
 
 Myles went out of the office, and across the yard to the 
 factory ; and Mallory, putting his hand upon Hugo's 
 shoulder, silently pointed to the workman's figure, and they 
 watched him until he had gone into the mill. 
 
 ' Hugo, you have not a good ear for English names yet, 
 but I have. I have heard that man's name just lately — 
 yesterday, in fact, in the train as we came from Manchester. 
 He is a fellow I must know something more about. Did 
 you notice him? He has a splendid face.' 
 
PROBATION. iog 
 
 ' Splendid manners too, I think,' said the boy sarcasti- 
 cally. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Sebastian meditatively. ' Heywood ! If 
 he had not mentioned his name when he did, I think I 
 should have lost my temper. As it is, I shall try another 
 plan. There he goes ! What a row comes from behind 
 that door !' 
 
 Then they looked through the window. 
 
 'What a prospect !' said Sebastian, glancing over the 
 head of his companion, who leaned with both arms on the 
 window-sill. ' This time last week, do you remember ? we 
 were with — ah, what was their name — those girls and their 
 brother ? ' 
 
 ' On the Luzern steamer, going to Fluelen,' said Hugo, 
 his eyes fixed upon the dead wall opposite. 
 
 ' Just so ! Do you remember the sunset, and Mount 
 Pilatus, as we came back? Well, Pilatus is there now — 
 and we are here.' 
 
 Hugo made no answer, but Sebastian saw a smile curve 
 his cheek. 
 
 ' Why, you might be pleased rather than not,' said he. 
 
 ' I am not displeased,' replied the lad, with the same little 
 smile. 
 
 ' Not displeased that I took a notion about duty into my 
 head, and whirled you away from Switzerland, and snow- 
 peaks, and Alpine colouring, to Thanshope, Hugo ?' 
 
 ' Suppose you had obeyed the call of duty without whirl- 
 ing me away — had left me behind somewhere?' said Hugo, 
 tranquilly. 
 
 ' Ah, so ! That is at the root of it,' said Sebastian, 
 laughing. 'What an odd — ah, here comes the overlooker ! 
 Now, Hugo, observe me doing the merchant-prince, and 
 prepare your artist-eye for some shocks during the progress 
 we are going to make.' 
 
 Wilson entered in a state of high excitement. 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory, sir, this is a hunexpected pleasure ! I 
 couldn't believe it. 'Ow are you, sir? Well, I 'ope. 
 We've looked forward long to this event.' 
 
 ' Very well, thank you. I found myself at home sooner 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 than I had expected — a week earlier. I remember you 
 very well,' he added. ' How are you and your family?' 
 
 ' As well as possible, sir, thank you,' said Wilson, pressing 
 the hand which Sebastian had held out to him. ' Do I see 
 a friend of yours, sir?' he added, looking at Hugo, who was 
 watching the man with the preternatural solemnity which was 
 one of his ways of showing that he was amused. 
 
 'Yes; a very great friend — Mr. Von Birkenau,' was all 
 Sebastian said, and added, ' I want to go through the works. 
 I asked that young fellow who was here, who ' 
 
 ' I hope he wasn't rude, sir. I trust he didn't make him 
 self unpleasant,' said Wilson, fervently. 
 
 'Why, is he insubordinate usually, or rude to his superiors?' 
 asked Sebastian, with a sudden keenness of look, in strong 
 contrast with his soft voice, and gentle manner. 
 
 ' Insubordinate ! no, sir. A better workman or an 
 honester young fellow never lived ; only he's got the idea 
 that he hasn't got no superiors — and it will bring him into 
 trouble. I often tell him so.' 
 
 'But he is clever and honest, you say?' said Sebastian, 
 pausing to ask the question. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Wilson, who was fond of Myles, and had 
 been fond of him for years. ' He's got the brains of half a 
 dozen of the usual run, and you might trust him with untold 
 gold ; ay, and more dangerous things than that. But he is 
 apt to give a little too much of his sauce.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Well, we will go on now, if you please ; and when 
 Mr. Sutcliffe comes in, I'll get him to go on and lunch with 
 me. I should like to say a few words to the — " hands," is 
 it you call them ? — if there is any place where they could 
 come and listen to me.' 
 
 ' Surely, sir. The big yard will hold them all, and more 
 than them.' 
 
 ' Then be good enough to lead the way,' said Sebastian, 
 looking at his watch suggestively. 
 
 Wilson was a proud and a happy man that morning, as 
 he led the newly arrived lord of that place through the maze 
 of great rooms and machinery, and pointed out all the im- 
 provements, the wonderful contrivances for making wood 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 and steel and iron do the work of hands and feet ; all the 
 ' perfection of mechanism, human and metallic,' of which 
 the factory and its contents formed an example. 
 
 Sebastian followed him : his eyes had lost their sleepy 
 look ; he asked many questions, acute enough, for all the 
 indifferent tone of them. He seemed to have much of the 
 gift which is said to be royal — the eye which took in with 
 incredible rapidity both details and generalities. Very little 
 that was to be seen escaped him, including the curious glances 
 and the loud comments and surmises relative to himself. 
 
 It took an hour to go even quickly through the different 
 rooms, and then Wilson, saying, ' This is the last, sir, the 
 warehouse,' took them into a large, well-lighted room, in 
 which were some half-dozen men at work, Myles Heywood 
 in the centre. Sebastian stooped to Hugo, whispering, 
 
 ' I want to speak to that young fellow alone a few minutes.' 
 
 Hugo stepped up to a large pile of cloth, seemingly in- 
 terested in some mystic marks and figures upon it, which he 
 requested Wilson to explain ; while Sebastian, going on, 
 stopped at Myles's side, and, looking at his work said, 
 
 'That is cut-looking is it?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 'Well, I've learnt something. Listen to me a moment, 
 will you ?' 
 
 Myles looked up inquiringly. 
 
 ' I am going to say something to all these people directly, 
 and I want you to promise to come and listen to it ; will you ?' 
 
 Half vexed, half flattered, Myles looked into Mallory's face. 
 He had not given up his notion that the young man was a 
 'jackanapes :' but if so, the 'jackanapes ' had a manner that 
 it was not easy for even a superior person to resist. Myles 
 replied, 
 
 ' Certainly I will come.' 
 
 He looked as if he were going to add something — in 
 fact it was on the tip of his tongue to say, ' I don't pro- 
 mise to like what I shall hear ;' but he refrained. He 
 remembered Adrienne and his promise. Yet he had the 
 conviction that he would dislike what Sebastian had to say. 
 A Conservative — Southern sympathies, no doubt What 
 
H2 PROBATION. 
 
 could such an one have to say that he would like ? But he 
 would go, if only to watch till the cloven foot showed itself. 
 
 At that moment Wilson came up again. 
 
 ' You've seen the last of the rooms, sir. If you're ready, 
 I'll have the bell rung, and then we can go out into the yard.' 
 
 In a few minutes the great bell had clanged out, the 
 engines had been stopped, the hands were streaming out 
 into the yard. 
 
 Sebastian and Wilson stood upon a huge empty lorrie that 
 was close by one of the warehouse doors, so that they had 
 nothing to do but step on to it, which they did, while Myles 
 and his comrades swung themselves on to the ground, and 
 took their stand in a knot, not far away from this impromptu 
 platform. 
 
 Sebastian looked keenly at all the upturned faces, while 
 Wilson made a few brief yet remarkably entangled and 
 involved introductory remarks. 
 
 The overlooker's voice ceased. He swung himself from 
 the lorrie, and went and stood with the crowd. 
 
 ' My friends,' began Sebastian, ' circumstances have kept 
 me for ten years away from Lancashire. Perhaps I might 
 still not have made the necessary effort to return, but for this 
 great struggle which is going on in America, and whose 
 direct effects will first be felt in Lancashire. When that 
 began, I felt I had no right to remain any longer away. 1 
 have heard, and one or two little things which I have seen, 
 even during the few hours I have been in Thanshope, lead 
 me to feel that the saying is a true one, that you Lancashire 
 men are inclined to despise an employer who does not know 
 his business, much as you would despise a workman who 
 did not know his work. The principle is a right and honest 
 one ; and I don't say that I may not have come under the 
 head of those who deserve some contempt as being ignorant, 
 and " absentee owners." Even since I came here, I have 
 discovered that I never knew what work was before ; I see 
 that my task will be no easy one, to master the principles 
 of my business, and to try and provide in some degree against 
 the dark days which, I fear, are almost inevitable. But, hard 
 or easy, it is a task I mean to learn. The time is coming, 
 
PROBATION. 113 
 
 as I think all thoughtful men must see — coming rapidly, 
 when Lancashire will have to exert every effort to meet that 
 distress which will rush upon her ; that cloud that is hasten- 
 ing across the Atlantic is a very black cloud, and will make 
 the days very dark. Let us try manfully, hand in hand, 
 to breast the storm together. 
 
 ' I suppose that you all, or nearly all, will agree with me 
 upon at least one point — sympathy with the Federal side 
 in this struggle. (A murmur, deep and strong, of profound 
 approbation arose — a murmur in which men's and women's 
 voices alike joined.) 'That noble man, Abraham Lincoln, 
 against whose honour the Southern press has lifted its im- 
 potent voice — not to mention some journals in this country, 
 which Englishmen ought to be ashamed to read — that noble 
 man, should he live and be fortunate in his grand crusade, 
 will benefit all the world by his intrepidity. He cannot give 
 you cheap and abundant supplies of cotton now, but by his 
 courage and wisdom he is securing your future supplies upon 
 a firm basis, very different from the slippery vantage-ground 
 of slave-labour upon which they have hitherto depended. 
 (Another murmer indicative of that approval which, to their 
 honour, Lancashire working men and women, throughout 
 those bitter years, gave to the Federal side, greeted the 
 speaker.) 
 
 ' I understand that you Lancashire men, especially you 
 Thanshope men, think a great deal of politics and principles. 
 So you ought, considering who is your member, and that 
 other great name which is connected with Thanshope. I 
 also know that in spite of the strong Conservative element 
 amongst your gentry, and, they tell me, amongst the work- 
 men too ' (a voice : ' Conservative working-man — there's no 
 such thing !') — ' in spite of this alleged Conservative element, 
 you have always, since *you first returned a representative 
 to Parliament, returned a Radical. 
 
 ' I was not aware of the strength of the feeling upon this 
 point in Thanshope. I have always myself held politics to 
 be secondary to some other subjects, but, since I find so 
 much interest centred round the point here, and moreover, 
 since persons whom I have met and spoken to have treated 
 
 r 
 
H4 PROBATION. 
 
 me on the tacit assumption that I was a Conservative, I 
 judge it as well to tell you, face to face, that whatever I 
 may be on other matters, in politics I am no Conservative, 
 but a Radical. Of course there are almost as many kinds 
 of Radicals as there are of Dissenters. The details of my 
 radicalism and those of your radicalism are, I dare say, 
 somewhat different ; but I hope we shall both be able to 
 respect the principle and never mind the form. 
 
 ' Now I will not keep you longer — only let me say, finally, 
 I am here to learn my business, and to try to guide my ship 
 through the storm that is coming. Thanshope, as you 
 know, is one of the places where the pinch of distress will 
 be soonest felt, since the counts of yarns used here are pre- 
 cisely those the supply of which will soonest fall off. I ask 
 a promise from you, and I make one to you. In that time 
 that is coming I ask you to trust me — my feelings and in- 
 tentions towards you, and on my part I promise to strain 
 every nerve to do my duty by you. We will work on as 
 long as there is cotton to be had, and then — I trust, for 
 your sakes, and mine, and that of humanity at large, that 
 it will not be long that I shall have to help you in your 
 fight to keep the wolf from the door.' 
 
 He stopped, bowed, and was turning away, when they 
 gave him a hearty cheer ; and one or two voices informed 
 him laconically that they ' reckoned he was one o' th' reet 
 sort,' and that ' he'd suit.' 
 
 He jumped down from the lorrie, joined Wilson and his 
 friend Hugo, and went with them towards the office. The 
 engineer returned to his post ; soon the busy machinery was 
 in full roar again, as if there had been no such thing as war 
 — no such parties as Federals and Confederates. The in- 
 terruption to the morning's work was already a thing of the 
 past — an incident to be talked about. 
 
 Myles Heywood maintained entire silence upon the 
 subject, nor could any one of all who inquired of him get 
 him to say what he thought of the new master. He might 
 have deep thoughts about it — at least they were unexpressed. 
 The rest of the hands talked the event over with lively 
 excitement. The general impression was a favourable one. 
 
PROBATION. 115 
 
 The men liked what he had said, though he was generally 
 pronounced to be a ' bit too much of a swell,' and it was 
 agreed that he ' spoke rather fine,' and, they said, minced 
 his words too much ; was, in short, rather too much of a 
 fine gentleman. Otherwise he was considered sound, and 
 they were pleased to find him on the right side in politics. 
 
 The women, too, liked him, for reasons apparently similar 
 to those alleged by Peter van den Bosch, as their grounds 
 for liking Philip van Artevelde, 
 
 ' And wenches who were there, said Artevelde 
 Was a sweet name, and musical to hear. ' 
 
 Mary Heywood, at least, said she ' liked the chap : he had 
 siccan a soft voice, and a nice, smooth-soundin' name, like.' 
 
 The general conclusion was a very Lancashire one; that the 
 young man had spoken well and reasonably ; sensibly enough 
 for a person who knew nothing about his business, but that 
 'fair words butter no parsnips;' and the conjecture may 
 reasonably be hazarded whether Sebastian's speech had in- 
 duced any one of his hearers to form a decided opinion, 
 good or bad, of him. They waited to see, and indeed the 
 time was striding forward with fearful rapidity, nearer and 
 nearer, w r hen the sincerity of his profession should be put to 
 the proof. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 INITIATION. 
 
 Sebastian and Hugo drove away from the factory, accom- 
 panied by Mr. Sutcliffe, the manager and head man of the 
 business. Arrived at the Oakenrod, Mallory and his 
 manager retired to the library, and there plunged straight 
 into business. 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe was a small, mild-looking man, with eyes 
 that were keen despite his nervous, almost timid expression, 
 a bald head, spectacles, a gentle smile, and a large bundle 
 of what he called 'documents.' 
 
 Over these documents he and Sebastian remained ab- 
 
n6 PROBATION. 
 
 sorbed until luncheon was announced. They tarried not 
 long over that meal. Hugo von Birkenau appeared to be 
 a very familiar friend, for Sebastian made no excuse for 
 leaving him, and with a slight apology to his mother he and 
 Mr. Sutcliffe returned to the library. 
 
 An hour, two, three hours passed, chiefly occupied in 
 expositions from Mr. Sutcliffe on the nature of the business. 
 its principles, and the method of carrying it on. Sebastian's 
 part consisted chiefly in listening, naturally ; but every now 
 and then he interposed with a question — questions so much 
 to the point, and showing such discernment and discrimina- 
 tion, that Mr. Sutcliffe, who had at first begun his task with 
 some constraint and great dryness of manner and tone, 
 brightened visibly every minute ; his tone grew warmer, 
 his manner more animated, his eyes flashed now and then. 
 Thus the interview went on, until Mr. Sutcliffe, laying down 
 a bundle of papers, whose import he had just explained, 
 took up another bundle, and was beginning — 
 
 ' These refer to the ' 
 
 But Sebastian interrupted him. 
 
 ' Excuse me, Mr. Sutcliffe. Suppose we lay aside busi- 
 ness for to-day. I want to ask you some other questions. 
 With such a manager as you, I have no fear of things going 
 wrong.' 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe smiled. 
 
 ' Judging from what I have heard and seen of you, Mr. 
 Mallory, you will soon be in a position to manage your own 
 business. You must not feel offended when I say that I 
 have been most agreeably disappointed — surprised is perhaps 
 rather the word. 
 
 Sebastian smiled a little. 
 
 ' I am a fearfully indolent fellow, I believe,' said he. ' I 
 take a lot of rousing ; but once set me to plod at a thing, 
 and I continue until I understand it — at least, I think so.' 
 
 ' That is a very modest way of describing your ready 
 comprehension of details which must be as strange to you 
 as those we have just been discussing. But that's neither 
 here nor there ; you wanted some other information?' 
 
 ' I suppose you are pretty well acquainted with the dif- 
 
PROS A T10N. 1 1 7 
 
 ferent parties, social and political, in the town, and with the 
 characters, at any rate, of the leading people?' 
 
 ' I may say that I certainly am.' 
 
 ' Well, to begin with, I wish you would tell me candidly 
 what character is borne by my own concern and the manage- 
 ment of it ? ' 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe looked up quickly, an almost startled 
 expression upon his face. 
 
 ' That is rather a delicate matter,' he began. 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose it is. But I am sure you will be frank 
 with me. I drew my own conclusions from what I saw and 
 heard this morning, and I want to find out if your account 
 agrees with them. Never mind how disagreeable it may be.' 
 
 ' Your works, then, bear a very high reputation in many 
 respects. Your hands are as decent and as steady a lot as 
 any in the town, take them all in all. Things are generally 
 peaceable. It is looked upon, and with justice, as an 
 increasing, thoroughly prosperous concern. Our goods, 
 both yarns and cloth, have got a name. I like the men 
 who are under me, and I think they like me — Wilson, and 
 Heywood, and the others. I think I have succeeded in 
 keeping things right; but ' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' There are some misunderstandings about yourself — some 
 prejudices. They don't like absentee owners here, and 
 that's a fact. But I'm sure that impression will soon be 
 effaced, now that you are here yourself. If you show them 
 that you don't mean play ' 
 
 Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu ! There does not seem to be much question 
 of play. I never saw anything so oppressively in earnest as 
 every one here seems to be. It is stamped upon almost 
 every face you meet. Certainly I am not in play.' 
 
 'Then they will soon find that out, and respect you 
 accordingly.' 
 
 ' But that is not all you were going to say?' 
 
 ' It may seem a small kind of complaint to make ; but 
 it's better to let you know the truth at once. There cer- 
 tainly is a feeling against Mrs. Mallory.' 
 
u8 PROBATION. 
 
 Sebastian looked up in surprise. 
 
 'Against my mother? What has she to do with it?' 
 
 ' A feeling that she is not sufficiently liberal in her ideas, 
 and that she would, if she could get the authority, interfere 
 unduly in matters which, with the utmost respect to her, 
 she does not understand, never having had occasion to 
 study them. I am bound to say that, though I have never 
 had anything like a dispute with Mrs. Mallory, yet that is 
 my own impression too, and that is one reason why I rejoice 
 at your return. You are now the final authority.' 
 
 The murder was out, and Mr. Sutcliffe's shrewd eyes 
 watched the young man's face attentively. He did not 
 look angry, did not look even annoyed, but rather thoughtful 
 for a moment. Then he said, 
 
 ' I am glad you mentioned it. Of course that is not a 
 topic for discussion. As you said, my presence will make 
 all the difference. Is that all about my own works?' 
 
 'Yes. I don't think there is anything else.' 
 
 ' Who are the leading men here?' 
 
 ' So far as money goes, there are a good many big men 
 here. Mr. Spenceley is reported to be the richest, and I 
 believe report is right.' 
 
 'Spenceley! Ah! W T hat about him ?' 
 
 ' He is a spinner ; does an enormous trade. They say 
 he has been speculating rather too much lately. He has a 
 certain influence in some quarters, but it is an influence 
 that will die with him.' 
 
 ' How so?' 
 
 ' He has only a son and a daughter, and the son is prob- 
 ably the biggest blackguard in the place ; he will never 
 have any influence. The daughter, I hear, is rather an 
 eccentric young lady.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' was all Sebastian said. 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe went on, 
 
 ' The son I believe, is a very black sheep. It was only 
 a week or two ago that he insulted some young woman — in a 
 small place, you see, these things make a good deal of noise — 
 in a most abominable manner ; but he was punished for that, 
 for the girl's sweetheart — at least that is one of the tales, I 
 
PROBATION. 119 
 
 don't believe it myself; but one thing is quite certain, a 
 young working-man followed him to his club that very night, 
 and gave him a good hiding in the billiard-room. No 
 one, I don't think one soul, was sorry for him. The feeling 
 was so dead against him that he did not even prosecute.' 
 
 ' I have heard some account of it. But don't you know 
 who the young man was who did it?' 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe smiled a little as he said, 
 
 ' In my own mind, I believe I could lay my finger upon 
 the man ; but as I thoroughly respect him for what he did, 
 and should be sorry to get him into trouble, I shall keep 
 quiet about it.' 
 
 Sebastian looked inquiringly at him. 
 
 ' I believe the man was one of your own workpeople — 
 Heywood, a fellow I have known from the time when he 
 first came as a half-timer.' 
 
 ' I have seen the man. You think it was he. Why?' 
 
 ' Partly because I was passing the club-door at the very 
 time of the row, and saw him come out of it, looking rather 
 dangerous, with a couple of straps in his hand ; and, 
 secondly, because when it has been discussed, which you 
 will easily believe has been pretty actively, he has looked 
 embarrassed, and kept perfect silence upon the subject' 
 
 Sebastian nodded. 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley is a great friend of Mrs. Mallory,' went 
 on the manager. ' But that's neither here nor there ; only 
 they are about the biggest people, in a money point of view, 
 in the place. There are several other families something 
 like them. Then there's Canon Ponsonby, the radical 
 parson, our vicar, a very fine old gentleman ; you will like 
 him. He is respected by all who are themselves worthy 01 
 respect, be they Churchmen or dissenters.' 
 
 ' Naturally the feeling here is radical?' 
 
 ' Tremendous ; and North, almost to a man. Lots of 
 these working-men know what's coming ; and it is coming 
 upon them too, like the very devil. They'll tell you they 
 know the cotton must run out soon, or run up to such a 
 price that we can hardly get it. But if they have to do 
 without it, or with Surats ' 
 
PROS A TION. 
 
 'What on earth is "Surats"?' 
 
 ' Indian cotton ; abominable stuff to work. Haven't you 
 — but of course you haven't — heard of the weaver who put 
 up the prayer, " O Lord ! send us cotton ; but not Surats/''' 
 But if they have to work Surats, they'll stick to it that North 
 is right, and South wrong ; and they'll clem rather than 
 have anything to say to Jeff Davis.' 
 
 'How soon do you think distress will begin?' 
 
 ' I think we shall have to shut up shop by Christmas. 
 It's of no use talking much about it beforehand. All I can 
 say is, there's a time coming which will prove Lancashire 
 once for all, her rich and her poor alike ; and show them up 
 to the world in a light as fierce as that of the midday sun. 
 We shall get to see the stuff we're made of. And there's 
 half-past five ; I must go. 
 
 'Won't you stay and dine with us?' 
 
 ' I have another engagement, thank you. To-morrow, at 
 the same time, Mr. Mallory, we will resume the discussion, 
 if you feel so inclined.' 
 
 ' Certainly. I shall expect you. Good evening.' 
 
 He was left, leaning against the mantelpiece, to reflect 
 upon what had passed. 
 
 A tap at the door was followed by the entrance of his 
 mother. 
 
 ' Have you finished at last, Sebastian ? I have had no 
 opportunity to tell you that I am expecting a friend to dine 
 with us to-night' 
 
 ' Oh, are you? Who may he be?' 
 
 ' She is Helena Spenceley, a very great favourite of mine. 
 If my son will spend all his time away from home, I am 
 obliged to find some kind of a substitute, you know. She 
 has been almost like a daughter to me.' 
 
 'Any relative of the young man who recently distinguished 
 himself by earning a thrashing?' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory looked annoyed. 
 
 ' He is her brother,' said she coldly. ' He is away from 
 home now. You must not judge Helena by him. Poor girl ! 
 She has a sad, unhappy home. I believe I really have been 
 a friend to her. And I like to see young people about me.' 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Yes, of course.' 
 
 ' I hope you have no engagement ? ' 
 
 ' None at all. I shall be delighted to make Miss 
 Spenceley's acquaintance.' 
 
 She retired, after casting a comprehensive glance around 
 at the papers which strewed the table. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE TWO RADICALS. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory came into her drawing-room twenty minutes 
 before the dinner-hour, and found her son already there, 
 alone, already dressed, and stretched, in an attitude of 
 extreme laziness, in an arm-chair by the fire. 
 
 There was likeness between the mother and son — strong 
 likeness ; and there was also, what most people forget in 
 comparing relations with one another, strong unlikeness. 
 Mrs. Mallory was an elegant-looking and a young-looking 
 woman. She had an impassive, pale face, with thin lips 
 and a high nose ; pale, flaxen hair, without a grey streak 
 in its glossy abundance ; and the elegant trifle of lace and 
 feathers which she wore upon it made her look still younger 
 and handsomer. She was dressed in pale lavender silk and 
 white lace, and she looked a very handsome, prosperous 
 person, as she came in, casting a glance at Sebastian — a 
 sharp, keen, calculating glance. Mrs. Mallory loved power, 
 and had long exercised it ; she did not realise that her son 
 had grown from a boy into a man since she had known 
 him. She had the lowest possible opinion of the natural 
 penetration of men ; and circumstances had fostered that 
 impression. There is a great deal in having once lived for 
 a term of years in close intercourse with a person very 
 decidedly one's inferior in intellect, as in the case of Mrs. 
 Mallory and her late husband. There is nothing like it for 
 giving one an overweening idea of one's own capacities, and 
 for fostering an attitude of contemptuous tolerance towards 
 the opinions of every one else. Mrs. Mallory's experience 
 
PROBA TWA 7 . 
 
 of her husband had entailed, as one of its indirect sequences, 
 that she was completely deceived now by the lazy, languid 
 manner of her son. In this most agreeable of convictions, 
 that of mental supremacy over the rest of the company, let 
 her tranquilly abide, until her hour of disillusion arrives. 
 
 ' Mother, it is too absurd that I should have to go about 
 representing myself as your son ! Couldn't you pass as my 
 sister?' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Where is your friend ?' 
 
 ' Dressing, I suppose. He was greatly excited at hear- 
 ing that a young lady was expected to dine with us.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory had some remarks to make a propos of the 
 young lady, but she deferred them for a moment in order 
 to inquire, 
 
 'What have you been doing all day?' 
 
 And she placed herself in an easy-chair opposite to his, 
 and held a feathery screen between her face and the fire. 
 
 ' I have been, like a good little boy, attending to my 
 lessons,' said her son, lazily. 
 
 ' Ah, don't speak in parables ! I have forgotten how. 
 In this dreadful place every one says the most disagreeable 
 things they can think of, in the most disagreeable way they 
 can think of, and then call it being honest and candid. 
 And if you can contrive to drop a few h's, and speak in a 
 broad Lancashire dialect at the same time, you are thought 
 very honest and candid indeed. I detest the place !' 
 
 ' Do you really, mother ? I wonder you have remained 
 here so long.' 
 
 ' I have tried to do my duty, Sebastian, to you and your 
 property. A woman must make up her mind to sacrifice 
 herself — a mother above all others.' 
 
 ' I am infinitely obliged to you, mother, but I trust that 
 now you will have a long and complete rest. I am going 
 to learn my business ' 
 
 'Very proper, bat I think it will take you some time. 
 With your habits, I am afraid you will find it a frightful bore.' 
 
 'Do you know my habits, mother?' he inquired in the 
 very quietest of voices. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory looked at him in some surprise As a 
 
PROBATION. 123 
 
 matter of fact, she did not know his habits in the very least. 
 But, looking at him as he lounged in his easy-chair, with 
 the newspaper across his knees, she said within herself, and 
 prided herself upon her discernment, 
 
 ' His father all over : weak and idle, though he has more 
 surface quickness. I don't think I shall have much trouble 
 with him.' 
 
 ' At least I know, dear, that your habits have not been 
 those of Thanshope business men. But I suppose your 
 first object will be to go over the works and see your people?' 
 
 ' I have been over the works, and have seen my people, 
 and spoken to them.' 
 
 ' When — why did you not tell me ? ' she asked vivaciously, 
 and with no little vexation. ' You should not be so im- 
 petuous, Sebastian.' 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 ' The first time I was ever accused of impetuousness. 
 It shows indeed that you don't know my habits.' 
 
 This was annoying, though it was impossible to complain 
 about it. 
 
 ' These people will not bear to be treated unceremoni- 
 ously, though they are such bears themselves.' 
 
 ' I am not aware that I did treat them unceremoniously.' 
 
 ' What did you say to them ? ' she asked, curiosity getting 
 the better of vexation. ' I wish you had not been so hasty. 
 A speech of that kind requires both consideration and 
 careful management. I hope you did not commit yourself. 
 They are such frightful people for taking up one's most 
 innocent remarks and construing them into something quite 
 different from what one intended.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory spoke feelingly, as if from experience. 
 
 ' Are they ? Well, I don't know that I committed my- 
 self to anything from which I should wish to back out later. 
 Indeed, I am not a fellow who is given to backing out of 
 his promises — but then I make so few,' he added, thought- 
 fully. ' I simply told them I was afraid there were bad 
 times coming, and that we must stand by each other in 
 them. And I said a few words on politics.' 
 
 ' My dear boy ! how foolish ! Excuse me, but it was. 
 
12 4 PROBATION. 
 
 They are rabid Radicals, and have a prejudice against 
 you already — one of their horrid, narrow-minded prejudices, 
 and to mention that you were a Conservative would certainly 
 not improve your situation.' 
 
 Sebastian looked a little surprised. 
 
 ' How odd it is ! Why should I tell them I was a Conser- 
 vative when I am a Radical? I spoke the truth of course.' 
 
 Not Mrs. Transome herself could have been more horri- 
 fied at Harold's declaration of his views than was Mrs. Mal- 
 lory at this avowal by her son. She forgot to shade that 
 complexion, which was not as the complexions of other 
 women of six-and-forty. She laid her screen down, sat bolt 
 upright, without the pretence of any amiability in her ex- 
 pression, and said sharply, 
 
 ' You ought to be ashamed of yourself ! ' 
 
 ' I am truly sorry that I cannot oblige you by feeling so.' 
 
 ' You have no respect for your father, or your grandfather 
 — for any of your forefathers.' said she, sullenly. ' Every 
 man here who can boast of a grandfather, much more a man 
 of good old family like yours, ought to be a Conservative 
 out of pure self-respect. No ! You have no respect for 
 your ancestors or for yourself.' 
 
 ' Mon Dii'u ! I think I have as much respect for them as 
 they deserve. Do you think ancestors are really of much 
 use ? But at least I have more respect for their memories 
 than to imagine that they would wish me simply to sit down 
 and hobnob with the first opinions that happened to be 
 offered to me. Since I have inherited my name and my 
 tendencies of mind from them, I must also have inherited 
 my brains and my reasoning powers from them. I have an 
 inquiring mind, a thing, my dear mother, which is not 
 spontaneously generated, but developed.' 
 
 ' That is wicked nonsense, Sebastian. I won't allow it.' 
 
 ' But you will allow me to explain my opinions to you, 
 I am sure. That is always better, and saves so many mis- 
 understandings.' 
 
 'I sec without explanation that you are a renegade to 
 your fathers, and have degraded yourself to the level of 
 these horrid, insolent Radicals ; yes, to the level of these 
 
PROBATION. 125 
 
 grasping, dirty, presuming work-people. I hate them, 
 Sebastian; I cannot tell you how I hate all Radicals. How 
 can you refuse any of the demands of these odious people 
 now, professing, as you do, their own opinions ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know what their opinions may be, I am sure. 
 Probably not at all the same as mine. But I was going to 
 mention that, in my quite early youth, I once read a little 
 sentence which made a deep impression upon my mind. 
 It ran thus : " Those who believe that heaven is what earth 
 has been — a monopoly in the hands of a favoured few, 
 would do well to reconsider their opinion ; if they find that 
 it came from their priest or their grandmother, they could 
 not do better than reject it." ' 
 
 ' I call that impiety,' said she, her lips tightening. 
 
 ' Allow me to finish,' said he, courteously. ' I read be- 
 tween the lines of that little remark, and applied the principle 
 contained in it to a great many other things beside those 
 mentioned in the text ; and the result of my continued use 
 of that principle, as a test of institutions, opinions, and 
 customs, has been that I am a Radical.' 
 
 ' It is an odious and an impious principle,' said Mrs. 
 Mallory, with cold and bitter anger in her voice, ' and it is a 
 principle to which I will never give my countenance.' 
 
 The shock had been not a small one of finding that 
 Sebastian called himself by the name she hated, as the 
 formula of the sum of the opinions of Thanshope — Radical. 
 But a yet greater shock was that of finding, that though he 
 seemed so soft and pliable, spoke so indifferently, smiled so 
 languidly, yet that she could no more bend him, nor ap- 
 parently impress him, than she could stem the incoming 
 tide of the ocean. 
 
 Sebastian had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. 
 Mrs. Mallory glanced at him once, sideways, and caught his 
 eye. That was annoying in itself: it vexed and angered 
 her because he was smiling. 
 
 ' I am sorry you don't like it, mother,' he said quite plea- 
 santly and cheerfully, but not in the least apologetically ; 
 ' and yet, do you know, considering the letters you have had 
 from me, and my perfect frankness as to the society I have 
 
126 PROBATION. 
 
 most sought and enjoyed, I think you might have been pre- 
 pared for it, even if I never explicitly stated my convictions.' 
 
 This was also true. He had a most annoying way of 
 being in the right. 
 
 ' Convictions ? Oh, I dislike that talk about convictions. 
 When people want to annoy their best friends, they call 
 their conduct the result of convictions.' 
 
 'The impertinence of circumstances is certainly very 
 great sometimes,' assented Sebastian, leaning against the 
 mantelpiece, and she, as she tapped her foot impatiently 
 upon the floor, would hardly have been flattered to find that 
 he was thinking : 
 
 ' I must let her rail against it until it begins to be tire- 
 some — perhaps she may see the wisdom of stopping before 
 then. I suppose one must make allowances for the dis- 
 appointment of a woman whose prejudices (or convictions ?) 
 have been offended ; but it would be wasting words to 
 reason with her about it, and soon, I suppose, she will learn 
 to accept the circumstances and make the best of it.' 
 
 He had no wish or intention of being disrespectful. 
 Simply, he had ' beaten his music out ' with more difficulty 
 than any one knew, save himself, and was mildly surprised 
 to find that the resulting harmony, which sounded not ill in 
 his own ears, should cause his mother such shuddering, 
 should fall so discordantly upon her perceptions. He had 
 no more idea of interrupting the flow of that harmony than 
 he had of sharing his ample estate with all the paupers in 
 Thanshope. 
 
 Fortunately, at this juncture, Hugo came into the room, his 
 odd, original young face looking still more peculiar in contrast 
 with his careful evening dress, and before many words had 
 been exchanged ' Miss Spenceley ' was announced. 
 
 Sebastian turned, with the story of Frederick Spenceley 
 and his already conceived contempt for him strong in his 
 mind, to confront Frederick Spenceley 's sister. His glance 
 softened as it fell upon the girl advancing towards his mother. 
 
 Had he wandered through all the cities of Europe and 
 seen their lovely women, in order to come home and find 
 in a provincial manufacturing town a daughter of the people 
 more beautiful than any of them ? 
 
PROBATION. 127 
 
 ' Helena, my love, let me introduce my son, who has 
 arrived sooner than I expected. Sebastian, Miss Spenceley.' 
 
 A profound bow on his part, and a rather careless, not 
 very sophisticated inclination of her beautiful head on hers, 
 was the result of these phrases of politeness. 
 
 ' My son's friend, Mr. von Birkenau,' was then introduced, 
 and received the same notice exactly, a notice graceful and 
 even dignified, because she could not help all her move- 
 ments being graceful and dignified. 
 
 ' Like my daughter,' Mrs. Mallory had said, and as she 
 spoke to Helena Spenceley her voice assuredly took a 
 tender accent ; she glanced over the young lady's costly 
 dress, and smoothed down a lace ruffle with the affec- 
 tionate familiarity of a very intimate friend or much-loved 
 relative. 
 
 Miss Spenceley remained standing on the hearthrug, 
 talking to Mrs. Mallory — a lovely, noble figure, tall, slim, 
 and shapely, with the exquisite elasticity of perfect health 
 in every line. 
 
 ' Splendid !' said Sebastian, in his own mind ; and splendid 
 expressed her appearance and her character both. From 
 her great dark, soft eyes, her dusky hair, in its delicate 
 unruly little rings and tendrils, her ripe red lips, set in a 
 delicious curve of mirth, frankness, and wilfulness, down to 
 her rich dress and sparkling rings, she was all splendid, 
 without being in the least vulgar. 
 
 ' Dear child, what a long time it is since I saw you !' said 
 Mrs. Mallory. 
 
 ' Yes. I have been busy. How nice this fire is, Mrs. 
 Mallory. I do believe we have not had one at our house 
 yet. Perhaps it is lighted on your behalf?' she added, 
 turning to Sebastian with a somewhat malicious smile. 
 
 ' Mine ? Not so far as I am aware. What makes you 
 think so?' 
 
 ' You have been living in warm countries lately, and 
 Thanshope is not a warm place, but one of those towns 
 where we have to use a lot of coals to make up for the 
 want of sunshine !' 
 
 'Yes, indeed !' said Mrs, Mallory, shivering. 
 
128 PROBATION. 
 
 ' I have not had time to miss the sunshine, or to enjoy 
 it, if there had been any, since I came,' said Sebastian, his 
 glance dwelling almost involuntarily upon her as she stood 
 there, her eyes flashing back the firelight, and looking her- 
 self (he thought) like some bright living flame, or some 
 tropical flower. 
 
 He could not understand her. There was nothing vulgar 
 about her ; her voice was pleasant and, though distinctly 
 northern in its clear accent, was not in the least uneducated 
 in its pronunciation of words ; she had ease, grace, self- 
 possession of carriage ; apparently she was devoid altogether 
 of self-consciousness ; all of which things were surely signs 
 of good breeding ; and yet she was not in the least like the 
 many well-bred girls whom he had met in society up and 
 down the world — in Paris, Vienna, Berlin, and other places. 
 He wondered what she could talk about, and whether she 
 talked well. 
 
 Dinner was announced, and he led her into the dining- 
 room. Hugo von Birkenau was talking with much anima- 
 tion to Mrs. Mallory, as was his wont, though she did not 
 appear to find him a very interesting companion. 
 
 Helena Spenceley, suddenly turning to Sebastian, said, 
 
 ' I know quite well where you have been. I have 
 followed your course with the greatest interest Mrs. 
 Mallory used always to tell me where you went, and some- 
 times read me bits of your letters.' 
 
 ' Did she ? I wish I had known.' 
 
 'Do you? Why?' she asked, looking at him with a 
 certain bright attentiveness, and waiting with evident interest 
 for his answer. 
 
 Certainly she was not like other girls. Another girl 
 would have known directly that he meant a kind of vague 
 compliment by his aimless phrase ; but she said ' Why?' 
 
 ' If I had known, perhaps I might have written rather 
 more carefully considered epistles to my mother,' he said, 
 and felt that it was, and sounded, a lame reply. 
 
 ' That would have been a pity, for the sake of a person 
 you had never seen and did not know,' she said, the smile 
 fading from her face. 
 
PROBATION. 129 
 
 Sebastian felt he had made a bad beginning. It began 
 to be rather dreadful, when she went on quite seriously, 
 
 ' Do you mean that if you had thought your letters were 
 read aloud you would have made them into set composi 
 tions to please an audience?' 
 
 ' I think it is a matter of no importance whatever. 
 Letter-writing is not my forte. I am too lazy.' 
 
 'Oh, they were very interesting letters,' said Helena, 
 naively. ' But how can you talk about being lazy ! If 
 only I had had such chances ! ' She shook her head. 
 
 ' I should think you had the chance of doing whatever 
 you pleased,' he said, smiling. 
 
 Helena did not respond to the smile. Her face, in- 
 tensely expressive, darkened visibly. Her eyes sank. 
 
 ' No,' said she, coldly. ' You are quite mistaken. What- 
 ever pleasures and enjoyments I have had in my life have 
 been procured for me by the kindness of Mrs. Mallory. 
 She has been so good to me ! ' She looked at him with 
 eyes tragic in the earnestness of their expression. 
 
 Sebastian, glancing down the table, saw that Hugo's eyes 
 were fixed upon her in a perfect trance of admiration. 
 
 'Then you have never been abroad?' said he. 
 
 ' I — no ! I have been nowhere except to London once 
 or twice — oh, and to Brighton with Mrs. Mallory. I don't 
 want to go anywhere.' 
 
 ' You are such a home-bird ? ' 
 
 He saw immediately that he had asked an unfortunate 
 question. The blood rUshed over her face as she replied, 
 again coldly, 
 
 'Oh no! I think all that stuff about "home, sweet 
 home," and that, is the most wearisome nonsense imaginable. 
 I hate it . . . Did you study the position of women at all 
 when you were abroad?' 
 
 Sebastian looked at her. She was perfectly grave, 
 serious, and judicial. The 'Woman Question' had not 
 been forced so far to the front in 1861 as in 1878, and 
 Sebastian was proportionately surprised to hear that ques- 
 tion from so young, rich, and beautiful a woman as Helena 
 Spenceley. 
 
 K 
 
130 PROBATION. 
 
 ' I'm afraid I was rather remiss in that respect. But one 
 sees their position without studying it, I think.' 
 
 ' And what do you think about it ? Is it what it ought 
 to be ? But that is a foolish question. It is not what it 
 ought to be, anywhere. It never will be what it ought to 
 be, until women themselves rise and refuse any longer to 
 submit to their own degradation. Don't you think so?' 
 
 ' Really I am afraid I have not thought much at all upon 
 the question.' 
 
 ' I suppose the idea has not yet penetrated to France and 
 Germany. It will have to come, though, sooner or later. 
 The German woman, for instance — is she in bonds, or 
 emancipated ?' 
 
 ' As how ? ' 
 
 ' Is the German woman the slave of the German man, or 
 has she a position of her own?' 
 
 A malign spirit took possession of Sebastian. Mrs. 
 Mallory and Hugo were both listening to the discussion, Mrs. 
 Mallory with a shade of anxiety on her face. Sebastian, 
 after a pause, as if he were profoundly considering the 
 question, said, 
 
 ' I should say that she combined both those conditions — 
 that she was very decidedly the slave of the German man, 
 and at the same time had a distinct position of her own.' 
 
 ' Really ! I wish I had brought my note-book. Pray ex- 
 plain !' 
 
 ' The German woman's thoughts are, if I may use such 
 an expression, directed manwards, Mann being, you know, 
 her word for husband. Her thoughts, then, are directed 
 J/ ( !7///-wards from her earliest youth — from the time when 
 she begins to go to school. . . .' 
 
 ' Horrible !' said Helena, her eyes fixed in grave earnest 
 upon his face, so that his gravity was sorely tried. ' Horrible ! 
 Well?' 
 
 'I don't know how much or how little true the report maybe 
 about her beginning in early youth to prepare her trousseau.' 
 
 ' Disgusting !' 
 
 ' But she hears all around her and all her life long con- 
 versations on the subject of matrimony.' 
 
PROBATION. 131 
 
 'The end and aim of her existence, poor thing!' said 
 Helena, with a pitying smile. ' Go on ! you have studied the 
 subject almost unconsciously, as every thinking man must.' 
 
 ' If she reaches the age of one-and-twenty, unmarried, she 
 begins to wonder what the reason can be of such a thing, 
 and her friends, too, begin to speculate about it. . . .' 
 
 ' Naturally !' said Helena, her eyes flashing and her colour 
 rising, while Hugo looked preternaturally solemn, except for 
 a gleam in the depths of his eyes, and Mrs. Mallory's face 
 wore a puzzled expression. ' Naturally — she is sold, disposed 
 of before her reasoning powers are developed. It is very 
 deplorable. Well?' 
 
 ' But very generally she is married at or before that age, 
 and then ' 
 
 'And thenV echoed Helena, waving away the butler's 
 offer of wine and leaning eagerly towards Sebastian. ' And 
 then — what is her life afterwards, Mr. Mallory ? Tell me 
 that!' 
 
 ' A long course of bondage to husband, children, domestic 
 affairs, and social exactions.' 
 
 ' Hideous !' murmured Helena. ' What a sad, sad fate! 
 Did you not burn with indignation every time you witnessed 
 it?' 
 
 ' I— I ' 
 
 ' Ah ! you did, I know, or you could not have described 
 it so graphically. And now you will consider the subject, I 
 don't doubt, and you will see it in its true light. But you 
 said the German women had also a distinct position of their 
 own. How do you account for that?' 
 
 ' They have. The very fact of their bondage gives them 
 a sort of distinguishing rank. They have been accustomed 
 to it for so long, that now they glory in it. If you were to 
 attempt to inspire them with your enlightened notions, they 
 would probably scoff at you ; you would appear as dark to 
 them as they to you.' 
 
 Helena looked at him with such intense earnestness and 
 expressiveness, that Sebastian began to feel somewhat em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 ' What an odd girl she is ! ' he thought. ' And how, in 
 
132 PROBATION. 
 
 Heaven's name, shall I get out of this mess that I have got 
 into? I can't let her go without offering some explanation.' 
 
 ' You grieve me,' said Helena, in a sorrowful voice. ' I 
 had no idea it was so bad as that.' 
 
 Here Mrs. Mallory rose in a dignified though perplexed 
 silence, and they all went into the drawing-room. 
 
 Arrived there, Sebastian, as in duty bound, asked Helena 
 to play. 
 
 ' I don't play at all,' said she. ' I can't waste my time 
 upon practising.' 
 
 ' Waste your time upon music ?' he asked, wondering 
 whether that were one of the strong-minded female ideas too. 
 
 ' I have not the power of interpreting music ; it would be 
 vanity and vexation. So I never try. I can just accom- 
 pany myself in one or two little songs ; that is all.' 
 
 ' Then you will gratify us by singing one of the said little 
 songs, I am sure.' 
 
 Helena went to the piano, sat down, and began to play an 
 introduction. Sebastian looked at Hugo, with ever so slight 
 a shrug, and they waited. It was 'Kathleen Mavourneen.' 
 But the faces of the two critics changed gradually from an 
 expression of painful doubt and suspense, to pleased surprise, 
 pleasure, and a broad smile of delight. A pure, strong, fresh, 
 sweet soprano voice rang out. There was no attempt at airs 
 and graces ; the severest simplicity and the most unaffected 
 tenderness sounded in every one of the true, clear notes. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory watched her son covertly, but intently, and 
 saw that Helena's music had power to move him. The 
 languor disappeared from his expression ; his head was 
 raised, and his lips parted. Song and songstress engrossed 
 his attention. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory' s countenance gradually cleared. 
 
 As Helena finished, both Hugo and Sebastian sprang 
 forward, with thanks and entreaties for something else. 
 
 She paused a moment, and then sang : 
 
 • Since first I saw your face, I resolved 
 To honour and renown ye ; 
 If now I be disdained, I wish 
 My heart had never known ye ! 
 
PROBATION. 133 
 
 ' What ! I that loved, and you that liked, 
 Shall we begin to wrangle ? 
 No, no, no, my heart is fast, 
 And cannot disentangle. 
 
 ' The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 
 Rejecteth no beholder ; 
 And your sweet beauty, past compare, 
 Makes my poor eyes the bolder. 
 
 1 Where beauty moves, and wit delights, 
 And ties of kindness bind me, 
 There, oh ! there, where'er I go, 
 I leave my heart behind me.' 
 
 It is a sweet, tender, quaint old song, and Helena sang 
 it almost perfectly. She rose when she had finished, and, 
 looking at Hugo, asked him if he did not play. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the boy, flushing ; ' but after your voice ' 
 
 ' Don't refuse, Hugo,' put in Sebastian. 
 
 And Hugo seated himself and began to play German 
 music — deep, strange, and expressive, con amore. 
 
 ' But he is a musician — he must be ! ' said Helena, turning, 
 with wide-open eyes, to Sebastian. 
 
 ' Most certainly he is. I believe he has it in him to 
 make a great name as a composer.' 
 
 ' How delightful to have a talent, a genius, that gives 
 pleasure to yourself and every one else ! Is he a very great 
 friend of yours ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he is my ward. I have been his guardian now 
 for four years.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if he can compose, he has a life before him — a 
 career ! ' sighed Helena ; and her eyes looked dreamingly 
 and longingly before her. 
 
 Sebastian felt strangely attracted to the girl, but as yet 
 he felt he knew her too little to know whether he should 
 even like her. The explanation he had to make would serve 
 to bring out some fresh point in her character. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory was knitting fleecy-white wool by the fire- 
 side, and seemed able to give up Helena's society on this 
 occasion. Hugo's fingers wandered on in one melody after 
 another — melodies like those which Adrienne Blisset's 
 fingers most readily wove. 
 
1 34 PROS A TION. 
 
 Helena herself gave Sebastian the opportunity he wished 
 for. 
 
 ' About the German women and their position ?' she began. 
 
 He laughed a little. 
 
 ' I had no idea you were so much in earnest,' said he. 
 ' It was a joke.' 
 
 'A joke!' 
 
 She turned to him in amaze. 
 
 ' In this way. What I said was quite true — that is the 
 the position of the German women ; but — but — I thought 
 you would see it — isn't it the position of all civilised women? 
 Are not Englishwomen in the same case ? I am sure I 
 think so. I don't see how any woman who marries can 
 expect anything else.' 
 
 The colour rushed in an angry flood over her cheek, and 
 brow, and throat, as she realised that he had been politely 
 making merriment of the subject, and that the very point 
 of the joke lay in her having taken it all as solemn, thought- 
 ful earnest. 
 
 ' You were making fun of me and of the cause : that was 
 very polite of you ! ' she said, her eyes flashing upon him in 
 anger. 
 
 ' I am very sorry,' he said, with a provoking smile. ' I 
 was only describing the position of women in general in a 
 pictures jue manner. It depends upon the feelings of the 
 speaker as to the colouring he gives to his descriptions.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Helena, ' you are just like any other selfish, 
 unthinking man — not in earnest. But I am ! I think that 
 cause is worthy the devotion of a woman's life ; and it is 
 what I intend to devote my life to.' 
 
 ' Don't !' said Sebastian, involuntarily. 
 
 But Helena had been roused to real anger. 
 
 ' Compliments and pretty phrases are all we ever get 
 from men on that subject,' she said. ' All my life I have 
 been sure it was women alone who must work their own 
 emancipation ; and after what you have said to-night, I am 
 doubly sure of it Oh ! it is horrible to think that a woman 
 is not even allowed to have a serious thought upon her own 
 condition ; or if she says she has to a man, he laughs at 
 
PROBATION. 135 
 
 her! There is one consolation — the laugh dishonours him, 
 not her.' 
 
 ' But, my dear Miss Spenceley, do let me explain. Do 
 you think you really have had any experience in such things? 
 Many most accomplished women think quite differently ; 
 the nicest girl I ever knew — I mean the cleverest and best- 
 informed young lady I ever knew — thought very differently.' 
 
 ' Perhaps that was one reason why you thought her so 
 nice. I am sure she had not been brought up in the school 
 of adversity and experience.' 
 
 ' Pardon me ! She had been brought up in that school 
 alone, and in no other. I fancy she had attended more of 
 its classes than you.' 
 
 ' I don't see how you can know what school I have at- 
 tended,' said Helena, the same sudden, cold, sharp look 
 coming into her eyes and over her face. 'And I do not think 
 much of any woman who is indifferent upon that subject.' 
 
 ' I did not say she was indifferent,' said Sebastian ; and 
 Helena, looking at him, saw that he was, in imagination, in 
 some very different place from his mother's drawing-room : 
 perhaps thinking of ' the nicest girl I ever knew.' 
 
 'Don't you think,' said he, breaking the angry silence 
 which on her part had supervened, ' that the best way of 
 securing your ends would be for men and women to work 
 together, and ' 
 
 ' I don't believe in men's help in that matter. They are 
 too thoroughly and naturally selfish ever to give real help in 
 such a cause.' 
 
 ' Without help you can do nothing,' he said composedly. 
 
 ' Can we not?' she replied, setting her lips. 
 
 ' I don't think that any number of women agitating, and 
 making speeches, will answer the purpose. The sort of 
 help I mean is such as would be given by, for instance, 
 husband and wife practically showing how much they had 
 the subject at heart, by working together and giving in their 
 lives a specimen of their doctrines. It is not a question 
 that will ever be settled by public meetings and petitions. 
 It must grow and evolve, as other social conditions evolve 
 — gradually !' 
 
136 PROBATION. 
 
 ' Husband and wife !' said Helena, with a sneer — a sneer 
 so bitter and unmistakable as to startle him. ' That is a 
 relation I have put entirely out of my calculations in this 
 matter. I don't believe in the existence of husbands who 
 will give up, and help their wives. I have been able to 
 study the subject remarkably well. . . .' 
 
 (' Mr. Spenceley sits upon Mrs. Spenceley, and the re- 
 doubtable Frederick sits upon them all,' thought Sebastian.) 
 
 ' And the women who wish to improve their condition 
 must put all such foolish ideas aside, and feel, as I do, that 
 they can never be tempted into accepting any such delusory 
 fancies.' 
 
 'You feel that?' he said, smiling. 
 
 'Yes, I do — to the bottom of my heart.' 
 
 Helena spoke with emphasis ; her eyes flashing, her 
 cheek flushing. She was very handsome ; she was more, 
 splendidly beautiful ; ' but how untrained, how unreason- 
 able,' thought Sebastian. ' How different this heat and 
 prejudice from the calm, well-balanced judgment, the clear, 
 philosophical mind, of that other girl, scarcely older than 
 herself. This raging against the weakness and selfishness 
 of men was very short-sighted, and rather vulgar, was it 
 not?' All he said, however, was, 
 
 ' I am glad you feel so independent. It must give you 
 a sense of superiority.' 
 
 ' I never think about such things. I call it vanity to be 
 always wondering whether you are superior to other people.' 
 
 She rose and went across the room to talk to Mrs. Mallory. 
 Very soon she was discussing the merits of a new knitting- 
 pattern, just as if no such thing as women's rights had ever 
 been heard of. 
 
 When she had gone, and Hugo had retired, alter fervently 
 expressing his opinion that she was the loveliest, most fasci- 
 nating, schdnste, herrliehste person he had ever seen, Mrs. 
 Mallory introduced her intended remarks upon her favourite. 
 Did not Sebastian think her very lovely ? Yes ; she certainly 
 was an exquisitely beautiful girl. And intelligent, too ? 
 Undoubtedly ; but there was a certain sameness about her 
 animation. She seemed to rave a good deal upon one subject. 
 
PROBATION. 137 
 
 " If you knew her surroundings, Sebastian, you would not 
 be surprised, I assure you. Such a brother ! With her 
 high spirit, and rather strained ideas as to what is honour- 
 able and gentlemanly, it must be a bitter cross to her to 
 have that brother constantly disgracing himself in one way 
 or another.' 
 
 'Yes, that is true.' 
 
 ' And her father and mother too ' 
 
 ' Ha ! what about them ?' 
 
 ' Her mother is a mere cipher — a handsome, helpless, 
 vulgar woman ; kind-hearted, but absolutely weak in intellect, 
 and the father is a hard, coarse man, who bullies that un- 
 fortunate woman in a disgraceful manner. He is proud of 
 his daughter, but in a tyrannical, despotic way. Fortunately 
 for her (I may say it without boasting), he thinks me the 
 best friend she could have, and places no restraint on her 
 visits to me. Otherwise, she has not a congenial companion.' 
 
 1 The benefit must have been immense to her,' he said. 
 ' I wondered, after all I had heard of her family, how she 
 came to be even so — well-behaved.' 
 
 ' She ought to marry soon. She would soon calm down 
 if she had a kind husband, whom she loved.' 
 
 Sebastian remarked drily that she had forcibly expressed 
 her determination to eschew any such relationship. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory shook her head, smiling with gentle pity. 
 
 ' So she may say, but her father has very different views 
 for her. She would be very helpless, cast upon the world, 
 with her beauty, her hasty disposition, and her large fortune.' 
 
 ' Has she a fortune, then ?' he asked, with provoking 
 indifference. 
 
 ' Sebastian, that young, warm-hearted girl, with all her en- 
 thusiasms and crotchets, ready to fall into the hands of any 
 adventurer, will have at least a hundred thousand pounds.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory spoke with solemn, impressive manner and 
 tones. She was watching her son, who seemed to view the 
 matter with a seriousness that promised well, for he stood, 
 his hands folded behind him, his eyes fixed upon the carpet, 
 profoundly silent and profoundly grave, till, looking up 
 with a sudden, humorous smile, he said, 
 
138 PROBATION. 
 
 l Mafoi! The adventurer who won her, and her hun- 
 dred thousand pounds, and her frantic ideas on women's 
 rights, and the execrations of all the other adventurers who 
 had tried, and failed to win her — and her family, who 
 must be most delightful people, I am sure — that adventurer 
 would have driven the very hardest bargain that could well 
 be imagined. I pity him, whoever he may be . . . Good 
 night, mother. You must excuse me ; I have several things 
 to do to-night. I have my business to learn, you know.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ' " Do so," said Socrates ; "here is room by me." 
 ' "Oh, Jupiter !" exclaimed Alkibiades, "what I endure from that 
 man ! He thinks to subdue every way.'" 
 
 In a week from that time the master's face was beginning 
 to be familiar to his workpeople ; and his business and its 
 details were beginning to be a little less strange to him. 
 A Whatever Sebastian thought, felt, or endured, in the change 
 so complete and entire, of habits, customs, and surround- 
 ings — and the contrast, and the effort to grow accustomed 
 to it must have been pretty severe at times — he said nothing 
 — made absolutely no remark, but quietly ' went at it,' with 
 a cool, calm, comprehensive energy which amazed Wilson 
 and the other secondary officials, and delighted little Mr. 
 Sutcliffe. 
 
 It seemed as if, from the moment in which the young 
 man had entered the place, work had walked up to him, 
 ready to his hand, and that hand had grappled with it, and 
 that head had bent itself to the understanding of it, without 
 thought or intention of ever turning back, until the task 
 were accomplished. His place was ready for him, and he 
 stepped into it. He had a tenacious memory ; he was 
 rather fond of saying that it was the only mental advantage 
 he possessed. He was a very quiet, undemonstrative 
 person — never paraded any likes or dislikes : at the end of 
 a week, his mother was amazed and angry to find, that 
 
PROBATION. 139 
 
 though he had so completely worsted her on that eventful 
 night when Helena Spenceley had dined with them, yet 
 that she did not discover any pronounced points of character 
 in him — no particular weaknesses or predilections on which 
 she could lay hold, as handles by which to manage him. 
 This annoyed her excessively : she puzzled over it, and 
 tried to find a way out of it, and was, almost unknowingly 
 to herself, nourishing towards her son an attitude which 
 was beginning to be one of opposition. 
 
 Sebastian's retentive memory held, amongst the other 
 figures with which it was peopled, that of Myles Heywood 
 in a conspicuous and prominent place. A most distinct 
 impression remained in his mind of the workman's de- 
 fiant attitude and words. What Sebastian felt towards the 
 young man would make too long a tale, and involve too 
 much dry psychological analysis, to be here recorded. 
 Mrs. Mallory had most truly told her son that whether she 
 knew his habits or not, she was sure they were not the 
 habits of Thanshope business men. Something happened 
 just about this time — and Sebastian's method of treating 
 the matter would probably have made the hair of a Thans- . 
 hope business man stand on end, or called forth from his 
 tongue emphatically Doric epithets as to the young mill- 
 owner's sanity, and mental capacity in general. 
 
 Sebastian never beheld Myles's firmly set lips and sharply 
 contracting eyebrows without wondering whether those 
 strongly marked features were merely signs of an absolutely 
 crabbed disposition and bad temper, or whether they were 
 only traits of a hot temper and quick disposition. He 
 tried in half a dozen ways to find out, but in vain. Myles 
 put on a silent dignity and reserve equal to Sebastian's own, 
 until at last pure accident put the matter to the test. 
 
 Some irregularity or insubordination had occurred in one 
 of the rooms, which Sebastian had been discussing with 
 Mr. Sutcliffe, and the latter had said that some one must 
 be told off on the following day to superintend that room 
 — some one in authority. The following morning Sebastian, 
 coming down to the works, entered the outer office, and 
 found Wilson and Myles there. 
 
Mo PROBATION. 
 
 'Has Mr. Sutcliffe come?' he inquired. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Wilson. ' He's in his room.' 
 
 ' Did he give any orders about the beaming-room?' 
 
 'No, sir. He hasn't mentioned it to me.' 
 
 'Oh! Well, Hey wood, you had better go there and 
 look over them this morning. I can't have them idling 
 about as they have been doing. You had better go at once.' 
 
 With that, and without waiting for any answer, he stepped 
 forward into the inner office, and closed the door after him. 
 
 Myles went on with his work for some minutes, and then 
 rose. 
 
 ' If you go to the beaming-room,' observed Wilson, ' I 
 must take your place in the warehouse myself, I suppose.' 
 
 ' I'm not going to the beaming-room,' was the tranquil 
 reply. 
 
 ' Not going ! But the master- ' 
 
 ' I'm not a Jack-of-all-trades. I know what my business 
 is, and how long it will take me to do it. It is not my 
 business to overlook the beaming- room.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Mallory didn't know that.' 
 
 ' So it appears,' said Myles, with a disagreeable smile. 
 ' He'll know it for the future. It's all in the way of learn- 
 ing. You can find some one else to overlook the beamers. 
 I'm off to the warehouse.' 
 
 With which he departed, leaving Wilson aghast. 
 
 It was through a mere casual question to Wilson that 
 Sebastian found out, later, what had happened. Wilson's 
 evident confusion aroused his suspicions. Dropping his 
 careless tone, he promptly bade the overlooker tell him all 
 that had passed. 
 
 Wilson stammered out the whole story, even to Myles's 
 remark about it ' all being in the way of learning,' and then 
 stood, looking miserable, and feeling no less so, listening 
 for the command, ' Send Hey wood to me.' 
 
 But the command did not come, and Wilson concluded 
 that the dismissal would perhaps be given through Mr. 
 Sutcliffe. That it would be given, and that promptly, he 
 did not doubt, nor was he reasurred by the perfect calm 
 and good temper of Mr. Mallory's expression. 
 
\ 
 PROBATION. 141 
 
 Several days passed, and still Myles Heywood, without 
 let or hindrance, pursued his usual avocations undisturbed ; 
 and still Mr. Mallory, calm and good-tempered as ever, con- 
 tinued to learn away at his business ; and still he made no 
 remark upon the act of flagrant insubordination which had 
 taken place. 
 
 Saturday came some three days after the occurrence just 
 described. It was late in the afternoon, and work had been 
 over for an hour and a half, but the mill was not yet closed, 
 for Mr. Mallory and Mr. Sutcliffe were in the inner office, 
 in consultation, and Ben, the office-boy, stood lounging out- 
 side, wishing that his superiors would bring their parley to 
 an end and let him lock up and get home to his holiday. 
 
 Within, at that moment, there ensued a little pause, and 
 Sebastian rose, looking thoughtful, and leaning against the 
 mantelpiece. Presently he said, 
 
 ' Well, I suppose there is nothing else for it ; we had 
 better put up the half-time notice this afternoon.' 
 
 'Yes. There is nothing else for it,' echoed Mr. Sutcliffe. 
 ' It will be no time at all in a few weeks. We can't hold 
 out much longer.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Sebastian, and again seemed to fall into a 
 train of thought, until he said, 
 
 ' I wonder how it will all end ? What is there in this life 
 of yours, Mr. Sutcliffe, that gives it its interest ? I feel 
 more as if I was really living now than I ever did before. 
 The cotton trade is on its last legs, for a time ; and a young 
 man who dislikes me has behaved with insubordination and 
 impertinence ; and yet, though there is nothing intrinsically 
 interesting in those facts, and no connection between them, 
 I feel intensely interested in both.' 
 
 'You will excuse my saying it, Mr. Mallory, but it is not 
 discipline to have allowed Heywood to remain a single day 
 in your employment after his openly disobeying an order of 
 yours. It goes very much against my judgment.' 
 
 ' I know it is neither business nor discipline,' said Sebas- 
 tian, apologetically ; ' but you must allow me a little tether 
 now and then, till I am more used to run in harness in this 
 way. I am trying an experiment in regard to that young 
 
142 PROBATION. 
 
 man. It is a delightful diversion from business. How long 
 has he been here, did you say?' 
 
 ' Fifteen years, and his sister eleven. Except in the 
 strike, four years ago, they have never missed a day.' 
 
 'Exactly, it would decidedly displease me — it would 
 humiliate me to think that a man who had amicably worked 
 fifteen years during my absence should have to — hook it 
 within a fortnight after my arrival. Besides, he is unusually 
 intelligent, and an admirable workman.' 
 
 'Ay, he is. He could direct and manage if ever he got 
 a rise in life. He has a head on his shoulders as good as 
 any one else's, but that temper of his will be the ruin of him.' 
 
 ' I don't know about that,' said Sebastian, reflectively, as 
 if discoursing with himself. ' That temper of his — I should 
 dearly like to subdue it' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ? ' said Mr. Sutcliffe, to whom this 
 was as so much Sanscrit. 
 
 Sebastian looked up with a smile. 
 
 ' Leave me my own way in this matter, Mr. Sutcliffe. I 
 promise that, if things do not turn out as I expect, I will 
 dismiss Heywood on Monday.' 
 
 At this moment Ben put his head in at the door, and 
 remarked, 
 
 ' Please, sir, there's your carriage, and the young gentle- 
 man in it, a-come for you ; and Heywood, he wants to know 
 if he can speak to you.' 
 
 ' Show him in here, and tell the gentleman I will join 
 him in a few minutes.' 
 
 Ben disappeared. Mr. Sutcliffe rose. 
 
 ' I'll leave you alone with your rebel, Mr. Mallory. I 
 shall be curious to know whether he has come to beg pardon, 
 or to give notice.' 
 
 ' For my part,' said Sebastian, ' I have no more idea 
 which he will do than an owl in the parish church tower.' 
 
 Mr. Sutcliffe laughed and went away, and a moment 
 afterwards Myles Heywood entered the office. Sebastian, 
 still leaning up against the mantelpiece, looked at him, and 
 could read nothing from his expression. He felt that he 
 did not know the man, and he also felt an inexplicable 
 
PROBATION. 14; 
 
 anxiety that the man should not say he was going to leave 
 his service. 
 
 ' Good afternoon,' said he, courteously ; ' you wish to 
 speak to me?' 
 
 Myles had taken off his cap, a sign which Sebastian 
 noted instantly. 
 
 ' Yes,' said he, slowly, but not ungraciously. ' You gave 
 me an order the other day, which I took no notice of, and 
 I spoke of you as I ought not to have done. I am sorry 
 that I did so, and I beg your pardon.' 
 
 Sebastian had watched him intently, and with keen in- 
 terest. He saw that Myles had strung himself up to say the 
 words from a sheer sense of what was right and fitting, and 
 from honest conviction that he had done wrong ; not from 
 any sudden leaning towards him, Sebastian. And he saw 
 that the anxiety and the uneasiness followed, not preceded, 
 the words. He saw that Myles laid great importance upon 
 the manner in which his words were taken. 
 
 ' It is granted freely,' said Mallory. ' I felt sure that you 
 were too manly not to do this. You have felt that I had 
 no wish to be capricious, or put you to work that was not 
 yours, when I gave you that order?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I have thought it over, and felt that that was the 
 case.' 
 
 ' You have worked here fifteen years, and it would have 
 troubled me very much if you had, from any reason, been 
 obliged to leave me as soon as I got here.' 
 
 Myles looked up, surprised, but, as Sebastian plainly 
 saw, with a flush of self-reproach. It had not entered into 
 his calculations that Sebastian could possibly take any 
 interest in him or his. The latter went on, 
 
 ' I am new to my work ; you must remember that. 
 Another time, don't let a mistake go so near costing you 
 your place, and me my best workman.' 
 
 Myles's face flushed. 
 
 ' I will certainly bear it in mind,' said he. ' I have a 
 hasty temper, and it leads me astray often, I know.' 
 
 'And you do not like me,' said Sebastian, looking 
 steadily at him. 
 
144 PROBA TION. 
 
 Myles's eyes were also fixed upon his. 
 
 ' I have not liked you,' he said ; ' I should tell a lie if I 
 said even now that I liked you ; but I respect you. I shall 
 respect you from this day, and I don't think you will ever 
 have to complain either of disrespect or disobedience from 
 me again.' 
 
 ' You have relieved my mind very much. I am glad we 
 have had this explanation. It does you credit.' 
 
 ' The credit is not all with me,' said Myles, hastily, with 
 a rising colour and a conscious look, which Sebastian re- 
 marked. ' I had some advice from some one, that finished 
 it off. I must go now. Good afternoon.' 
 
 ' Good afternoon,' said Sebastian, who would have pro- 
 longed the conversation if he could ; but Myles departed, 
 and Sebastian followed him out of the office. 
 
 Standing just without was Sebastian's phaeton, with Hugo 
 holding the reins, and carrying on a conversation with Ben 
 at the same time. Sebastian heard the words : 
 
 'Ay, and his mother never got o'er it, hoo didn't. It 
 were main stupid o' Sally Whittaker to say what hoo did ' 
 
 Ben stopped abruptly and grew very red in the face, as 
 Sebastian tapped him on the shoulder, inquiring, as he 
 climbed into his place, 
 
 'What was so stupid?' 
 
 ' Go on !' said Hugo to the boy. ' He's telling me about 
 a boy that he knew, who was killed at a factory. Go on ! 
 What did Sally Whittaker say?' 
 
 ' Well, it were i' this way, yo' seen. It were at Ormerod's 
 works as th' lad were killed, and Ormerod come round just 
 as they was takin' th' body away on a shutter ; and he says, 
 "Now then, where are you boun'?" he says. And they 
 told him they were for takkin' him to his mother, and they 
 doubted it would kill her too, for hoo were main fond on 
 him. "Eh, what?" he says. " Yo munnot do so. Yo 
 mun one on yo go afore, and warn her — prepare her like a 
 bit," he says. " Let one o' these 'ere wenches go on afore." 
 So Sally Whittaker, hoo knew his mother, and hoo said 
 hoo'd go and tell her, and hoo went on afore. Eh, bi' th' 
 mass ! but hoo is a gradely foo', is Sally Whittaker ! and 
 
PROBATION. 145 
 
 hoo walks into Emma's kitchen, and hoo says, straight out, 
 hoo says, " Eh, Emmer, but troubles is never to seech," hoo 
 says. " Your Johnny's killed as dead as a stoan !" ' 
 
 ' What did the poor woman do ? ' asked Sebastian, with 
 interest. 
 
 ' Eh, hoo just dropped the fryin'-pan, and hoo gave a 
 screech yo' mowt a yeard down to the town-hall, and then 
 hoo begun to cry, and then they browt him whoam. Mun 
 I lock up, sir, now? Have you finished?' 
 
 'Yes, quite,' said Sebastian, with a good-natured nod. 
 ' Lock up, and go home. You've not had much of a holi- 
 day this afternoon ' 
 
 ' Bless you, sir, it's no soart o' consequence,' said Ben, 
 with a gratified look at this mark of attention ; and he re- 
 tired to lock up again. 
 
 ' Will you drive ? ' asked Hugo, when they were alone. 
 
 ' No ; I'll let you drive on, if you will. And, stay ! 
 What do you say to a drive in the country before dinner ? 
 It will be daylight for a long time yet. If there is any 
 country about here?' he added, with a disparaging look around. 
 
 ' Oh, lots ! While you have been so industriously grubb- 
 ing away at those figures, and showing me quite a new phase 
 in your character, I have been exploring the interior. I 
 know of four separate and distinct routes to the country. 
 Certainly it is rather stony when one does get there ; but 
 it is country all the same. Will you go north, south, east, 
 or west ? ' 
 
 ' Hurrah for the North ! ' said Sebastian, drily. ' Turn 
 the horses' heads towards Yorkshire, mein Hugo ! ' 
 
 Hugo complied. Very soon they were rattling through 
 the main street. Hugo's attention was taken up with the 
 guiding of his cattle. Sebastian leaned back, a little wearily, 
 and was long silent, until they had left the town behind 
 them — left the dirty straggling suburb called Bridgehouse, 
 and passed through the neighbouring manufacturing village 
 of Hamerton, with its stately houses of gentry and rich mill- 
 owners, and were put out upon a wide, open road, driving 
 past a solemn old house called Stanlaw, deeply sunk in trees. 
 Beyond that, the purple moors spread before them, rising 
 
 L 
 
146 PROBA TION. 
 
 every moment higher and nearer. The sky was pure, the 
 air sweet. As if with a sudden impulse, they both turned 
 and looked behind them. A heavy cloud of smoke showed 
 where Thanshope lay below, in the distance. 
 Hugo shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Comfort yourself,' said Sebastian. ' It won't be there 
 long. Soon we shall see what Thanshope looks like with- 
 out smoke.' 
 
 They drove quickly on in the "sharp, delicious October 
 afternoon air, along the upland road. The heather sprang 
 from the very roadside, and rich, mellow purple, brown, 
 and crimson, the moors spread themselves around, under 
 the pale, chill blue of the cloudless sky. The peculiar 
 scent of the ling and heather rose like a pastoral incense 
 around them ; far away glittered the sinuous line of a canal, 
 and a silvery pond or two. The crack of a gun broke the 
 stillness once or twice. 
 
 ' Did I not tell you I would bring you into the country ? ' 
 said Hugo. 
 
 ' You always manage to keep your promises, somehow ' 
 (they were speaking German now). ' How goes the music 
 under these changed conditions, Hugo? ' 
 The lad smiled his odd smile, and said, 
 ' The more prosaic the surroundings, the more need one 
 has of something like music to brighten them. Don't you 
 think so?' 
 
 ' Just so. I only asked because I have not noticed you 
 practising, and as for sitting down and listening to you — 
 why, the last time I did that was when Miss Spenceley was 
 at the Oakenrod.' 
 
 ' You have been so busy. I have practised hard enough, 
 only your mind was taken up with other things.' 
 
 ' Ay, with things less artistic than the Sonatas of 
 Beethoven.' 
 
 ' But not more earnest and workmanlike. Do you know, 
 I like this Thanshope. There is something real in the life 
 these people lead.' 
 
 ' There is so ! And in the things they say, and the way 
 in which they remind you of your duties. There is a fellow 
 
PROBATION. 147 
 
 I am very curious to know something more about. Do you 
 remember that brusque individual who confronted us the 
 first time we drove to the office ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly well. Do you never see him ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, daily. I have just had another shindy with him. 
 He piques me excessively. Every time I see the fellow, 
 with his handsome face and defiant eyes — he has a pair of 
 eyes — I feel as if I must stop and question him upon his 
 thoughts and feelings. It is a most insane idea, and I know 
 it makes him exceedingly angry ; but it is so, all the same. 
 What is that air you are humming, Hugo ? ' 
 
 Hugo held the reins loosely between his fingers, while the 
 horses climbed slowly up the hill : he hummed to himself the 
 half-melancholy air of the German Volkslied — Dcr Versch- 
 mahcte ; and Sebastian listened attentively with a half-smile.' 
 
 ' Aren't you tired, Hugo ? Let me take the reins.' 
 
 ' As you will ! ' said Hugo, changing places with him, and 
 they turned homewards again. 
 
 'Do you remember when we last heard Dcr VerschmahcteV 
 asked Hugo, smiling to himself. 
 
 ' Perfectly,' said Sebastian, concisely. ' Corona Miiller 
 sang it, and . . .' 
 
 ' There was instrumental music, too,' put in Hugo ; ' one 
 of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies — ay, ay ! And it was a 
 Rhapsody too ! How splendidly she played it ! It would 
 have delighted Liszt himself. Do you remember the end?' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! Un poco pesante /' said Sebastian, who listened 
 attentively to the reminiscences, but volunteered no remark 
 upon the subject. 
 
 They were now again in Thanshope, and the dusk was 
 beginning to fall, though it was still far from dark. There 
 had been a silence. Now as they turned into the main 
 street, Hugo, suddenly taking courage, looked up into his 
 companion's face, and said, 
 
 ' Sebastian, do you know where she went with her father, 
 from Wetzlar?' 
 
 ' No I have seen nothing, and heard nothing of her, since 
 then.' 
 
 1 But you have inquired ? ' 
 
148 PROBA TION. 
 
 'Inquired — naturally. But — ah, there's my handsome 
 young democrat. Just take a good look at him, Hugo — 
 quick! before he turns off — do you hear? What? Im- 
 possible ! ' 
 
 Hugo had touched his arm, so that his attention was 
 diverted from the figure of Myles Heywood, who was in the 
 act of turning off down a side street, and directed towards 
 that of a young lady going straight down the main street, 
 and whom they were now in the act of passing. 
 
 It was nothing remarkable for an expression of lively ex- 
 citement, pleasurable or otherwise, to be seen upon Hugo's 
 face, but such a look upon Sebastian Mallory's countenance 
 was a rare visitor ; and it painted itself there at this moment, 
 as his eye fastened upon the slight figure of the girl, who was 
 pursuing her way, looking neither to right nor left of her. 
 Would she see them? Would she turn? No — yes — 
 no ! The phaeton had just passed her, when she casually 
 raised her eyes, and glanced towards the road ; and then 
 into her face, too, leapt the same startled look — the same 
 surprise and vivid emotion of some kind, as that which 
 already brightened Sebastian's. She made a visible pause, 
 as her eyes fell upon the occupants of the carriage. 
 Both hats were lifted, two deep bows were made at the 
 same moment; four earnest eyes looked eagerly into her 
 face. With a sudden, quick, warm flush, she returned the 
 bow of the young men, and then they had driven on, and left 
 her behind them. 
 
 They were almost at home now, close to the Oakenrod. 
 No word was spoken, until, as they sprang out of the car- 
 riage, their eyes met, Hugo's full of inquiry, Sebastian's of a 
 trouble and excitement strange to them. 
 
 ' Are you glad ? ' asked the boy, in a low voice, as they 
 hung up their hats in the vestibule. 
 
 ' Nay, mein Bcsta- — time alone can tell me that. I know 
 no more than you. But here — how did she come here?' 
 
PR-OB A TION. 149 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ' Mais pourquoi pour ces gens un interet si grand?' 
 
 One evening — it was Sunday, the day after that drive into 
 the country — Sebastian Mallory strolled into the drawing- 
 room where his mother sat, and, glancing round, seated him- 
 self, without speaking at the piano, on which he struck some 
 aimless chords, which presently developed into a coherent 
 harmony, in a style tin poco pesante. He played the first bars 
 of Liszt's second Rhapsodic UTongroise, and then paused. 
 
 'What is that thumping thing?' inquired Mrs. Mallory, 
 whose many mental superiorities did not include an under- 
 standing of the art of music. 
 
 ' This " thumping thing," as you so justly term it, is a 
 " Hungarian Rhapsody," by that Thor the Hammerer of 
 pianoforte music, Franz Liszt.' 
 
 ' I am as wise as I was before.' 
 
 l JSTimporte ! Where is Hugo, I wonder?' 
 
 No reply. 
 
 ' You have not seen him ? ' 
 
 ' I saw him leave the garden about an hour ago.' 
 
 ' Gone out for a walk, I suppose. I am glad he can 
 find anywhere to go to.' 
 
 ' Sebastian, may I ask how long a visit that boy is to pay 
 here?' 
 
 'Visit !' said Sebastian, turning round on the music stool, 
 in some surprise ; ' why, Hugo lives with me. I thought 
 you knew.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory lowered her favourite weapon, the feathery 
 screen. 
 
 ' Lives with you? What will you say?' 
 
 ' I can but repeat my previous statement. He is my 
 ward — you do know that, mother — but then we drop that 
 connection as much as possible. I suppose we are more 
 like brothers than anything else.' 
 
 ' You are the guardian of his property, then ? He is a 
 von — is he of noble family?' 
 
150 PROBATION. 
 
 'Two questions. He is of noble family. Von Birkenau 
 is a good old name, and he is the last of his race. As for 
 property, he has none — not a scrap.' 
 
 ' How came you to be his guardian ? It was very extra- 
 ordinary — so young a man as you. Had his family, or 
 whoever left him to you, any claims upon you?' 
 
 ' It was his mother who left him to me, because I asked 
 her to. She had no claims upon me in the legal sense of 
 the word ; only the claim of having been my great friend, 
 and the source of inestimable benefit to me. Paula von 
 Birkenau was a woman in a thousand, beautiful, good, and 
 gifted ; and, I am sorry to say, very unhappy.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory, watching her son's face, thought how r odd 
 it was that he should have such queer, out-of-the-way ideas 
 and tastes. What could there be in this memory of an 
 impecunious German countess to bring that smile to his 
 lips, and that light of subdued enthusiasm to his eyes ? 
 
 ' If her son has no property, how did she manage to live ?' 
 
 ' She was penniless when she married, and her husband's 
 family had been a declining one for generations. When he 
 died, she was left without a stick or stone of land or house, 
 and without a penny of fortune. She retired into a Stiff — 
 an institution, you know, for poor ladies of noble family. 
 There are many like it in Germany. She procured admit- 
 tance for her son into a place of the same kind — a school, 
 w r here he was hard-worked and ill-fed, and quite unable to 
 pursue the real bent of his talent for music. I made the 
 acquaintance of Frau von Birkenau six years ago. I could 
 not describe her ; she was a beautiful soul ; she did more 
 for me than any one I have ever known. She talked to me 
 a great deal about her boy, and I went to see him. I liked 
 him, and told her so. She asked me if I would think of 
 him sometimes, and perhaps pay him an occasional visit, 
 when she should be dead ; she suffered from a painful 
 complaint, and bore her sufferings like a heroine. I said 
 the best and shortest way would be for her to make a will, 
 appointing me her son's guardian, when I should have full 
 authority over him. This she did, about four years ago, 
 and very shortly afterwards she died. On my signing a 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 document to the purport that henceforth I undertook the 
 duties of a parent to him, the authorities of the school per- 
 mitted me to remove Hugo, to his and my great satisfaction. 
 Since then he has been my companion in all my ramblings, 
 and though I don't wish to sound my own praises, I must 
 say he looks a different fellow altogether from the white- 
 faced, pinched-looking lad whom I took away with me 
 overwhelmed with grief at his mother's death.' 
 
 ' In-deed ! ' observed Mrs. Mallory, in cold tones of in- 
 tense, though repressed, exasperation. ' It sounds like a 
 page from a romance. If my opinion were asked, I should 
 say I could hardly tell whether he or you stood most in 
 need of a guardian — of some one to control you. You 
 have encumbered yourself with his entire maintenance. He 
 is a pensioner on your bounty?' 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. Leaning his elbow upon the 
 top of the piano, he remarked, 
 
 'There is no question of "incumbrance." I love the 
 lad. I delight to see him growing happier every day, and 
 to know that his powers are expanding in the direction best 
 suited to them. It is not every one who can secure the 
 pleasure of enabling an artist nature to grow and develop 
 in a congenial soil. As to his being " a pensioner on my 
 bounty," excuse me, mother, I mean no disrespect when 
 I say that I dislike that expression intensely. If you had 
 not used those words, I should not have mentioned that 
 Hugo knows nothing at all of this. All he knows is that I 
 am his guardian. I let him live under the impression that 
 I guard not only himself, but his property. And that im- 
 pression must not be disturbed. I will not have his 
 happiness embittered just when he should be able to throw 
 aside all care for everything except his studies. He is in- 
 tensely sensitive. I never approach the subject with him — 
 you understand?' 
 
 ' I suppose I do. But I consider it the most amazing 
 piece of folly I ever heard of. How do you know what 
 he may turn out?' 
 
 ' How, indeed ? At least he will have had every induce- 
 ment to turn out well ; and, unless I am much mistaken, 
 
1 52 PROBATION. 
 
 he will do so. It is not only his name and lineage that is 
 noble.' 
 
 ' I thought you were a Radical observed Mrs. Mallory. 
 
 ' My dear mother !' 
 
 ' That Frau von Birkenau must have been a clever woman 
 — too clever for you, at any rate.' 
 
 ' Please don't say anything against her. I would as soon 
 say anything against you as against her,' said Sebastian, 
 calmly; and his mother, meeting his eyes, found herself 
 blushing for her own meanness. Such signs of sensibility 
 are often reckoned hopeful. 
 
 'Is he to be always here?' she asked quickly, to cover 
 her confusion. 
 
 ' I don't know. He will please himself. At present 
 England is new to him. He may enjoy it, or study it, until 
 he gets tired of it ; and then, I expect, he will go to some 
 German musical Conservatoire to study, just as he pleases. 
 I shall give him his choice.' 
 
 ' Humph ! ' said Mrs. Mallory, with indescribable signifi- 
 cance of tone. 
 
 ' But I repeat, he is never to be told of his position. I 
 shall explain it all to him myself, when circumstances make 
 it desirable. And I think you will get to like him, mother. 
 He is the best-hearted fellow, and absolutely adores those 
 who are kind to him. He is a perfect child in some ways.' 
 
 ' I don't like young men who are like children.' 
 
 ' Well, I like Hugo. It would pain me exceedingly to 
 have any misunderstanding with him,' said he, with an 
 emphasis unusual to him, as he turned again to the piano, 
 and solaced himself with a waltz of Schubert. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory sat puzzling angrily over the character which 
 daily baffled her more completely ; its traits becoming more 
 involved, enigmatical — nay, to her, insane. She considered 
 this freak of his to display an eccentricity not short of 
 insanity, but strangely enough she did not dare to tell him 
 so. 1 )id he care for any one ? Was he so devoted to this 
 lad, whom she disliked for his fantastic, unconventional 
 habits and speech, and whom she would regard with con- 
 temptuous pity, as he sat, the morning long, at the piano, 
 
PROBATION. 153 
 
 absorbed, with strange tossings of the head, and quaint, 
 absent-minded wavings of the hands, and contortions of the 
 body ? Or was he only obstinate to have his own way, and 
 provoke her, his mother? 
 
 At this moment the door was opened, and Hugo entered, 
 followed by the butler, with tea. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory was too much annoyed to linger over that 
 refreshment. She drank it quickly, and went to her writing- 
 table, where she turned over the papers, listening vexedly 
 the while to the talk between Sebastian and Hugo — talk in 
 which she had no sort of share — about music, and foreign 
 friends, and foreign countries ; and she heard Hugo express 
 his rejoicing that at last he could have an hour of Sebas- 
 tian's company, and she heard Sebastian answer, that he 
 was glad too, for that he missed his companion. And she 
 knew that the tone was one of genuine affection ; that Mr. 
 Mallory of the Oakenrod was perverse enough to pin his 
 affections rather upon an eccentric, penniless German lad, 
 than to make acquaintances which would be to his advan- 
 tage ; that her chance remark about the cleverness of the 
 late Frau von Birkenau had been, in vulgar parlance, ' a bad 
 shot ' — a very bad one indeed, and that she had not in- 
 creased her own influence by making it. 
 
 The laughs and chaff of Hugo and Sebastian became in- 
 tolerable, as forming a running accompaniment to reflections 
 of this nature. She made another shot, this time uncon- 
 sciously ; and this time she hit her mark, also unconsciously. 
 Picking up a note which lay upon her table, she suddenly 
 interrupted the conversation. 
 
 ' Sebastian, here is a note — it must go to you now, I sup- 
 pose. I have nothing more to do with these affairs.' 
 
 He looked up ; rose and came to fetch it ; smiled as he 
 took it ; but she would not see either smile or look. 
 
 ' It is from Mr. Blisset,' she remarked, apparently busily 
 arranging her papers. ' Something about repairs. I cannot 
 imagine what he wants doing, I am sure.' 
 
 Sebastian and Hugo exchanged glances. 
 
 ' Mr. Blisset — who may he be !' inquired Sebastian. 
 
 ' Your tenant. He lives at Stonegate, that place up at 
 
154 PROBATION. 
 
 other end of the town, which your great-grandfather built, and 
 which has always been a great deal more trouble than profit.' 
 'How long has this Mr. Blisset been its tenant?' 
 'I'm sure I don't know. Eight or nine years, I think.' 
 ' Do you know anything about him — who he is, or where 
 he comes from ?' 
 
 ' No. He is an invalid — paralysed — a most crotchety, 
 tiresome person.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Let me see what he says.' 
 
 He opened the note, and his face changed as he saw the 
 handwriting. It had been addressed to Mrs. Mallory, as 
 had probably all other communications on the subject. The 
 hand was small, compact, and characteristic — the matter 
 was business-like. 
 
 ' Mr. Blisset presents his compliments to Mrs. Mallory, 
 and begs to inform her that the outside of his house stands 
 in need of some repairs before the winter sets in. If Mrs. 
 Mallory will have the kindness to send her agent, or the 
 work-people she usually employs, to inspect the house, Mr. 
 Blisset will feel extremely obliged to her.' 
 
 Sebastian, without comment, handed the note to Hugo, 
 who read it with a smile, and an excited expression, which 
 caused Mrs. Mallory to set him down in her own mind as 
 a lunatic. 
 
 ' I will have it seen to !' was all Sebastian said, carefully 
 putting the document into a small letter-case. 
 
 1 1 should send Mitchell to make an estimate : he will do 
 it as cheaply as any one,' observed Mrs. Mallory. 
 
 ' Yes, it shall be attended to,' repeated her son. ' Now, 
 Hugo, sit down to that piano, and play something — some- 
 thing right lively and soul-stirring, you will understand.' 
 
 ' I think I do,' said Hugo, smiling in an uncanny manner, 
 as he placed himself at the piano, and straightway burst into 
 a triumphal march. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 Later, when Hugo and Sebastian were alone, the former 
 said, 
 
 ' Now you can go and call, Sebastian.' 
 
PROBATION. 155 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! I have not the least right to do so.' 
 
 ' But you would like to. Make a way. Make that note 
 about the repairs an excuse. Call upon Mr. Blisset, and 
 find out what sort of an old party he is.' 
 
 Sebastian said nothing, and the subject dropped. 
 
 The next day, as they sat in Sebastian's study, and he 
 cut the leaves of a Review, he remarked, 
 
 ' I had a conversation with Myles Heywood to-day.' 
 
 ' The revolutionary weaver ? ' 
 
 ' He is no weaver, ignoramus. He is a sort of head man, 
 but they call him a cut-looker.' 
 
 ' A how much ? ' 
 
 ' A cut-looker. Your education, like mine, has been 
 neglected. But I know now what a cut-looker is. Myles 
 Heywood is one. He earns forty shillings a week. It 
 exercises the brains and the observation, and they have time 
 for reading and thinking, too. Myles Heywood reads. 
 He has read Buckle's History of Civilisation.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' said Hugo, sitting with his head on one side, 
 looking like an intelligent dog. ' That does not raise my 
 opinion of him. It is a book I hate.' 
 
 ' He has read most of the works of John Stuart Mill.' 
 
 ' I'm glad I don't know him so well as you do.' 
 
 1 Impertinent ! ' 
 
 ' Can he play Beethoven's Sonatas, and paint in oils ; and 
 does he sing tenor, baritone, or bass?' 
 
 ' Tsh ! I tell you I take the greatest interest in the fellow. 
 He knows a lot of German, too. Where he learnt it I can't 
 tell. When I asked him who taught him he flushed up, 
 looked me straight in the face, and said, " A friend." So I 
 had to beg his pardon.' 
 
 Sebastian had thrown himself into an easy-chair, and was 
 lighting a cigar. 
 
 'Beg his pardon — why?' 
 
 1 My dear child, you wouldn't say to your equal, " You 
 learn German — who teaches you ? " and why should you say 
 it to a cut-looker?' 
 
 ' Well ?' said Hugo, seeing the expression upon Sebastian's 
 face, and knowing it to be no careless one. 
 
156 PROBATION. 
 
 ' 1 did beg his pardon, and he said, " Don't mention it." 
 Then I asked him what he meant to do with himself while 
 we were working half-time. He said he had no doubt he 
 could manage to dispose of his own time, and I incautiously 
 persisted, " But how?" He said he really had not thought 
 much about it — might he ask why I wanted to know ? So 
 I had to beg his pardon again.' 
 
 Sebastian was puffing away, with raised eyebrows. Hugo 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 ' I never heard of anything so preposterous. Why did 
 you go on talking to him, if you got so vexed?' 
 
 ' But I didn't. I got interested. Why should the fellow 
 dislike me so intensely? What can be his object?' 
 
 ' Sebastian ! I thought you did not care a straw what any 
 one thought of you. You have said so often enough.' 
 
 ' Well, and it was generally true — generally, mind you. I 
 am interested against my will — personally interested. One 
 thing I've found out — he hates me.' 
 
 'Nonsense !' 
 
 ' Hold your froward tongue ! You know how to play 
 Beethoven's Sonatas, and I know what I am talking about. 
 He hates me, and I have made up my mind that he shall, 
 so to speak, eat his words — that is, change his opinion. It 
 will gave me endless trouble, I know,' added Sebastian, 
 knocking the ash from his cigar ; ' endless trouble, but I 
 will do it. I must know whether that man is master, or I.' 
 
 ' Oh, if it comes to that,' said Hugo, shrugging his 
 shoulders, and laughing a little ; if he has excited your 
 obstinate combative instincts, you will never let the poor 
 beggar alone till he at any rate says that he gives in. Bless 
 you, I know you !' 
 
 ' He will never say he gives in unless he actually does 
 so.' 
 
 ' y^a, ja /' said Hugo, nodding significantly, 'I know. 
 May you find the game worth the candle, is the sincere wish 
 of one who succumbed long ago to your masterful dispo- 
 sition !' 
 
 'Thanks!' laughed Sebastian. 'And as I can't begin 
 this laudable campaign on the instant, I shall carry my in- 
 
PROBATION. 157 
 
 vestigations into another direction, that, namely of Stonegate. 
 I am going to call upon Mr. Blisset.' 
 
 ' At Stonegate — also with a view to conquest ? ' inquired 
 Hugo, politely, rising and walking quickly to the door, and 
 closing it after him just in time for it, instead of his own 
 person, to receive the large bundle of tape-tied ' documents ' 
 which Sebastian wrathfully sent flying after him. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 DISCORD. 
 
 The scene once again the drawing-room of Mr. Blisset's 
 house ; its occupants, Myles and Adrienne : he just arrived ; 
 she smiling to receive him, and he smiling in answer, as one 
 might smile on suddenly finding a flower peeping up through 
 the snow. 
 
 ' I rather hoped you would come to-night, to do some 
 German,' said she, ' but I did not think you would come so 
 early.' 
 
 ' We are working half-time. We began to-day,' said 
 Myles. 
 
 ' Half-time already ? I thought there was such an 
 enormous supply of cotton somewhere in the country.' 
 
 ' So there is, somewhere ; but it will have to be bought 
 with a price before it can be got at. Lots of other places 
 have begun half-time to-day. And it's not only that cotton 
 is dear ; there must have come a reaction after last year's 
 over-production. It was tremendous. There is a bad time 
 coming for the workers ; but those who can afford to wait, 
 and who know how to use their chances, will make some 
 big fortunes.' 
 
 'Some others will lose them, I think.' 
 ' Naturally. The one goes with the other.' 
 1 But how will you all manage when the hard time comes ?' 
 'We shall pull through,' said poor short-sighted Myles, 
 little dreaming of the depths of misery, and what he, and 
 such as he — proud, honest, self-dependent men — considered 
 
i 5 8 PROBATION. 
 
 deepest degradation, which lay in the not far-distant future. 
 ' We shall pull through. If it is only half-wage we get, we 
 shall have to do with half-doings ; pinch a bit, and clem a 
 bit, and put on a good face.' 
 
 ' But,' said she gravely, ' ray uncle and Canon Ponsonby 
 were saying the other night that the time must most likely 
 come when there would be no work and no wages.' 
 
 ' If the war lasts a long time, or the ports are very well 
 blockaded, it may come to that,' said Myles, calmly. ' But 
 we, and a good many others besides us, have money laid by. 
 We must live on that till better times come.' 
 
 In six months from that time, thousands of working homes 
 were stripped of every stick of furniture that could possibly 
 be done without. Many a savings bank had collapsed. 
 Many a stout-hearted toiler had to bend his proud, unwilling 
 feet towards the relief committee, or the guardians, and, with 
 burning face, and bursting heart and down-drooped head, 
 tell his tale, and ask for 'charity.' Not yet had the 'Lan- 
 cashire Lad ' sent to the Times that pathetic account of the 
 shame-faced girls who stopped him to ask him, ' Con yo help 
 us a bit?' that appeal which brought the tears to thousands 
 of eyes of readers in every end of the earth. None of this 
 had happened yet. The great ' panic ' had not come swoop- 
 ing down upon the land ; but it was not long before the cry 
 of the distressed must go up. 
 
 Myles Heywood, after this his first half-day's enforced 
 idleness, perhaps not ill-pleased to be freed for a few hours, 
 on a fine afternoon, from his toil, said he had no fears for 
 the future. He felt himself strong : felt that a little pinching 
 and ' clemming ' would do him no material harm, and smiled 
 at the storm-cloud hurrying across the Atlantic 
 
 They went on talking upon different topics ; but while 
 she questioned or answered, his jealous eyes detected some 
 change in her. She was not cold to him ; there was the 
 same genial grace and cordiality, and yet there was a 
 change. In a pause which presently ensued, a foot- 
 step passed on the flags outside. She raised her head 
 quickly and looked up, with parted lips and a startled ex- 
 pression. 
 
PROBATION. 159 
 
 ' Do you expect some one ? ' asked Myles ; and so much 
 were the words a part of the thought, that he scarcely knew 
 he had spoken them, until she answered, 
 
 ' I — oh no ! Why should I ? But shall we not read 
 some more of " Iphigenia" ? Here is the book.' 
 
 She did not look at him. There was a sudden constrained 
 expression upon her face as she opened the book, and he as 
 suddenly felt his heart sink with a reasonless, aimless, lover's 
 pang. He said nothing, however, but obediently began to 
 read. But neither his heart nor her's was in the work, as 
 usual. She had told him that he was an apt scholar ; his 
 intelligence was ready, and his ear quick, and attuned to 
 the Lancashire gutturals, and its broad 'a's' and 'u's' found 
 little difficulty with the corresponding German sounds. 
 Myles, for his part, had treasured up that hour that she de- 
 voted to him once or twice a week, as if it had been some 
 precious coin or gem. Then she was all attention to him ; 
 then she was thinking of nothing else but him and his lesson, 
 and the idea was heavenly. But this very evening, for the 
 first time, he was obliged to let himself understand that her 
 attention wandered, that she sometimes scarcely heard what 
 he said, and his anxiety and foreboding increased every 
 moment. He was no favoured lover ; he had striven 
 assiduously to conceal every sign of his devotion, for fear it 
 should annoy her, or repel her. He had no right to ask 
 her why her attention strayed, what made her absent and 
 distraite, and that very fact made him the more sensitive to 
 the change in her manner. 
 
 He read on, and translated, mechanically, dreamily, till 
 he came to the words : 
 
 " Und kiinft'ge Thaten drangen wie die Sterne, 
 Rings um uns her, unzahlbar aus der Nacht.' 
 
 ' " And future deeds," ' he slowly translated, while the 
 sense of discord and oppression grew every moment stronger; 
 ' " and future deeds pressed about us, out of the night, 
 countless as the stars." ' 
 
 She had not heard a word. He looked at her, with eyes 
 that dared not be reproachful, and said nothing. There was 
 
i6o PROBATION. 
 
 pain, there was embarrassment, in her expression. Then 
 she suddenly said, 
 
 ' I want to speak to you. Let us put away this book. I 
 want to tell you something that I ought to have told you 
 before.' 
 
 At once his face changed ; the cloud fled ; he turned to 
 her with a smile. 
 
 ' Something you ought to have told me ' he began. 
 
 The door was opened. Just outside they heard the 
 voice of Brandon, Mr. Blisset's old servant, saying, 
 
 ' I will see whether Mr. Blisset is at liberty, sir, if you 
 will step in here.' 
 
 Then he threw the door wide open and announced, 
 
 'Mr. Mallory.' 
 
 Sebastian came into the room, and Adrienne rose, feeling 
 like one in a dream, looking like a person who has received 
 overwhelming news of some kind. She saw Sebastian : she 
 felt that Myles was there — felt it in every fibre of her being, 
 and while Sebastian spoke to her, she was only intensely 
 conscious that Myles was gazing at them both ; and she 
 wondered, with an intensity that amounted to pain, what he 
 was thinking of her. 
 
 She gazed at Sebastian, as he came up to her, looking as 
 if he saw no one but her, with extended hand, and she 
 heard him as he said, 
 
 ' Miss Blisset, I little thought before Saturday, that I 
 should have the happiness of meeting you again — in Thans- 
 hope ! ' 
 
 With that their hands closed, and her voice said (with a 
 vibration), 
 
 ' It is certainly long since we met. I am glad to see 
 you again.' 
 
 Myles had risen with a swift, almost unconscious impulse, 
 and was now in the window, leaning against it, and looking 
 into the night, which was now falling fast. He closed his 
 eyes. He felt his own emotion to be almost grotesque in 
 its intensity, but it was so — he could not help it. The 
 devil jealousy had seized his very heart-strings on the in- 
 stant, and clutched them relentlessly. There was one 
 
PROBATION. 161 
 
 thing, and one only, that he could do — having no right to 
 call her to account, he could suffer in silence, and speak 
 gently to her — after all, he reminded himself, she had been 
 exquisitely kind to him, and he had no sort of claim upon 
 such kindness. 
 
 While Myles fought this silent, desperate battle with the 
 feelings which urged him to rush out of the room, and 
 leave those two together, Sebastian was saying, 
 
 ' I came to see Mr. Blisset on some business, and his 
 servant asked me to come in here. I fear I disturb you.' 
 
 ' Not at all. May I introduce — but Mr. Heywood tells 
 me he knows you already.' 
 
 She turned to Myles, who also turned. His very 
 emotion made him rise to the occasion. Pride and self- 
 esteem, respect and regard for Adrienne, modesty as to his 
 own merits, all urged him to put on an outwardly calm de- 
 meanour ; and Sebastian, whatever astonishment he might 
 feel, was of course far too civilised to betray it. 
 
 'We have met already to-day, earlier,' remarked Mr. 
 Mallory, courteously bowing towards the young man, who, 
 on his part, bowed his head gravely and proudly, and wished 
 his employer good evening. If Adrienne had not flushed 
 up, and looked with such startled, conscious eyes, and such 
 a half-excited smile, around her, he could have done even 
 more — he might have been able to force a smile too, but 
 under the circumstances it was physically impossible. 
 
 Adrienne, turning aside, as if to push forward a chair, 
 looked at him, but in his then state of mind he could not 
 understand the glance ; all he could do was to answer it 
 with another, of bitter, clouded, miserable feeling ; sorrow, 
 pain, and a sort of premonitory despair. 
 
 Sebastian did not see Adrienne's look, but he did see this 
 one of Myles's, and it made him feel suddenly grave and 
 doubtful. In an instant he understood how things were 
 with Myles : as to Adrienne's feelings he was utterly in the 
 dark. He remembered one morning, when she, relieved 
 through his efforts of great anxiety, had clasped his hand, 
 and, looking up at him with brimming eyes, had said, 
 ' There is nothing I would not do for you.' They had been 
 
 M 
 
1 62 PROBATION. 
 
 almost the last words she had said to him. The day after- 
 wards he had lost her. He knew nothing of what she 
 thought of him now, but he realised immediately that the 
 stiff-necked young workman, whose pride and reserve resisted 
 all his efforts to break through them, was over head and ears 
 in love with the woman of whom he had been thinking, 
 when he spoke to Helena Spenceley of ' the nicest girl I 
 ever knew.' It might be preposterous : it might be that 
 young, handsome, and more than ordinarily high-spirited 
 and ambitious young workman had no business to fall in 
 love with young ladies in a superior position in life ; but all 
 that did not prevent the fact that such an occurrence had 
 taken place before, and would take place again. Sebastian 
 knew it, and, reasoning from the interest he himself took 
 in Myles, did not underrate the importance of the discovery 
 he had made. 
 
 ' Have you seen the evening edition of the Manchester 
 paper?' he asked Myles, as he seated himself. 
 
 'To-night? No.' 
 
 ' The war news seems rather important. I hope our neu- 
 trality won't be put in peril. It would be an everlasting 
 disgrace to us if it were to be interrupted for a moment.' 
 
 ' Yes, it would,' assented Myles, dimly conscious that it 
 was a superior sophistication which was able to converse 
 thus easily upon foreign affairs — under the circumstances. 
 
 ' I suppose you take a great interest in the war too?' said 
 Sebastian, turning to Adrienne. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied. ' Mr. Heywood and I have the 
 audacity to dispute even with my uncle sometimes.' 
 
 'Mr. Blisset is your uncle?' 
 
 ' Yes. Oil ! I forgot you could not know ; I live with 
 him here. Have you known him before?' 
 
 • Never. But 1 find he is my tenant. I came to see 
 him on a matter of business and ' 
 
 'Will you step into the other room, sir?' interrupted 
 Brandon, coming in. 
 Sebastian rose. 
 
 • Shall 1 >cc you again ?" he asked, stooping a little towards 
 Adrienne, who looked up to him with the same distinct, 
 
PROBATION. 163 
 
 though well-repressed, agitation or excitement of some kind 
 in her face. 
 
 ' It will depend upon how long you stay ; I do not know,' 
 said she ; and her voice was not calm and deliberate as 
 usual. 
 
 Myles sat still, his face composed, watching those two ; 
 realising her grace and beauty, and his charm of manner, 
 and all those advantages in the background. No girl — he 
 felt it keenly — need be ashamed of the fact that she had 
 fallen captive to the wooing of Sebastian Mallory. His 
 heart grew heavier and colder. 
 
 ' Then I will say good evening, in case I do not see you 
 again,' said Sebastian. 
 
 They shook hands, and Mallory followed the waiting 
 Brandon. 
 
 Then they were left alone. Adrienne's face had changed ; 
 the excitement had gone from it ; it was pale ; the glow had 
 faded ; her voice sounded tired when she spoke. 
 
 ' When Mr. Mallory came,' she said, forcing a smile, 'I was 
 just going to explain to you that I knew him — or rather, 
 had known him a few years ago. It was curious that he 
 should call at that very moment.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, in a voice colourless as her own. 
 
 ' Once he was very kind,' she pursued, ' when my father 
 was in trouble. He saved me a great deal of anxiety and 
 distress.' 
 
 ' Yes,' again assented Myles. ' I am sure he is very con- 
 siderate, and means to do right.' 
 
 ' You think so ! Then your opinion has changed ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, very much. He is not at all the kind of man 1 
 supposed him to be.' 
 
 ' I am glad you have discovered that. I am sure you and 
 he will get on, now that the misunderstanding is cleared up.' 
 
 Myles rose, smiling rather a faint, miserable smile. He 
 felt it impossible not to give one little thrust in the midst of 
 the agony he was himself enduring. 
 
 ' You know I am hot-tempered, and, I am afraid, preju- 
 diced,' said he quietly ; ' but if you had mentioned to me 
 that you knew Mr. Mallory, and that he was not the kind 
 
1 64 PROBATION. 
 
 of man I supposed, I should — perhaps I might have behaved 
 more rationally.' 
 
 Adrienne stood speechless. She made neither apology 
 nor excuse. When he said good night, she put out her hand 
 silently, and did not meet his eyes. His own manner was 
 quite to coldness. Thus they parted. Myles, as he walked 
 home, could not forget the verse from ' Iphigenia,' which he 
 had laboriously translated : 
 
 ' Und kunft'ge Thaten drangen wie die Sterne, 
 Rings urn uns her, unzahlbar aus der Nacht.' 
 
 In that moment he doubted bitterly whether any deeds, 
 whether anything but woes, lay for him in the future. 
 
 Meanwhile Adrienne was left alone to reflect upon the 
 situation, to think of Sebastian's smile, and of Myles Hey- 
 wood's pale face and glowing eyes ; and, after due reflection, 
 either to congratulate or commiserate herself, as she thought 
 most appropriate. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ' MAY MY MOTHER CALL UPON YOU ? ' 
 
 Mr. Mallory contrived to make his visit so delightful to 
 Mr. Blisset that that gentleman pressed him, with an eagerness 
 unwonted to him, to remain a little longer ; and Sebastian, 
 hoping each moment to see Adrienne appear, continued in 
 his place. 
 
 At last she came into the room ; but she had brought her 
 work with her, and after a few sentences of courtesy, amiable 
 but meaningless, she took a chair a little apart, and sat in 
 almost entire silence, while the two men discussed, first 
 politics, and then, when each had taken the length of the 
 other's foot on that topic, science and philosophy. 
 
 Sebastian, whether intentionally or not, showed himself in 
 his best mood, and putting aside both cynicism and indiffer- 
 ence, discussed the subjects earnestly, and incidentally 
 displayed how much thought and attention he had really 
 given to them. 
 
PROBATION. 165 
 
 Mr. Blisset, greatly delighted at finding so cultivated a 
 listener, was also in a happier and more hopeful mood than 
 usual. Adrienne's eyes were fixed upon that monotonous 
 embroidery. It is to be presumed that she did not see the 
 repeated glances, half of inquiry, half of surprise, with which 
 Sebastian's eyes continually sought her face. He knew that 
 she could talk on such subjects. Mr. Blisset's reiterated ap- 
 peal to her — ' Eh, Adrienne ?' ' Don't you think so, my dear ? : 
 — showed Sebastian that she was not accustomed to sit in 
 silence at the feet of even so great a philosopher as her uncle ; 
 and yet she was silent now, merely answering when spoken 
 to, as briefly as possible. 
 
 At length came a pause, and Sebastian hastened to make 
 use of it. 
 
 ' How do you like England, Miss Blisset ?' 
 
 ' I can hardly say, seeing that I only know Thanshope.' 
 
 ' Thanshope, then, as compared with the Continent in 
 general?' 
 
 ' I like it,' said Adrienne, ' because I have found a home 
 in it, and because I am useful to some one — am I not, 
 uncle?' 
 
 'Necessary, my dear, necessary.' 
 
 ' There, you see ! necessary !' said Adrienne. 
 
 ' But you used to rejoice so intensely in the sunshine, and 
 the poetry, and the beauty of those foreign lands. ' 
 
 ' Yes, I did.' 
 
 ' Wetzlar, for instance. Do you remember how delighted 
 you were ? how you sat dreaming by Goethe's Brunnen, and 
 how you seated yourself in Lotte Buff's parlour, and looked 
 round, and could scarcely speak?' 
 
 'Ah, yes!' said Adrienne, her eyes lighting up at the 
 remembrance, and a smile stealing over her face ; ' but that 
 was very enchanted ground, you know.' 
 
 ' And you struck a few chords on that piano ; that " old, 
 tuneless instrument," on which Goethe had played to Lotte, 
 and then drew back, quite ashamed of your own audacity — 
 you must remember?' 
 
 'Did I ever say I did not remember?' said Adrienne, a 
 tremor in her voice as she looked up and found Sebastian 
 
1 66 PROBATION. 
 
 leaning forward, his chin in his hand, and his eyes fixed upon 
 her face. 
 
 Something in the expression of those eyes seemed to 
 cause Adrienne some emotion. Her colour rose. Mr. 
 Blisset had opened a newspaper which his servant had 
 brought in, and was apparently buried behind it. Sebastian, 
 his eyes still fixed upon the young lady's troubled face, said 
 softly, 
 
 ' Don't you think Wetzlar was the most sunshiny place 
 you were ever in?' 
 
 ' At least the sun began to shine for me there,' she said 
 quickly, and looking towards him with a sudden, deeper 
 glance than before. 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 ' I think, for me too.' Then, seeing that she looked still 
 more downcast, he added, ' But we shall meet again, I hope, 
 and then we can discuss those old days. I was going to 
 ask, have you many friends here ?' 
 
 ' Scarcely any. My uncle does not visit. We know 
 Canon Ponsonby, and Mrs. Ponsonby called upon me, and 
 was very kind. Then I have a few friends of my own pecu- 
 liar kind, you know.' 
 
 ' I know. Old apple-women at street-corners ; working- 
 people ; unhappy youths who want a few lessons in this and 
 that — eh?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Adrienne, smiling. 
 
 'Then Myles Heywood is not counted amongst your 
 friends?' said Sebastian, composedly, glancing aside at Mr. 
 Blisset, to assure himself that that gentleman was absorbed 
 in his newspaper. 
 
 ' Yes, he is,' said Adrienne, raising her head. ' He is 
 a friend both of my uncle's and mine.' 
 
 'Is it allowable to ask how you made his acquaintance?' 
 
 Adrienne suddenly crimsoned, while Sebastian unkindly 
 continued steadfastly to watch her. He had been piecing 
 different facts and inferences together in his mind, and was 
 rather anxiously awaiting her answer. 
 
 ' It is not allowable?' he said. ' I beg your pardon.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is, quite,' retorted she, somewhat recovering her- 
 
PROBATION. 167 
 
 self. ' I met Myles Heywood a few weeks ago, not more. 
 I used to have some work that I did at the public reading- 
 room, and he used to read there too. He rendered me a 
 very kind service on one occasion, and has been a friend 
 and a visitor here ever since. 
 
 Sebastian bowed politely. 
 
 ' He interested me,' said he, with a rather ambiguous 
 smile. ' I wished to know more of him ; but he declines 
 every advance I make to him.' 
 
 Adrienne was silent. Sebastian, with a laudable thirst 
 for information, went on, in the same calm, matter-of-fact 
 voice, 
 
 ' I begin to think that in his case appearances deceive 
 me ' (Adrienne looked rapidly up and down again). ' There 
 is something wonderfully attractive about his face and 
 manner. He appears so very superior to his class, and yet 
 I begin to fancy there must be some fatal defect of temper 
 — some moral want.' 
 
 ' You are mistaken,' said she, in a voice which, though 
 low, was so clear and decided as to startle Sebastian. The 
 information he wished for appeared to be readily forth- 
 coming — whether it were of a pleasant nature or not, he 
 could hardly yet say. 
 
 ' You think so ? You think it is not mere churlishness ? ' 
 he said, purposely using a strong word. 
 
 ' He has not a grain of the churl in him.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Then he must have well-developed imitative 
 faculties,' said Sebastian, with a politely sceptical accent, 
 which he had often found useful as a conversational weapon. 
 It was successful upon this occasion. Adrienne answered 
 quickly, 
 
 ' You must not think him churlish. It would be a 
 grievous mistake to make. He has a most generous disposi- 
 tion. You should see him at home with his sister and his 
 cripple brother — they are friends of mine too, and his deaf 
 friend, Harry Ashworth. You would not misjudge him then. 
 Those people know his heart, as it is — and they all adore 
 him. Churlish — no !' 
 
 ' Well, does he behave in such an extraordinary way to 
 
1 68 PROBATION. 
 
 Mr. Blisset ? Does he look at him as if he would say, 
 " Thus far, and no farther. Keep your distance if you 
 please"?' 
 
 ' To my uncle — oh no ! He is very fond of him, and 
 very respectful to him,' said Adrienne, demurely, a curious 
 little smile quivering about the corners of her mouth. 
 
 ' Then why does he select myself as the object of his 
 hatred — for I am sure he does hate me?' 
 
 ' He — because ' 
 
 ' Because?' 
 
 ' I cannot explain. Only he does not hate you.' 
 
 ' I am convinced you could tell me all about it if you 
 would, so, as you will not, I must find it out in my own way. 
 I am determined I will learn the reason of his aversion to 
 me — and will overcome it' 
 
 ' Oh, don't ! Pray let him alone. He is best let alone.' 
 
 Sebastian smiled. 
 
 ' You seem to be well acquainted with what is best for 
 him — though you have only known him a few weeks. If 
 you have succeeded in making a friend of him, why should 
 not I ? ' 
 
 ' I would not go too far. Remember, he, as well as you, 
 has a right to choose his own friends, and if he does not 
 choose you for one of them, you have no right to ' 
 
 ' Importune him ? No. you are quite right,' he said, 
 rising. ' But there is society of a different stamp from Myles 
 Heywood, even in Thanshope. Would you have any ob- 
 jection to my mother calling upon you?' 
 
 ' Mrs. Mallory — objection ? Not the least. I should be 
 delighted. But don't you think, if she had wished for my 
 acquaintance, she would have called before ?' 
 
 ' She was ignorant that you lived here. She thought Mr. 
 Blisset's household was quite without ladies. I expect she 
 will call upon you within the next few days.' 
 
 ' I shall be happy to see her,' said Adrienne, politely, 
 but not enthusiastically ; and he could read nothing from 
 her eyes, as they answered his inquiring gaze. She roused 
 her uncle from his abstraction, and Sebastian dropped her 
 hand with a smile. After all, he told himself, it was absurd 
 
PROBATION. 169 
 
 to think seriously of Myles Heywood as a rival — quite 
 absurd. A high cultivation like Adrienne's — and how 
 different she was from that little dark-eyed Helena, with 
 her vehemence and her disorganised ideas as to women's 
 rights and man's selfishness — could surely never feel any real 
 affinity with that untamed, untutored specimen of humanity, 
 Myles Heywood. There might be plenty of force about 
 him, but force without culture is apt to get uncomfortable. 
 
 Amidst earnest requests from Mr. Blisset that he would 
 speedily renew his visit, and equally earnest assurances on 
 
 his part that he would do so, Sebastian departed. 
 
 ***** 
 
 In the Oakenrod drawing-room, Mrs. Mallory by the 
 fire, with a novel and the feathery screen ; Hugo gloating 
 over a copy of the original edition of Bewick's ' Birds,' the 
 like of which treasure, he considered, he had never seen 
 before : for the rest silence. 
 
 'You have been out all the evening?' inquired Mrs. 
 Mallory, languidly, as she looked up. 
 
 'Yes, I have been at Mr. Blisset's.' 
 
 Hugo looked up. 
 
 ' Mother, do you ever call at Mr. Blisset's house ?' 
 
 ' No. Soon after he came, I called ; but his man-servant 
 told me that he was a great invalid, and saw no one.' 
 
 ' He is certainly a great invalid. But there is a Miss 
 Blisset.' 
 
 ' Is he a widower ?' asked Mrs. Mallory, struck by some- 
 thing in her son's tone, dimly conscious of some impending 
 unpleasantness in store for herself. 
 
 ' She is his niece. She came to live with him some two 
 years or eighteen months ago. I was delighted to renew 
 my acquaintance with her.' 
 
 ' Then you had met her before ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, at Coblentz, and at Wetzlar, on the Lahn.' 
 
 Sebastian was at the present moment leaning on the top 
 of his mother's chair, which was a deep, roomy easy-chair 
 of a bygone day. As he spoke he took the feathery screen 
 out of her hand and fanned her with it a little. She wished 
 he would not do so. It might not make it more really 
 
170 PROBATION. 
 
 difficult to resist him, but it made her look very ungracious; 
 it must look ungracious in a mother to deny favours to a 
 son who asked them in so seductive a manner. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory thought there were certain points upon 
 which she would never give in ; but even while she thought 
 it, and Sebastian's hand waved the screen to and fro, and 
 his voice gently continued to speak — even then, she had 
 an indefinable sensation of being managed — that power was 
 slipping from her hands into his. But she could say nothing 
 until he had in some way committed himself; and he had 
 a most provoking habit of not committing himself. 
 
 ' She is as clever and accomplished in her way as her 
 uncle is in his,' Sebastian went on : ' and she is, in addition, 
 a most charming young lady. She has no friends here — 
 and she is so different from the Thanshope people — much 
 more in your style than that vehement little Miss Spenceley,' 
 he added, while Hugo looked on from afar and laughed in 
 his sleeve. ' I am sure you would like her if you knew 
 her, and I want you to be so kind as to call upon her.' 
 
 ' Call upon her ! Call upon a person I know nothing 
 about ! Really, Sebastian, I wonder at you ! ' 
 
 ' My dear mother, she is not in the least what you would 
 describe as a "person." Even your critical taste will pro- 
 nounce her a thorough lady when you see her.' 
 
 ' How is it nobody else has called upon her ?' 
 
 ' Some one else has. Mrs. Ponsonby has called upon 
 her. But I want you to call upon her. You really would 
 oblige me exceedingly, mother, if you would.' 
 
 'And therefore I must, I suppose. That appears to be 
 the rule by which the young judge the old in the present 
 day,' said Mrs. Mallory, a little acidly. 
 
 Sebastian had come round to the other side, and was 
 leaning against the mantelpiece, and as Mrs. Mallory con- 
 cluded her remark she looked at her son, and her son 
 looked at her. If he had only been talking about Helena 
 Spenceley ! But it was merely some Miss Blisset. She 
 thought she would refuse. But at that moment the idea 
 struck her that she might even serve her own aims by 
 consenting conditionally. 
 
PROBATION. 171 
 
 Scarcely two days before, Sebastian had treated, first with 
 levity and contempt, and then with downright repugnance, 
 the prospect of dining at the Spenceleys' house, or cultivat- 
 ing their further acquaintance. Mrs. Mallory had at that 
 moment in her pocket a note, in Helena's handwriting, 
 requesting the pleasure of the company of Mrs. and Mr. 
 Mallory, and that of Mr. von Birkenau, to dinner ten days 
 hence. 
 
 ' If I go out of my way to make new acquaintances, about 
 whom I care nothing in the world, it is only fair that you 
 should put yourself a little out of the way too, Sebastian.' 
 
 ' Perfectly fair. As how ? ' 
 
 ' We are invited to dine at the Spenceleys on the — th. 
 If you don't go there, and behave civilly to my friends, I 
 really don't see how I can encourage yours, about whom I 
 know nothing, to come here, or go to see them myself.' 
 
 ' I quite grasp the importance of the situation,' said 
 Sebastian, with that placid politeness which exasperated 
 Mrs. Mallory beyond bounds, because she did not know 
 into what language to translate it. ' If you will call upon 
 Miss Blisset within the next day or two — I mean a proper 
 call, you know, with an intimation that you would like her 
 to return it, and so on — I will go to any amount of 
 Spenceley spreads, be they never so gorgeous, and will 
 listen to Miss Spenceley's diatribes with the utmost resigna- 
 tion. There will be the contrast to think of.' 
 
 This was not very encouraging behaviour ; but it was the 
 best to be extracted from her very ' trying ' son, and Mrs. 
 Mallory had to accept it, merely remarking, 
 
 ' If your friend, Miss Blisset, has anything like the good 
 qualities of Helena, I shall be surprised.' 
 
 ' No, she has not,' said Sebastian. ' Miss Spenceley has 
 one hundred thousand golden virtues — not to mention 
 others of a less tangible character — of a kind that Adrienne 
 Blisset knows nothing about' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory made a note of the ' Adrienne Blisset,' and 
 began to feel an intense dislike to that young lady. 
 
 But the bargain had been struck. On the third day after 
 the treaty had been, so to speak, signed, Mrs. Mallory called 
 
172 PROBATION. 
 
 out her horses and called out her men, and drove in state 
 to see and overwhelm Miss Blisset. 
 
 She saw her ; but the overwhelming remained still a 
 dream of the future. Adrienne's utter freedom from embar- 
 rassment in the presence of Mrs. Mallory, of the Oakenrod, 
 might be in bad taste, but it could not very well be com- 
 mented upon. She parried all her visitor's hidden thrusts 
 upon the subject of Sebastian with a cool adroitness which 
 called forth her visitor's reluctant admiration, and behaved 
 altogether with an ease and an address which was the more 
 reprehensible in that it seemed so perfectly natural. 
 
 ' But it could not have been natural,' reflected Mrs. 
 Mallory, as she drove away. 'The attention, after Sebas- 
 tian's calling there and finding her, was so marked. I think 
 she is the most consummate little actress I ever met 
 anywhere. ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 'I DREAMT I DWELT IN MARBLE HALLS.' 
 
 Castle Hill, the Spenceley mansion, was a large, new, 
 imposing residence of red brick, with massive stone facings. 
 It had been the dwelling of Mr. Spenceley and his family 
 for some six or seven years, and it was within these walls 
 that Helena sat in captivity, and groaned alternately over 
 the selfishness of men and the mean-spiritedness of women. 
 
 On the appointed evening, Mrs. Mallory, her son, and 
 Hugo, were driven to this mansion, and ushered into the 
 drawing-room. It was an apartment vast in dimensions, 
 lofty, dazzling, perfectly square, perfectly gorgeous, and 
 more than perfectly uncomfortable. 
 
 Some ten or twelve persons were collected somewhere 
 amidst the mass of gorgeous carpet, hangings, furniture, and 
 dazzling crystal drops which seemed to blend and combine 
 in a determined and successful effort to crush and annihilate 
 the human portion of the scene. Sebastian and Hugo saw 
 Mrs. Mallory sail up to a massive-looking lady in purple 
 satin, and white lace, and unlimited jewellery of florid design 
 
PROBATION. 173 
 
 and great brilliance. This l^dy she greeted almost affec- 
 tionately. Was she not Helena's mother ? and did not Mrs. 
 Mallory herself regard Helena almost as a daughter? 
 Having introduced Sebastian and Hugo, Mrs. Mallory 
 turned to Mr. Spenceley, while the young men bowed them- 
 selves before the mistress of the house. 
 
 She said she was very glad to see them. Then she told 
 Sebastian that she had heard a great deal about him, and 
 then she looked hurriedly around for ' Mr. Spenceley.' 
 
 That gentleman, who had been exchanging courtesies in 
 a loud and blatant voice with Mrs. Mallory, now began to 
 welcome Sebastian to his native place, also in a loud and 
 blatant manner. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I'm glad to see you. Come home just in the 
 nick of time, you have. You've a grand opportunity for 
 making your fortune now. Gad ! But it's providential, 
 this American business ! We shall get rid of some of our 
 surplus stock now. It'll give us a pull over our work-people 
 too, at last ; and not before we need it. The fellows were 
 getting beyond everything, eh !' 
 
 Sebastian, his calm and serious eyes quietly scanning the 
 strong, if coarse, under-bred face of the man before him, 
 merely said that he was quite new to this kind of thing. 
 He had not considered the subject in that light at all. 
 
 ' Well, I should advise you to do so as soon as possible 
 then, or you'll lose your chance,' shouted Mr. Spenceley, 
 whose voice was elevated so as to drown entirely those of 
 the rest of the company, while his wife timidly looked on, 
 her florid face set gravely, and her eyes round and staring 
 with a sort of anxious attentiveness. 
 
 Sebastian foresaw that he would have to take her in to 
 dinner, and he glanced at her now and then, wondering 
 what he should say to her — how keep up some kind of a 
 conversation. She was a tall, stout, matronly woman ; once 
 she must have been an extremely handsome lass. Her 
 black hair was still abundant, and had something of the 
 waviness of Helena's : her eyes, too, were dark. She was 
 as tall as her daughter, but more lymphatic in temperament. 
 
 Helena probably inherited her beauty from her mother, 
 
174 PROBATION. 
 
 and her vehemence from her father. Mrs. Spenceley was 
 accustomed to roll in her carriage through Bridgehouse and 
 Lower Place, suburbs of Thanshope, and to look from her 
 elevation upon the extensive matrons who stood at their 
 cottage doors, exchanged gossip, and scolded their ingenuous 
 offspring, sporting in the road before them; but her nature 
 was the same as theirs. Denude her of her silks and satins, 
 attire her in a cotton or linsey gown, with bare arms and a 
 large apron, her hair twisted up into a knot behind, and her 
 head capless ; a cottage full of cares and unruly children, a 
 rough ' measter ' to make and mend and ' do ' for, and she 
 would have been indistinguishable from those other matrons. 
 She would have fallen back into the old ways quite genially 
 and naturally ; she would have been what she certainly was 
 not under existing arrangements — happy. 
 
 For Mrs. Spenceley was unhappy in her riches and great- 
 ness ; she could remember quite distinctly the days when 
 Spenceley had been overlooker at one of the great Thanshope 
 factories, and she had done the work of the house, and brought 
 up the children single-handed, and been happy — and not 
 genteel. She remembered the sudden leap into prosperity, 
 the gradually increasing establishment, Helena dismissed to 
 a fashionable boarding-school, and Fred to a private and 
 select academy, where he was to learn how to become a 
 gentleman — that short, easy, and every-day process, where, 
 as a matter of fact, he had drunk in one lesson, and one only, 
 namely, that a fellow whose father has money, and who will 
 one day have money himself, need not know, or do, or be 
 anything — except rich. Mrs. Spenceley remembered how 
 servants, of whom she stood in awe, had accumulated around 
 her ; how she had had to leave her kitchen to their tender 
 mercies ; how she had found that she must not handle a 
 duster, or have an opinion as to the merits of the heave- 
 shoulder or the wave-breast any longer ; until she had got a 
 magnificent housekeeper, in black silk and a lace cap, who 
 was fully conscious of the primordial fact that large and 
 wealthy establishments only existed in order that she might 
 domineer over one of them How Helena was returned 
 upon her hands, a ' finished ' young lady, ignorant, as it 
 
PROBATION. 175 
 
 seemed to Mrs. Spenceley in her own ignorance, of the very 
 elements of a womanly education — unable to keep house, to 
 cook, to sew, even to distinguish ribs of beef from sirloin. 
 She had ventured, mildly, to utter some of her woe to the 
 father, who had said, ' Pooh ! Let the lass alone. She'll 
 never need to know such things. She shall marry a lord ! 
 Only don't let her cross me and she'll do.' And Helena had 
 been suffered to trample upon the domestic arts, and to 
 throw herself, with all the energy of one who has nothing 
 to do with herself, into all sorts of questions about which 
 her active brain made her curious, while her unfinished 
 education left her profoundly ignorant of their practical 
 bearings. She had no female friends except Mrs. Mallory 
 and Miss Mereweather, a conspicuous friend and upholder 
 of 'the cause.' She loved Mrs. Mallory, because that lady 
 was kind to her, and was by no means a nonentity ; and she 
 adored Miss Mereweather because of her talents, or what 
 seemed to Helena her talents. 
 
 Friends at home the girl had none. Fred had one of 
 those hopelessly dense natures which may be called the 
 complacently brutal — nothing in the way of friendship or 
 sympathy was to be had from him. Her father — Helena, in 
 her intercourse at school with girls of good family and social 
 surroundings, had learnt to know that her father's manners 
 and language were to be abhorred, while, had he been a Sir 
 Charles Grandison in the matter of deportment, his coarse 
 bullying and ferocious bantering of her mother would alone 
 have made the hot-spirited girl almost hate him. 
 
 And Fred — his mother stood in profound awe of him ; his 
 talk, his slang, his ways in general ; and she was the one 
 soul on earth, except himself, who was firmly convinced of 
 the fact that Frederick Spenceley was at once a finished 
 gentleman and a consummate man of the world. 
 
 As Sebastian sat watching his hostess, and partly divining 
 some of these facts, a voice at his elbow roused him. 
 
 ' Good evening, Mr. Mallory. You look as if you were 
 dreaming.' 
 
 Looking quickly round, he saw Helena standing close 
 beside him, smiling as frankly as if no misunderstanding 
 
176 PROBATION. 
 
 had ever existed between them, as if they had not quarrelled 
 violently within two hours of first seeing each other. How 
 lovely she was ! None but a very lovely woman could have 
 stood the dull ivory satin dress she wore, fitting tight in the 
 waist, without a fold or a crease ; and, in an age of volumi- 
 nous, portentous crinolines, trailing straight and long behind 
 her. She wore a black lace fichu, and elbow sleeves with 
 black lace ruffles falling from them. The fichu was fastened 
 with a golden brooch ; beyond that was not a ribbon, not a 
 frill, not a jewel or a flower about her. And her beauty 
 came triumphant through the ordeal. 
 
 They had parted on decidedly evil terms, and he was 
 surprised now to find that she welcomed him cordially, and 
 smiled as she took the chair beside him. 
 
 ' I am afraid I was very cross the other night,' said she, with 
 a sunny smile. ' But I thought you had treated me badly, 
 and I am going to have my revenge to-night, and show you 
 that I am in earnest. My greatest friend, Laura Mereweather, 
 has most fortunately been able to come just when I invited 
 her. Wasn't that wonderful?' 
 
 ' I am prepared to say that it was ; but I don't yet know 
 why. ' 
 
 ' You know Miss Mereweather ; by name, at least ? ' 
 
 ' To my shame I must confess that I never even heard 
 of her before.' 
 
 ' What an extraordinary thing ! She has a European 
 reputation.' 
 
 ' You astonish me ! For what ?' 
 
 'As being the most advanced female thinker, and the 
 greatest benefactor to her sex, of her time.' 
 
 Sebastian's face fell, as he looked round the room. 
 
 ' These very intellectual women have often nothing re- 
 markable in their personal appearance,' said he. ' Would 
 you believe that, of the several young ladies I see seated 
 about the room, I could not say which I should suppose to 
 be Miss Mereweather. 
 
 ' Thatl said Helena impressively, ' that slight girl, all 
 intellect, and mind, and spirit, talking to my brother — 
 that is Laura ! ' 
 
PROBATION. 177 
 
 ' Is it really?' he said, his eyes falling upon the ethereal- 
 looking being described by Helena. 
 
 He saw a thin, nervous-looking girl — a girl with not a 
 bad face, if it could not be called absolutely handsome. 
 She too was dressed, like Helena, in a tightly fitting robe 
 with undistended skirts, but her dress was black. She 
 wore an eyeglass, looked restlessly around, and had a deep 
 contralto voice. There was nothing alarming in her appear- 
 ance ; she looked, thought Sebastian, as if she would have 
 made an excellent head-mistress of a large school, the 
 matron of an hospital, or some authority of that description. 
 
 ' She is a woman of powerful individuality, I should say,' 
 he remarked. 
 
 ' Is she not ? After dinner she shall talk to you.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are very kind ! I wouldn't trouble her for the 
 world.' 
 
 ' It is no trouble. Nothing done for the cause would be 
 a trouble to Laura; and then you must be enlightened. 
 You must learn that ours is not a cause to be treated with 
 levity. You must be punished for what you did and said 
 the other night,' said Helena. 
 
 ' I submit ; but — I am sure you could talk just as well,' 
 said Sebastian, resignedly. 
 
 ' Ah, if I could ! ' said Helena, gazing with admiring 
 devotion towards her friend. 
 
 ' Is there not an immensity of power and force about 
 her?' she said enthusiastically. 'Laura has several times 
 been mistaken for a man — by persons who have heard her 
 voice, and her remarks, without seeing her.' 
 
 'Has she? How excessively annoying for her!' said 
 Sebastian, with feeling. 
 
 ' Annoying ! It pleases her, as a testimony to her power, 
 and as a proof that there is no real disparity in the respec- 
 tive capacities of men and women. Of course, when it is 
 known that books or pictures have been written or painted 
 by women, all hope of fair and impartial criticism is over.' 
 
 ' Is it ? — Well, I was looking at the question from another 
 point of view. I thought that if Miss Mereweather dis- 
 approves so strongly of men in general, it would annoy her 
 
 N 
 
173 PROBATION. 
 
 to be mistaken for one of that odious and inferior sex ; and, 
 moreover, would only be a sign of how very different she 
 must be from most women.' 
 
 ' She is very superior to most women ; if that is what you 
 mean, I concede the point willingly.' 
 
 ' Well, if such a superior woman is often mistaken for a 
 man, is not that a piece of negative evidence of the inferi- 
 ority of women in general?' he asked politely. 
 
 Helena's face had flushed again. 
 
 ' As I said, Laura shall talk to you. She will argue much 
 better than I can. I do not pretend to her abilities. And 
 there is Parsons announcing dinner,' added Helena hastily, 
 her colour mounting still higher as she caught Sebastian's 
 eyes fixed with a grave yet not unkindly expression upon 
 her face. 
 
 He rose to offer Mrs. Spenceley his arm, and stood with 
 her, watching the couples as they filed out of the room. 
 Yes, Helena was lovely, and not all her wild talk, not even 
 her enthusiastic admiration for Miss Mereweather, could 
 make her otherwise. 
 
 He looked absently on, as first his mother and Mr. 
 Spenceley went by ; next a gorgeous dowager, whose tribal 
 name and standing were unknown to him, but whom he 
 distinctly heard saying something about ' the 'oist at the 
 Lang'um 'otel,' as she swept past on the arm of a flaccid- 
 faced, red-haired, meek-looking man, pertaining to the 
 goodly company of cotton-spinners. The wife of the said 
 cotton-spinner followed next, with a gentle-looking incum- 
 bent — he who ministered to the spiritual needs of Mr. 
 Spenceley and his family. More couples followed. Fred 
 Spenceley with Miss Mereweather — more gorgeous dowagers 
 and resplendent spinsters, and more of the native young 
 men, leading the same to the banquet, and, at last, Helena, 
 in her creamy robes, with Hugo. 
 
 'The lucky young dog!' thought Sebastian, resignedly, 
 as Hugo's eyes met his, and the lad smiled rather triumph- 
 antly, in the full consciousness that he was leading out the 
 prettiest woman in the room. 
 
 Was she talking women's rights now? Sebastian wondered, 
 
PROBATION. 179 
 
 as he silently brought up the rear with the equally silent 
 Mrs. Spenceley. No ! She was laughing with Hugo, like 
 any other pleasant, well-conditioned girl, and asking him 
 to tell her exactly how he spelt his name, and if it had any 
 particular meaning. 
 
 ' For I know nothing about German, you know, except a 
 translation of the " Sorrows of Werther," which I thought 
 very funny.' 
 
 ' And I do not know much about English,' said Hugo, 
 much delighted with his own good fortune, ' but I can un- 
 derstand yours, sehr gut, I mean, very well. You speak so 
 clearly — it is different from the London people. 
 
 ' Not bad for a first attempt, old boy ! ' thought Sebastian, 
 smiling as they entered the celebrated dining-room of Castle 
 Hill, with its pictures and bronzes, and statuary, all of the 
 very best, and ' bought by people who understood such 
 things,' as Mr. Spenceley was wont modestly to say, when 
 any one praised any of his artistic treasures. 
 
 Mrs. Spenceley did not look like a person who would 
 have exactly a discriminating taste in the matter of genre- 
 paintings, or landscape, but Sebastian broke the silence be- 
 tween them by remarking on a little picture hanging oppo- 
 site to him. 
 
 ' Yes ; it's by a person called Ansdell, I believe,' said 
 Mrs. Spenceley. ' They say it's very good ; but for my part 
 I'm no judge of such things.' 
 
 Sebastian bowed, and then, thinking that perhaps local 
 topics might prove more successful than artistic ones, said 
 he feared that distress was already beginning amongst the 
 work-people. 
 
 Mrs. Spenceley turned with some vivacity to her guest. 
 
 ' You're right, Mr. Mallory. If it goes on as it is doing, 
 it'll break some 'earts before all's over.' 
 
 ' Do you visit much amongst them ? ' 
 
 1 Not so much as I could wish. There's some of the 
 poor creatures will soon be fair clemming — starving, I 
 mean.' Mrs. Spenceley sank her voice, and every now and 
 then her eye turned with a little nervous, wavering glance 
 towards her lord at the other end of the table. ' You see 
 
i8o PROBATION. 
 
 I shouldn't like to go amongst them so much without I 
 could keep them a bit. I should like to have a soup-kitchen ! ' 
 she added with feeling ; ' but Spenceley doesn't quite ap- 
 prove of it. He says that many of them have money laid 
 by, and he's of opinion that we must let them help themselves 
 a bit before we begin to help them.' 
 
 ' From a politico-economical point of view Mr. Spenceley 
 is perhaps right,' said Sebastian, glancing down the table at 
 the red-faced, coarse-featured man, with a heavy jaw not 
 devoid of cruelty ; and noting that same jaw reproduced 
 even more obtrusively and unpleasantly in the son ; scarcely 
 at all in the daughter, or at least only in a manner which 
 gave an expression of decision to the charming mouth. 
 
 ' I know nothing about politics,' said Mrs. Spenceley ; 
 ' and you may mark my words — those that's starving will 
 want bread — not politics.' 
 
 1 Certainly they will. Unfortunately you often cannot 
 give them the one without a good deal of the other.' 
 
 ' I dare say. But if the war doesn't stop soon we shall 
 have to do something, if it was only to try and teach the 
 poor women to make the most of their bits of stuff. Most 
 of them are no housekeepers to speak of. They can spin 
 and weave, but they can't make home comfortable, and 
 after all, that's the chief thing. But,' she added, suddenly 
 remembering different reports she had heard of Sebastian, 
 and Helena's contemptuous announcement that he was a fop, 
 who thought the world was made for his amusement, and 
 that there was nothing in life worth the trouble of being 
 earnest about, ' you won't be much interested in these kind 
 of things, Mr. Mallory.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, I am much interested in it. Your 
 idea makes me wonder if something could not be done. If 
 some schools, or something of that kind, could be estab- 
 lished, 1 if some of the ladies of the town would take it up — 
 my mother and you, for example, Mrs. Spenceley — and 
 
 1 An apology is herewith offered to the Manchester Central Commit- 
 tee, for thus putting into the mouth of a fictitious individual their ex- 
 cellent proposals for the schools which were of so much benefit in most 
 of the distressed districts. 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 make it unnecessary for those poor girls to be wandering 
 about, laughing and making fun of people in the streets as 1 
 saw them the other day. And your daughter — I should 
 think Miss Spenceley would find the work congenial.' 
 
 ' Helena ! ' echoed the mother, shaking her head. ' It's of 
 no use talking about her, Mr. Mallory. She has always some 
 fresh craze in her head, and never a useful one. That 
 horrid Miss Mereweather has been the ruin of her.' 
 
 Sebastian repressed a smile. 
 
 ' If she only would turn to something useful ! ' lamented 
 Mrs. Spenceley, ' but with these ridiculous ideas about women 
 being better than men, and all that — and she can't even 
 make a shirt for her father or a pudding for her brother. 
 Oh, but I beg your pardon — only I do often tell her that 
 she would never make a good wife with these ideas — not if 
 she had millions of pounds and was the prettiest girl in 
 England.' 
 
 Though Mrs. Spenceley threw back her head and spoke 
 in a tone of annoyance, yet Sebastian clearly distinguished 
 an accent of pride in her voice. The homely mother then 
 was not altogether displeased with her wilful, brilliant girl. 
 
 ' And what does she say to that ? ' he asked, looking at 
 Hugo and Helena, who seemed to be greatly enjoying some 
 remarkably good joke ; and he thought : ' The prettiest girl 
 in England ! At least she might hold her own amongst a 
 dozen of the prettiest.' 
 
 ' Oh, she says she never will be married, and that non- 
 sense. I tell her to wait until Mr. Right comes, and then 
 we shall hear a different song. I wish he would, I'm sure,' 
 she added fervently, ' before she gets spoiled. She has a 
 right good heart, has Helena, if only a giddy head.' 
 
 Sebastian did not answer. He was still looking towards 
 Hugo and Helena, and felt intensely conscious of the ripple 
 of laughter which scarcely ceased between them. It was 
 impossible that women's rights, or any such bristly, hateful 
 topic could be causing that delighted look on Hugo's dark, 
 artist face ; could call that gracious curve to Helena's red 
 lips. Hugo threw himself with passion into the joy of the 
 moment, as Sebastian knew ; Helena seemed to have some- 
 
PRO/1.1TIOX. 
 
 thing of his eager, inflammable temperament. At least 
 they appeared to be very happy together. 
 
 # # # # # 
 
 Dinner over ; a group of four congregated in a corner. 
 Helena on a sofa, with Hugo beside her ; Sebastian and 
 Miss Mereweather facing one another in chairs, and the 
 cross-examination about to begin. Helena had wished to 
 leave Sebastian and Miss Mereweather to fight it out alone, 
 but he had meekly suggested that it was not fair to make 
 him confront the most remarkable woman of her age entirely 
 without support ; and Hugo adding his petition, Helena had 
 consented to be present at the discussion. 
 
 Helena seated herself, opened her fan, and said, 
 
 ' Now, Laura dear, Mr. Mallory would like to know your 
 views on the Woman Question.' 
 
 She avoided meeting the look of sorrowful amazement 
 and reproach with which Sebastian heard this decidedly 
 exaggerated announcement, and Laura replied, 
 
 ' I should first wish to know Mr. Mallory's own views 
 upon that subject — ///^subject, I may say, of the present age.' 
 
 ' They are soon stated,' said Sebastian. ' I have none.' 
 
 ' Then there is some hope for you,' said Miss Mereweather, 
 with rather a pitying smile. 
 
 ' I am glad of that. At the same time, I should like to 
 know in Avhich direction the hope shows itself.' 
 
 'Your frank acknowledgment of your utter ignorance of 
 the question is a great point in your favour. As you have 
 no views at all upon it, you are the more likely to be able 
 to receive just ones when they are offered to you.' 
 
 ' I have some preconceived ideas upon the matter of logic 
 and reasonableness, common sense, and all that kind of 
 thing. Will that be against me in this case, do you think?' 
 
 ' I dislike flippancy,' said Laura. 
 
 ' I did not mean to be flippant. I merely wished for 
 information.' 
 
 • We will take the suffrage first,' said Miss Mereweather, 
 raising her voice somewhat, as if to scatter such irrelevant 
 remarks to the winds. ' Are you in favour of extending 
 the franchise to women — I mean women-householders and 
 ratepayers ?' 
 
PROBATION. 183 
 
 ' On what grounds?' 
 
 ' On the only grounds on which they can claim it ; on 
 the grounds that they are mentally, morally, and, in the 
 practical affairs of the world, the equal of man ; and that, 
 as they bear equal burdens for the State, so they should 
 have equal privileges.' 
 
 ' I could never grant them the suffrage on those grounds. ' 
 
 ' What P exclaimed both ladies, while Helena started 
 forward, and dropped her fan, her eyes flashing, and her 
 face flushing. 
 
 ' Because it would take too long to prove your case. 
 What is more, if you fight the question on that ground, I 
 doubt whether you will ever win it. You cannot be said to 
 have proved a case to your opponent until you have got him 
 to agree with you, and you will never, in your lifetime at 
 least, get more than a number to agree with you on that 
 point ; it may be an influential number, and a select one, 
 but it will not be at all a majority' 
 
 'Your argument is not logical, it is a quibble,' said Miss 
 Mereweather disdainfully. ' Your real opinion is that women 
 ought not to have the franchise.' 
 
 ' I never said so. If they think it a privilege, and if they 
 would be pleased to have it, why not?' 
 
 Miss Mereweather, unaccustomed to this style, neither 
 agreement nor opposition, was silent a moment. Then a 
 shade of pique crossed her brow. 
 
 'You do not think women worth discussing anything 
 seriously with?' said she. 
 
 ' Excuse my saying that you are quite mistaken.' 
 
 ' Then why don't you discuss this question seriously ?' was 
 the decidedly feeble reply of the most remarkable woman 
 of her time. 
 
 ' But I do. I say, why not give them the franchise if 
 they would like to have it ? I suppose that by degrees they 
 would get educated up to it.' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory ! you are absolutely insulting,' cried Helena, 
 angrily, and Sebastian merely answered with a grave look, 
 and the remark, 
 
 ' I am sorry if I have offended you.' 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 Helena's lips, opened to utter further reproach, suddenly- 
 closed ; with a look of embarrassment she became silent, 
 and Miss Mereweather, in a business-like tone, said, 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory is not so dark as he seems to you, my dear, 
 I have good hopes for him. We will turn to another branch 
 of the subject. What is your opinion, Mr. Mallory, of the 
 relative status before the law of husband and wife?' What 
 do you think of the laws about married women's property ?' 
 
 ' I think they are bad,' said Sebastian, stifling a yawn, 
 and glancing at Hugo, who was fanning himself with Helena's 
 fan, while she leaned eagerly forward. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Laura, ' an opinion at last ! You agree with 
 us that there, in that most important of all relations, the 
 woman is a slave.' 
 
 ' I don't think I said so. I suppose the woman might be 
 a slave if every husband were as bad as the law would allow 
 him to be. Men are not all tyrants, nor women all slaves ! 
 so I suppose that is why the law has not been changed.' 
 
 ' That is sophistry,' said Laura. 
 
 'Will you deny that it is fact?' he inquired politely. 
 
 ' Then you would allow the law to be altered ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly' 
 
 ' It is an important subject for you, my dear child,' said 
 Miss Mereweather to Helena. ' I only hope your resolution 
 will remain firm, and that you will resist temptation and speci- 
 ous promises. In your case you will have plenty of both.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall resist,' said Helena, a little crossly. 
 ' I am not quite imbecile, Laura, and know how to take- 
 care of myself. My mind is quite made up on that subject.' 
 
 'In what direction?' inquired Sebastian. 
 
 ' I have told you already. I know I shall have property,' 
 said Helena, trying to speak with lofty indifference, but all 
 the same, not unaware that the young man's eves were fixed 
 upon her face, and with her own wavering as she went on 
 with the speech which she had uttered many a time before, 
 and which now struck her for the first time as falling some- 
 what flat, and not being quite equal to the occasion. Other 
 young men had looked at her, and said they were sure she 
 didn't mean it, and it was too cruel of her, and other * vacant 
 
PROBATION. 185 
 
 chaff' of the same description. Sebastian only looked at 
 her gravely, calmly, as it seemed to her, almost pityingly, 
 and in perfect silence. 
 
 The glance stung and galled her. She would not be 
 deterred by that look. What was Sebastian Mallory but a 
 man— a thoughtless young man, who had dared to laugh at 
 her views ? 
 
 ' And property entails responsibilities,' she continued. 
 
 ' It certainly does.' 
 
 ' I shall therefore never marry,' said Helena, courageously, 
 though her face burned, and she wished intensely that she 
 had never insisted upon the discussion. ' I shall look after 
 my own affairs, and arrange them according to my own 
 judgment. I will be free, and nobody's servant.' 
 
 ' A very wise resolution ; provided, first, that you keep 
 it ; and second, that you feel equal to disposing judiciously 
 of a large property.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt about that, 1 said she, with a lofty smile, 
 still not raising her eyes, and very angry with herself for not 
 being able to do so. 
 
 Sebastian smiled, and the smile made Helena feel hot 
 and uncomfortable. 
 
 ' I hope,' said he, with extreme politeness, ' that you will 
 feel the satisfaction which should be the reward of such 
 high motives.' 
 
 Helena flushed again. She had argued the point more 
 than once with different people, and without this feeling of 
 embarrassment. Why was she embarrassed now? What 
 would that ' nicest girl ' he ever knew think, if she were 
 here? Had she money? He had said she had been 
 brought up in the school of adversity. That reminded 
 Helena of another point in the argument, which she ought 
 to have advanced long ago. She was dimly conscious of a 
 kind of bathos as she said, ' I don't believe in useless fine 
 ladies, you know, all the same. I think women ought to 
 be able to earn their own living, if necessary. They ought 
 to be able to be quite independent of men, if they choose.' 
 
 ' Do you think they ever would choose ? ' he asked with 
 a suppressed smile. 
 
1 86 PROBATION. 
 
 ' I know this, that I would rather earn fourpence a day as 
 a needle-woman, than depend upon any man ! ' said Helena, 
 hotly and indignantly. ' And I could always do that' 
 
 ' In that case I congratulate you,' he retorted ironically. 
 ' You are superior to all calamities and misfortunes. I wish 
 I could feel myself equally secure.' 
 
 ' You have not argued a single point,' said Helena with 
 passion. ' I shall never be at the trouble to talk seriously 
 to you again.' 
 
 ' If you will only talk to me at all, I shall be delighted.' 
 
 She had risen, and whirled herself away to the other end 
 of the room, where she busied herself in setting two young 
 ladies to screech duets, while she conversed (seriously or 
 otherwise) with the clergyman. 
 
 Sebastian turned with a half smile to Miss Mereweather. 
 He found an unaccountable pleasure in goading Helena 
 into a passion. He had a dim, vague idea that if he tried, 
 he could not only irritate her into fury, but soothe her back 
 into calmness ; but he was quite sure he never would try. 
 Rages, he thought, were not in his line. He liked better, 
 as a permanency, the perfect temper and calm self-possession 
 of another character. No one would want to tease Adrienne. 
 
 His mind half given to such thoughts, he conversed with 
 Miss Mereweather, and his opinion of Helena's discrimina- 
 tion was gradually raised. Miss Mereweather was not at 
 all bitter about her defeat — if defeat it were. She was 
 clever, sensible, accomplished. She owned that she did 
 think a great deal about the advancement of women and their 
 improvement, and she was an ardent advocate for giving 
 them the franchise ; but, she added, she could not go to 
 the lengths Helena did, and very soon they left that subject 
 and turned to others. Their conversation was perfectly 
 amicable and agreeable, and Helena watched them from 
 afar, with a darkling, somewhat resentful glance. Dear 
 Laura's one fault, she thought, was that she was too facile 
 — that she compromised too easily. 
 
 As the Mallorys drove home, Mrs. Mallory, completely 
 deceived by the long conversation which had taken place, 
 was in a disastrously, unsuspiciously amiable frame of mind, 
 
PROBATION. 187 
 
 and was correspondingly dejected when Sebastian, summing 
 up his description of the evening's entertainment, said that 
 Miss Spenceley had adopted the strictly feminine line of 
 argument, ' Agree with all I say, or I will quarrel with 
 you!' 
 
 ' As I did not agree with all she said, she quarrelled with 
 me. Viola tout! Did she talk .vomen's rights to you, 
 Hugo ? ' 
 
 ' To me — no !' 
 
 ' Why / should be selected as the victim, I can't imagine,' 
 pursued Sebastian. ' It is a pity she does it, for she could 
 be nice, I am sure ; and as it is, she makes herself simply 
 a bore.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory was silent, mentally heaping opprobrium 
 upon Helena's crazes. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE FIRST OF THE STORM 
 
 The year 1861 had closed in thick clouds and a great 
 darkness, with the mutter of war in the far west, and with 
 the threatening of famine at home. The year 1862 dawned, 
 but with a dawn so dark as scarce to be distinguishable 
 from profoundest midnight. 
 
 ' Earth turned in her sleep for pain.' 
 
 January, February, dragged slowly by, and times only 
 grew worse. Few chimneys smoked, no workers tramped 
 through the streets ; faces were pinched, fires burnt low and 
 meagre in the bitter weather ; money was not forthcoming, 
 clothes were few, pleasures were at an end. Men paused 
 and waited, as it were, while the thunder growled and the 
 first heavy drops of the storm began to fall, slowly and 
 deliberately, and then faster and ever faster, till none could 
 escape the universal drenching. 
 
 One bitter morning, in the beginning of March, Myles 
 and Mary Heywood turned out to their daily work. A 
 furious, stinging wind, and a driving, scourging rain, saluted 
 them as they entered the long sloping street leading to the 
 factory. Myles pulled his collar up about his ears, and 
 Mary folded her shawl more tightly round her, pulling it 
 also farther over her face. They walked in silence, and 
 did not look at each other. In truth, both their hearts 
 were sad as sad could be. They were entirely changed 
 
PROBATION. 189 
 
 from the well-to-do, untroubled, noble-looking brother and 
 sister who, six or seven months ago, had walked home to- 
 gether in the heat of the August afternoon. What a hot, 
 plentiful blaze of sunlight then ! what cold, what wet, what 
 inclemency of elements now ! The contrast was pointed 
 and searching, and went home to both. 
 
 For months now, Myles's heart had been growing bitterer 
 and harder, and more rebellious ; ever since that evening 
 on which Sebastian Mallory had come and interrupted his 
 talk with Adrienne. He had not seen her often since then, 
 or rather had not visited her often since then ; but on the 
 few occasions when he had done so, she was changed. He 
 had seen the change distinctly, had seen how her eye wavered 
 and her colour changed under his piercing glance, for he 
 could look at her steadily enough now, without bashfulness, 
 and with a gaze of desperate, hopeless inquiry, which, he 
 thought, must burn her secret from her heart. With each 
 visit, each conversation with her, he had grown more hope- 
 less, more despairingly certain that what little part or lot he 
 had ever had in her life, had now vanished — was done with 
 for ever more. Once, strolling aimlessly along, he had seen 
 her come out of a shop, and had been going to speak to 
 her, when Sebastian Mallory had come up, smiling, and 
 lifting his hat, and fixing his eyes upon her face. 
 
 The sight had been quite enough for Myles, who had 
 plunged his hands into his pockets, and turned away with 
 bitterness in his heart. Once or twice — he did not know 
 how often — he had purposely and pointedly spoken to her 
 of Sebastian, and had even asked her a question or two 
 about her former acquaintance with him, and had watched 
 cruelly and unflinchingly to see how she took it. And she 
 had taken it just as he had expected, with downcast eyes, 
 a heightened colour, and a sudden confused silence. He 
 had been satisfied with his experiment ; now he had given 
 over going to Mr. Blisset's house, saying to himself, 
 
 ' If she cares for us, and is worth anything, she will come 
 — she will come, if it is only to see Mary. By this I shall 
 know her. If she comes I'll keep quiet, and try to be 
 satisfied with her — friendship. And if she does not come 
 
i 9 o PROBATION. 
 
 — I'll hate her ; no, I'll think no more of her — I'll forget 
 her, and rid myself of this plague that has been with me 
 ever since I knew her.' 
 
 Adrienne did not come ; days and weeks went by, and 
 she came not, and Myles did not hate her ; he did not 
 cease to think of her. His 'plague' tormented him more 
 grievously than ever, and his life was miserable. His days 
 were long ; there was only half the usual work to fill them. 
 The weary afternoons and evenings were unutterably long. 
 He sat at home with his books open before him, or he took 
 his way to the reading-room, and sat with more books open 
 before him, and stared at them, and knew nothing about 
 what was in them, while the chimes played ' Life let us 
 cherish !' and Myles thought of the hundreds, now daily 
 augmenting, dwelling in the houses beneath those chimes, 
 to whom, in their destitution, the tune must have seemed 
 a sort of melodious mockery. ' Life let us cherish ! ' while 
 the men across the Atlantic were locked in the deadly grip 
 of war, and the cotton manufacture in England was coming 
 steadily, surely to a stand-still. A few more throbs of its 
 mighty pulse — a few more desperate struggles to break 
 through the paralysis that was creeping over it, and then the 
 iron lungs, the great throbbing heart of it, its huge limbs, 
 its vast arteries, would be quiescent — for who should venture 
 to say how long? It was a deadly prospect. 
 
 With these various causes of distress gnawing persever- 
 ingly at his heart, the young man might well be silent, as 
 he set his teeth against the wind, and stooped his head to 
 shield his face from the rain. 
 
 While Mary, on her side, had cause enough and to spare 
 of unhappiness. The poor girl's heart was full to bursting 
 of a dread fear that she had had for many weeks now, and 
 concerning which she had not breathed a word to any one. 
 
 'That it should ha' begun just now !' she thought to her- 
 self; 'just when times is hard, and work is short, and I can 
 none get him all he should have.' 
 
 She kept up a brave face ; worked out her daily task at 
 her looms, and her much harder, heart-breaking task at 
 home ; had caresses, and smiles, and tender words for 
 
PROBATION. 191 
 
 Edmund, and a good face to turn to poor Myles, in his 
 gloom, which oppressed her faithful heart like a chill hand 
 laid upon it. She had her meed of consolation for Harry 
 Ashworth, who said he was growing deafer and deafer. She 
 had her own private astonishment at Adrienne's long ab- 
 sence, but no thought that Adrienne meant any slight or 
 ill will to her or hers. 
 
 Still, her secret cares had thinned her cheeks, and taught 
 her lips to assume a sadder curve ; had placed a line or two 
 upon her frank, calm brow, and lent a quiet pensiveness to 
 her dark-brown eyes. It had always been a good face — now 
 it had the dignity and pathos of well-borne sorrow. 
 
 They entered the great gas-lighted room. Myles went 
 off to his part of the mill and Mary to hers. How hot and 
 overpowering it felt, after the bitter rawness of the outside 
 air ! She cast aside her shawl, and set her looms going, 
 and in a few minutes the old accustomed roar of the 
 machinery had somewhat soothed her ; and her monotonous, 
 weary pondering over ways and means, and sharp, stinging 
 fears as to some dread event hovering in the near future, 
 had been somewhat dissipated by attention to her work 
 and the chat of a fellow factory-worker. 
 
 ' I reckon we'st soon have to shut up shop here, Mary,' 
 said the latter. ' I yeard Wilson say as how we couldn't 
 hold out mich longer.' 
 
 'Eh, what?' said Mary, with a start — 'eh, I hope not, 
 lass. What mun we do, if we've no work ? ' 
 
 The other girl shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' I've yeard say, too, as if we do have any work, it'll be 
 wi' Surats, and I mun say I'd rayther have none at all. I 
 conno' work yon stuff.' 
 
 ' I care nowt at all, whether it's Surats, or what it is, so 
 as I've summat to do, and summat to earn,' said Mary. 
 
 ' Thou may work twelve hours a day at Surats, and not 
 earn above six shillin' a week,' said her companion cynically ; 
 and then the conversation ceased, and Mary was left to her 
 reflections. 
 
 At eight they went home to breakfast, and at half-past 
 they were at their work again, and continued at it until half- 
 
192 PROBATION. 
 
 past twelve, when Wilson put his head into the room, and 
 called out, 
 
 'All the hands in this here room will please wait a few 
 minutes in the big yard. I've got something to say to 
 you.' 
 
 The same announcement had been made in the different 
 rooms, and the result was, all the hands were assembled 
 and waiting, some curiously, some apathetically, for the 
 communication that was coming. 
 
 Wilson jumped upon a lorrie which stood in the yard, and 
 in a clear, distinct voice, read out from a paper he held in 
 his hand this announcement : — 
 
 1 1 hereby give notice that on and after Friday, March 
 the — th, this factory will be closed, owing to the present 
 condition of the cotton trade, in consequence of the 
 American war. At the same time, as I am anxious to 
 keep my hands together, and to save them as much as 
 possible from distress, I undertake, for the present at least, 
 and until other circumstances should make a change desir- 
 able, to furnish them with the means of subsistence, and 
 such of them as are my tenants will not be pressed for rent 
 until the times improve. Each head of a family is requested 
 to attend in the warehouse of this mill on the afternoon of 
 Monday next, at three o'clock, when the conditions of relief 
 will be made known, and the names and addresses of all 
 in receipt thereof taken down. I request you earnestly, and 
 with perfect confidence, to try, all of you, during this pre- 
 sent trouble, to act together, and assist me in the preserva- 
 tion of order and the relief of distress. 
 
 'Sebastian Mallory.' 
 
 There was a short silence ; then murmurs ; then, from 
 some lips, an attempt at a cheer. Some girls and women 
 were wiping their eyes with their aprons, and one or two 
 men waved their hats : exclamations and murmurs arose all 
 around. ' Eh, but that's reet down kind, that is !' ' Th' 
 chap is a good sort !' 'Well, we needna fear to clem just 
 yet ! ' and so on. The gratitude was very real, if expressed 
 with true Lancashire reticence and absence of effusion. 
 
PROBATION. 193 
 
 But almost greater than the gratitude was the gloom — the 
 sense of shame and degradation — the feeling that this was a 
 draught too bitter for any amount of sugaring to sweeten, and 
 that they had done nothing to deserve to have to swallow it. 
 Sebastian had done wisely in committing to Wilson the 
 delivery of the message. Wilson seemed to the work-people 
 almost as one of themselves ; he, too, must suffer somewhat 
 from this calamity. The humiliation would have been too 
 intense had Sebastian read the announcement himself. He, 
 like hundreds of other masters, was making money — netting 
 large profits at this stage of the crisis. His piled-up ware- 
 houses would be emptied at profitable prices of the accumu- 
 lated results of last year's over-production, while the 
 impossibility of getting at the stores of cotton which were 
 undoubtedly reposing in large quantities in Manchester and 
 Liverpool warehouses, relieved him from the immediate 
 expense of working, and of paying wages. That part of the 
 ' panic,' as it was and is always called by the work-people, 
 was one of unmitigated severity for the poor man — for the 
 worker — capital added hugely to her stores. Yet every 
 employer of any foresight was troubled to know what was 
 to become of his work-people during the great distress — ■ 
 such skilful, practised, deft-handed, soft-fingered work-people 
 as no other corner of the world could supply to him— work- 
 people who, if they once got scattered, or emigrated, or 
 separated from their labour, could not be replaced — the 
 choicest of craftsmen and craftswomen. This was a hard 
 subject during all the years of the cotton famine — how keep 
 the operatives together, provide for them, prevent them from 
 becoming demoralised by the enforced idleness, combined 
 with the living on money not earned by themselves ? It 
 was a problem which, all must confess, was nobly solved. 
 
 At this precise time, though the distress was daily aug- 
 menting in an appalling manner, though each week saw a 
 greater number of factories closed entirely, yet the organised 
 system of relief — that gigantic machinery whose equal the 
 world had never before seen — was not yet in existence. 
 
 Sebastian, after long consultations with Mr. Sutcliffe, had 
 come to the conclusion, for the present at least, to support 
 
 o 
 
194 PROBATION. 
 
 his own work-people, and the result of that resolution was 
 the paper just now read out by Wilson. 
 
 Slowly the hands dispersed. Mary Heywood, seeing her 
 brother near the big gate, joined him there, and glanced 
 rather doubtfully up into his face. Doubt rapidly changed 
 to dismay : he was white as death ; his lips tight-set ; his 
 great dark eyes absolutely scintillating with passion. The 
 words she had been about to speak to him died upon her lips. 
 
 ' Thou go home, lass ! I've a little business to do before 
 I come after thee, but I'll not be long,' said he, so quietly 
 and calmly that her heart beat a little less rapidly, and with- 
 out a word she obeyed, leaving him there in the yard, he 
 conscious only of one purpose, and of a burning restlessness 
 until that purpose should be accomplished. 
 
 He waited by the gates, looking at no one, speaking to no 
 one, until he saw that all the hands had filed out, and that 
 Wilson was left alone in the office, locking things up. A 
 few swift, striding steps brought him inside the little room. 
 Wilson looked up. 
 
 ' Hey, Myles ! Is that you? Do you want something?" 
 
 ' Yes. I just want to tell you to take my name — and my 
 sister's too — off the books. We shall not work here any more.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but you will. This here is only a temporary stop- 
 page, you know. Times must mend, though they look bad 
 enough now, and Mallory's won't go to smash so easily.' 
 
 ' I shall never work here again, I tell you, nor Mary either. 
 Take our names off the books, if you please ; and look you, 
 Wilson, if anybody comes round to my house offering me 
 relief in ' — a spasm twitched his pain-set lips — 'the master's 
 name, I'll kick him out — so you're warned.' 
 
 ' My ccity, Myles ! You're mad to talk i' that way. 
 You've ne'er thought about it. How are you to live with- 
 out relief? And when such a handsome arrangement has 
 been made ' 
 
 'That's nothing to the point. Please to do as I ask, and 
 remember, I'll keep my word.' 
 
 He turned on his heel and left the yard. Wilson looked 
 after him, watching the proud, elastic figure, haunted by the 
 remembrance of the deadly paleness of the face, and the 
 sombre, despairing gloom of the eyes. 
 
PROBATION. 195 
 
 Wilson acted as became a wary man, who did not choose 
 to commit himself — shook his head, and murmured, 
 
 ' Ay, ay, my good chap, but you'll have to eat humble-pie 
 sooner or later — and why not sooner?' 
 
 Evidently, the characters of Myles and his easy-going old 
 friend were fundamentally unlike. 
 
 Meantime Myles, breathing rather more freely, and with 
 a faint return of colour to his cheek, took his way home, 
 feeling that now, if he met Sebastian Mallory, he could look 
 him in the face as defiantly as he chose. There was some- 
 thing almost exquisite in the sense that, though only a few 
 pounds stood between him and destitution, yet he was no 
 longer in any way dependent upon Mallory. 
 
 Arrived at home, he found the kitchen empty ; the dinner 
 half ready (not such an abundant dinner, even now, as it 
 once had been), the table spread. He sat down moodily, 
 and waited ; and presently Mary came down looking very 
 sad indeed. She had not been crying, but there was some- 
 thing in her eyes speaking of a grief and fear beyond tears. 
 
 'Well, my lass, where's Edmund?' 
 
 'Edmund's in bed, Myles.' 
 
 'In bed!' he echoed, looking up in some surprise; 
 'why, what ails him?' 
 
 ' The same thing as has been ailin' him this six-week I 
 dunnot know what it may be. Th' doctor calls it low fever.' 
 
 ' The doctor ! ' he echoed again, more astonished still. 
 'What's the meaning of this, Molly?' 
 
 ' Eh, Myles, if thou'd none been so wrapped up in summat 
 all this time, thou might ha' seen as the lad were fair pinin' 
 away.' 
 
 She could hardly finish her words, but sat down upon 
 the rocking-chair, and covered her face with her hands for 
 a moment, while he looked at her with a haggard gaze. A 
 hundred trifles came into his mind now, crowding quickly 
 forward — Mary's pre-occupation — Edmund's passive silence 
 and flushed face — and he had never seen it. Brute that 
 he was ! 
 
 ' And to-day he's that weak, he can't sit up no longer,' 
 continued Mary, raising her face from her hands and look- 
 
196 PROBATION. 
 
 ing sadly before her ; ' and I'm sore fleyed he'll ne'er be 
 strong again, that I am.' 
 
 Then she rose, and began to finish the few preparations 
 for dinner, though, sooth to say, no two people ever made 
 ready for a meal with less appetite. She began to talk, as 
 she thought cheerfully. 
 
 ' When I heard Wilson read out as factory would stop 
 o' Friday, my heart fair sank within me, when I thowt o' 
 yon lad, and us wi'out a penny to earn, but, eh ! I could 
 ha' cried wi' joy afore he'd done. Yon Mr. Mallory mun be a 
 reet good-hearted chap, and our Edmund winnot clem now.' 
 
 'Mary!' he exclaimed, starting up, and speaking in so 
 strange a voice that she looked at him involuntarily, and 
 saw again the look — the pale face, the scintillating eyes — 
 which had so terrified her an hour before, at the mill-gate. 
 He stepped across the room to her, and grasped her arm. 
 ' Never thou name such a thing again. I told "Wilson to 
 take my name, and thy name, off the books, and to send 
 anybody round here, poking into my affairs, if he dared. 
 I'd die like a dog before I'd take bit or sup from htm, or 
 let any of those that belonged to me do it.' 
 
 ' Why, whatever ' she began, but he went on, forcibly 
 
 moderating his voice, 
 
 ' Molly, I never could have thought to hear such a word 
 from thee. Hast thought what it means ? It means that 
 we — seven hundred and more of us — shall go like beggars 
 every day, and take that man's money, and eat his bread, 
 and do nothing for it Thou'rt mazed with thy trouble,' he 
 added soothingly, 'or thou'd never have dreamt of it' 
 
 ' But how mun we live?' she asked, seeing only that they 
 were Mr. Mallory's work-people, and that he prized their 
 services, and like a generous master desired to help them 
 until better times came round again. 'Thou wert always 
 so set against th' master, lad ; but when we"re like to starve, 
 what mun we do?' 
 
 Neither Mary nor Myles, it may have been observed, 
 made any mention of their mother, or spoke as if she could 
 relieve them. Later in the distress Mary went to her 
 mother, and represented their situation. Mrs. Hoyle replied 
 
PROBATION. 197 
 
 sententiously that her money was sunk in her husband's 
 business, and she had no longer any control over it, which 
 was indeed true : she had put it entirely in his power 
 immediately after marrying him, and it remained there, for 
 towards the close of 1863 Mrs. Hoyle, who had believed 
 that she was doing well for herself in her marriage, died of 
 a rapid, sudden illness, and her money passed away from 
 her children, and into her husband's hands, for ever. 
 
 ' We're not like to starve yet,' replied Myles, to his 
 sister's last remark. ' I've got over ten pounds put by — it 
 ought to have been more, but I wasn't as careful as I should 
 have been; and you've something of your own, I know. 
 It's true, we'd meant to keep it, but in these times we'll 
 most of us have to use up what we put by.' 
 
 ' Eh, lad !' answered Mary, with sorrowful embarrassment, 
 ' mine were such a bit ! And I've drawn it all out, for to 
 buy yon lad his bits of things as he must have. Doctor 
 ordered them, and I saw as thou were moithered wi' summat, 
 so I didn't ax thee, but just used up my own bit o' brass. 
 It's all gone — all but a few shillin's.' 
 
 He dropped her arm, and turned aside. This then was 
 the prospect — a sick brother to cherish, himself and his 
 sister to support ; the rent to pay ; and a little over ten 
 pounds between them and destitution. Undaunted though 
 his spirit was, it was fain to stand appalled before these facts, 
 until at last, turning round, he said, 
 
 ' I'll think about what can be done, Mary. Ten pounds 
 will last a good while, and thou'rt so clever at managing, 
 and all that' 
 
 Mary w r as silent. She knew how quickly ten pounds 
 would vanish, where there was an invalid to be cared for ; 
 and the regular weekly sum which Myles had haughtily 
 refused, seemed, now that it was out of her reach, to assume 
 the proportions of absolute wealth. 
 
 ' Myles,' she said, ' I know thou mun have some reason 
 for what thou'rt doing, but I've no grudge against the master. 
 I don't see why I shouldn't take the relief and help Ned a 
 bit . . . thou needna know nowt about it.' 
 
 ' Mary ! ' He paused, choked back some passionate 
 
i 9 8 PROBATION. 
 
 emotion, and looked at her. There rushed over his mind, 
 as by an inspiration, the conviction that what he had said, 
 what he had proposed to do, was a mean, tyrannical way of 
 making others suffer for his own private grudge. Mary's 
 mind was to be kept on the rack as to ways and means; 
 Edmund's comforts were to be stinted, or stopped, because 
 he, Myles, hated Sebastian Mallory, and, knowing his sister 
 would obey him, despotically said, ' You will take no help 
 from him.' 
 
 Certainly, to know that Mary and Edmund were subsist- 
 ing upon Mr. Mallory's bounty, while he was idle, would be 
 anguish almost as keen as to sit down and subsist upon that 
 bounty himself ; but anguish, it seemed, prevailed a good 
 deal in the world. It had to be borne by some people — 
 what right had he to shift his portion upon the shoulders of 
 a loving woman and a cripple boy ? He cried shame upon 
 himself. His cheek flushed, and he hesitated no longer. 
 He had begun to speak passionately ; he finished calmly. 
 
 ' I had not thought of that. You are right, Molly. 
 You'd better do so. It will be bad for me to bear' (how 
 bad, his pale face and drawn lips foretold), ' but it's best 
 so. This is a great trouble that has come upon us, and we 
 must be as great as we can to meet it, I suppose. I shall 
 look out and see if I can find anything to do — perhaps 
 away from here. I'm sure it's the best thing I could do. 
 It's a great mistake my being here at all.' 
 
 This speech, with the misery and bitterness underlying 
 its acquiescence in her wish, seemed to freeze Mary's heart 
 within her. She could not understand it, yet it seemed to 
 forebode evil and misery and woe to her. She looked at 
 Myles, in whose whole attitude was something alien and 
 strange. For a moment a fearful weight and foreboding 
 oppressed her ; then, breaking suddenly loose from it, she 
 ran up to him with a cry of love, flung her arms around his 
 neck, and kissed him eagerly. 
 
 ' Eh, Myles, hush, hush ! Thou munnot talk like that. 
 I'd clem sooner nor take a penny from any one thou didn't 
 like. It were only that I were quite disheartened, like, wi' 
 wondering what I were to do in these hard times, now yon 
 
PROBATION. 199 
 
 lad is so poorly. But for thee to go away and leave us — 
 the best brother ' — a hug — ' ay, the vary best, ever a lass 
 had — my certy, don't say nowt about it again.' 
 
 She was half laughing, half crying. As for Myles, the 
 clasp of her warm arms about his neck seemed to unstiffen 
 it ; the pressure of her face upon his breast appeared to 
 loosen a load of pent-up feeling. He put his arm round 
 her waist, and kissed her soft brown hair again and again, 
 and once more the feeling rushed over him that this was 
 true hearty love, and that he was a fool to distress himself 
 for that other love, which would never be his. 
 
 ' Don't take on so, there's a dear lass. Do just as you 
 like about the relief. Say nothing to me about it, and I 
 shall know nothing about it. There's a reason why I can 
 take neither bit nor sup from young Mallory — a reason I 
 can't tell you, and that will never be removed. A crumb 
 of his bread would choke me.' 
 
 ' Why, has he done thee any wrong ? ' 
 
 ' None at all, and means me no wrong ; it's what they call 
 circumstances, Molly. They come rather hard upon a 
 fellow sometimes, that's all. Come ! the dinner must be 
 well-nigh cold. Let's have it, and then I'll go up and sit 
 \vi' poor Ned a bit.' 
 
 It was a dark prospect which opened before them ; yet, 
 after this conversation, they both felt lighter of heart, and 
 better prepared to meet it. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' RATHE SCHLAGEN.' 
 
 Sebastian Mallory, Mr. Sutcliffe, and Wilson, holding a 
 council of war together, late in the afternoon of that event- 
 ful day, discussed the means to be taken for the preservation 
 of order, and the best distribution of relief. 
 
 Sebastian, in the course of the debate, asked how many 
 exactly there were to be relieved. 
 
PR0n.1T/OX. 
 
 Wilson ran his eye over some long lists of names and ad- 
 dresses. 
 
 ' The number of hands is seven hundred and thirty, sir, 
 all in all ; but it's with the heads of families we shall have 
 to deal. About a dozen won't require relief, and four have 
 taken their names off the books altogether.' 
 
 ' Which are they ? ' asked Sebastian. 
 
 ' Frank Mitchell, weaver ; he's got a brother in Canada, 
 who offered to pay his passage out if he'll go and help him 
 on his farm ; so, as soon as he heard work was stopped, he 
 decided to go. That's one. Myles and Mary Hey- 
 wood ' 
 
 ' What ! Any reasons given for their leaving ? ' asked 
 Sebastian, quickly. 
 
 ' Well, sir, relief would be a hard nut for Myles Heywood 
 to crack, at the best of times. He's uncommon proud, 
 and he came up to me, after I'd read your notice, and told me 
 very stiff indeed to take his name and his sister's off the books. 
 I did hexpostulate with him, but he were quite determined.' 
 
 ' Did he give any reasons ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir. He doesn't generally give his reasons for what 
 he does, leastways not to me ; but I'm not his master.' 
 
 ' Is he one of my tenants ? ' 
 
 'No, sir. He lives on the Townfield, at Number 16.' 
 
 ' Oh, very well !' said Sebastian, and the business went 
 on for some time uninterruptedly. 
 
 In the evening Sebastian, calling at Stonegate, and 
 asking if Miss Blisset could see him, was admitted, and 
 taken to the drawing-room, where he found Adrienne alone, 
 seated at her piano. She rose, coming forward to greet 
 him, and he saw that her face was pale, and her eyes sad 
 and heavy. 
 
 ' I hope you are in a good-natured and self-sacrificing 
 mood,' said he, ' for I am come to ask a very great favour.' 
 
 ' I shall be delighted if I can help you in any way.' 
 
 ' Did you know we cease to work at all after Friday?' 
 
 ' Cease to work at all ! What will become — oh, I am 
 very sorry — what will the work-people do?' 
 
 ' I thought,' began Sebastian, and bit his lips. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 He was afraid of appearing to parade his intentions 
 before her, and altered the form of his announcement. 
 
 ' I have consulted with Sutcliffe, my manager, you know, 
 and we have come to the conclusion that it will be the best 
 and wisest plan for me to relieve my work-people myself, 
 for the present at any rate, and ' 
 
 'All of them! To keep them, do you mean?' asked 
 Adrienne, quickly. 
 
 ' It is really the best, and it will be the cheapest way in 
 the end,' said he, half apologetically; 'and what I wished 
 to ask you was ' 
 
 ' It is right — it is a generous thing to do. I am glad 
 you are going to do it,' she interrupted him, her eyes beam- 
 ing, and suppressed warmth in her tone. 
 
 And she looked at him more fully and steadily than she 
 had done for many weeks past. Yet there was something 
 not perfectly pleased in her expression. 
 
 Sebastian, a young man who was not usually given to 
 losing his self-possession or presence of mind, coloured, 
 half with embarrassment, half with pleasure. 
 
 ' I am glad you approve/ was all he could find to say. 
 
 ' I do. It will be such an excellent example.' 
 
 ' An example — ah, yes ! But now to ask my favour. 
 Sutcliffe thinks it will not do to let them be idle all the 
 time, so we have decided to open some schools — one for 
 the men and boys, and another for the women and girls. 
 Both of them will require some one with brains and a head 
 on their shoulders to look after them. I want to know if 
 you will take the management of the women's school ?' 
 
 ' But Mrs. Mallory — will she not wish to ' 
 
 ' No. She will have nothing to do with it beyond giving 
 me a subscription. I believe she does not altogether approve 
 of the course I have taken, and has decided to hold herself 
 aloof. You can do it, if you will, and if Mr. Blisset will 
 spare you. I know you are not afraid of yourself, and that 
 is why I asked you.' 
 
 'If my uncle can spare me, I will undertake it,' said 
 Adrienne, speaking as she now usually did speak to him — 
 rather briefly and drily. 
 
PROBA TIOX. 
 
 Sebastian could wring no sign from her — nothing but a 
 rapid, guarded glance, and a brief, unemotional speech. It 
 was unsatisfactory, he felt He was not making way. She 
 tormented his thoughts sometimes in a way that was harass- 
 ing ; he carried in his mind almost incessantly the calm, 
 sweet face, pale and clear; the rapid glance which was, he 
 felt, not so much destitute of expression as full of something 
 veiled — something which she would not allow to beam fully 
 out upon him. 
 
 1 It will not be play,' he proceeded, after a silent pause, 
 during which his eyes interrogated hers, which made no 
 answer. ' It will be downright hard, arduous work. If it 
 should prove to be too much for you . . .' 
 
 ' It will not be too much for me,' she said quickly, and 
 then her eyes did suddenly fill with some expression — what 
 he could not telL ' I want some work like that — work 
 which will be hard and absorbing,' said Adrienne, clasping 
 her hands with an involuntary movement. 'What must I do ? 
 Have you got a room for the school, and some teachers ?' 
 
 ' I think of dividing part of my warehouse, and filling it 
 with benches. It can soon be done. As for teachers, I 
 thought some of the better-educated amongst the young 
 women themselves, or I could find a mistress, and — do you 
 know Miss Spenceley?' 
 
 1 No, I do not,' said Adrienne, steadily, her colour rising. 
 
 1 She is a young lady who professes to need active work 
 and to love it, and I really think, if she had the opportunity, 
 she would throw herself heart and soul into such a scheme. 
 But perhaps you would rather not make her acquaintance?' 
 
 Adrienne paused again. Was she to extend the scorn 
 and contempt she felt for Frederick Spenceley to his whole 
 connections, and to make difficulties and quibbles about 
 her co-workers in a scheme in which it was essential chiefly 
 to have workers as soon as possible ? 
 
 ' No,' said she ; ' if you think Miss Spenceley would 
 help, I shall be very happy to work with her.' 
 
 1 Of course you will be the head,' said Sebastian. ' I 
 will take care that is understood, and then there will be no 
 difficulty.' 
 
PROBATION. 
 
 ' If you will send me a list of names and addresses,' said 
 Adrienne, ' I will go myself and see after them. I dare 
 .say Mary Heywood could tell me something about a good 
 many of them.' 
 
 ' That reminds me that Myles Heywood, for some reason 
 or other, has seen fit to decline all assistance. He has 
 ordered his own name and his sister's to be taken off my 
 books, and withdraws in dignified silence.' 
 
 He looked intently at Adrienne as he spoke. She was 
 silent, crimsoned for a moment as she met his glance ; then 
 she started from her chair and walked to the fireplace, 
 stooped over the fire-irons, and began to mend the fire. 
 
 1 Allow me ! ' said Sebastian, politely, coming to her 
 assistance in time to see her disturbed face. ' Is it not 
 foolish of him ? ' he added, remorselessly. ' He is too young 
 to have been able to save anything almost, and there is not 
 the least prospect of work at present.' 
 
 ' He was quite right,' said Adrienne, clearly, as she fixed 
 her eyes upon Sebastian. 
 
 ' Quite right ? ' he echoed, holding the poker suspended 
 in his hand, and looking at her in his turn. 
 
 ' Perfectly right. I am thankful to hear it. If he had 
 stooped tamely to accept charity from you — I mean from 
 any one — as soon as it was offered, I — I would never have 
 forgiven him.' 
 
 Sebastian gently replaced the poker in the fender. 
 
 ' Perhaps he knew that,' he remarked in his softest tone. 
 
 ' He could not,' was Adrienne's quick retort. ' I have 
 not spoken to him for weeks. And if I had — if he had 
 known it . . .' 
 
 ' He might know it perfectly well, all the same,' insisted 
 Sebastian. ' Have you thought seriously about it, Miss 
 Blisset ? I know Heywood is a friend of yours . . .' 
 
 1 Yes, he is — a great friend of mine,' she answered firmly, 
 and not one sign was lost upon Sebastian's cool, observant 
 eyes ; the head a little thrown back, eyes bright, the pale 
 cheek flushed, as if she braced herself to meet some peril. 
 He saw and noted it all 
 
 ' You should be cautious how you influence him,' said he. 
 
2o 4 PROBA TIOX. 
 
 ' I do not intluence him. He is far too strong and decided 
 to be influenced by — by a girl like me.' 
 
 Sebastian smiled politely but derisively. 
 
 ' Pardon me, but I don't think you are quite right there. 
 I am convinced you do influence him, and if so, don't you 
 think it is unkind to prejudice him against his real interests?' 
 
 ' His real interest is not to take charity. Mr. Mallory, 
 the bare idea of Myles Heywood coming up to receive 
 charity is dreadful. It makes me miserable to think of it 
 — only I can't imagine his doing such a thing. He never 
 will. Poor fellow ! I am sorry for him ! ' 
 
 'Sooner or later it will come to that — it must,' said 
 Sebastian. ' And I — you speak as if I had tried to thrust 
 alms upon him ostentatiously, like a rich man relieving a 
 beggar, and then appealing to every one to notice his gen- 
 erosity. Can you suppose I intended anything so revolting?' 
 
 The usually placid and unruffled Sebastian spoke in a 
 tone of deep vexation and chagrin. 
 
 ' No, of course I did not suppose any such thing,' replied 
 Adrienne, her face still flushed. ' I did not do you so much 
 injustice. But I'm glad he refused — so glad. I hope he 
 will find something else. I even hope that this present 
 trouble may turn out to be a means of improving his 
 position, for I think he may turn his thoughts to some 
 higher employment than mere drudgery in a factory — even 
 though it is your factory,' she added, with a slight smile. 
 
 ' He is certainly fit for a higher post. You would be 
 glad to know him in such a situation, would you not ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed I should.' 
 
 1 Even though it took him away from his friends and 
 native town ? ' went on Sebastian, somewhat ironicallv. 
 
 ' Y — yes. Even in that case.' 
 
 ' Well — who knows ! It may turn out to be as you say.' 
 
 The conversation had been a far from satisfactory one to 
 Sebastian. He had had no idea, a month ago, that Myles 
 Heywood's image would take such an important place in 
 his concerns. He turned the subject, and made arrange- 
 ments with Adrienne about the school ; but it seemed to 
 him that since their passage of arms — for it had been a 
 
PROBA TION. 205 
 
 passage of arms — her eyes had brightened, and her voice 
 had been more full and decided. He left her at last, 
 firmly convinced that Myles was his formidable rival, and 
 the conviction gave him a strange sensation, such as he had 
 never known before. All his life he had been accustomed 
 to quietly make up his mind, and then as quietly carry out 
 his decision. Now, to his own astonishment, he found him- 
 self strangely wavering between certainty and uncertainty ; 
 and as he walked from Mr. Blisset's house to his own, he 
 pondered over the history of his own love for Adrienne, 
 and, almost for the first time, began to wonder what would 
 be the end of that history. 
 
 It was three years now since he had first met her. There 
 had been a chamber concert, in Coblenz, of classical music. 
 Adrian Blisset had played violin and his daughter piano, 
 and Sebastian had been one of the not very numerous 
 audience ; for the taste of the Coblenzers for music was not 
 of the severe sort. Perhaps the small audience was the 
 more appreciative — at least Sebastian Mallory sat a long 
 two hours and a half, without a thought of being weary or 
 any wish to go. When the music was over he had pene- 
 trated to the little room whither Adrian and his daughter 
 had retired ; and knocked, and been bidden herei?i. 
 
 Apologising for the intrusion, he had introduced himself, 
 and said he imagined that certain pieces that had been 
 played that evening, and which stood on the programme 
 without any composer's name, were the production of the 
 musician himself. He was right, and as these compositions 
 had appeared to him to possess a certain wild, weird beauty 
 of their own, there had ensued a long conversation upon 
 the subject, during which Sebastian's discrimination and 
 real, earnest love for the art he professed had won over 
 even Mr. Blisset's reserved and moody disposition. 
 
 Thus the acquaintance began. The musician had been 
 kinder and more open than he usually was, not only to 
 strangers, but to any one at all. Sebastian had been 
 allowed to visit him and his daughter. Adrienne had 
 played for him ; she had talked with him, and he had 
 found her charming. 
 
2o6 PROBA TION. 
 
 From Coblenz they had gone to Wetzlar, in the vain 
 and illusory hope that there they might find an audience, 
 and receive remuneration. The projected concert never 
 took place, but certain other things did. They spent 
 altogether a week in the sleepy old town. They floated 
 in a little boat up the river, between the rows of poplars 
 and the level meads ; they sat under the shadow of the 
 grim old Heidenthurm of the cathedral, and looked over all 
 the landscape below. Adrienne sat upon the wall above 
 Goethe's Brunnai, and looked at the girls coming to 
 fill their pitchers, and said to Sebastian, who was standing 
 beside her, and looking earnestly down at her, 
 
 ' I wonder if it was to such a well that Hermann came 
 and helped Dorothea? I could almost fancy so. Could 
 not you ? ' 
 
 ' I think I could,' Sebastian had answered, looking, not 
 at the well, but at her. 
 
 With each day that he saw her, his admiration for her 
 grew greater. She was a fair jewel in a poor setting. Her 
 gentleness, her dignity under trouble and sorrow, her 
 
 ' Festen Muth in schweren Leiden,' 
 
 impressed him, delighted him. Her flashes of quaint 
 humour, which showed him how gay the spirit she owned 
 might be, if only the sun would shine a little upon its 
 dwelling-place ; her grace, her intellect, attracted him 
 irresistibly ; and he loved, too, the quiet independence 
 with which she met him; the calm dignity with which she 
 ignored his wealth, his position, his advantages, and treated 
 him as her equal — no more, no less. 
 
 Amongst the list of events which made, as it were, a 
 gaily coloured, kaleidoscopic pattern in his memory, that 
 week at Wetzlar stood out from the rest, like a little patch of 
 pure gold, like the lucent background on which stands out, 
 pure and clear, some mediaeval Madonna. 
 
 One morning, when he went to call upon them, he found 
 Adrienne in sore distress, which she tried in vain to conceal. 
 She was alone, and he had succeeded at last in getting her 
 to confess what troubled her. A creditor of her father's 
 
PROS A TION. 207 
 
 pressed hard for a certain sum of money, due long ago. 
 That fact was in itself painful enough, but it alone would 
 not have been sufficient to break down Adrienne's calm 
 and steadfast courage. It was her father's manner of 
 accepting, or not accepting, his position, which alarmed 
 and made her wretched. More than once he had uttered 
 dark and oracular hints as to the wisdom of leaving a world 
 which was full of nothing but misery and contradictions. 
 At that time he was in his room, and had refused to see 
 her or speak to her. She did not know what would happen, 
 what he might or might not do ; and Sebastian saw the 
 young girl's courage fail for the first time, for the first time 
 saw her fold her hands, and, with tear-stained eyes, ask 
 piteously, 
 
 ' What am I to do ?' 
 
 'Leave it to me, Miss Blisset. Of course something 
 must be done, and I will do it. For your sake I will do 
 it gladly,' he had said, taking her hands, looking into her 
 troubled eyes with a glance that made them more troubled 
 still, and going straight to her father's room. 
 
 The ' something to be done' naturally resolved itself 
 into pecuniary assistance. The matter was perfectly simple. 
 Notes for three hundred thalers settled it. Sebastian insisted 
 upon becoming Mr. Blisset's banker, and Mr. Blisset said 
 that he could not refuse the possibility of being under 
 obligations to a gentleman, who would understand the feel- 
 ings of another gentleman, rather than to a coarse-minded 
 tradesman, who could not by any possibility understand 
 such fine sensibilities. The money was a loan. They both 
 called it a loan ; and Sebastian came out and told Adrienne 
 that it was all right. 
 
 She had burst into tears ; then recovering, had said, 
 
 ' There is nothing that I would not do for you.' 
 
 To which he had replied, 
 
 ' Then come and have a row on the river.' 
 
 Upon which they had straightway had a very delightful 
 row on the river, the Lahn ; and delicacy alone had pre- 
 vented Sebastian from then and there saying to Adrienne 
 that he loved her, and asking her to be his wife. He de- 
 
2o8 PRO HA TION. 
 
 ferred the question — he hoped, not for long — only until he 
 had spoken to her father ; and that he decided he would 
 do the following day. 
 
 In pursuance of this resolution, he had called during the 
 forenoon at the musician's lodgings, and had asked to see him. 
 
 ' Jet /' the hostess told him, with a shrug of the shoulders, 
 ' the Herrschaften had left by the first train that morning. 
 Last night the gentleman had spoken very sternly to the 
 Fraulein ; she had heard him. The Fraulein had expostu- 
 lated, and cried, and said, " How unthankful it will seem ! " To 
 which her Herr Papa had replied that he could not endure 
 such a burden ; he must leave the place. After which he had 
 desired his Fraulein Tochtcr to pack up, and they were gone.' 
 
 ' AYhere ?' asked Sebastian. 
 
 i Naf How should I know, mein Herr? Apparently 
 to Frankfort, since the first train in the morning goes direct 
 there ; but from Frankfort, I have heard, one may go out 
 anywhere over the whole world, even to Africa, if one 
 chooses. What do I know?' 
 
 Sebastian had retired, quite convinced that it was not 
 Adrienne but the morbid pride and vanity of her father, 
 which had caused this contretemps. That pride could not 
 endure to live in the presence of the man who had placed 
 him under an obligation. He had gone to hide himself, 
 and Sebastian tried in vain to find any further trace of 
 Adrian Blisset and his daughter. 
 
 He had so much the less forgotten her. The feelings of 
 warm admiration, chivalrous respect, and tender affection 
 which he had hitherto felt for her, suddenly leaped up in a 
 quicker flame — he loved her. From feeling convinced that 
 to have her as his wife would be a good and a happy thing 
 for him, he had become determined that one day she should 
 be his wife ; she and no other. From that time she had 
 remained for him as a sort of standard, an ideal of woman- 
 hood ; gentle-spirited, true, and pure, wise and prudent, 
 sweet and modest. He had judged all other women by this 
 standard, and had never felt anything more than a certain 
 admiration for any woman since his parting from Adrienne. 
 
 Then had ensued his return home, his not very satis- 
 
FROBA TION. 209 
 
 factory relations with his mother, the distress amongst his 
 people, the necessity for prompt action and hard work, his 
 introduction to Helena Spenceley, his sudden, unexpected 
 meeting with Adrienne, and the eager conviction that now 
 she soon must, should be his. Beside Helena's brilliant 
 beauty, the delicate grace of Adrienne was as the beauty of 
 a white violet compared with a crimson rose. Helena was 
 dazzlingly beautiful, but she was the exact opposite of all 
 which he had been for three years praising and exalting to 
 himself as best and sweetest and most desirable in woman. 
 He thought a good deal of Helena. She was younger than 
 Adrienne, wilder, less educated, prejudiced, hot-headed, 
 violent, and bewitching. 
 
 ' Yes, she must be bewitching,' argued Sebastian, with 
 exquisite naivete, within himself. ' Look at Hugo. The 
 lad was enraptured with her.' That was to be expected. 
 Hugo was young too ; he had not loved Adrienne Blisset 
 for three years. Sebastian had the steady purpose and 
 intention of asking Adrienne to marry him, to honour him 
 and make him happy by becoming his wife. When ? As 
 soon as he could find the opportunity, he said to himself. 
 But it never did come. He could not understand how it 
 was, that, though he saw Adrienne repeatedly and alone, 
 though she was amiable, cordial, pleasant, yet he could never 
 get that question asked. Adrienne's behaviour puzzled him. 
 He could have sworn that once she loved him. When he 
 was with her, Myles Heywood's handsome olive-hued face, 
 with its scornful lips and defiant eyes, seemed always to be 
 hovering there between her and him. And yet, on the one 
 occasion on which he had seen them together, Myles had 
 looked and behaved as if he were as far as possible from 
 being anything like a favoured lover, thought Sebastian, with 
 an odd sensation of jealousy and pain. No ; it was only 
 opportunity for which he waited, an opportunity which 
 seemed as if it would never come. Certainly it had not 
 been there that evening. He walked home lost in profound 
 speculations, thinking of Adrienne's lifted head and flashing 
 eyes, and of how Myles Heywood had been 'very stiff 
 indeed ' with poor old Wilson that morning. 
 
 p 
 
PRORATION. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' Kannst du des Herzens Flammentrieb nicht dampfen, 
 So fordre, Tugend, dieses Opfer nicht.' 
 
 Towards eight o'clock on the following evening, Mary 
 Heywood and Edmund were the only occupants of the 
 kitchen. The lad was somewhat better and less feverish, 
 and Myles had carried him downstairs and laid him upon his 
 old resting-place, the chintz-covered sofa under the window. 
 
 There he lay, with a shawl thrown across him ; his thin 
 face wasted to sharpness — a waxen pallor on his cheeks 
 and lips ; dark rings under his great bright eyes. His 
 almost transparent hands were stretched out upon the couch 
 before him, and his unread book lay open across his knees. 
 Mary had made things as cheerful as she could, so as not 
 to let Edmund know how bitterly they were pinched in 
 order to give him the things he needed. True, the fire 
 was smaller than their kitchen fires were wont to be ; and 
 behind the cupboard-doors there was not very much to bring 
 forth for supper ; but the place was exquisitely clean and 
 tidy, and so was the girl herself, in her faded gown, and 
 with her pale, pathetic face. 
 
 'Mary,' said Edmund, breaking a silence, 'does Miss 
 Blisset never come here now?' 
 
 ' Well, it's a good while, like, since hoo were here ; 
 likely hoo's had summat to do as has kept her away,' said 
 Mary, as confidently as she could. 
 
 ' I canno' think why hoo ne'er comes. I could like to 
 see her . . . where's Myles to-neet ? ' 
 
 ' Gone to the reading-room, he said. I'm some and glad 
 he does go there. Some o' these chaps is hanging about 
 the livelong day. fair as if they didn't know what to do with 
 theirsels. I reckon some on 'em will do summat as they 
 shouldn't before long.' 
 
 'Has Harry Ashworth been lately ?' pursued Edmund, 
 his thoughts turning towards his friends, now that he felt 
 himself somewhat more free from pain and weariness. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Ay — he's been more than once,' replied Mary, and her 
 cheeks flushed, and she gave a great jump, as a knock re- 
 sounded at that very moment through the house. The co- 
 incidence was too remarkable. 
 
 In a moment, however, she realised that the knock was 
 at the front, not the back, door, therefore it could not be 
 Harry Ashworth who knocked ; and secondly, it was not 
 at all like his knock when he did come. Wondering who 
 the visitor could be, and casting a critical glance around, 
 to see if the kitchen were as neat as it should be, she 
 stepped out through the passage, and went through the 
 ceremony of unlocking and opening the door. 
 
 Outside it was dark. Coming from the light of the 
 kitchen she could not see who stood there, but a voice which 
 she had already heard once, and thought pleasant, inquired, 
 
 ' Does Myles Heywood live here ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, he does ; but he's out.' 
 
 ' Oh, is he ? I'm sorry. I felt sure he would be in in 
 the evening.' 
 
 The visitor still lingered on the doorstep, and inquired 
 again, 
 
 ' Do you know how long he will be ? ' 
 
 Mary's sense of hospitality was stronger than even her 
 dread of Myles's displeasure. 
 
 ' Won't you step in a minute, and see if he comes ? It's 
 Mr. Mallory, isn't it ? ' 
 
 'Yes. I did want to see him very particularly' 
 
 ' 'Appen, if you were to sit you down a bit, he might 
 coom back soon,' suggested Mary, fervently trusting that 
 he would do nothing of the kind ; and that Mr. Mallory 
 would get tired of waiting, as she knew Myles himself did. 
 
 With a word of thanks Mr. Mallory accepted the invita- 
 tion, and entered the house. A proper attention to 
 established etiquette would have led Mary to usher him into 
 the highly coloured parlour, but the recollection that there 
 was no fire there, and that some of the furniture was want- 
 ing, overcame conventional rules, and he was taken forward 
 into the kitchen. 
 
 ' I hope I am not intruding,' he began, so courteously 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 that all Mary's innate politeness was roused to action, and 
 his welcome was more effusive than it might otherwise have 
 been. 
 
 1 Eh, dear no ! Please take a seat ! ' said Mary, pulling up 
 her own rocking-chair. ' Me and Edmund was quite alone, 
 and not doin' nowt at all, except talk a bit. Ned, here's 
 Mr. Mallory. You've ne'er seen him afore.' 
 
 Edmund had never been aware of Myles's deep antipathy 
 to the young master ; he only knew that his brother had a 
 sort of contempt for his employer, as a useless, highly fin- 
 ished piece of humanity, not good for much in such a rough 
 place as Thanshope. He himself was intensely sensitive 
 to refinement and beauty> in every shape and form, and 
 as Sebastian was handsome, polished, and refined in an 
 eminent degree, Edmund's eyes rested upon him with a 
 sense of satisfaction and soothed pleasure and delight, and 
 he smiled pleasantly as he took the hand which their 
 visitor extended, saying kindly, 
 
 ' I fear you are a great invalid.' 
 
 ' I'm none so strong,' said Edmund. ' I've been ill, 
 but now I'm better.' 
 
 ' I suppose you are Myles Heywood's brother and 
 sister ? ' continued Sebastian. 
 
 ' Ay,' said the others, and they smiled — that smile of 
 mingled pride and affection which speaks well for the 
 absent one, and which Sebastian noted directly. 
 
 He took a chair by Edmund's sofa, and, turning to Mary, 
 said, 
 
 ' I suppose you know your brother has had his name and 
 yours taken off my books. ' 
 
 ' Ay,' responded Mary, colouring with some embarrass- 
 ment, while Edmund looked rather anxiously from the one 
 to the other, this being the first he had heard of the cir- 
 cumstance. 
 
 ' "Was it your wish, too, to leave my employment so 
 suddenly ? ' he asked slowly. 
 
 ' I didn't know — Myles did it. He thought it would be 
 for the best, I suppose, sir,' stammered the girl. 
 
 ' But you,' he persisted gently — ' have you such an in- 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 tense objection to receiving a little assistance in such a 
 time of distress, from a — you don't say master here, 1 
 notice — from an employer whom you have served so long 
 and so well as I hear you have done ? I should not have 
 thought so. You know it is not an ordinary case. It is 
 not as if you or I, or any of us here, could have prevented 
 
 it. There can be no shame ' 
 
 ' I never thought there was,' said Mary, wondering in her 
 distress what could be the grudge that Myles had against 
 such a master as this. ' I fair cried wi' joy when I heard 
 what you was going to do ; but when Myles came in and 
 
 told me ' 
 
 ' But you do not mean that he has forbidden you — that 
 
 he prevents — it is ' 
 
 'No!' said Mary, suddenly. 'Our Myles is not one of 
 that sort, I can tell you, Mr. Mallory. He won't take a 
 penny himself — why, I don't know. And I saw as it would 
 go near to break his heart to see me and yon lad eating 
 another man's bread, and him standing by idle. But he 
 said to me, "Thou'll do what thou's a mind to, Molly; it's 
 a great distress, and we m — mun — be g — great to meet it." 
 Oh ! it were same as if he'd said, " There's nowt for't but to 
 cut off my right hand ; give me th' chopper, and let me do 
 it !" — that it were !' 
 
 She sobbed vehemently once or twice, and Sebastian read 
 the passionate love and devotion she felt for that brother, 
 whom, he began to think, he never could conquer. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is more like him !' he said warmly. 'I thought 
 I was mistaken. And will nothing persuade you to accept 
 this help ? It is such a small thing to refuse ; and I do 
 not think it right in you to refuse it You must think of 
 this brother of yours. He cannot stand the hardships of 
 
 this time as Myles, and even you, can ; and ' 
 
 ' You are very good — reet-down kind, you are ! ' said 
 Mary, looking at him with gratitude. ' I'll say this. We'll 
 hold out as long as we can. We mun do that, if we want 
 to think well of ourselves. But I'll come to you when it 
 gets too much. You're reet : I can't see nowt to be ashamed 
 of in it.' 
 
214 PROBATION. 
 
 ' You promise?' 
 
 ' Ay, I promise.' 
 
 ' That is well. Now, if your brother would come in, 1 
 could say what I have to say to him, and ' 
 
 Mary lifted her head. She heard footsteps along the 
 flags of the back, and the tune being whistled which no one 
 but Myles ever did whistle. She started forward as the 
 back-door was opened, and exclaimed, 
 
 ' Here's Myles ; he's coming now.' 
 
 'Ah, I'm glad of that,' said Sebastian, though he was 
 fully conscious of Mary's discomfited looks. ' Now I can 
 speak to him myself.' 
 
 The back door was closed again ; the quick steps grew 
 leisurely ; presently the kitchen-door also was opened, and 
 the voice of Myles was heard, saying, as he entered, 
 
 ' I say, Molly, thou must ' 
 
 He came in, and looked round with a smile, which flashed 
 out of his face as he saw who was there. His first impulse 
 was to ask fiercely, 'What brings you to my house?' but 
 Myles had very strongly developed the proverbial Lanca- 
 shire sense of hospitality, and accordingly he suppressed 
 his question, and remained silent, until Sebastian offered 
 him his hand, saying courteously, 
 
 ' I hope you will not think I am intruding. I particu- 
 larly wished to see you, and your sister was so kind as to 
 ask me to wait a few minutes, in the hope that you would 
 return.' 
 
 Sebastian had spoken just in time. Myles was assailed 
 on the side of hospitality, politeness to a guest, and other 
 similar feelings. He realised quickly that Sebastian had 
 not acted as most masters would have done — sent for him 
 to come and see him — but had come himself to seek him 
 out, and now apologised for intruding in the most handsome 
 and ample manner. There was nothing there that even his 
 sore heart could construe into a slight. Moreover, the man 
 was there, under his roof — had been invited there ; and, if 
 Molly might have been wiser, the thing was done, and he 
 must act accordingly. He could not look cordial — the 
 sense of the advantages which the other had over him was 
 
PROBATION. 215 
 
 too heavily and oppressively present for that — but he could 
 be civil, he could speak words something like welcome. 
 He could even, under the circumstances, accept the hand 
 which Mallory held out — or rather, circumstances did not 
 allow him to refuse it. Accordingly, he took the hand, 
 standing very erect, and looking very proud and solemn, 
 while Mary knitted more quickly, as she observed, from her 
 seat in the background, how each man looked straight and 
 steadily into the other's eyes. 
 
 'Won't you take a seat?' said Myles, handing a chair to 
 Sebastian, and taking one himself. ' It's a cold night, and 
 you've had a longish walk.' 
 
 ' Thank you. It was on a small matter of business that 
 I called — about your having taken your name from my 
 books.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, his eyebrows setting suddenly in a 
 straight line across his brow, and his lips in one nearly as 
 straight beneath his moustache. 
 
 ' It was this. I do hope you will not think that I come 
 out of any officiousness or curiosity, because it is not so. 
 Mr. Sutcliffe told me you had left my employment. I asked 
 him if he thought you had any other occupation ; and he 
 said that, so far as he knew, you had not. I concluded, 
 whether rightly or not, that your reason for leaving was that 
 the factory was closed, and you would not accept assistance 
 without working for it. Was I right?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, concisely. 
 
 ' I know that employment, especially remunerative em- 
 ployment, is not easy to find in these bad times, and that 
 you might not soon find anything to do ; so I merely called 
 to say that I know of two situations, for either of which you 
 would be suited, and if you would like me to use my in- 
 fluence to get you either of them, I shall be glad to do so. 
 You must not think that I meant anything else.' 
 
 ' You are very kind,' said Myles, in the same constrained 
 and colourless voice, which belied his contracted brows and 
 the fiery flash of his eyes beneath them, ' very kind ; but I 
 do not require any assistance, thank you !' 
 
 The manner and the tone were such that Sebastian felt 
 
2i6 PROBATION. 
 
 he could not, after what he had said, urge his offer any 
 farther. But the desire which he constantly felt when with 
 Myles, to gain his esteem and win his confidence, rushed 
 more strongly over him than ever before. He saw in the 
 young man so much that was noble, so much that was good, 
 so much that he, in his quiet, reserved way, intensely prized. 
 Sebastian had a strong, though secret, desire to be much 
 loved, to greatly influence certain individuals. He felt very 
 strongly that where Myles Heywood loved or admired, it 
 would be with a passionate whole-hearted devotion, which 
 would go all lengths ; and he desired greatly to see some 
 other expression light those sombre, moody eyes, when they 
 looked at him ; to compel that right hand to stretch itself 
 towards him in a genial, spontaneous clasp of friendship and 
 regard. 
 
 Was it possible that he who before now had won hearts, 
 both of men and of women ; he who had inspired that fit- 
 ful, capricious artist-Hugo with a passionate love and devo- 
 tion ; he who had seen Adrienne Blisset's quiet eyes well 
 over with something more than gratitude ; he who felt 
 within him the potentiality to subdue that fiery-hearted 
 Helena, did he but choose to give his mind to the task, 
 and to bring her to his feet with a devotion as intense as 
 her present half-assumed scorn — was it possible that he was 
 to be baffled by a young, uncultivated, untutored, un- 
 sophisticated artisan, who could continue to resist, defy, 
 and scorn him, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary? 
 Was it possible that this plain-spoken Myles Heywood, with 
 nothing on his side but his prejudices, his pride, and his 
 love, could continue to hold Sebastian Mallory at arm's 
 length, when he really set his whole battery of persuasion 
 to work upon him ? The idea was a galling one. He did 
 not like effusiveness, but he did like devotion very much. 
 He hated a display of power ; but the power itself he loved 
 dearly. Myles, in his present attitude, represented a defiant 
 obstacle which must be overcome. But how? 
 
 Mary here afforded him unconsciously a little assistance, 
 by saying in a tearful voice, ' Eh, Myles, think about it ! 
 Remember how badly off we are. It's not for mysel', it's 
 
PROBATION. 217 
 
 for Edmund and thee. I canna bear to think o' thee bein' 
 so pulled down and troubled wi' such things. Thou'rt too 
 good for it.' 
 
 'Molly, lass, don't make it worse for me!' said Myles, 
 with a reproachful look; and Mary was silenced, as Sebastian 
 saw. 
 
 She sat down in a rocking-chair, and cried quietly, wiping 
 her eyes at intervals, but she said no more. Myles turned 
 his back upon her, not wishing to see her distress. Sebastian 
 had also stood up. The man's pride was stiffer than even 
 he had supposed, and his desire to bend it became pro- 
 portionately greater. 
 
 ' I am very sorry you will not let me do anything,' he 
 said. ' You are quite mistaken in thinking there could be 
 any degradation in it.' 
 
 ' I never said I did think so,' interposed Myles. 
 
 ' You are not without ambition,' pursued Sebastian, fixing 
 his eyes upon Myles with conviction, and noting the answer- 
 ing flush in his face, though his eyes remained downcast. 
 ' No man who is worth anything is without ambition. If 
 you would let me, I could put you into the way of further- 
 ing your ambition. Of course it would be a struggle ; 
 but then you are one of the right kind to struggle — you 
 like it. A few years' absence from England, a few years' 
 hard work in a post for which you would be well suited, and 
 you might return here, if you liked, a different man, in a 
 different position, able to do and get pretty much what you 
 liked. Remember, to a man of courage, who has made a 
 mark, most things that he wishes for stand open. Is this 
 nothing to you ? Do you prefer remaining shut up in Thans- 
 hope, with your own prospects, and the prospects of your 
 fellow-workmen no better than they are ? I cannot believe 
 it of you.' 
 
 Almost unconsciously, Sebastian had half-cast aside the 
 mask of indifference, and was speaking nearly as eagerly as 
 he felt. He had stepped up to Myles, and laid his hand 
 upon his arm. Their eyes met. Myles's very soul had 
 been stirred by the words he had heard. 
 
 They had touched the very well-spring of his present 
 
218 PROBATION. 
 
 wishes and desires, the longing which had grown and in- 
 tensified with his love and his sense of its utter hopelessness. 
 To leave this place— go away to some other spot, where 
 there would be scope for hard work, mental and bodily — 
 work that would absorb his energies. There was nothing 
 he desired more than such work. His enforced idleness 
 was absolutely hideous to him. Out of England, he might 
 advance, rise ; Sebastian, he knew, was not wont to speak 
 rashly or unadvisedly on such matters, but was given to 
 measuring his words. He might return an altered man, 
 well off, perhaps, or at least with the means of becoming 
 well off; why, he might (it all seemed to flash in a second 
 through his mind) — he might go at last, and seek Adrienne 
 — and find her gone, hear that she was Sebastian Mallory's 
 wife. And then the acceptance of Sebastian Mallory's assist- 
 ance would have caused his last state to be worse than Ins 
 first. He would have stooped, not to conquer, but to be 
 forestalled, defeated, humiliated, and all the riches, and all 
 the position that the world could give, would not restore 
 his hopes and his lost self-respect. With a short sardonic, 
 miserable laugh, he jerked his arm from Sebastian's hand, 
 and said almost angrily, 
 
 ' It is of no use. You will never persuade me to that 
 It is wasted breath to try it.' 
 
 Sebastian felt an absolute thrill of vexation and mortifica- 
 tion ; a thrill so strong as to surprise himself. 
 
 ' What makes you so obstinate ?' he unwarily exclaimed. 
 ' Is it some personal reason ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Myles, looking him directly in the eyes; 
 'it is!' 
 
 Sebastian's lips were parted to speak, but he could not 
 utter the words he intended to say. He was silent with a 
 disagreeable, discomfiting sense that he was baffled and 
 defeated. They were all silent till Sebastian said, 
 
 ' Well, since you will not, you will not. But I think you 
 are mistaken in your course, and what is more, I think you 
 will repent it before long. If you do, if you should come 
 to change your mind, let me know. I have no wish to take 
 my word back, but shall always be ready to abide by it.' 
 
PROBATION. 219 
 
 Myles smiled, almost scornfully, as he bowed his head 
 slightly and said, 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 In his inmost heart he was thinking that he would rather 
 die than place himself under obligations to his rival, whose 
 full formidableness he only realised to-night. There was, 
 he confessed it, fully and frankly to himself, something ex- 
 tremely attractive about the grace and courtesy of Sebastian, 
 but the most dangerous quality was the power which soon 
 became distinctly visible beneath the polish ; a power which 
 forced the observer, however reluctantly, to respect as well 
 as to admire. If he, the unwilling and prejudiced, felt these 
 things so strongly, how much more must others, already 
 prejudiced in his favour, experience it ? So much the more 
 reason why he, the plain and unadorned, should keep himself 
 to himself, follow his own path, and not ape qualities so dif- 
 ferent from his own. But he had ceased to bear any ill-will to 
 Sebastian. The latter did not know how far he had advanced 
 in the very moment in which he seemed to have receded. 
 
 ' I will not intrude upon you any longer,' said he. ' You 
 bear no resentment, I trust, but understand my motives ?' 
 
 ' I bear no resentment at all,' said poor Myles, putting 
 his hand without hesitation into that held out to him. ' If 
 I have been rather rough, I beg your pardon. It is my way. 
 I meant no incivility.' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. Good night,' he added, turning to 
 Edmund. ' Good night, Miss Heywood.' 
 
 ' Good night, sir,' said Mary, looking tearfully up, as 
 Sebastian followed Myles from the room. She heard the 
 door open and shut, and the steps of the unwonted visitor 
 going away. Then Myles returned to the kitchen. 
 
 Edmund was tired. Myles helped him upstairs, and 
 came down again. They scarcely spoke. Mary uttered no 
 reproach, and he offered no apology ; but when she got up 
 to go to bed, he kissed her tenderly, saying, 
 
 ' Don't think too hardly of me, Molly. I can't do other- 
 wise and be an honest man at the same time.' 
 
 ' I'm none thinking of blaming thee, lad,' said Mary, 
 escaping from him, and going upstairs. 
 
PROP A TION. 
 
 He remained there a long time, brooding over the embers 
 of the fire, and thinking, if only things had been different ! 
 And as he thought, a vision rose before him of that Sunday 
 afternoon when he had so nearly betrayed himself, and he 
 remembered Adrienne's words : 
 
 ' If I loved that man, and he loved me, and asked me 
 to be his wife, I would say yes ; and I would love him and 
 serve him as long as I lived.' 
 
 ' Ay, my darling ! ' his heart cried within him, in a kind 
 of anguish, ' but you don't love me ; and if you did, I 
 should not be worthy of you, if I did what was wrong to 
 win you.' 
 
 No doubt he took a wild, fantastic, mistaken view of 
 things, but to him it was much more real than if the most 
 accomplished logician had argued it out for him, and proved 
 it to be founded on the purest and most solidly reasonable 
 basis. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COMBINATION V. STARVATION. 
 
 For the space of some six weeks — that is, from early 
 March to the middle of April, Adrienne, Helena, Mr. 
 Sutcliffe, Hugo, Sebastian, and others who worked with 
 them or under them, had toiled hard at the schools of both 
 kinds which Mr. Mallory had opened in connection with 
 his relief system. At first considerable difficulties were 
 naturally experienced ; some of the work-people grumbled 
 bitterly at being obliged to ' go to school again,' as the 
 condition of receiving a sum, which appeared to them small 
 indeed, after the abundant wages they had for years been 
 earning ; but the tact and kindness of the three principals, 
 Sebastian, Adrienne, and good little Mr. Sutcliffe, and the 
 hearty manner in which they were backed up by their sub- 
 ordinates, soon worked wonders. Ere long the work-people 
 themselves discovered how much better off they were than 
 those of their friends whose masters had not seen fit to 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 provide for them ; and who were just then groaning under 
 the obnoxious ' labour test,' as it was called, which roused 
 so much gall and bitterness before the sewing and educa- 
 tional schools were fairly started. Learning to make clothes, 
 or reading, writing, and arithmetic, were felt to be decidedly 
 more distinguished and elevating employments than stone- 
 breaking, or road-making, and were, moreover, much better 
 adapted to the lissom fingers, and to the physique, accus- 
 tomed to sedentary labour in a high temperature, of the 
 operatives. By degrees they fell into their places. They 
 felt that they were known, and expected, and missed if they 
 did not come at the appointed time. The great warehouse 
 was warmed and lighted, and threw open its doors hospitably 
 wide to receive them. ' Mallory's schools ' were known all 
 over the town, and those who attended them were envied 
 by those who did not. 
 
 For the principals the task was, as Sebastian had told 
 Adrienne, no joke. It was continuous, dry drudgery. The 
 routine was monotonous, and the discipline strict ; but the 
 master and head of it all was the first to adhere unswerv- 
 ingly to every rule laid down, and his coadjutors followed 
 with unhesitating obedience. Mr. Blisset received more 
 kisses and thanks from his niece just now than she had 
 ever bestowed before — kisses and thanks for what she 
 called his goodness in sparing her to help the poor people 
 in their great distress. She was with him much less than 
 usual, and perhaps did not therefore notice so much his 
 pallor and weakness, and the strength which was failing in 
 every way. He, for some reason, withheld the truth from 
 her, and did not tell her that he felt almost at the end of 
 his weary, dismal pilgrimage. It was only to Sebastian 
 that he spoke about that — Sebastian, who had become the 
 trusted friend of the poor, lonely man. 
 
 Adrienne and Helena worked heartily, hand-in-hand. 
 That was no time for petty bickerings and jealousies. Even 
 sectarians forgot their differences in the imperative necessity 
 for administering to the great need and woe of the people. 
 In working-hours Adrienne forgot entirely who Helena was; 
 and knew her only as a hearty helper, a quick, bright, kind- 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 hearted girl, to whom no trouble was too great, and no task 
 too hard. It was not quite the same with Helena. She 
 had divined, by some subtle means — herself scarce knew 
 how — that Adrienne was no other than ' the nicest girl I 
 ever knew,' and Miss Spenceley's eyes grew intensely critical. 
 Every word, every gesture and action of her coadjutor, was 
 weighed in a nice balance, and, so far, had not been found 
 wanting. Helena herself was, without knowing it, changing 
 rapidly. Despite a certain vague disquietude of heart, she 
 was happier than she had ever been in her life before. She 
 threw herself into her new work with her characteristic 
 passionate energy and vehemence, and her contact with 
 life, and some of its sternest lessons, was rubbing down 
 her preconceived extravagances of opinion, though she still, 
 in word and theory, cherished them as fondly as ever. But 
 it was impossible that one of her intensely sensitive and 
 receptive mind could behold what she daily did, of sorrow 
 and pain, of ignorance and helplessness, and remain the 
 same. She saw into depths in this our life of which she 
 had never dreamed, and which Laura Mereweather's philo- 
 sophy passed over entirely. 
 
 It has been acknowledged on all sides that the benefits, 
 at that time were not only on one side. It was not only 
 the rough factory-girls who came to learn, but also the 
 delicate ladies who gave up time and comfort and their 
 best energies to teach, who profited by the intercourse. 
 In the sad and degrading spectacle of the spring of 1878, 
 the sweet lessons learned and taught in that bitter season 
 of 1862 seem almost to have been forgotten and obliterated. 
 Many a benighted girl — many an uneducated, ignorant 
 matron, roused to her toil at half-past five in the morning, 
 and prevented by its long monotony from acquiring any 
 domestic grace, learnt almost her first notions of making 
 home happy and comfortable in the schools that were set 
 up in the ' panic' 
 
 Then, in the woe of the poor, and the sympathy of the 
 rich, it almost seemed as if the great black frowning barriers 
 of caste had been overthrown ; but the division of classes, 
 the opposition between master and man, is a plant of sturdy 
 
PROBA TION. 223 
 
 growth, and strikes its roots deep and far under the earth. 
 Now, sixteen years later, comes a strike almost without 
 parallel for bitterness and unyielding stubbornness on either 
 side — a strike accompanied by rioting and mob-rule, broken 
 windows, houses sacked, men assaulted, women and children 
 threatened ; and the necessity for a strong military force to 
 preserve even the outward semblance of order ; and this, 
 on the identical ground where, during the cotton famine, 
 the sore distress was most nobly borne and most generously 
 relieved. These things make a riddle hard to read. 
 
 Adrienne and Helena found both their mental and physi- 
 cal energies taxed to the utmost by the work they had 
 undertaken, but neither had any thought of giving up. 
 With Adrienne it was a labour of calm, affectionate duty ; 
 she went to it with an enlightened sense of her own respon- 
 sibilities, and a full comprehension of the gravity of the crisis. 
 With Helena it was something quite different ; she worked 
 eagerly, till she was wearied, and scarcely knew why she 
 did it. Of course she was sorry for the poor people, and 
 pitied them in their present condition, and was anxious to 
 help them, strained every nerve to do her work ; but she 
 thought more about Adrienne Blisset and Sebastian Mallory 
 than about all the poor people in Thanshope. 
 
 She was changing rapidly, without knowing it. In the 
 presence of this great urgent need, and of her own deeper 
 emotions, all the flimsy theories of the past were being 
 utterly undermined, though outwardly towering as high and 
 as fair as ever. She was no happier in her home-relations 
 than before. Sebastian's conduct was condemned there by 
 her father and brother. She knew that it was only because 
 of Sebastian's wealth and Mrs. Mallory's high position in 
 the town, that she was allowed to participate in what was 
 called the ' madness ' of Mr. Mallory. Fool and madman 
 were the mildest words in the vocabulary of the Spenceley 
 men, by which to describe Sebastian's course. It was 
 wrong and iniquitous in him, they said, to set such an 
 example, as if every mill-owner in Thanshope could be ex- 
 pected to support his hands while this confounded war lasted. 
 
 ' Every mill-owner — no ! ' said Helena, with flashing eyes. 
 
224 PROBATION. 
 
 ' So many of them are too poor. They have not the means ; 
 but if all those who could afford it did so, it would only be 
 their duty — their bare duty, and there would not be so many 
 begging letters in the papers, asking for help for the richest 
 county in the richest country in the world.' 
 
 She was informed that she knew nothing about it, and 
 that it was only to keep her out of some other mischief that 
 she was allowed to have anything to do with such folly. 
 
 (' And,' she thought to herself, with a hard smile, ' because 
 Sebastian Mallory is rich and influential, and I see him 
 every day, there.') 
 
 The conversation turned to Helena's coming birthday, 
 when she would attain her majority, and great festivities 
 would be the order of the day. With tears in her eyes, she 
 took the opportunity to implore her father to give up the 
 ball which would cost so much money, and to give her half, 
 nay, a quarter of the sum he intended to spend upon it, that 
 she might give it to Miss Blisset or Mr. Mallory, and have 
 it used for relief purposes ; but the request was peremptorily 
 refused, and she was told, in oracular language, that she did 
 not know what was good either for herself or the work-people. 
 Moreover, she was informed, it was all very well for a pretty 
 girl to play at women's rights ; but that a daughter was 
 expected to obey her father ; and the regal Fred remarked 
 that a fool and her money were soon parted, and he would 
 back Helena for making ducks and drakes of any property 
 she might ever have, if it were not pretty tightly tied up. 
 
 ' I suppose it is only finished gentlemen like yourself who 
 know how to make proper use of their money and their 
 time,' said Helena, turning upon him bitterly. ' I can tell 
 you the whole town will cry shame on both of you — the 
 richest men in it, and you have scarcely subscribed five 
 pounds to keep your own work-people from starving.' 
 
 ' I didn't become the richest man in Thanshope by pour- 
 ing my money into my work-people's pockets,' said Mr. 
 Spenceley, grimly. 
 
 And Helena, with a passionate 'Psha!' rushed from the 
 room, drawing on her gloves as she went, to go forth to her 
 afternoon labours at the school. 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 This was in the middle of March, and as she came up 
 the cindery path leading to the little anteroom, which 
 Sebastian and his staff were in the habit of using as an 
 office, he and Miss Blisset sat at the window watching her 
 approach. 
 
 'What a lovely, graceful creature she is !' said Adrienne, 
 admiringly, as the tall supple figure of the girl came swiftly 
 up the walk. ' I often wonder how she can be the child of 
 such parents.' 
 
 ' There is some southern impetuousness in her nature,' 
 he replied, 'and a capacity for southern rages, too/ he 
 added, watching her and smiling. ' Look at her now, Miss 
 Blisset ; do you see that frown, and how her eyes are flash- 
 ing, and her lips set?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do ; but that is a very unusual expression with her. 
 I wonder what is the matter with her ?' 
 
 Here Helena came in, somewhat in the whirlwind style, 
 her tall figure erect — her silken skirts angrily sweeping about 
 her. 
 
 'You look annoyed, Miss Spenceley,' said Adrienne, 
 looking up from where she sat, composed and cool. 
 
 ' Annoyed !' repeated Helena, whose anger and mortifica- 
 tion had been augmenting all the time since she had left 
 home, and whose voice vibrated ; ' they tell me on all sides 
 that my father is the richest man in Thanshope, and that I 
 shall have more money than I know what to do with — some 
 time. Some time, indeed ! And I cannot get five pounds 
 now to help people with. I've given away all my money. 
 I have just half a crown in the world, and I can't get any 
 more for a month. Do you call that the proper way to 
 treat a woman who will be responsible for five thousand a 
 year — some time ? My father said I should. Do you call 
 that the right means to accustom her to the duties of her 
 position ?' 
 
 She had turned suddenly, and almost fiercely, to 
 Sebastian. 
 
 ' Not at all,' said he at once ; perceiving that her lips 
 quivered, and that she was divided between tears of morti- 
 fication and flames of anger. ' Not at all ; but, my dear 
 
 Q 
 
PROBA TIOX. 
 
 Miss Spenceley, so long as we have your services, the money 
 which you do or do not contribute is not of the very least 
 consequence.' 
 
 ' Don't say that to me !' she exclaimed, excitedly. ' What 
 is the use ? My sendees are nothing ; I can do nothing.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I don't know what I should do without you,' 
 said Adrienne. ' You can influence those girls and women 
 sometimes, when I can make nothing of them. You can 
 make them laugh heartily, when all my efforts can only 
 extort a solemn stare from them.' 
 
 ' You must not talk of going,' chimed in Sebastian. ' It 
 is your countenance alone which reconciles my mother to 
 the undertaking. And if you did not come,' he added, 
 smiling, ' I don't believe Hugo would have anything to say 
 to it ; and he is invaluable to me amongst the boys. For 
 heaven's sake, don't desert us '.' 
 
 Helena, with downcast eyes, was taking off her gloves. 
 Her cheek was flushed, and she smiled a little triumphantly. 
 
 'Girls can do something then, after all?' said she. 
 
 ' Have I not two living and bright proofs of the fact 
 before me now?' he replied, looking from the one to the 
 other. 
 
 'Ah, yes !' said Helena, coolly, while the flush died from 
 her cheek, and the smile faded from her lips. ' Would you 
 mind helping me off with my mantle? Thanks. There 
 comes Hugo von Birkenau, and there is our first batch of 
 girls, Miss Blisset. What is the programme for this after- 
 noon ?' 
 
 She was all business now ; had tied on a great holland 
 apron, studded with baggy-looking pockets, and slung a 
 huge pair of scissors by a string round her slim waist. 
 Adrienne was accoutred in a similar manner. Helena 
 stopped some of the girls who were coming in, to make 
 them carry a pile of calico to the workroom. Raising his 
 hat, Sebastian left them to their labours, and joined Hugo 
 outside. 
 
 Half of the great warehouse had been temporarily cleared, 
 and accommodated with benches and half a dozen huge 
 deal tables. This afternoon was to be a ' cuttimr-out' lesson 
 
PROBATION. 227 
 
 — a lesson which, sooth to say, Helena had had to learn 
 herself for the occasion, from her mother. The two young 
 ladies, with some half-dozen others, who rapidly followed 
 on Helena's steps, each took a class, and began their in- 
 structions ; the women and girls standing round, and many 
 a dozen of them receiving their first impressions as to the 
 practical construction of the clothes they wore. The 
 directions were clear and simple enough ; care was taken, 
 by questionings and cross-questionings, that the pupils 
 should thoroughly understand what was being explained to 
 them. 
 
 When the ' cutting out ' was over, they were shown how 
 to fix the things, and as they all sat doing this, each one 
 bringing up her performance when it was complete, for 
 approval or correction, there was much talking, and some 
 singing, chiefly of hymns, in very high, and generally in 
 minor keys. It was very fatiguing work : the long standing, 
 the continuous talking, explaining, expounding, arrang- 
 ing and rearranging for the stiff, unaccustomed fingers, 
 formed no light task. After more than two hours and a 
 half of such labour, it was time to go. The work was folded 
 up, piled in heaps, laid on one side, and the pupils prepared 
 to leave. 
 
 Adrienne and Helena, both very tired, stood at the door, 
 counting them as they filed out. 
 
 ' Three hundred and five,' they exclaimed together, as 
 the last one departed, and they smiled, and turned inside the 
 room again, to divest themselves of their aprons and shears. 
 
 ' Miss Blisset, will you not come home with me, and 
 have some tea ? ' asked Helena, who had given the invita- 
 tion several times before, and always received the same 
 answer as on this occasion. 
 
 'Thank you very much. I am sorry to say I cannot 
 come.' 
 
 ' You always say that,' said Helena, looking earnestly at 
 her. ' I have tried in vain to get a little conversation with 
 you, and to know you better. I never see you, except at 
 this dingy schoolroom, where I am sure the incentives to 
 cheerful intercourse are not strong.' 
 
228 PROBATION. 
 
 Adrienne smiled rather faintly as she replied, 
 
 ' I am sorry ; it looks rude, I know, but I must go home 
 to my uncle. He is not very well at present ; and I am 
 obliged to leave him so much. You must excuse me !' 
 
 ' If I must, I must, I suppose, but I don't all the same,' 
 said Helena, turning away in some dissatisfaction, and at 
 that moment Sebastian and Hugo entered, arm in arm. 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley !' said Hugo, eagerly going up to her ; 
 ' it is getting dark. May I accompany you home?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, if you like,' said Helena, absently, while she 
 attentively listened to what was passing between their fellow- 
 workers. 
 
 ' Miss Blisset,' she heard Sebastian say, ' your uncle par- 
 ticularly asked me to call this afternoon. I will walk with 
 you to Stonegate, if you will allow me.' 
 
 ' I shall be very glad,' said she. ' I am sure he will be 
 pleased to see you. Do you know, sometimes I am afraid 
 he will not live long.' 
 
 ' His is hardly likely to be a long life,' said Sebastian, 
 evasively. 
 
 ' Oh, but it may be. Invalids — when they are taken 
 such care of as I take of him — sometimes live a long time. 
 And he is not old, and it is not as if he had a complaint in 
 which there was danger of his dying suddenly.' 
 
 'Do you dread his death so much?' asked Sebastian, 
 folding her shawl around her. 
 
 ' I do ; and I fear for selfish reasons. Without him I 
 should be perfectly alone in the world.' 
 
 ' You alone ? not unless you wished it,' said he, almost 
 reproachfully, whilst Helena, assisted by the proud and 
 happy Hugo, was wrapping herself in her fur-lined mantle 
 with the sable border; the mantle which set off her dark, 
 piquant beauty to the utmost advantage ; for she was one of 
 those truly English beauties who look almost lovelier in 
 their outdoor dress, and with the flush of exercise upon 
 their cheeks, than in the airy fabrics of the ball-room. But 
 there was no flush upon Helena's cheeks now. She turned 
 to the boy who had been, or wished to be since he first saw 
 her, her particular page in attendance (he aspired to nothing 
 
PROBA TION. 229 
 
 more in his own mind, and, despite all unfavourable circum- 
 stances, he had always seen Helena the wife of his worshipped 
 friend), and said, in a voice that had sunk and grown tired, 
 
 ' Come, Hugo, I have no time to spare. We will leave 
 the others to lock up. I must go.' 
 
 ' I am ready, and waiting your pleasure, mein gnadiges 
 Fran kin.' 
 
 ' Don't speak foreign tongues to me. Do you forget 
 what Gretchen said to Faust when he called her Fraulein ?' 
 
 ' " Thank you, sir, I can walk home by myself." That 
 would be shocking, and I will not do it again.' 
 
 'Good afternoon !' suddenly said Helena, in a loud, clear 
 voice, as she looked carelessly over her shoulder at the 
 other two, who started, as if suddenly recalled to a sense of 
 what was going on around them. 
 
 Hugo and his companion left the mill-yard, and paced 
 down the street in the bitter cold of the March twilight, now 
 rapidly becoming darkness. The lamps were being lighted ; 
 some shops were open ; the passengers along the streets were 
 not many ; the great factories were silent, there was no 
 cloud of smoke to obscure the frostily twinkling stars. 
 
 Helena suddenly began to speak, in a voice bitter, though 
 it strove to be careless, and with a short laugh that was not 
 a merry one. 
 
 ' How affecting — truly affecting it is, to see two such 
 congenial spirits together as Mr. Sebastian Mallory and Miss 
 Adrienne Blisset. He likes a rose-watery kind of woman, 
 who looks up to him and thinks he is better than she is 
 herself, and wiser ; and she likes a dreamy, unpractical kind 
 of man, full of sweet compliments and vague generalities — 
 like a sugar-plum that breaks in your mouth, and then you 
 find it has been full of a weak, diluted kind of essence — 
 like Sebastian Mallory.' 
 
 ' What a comparison ! ' exclaimed Hugo, in a tone, almost 
 of offence. ' You are very harsh, sometimes, Miss Spenceley. 
 Sebastian dreamy and unpractical ! Jawohl ! I used to 
 think so once ; but I have found out that there is an iron 
 hand under the silken glove. Once I fancied he was all art, 
 all ' 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 'All art!' said Helena, perversely twisting his imperfect 
 English to suit her own purposes ; ' perhaps you were not 
 so far wrong there, Hugo.' 
 
 'What has occurred to vex you, mein Frank in V asked 
 her companion innocently. 
 
 ' To vex me ? I am not vexed. I am tired, and it is so 
 cold. Well, go on ! I don't think very highly of Mr. 
 Mallory, as you may be aware ; and I should like to hear 
 what you can find to say in his favour. What other good 
 points has he ?' 
 
 ' Herrgott ! He is all good.' 
 
 'Ha! ha!' 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley ' 
 
 'A good, bigoted Tory and Conservative, despite his 
 professed radicalism. Mrs. Mallory need not have been 
 distressed. He may call himself what he likes, but he hates 
 progress.' 
 
 ' I don't understand about Radicals and Conservatives,' 
 said Hugo, good-humouredly. ' I am densely ignorant 
 about politics. In Prussia there are Liberals and Conser- 
 vatives, and Communists, but I don't know what any of 
 them want. I don't think the Rciclistag is the sphere for 
 me — do you?' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! how should I know ? I was not talk- 
 ing about Communists or the Reichstag. If you don't know 
 anything about them, you know something else, Hugo,' she 
 said, softening her voice confidentially. 
 
 ' I know that you are charming — so kind to me,' said he, 
 with a vibration in his voice — and indeed Helena had been 
 very kind to the boy ; ' and I know that you sing " Since 
 first I saw your face" like an angel.' 
 
 ' You know perfectly well that Mr. Mallory and Miss 
 Blisset are desperately in love with one another — deny it if 
 you can.' 
 
 Hugo was silent. 
 
 ' You cannot,' said Helena, triumphantly. 
 
 ' I am not in their confidence,' he said slowly. 
 
 ' All the world is in the confidence of people who are so 
 far gone as they are. If you mean to say that they did not 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 each take you separately aside, and tell you in so many 
 words — well, I can say the same. He that hath eyes to 
 see, let him observe.' 
 
 Hugo was not yet master enough of the English language 
 to be able to turn off her remark. Helena began to hum 
 a little song to herself, and then suddenly sank into silence 
 and gravity, until it began to snow, and grew quite dark, 
 when she shivered, putting up her umbrella, and saying 
 pettishly, 
 
 ' My mantle will be ruined. Why didn't I bring a cloak ? 
 I declare, another day, when the weather is so bad, I won't 
 take this horrid long walk.' 
 
 ' You will rather drive ? ' suggested Hugo, with apparently 
 the most childlike innocence of her meaning. 
 
 ' How ridiculous you are ! How far is it, Hugo, from the 
 mill to Stonegate?' 
 
 ' About as far as from the mill to Castle Hill, only in 
 exactly the opposite direction.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know that end of the town at all. We, at 
 any rate, have had time for a delightful conversation, haven't 
 we ? Come in, and have some tea, and play me some- 
 thing.' 
 
 Nothing loth, Hugo followed her, and they vanished 
 within the portals of Castle Hill. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 1 Death, with most grim and grisly visage seene, 
 Yet is he nought but parting of the breath ; 
 Ne ought to see, but like a shade to weene, 
 Unbodied, unsoul'd, unheard, unseene.' 
 
 Adrienne and Sebastian were walking 'just the opposite 
 way,' with very little more satisfaction to themselves than 
 Hugo and Helena had found. Helena was constantly pic- 
 turing Sebastian to herself as engaged in half-intellectual, 
 half-amorous discourse with the ' nicest of girls ; ' his mind 
 elevated by her spiritual observations, and his languid but 
 ever-present sense of superiority (this was Helena's hypo- 
 
232 PROBA TIOX. 
 
 thesis) gratified by her deference to his superior wisdom. 
 It was a comical theory — one worthy of Helena's vivid 
 imagination and hopelessly impractical ideas ; and was, 
 moreover, as far removed from the truth as she herself 
 could possibly have wished. Yes, wished ; for while the 
 delusive vision kept dangling before her mental eyes, and 
 while she professed to sneer and scoff at it, it was in reality 
 an ever-present, dull pain, none the less real because not 
 clearly comprehended for what it was. 
 
 On this especial evening Adrienne was tired more than 
 usual, and mentally as well as physically weary. An unde- 
 fined pain and distress had troubled her mind for some 
 weeks — to-day the cloud was very dark. She had seen 
 Sebastian Mallory growing more and more intimate with 
 her uncle, and progressing with great rapidity in the favour 
 of that most fastidious individual ; she had seen — how 
 could she help seeing ? — Sebastian's attentions to herself ; 
 how, when he w r as with her, his eyes constantly turned 
 towards her, and how a light flashed into their quietness 
 when they met hers ; how his voice, in speaking to her. 
 took a deeper sound. He was good, rich, handsome, clever, 
 kind. She knew all his good qualities, and thoroughly 
 valued them. She approved of him ; she liked his presence ; 
 it was pleasant to her. She remembered with deep, earnest 
 gratitude his delicate kindness and attention to her in those 
 days gone by, when her troubles with her father, and her 
 terrible struggle against their adverse circumstances had 
 threatened to overwhelm her. ' I would do anything for 
 you,' she had said, and had meant it. And yet, now ! 
 How painfully, unaccountably, unexpectedly things changed ! 
 Thus meditating, her step dragged, and her head drooped 
 a little, as they paced the dreary length of Blake Street 
 together. She did not understand why that load of oppres- 
 sion and longing — that Sehnsucht — should just now lie so 
 heavily upon her heart. Sebastian paused at the gate, and 
 laid his hand upon it, and then Adrienne seemed to see, in 
 a flash of sunlight, Myles Heywood's tall figure and earnest 
 face ; as he, in the same attitude, almost a year ago, had 
 laid his hand upon that wicket, and had opened it for her 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 to pass in. Her heart throbbed — something rose in her 
 throat as she entered. 
 
 ' Myles has not been near us for weeks,' said she to her- 
 self. ' I will go and call there some day, very soon,' she 
 added valiantly, 'and ask the reason of it, and if I have 
 done anything to offend them.' 
 
 Mr. Blisset, his servant said, was not at all well. He 
 felt very weak, and had gone to bed, and he had left word 
 that if Mr. Mallory called, he particularly wished to see him. 
 
 Sebastian followed the man upstairs. Adrienne went 
 into the drawing-room, and mechanically sat down, without 
 even turning up the shaded lamp, and her hands clasped 
 themselves before her upon her knees. 
 
 Sebastian sat a long time beside Mr. Blisset's bed, for 
 their conversation was prolonged. At last Mr. Blisset said, 
 
 ' And I have made you one of my executors. I hope 
 you don't mind. I have so few friends.' 
 
 ' I am honoured in being chosen, and will gladly under- 
 take it.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Of course, I have left everything to 
 Adrienne. She will be placed above all money troubles ; 
 for she is like me, she has no extravagant desires. But I 
 should wish the child to have a staunch friend, and you 
 are different from other young men, or I would not have 
 asked it. Will you be her friend ? ' 
 
 1 It is my most earnest wish. But since we have spoken 
 of this, I may as well tell you the whole truth. I have 
 loved your niece for a long time — for years. When I find 
 an opportunity, I intend asking her to become my wife. 
 Have you anything against it?' 
 
 Mr. Blisset pressed the young man's hand with a clasp 
 which had grown feeble. 
 
 ' You make me very happy. I would rather know her 
 safe in your hands than in those of any other man.' 
 
 ' I wish you could know it,' said Sebastian, with a some- 
 what melancholy smile. ' I assure you I am far from feel- 
 ing confident myself, but I hope for the best' 
 
 ' I think you may be quite confident,' said Mr. Blisset. 
 ' Poor child ! now she need not be alone, and has a fair 
 
234 PROBA riOX. 
 
 chance of a safe, untroubled future, such as a woman ought 
 to enjoy.' 
 
 Shortly after this Sebastian left him, and went away with- 
 out seeing Adrienne. Later, she went upstairs to sit with 
 her uncle, and ask if she should read to him. 
 
 ' No, thank you, my child. I shall need no more reading 
 now, Adrienne. Your wearisome, monotonous task is almost 
 at an end.' 
 
 ' Dear uncle, what do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I am what men call dying, my dear. Whether it is the 
 end of all things for each one of us, or whether it is but 
 the beginning of an endless succession of advancing lives, 
 very soon I shall know — or I shall not know.' 
 
 She kissed his hand. 
 
 'You must not talk in that way. You have been very 
 good to me, and I cannot spare you. I love you, uncle — 
 you must not leave me.' 
 
 ' I fear your pleasure will not be consulted on that point, 
 my daughter,' said he, with a strange half-smile, half-pity, 
 half-deep amusement. ' Ah ! Adrienne, when men have 
 lived — or existed — as I have done, and for so long, they 
 are not sorry when the machinery comes to a stop, and they 
 know no more.' 
 
 Much moved and much distressed, she listened to him 
 until he sent her away, telling her to sleep undisturbedly, 
 for he would yet live to talk with her, and convince her 
 that it was for the best 
 
 But he was wrong. When morning dawned, Richard 
 Blisset was at rest, and free from the mantle of pain and 
 weakness which he had worn so lonir. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 'TO THE DREGS.' 
 
 The merry month of May, in the year of grace 1862, and 
 in that part of her Majesty's dominions known as the 
 County Palatine of Lancaster, wore a face even less smil- 
 
PROBA TION. 235 
 
 ing and colder than usual. Despite the gaudy sunshine, 
 despite the unusual chances offered to external nature, of 
 showing herself to the best advantage through the absence 
 of smoke — despite this, all was sad, penitential, silent. 
 One missed the burst of talk and laughter, the chaffing and 
 shouting in the streets when the mills were loosed. One 
 missed the tramp, tramp, of the thousands of clogs over 
 the flags at the appointed times. 
 
 Trade had collapsed. King Cotton was discrowned ; 
 his subjects had become a nation of paupers ; some of 
 whom were begging their bread, all of whom were living 
 chiefly on help from outside. There was a vast organisation 
 kept up, chiefly by unpaid, voluntary toil, for discovering 
 distress, and distributing relief. Thanshope had now added 
 herself to the list of towns which had instituted Relief Com- 
 mittees, and Sebastian's schools had been merged into the 
 larger ones belonging to the public body. They had served 
 as a sort of model or introduction, and the others were 
 founded upon the same plan. He himself was one of the 
 most powerful and active members of the committee, while 
 Adrienne and Helena, from their previous experience, were 
 in reality the head and front of the ladies' committee, though 
 duly subordinated in outward order to Mrs. Ponsonby, and 
 one or two other dames of place and importance. 
 
 But while the great complicated machine was working 
 with such regularity and smoothness, so that it and its 
 movements were praised by all who beheld them, what were 
 those doing on whose behalf all this mechanism had been 
 set a-going? What was happening in the thousands of 
 homes whose most cherished hopes and traditions had to 
 be given up and forsaken in this terrible emergency ? In 
 the one home in which we are interested it was going 
 hardly enough. 
 
 It was in the very beginning of the month, a bright, 
 glaring, sunny May morning, to look upon, with a dry piti- 
 less east wind blowing round the corners and sweeping 
 down the shady side of the streets. It was the middle of 
 the forenoon, and the Heywoods' kitchen did not get the 
 morning sun. There was no fire. Mary and her next-door 
 
236 PRORA TION. 
 
 neighbour, Mrs. Mitchell, took turns at having a fire, for the 
 cooking of both households now was less extensive than it 
 once had been, and each alternately undertook the respon- 
 sibility of the other's baking and boiling. This was the day 
 on which Mrs. Mitchell had the fire ; consequently Mary's 
 kitchen was all the colder from its bareness and its spotless 
 neatness. She was sitting in the window, sewing. Myles 
 was at the centre table with some books from the library 
 before him, ostensibly reading — really gazing blankly at the 
 page, and looking, as it is not good that a young man, or 
 any man, should look — looking as men only do look when 
 their affairs are in a very bad way. 
 
 His sister stole occasional side-glances at his face, and 
 her heart wept, if her eyes did not. She and Edmund had 
 been living all this time upon the weekly sum allowed by 
 Sebastian Mallory to such of his hands as chose to accept 
 it. They had been aided by Myles from his own store, in 
 order that Edmund might have the things he required ; and 
 that store, Mary knew now, was at an end, had come to an 
 end some days ago. She did not quite know how Myles 
 had lived during those few dreadful days. He had accepted 
 nothing from her, because what she offered had been bought 
 with Sebastian Mallory's money. He had smiled when she 
 had implored him to take something and repay her when 
 times mended, if he would not have it as a gift ; smiled in 
 a way that had not encouraged her to repeat the offer. He 
 had made no complaints, had been very quiet, but those 
 days had been the most wretched Mary had ever spent in 
 her life. She knew what her brother had been trying to 
 hold out for, but the hope continued to be deferred ; and 
 even if it must now be soon fulfilled, she feared the relief 
 would come too late to save him from what he and she both 
 considered the supreme and ultimate disgrace and shame, 
 of having to apply for relief. Some fortnight ago, the Relief 
 Committee had advertised for two clerks, to relieve their 
 honorary secretaries of the burden of accounts and corre- 
 spondence, which had grown greater than they could bear. 
 Candidates of the artisan class were invited to apply, and it 
 was intimated that, if competent, they would be preferred 
 
PROBATION. 237 
 
 rather than others, on the principle of helping them to help 
 themselves. Myles Heywood had been one of the appli- 
 cants, and the decision would not be known for two days 
 yet. The day before, Mary had met Mr. Mallory, and had 
 hurriedly implored him to use his influence, if he had any, 
 to get her brother in ; but never, never to say she had 
 asked him, or she did not know what would happen if Myles 
 ever knew of it. He had promised ; but there still remained 
 a dreadful blank two days, and then, even with Sebastian's 
 efforts, the answer might be that Myles was rejected. 
 
 Thus she sat this morning, with a sick heart, furtively 
 watching her brother in an anguish of pity. Would it really 
 come to the worst? Would he actually have to turn his 
 steps — her brother, of whom she was so proud — towards 
 those dreadful doors above which glared, in white letters a 
 foot long, ' Relief Committee's Offices'? those doors which, 
 she thanked her God every night, she had not yet been 
 obliged to enter? He had had no breakfast, she knew; 
 she did not know when he had last eaten, or of what the meal 
 had consisted. His face was terribly wasted ; so was the 
 muscular, long-fingered hand which lay before him on the 
 table. There was lassitude in his attitude, a drawn look 
 about his lips and his eyes ; his eyes haunted her, and made 
 her very heart bleed when she encountered them. What 
 would he do ? At eleven the committee began their sitting, 
 and it was ten minutes to eleven now, and the offices were 
 some distance away. If he were going it was time he 
 
 She started violently as he, at this moment, pushed his 
 books away from him with a slow, resolute sweep of his 
 hand, and rose. What a terrible change had taken place in 
 the whole figure and deportment of the man ! 
 
 Myles took his cap from the nail on which it hung, and 
 turned to her. 
 
 ' I'm going out, Molly,' said he. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered ; and something in the muffled tone- 
 less accent of her voice made him look at her. She was 
 gazing intently at him, with a fixed, almost staring look — a 
 glance of blank pain and suffering, passive, yet terrible. 
 
 ' Mary,' said he, pausing, ' you know what it is. It must 
 
238 PROBATION. 
 
 be. You think it is the worst ; but I tell you it is not so. 
 It is not so bad as what you would have me do.' 
 
 With that he left the room and the house. 
 
 He had a pretty long walk, up and down hill. He felt 
 inexpressibly tired — and worse than tired : his stomach was 
 empty : he had a sick, gnawing sense of hunger — absolute, 
 grinding hunger, such as he had read of others — destitute 
 people — feeling ; but such as he had never before felt, till 
 now that he was destitute himself. His head felt weak and 
 dizzy ; his mind dull and stupid — he found he could only 
 walk slowly, as he took first this turning and then that, and 
 presently arrived at his destination — the one place in Thans- 
 hope where, in these hard times, a flourishing business was 
 being carried on. 
 
 About the door was a crowd of people — men and women ; 
 young and old. The expressions upon the different faces 
 varied from callousness, through every variety of unwilling- 
 ness, pain, and shame, up to a careless hardihood that felt 
 no disgrace, and was only wishful to make the most of the 
 opportunity. 
 
 Into this crowd stepped the tall figure of the young work- 
 man ; his face white, half with exhaustion, half with 
 emotion ; his lips set, his deep-set eyes glooming beneath 
 the pain-drawn brows. He looked neither to right nor left 
 of him, but leaning against the wall, plunged his hands into 
 his pockets and waited. There was a kind of network of 
 railings before the door, through which the people had to 
 pass in single file, to prevent their all crowding in together, 
 and Myles, like the rest, had to wait his turn. 
 
 Most men have to go through one or two mauvais quarts 
 cTheure in the course of their lives, but few can have sur- 
 passed in bitterness the minutes which Myles Heywood 
 spent, waiting his turn, before the door of the committee- 
 room. Some one recognised him, spoke to him, and said 
 she had never expected to see him there. He answered 
 mechanically and composedly, but felt his face suddenly 
 grow fierily hot ; and then a little push from behind warned 
 him to move on, and he obeyed it. 
 
 He entered the large room in company with several other 
 
PROBA TION. 239 
 
 people, and there were more than a dozen gentlemen seated 
 round the table in the middle of the room. But from the 
 moment in which he entered and saw a face raised, a pair 
 of eyes fixed in pitying astonishment upon him, he felt as 
 if he were alone with one man, and that man Sebastian 
 Mallory. Strange to say, he had never remembered, had 
 scarcely been conscious of the fact, that Mallory was one 
 of the most important members of this very committee. 
 He knew it now — realised it with heart and brain and con- 
 sciousness, as the face of his rival 
 
 ' Flashed like a cymbal on his face,' 
 
 and for a moment the sense of degradation, of humiliation, 
 burned and scorched him, and he felt almost mad. 
 
 Almost — but no ; reason was still the stronger. The re- 
 membrance of his own utter destitution, the distinct, 
 imperative call of sickness and hunger, the clear knowledge 
 that there was no alternative, prevailed. He did not turn 
 round and walk away. He remained, but how he dragged 
 his feet towards the desk of the man who was asking ques- 
 tions, he knew not. How he answered those questions re- 
 mained also a mystery to him. The gentlemen heard him, 
 noted his address, and said he would see that the case was 
 inquired into. Myles felt no resentment at the idea of his 
 statements being thought to require investigation : whether 
 because his pride had been once for all laid low, or whether 
 from sheer weakness and dulness of sense, he did not know. 
 He was turning away and wondering when the inquiries 
 would be made, and how much longer he would be able to 
 hold out, when Sebastian Mallory, for the first time remov- 
 ing his attention from the writing in which he had apparently 
 been engrossed, said composedly, 
 
 ' There is no need to trouble the visitor to inquire into 
 that case, Mr. Whitaker. I can vouch for the truth of every 
 word of it. I should recommend you to write a ticket and 
 pay the sum required at once.' 
 
 Then he turned to his writing again. Mr. Whitaker said, 
 ' Ah, that is all right, then,' and immediately took a ticket 
 and began to write. 
 
2 4 o PROBATION. 
 
 Myles felt as if everything was reeling around him, and 
 himself with the rest. He caught at the top of a chair by the 
 table and steadied himself, feeling as if he were some one 
 else, some strange, alien, degraded being — one of the beggars 
 of whom he used to read in advanced periodicals, that they 
 ought not to be relieved by private, miscellaneous alms- 
 giving ; but should all be ticketed and classified, and strictly 
 watched and overlooked. It was as the bitterness of death, and 
 must be borne unmoved, standing composedly and decently. 
 
 All the time he still supported himself by the back of the 
 chair, unable, from very weakness and dizziness, to move. 
 The gentleman who sat in it rose, and looked at him from 
 a pair of keen, stern, steel-gray eyes. 
 
 ' You look ill, young man,' said he. ' Come with me, 
 and I will show you where to get the money.' 
 
 He took the ticket in his hand, and, taking Myles's arm, 
 led him away through a side-door, into a small sort of ante- 
 room. Here he bade Myles sit down, and he took from a 
 cupboard some wine — red wine, which he poured into a 
 glass and gave to Myles with a piece of bread. 
 
 ' Take that,' said he, ' and drink the wine, or you will be 
 ill before you get home. You have fasted long. You 
 should have come sooner. How long is it since you had 
 any food?' 
 
 ' About thirty-six hours, I think,' said Myles, looking at 
 him as he took the glass in his hand. It was Canon 
 Ponsonby, ' the radical parson,' the man who ought to have 
 been a prime minister, but who, as Rector of Thanshope, 
 earned more love than falls to the lot of most prime 
 ministers, charm they never so wisely. 
 
 His stern face softened as he looked upon the figure 
 before him. 
 
 ' You have a right spirit,' said he. ' I know your name, 
 and who you are. Your sister attends the parish church. 
 You ' 
 
 ' Attend no church at all. I'm a free thinker.' 
 
 ' Are you ? I don't think you will ever solve your riddle 
 by free-thinking. But shake hands. I wish you were one 
 of my flock.' 
 
PROBATION. 241 
 
 ' If anything could make me one of a flock, it would be 
 that you are the shepherd, sir,' said Myles, finishing his 
 bread and wine, and feeling a warmed life in his veins and 
 at his heart. 
 
 'See !' said Canon Ponsonby, 'here is the weekly allow- 
 ance to which your ticket entitles you. Do not trouble to 
 call at the office. Good morning.' He took the young 
 man's hand. ' I have long known of you. I am glad to 
 have seen you. God have you in His keeping !' 
 
 Strangely moved and grateful, Myles silently clasped the 
 noble old man's hand. He could not speak. Canon 
 Ponsonby showed him out by a side-door, so that he 
 avoided that dreadful crowd round the entrance. He was in 
 the street again, with the white ticket, and some money in his 
 hand. After what Canon Ponsonby had said to him, he had 
 ceased to feel that dreadful agony of shame, but he felt utterly 
 crushed, and reduced to the most perfect insignificance. 
 
 Dreamily pursuing his homeward way, he turned over 
 the money in his hand, and remembered that he must buy 
 some food with it ! Food ! for himself? When he had gone 
 through that age of anguish, as it had seemed to him, he 
 should take the coins which had been so hardly earned, and 
 buy bread with them, and eat them? It struck him as 
 being absurd— as if one had used a steam-hammer to crush 
 a midge withal. 
 
 Nevertheless, he went into a shop, and bought some 
 bread and cheese, and was carrying it home, still with the 
 same sense of incongruity between the means and the end. 
 But, as he passed a door-step, at the end of a street, he 
 beheld a little girl sitting on it, and crying bitterly. 
 
 'Little one, what's the matter?' he asked, stopping, and 
 looking down at her. 
 
 ' I'm — so — hungry ! ' said the child, with a sob between 
 each word, as she looked piteously up into his face, and 
 held a thin little pinafore, soaked with tears, in two small, 
 tremulous hands. 
 
 ' So hungry ! ' he said, stooping over her, with the sense 
 that perhaps, after all, he had not gone through the furnace 
 to find nothing at the other side. ' Hast had no breakfast?' 
 
 R 
 
242 PROD A riOX. 
 
 ' Nay, none at o'.' 
 
 'How's that?' 
 
 Here a thin, clean-looking, poorly clad woman, with a 
 baby in her arms, came to the door. 
 
 ' Come in, Sarah Emily,' said she. ' For shame o' thisel, 
 to sit bawlin' on th' dur-step. Thi' feyther's gone to see 
 about summat to ayt. Coom in, and hold thi' din.' 
 
 'I'm — so — hungry!' was the only answer. 
 
 'Ne'er heed her, lad !' said the woman to Myles. ' My 
 measter's going to th' committee to-day. We've had to 
 come to that, and we'll likely get summat to ayt afore neet.' 
 
 ' Nay, but it's very hard for such a bit of a lass to wait 
 so long,' said Myles. ' If you'll trust her to me, I'll give 
 her some breakfast. I'm just going to get my own.' 
 
 ' Eh, thank you, you're very kind,' said the woman, her 
 voice suddenly breaking, as she looked at him, and then 
 turned aside again. 
 
 ' Come, my lass ! ' said Myles gently, and he took the open- 
 mouthed Sarah Emily in his arms, and carried her to his home. 
 
 In the kitchen, he seated her in Mary's rocking-chair, 
 explaining briefly to his sister that the child was clemming, 
 and must be fed, and then he cut her some bread and 
 cheese, and watched her with an intense and altogether 
 unaccountable interest while she ate it. He felt almost 
 light-hearted. If he had not, so to speak, walked up to the 
 cannon's mouth this morning, little Sarah Emily might have 
 been sickening with hunger until eventide. 
 
 ' Good ! good !' she cried, when she had eaten as much 
 as she could. 
 
 And she laughed at him, while he slowly ate something 
 himself. 
 
 ' Eook here!' he suggested; 'do you think you could 
 find your way from your home to this another day?' 
 
 ' Eh, ay ! It's none so far,' said Sarah Emily. 
 
 ' Then, if you come every morning — every morning, mind 
 — I'll give you something to eat always, eh?' he suggested. 
 
 ' But I can ayt such a lot, when I'm hungry,' said Sarah 
 Emily bashfully, putting her forefinger into her mouth. 
 
 'Nevermind ! There'll always be something. Wilt come?' 
 
PROBA TION. 243 
 
 ' Eh, I will so ! ' said the child, clapping her hands, 
 jumping upon his knee, and kissing him. 
 
 Thus was the bargain struck. 
 
 There is this day, in Thanshope, a dark-eyed young 
 woman, of some twenty- four years, who has a husband, and 
 some young children. When the little ones clamour for 
 breakfast or dinner, she is in the habit of reproving them, 
 by telling them that they don't know what real hunger is ; 
 and, as an instance in point, she is given to relating the 
 story how she sat on the door step one day in the ' panic ' 
 crying with hunger, and how the tall, pale-faced young man 
 with the kind eyes picked her up, and carried her home, 
 and gave her food ; and how either he or his sister welcomed 
 their hungry little visitor daily for 
 
 ' How long, mother ? ' 
 
 ' Three months, child ; every day — eh, they were kind ; 
 they were so.' 
 
 ' Is he alive now, mother ? ' 
 
 'Ay, for sure he is, and ' 
 
 But the dark-eyed young woman always makes rather a 
 long story of it, and freely intersperses remarks and com- 
 ments, which, though doubtless interesting to her family, 
 might not be considered of value by the public in general. 
 
 Two days later, the postman brought Myles a summons 
 to attend at the Central Offices of the Relief Committee 
 that day, as he was one of the successful candidates for the 
 clerkship, and the announcement that his salary would be 
 twenty shillings a week. 
 
 Thus the worst, materially, was tided over ; but the 
 bitterness of the cup he had drunk that terrible morning 
 did not lightly pass away. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A PAUSE. 
 
 When Myles began his work at the Committee Office, one 
 conspicuous member of the Ladies' Committee was tern- 
 
244 PROBA TION. 
 
 porarily absent. Aclrienne Blisset was then occupied in 
 learning the condition of her own affairs, and found herself 
 soon in a totally different position from any she had ever 
 expected to fill — very rich, as it seemed to her, and a per- 
 son of great importance ; and, what was strangest of all, 
 with Sebastian Mallory coming and going and fulfilling 
 his duties as executor, and explaining everything to her. 
 She repeatedly told him that she could not believe it ; it 
 was impossible — there must be a mistake. All that money 
 hers to do as she liked with, and she had not earned it, nor 
 worked for it ! 
 
 ' What an idea you have of working for everything you 
 get ! ' he exclaimed suddenly one day. ' Do you carry it so 
 far as to demand a service from every one to whom you ac- 
 cord a sign of favour ? ' 
 
 ' Really I don't know what you mean,' replied she. ' I 
 only know that I have got, you tell me, between six and 
 seven hundred a year, and I have done nothing to deserve it.' 
 
 ' No. I suppose you have to deserve it now, by using 
 it properly,' said he sedately. 
 
 That was in fact the amount of Adrienne's means, and it 
 was natural that it should appear to her as wealth unbounded. 
 She had also Stonegate on a lease, which had yet some- 
 what over two years to run. And when she had learnt all 
 this, and that she really was the mistress of such means, 
 with the only drawback that there was no one to share them 
 with, no one to consult with — herself alone, and her own 
 pleasure and convenience to study ; when she had grasped 
 these facts, and had begun to feel rather sad and lonely, 
 she returned to her work one morning in a black dress, 
 looking rather thinner and paler than she had done before. 
 The people with whom she had become acquainted in her 
 work, and who had heard the reason of her absence, came 
 round her, and, though not openly, congratulated her, hoped 
 she would now take a recognised place amongst them, asked 
 if they might call, and so on. And as she somewhat 
 vaguely and sadly answered these efforts at friendship, she 
 looked up, and saw some one pass the window. It was 
 Myles Heywood going to his work. 
 
PROBA TION. 245 
 
 Adrienne's name had become well known in Thanshope 
 during the last three months. It was but a provincial 
 town, and every one seemed thoroughly acquainted with 
 every one else's affairs. Mrs. Mallory had been much 
 annoyed at finding Sebastian ' mixed up,' as she called it, 
 with Mr. Blisset's affairs, and above all, with those of Miss 
 Blisset. She had had to explain it as well as she could to 
 certain friends who had asked her who this Miss Blisset was, 
 and what it all meant. 
 
 Sebastian, she said, was so very good-natured ; she feared 
 he would be imposed on some time. Did she know Miss 
 Blisset ? Certainly she did, in a way ; but as for being a 
 friend of hers, certainly not ! Sebastian had consented to 
 act as Mr. Blisset's executor out of pure goodwill and kind- 
 ness, because the man was so much to be pitied, and seemed 
 to have absolutely no friends. That was all. 
 
 But despite all Mrs. Mallory's efforts, it got known that 
 her son and the young lady, who had lately come into a 
 fortune, and who was reported to be both charming and ac- 
 complished, were very great friends. Helena Spenceley 
 took rather a malicious pleasure in upholding this theory in 
 Mrs. Mallory's very presence, so that that lady would have 
 boxed her ears with pleasure, if one could box the ears of a 
 person who would have one hundred thousand pounds 
 some day. 
 
 Thus Miss Blisset and Mr. Mallory were already talked 
 about in a certain set, and Adrienne's duties had made her 
 name and herself familiar to another and a less distinguished 
 public — to the working-people of Thanshope. She had 
 been a notability amongst them before her sudden accession 
 to wealth and friends ; she was doubly well known to them 
 now. She was busy and preoccupied, thought Myles, as he 
 sat at his desk in the second office, and saw her almost 
 daily pass the windows on her way to the Ladies' Commit- 
 tee-room. She was a lady of property, sought after and 
 busy, and he was a clerk on a high stool, to whom she 
 scarce spoke a word from one week's end to the other. 
 
 Those years of distress brought about some strange 
 acquaintances, and led to some unusual events. Though 
 
246 PROBA TION. 
 
 everything appeared on the outside to work so smoothly, 
 there were active emotions stirring amongst the members of 
 that Thanshope Relief Committee — emotions, quite uncon- 
 nected with the wants of those for whose benefit they had 
 assembled themselves. The circumstances were exceptional, 
 and it was only under exceptional circumstances that those 
 particular people could have not only met, but continued 
 almost daily to meet and come in contact with one another. 
 Gradually circumstances drew them together — gradually as 
 they met, the half-forgotten, smouldering feelings of love 
 and hate, contempt and pity, sprang into life and activity 
 again, and emotion stepped to the front, and all these things 
 acted and reacted one upon the other, till every story was 
 modified, every life received a bend this way or that, a 
 change in the even tenor of its way. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MEETING. 
 
 Mr. Spencelev, the millionaire, the richest man in Thans- 
 hope, the man of boundless wealth and boundless callousness, 
 was amongst those cotton lords who, to their lasting shame 
 and disgrace, were determined at this crisis not to come 
 forward and give of their abundance, but who preferred 
 to hang back until the popular voice left them no option, 
 and the universal indignation absolutely thrust them to the 
 front. 
 
 For a long time Mr. Spenceley had contented himself 
 with abusing the sorely tried work-people, demanding to 
 know why they did not all emigrate, and vowing that he 
 would not waste his money upon them. He amused him- 
 self by everywhere calling Sebastian Mallory, behind his 
 back, a fool and a madman, a spendthrift, a pernicious 
 leveller, and so on : and by behaving to him before his face 
 with the utmost courtesy and politeness, excusing conduct 
 which might savour of double dealing by saying that such 
 fools could never be made to see that they were fools, and 
 
PROBA TION. 247 
 
 that it was best to take them as you found them, and let 
 them go their own way. 
 
 When the Public Relief Committee was established, and 
 one and all, rich and poor, young and old, contributed some- 
 thing either in money, or kind, or assistance, or all, the chief 
 inhabitant of Thanshope could no longer hold back. He 
 allowed his name to appear as a member of the committee, 
 sent a subscription of a hundred pounds, and deputed his son 
 to act as his proxy at councils, committee meetings, and so 
 on. Despite the bad times, he himself was so much engaged 
 with business, that he had no time to attend to such things. 
 
 Accordingly, Fred Spenceley periodically shed the light 
 of his countenance upon the council board and those sur- 
 rounding it. He continued to come, despite a terrible 
 rebuff he received on the occasion of his first appearance 
 upon the scene. 
 
 It was that rebuff, and one or two incidents connected 
 with it, which filled him with rage and bitterness ; so that if 
 he had been an Irish reaper, or an Oldham weaver, he would 
 have proceeded to drink himself blind, and then gone home 
 and maltreated his wife, or any other feminine creature 
 within the range of his arm. Being in a different station 
 from that occupied by reapers and weavers, and thinly 
 veneered over into a poor, tinselly, outward semblance of a 
 gentleman, he only raged frantically within himself, and 
 cast about to find an instrument to execute a moral revenge, 
 which, he had sense enough in his dull brutal brain to know, 
 would far more torture the objects of it than all the corporal 
 punishment in the world. 
 
 He arrived one afternoon, thinking the whole business a 
 great piece of ' tomfoolery.' The Relief Committee's offices 
 consisted of three rooms, opening one out of the other. 
 The first was the Ladies' Committee-room, a large, spacious 
 place, where the ladies could meet, decide upon their pro- 
 ceedings, and hear the accounts of their wants and troubles 
 brought to them by mothers, wives, and daughters from all 
 parts of the town. Passing through this room, a second 
 and smaller one was reached, in which sat the two clerks, 
 Myles Heywood, and a lad who was under him. Through 
 
248 PROBA TION. 
 
 this second apartment, ingress was obtained to the Gentle- 
 men's Committee-room, where the council assembled, three 
 times a week as a rule, and oftener if necessary. 
 
 Coming to attend his first committee meeting, Fred 
 " Spenceley entered the first of these rooms, and, glancing 
 round, beheld different groups scattered in different parts 
 of the room. No one took any notice of him ; they were 
 all much too busy ; but as he looked round, he perceived, 
 in one of the windows apart from the rest, three persons : 
 Sebastian Mallory, whom he had hated since first he saw his 
 face, as only a true ' cad ' can hate a true gentleman ; and 
 two ladies — one in black, whose back was turned towards 
 him, the other his sister Helena, erect, animated, with her 
 dark eyes flashing and her silks in some agitation. 
 
 He walked up to the group, and touched Helena on the 
 shoulder, inquiring graciously, 
 
 'Well, little one, what's the matter now?' 
 
 ' Fred ! How you startled me ! Have you come to the 
 meeting?' 
 
 ' Yes, I have. Much good it will do me or any one else, 
 my being here. But the governor was ' % 
 
 ' Oh yes ! I know. But stop ! You know Mr. Mallory. 
 Miss Blisset, let me ' 
 
 Adrienne interrupted her. She was standing, pale, 
 haughty, and erect, with eyes full of cold contempt ; and 
 she interposed, in a cool, decided voice, 
 
 ' Pardon me, Miss Spenceley, I do not wish for any 
 introduction. I must decline to make that — gentleman's 
 acquaintance.' 
 
 With which she turned away, in perfect outward com- 
 posure, and, seating herself at a desk, calmly looked out of 
 the window, leaving Sebastian surprised, and yet not sur- 
 prised, Fred furious, and Helena overwhelmed with con- 
 fusion ; for she knew her brother, and felt sure that he 
 must have distinguished himself in some far from desirable 
 manner towards .Miss Blisset, to cause that gentle lady 
 openly to manifest discourtesy. Helena's humiliation was 
 increased as she realised, with lightning-like rapidity, that 
 Adrienne must have some excellent reason for repeatedly 
 
PROBA TION. 249 
 
 refusing to visit her at Castle Hill. Crimson, she stood 
 where she had received the rebuff, and knew not what to 
 do. It was Sebastian who, after the unavoidable moment- 
 ary pause, and when Mr. Spenceley had turned upon his 
 heel, said just as if nothing had happened, 
 
 ' I shall lay the matter before the Board to-day, Miss 
 Spenceley, and I am sure it will be attended to imme- 
 diately.' 
 
 Helena met his eyes as she looked up at him, and the 
 burning blush of mortification glowed more deeply than 
 before. 
 
 ' You are very kind,' said she, in a low, choked voice ; 
 ' but you cannot do away with the fact that I have to blush 
 for my nearest relations.' 
 
 With that, she too turned away, as if not knowing where 
 to go to ; and Sebastian decided that the best thing he 
 could do would be to follow Mr. Spenceley to the council- 
 room. 
 
 For Mr. Spenceley, muttering an anathema, had directed 
 his steps away from such dangerous ground, and with raging 
 hatred in his heart, entered the second of the three rooms. 
 In that moment he would gladly have strangled some one, 
 or kicked his dog, or flogged his horse, or sworn at his 
 mother ; and if he had had a wife, he would have caused 
 her to spend a joyful evening on his return home. 
 
 As it was, he found himself in a small room, in the 
 window of which stood a long desk, at which desk sat two 
 men busily writing. One of them rose, as he entered, to 
 fetch a ledger from a shelf at the other side of the room. 
 Spenceley's rage gave way to a momentary start of surprise ; 
 then the blood came surging to his face and ears, as he 
 found that he was confronting that insolent, unknown opera- 
 tive who had disgraced and branded him, and degraded 
 and punished him, ten months ago in the club billiard-room. 
 
 Like a lurid dream it all started up again in his brain. 
 There the man stood — he tingled from head to foot as he 
 beheld him — with face pinched and worn, but with that 
 same broad, unstained brow, the same scornful grey eyes, 
 the same muscular finsrers — he seemed to feel them at his 
 
250 PROBATION. 
 
 collar again — and he could not grind him to powder, as he 
 would like to do, nor put him to any kind of horrible tor- 
 ture, such as he would have deemed desirable for him. 
 Myles's eyes fell upon him, and a sudden gleam of scornful 
 contemptuous amusement shot into them ; his head flung 
 itself backwards — his lips curved into a kind of smile, but 
 otherwise he did not deign to notice Mr. Spenceley. 
 
 Into the heart of the latter the old devils of revengeful 
 desire and frantic hatred came leaping back. Why had he 
 been so quiet ? Why had he suffered himself to be laughed 
 at and diverted from his original purpose of punishment ? 
 Why had he sat down patiently all this time with that — a 
 black cloud of fury overshadowed his mind. His thoughts 
 were scarcely coherent. But it was incredible. The fellow 
 should and must be made to pay dearly for his insolence. He 
 had sworn it once, and he would carry it out now. With 
 wrath and rage contending madly in his stupid, brutal soul, he 
 went on into the committee-room, where he was immediately 
 followed by Sebastian Mallory, and business commenced. 
 
 Fred Spenceley was too much occupied with his own 
 private fury, with thinking, with a sort of hatred and love 
 combined, of the sweet, contemptuous face of Adrienne 
 Blisset, which he could not banish from his mind — of 
 these and of other things, to take any particular notice of 
 the man called James Hoyle, who was summoned to read 
 a report to the Board that afternoon. 
 
 He had been intrusted with the task of visiting certain 
 courts in a low part of the town, whither, it was said, a 
 number of the factory hands had been obliged to retire, in 
 consequence of being unable any longer to pay the rent of 
 more respectable houses. Mr. Hoyle had offered himself 
 to the Board as peculiarly suited for the work, being himself 
 a minister of the gospel, and used to strange scenes and low 
 neighbourhoods. 
 
 ' He speaks the truth there, at all events,' Sebastian Mal- 
 lory had remarked sotto voce to Canon Ponsonby, 'but the 
 father of Lies has had some share in his parentage, all the 
 same, sir — don't you think so ?' 
 
 ' Or else he has selected him as his peculiar adversary, 
 
PROBATION. 251 
 
 and left the traces of his attempts to corrupt him,' replied 
 Canon Ponsonby, fixing his piercing eyes upon Mr. Hoyle. 
 
 But as Mr. Hoyle really did seem well fitted and anxious 
 for the work, he was allowed to undertake it. 
 
 His report was considered clear and succinct. He was 
 told that he had done well ; a further commission of the 
 same kind was given him, and he was told to present him- 
 self again as soon as possible with the required information. 
 
 Expressing himself humbly gratified at having been of any 
 service in such a cause, Mr. Hoyle bowed to the assembled 
 Board, carefully avoiding two pairs of eyes — a pair of lazy 
 brown ones and a pair of piercing grey ones, and, with a 
 long sidelong look at the sullen, averted countenance of 
 Frederick Spenceley, took his departure. 
 
 A fortnight passed. The middle of May had come and 
 gone. Every day the distress grew more tremendous — 
 the efforts needed to meet it more strenuous and unceas- 
 ing. The whole time and the whole energies of those who 
 had begun the work were gradually absorbed into it. Still 
 the cruel war raged on across the Atlantic, and Mid-summer 
 and Famine advanced hand in hand, with long, devouring 
 strides. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 ' FOR A PRICE.' 
 
 A committee meeting had been called for a certain 
 Tuesday afternoon. An appeal for help had been sent out 
 to all the persons of any position in the neighbourhood. 
 Canon Ponsonby's name headed the list with a donation of 
 fifty pounds, which was more to him than fifty hundred 
 would have been to Mr. Spenceley. Some half-dozen large 
 manufacturing firms followed with sums varying from one 
 to five hundred pounds. ' S. M., five hundred pounds.' 
 'Mrs. Mallory, five pounds.' Mrs. Mallory had so many 
 calls upon her charity just then, she said, she really could 
 not afford more, or the yearly sum she set apart for such 
 purposes would be exceeded. 
 
252 PROP A TION. 
 
 ' The yearly distress to be relieved is also considerably 
 exceeded,' murmured her son, as he took possession of the 
 contribution. ' H. v. B., five pounds.' 
 
 'Our money!' as Mrs. Mallory indignantly observed to 
 herself, and tossed her head angrily. 
 
 ' H. S., ten pounds.' This stood for Helena Spenceley, 
 who delivered the money over to Sebastian with a kind of 
 chuckle. ' You would never guess how I got it,' said she, 
 with a broad smile of triumph and satisfaction. 
 
 'Begged, borrowed, or stolen?' he asked, smiling too. 
 
 ' Neither one nor the other. Nor yet was it a free gift, 
 nor yet did I find it at the back of a drawer, having quite 
 forgotten that I had put it there, as I once before did with 
 a five-pound note. Oh, you will never know how I got it.' 
 And she laughed. 
 
 But Sebastian learnt from Adrienne how she had come 
 by the money. 
 
 ' Her father would not give her a penny,' said she, 
 ' because he had made up his mind with his narrow income 
 to sacrifice twenty-five pounds, which he was sadly in need 
 of himself, so what do you think she did?' 
 
 'Such knowledge is too wonderful for me.' 
 
 ' She sold a lot of her dresses and things. I expect the 
 poor girl has been awfully cheated,' Adrienne added, a touch 
 of real feminine feeling and regret in her tone. ' She said 
 she had left herself only half a dozen — and fancy getting 
 no more than ten pounds for the rest of her wardrobe — it 
 is awful to think of. But the money was there, she said, 
 and she could not resist it. She is as pleased as if it had 
 been a hundred.' 
 
 ' Like somebody else's,' suggested Sebastian. 
 
 ' Somebody else's?' 
 
 He pointed to the written subscription list which they 
 had been looking over. ' Life let us Cherish, ^ioo,' stood 
 inscribed on the page. 
 
 'Do you think I don't know what hand traced that?' 
 
 'But you won't tell, please!' said Adrienne. 
 
 ' Ah, you have confessed. No ; I will not tell, unless 
 I think it would be for your good.' 
 
PROBATION. 253 
 
 ' Nonsense ! But was it not nice and generous in that 
 girl?' persisted Adrienne, who always would talk to 
 Sebastian, much more than he liked, about Helena. 
 
 ' Yes ; it was. But she has a generous disposition,' he 
 admitted, still looking affectionately at his favourite inscrip- 
 tion. 
 
 The celebrated twenty-five pounds spoken of by Adrienne 
 — it is lucky that money has not an organised nervous 
 system, or it might suffer keenly under the touch of some 
 fingers ! — was committed by Mr. Spenceley the elder to 
 Mr. Spenceley the younger, with the remark that he 
 wondered how much longer people who had honestly 
 earned their money would be expected to pour it out like 
 water 'in that way ;' and the request that he would deliver 
 it into the hands of Sebastian Mallory, the treasurer. 
 
 Mr. Frederick Spenceley, who did not appear to find 
 business so engrossing as his father, strolled down to the 
 committee-rooms, arriving on the scene of action some ten 
 minutes or quarter of an hour before any signs of action 
 had begun to manifest themselves. The well-known mauvais 
 quart d'heure may be evil in many ways, kinds, and degrees 
 of badness. Frederick Spenceley had no intention of 
 spending his fifteen minutes more aimlessly or mischiev- 
 ously than usual ; but his guardian demon had ordained 
 that they should be consumed more reprehensibly, perhaps, 
 than all the rest of his existence put together. 
 
 There was no one in the first room, no one in the second 
 room ; in the third room was a solitary figure standing in 
 one of the windows — a figure in black cloth clothes, with a 
 bundle of documents under one arm — the figure of Mr. 
 James Hoyle. 
 
 There were two windows to the room. Mr. Spenceley, 
 jingling the coin in his pockets, strolled up to the other 
 one, and stood at it, whistling to himself, and looking out 
 upon the prospect — what there was of it. The two windows 
 were on the same side of the room, and looked upon a kind 
 of open yard, separated from the street by a low wall. It 
 was a slanting street, like so many others in that up-and- 
 down town, Thanshope. Exactly opposite the window in 
 
254 PROD A TION. 
 
 which Spenceley stood was a gate, through which any one 
 coming to the committee-rooms must pass, and, going un- 
 der the windows (to the right) of the other two rooms, at last 
 arrive at the door opening into the Ladies' Committee-room. 
 There was also a separate door, leading into the second 
 room, or clerk's office, where Myles Heywood and his fellow- 
 clerk sat. 
 
 Half absently, Spenceley began to collect the money to- 
 gether that his father had given him, and to lay it out, two 
 five-pound notes and fifteen sovereigns, upon the window- 
 ledge before him. He looked at it pensively, and Mr. Hoyle's 
 little sharp eyes were fixed with a sidelong gaze, full of in- 
 terest, upon his face. Mr. Hoyle had surveyed the prospect 
 to more purpose than Mr. Spenceley, and was very anxious 
 that the latter should give over counting out his money, 
 and return to the apparently innocent pursuit of looking out 
 of the window, which he presently did. 
 
 He plunged his hands into his pockets, and gazed out 
 again, swaying to and fro from his toes to his heels, in the 
 rhythmic manner common to persons in his position. 
 Presently the rhythmic movement ceased. Mr. Spenceley's 
 attention became concentrated on outside objects, on a 
 figure some two hundred yards distant, approaching down 
 the hill. He looked at her as she came along, in her black 
 dress, with her pale face and her warmly tinted hair. He 
 hated her for a thousand reasons, and because she looked 
 sad and lovely at once, because she was gentle to others and 
 to him an icicle ; and most of all, because he had made a 
 great mistake about her in his gross, clumsy, blundering 
 way, and knew now, that if he had but known what she was 
 he would never have insulted her, but would have tried with 
 all his might, though he was not clever, to become good 
 enough for her. But she had prevented that, she had re- 
 fused him the faintest chance of letting her know that he 
 
 repented, and by , he thought savagely, he did not repent. 
 
 These women were all alike ; either worse than the devil 
 himself, or too icily cold and pure to glance aside at such 
 as he. He watched and watched, as if fascinated ; watched 
 how she came along, looking tired and pale, but lovely ; 
 
PROBATION. 255 
 
 despite his hatred he felt, with all the finer feeling he had, 
 that she was lovely, and his head turned, his eyes followed 
 her steps, till she arrived at the gate, and then her face 
 changed, and he gave a great start, for, standing there, ex- 
 actly as she came up, was Myles Heywood, who had been 
 coming (as the astute Mr. Hoyle had perceived) up the hill 
 from the opposite direction. 
 
 They met at the gate. Adrienne's face, after a faint 
 smile, seemed to grow still paler and calmer. She held out 
 her hand. Myles took off his cap, and though he did not 
 smile — unless a slight quiver about the corners of his 
 mouth could be called a smile — yet he took her hand, and 
 they spoke together for a moment at the gate. It was 
 quite evident that it was Adrienne, and not Myles, who 
 made the pause and carried on the conversation which took 
 place before they both came on, past the windows (which 
 had the lower panes frosted, on purpose to baffle vulgar 
 curiosity), without seeing the two striking countenances that 
 were watching them. 
 
 Myles left Adrienne at the door of the second room, and 
 she went on to the ladies' room. 
 
 Frederick Spenceley had entirely forgotten the presence 
 of any one but himself. He gave vent to his feelings in a 
 low but distinctly audible — 
 
 • D — n them ! ' 
 
 He suddenly felt a touch on his arm, and, turning round 
 with his usual disproportionate start, beheld Mr. Hoyle at 
 his elbow, looking into his face. 
 
 ' Oh ! Confound you ! What do you want, creeping up 
 to a fellow in that way ? ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, sir. I have been looking at that 
 man Myles Heywood . . . ' 
 
 1 What, that's the blackguard's name, is it ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. My step-son. A — some young ladies choose 
 strange friends, sir ; don't you think so ? ' 
 
 Spenceley was about to ask roughly what business of his 
 it was ; but something in the intent, glittering fixity of the 
 man's gaze held him fast. 
 
 ' Perhaps they do,' said he, slowly. ' What then ? ' 
 
256 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Only this. That young man's mother is now my wife. 
 I ought to know what sort of a character he is. I ought 
 to know something about the young lady, too. If the facts 
 about both of them, the real facts, were known, she would 
 be in a different position from what she has, and he ' 
 
 Mr. Hoyle laughed. 
 
 ' He — what about him ? ' asked Mr. Spenceley, almost 
 breathlessly. 
 
 ' Well, I don't think that young fool of a master of 
 his ' 
 
 ' Who is his master ? ' 
 
 • Mallory.' 
 
 'Ah— h!' 
 
 ' He's taken a fancy to him ; he's offered to help him. 
 He did help him to his present place. But it was in 
 ignorance of the facts. If he knew the facts, my young 
 gentleman would not be in such a hurry to patronise him. 
 In fact — he'd be ruined.' 
 
 'Facts — what facts?' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mr. Hoyle. ' That's just it. Properly to in- 
 vestigate and establish those facts might be rather expen- 
 sive.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you are certain that if they were known they would 
 have the requisite effect ? ' 
 
 ' You mean ' 
 
 ' Of parting him and her — of punishing her? ' 
 
 ' I tell you, he would leave the place, and she would cry 
 her eyes out. I know it.' 
 
 'And about how expensive would that be?' demanded 
 Spencely. 
 
 ' It would cost a hundred pounds, and I should want five- 
 and-twenty to go on with — the rest down when I tell you 
 he has gone.' 
 
 Spenceley put his hand on the money. 
 
 ' This is five-and-twenty,' he remarked. * I must give 
 them a cheque for it, instead of money down. But remem- 
 ber, if you're cheating me ' 
 
 ' On my soul and honour, sir,' said Hoyle, with almost 
 vehement earnestness, ' you may trust me. It's as much 
 
PROBA TION. 257 
 
 my cause as yours. And meantime, if you should hear any 
 reports to the disadvantage of a certain lady, don't deny 
 them — I told you I knew some queer facts about them 
 both.' 
 
 Scarcely had the money been transferred to the keeping 
 of Mr. Hoyle, than the door was opened, and Canon 
 Ponsonby, Sebastian Mallory, and others, came in. Mr. 
 Hoyle began to study his documents, and Fred Spenceley 
 to look out of the window again, his heart beating unheroi- 
 cally fast, with a sense of peril of which he felt ashamed, and 
 an undercurrent of eager thirst for revenge, the stronger in 
 that there was now some prospect of its being gratified. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' Bear not false witness ; let the lie 
 Have time on its own wings to fly.' 
 
 One fine morning, Mrs. Mallory, her son, and Hugo von 
 Birkenau sat at breakfast, and the young men maintained a 
 decorous silence while the lady held forth on what was at 
 present her favourite topic, the approaching ball at Castle 
 Hill, in honour of Helena's coming of age. 
 
 ' Helena will be the belle at her own ball,' she observed. 
 ' I called the other day, and Mrs. Spenceley showed me her 
 dress. It had just come from Paris. It is perfectly ex- 
 quisite. Even you, Sebastian, will be able to find no fault 
 with that toilette.' 
 
 ' Black velvet, diamonds, and point lace ? ' he suggested. 
 ' That would be just like her, and then it is a costume on 
 which you may spend an indefinite amount of money.' 
 
 ' How ill-natured you are ! It is a charming dress, and 
 she will look lovely in it. I hope you have secured one 
 dance, at any rate, or you will have no chance now.' 
 
 He confessed that he had not acted with sufficient spirit 
 in that respect ; he had never even thought of asking for a 
 dance. 
 
 ' Then I am sure she will be very much hurt. She let 
 s 
 
>5S PROBATION. 
 
 me see the other day that she thought a great deal about 
 your coming.' 
 
 ' If she did, she is not the girl I take her for,' said he, 
 looking rather impatient. It was not Mrs. Mallory's fault 
 if her son remained sceptical on the subject of Helena 
 Spencely's penchant for him. She had long ago seen that 
 it was useless for her to dangle Helena's hundred thousand 
 pounds before his eyes ; he would none of it, whereas to 
 Mrs. Mallory it was an ornament which grew more be- 
 coming and more desirable the longer she looked at it. 
 She had discovered, or thought she had discovered, that 
 Sebastian was very anxious not to hurt the feelings of any 
 one, by neglect or unkindness, 'that is, of any one but my- 
 self,' as she plaintively told herself— and she thought that 
 if she pictured in colours strong enough the affection which 
 she was determined Helena had for him, this sensitiveness 
 of his might lead to the desired results — sooner or later. 
 
 ' Any other man,' Mrs. Mallory said to herself, ' would 
 have fallen in love with the girl for her beauty alone, if she 
 had not had a penny ; but in that case, of course, he would 
 have fallen in love with her.' 
 
 Then she tried to excite his self-esteem, and pique his 
 amour propre, by telling him that Helena was very difficult 
 to please, and had already had half-a-dozen more or less 
 eligible offers, all of which she had refused sans f aeon. 
 
 ' I can quite believe it,' was the tranquil reply. ' Sans 
 fafon exactly describes her manner and her character as well. 
 She has no idea of any medium. Wild enthusiasms and 
 extravagant hatreds ' 
 
 (' Like me,' murmured Hugo to his plate.) 
 
 ' And I have no doubt she did refuse the " six braw 
 gentlemen" you mention, unceremoniously enough.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory would have despaired, if she had not taken 
 comfort in the idea that Sebastian liked to conceal his feel- 
 ings from her, which argued that perhaps he cherished a 
 secret passion for Helena, and would do as he ought to do, 
 if he were let alone. 
 
 Her fears as to the influence of Adrienne Blisset were 
 fitful and intermittent Sometimes that adventuress did not 
 
PROBATION. 259 
 
 particularly disturb her mental peace, but at other moments 
 a dread fear seized her lest the game should be going in the 
 very direction she least wished it to take ; lest the obstacle 
 which interfered with her plans and wishes was not Sebas- 
 tian's utter and unaccountable indifference to beauty, love, 
 and a hundred thousand pounds, but a misguided, infatuated 
 inclination on his part, for a daughter of Heth, with neither 
 beauty (compared with Helena) nor pretensions. When 
 attacked by such thoughts, Mrs. Mallory felt herself turn 
 cold and numb with fear. The idea of Adrienne Blisset 
 promoted to her place was the most thoroughly unpleasant 
 — not to say altogether hideous — that had ever occurred to 
 her. 
 
 On the morning in question, Sebastian, on being asked 
 what his plans were, said he should be in his office all 
 morning, and at a committee meeting in the afternoon. 
 Would he be in to lunch at half-past one ? Yes, he fully 
 expected so ; and with that, he said good morning, and went 
 away. 
 
 The others went their several ways. Hugo retired to the 
 drawing-room, to a packet of new transcendental German 
 music, and to the spinning out certain music of his own. 
 Mrs. Mallory, after an interview with her housekeeper, 
 ordered her carriage for half-past eleven, wrote letters in the 
 breakfast-room till that time, and then got ready and drove 
 out in the said carriage. The proverbial ' spectator might 
 have seen ' the equipage go from one place to another in 
 the town, and afterwards to certain mansions in the vicinity 
 of the same, where its mistress made state calls. (It was 
 the fashion in Thanshope to make state calls in full dress 
 between twelve and one.) It was quite half-past one when 
 Mrs. Mallory forsook the war-path, and returning home, 
 came into the dining-room. She sat down to lunch without 
 removing her bonnet. She was dressed in her favourite 
 lavender and black, and so attired, with a new and unusual 
 expression of animation and amiability upon her high fair 
 features, she looked a very handsome, agreeable, though 
 rather thin-lipped English matron. 
 
 The gong sounded. First Hugo strolled in, and raised 
 
26o PROBA TION. 
 
 his dark eyes in astonishment when the lady graciously and 
 sweetly inquired, 
 
 ' May I give you some soup, Mr. von Birkenau?' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' he replied, politely but tentatively. 
 
 ' How warm it is, is it not ? So unlike the end of May. 
 May is generally such a bad month in England ; don't you 
 think so?' 
 
 ' You should know best,' said Hugo, bowing solemnly, and 
 somewhat nervous under this excessive amiability. 
 
 ' I wonder what Sebastian is doing,' she remarked, still 
 graciously. ' He really seems to have his hands quite 
 full.' 
 
 At that moment he came in. 
 
 ' Sorry to be so late, but Sutcliffe kept me. Soup ? No, 
 thanks. I'll trouble you for some of that cold fowl, Hugo, 
 please.' 
 
 'And will you give me a little sherry, my dear?' said his 
 mother. 
 
 Sebastian, too, changed countenance at this tone, privately 
 wondering ' what next?' but poured out the sherry with im- 
 perturbable gravity. 
 
 The meal proceeded in silence for some little time, until 
 it occurred to Sebastian to ask, 
 
 ' Where have you been all morning, mother?' 
 
 ' Driving,' was the vague reply, and another pause ensued. 
 
 Sebastian poured out a glass of sherry, drank some of it, 
 and then thought he would trouble Hugo again ; he was so 
 awfully hungry. Hugo, with a gravity amounting to gloom, 
 wrenched the second wing from the fowl before him, and 
 placed it upon Sebastian's plate. 
 
 Sebastian was watching the operation with the intense 
 eagerness of a mind quite at ease ; and it was at this junc- 
 ture that Mrs. Mallory said, 
 
 ' Sebastian, I am sorry to hear of a very strange thing in 
 connection with that girl — what is her name ? — whose uncle's 
 affairs you somehow got mixed up with.' 
 
 Hugo's eyes gave a flash. That was what was coming. 
 
 'Do you mean Miss Adrienne Blisset?' asked Sebastian, 
 in a distinct voice. 
 
PROBATION. 261 
 
 ' Blisset — yes, Miss Blisset. She professes to take a great 
 interest in the relief affairs. ' 
 
 ' So far as I know, the interest is real — at least if hard 
 work is any test of reality.' 
 
 ' She appears to choose very strange people as her inti- 
 mate friends.' 
 
 ' Myself, par exempleV he suggested. 
 
 War was now declared. The blandness had disappeared 
 from Mrs. Mallory's countenance. The excitement remained. 
 Her son did not appear to her to be excited, but Hugo, glanc- 
 ing at him, felt a little thrill as he saw all the slight signs which 
 he so well understood, and which told him that his friend 
 was moved, much moved, unpleasantly moved. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory, all unconscious how much Sebastian knew, 
 and reckless of the storm she was inviting to descend upon 
 herself, continued, 
 
 ' I must say, I hope you are not amongst her intimate 
 friends, unless you wish to be placed on the level of low, 
 immoral, atheistical work-people ; the very dregs of the lower 
 orders.' 
 
 ' It is asserted that Miss Blisset selects her friends from 
 the dregs of the lower orders ? ' he inquired, with ominous 
 politeness. 
 
 ' The case does not rest on mere assertion. Her uncle 
 professed peculiar opinions, and she carries them to 
 extremes, as is the way with those women who have been 
 brought up amongst men, and always led a vagabond life.' 
 
 Sebastian smiled slightly as he carefully balanced a fork 
 upon his little finger. 
 
 ' Apres V he inquired. 
 
 ' She made the acquaintance of a young man of whose 
 character the less is said the better — picked him up at some 
 reading-room where she used to go in an evening — an 
 evening] said Mrs. Mallory, in an utterly indescribable tone. 
 'She encouraged him to visit her, and he did so repeatedly; 
 he is a socialist, an atheist, and altogether immoral. How 
 far the connection may have gone I cannot pretend to say, 
 but this I know, that Frederick Spenceley, who is not exactly 
 strait-laced ' 
 
262 PROBATION. 
 
 ' No, certainly not.' 
 
 c Frederick Spenceley declined to make her acquaintance, 
 and took his sister away, and declined to let her converse 
 with her.' 
 
 'You have this information from a reliable source?' 
 
 ' Perfectly reliable. I am not at liberty to say who told 
 me, but I must say the news exactly agrees with what my 
 own judgment led me to expect. I always said . . .' 
 
 ' Pardon ! No matter what you have always said, or 
 what other people say. I can tell you the truth, not from 
 any second-hand source, but from my own personal know- 
 ledge of the circumstances. The young man of whom you 
 have heard such a delightful character was, though he no 
 longer is, one of my own work-people. He is perfectly 
 respectable, and of unstained character. If Frederick 
 Spenceley were one hundredth part — if he could ever be- 
 come one hundredth part as much of a gentleman as Myles 
 Heywood naturally is, he might congratulate himself. He 
 — Heywood, I mean — is a friend of Miss Blisset's, and the 
 fact honours both him and her. I have met him at her 
 uncle's house, and I have shaken hands with him in his 
 own house. He is a man whom I honour and respect 
 very much. So much for that part of your information. 
 For the rest, that Frederick Spenceley refused to make 
 Miss Blisset's acquaintance — my dear mother, I am sur- 
 prised that a woman with your knowledge of the world 
 should believe such a story. I happened to be present 
 then, too. Miss Spenceley wished to introduce her brother 
 to Miss Blisset, and the latter declined the acquaintance ; 
 I believe she had excellent reasons for doing so. I pitied 
 Miss Spenceley, from my soul, for she is as superior to her 
 blackguard of a brother as heaven is to earth. But — I 
 trust you will see the wisdom of making the best of Miss 
 Blisset, and not the worst, for I shall ask her to be my 
 wife — to-day, if I get the chance, and if not, on the 
 very first opportunity.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory had sat, during this prolonged harangue, 
 drawing deep breaths, but at the last announcement, made 
 with an emphasis unusual to Sebastian, it seemed suddenly 
 
PROBA TION. 263 
 
 to burst upon her, how entirely she had overreached herself, 
 and she rose from her chair very pale ; and, but that her 
 pride forbade it, would have burst into tears of mortification. 
 
 ' There is no ingratitude like that of a child to a mother,' 
 said she, in an icy voice. ' You have done all you could 
 to humiliate me and cross my wishes ever since your return, 
 and now you insult me by seeking out the least ' 
 
 They were at the door. He had opened it for her, but 
 as she looked up in uttering those words, she paused, sub- 
 dued by a certain expression in his eyes and mouth. 
 
 ' Don't speak too recklessly of that lady. It will do no 
 good, and you would repent it,' he remarked. 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, but swept out of the 
 room, and he gently closed the door after her. 
 
 He stood in the middle of the room, biting his lip, till 
 Hugo came up to him and took his hand. 
 
 'Dear Sebastian, I wish you success, though, freilich, I 
 fancied you would marry Miss Spenceley.' 
 
 'Why, I wonder?' asked Sebastian, impatiently. 'I 
 cannot imagine why I am supposed to be destined for Miss 
 Spenceley, or she for me. She cannot endure me, and 
 makes no secret of her dislike. . . .' 
 
 ' You could overcome that,' suggested his counsellor 
 audaciously. 
 
 ' Could I ? She is perfectly charming, I don't wish to 
 deny, but I have loved Adrienne Blisset for years, and I 
 am not going to give her up unless she refuses me.' 
 
 ' Fellows don't always give up when they are refused,' 
 suggested Hugo again. 
 
 ' Finish your lunch and hold your tongue. What I was 
 going to say is, that my mother is answerable for a great 
 deal of mischief by persisting in marrying me to Miss 
 Spenceley.' 
 
 ' If there had been no such person as you, then there 
 would have been no mischief,' said Hugo, apparently throw- 
 ing in the observation between two sips of claret, for he 
 had obediently returned to the table. 
 
 ' What do you mean?' asked his friend, stopping in his 
 promenade between the two windows. 
 
264 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' I mean what I say.' 
 
 1 Why, do you mean that I have ever encouraged ' 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley ? /, bewahre ! No. But ' 
 
 ' I shall do you some serious bodily injury if you don't curb 
 your boundless impertinence. Do you mean that I ever 
 encouraged my mother's scheme in any way ? ' 
 
 ' Can't say. I've done. Adieu ! ' said Hugo, going out 
 of the room, and singing in an insultingly loud voice — 
 
 ' Willst du dein Herz mir schenken, 
 So fang' es heimlich an ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ' Opportunity is always golden and beautiful. It is the use it is 
 sometimes put to that is — imperfect.' 
 
 Sebastian did not find any opportunity that afternoon for 
 carrying out his purpose. He was fully occupied ; so was 
 Adrienne, and he was forced to see her, half an hour before 
 he could leave himself, walk away alone in the direction of 
 Blake Street, without having been able to exchange a word 
 with her. This annoyed him, and made him feel nervous 
 and anxious. Three months ago he would, without any 
 inordinate vanity, have felt almost secure of being accepted 
 if he proposed to Adrienne ; now he felt very far from sure 
 of it. The unpleasant scene with Mrs. Mallory left him de- 
 termined to wait no longer, no more to ' fear his fate too 
 much,' but ' to put it to the touch, and win or lose it all,' 
 that very day, be it early or late. 
 
 Accordingly, he returned home after the meeting, dined 
 alone before the usual time, and, knowing that Adrienne 
 was usually at home about half-past seven, set off a little 
 after seven. 
 
 His shortest way to Blake Street was to go past the town- 
 hall, and proceed through the pleasure-grounds on the hill- 
 side, through the park at the top, and so across the 
 Townfield into Blake Street. 
 
 This he did, and having ascended the hill, entered the 
 
PROBA TION. 265 
 
 park by one of its gates, and found that it was almost de- 
 serted. There was a nursemaid, and some children playing 
 about the croquet lawn ; there was a man reclining upon 
 a bench in a rocky recess — a man who seemed tired, for 
 he was almost crouched together ; his face was completely 
 hidden by his arm and hand, which were stretched on the 
 back of the bench. There was also a woman's figure 
 advancing from the other end of the park, and Sebastian's 
 heart gave a spring as he recognised Adrienne Blisset. 
 
 He walked up to her, and met her. 
 
 ' You here, Mr. Mallory, at this time ? That is unusual, 
 isn't it ? ' 
 
 '• I am here because I was on my way to your house, 
 hoping very much to find you in. I am glad I have not 
 missed you altogether.' 
 
 ' I am glad too. I was going to see Mary Heywood, 
 and should most likely have sat with her some time, for my 
 conscience accuses me of having neglected her. But shall 
 we return to my house ? ' 
 
 ' Not on any account — that is, if you are not tired, and 
 do not object to walking about on this terrace for a short 
 time.' 
 
 ' Not in the least. What a lovely evening it is ! And 
 how clear ! Look at those purple moors to the north. I 
 have often longed to get to the top of one of those moors. 
 What do you think I should see at the other side?' 
 
 ' Yorkshire — and more moors.' 
 
 ' Those are the moors on the other side of which Char- 
 lotte and Emily Bronte lived,' said Adrienne, her thoughts 
 taking any direction but the one Sebastian wished. 
 
 ' Yes, I believe so. Haworth and Keighley, and all about 
 there. You should go there some time. But don't look 
 at the prospect now. I want to ask you something.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Adrienne, turning to him with a half-smile. 
 
 The smile died away. She found his eyes fixed upon 
 hers with an unmistakable meaning in their earnest gaze. 
 Her own face flushed deeply, as he gently took her hand and 
 said, 
 
 ' I have tried in vain to take an opportunity — at last I 
 
266 PROBA TION. 
 
 have had to make one. I must know something, certainly. 
 I cannot wait any longer. Adrienne, I love you dearly — 
 I have loved you ever since I lost sight of you on that un- 
 happy morning after you left Wetzlar. I knew it then, and 
 my love has only grown stronger ever since. Can you re- 
 turn it? Will you — some time — be my wife?' 
 
 He felt his happy confidence falling from him on all sides, 
 as he beheld her face, and stood there, cold, as if a warm 
 mantle had dropped from his shoulders. 
 
 'You — I am very sorry,' she stammered. 'Oh, Mr. 
 Mallory ' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory ! ' he echoed drearily. ' Adrienne, I see 
 what you are going to say, but think again ! I must have 
 been a terrible, conceited fool all this time ; but will you 
 not think again? Wait till to-morrow. Don't speak to-day. 
 Let me explain.' 
 
 Adrienne's face was full of pain as she said, tremulously 
 but decisively, 
 
 ' No. It would be wrong. I know what I feel, and 
 must always feel, now. I admire you very much ; I re- 
 spect you, oh, more than I can tell you. I have a sort of 
 affection for you. Indeed, I am very fond of you. You 
 were so good to me,' said Adrienne, with tears swimming in 
 her eyes ; ' but I cannot marry you. . . . Oh, do not look 
 like that !' she exclaimed, in an agony, ' I am so sorry ; I 
 am so sorry.' 
 
 ' Are you quite certain ?' he asked in a low voice. ' Have 
 I all along been so utterly indifferent to the woman I ' 
 
 ' Not indifferent. You were never indifferent to me. 
 And once ' 
 
 ' Once !' he echoed eagerly. 
 
 ' I thought — I believed- 
 
 ' That you could love me — perhaps that you did love me ?' 
 
 She bowed. 
 
 ' Ah, that was when I was away. But why should you 
 not love me now, dearest ? If you would only let me show 
 you how I love you — you must — you could not help — so 
 good and so loving as you are.' 
 
 ' No, no ! Do not speak to me of it. // can never be. 
 
PROBATION. 267 
 
 I know my own heart now — too well/ she said, looking at 
 him almost appealingly, and with distracted, troubled eyes. 
 
 ' And there is no love in it for me?' 
 
 1 Not that kind of love. Oh, heavens ! why must I have 
 such things to say to you ! You must know that you ought 
 to have a very different kind of wife from me. Your wife 
 should be rich and beautiful, and quite different. You will 
 see it yourself some day, when you meet a woman worthy 
 of you, who will love you as you deserve to be loved.' 
 
 ' That is cold comfort when the woman I worship won't 
 have me. I cannot make you love me.' 
 
 ' Only because another man has all the love I have to 
 give,' said Adrienne, scarcely audibly, as she turned aside 
 her face. 
 
 Sebastian stood still for a moment. 
 
 1 Forgive me ! ' said he ; 'it is hopeless, I see. I will 
 never speak to you of it again.' 
 
 'Forgive me/' she said, much moved. ' I ought — no, I 
 could not tell you. I have been distracted. . . .1 ' 
 
 ' Do not reproach yourself,' said he, chivalrously. ' I 
 understand. After this ' (they had begun to move towards 
 the farther gate of the park, along the broad terrace where 
 the man was sitting on the seat in the trees) — ' after this I 
 have not another word to say. We shall have to meet as 
 before, Adrienne. May I call you Adrienne sometimes?' 
 
 ' Always, if you like.' 
 
 ' Will you try to overlook this — to treat me as if I had 
 not annoyed you thus?' 
 
 'Annoyed me — you I Oh, how can you ask?' 
 
 'And then slander will be silenced, and then there will 
 be no more misunderstandings. All will be clear between 
 us.' 
 
 The tenderness he felt he could not banish from his 
 voice, and hers trembled as she answered. 
 
 ' Quite clear — as it should be.' 
 
 He raised her hand to his lips, and they passed on. The 
 man on the bench had not moved, and they, as they uttered 
 these last words, which were in effect a farewell, saw nothing 
 and no one but each other. 
 
268 PROBATION. 
 
 ' I must go home. I cannot go on now,' said Adrienne, 
 as they arrived at the gate. 
 
 ' I will leave you. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said she, putting her hand in his, but not 
 looking at him. He kept her hand in his so long that at 
 last she looked up. 
 
 ' Dear Sebastian, I ' 
 
 ' There, that is all I wanted,' said he, with a rather faint 
 smile. 'God keep you, child. Good-bye !' 
 
 When Adrienne had left her home, it had been with the 
 firm resolution to see Mary Heywood before returning. 
 But she met Sebastian, and the visit was not accomplished 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ' Great Mother Nature ! 
 Eternal good and blessed ! 
 Hear me ! Hear my prayer ! 
 Forsake me not in this my need ! ' 
 
 Myles Heywood's life had become worse and darker than 
 merely a sad life. It was filled with a wretched pain and 
 unrest, which had been growing like a disease for weeks. 
 His was an earnest, passionate nature, deep and intense ; 
 but there was in it a well-spring of contentment, a something 
 essentially sweet and wholesome, which, so long as no very 
 disturbing element intruded, left him tolerably at ease with 
 his life, in spite of the vague dissatisfaction and striving 
 which had led him in earlier days to associate himself with 
 radical working-men's clubs ; which had made him eagerly 
 devour all kinds of iconoclastic literature, and which had 
 often sent him home, on pay-day, meditating upon the 
 unequal manner in which wealth was distributed. But he 
 had had nothing to make him feel this inequality, keenly 
 and cruelly, until, with one single circumstance, one single 
 evening's adventure, the turning-point in his life came, 
 and he seemed all at once to realise the significance of all 
 these things — wealth, station, and culture — in the shape of 
 Adrienne Blisset. From that time his view of things was 
 
PROBA TION. 269 
 
 changed. He had seen what he felt to be the best, and 
 most beautiful, and desirable thing in the world ; and he did 
 desire it with the ardour of a young man and a poet and a 
 lover all combined, and with an ardour deeper still — the 
 ardour of one who feels that everything great and high and 
 satisfactory lies in one direction, and in the other, blackness, 
 emptiness, death, if death be the opposite of life. He could 
 never look back or down again; and yet, the more he looked 
 forwards and upwards, the more did all he saw in the dis- 
 tance seem unattainable and impossible. He had quite 
 ceased to visit Adrienne. To be with her now was only a 
 prolonged ache and pain. He watched her wistfully, and 
 noted in his heart each day that passed over without a visit 
 from her. She used to come so often ; now she never came 
 at all. He knew — every one knew, that her uncle was 
 dead, and that she was his heiress. More than once he had 
 heard it was likely that she and Sebastian Mallory would 
 be married. He felt it to be very likely himself; but to go 
 and see her, to hear such a thing from her own lips, was 
 more than his will had strength to accomplish. 
 
 Myles had at one time heartily despised Sebastian 
 Mallory ; and later, with little more reason, had as in- 
 tensely disliked him. Now that was all changed, and he 
 himself was surprised to find how utterly and entirely his 
 resentment had burnt out, vanished, evaporated. He could 
 see his (as he considered him) successful rival without any 
 other feeling than one of quiet, despairing indifference. 
 His most active wish, when he was conscious of actively 
 wishing anything, was that all this could somehow come to 
 an end, that some change would soon take place. 
 
 The change was approaching, in a manner so unexpected, 
 so utterly terrible and unthought of, that if his sore and 
 weary heart led him somewhat astray, a just and righteously 
 acting world must not blame him too severely. When the 
 eyes are dim with watching, when every nerve is irritable 
 from long strain and a cruel endless tension, when calamity 
 quickly succeeds calamity, it is not given to all men to act 
 exactly as they ought to do. 
 
 On the morning of the day on which Mrs. Mallory had 
 
270 PROBA TION. 
 
 been so signally defeated as regarded Miss Blisset, Myles 
 Heywood received a letter. Address and contents were 
 alike in a handwriting unknown to him. The epistle was 
 simply headed ' Thanshope,' with the date following. He 
 turned it over, and the subscription puzzled him — ' A 
 Christian Well-wisher,' it was signed. Marvelling at the 
 whole thing, he began at the beginning, and read it through. 
 
 ' Do you know,' began the ' Christian Well-wisher,' ' what 
 position you are standing in ? Do you know to whom you 
 really owe your situation ? You owe it to your friend Mr. 
 Sebastian Mallory. Ask him if he did not get Canon 
 Ponsonby's casting vote, which, with his own, got you in. 
 I thought you were determined to owe nothing to him. 
 Do you know that, with all his fair professions, he is steal- 
 ing a march upon you in one direction — that if you don't 
 either make sure of a certain young lady, or give her up 
 altogether, you will soon look a great fool? I say this 
 because it is well known that you and she are, or were, 
 great friends. Ask any one you know, almost any one in 
 the town of Thanshope, what is said about you and her, and 
 see if I have not written the truth. There is one way open 
 to you out of this, and one only — you can leave the place. 
 I take a real interest in you, and advise this, supposing that 
 you do feel some grief at having caused her to be spoken 
 about in such a manner. Of course you are at liberty 
 either to take my advice or leave it. I should think there 
 cannot be much doubt which is the most manly, not to say 
 Christian, course. A Christian Well-wisher.' 
 
 He laid the letter down, feeling that he was trembling — 
 feeling almost as if his limbs failed him. He did not 
 speculate as to who had written the letter. Much of it 
 seemed true to him. Sebastian's love for Adrienne was no 
 delusion of his jealous fancy. Nothing was said against 
 her ; he was blamed, and it was hinted that others spoke 
 lightly of her. He was told to test the report, to inquire 
 for himself; the challenge was a fair one. 
 
 That he owed his situation to Sebastian Mallory's in- 
 fluence was nothing ; such things as that had now lost the 
 
PROBATION. 271 
 
 slightest power to distress him. That Sebastian was ' steal- 
 ing a march' upon him — that idea was so ludicrous and 
 so pitiable as to make him smile drily in the midst of his 
 own torture. There was no sting in that. If Sebastian 
 chose to woo Adrienne, if she chose to receive his wooing, 
 who should say them nay ? He had no such right, at least. 
 He dwelt for a moment on these points, and then came 
 the rush of horror and disgust, the sickening, dreadful part 
 of it. He shook with fury, and with misery too, as he 
 realised that there were people who had watched him and 
 her ; that wrong constructions had been put upon their 
 friendship ; that people gossiped about her — coupled her 
 name with his. It stung him into madness. There must 
 be something in it. ' Ask,' said the writer, ' ask, and see 
 if I have not written the truth.' To advise him to go away 
 — to appeal to his manly feeling ! It was like a hideous 
 dream, which he could not at first grasp. His heart was 
 sore and aching already ; this blow seemed to crush him. 
 His nerves had been strained for weeks past ; he saw 
 nothing in its proper light or just proportions. He thrust 
 the letter into his breast-pocket, and, driven by necessity, 
 went out to his work. How he got that work accomplished 
 he could not tell. Adrienne was not there, or he did not 
 think he could have struggled through with it. 
 
 At noon he took his way home again. Crossing the 
 Townfield, he met Harry Ashworth, who joined him, wish- 
 ing him good-day, and observing, 
 
 ' Myles, lad, you don't look so well. What ails you ?' 
 
 ' Nothing, nothing ails me,' said Myles ; and then there 
 flashed a sudden thought into his mind : that letter — that 
 ' Ask, and see if I have not written the truth.' He would put 
 it to the test now ; no time like the present. 
 
 'I am telling lies,' said he; 'something does ail me. 
 Harry, are you my friend ? ' 
 
 'Ay, for sure I am, old lad.' 
 
 ' Then come and prove it. Come with me into our house ; 
 I want to show you something.' 
 
 They were close at home. Myles led the way, and Harry 
 followed him into the parlour, the front room, now stripped 
 
PROBA T10K. 
 
 of almost all the furniture and ornaments which had formerly 
 been the pride of Mary's life. 
 
 ' See here !' said Myles, his eyes filled with a sombre fire, 
 and his lips twitching a little as he pulled out the letter : 
 ' read this, and tell me, when you've done, if you know who's 
 meant in it.' 
 
 Harry looked surprised, but took the letter and read it. 
 Myles watched him, thinking what a good idea it was to 
 make him read the letter. If the report were unfounded, 
 he would not guess who was referred to ; and if it were true, 
 he would. Harry's face changed, grew amazed, embarrassed 
 as he read on. When he had finished the letter, he folded 
 it up, and returned it, without speaking, to its owner. He 
 did not look at Myles, but out of the window, as he 
 said, 
 
 ' It's a very queer kind of a letter.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Myles, obliged to raise his voice, but desirous 
 that neither Mary nor Edmund should overhear the conver- 
 sation, ' can you give a guess, lad, as to who the lady is 
 that's spoken of?' 
 
 ' Well,' said Harry, rather confusedly, ' I have heard some 
 talk about you and — and — that lady.' 
 
 ' Suppose I don't know who is meant ? Suppose it's all 
 a riddle to me ?' said Myles. 
 
 But Harry shook his head, saying, 
 
 ' Nay, nay, that won't do.' 
 
 ' But tell me who you think it is,' said Myles, impatiently, 
 desperately ; ' tell me, for God's sake ! I will know, Harry, 
 so out with it.' 
 
 ' You must remember, it's no tale of mine — it's only what 
 I've heard ; and I believe the lady meant is Miss Blisset. 
 Fact is,' he added decisively, ' I know it is !' 
 
 Again Myles's lips quivered a little as he said, 
 
 ' You said you were my friend, Harry. You must tell 
 me what you've heard.' 
 
 ' Well, it's useless to deny that there's a story going about 
 that before her uncle died she was in love with you, and that 
 you said so often ; but / don't believe it, old chap. You 
 never think I believe it all?' 
 
PROBATION. 273 
 
 'That I said she was in love with me?' said Myles. in a 
 voice that had grown almost hoarse. 
 
 ' Yes ; and that when you went to their house it wasn't 
 exactly to see the old gentleman, but ' 
 
 ' There, that will do ! ' said the other, holding up his hand 
 and turning away sickened. It was too hideous. If any 
 such rumour had penetrated to her ears? He could not 
 speak, till Harry, in an ill-judged moment, said, 
 
 ' Nay, there's nothing to take on about so much, Myles. 
 Some enemy of yours has written that letter — some one as 
 wants you out of the way. Can't you see what he's driving 
 at when he advises you to go ? Likely enough some one 
 as thinks he might get your place if you were gone. But 
 you're not the sort of chap to pay any attention ' 
 
 ' The advice is good,' said Myles, curtly. ' Very likely I 
 shall take it. Do you know who set this tale going?' he 
 asked, turning to Harry with a look which startled the 
 latter. 
 
 ' That's just what no one can tell,' said he. ' It seems 
 to be known everywhere, and yet we can't tell where it comes 
 from.' 
 
 ' Though you give it the benefit of free discussion. Well, 
 I've found out what I wanted to know. There's only one 
 thing more — if you care for me or mine — and we've known 
 each other a good many years now — you'll never speak of 
 what we have spoken of this morning.' 
 
 ' My hand upon it,' said his friend. ' Never, so long as I 
 live.' 
 
 They left the room. Harry departed by the back way 
 to have a word with Mary, and to offer to come and sit up 
 that night with Edmund, who was much worse. The offer 
 was accepted, and Harry went away. 
 
 The midday meal was again a very sad one. Myles ate 
 nothing, and said nothing ; and Mary, full of fears and fore- 
 bodings, was almost as bad. 
 
 After dinner the young man went out again — up the street 
 he hated, to the room which had become a purgatory to him. 
 How he loathed the sight of that long building with the 
 many windows and the well-known faces ! It seemed to 
 
 T 
 
274 PROBA TION. 
 
 him as if every eye must be fixed upon him, every finger 
 pointing at him. 
 
 Work was not over until late that afternoon. It was six 
 o'clock, or after, when Myles got home again, and on going 
 into the house found that Mary was sitting upstairs with 
 Edmund ; so, after brooding a little, his mind full of wild, 
 half-chaotic projects and ideas, he left the house and wan- 
 dered out, he knew not whither. At last he found himself 
 in the park, pacing about the broad terrace, and looking 
 with eyes that saw nothing, across the idle town and the 
 nearer hills, to the blue, calm, moorland ridges far away 
 to the north. It was a scene he had loved, half uncon- 
 sciously, from his childhood up, but to-day it was without 
 joy — almost without existence for him. 
 
 At last he seated himself on a bench situated in a kind 
 of rockery which ran along one side of the terrace ; the 
 seat was a little retired in a hollow of the rockwork, and 
 there he remained, and gradually he turned his back upon 
 the prospect and his face to the wall, and hid his face in 
 his arm and fought alone, as well as he could, with the 
 misery and despair which rushed over him like a flood. 
 He saw no point of cheerfulness or light in all his life's sky. 
 All was black and thick and overcast. 
 
 ' This is no fit place for me to stay in,' he thought. ' I 
 must get away as soon as I can. If I go, all the lies will 
 die out quickly enough, and then — there's another man who 
 is ready to fight her battles for her, and he may see her as 
 much as he pleases, and there's no harm in it.' 
 
 How long he had remained there motionless and miser- 
 able he did not know. He had forgotten all outside 
 things, and Avas busied solely with his wretched self-intro- 
 spection. At last, however, distant voices first, and then 
 approaching footsteps, which advanced slowly and with 
 many pauses, penetrated to his abstracted ear. He did not 
 move; why should any one notice him, or think of him? 
 Still less did he move when he distinctly heard and recog- 
 nised Sebastian Mallory's voice close to him saying, 
 
 ' And then slander will be silenced, and there will be no 
 more misunderstandings. All will be clear between us.' 
 
PROBATION. 275 
 
 His voice was deep with love as he spoke, and to each 
 vibration of it Myles's heart seemed to give an answering 
 throb. 
 
 ' Quite clear, as it should be,' replied the voice he loved 
 best, and it trembled too. 
 
 They paced past. Myles hid his face more deeply in 
 his folded arms. He heard Sebastian kiss her hand, and 
 then their voices died away- — their footsteps too, and at last 
 Myles raised his head and changed his position. He was 
 half puzzled at the change which had come over him, at the 
 quiet apathy which seemed to fill his whole soul. He had 
 heard those words spoken which he had thought would be 
 harder than any other words for him to bear, and yet he 
 found himself sitting on in the same place, his pulses beat- 
 ing no faster, his breath coming no more quickly. Such utter 
 indifference he felt to be ominous, and yet, though he tried, 
 he could bring no different feelings forward; he repeated 
 to himself all that he thought he had lost, all he believed 
 Sebastian had won — conned it over as a devotee might tell 
 his beads, but it had no effect. He felt no special pain or 
 indignation. 
 
 And yet, when. he rose with the instinctive intention of 
 turning his steps homeward, he found that he was incapable 
 of going home. He recoiled from the very idea of entering 
 the house, or speaking to any one he knew. He stood 
 reasoning within himself about it. 
 
 ' Why shouldn't I go home ? Home is surely the best 
 place. Molly is there, and Ned. I ought to go and stay 
 with him ; he's so ill.' And he forced his feet towards home. 
 But it was useless, he felt it impossible to enter the house. 
 
 ' I know what I want,' he reasoned within himself. ' I want a 
 good stretch of a walk, right over the moors, and away from 
 this smoky hole. There's nothing like a moorland breeze for 
 blowing away unhealthy fancies. Harry used to say so, and 
 he's tried it often enough, and in trouble enough, poor lad.' 
 
 He smiled. He found himself pitying Harry Ashworth 
 with an intensity of commiseration such as he could not by 
 any means wring out for his own sorrows. 
 
 But he congratulated himself. A long, long walk, a walk 
 
276 PROP, A TION. 
 
 of twenty miles or so, to prove to himself that he was still 
 young and strong, and swift of foot, and that six weeks of 
 clerkship drudgery, ami six months' alternate hot and cold, 
 hope and fear, doubt and despair, had not impaired one iota 
 his strength and endurance ! That glorious moorland air, 
 blowing keen and fresh, though it was pure, from the north 
 over the top of Blackrigg ! There was surely not a grief, not 
 a solitude-nourished fear and sorrow, that its strong, bracing 
 breath would not blow clean away ! 
 
 By this time he had left the park, and was walking 
 quickly down the street in a northerly direction. He met 
 one or two friends and acquaintances before he got fairly 
 out of the town ; he returned their salutations quite me- 
 chanically, and still walked on. Just outside Thanshope, 
 as the suburb of Bridgefold began, there stood a well-known 
 public-house, the Craven Heifer ; and, as he was passing its 
 door, some one hailed him. 
 
 ' Eh, Myles ! I say, Myles, is yon you ? ' 
 
 He looked up, and saw a man standing in the doorway — 
 a man whom he had known years ago, who had once worked 
 side by side with him in the factory, and had left and gone 
 over into Rossendale before Myles had been promoted from 
 the weaving-shed to the warehouse. He stared blankly at 
 the man, who had been drinking, and though by no means 
 drunk, was decidedly elevated. 
 
 'Come in, mon?' he cried. 'It's years sin' I saw you. 
 Come in, and have a glass, for old acquaintance sake. I'll 
 stand it.' 
 
 He would not be gainsaid, but rolled out, and pulled his 
 former friend into the taproom. There were half-a-dozen 
 men there, all more or less happy and free from care, as it 
 seemed to Myles. They welcomed him noisily, and his 
 friend asked him, with unnecessary affectionateness of tone 
 and manner, what it should be. 
 
 ' What ? Oh. anything. What you are having yourself,' 
 said Myles, greeting first one and then another of them, and 
 thinking, with a kind of savage mirth, within himself, that 
 there were more kinds of pleasure in the world than one; 
 since he could not have one kind, he might as well try 
 
PROBATION. 277 
 
 another. He would see whether these men, who seemed 
 so pleased to see him, were really such bad company after 
 all. And he sat down, and waited until a girl brought him 
 a glass of steaming hot punch — whisky punch ; that was 
 what they were drinking. 
 
 'Now, then,' cried his acquaintance, 'good luck to you, 
 Myles ! Here's to our next merry meeting, eh?' 
 
 'To our next!' said Myles, raising the glass to his lips, 
 and then, even as it touched them, feeling as if he had 
 suddenly come to his senses, he put the glass down on the 
 table. ' Not yet,' he said, half aloud, and got up from his 
 seat and walked out of the room, shaking off the hands that 
 were outstretched to stay him, and unheeding the loud and 
 angry expostulations which came after him. 
 
 ' Pah ! ' he exclaimed, as he took his way along the road 
 again ; ' I'm not come to that yet ! ' 
 
 It was a long and toilsome road that led from the town 
 of Thanshope, through some outlying suburbs, to a large 
 manufacturing village, called Hamerton, which lay on the 
 very skirts of Yorkshire, closed in on all sides by the great 
 ridges of Blackrigg, and some neighbouring wild and deso- 
 late moors. He took the road along which Hugo and 
 Sebastian had once driven, and the sun had set as he turned 
 his face towards the hills with that strange sensation of 
 oppressive apathy and indifference ever at his heart. The 
 night was descending, the ' stars rushed out,' as he at length 
 gained the complete solitude of the moors, and, turning 
 aside from the road, plunged half knee-deep into the thick 
 heather and ling, which was the only vegetation about there. 
 He walked, for a very short time as it seemed to him — 
 really, for hours — battling with the horrible sensations of a 
 great, black, yawning, hideous blank, a huge emptiness, an 
 ewiges JVichts, which completely overpowered him. He was 
 unconscious how far he had gone, or where he was, or that he 
 was even weary, when suddenly he found himself stumbling 
 over the knolls of heather, and looking up, found that it was 
 dark. The summer night had closed in, and he, for aught he 
 knew, might be twenty miles away, or thirty, from Thanshope. 
 
 He thought he would sit down and rest a little, so he 
 
278 PROBA TION. 
 
 sank down upon the friendly heather, and found that it 
 formed a soft and yielding bed, and that the air which played 
 around his head and face was cool, and pure, and sweet. 
 For a moment he found a blessed sensation of rest and 
 relict, and then all things seemed softly to swim and fade 
 around him; with sweeping wing sleep came upon him, 
 and laid her finger upon his eyelids, and bade the weary 
 brain rest. He sank gradually down in the hollow of the 
 heather, and a deep, dreamless slumber overcame him, and 
 saved him. Never had sleep been a more beneficent visit- 
 ant ; never had kindly Nature taken to her soft arms a more 
 weary, heart-sick child of hers, than she did that summer 
 night, when she offered to Myles Hey wood rest upon her 
 own broad bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 Mary Heywood, all the weary afternoon of that weary day, 
 sat beside Edmund's bed and nursed him, with fear at her 
 heart that the nursing would be of no long duration. The 
 fever which had consumed him was over, but the weakness 
 which remained was terrible — it was a weakness from which, 
 as Mary dimly felt, there would never be any rallying. She 
 had brought sewing and knitting upstairs into the little bed- 
 room, and she drew down the blind ' to keep the sun out,' 
 as they both said. Edmund lay perfectly still. She asked 
 him if she should read to him, but he smiled a little, and 
 shook his head. Neither of them knew how very near the 
 end was. Edmund, if he could have known, would have 
 been very glad, and Mary would have been so miserable, 
 that it was well she did not know. 
 
 ' I could like to see Myles a bit,' said Edmund at last : 
 • I ne'er see him now, hardly. He's quite different from 
 what he was.' 
 
 ' He's not happy,' said Mary. ' I don't rightly know 
 what ails him, but it's summat very bad, I'm sure.' 
 
PROBATION. 279 
 
 ' Oh, he doesn't like bein' out o' work. No more should 
 I, if I was him. He's ne'er been used to such pinchin 
 work as this. They keep him a long time at yon shop.' 
 
 ' Ay, they do. Harry Ashworth said he'd come and sit 
 wi' thee to-neet, Ned. Would thou like it?' 
 
 Edmund assented, with a look of pleasure, and there was 
 silence, while the afternoon wore on, and at last Mary's head 
 began to droop. She was weary with sorrow, with working, 
 and with watching. The atmosphere of the room was close 
 and heavy, although Mary had conscientiously tried to 
 follow out the doctor's directions about keeping it ventilated. 
 She could not keep her eyes open, but slept in her chair 
 until Edmund's feeble touch on her arm awoke her, and 
 she started up. 
 
 ' Eh, what is it, lad ? ' 
 
 ' I could so like summat to drink, Molly,' said he, gasp- 
 ingly. ' And I think there's summat not reet wi' Myles. 
 I heard him come in, and sit quite still for a bit, and now 
 he's gone out again, without coming up here, or waitin' for his 
 tea, or anything.' 
 
 Thoroughly awake, Mary hurried downstairs, and found 
 emptiness and solitude. She could see that Myles had 
 been in. She could see the chair that he had drawn up 
 to the table and pushed away again, and she wondered, 
 and was uneasy at his going out thus, without word or 
 message. 
 
 The kitchen, too, felt close. She drew up the window, 
 and set the back door open to let some air in. Then she 
 roused the fire, and set the gently singing kettle upon it, 
 and brought out the tea-things. She prepared some tea for 
 Edmund, and took it upstairs to him. He had said he was 
 very thirsty, and he took the cup eagerly, and put his lips 
 to it, then put it down again. 
 
 ' I feel very faint, Mary ; I can't take that. I mun have 
 a little — bran ' 
 
 He had fainted, and it was some time before she suc- 
 ceeded in restoring him to consciousness. 
 
 ' Eh, I wish Myles was here ; I wish Harry would come,' 
 she kept murmuring to herself, looking with anguish upon 
 
28o PROBA TION. 
 
 the poor worn face, which had now the stamp of the 
 approaching end set upon it in unmistakable characters. 
 
 At last a knock at the outer door informed her that 
 Harry Ashworth had come. She ran downstairs and let 
 him in, drawing him into the kitchen ; and when they were 
 there, sat down upon her rocking-chair, and began to cry 
 heartily. 
 
 ' Why, Mary, what ails thee, lass? ' said Harry, taking her 
 hand. 
 
 ' Myles is gone out — I don't know where, and yon poor 
 lad upstairs hasn't so much longer to be here,' said Mary, 
 looking at him with her tearful eyes. ' Thou munnot leave 
 me yet awhile, Harry.' 
 
 Whether the presence of a great mutual sorrow broke 
 the barrier which had hitherto existed between these 
 two, I know not. As Mary begged him not to leave 
 her, their eyes met, and something in those eyes gave 
 Harry the courage he had never before been able to sum- 
 mon to his aid. It was as if by a mutual impulse that 
 they bent towards each other, and their lips met for 
 consolation and reassurance ; and Harry, with a wonderful 
 sense of strength of courage, put his arm round Mary's 
 waist, saying, 
 
 ' There's nought I'd like so well as never to leave thee at 
 all, Mary, if thou could look at such a poor, deaf, marred 
 chap as me. Sometimes I think thou could, and some- 
 times I'm sure thou couldn't Dost think thou could make 
 up thy mind to take me ? ' 
 
 ' I made up my mind long ago what I'd do if ever thou 
 asked me,' said Mary, naively. 
 
 ' And what was that?' 
 
 ' Why, to take thee, for sure,' she answered. 
 
 Harry, smiling, looking on her with amaze and admiration, 
 ventured on another kiss, and said, 
 
 1 Eh, but I have been a fool not to speak to thee before.' 
 
 She smiled a little, and then the remembrance of the 
 troubled present returning to her, said, 
 
 ' I'm very happy, but we mun think o' poor Ned just 
 now. Thee go upstairs, and tell him what thou's done. 
 
PROBATION. 281 
 
 He always were suspicious about thee. It'll cheer him up 
 like, and I'll come after thee in a minute or two.' 
 
 Just for a few moments the news had the desired effect 
 upon Edmund. He shook hands with Harry, smiled and 
 looked what he had not voice enough to say. But the same 
 chill look of coming death was upon his face ; and Mary, 
 as Myles still did not come, could not rest until she had 
 been out and brought the doctor back with her. The doctor 
 was a busy man. He made a very brief visit — said nothing 
 much in the sick-room, but ordered some restorative, and, 
 when Mary followed him downstairs and tremulously asked 
 his opinion, said brusquely, but not at all unkindly, 
 
 ' My good girl, you must make up your mind to lose him. 
 I cannot even assure you that he will live till morning.' 
 
 Restraining her tears, Mary went upstairs again, and, with 
 Harry, resumed her watch by the sick lad. They were slow 
 and solemn hours. They saw the end approaching under 
 their very eyes ; they saw Death's grey seal stamping its 
 impress more and more visibly upon the features, and one 
 on either side the narrow little bed they sat, while it grew 
 deep night, and still Myles did not come home. 
 
 ' What can be keeping him ? ' the girl uneasily wondered 
 again and again ; but she dared not speak her wonder, for 
 every time that Edmund roused from the lethargy which 
 was settling more and more heavily upon him, he looked 
 round with an anxious gaze, and a vague astonishment at 
 the absence of that brother who had been his stay and pro- 
 tection all his weak and painful life. 
 
 Midnight passed, and still the sorrowful watch lasted. 
 One o'clock struck, and still he came not ; and still the face 
 on the pillow grew grayer and more deathlike. Two 
 o'clock passed, and yet all was as it had been. Towards 
 half-past two, Mary, going softly to the window, raised a 
 corner of the blind, and beheld the first flush of dawn in the 
 east, as it may be seen at that hour on a June morning. 
 Her heavy eyes looked across the houses, across the town, 
 to where the pure sky, with a cool, bright light, showed the 
 ridges of the moors. She looked back into the room. 
 Harry's eyes had followed her, and hung upon her face ; 
 
282 PROBA TION. 
 
 and Edmund's eyes too were opened, wide, bright, and clear. 
 His voice had regained a last flicker of strength, as he said 
 distinctly, 
 
 ' Wind up the blind, Molly, and open the window a bit. 
 Let me see the sun rise.' 
 
 Speechless, Mary complied. A waft of pure, fresh morn- 
 ing air was borne into the room through the open window. 
 Then there was a pause. From where he lay, Edmund 
 could see the broadening rose flush in the east, and then 
 suddenly the chimes from the spire rang out ; three was 
 solemnly tolled, and in a moment there rang out upon the 
 sleeping town, resting from its troubles, the sweet old tune, 
 ' Life let us cherish !' Mary heard the tune, 'Myles's tune,' 
 as she called it, and wondered longingly where he was. 
 She returned to the bedside, and Harry went to the window. 
 Edmund had closed his eyes again, and another quarter 
 had chimed, when Harry exclaimed, 
 
 ' He's there ! He's coming !' 
 
 In a few moments more Myles stood in the room. 
 There were very few words more. They all stood round 
 the bed, and Edmund held his brother's hand. In the 
 watching him, the others had no time to notice the haggard 
 look on Myles's face. Day grew broader, and life waned. 
 Four was chimed melodiously ; the first stir of life was 
 audible, as Edmund quietly breathed his last. 
 
 Mary was sobbing — the sunrise was over — and day, full, 
 glowing, and brilliant, poured in upon the dead face. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DUST AND ASHES. 
 
 The day that followed was naturally a sad one. Mary was 
 too much occupied in mourning her loss to notice Myles as 
 she otherwise might have done. Harry left the house about 
 five o'clock, promising to call again about dinner-time. A 
 friendly neighbour came in and helped Mary to perform all 
 that remained to be done for the dead. At last all was 
 
PROBA TION. 2S3 
 
 finished. The woman had gone, and Mary paused as she 
 left the room, looking round it with a kind of sorrowful 
 pride. It looked very white, and pure, and still. 
 
 She had drawn the blind down and set everything in 
 the most exquisite order. The dead figure lay stretched 
 out in its eternal repose, with calm, beautiful face, and 
 quietly closed eyes. At the door she returned, and ran up 
 to the bedside, and kissed the cold forehead. 
 
 ' Poor lad ! poor lad !' she whispered between her tears, 
 ' thine has been a hard life, but thou'rt in heaven now, if 
 ever anybody was.' 
 
 When Myles came in, during the forenoon, she was struck, 
 for the first time, with his great stillness and the strange, 
 haggard look upon his face. She remembered that he had 
 been out all night, and asked him what he had been doing. 
 
 ' I dare say it seemed unkind,' he replied, ' but you may 
 trust me, Molly, I couldn't help it. I can't explain to you 
 why it was; something had happened. I couldn't help it' 
 
 He sat down beside her, and took her hand, and they 
 both remained there, looking mournfully into the little fire ; 
 she with the sorrow of deep affection which knows its object 
 removed ; he sad too, but with a more incurable sadness 
 than hers. They were both oppressed with sorrow, but he 
 
 ' Beneath a rougher sea, 
 
 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than she.' 
 
 On this scene entered Harry Ashworth, with offers of his 
 services if they were wanted, and also with the object of 
 telling Myles what had passed between him and Mary. 
 
 Myles heard it all out, down to Mary's acknowledgment 
 that she wished to marry Harry, ' supposing thou hast 
 nothing against it, Myles.' 
 
 'Against it? What could I have against it? You've 
 my hearty consent and good wishes, both of you. There 
 won't be a better wife in Thanshope, nor in England, than 
 you'll get, Hany ; and I know you so well that I'm not afraid 
 to trust Molly to you. I'm glad it is so, for I don't think I 
 shall stay here long, and I should have been unhappy to leave 
 her alone. I hope you'll both be as happy as you deserve.' 
 
284 PROBA TION. 
 
 He shook hands with Harry and kissed Mary, but he 
 could not force a smile. They saw that he was glad, 
 relieved to find that they had decided to be married ; but 
 they also saw that he had some sorrow behind it all, which 
 
 was greater than the joy. 
 
 # # * * # 
 
 It was a little after eight on the same evening. 
 Myles found himself standing opposite the Townhall, with 
 his hand on the latch of the Oakenrod gate. He paused 
 a moment before lifting it, then summoning up courage, did 
 so, and stood within the garden of the house against which 
 he had had so long and so strong a prejudice. 
 
 He had never been so near it before. His feet were 
 strange within the gates of rich or important people of any 
 kind, but particularly here. It was with a sort of thrill that 
 he looked round at the smoothly shaven grass, the dazzling 
 flower-beds, in all the splendour of their June garments, 
 the softly rolled gravel beneath his feet. The errand he 
 came upon was one which, a month ago, he would have 
 repudiated, would have said that no imaginable combination 
 of circumstances could make him undertake. Yes, truly ; 
 but the combinations of circumstances which force us into 
 the actions that humble us, and wound us, and sting our 
 self-esteem with hornet-stings, are always such combinations 
 as we should never imagine beforehand, because it never 
 occurs to us that deserving persons, such as ourselves, can 
 be put into positions only appropriate to ill-regulated conduct. 
 
 Myles was conscious of no bad conduct or evil intentions, 
 but only of a great, ever-growing misery, which was so strong 
 as to force him to try in some way to escape from it, and 
 this was the only path which presented itself as practicable ; 
 so he took it, as is generally the case. 
 
 He walked up to the front door, past the open windows 
 with the lace curtains fluttering inside, and pulled the bell. 
 An unpleasant fear seized him, lest Sebastian should be out, 
 gone to see Adrienne, perhaps, and he would have his hard 
 task to do all over again. 
 
 A page-boy opened the door, and Myles inquired if Mr. 
 Mallory were at home. 
 
PROBA T10N. 285 
 
 ' I believe so,' said the youth, a little wondering at the 
 unusual visitor. 
 
 ' I wish to see him,' said Myles, stepping in, ' if he is not 
 engaged, that is; and my business is rather particular.' 
 
 The boy, after serious consideration, decided to show 
 the visitor into the library, and asked him to take a seat. 
 This he did, and inquired, 
 
 ' Who shall I say wishes to see him ? ' 
 
 ' Tell him that Myles Heywood would be glad to speak 
 to him, if he is disengaged.' 
 
 The page disappeared. Myles was left alone in the library, 
 and his quick, restless eyes roamed round it, and took 
 everything in, and the full significance of everything — the 
 soft carpets, the harmonious, subdued hues of walls, hang- 
 ings, and furniture ; the relief afforded by gleams of gold 
 here and there ; the book-cases filled with books of all times 
 and in all languages ; the great bronze busts of Aristotle 
 and Sophocles ; the quaint blue and white vases ; the two 
 curious paintings by Sebastian's favourite German artist ; 
 the reading-stands ; the writing-tables ; the pleasant luxury 
 and taste, and abundance of every appointment. 
 
 ' No wonder ! ' said he to himself. ' And between the 
 man and me — his manners and mine, his mind and mine — 
 there is just the same difference as there is between this 
 library of his and our little flagged kitchen at home. This 
 is the place for her, and I feel as if I could see her here 
 sitting at that writing-table, or standing in the window there 
 looking out.' 
 
 He heaved a deep sigh, and at that moment some one 
 began to play a melody on a piano in another room ; a soft, 
 sad, melancholy air, to which he listened so intently that he 
 did not hear the door open, and was first roused by Sebas- 
 tian's voice. 
 
 ' Good evening. I am sorry to have kept you waiting ; 
 but I was engaged and could not escape.' 
 
 ' Don't mention it,' said Myles, rising ; and as each man's 
 eyes fell upon the other man's face, both felt surprise. 
 Sebastian almost showed his, in a suppressed exclamation, 
 but Myles was too sad and oppressed to experience more 
 
286 PROBA TIOX. 
 
 than a vague wonder and astonishment that a man in what 
 lie thought was Sebastian's position should wear that sub 
 dued, grave, downcast look. 
 
 ' I noticed that you were not in your place to-day," 
 began Mallory, by way of opening the conversation ; ' no- 
 thing wrong at home, I hope ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; we are in trouble at home. My brother, who 
 has been ill for a long time, died this morning, early.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry indeed. Of course you would not 
 think of coming to work, at present. It is not ' 
 
 ' It was not to excuse myself from work that I came,' 
 said Myles, in the same quiet, constrained way. ' My 
 brother's death is a grief to me, of course ; but one does 
 not talk about such things. I was going to trouble you on 
 a matter of business, if you can spare the time ' 
 
 ' Perfectly well. In what can I help you ? ' 
 
 Myles bit his lips. He had strong ideas about what it 
 was fitting for a man to say and do under certain circum- 
 stances. Probably if he had formulated some of his ideas 
 upon ethics, most sophisticated persons would have broken 
 into inextinguishable laughter. One favourite maxim of his 
 was that, to use his own language, ' To blackguard a man 
 high and low, and then go and ask a favour of him, was a 
 mean, dirty trick ; fit for a hound, perhaps, but not for an 
 honest man.' If he could not be said to have ' blackguarded' 
 Sebastian high and low, he had certainly spoken with less 
 than courtesy, both of him and to him ; it was impossible to 
 ignore that fact, and proceed to his real errand. 
 
 ' You may think it a very strange thing, but I've come to 
 ask a favour of you,' said he. 
 
 ' Is it strange ? I shall be glad to grant it if I can.' 
 
 Myles lifted his hand a moment, and then went on, 
 
 ' You may not know that I have often spoken very bitterly 
 of you, but you do know that I have not been particularly 
 civil to you — have I ? ' 
 
 ' Well, not exactly effusive,' admitted Sebastian, with a 
 slight smile, wondering whether he had at last completed 
 his much-desired conquest. 
 
 ' It is true,' said Myles. ' I had a bad opinion of you — 
 
PROBATION. 287 
 
 a prejudice against you — and I expressed it. If it had not 
 been for troubles I have had lately,' he added, with that 
 little nervous twitch of the lips which had only lately been 
 present with him ; * but for those troubles, I might have 
 gone on thinking and speaking evil of you without a cause, 
 but my eyes have been opened. I see how utterly wrong 
 I was — blind and bigoted. You have proved yourself a 
 very different man from what I thought you — a very much 
 wiser and better man than I should have been in your place 
 — and I beg your pardon for what I have said against you.' 
 
 ' But, my dear fellow, you must not take it so terribly in 
 earnest ; so — so tragically. Every one has his prejudices ; 
 I have some most preposterous ones, I believe. All the 
 same, I confess to you that I was excessively piqued by 
 your bad opinion of me. It has been a matter of some 
 moment, with me, to overcome that prejudice, and enlist 
 you amongst my friends. If I can say that you are amongst 
 them now, I must feel that I have won a kind of victory.' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory, I can never be amongst your enemies, 
 never again. Let that be enough. I can say no more. 
 You are wiser and more generous, too, than I am ; but 
 you can afford to be so. The reason I came to-night was 
 to ask you if you still remembered an offer you made me 
 a short time ago — the offer to give me a place away from 
 Thanshope and out of England, you said?' 
 
 ' I remember it perfectly well, and that I said I could 
 still do it if you changed your mind about it. Well ? ' 
 
 ' I have changed my mind about it. If you can carry 
 your generosity a little farther, and get me that place, or 
 something like it — the farther away from here the better — 
 I shall be — God knows, how grateful to you : I can never 
 express it.' 
 
 ' I can still do it,' said Sebastian, looking attentively and 
 kindly at the eager, haggard face of the other. ' But I am 
 sorry you think of leaving Thanshope.' 
 
 ' I must leave Thanshope. It is to get away from here 
 that I ask. Will the work be hard ? I hope so. I care 
 for nothing but hard work — hard work,' he repeated, in a 
 sort of restless, prolonged sigh. 
 
2 8S PROIiA TION. 
 
 1 You will have what you wish for. The work is certainly 
 pretty stiff. It is in Germany — in a rough, mining district 
 near a large town. There is a cotton factory, and some 
 collieries. They have a lot of English and Irish workpeople 
 there. The master and owner, Herr Siismeyer, is a very 
 intimate friend of mine. He wants a sort of superintendent 
 — an Englishman, and one who is not afraid of work. He 
 himself is as much an Englishman as a German. Still, you 
 must know a little of the language. Did you not learn 
 something of it from Miss Blisset?' he added deliberately. 
 
 'Yes,' said Myles, curtly. 
 
 ' Ah, you will soon pick up more ; you are quick, and 
 you must study when work is over. That will give you 
 as much occupation as even you could wish, I think. I 
 shall give you a very high recommendation, indeed, as being 
 personally known to me.' 
 
 ' And as having been always polite, reasonable, and 
 amiable with my superiors ; not ready to take offence, and 
 willing to own myself in the wrong !' suggested Myles, with 
 grim humour. 
 
 Sebastian smiled, in silence, as he drew a paper-case and 
 inkstand towards him, and wrote rapidly. He fastened up the 
 letter, and addressed it to — Herrn Gustav St ; SMEYER,Eisen- 
 dorf, Westphalien, Prussia, and handed it to Myles, saying, 
 
 ' I know the situation is still open, and that letter will 
 secure it for you. I shall also write to Herr Siismeyer to- 
 night, so as to lose no time. From what you say, I sup- 
 pose you will want to go soon ? ' 
 
 ' As soon as ever I can — in a few days, when poor Ned 
 is buried, and I can leave Mary.' 
 
 ' You will leave your sister behind you?' 
 
 ' For a good reason,' said Myles. ' She's going to be 
 married, and I know I leave her in good hands.' 
 
 ' May I ask whom she will marry?' 
 
 ' Harry Ashworth, a friend of ours. He has loved her 
 long,' said Myles, not even feeling surprised that he should 
 be relating such things to Sebastian. 
 
 ' I am very glad ; I wish them all happiness. I am sure 
 the man is fortunate who marries your sister.' 
 
PROBA TION. 289 
 
 ' Yes, he is,' assented Myles. ' Then/ he added, ' you 
 think I may go any day?' 
 
 ' Any day ; but before you go, I hope you will see me 
 again, so that I can give you some idea of the place, and tell 
 you what route to take. It is an out-of-the-way sort of place ; 
 and excuse me, the journey is somewhat expensive, and ' 
 
 ' You are very kind. My friend Harry has money which he 
 will lend me. I shall soon repay him if I once get work. He 
 won't want it till he is married. Let me see : the day after to- 
 morrow — Mary will stay with Harry's mother. Would it be 
 convenient if I called the day after to-morrow, in the evening?' 
 
 'The day after to-morrow- — to-morrow is Mrs. Spenceley's 
 ball,' said Sebastian, half to himself. ' Yes ; the day after 
 to-morrow will suit me perfectly well.' 
 
 ' And the day after that I can go,' exclaimed Myles, the 
 first ray of anything like pleasure flashing across his face. 
 ' I can go,' he repeated. 
 
 Sebastian looked at him, not feeling at all satisfied with 
 his victory. All that he had ever wished to himself, with 
 regard to Myles, had come to pass. The latter had owned 
 himself wrong ; had apologised for his own frowardness ; 
 had descended so far as to ask a favour, and to express 
 himself in tones of unmistakable emotion as deeply grateful 
 when it was granted. And yet — the effect was not in the 
 least what it ought to have been. The sensations of the 
 victor were anything but jubilant. 
 
 'You seem very anxious to get away?' he remarked, 
 involuntarily and inquiringly. 
 
 ' Yes, I am ; it's the only thing I care for, just at present,' 
 said Myles. ' Good night,' he added, rising. ' I can't ex- 
 press my gratitude to you. You would have been justified 
 in treating me very differently.' 
 
 'Indeed I should not !' exclaimed Sebastian; and the 
 sense that his victory was a barren one was borne still more 
 strongly in upon him. 
 
 What was it worth if, after all, it had only been won for 
 him by Myles's adverse circumstances, not by him, through 
 his own influence over the conquered one ? 
 
 ' Heywood,' he exclaimed earnestly, ' is there nothing 
 u 
 
290 PROBA TION. 
 
 behind all this that you could tell me ? Can I do nothing 
 for you but help you to get away from this place, which 
 seems to have grown so unbearable to you ? I do not ask 
 from ordinary curiosity — you must know that ; it is from 
 sympathy, and a sincere wish to be your friend, if possible.' 
 
 Myles shook his head. 
 
 ' I can speak to no man of what troubles me, thank you,' 
 said he. 'All the same, I am not ungrateful.' 
 
 He held out his hand, which the other grasped heartily, 
 and in another minute found himself alone. 
 
 All that evening, all the night, he was haunted by a vision 
 of the pale face and miserable eyes of Myles Heywood — a 
 vision of suffering whose very remembrance oppressed him. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HUGO. 
 
 The few days intervening between her dispute with her son 
 and the Spenceleys' ball were, as may be supposed, not par- 
 ticularly pleasant ones to Mrs. Mallory. Sebastian, after his 
 interview with Adrienne, came home, and looking into the 
 drawing-room found his mother alone. She did not deign 
 to notice him, but he, coming in, said to her, 
 
 ' Mother, I want to speak to you.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' I proposed to Miss Blisset this evening.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 ' You do not ask what reception my offer met with.' 
 
 ' 1 imagine, considering your relative positions, there can- 
 not be much need to inquire.' 
 
 'Still, I may as well tell you that she refused me.' 
 
 .Mrs. Mallory was profoundly astonished, of course ; but 
 as, after a moment's reflection, she did not perceive herself 
 any nearer her real and cherished object, Sebastian's mar- 
 riage with Helena, she contented herself with uttering a 
 sneering little laugh, and saying, in an exasperating tone — 
 
 ' Really ! ' 
 
PROBATION. 291 
 
 ' So that you will not have the annoyance of knowing her 
 your daughter-in-law. But I think it better to mention 
 that such remarks as you made about her this morning 
 must not be repeated in my presence. I do not choose to 
 hear anything spoken of that young lady which is not quite 
 respectful.' 
 
 ' Though she has jilted you,' said Mrs. Mallory, with an 
 amiable smile. 
 
 ' I was not aware of it.' 
 
 'Very likely not; men seldom do know when women 
 make fools of them. The better for them and their convic- 
 tion as to their superior wisdom.' 
 
 ' You may possibly be right,' he rejoined, with perfect 
 temper ; ' but the point I wish to impress upon you is, that 
 nothing disrespectful is ever to be uttered of Miss Blisset 
 in my presence. The other questions are quite supple- 
 mentary.' 
 
 She made no answer, and Sebastian, politely wishing her 
 good night, retired to his study. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory sat alone, very angry, after her phlegmatic, 
 batrachian fashion, at what had happened, and longing very 
 much, for the relief of her own feelings, to punish some one 
 in some way. It was too exasperating that Sebastian should 
 behave in that manner, after all her plans for his good and 
 welfare. Helena Spenceley was at the moment perfection 
 in her eyes. 
 
 1 At any rate, he must go to the ball the day after to-mor- 
 row,' she said to herself. ' It is a good chance. There is no 
 time when a man is so likely to fall in love with a woman 
 as when he has just been " refused " by another woman.' 
 
 But here her thoughts wandered off to Adrienne, and 
 she felt as angry with her for her presumption in refusing 
 Sebastian as she would have felt with her success had she 
 accepted him. Indeed, her audacity in attracting him at 
 all was thoroughly odious ; she was a little dog in the 
 manger, who would neither accept the man's love herselt 
 nor leave him free to wander aside to where beauty and a 
 hundred thousand pounds waited for him to lift his hand 
 in order to utter a rapturous ' Yes.' 
 
292 PROBA TION. 
 
 I For Helena is in love with him, let her pretend what 
 she likes,' she muttered angrily. ' I can see it distinctly. 
 He might have her for the asking. ... I wonder if all 
 children are born to break their mothers' hearts?' 
 
 With which speculation agitating her brain she retired to 
 rest. 
 
 Her spirit was still ruffled and ill at ease all the next day, 
 and by degrees she concentrated her ill-temper upon a single 
 object — a sort of focus to her anger and vexation — and that 
 object was no other than Hugo von Birkenau. She had 
 always regarded him with little favour : he was poor, 
 dependent, and behaved himself as if he were rich and free. 
 Now, everything that he said or did appeared an offence — 
 a purposely intended, premeditated insult directed at herself, 
 with the purpose of angering her — a very strange frame 
 of mind, dear reader, and one which, from its being so 
 utterly unknown to you and me and eminently reasonable 
 persons like ourselves, would almost seem to require some 
 elucidation or description. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory found the day go over, and Hugo continue 
 to be insultingly cheerful and conversational, without her 
 being able to find any actual ground for quarrelling with 
 him. It would come, she was determined; it should come: 
 he was too impertinent to be tolerated without an attempt to 
 repress him. 
 
 On the evening on which Myles came to see Sebastian, 
 the latter and Hugo were sitting together in Sebastian's study. 
 Hugo had heard of Adrienne's refusal, and though condol- 
 ing, did not feel so sorry as he considered he ought to have 
 done. By degrees the conversation drifted off to Hugo's 
 own affairs and prospects. Sebastian told him he thought 
 he ought seriously to think about what he meant to do. 
 
 I I have thought about it, and decided,' said Hugo. ' I'm 
 going to write an opera. That has been my ambition ever 
 since I could strum upon a piano.' 
 
 ' But, my dear lad, you will never learn all that you must 
 know in order to write an opera by staying in Thanshope. 
 You must go away, Hugo, to your native land, where alone 
 true music flourishes, and you must study. You ought to 
 
PROBATION. 293 
 
 go to Koln or Leipzig or some other conservatorium. I 
 should recommend Leipzig.' 
 
 ' I have always thought of Leipzig,' answered the boy, 
 ' and I will go as soon as you like, Sebastian, but it will be 
 very dreary without you.' 
 
 ' Oh, bah ! Yours is a fickle, artist nature, Hugo, revel- 
 ling in the delight of the moment. You will think Leipzig 
 heaven a week after you get there, and all the other pupils 
 in the conservatorium seraphs and angels, and you will 
 wonder how you ever lived here.' 
 
 ' Not fickle, Sebastian ! ' he cried, with the tragic earnest 
 which sometimes made Sebastian think him so like Helena 
 Spenceley. 'Anything but that ! Anything but fickle to you ! 
 If I thought I ever could be fickle to you, I'd put an end to 
 myself to-night, and have no qualms of conscience about it. 
 Such a wretch would be better out of the world than in it.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ! But one thing I do wish you would 
 promise me. I've often thought of asking you before, but I 
 was afraid it might seem like trying to entrap your youth 
 and innocence.' 
 
 ' What is it ? Quick, tell me what it is !' asked Hugo, his 
 eyes ablaze with eagerness. 
 
 ' Well, it is this : that you will never, before you are one- 
 and-twenty, take any very important step, without telling me 
 what you intend to do. I don't say asking my permission. 
 I trust too much to your honour and purity of heart to keep 
 you from doing anything bad,' he added, with a smile. ' I 
 would not harass and fetter you by any such stupid restric- 
 tion ; but, as I trust you, I want you to trust me. Don't do 
 anything important without telling me that you intend to 
 do it, and giving me a chance to offer you a specimen of 
 my superior wisdom, you know.' 
 
 'What a question ! I swear it !' said Hugo, enthusiasti- 
 cally. ' As if I could do anything without consulting you ! ' 
 
 ' Not so fast ! ' said his friend, laughing. ' Wait till the 
 time comes. I shall most likely seem then a wearisome 
 old formalist, who ' 
 
 ' Never /' 
 
 ' But I tell you, it will be so, you obstinate young dog ! 
 
294 PROBA TION. 
 
 There are temptations, Hugo, and you, with your tempera- 
 ment, will find them as hard to resist as if they were red- 
 hot fiery hail. I am such a slow, phlegmatic sort of fellow. 
 They don't affect me in the same way. My temptations 
 always come too late. By the time I begin to think I should 
 like to do something either bad or idiotic, the chance is 
 over, and I am saved. So I have got the reputation of 
 being a very well-conducted sort of person, and not caring 
 for the things other fellows care about' 
 
 ' At any rate, I solemnly give the promise you ask, and 
 should have done so if it had been ten times as binding — 
 and there's my hand upon it,' said Hugo, to whom the idea 
 of binding himself to any particular thing, by ' solemn oaths 
 and execrations,' was especially fascinating and delightful. 
 It seemed to surround him and his friend with a little 
 romance, and to separate them from the outer crowd. It 
 opened up vague possibilities of self-denial, trial, and pro- 
 bation, and a prospect of endurance through good and 
 evil, thick and thin, which delighted his ardent soul. 
 
 ' Then that is settled,' said Sebastian, contentedly. ' We 
 can talk about your going away later. ' 
 
 It was towards the close of this conversation that Sebas- 
 tian had been called away to Myles Heywood — the day, 
 therefore, before the ball at Castle Hill. 
 
 On the following afternoon Sebastian had to go out. His 
 mother asked him at lunch if he intended to go to the dance, 
 and he said yes, he supposed he did — he must now, but he 
 did not care about it, and did not think it was in very good 
 taste to be having balls at such a time. Moreover, he had 
 heard a rumour that Mr. Spenceley's own affairs caused him 
 some anxiety. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory said she supposed it was Mr. Spenceley's 
 own business ; he ought to know best whether he were able 
 to give balls at such a time. He could not put off his 
 daughter's twenty-first birthday for an indefinite time. 
 
 'No,' said Sebastian, 'and that is just what makes the 
 whole affair such a melancholy farce. His daughter is very 
 anxious not to have any ball. She told me so, and nearly 
 cried with vexation about it' 
 
PROBATION. 205 
 
 Mrs. Mallory made no reply, and Sebastian, saying he 
 had a meeting to attend, went out. 
 
 Hugo was that afternoon in one of his oft-recurring idle 
 moods, and wandered about, apparently not knowing what 
 to do with himself. He was anticipating the ball eagerly 
 enough, having extracted from Helena the promise of no 
 less than three waltzes — less of a distinction than he im- 
 agined, perhaps, since Helena, in granting them, had been 
 thinking chiefly of escaping from the defective dancing and 
 fatuous remarks of the Thanshope young men, amongst 
 whom she enjoyed what she considered a fatal popularity. 
 She had wondered whether to keep any dances for Sebastian. 
 Would he ask her to dance at all ? 
 
 ' Of course he will ! ' she thought, ' as a matter of duty, 
 and I think I shall fill up my programme, and show it him 
 without any comment when he asks me. Then he will 
 raise his eyebrows in that way I hate, and make a little bow, 
 and smile a little smile, and remark, " I see I am indeed 
 too late ;" and stand on one side, perfectly content not to 
 dance, since the nicest girl he ever knew is not there.' 
 
 But these workings of the feminine mind could not pos- 
 sibly be known to Hugo, who was only aware that he had 
 received an indulgent smile and a pleasant glance from 
 Helena's dark eyes, as she protested a little against the three 
 waltzes, but yielded in the end. He repaired to the draw- 
 ing-room, and, with characteristic fitfulness, spent the whole 
 afternoon in playing waltzes, good, bad, and indifferent, of 
 every kind and from every source he could think of. Waltz 
 after waltz flowed from his rapid fingers. Gung'l and 
 Strauss, Beethoven, Mozart, Schubert — ancient and modern 
 composers, good and bad ones, were laid under contribution, 
 till his whole being seemed a waltz, and he was in a state 
 of highly strung nervous excitement and anticipation, with 
 which mingled the memories of past waltzes with partners of 
 a bygone day. Hugo felt his whole soul penetrated with 
 music, melody, and happiness as he sat in the shady corner 
 of the drawing-room and saw the sun stream warmly in at 
 the side window. He felt life that afternoon very full and 
 rich and delicious, and crowded with sweet and grand pos- 
 
'■96 PROBATION. 
 
 sibilities. He felt at harmony with all the world, and was 
 sure it was a good place to live in. 
 
 He had just finished the solemn, passionate strains of a 
 waltz of Beethoven's, and still his fingers lingered on the 
 keys, and still his ears drank in the glorious notes, when the 
 door opened and Mrs. Mallory came into the room. 
 
 Hugo stopped playing. She did not openly request him 
 to do so, but he knew she disliked to hear him, and to his 
 fastidious taste the very presence of an unsympathetic spirit 
 was jarring. Spontaneity ceased ; pleasure was gone. 
 
 He rose from the instrument, went to the sunny window, 
 and hummed over the air he had been playing. 
 
 'At what time do we go to-night, Mrs. Mallory?' he 
 presently inquired. 
 
 ' Go where ? ' 
 
 'To the ball.' 
 
 ' At eight o'clock, I believe,' she said, with stony coldness. 
 Mrs. Mallory's anger was coming to a climax now ; it would 
 be strange if Hugo did not say something which should 
 cause the storm to break over his head. Unconsciously, 
 unwittingly, he led straight up to the point. 
 
 ' I should like to dance every night,' he said, rather en- 
 thusiastically, for his music still haunted him, and even 
 Mrs. Mallory's chill influence could not quite bring him 
 down from his heights of abstraction to the commonplaces 
 of every day — yet. 
 
 ' Very likely,' she said. ' I have noticed that the more 
 frivolous a thing is, the more you delight in it.' 
 
 ' Dancing is not necessarily frivolous,' Hugo assured her 
 with the greatest solemnity. ' It is, or should be, an art ; 
 not a mere kicking about of the legs.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' When I grow up,' continued Hugo, ' that is to say, when 
 I am majorat, come of age, I mean, and come into my pro- 
 perty, I shall devote a great part of my time to dancing, I 
 love it so.' 
 
 This was too much, far too much. It was high time 
 that this vain, bombastical, self-conceited pauper was put 
 down. 
 
PROBATION. 297 
 
 ' When you come into your property,' she remarked with 
 polite sarcasm, ' then you can squander it just as you please. 
 But I would advise you first to make certain that you have 
 any property to come into.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't suppose I shall be rich. Sebastian knows 
 all about it. He says he will explain all in good time.' 
 
 ' Sebastian is as foolish a young man, in some respects, 
 as I know ; and as for you, Mr. von Birkenau, I am at a 
 loss to understand how any one professing to be a gentle- 
 man can behave as you do.' 
 
 'As how?' demanded Hugo, his brow suddenly clouding 
 as he perceived that her words bore reference to something 
 unknown to him. 
 
 ' Did Sebastian ever tell you, in so many words, that you 
 had any property, anymoney, estate, possessions of any kind?' 
 
 ' N— no.' 
 
 ' I thought so. He is very trying, but I have always 
 found him sincere, so far. I should have thought that very 
 fact would have led you to think a little about your own 
 position. That you can quietly accept another man's 
 bounty, and never ask the reason of it, never inquire into 
 your own affairs, or ask whether you are living in a manner 
 suitable to your future prospects — it is incredible ! No one 
 with any sense of honour could conduct himself in such a 
 manner.' 
 
 ' I do not know what you mean — Sebastian knows,' said 
 Hugo, a dread suspicion beginning to creep into his heart. 
 ' He is my guardian, and I live as he pleases, of course. 
 You know I do.' 
 
 ' Your guardian ! That is about all he has to guard, I 
 think.' 
 
 ' He is my guardian, and the guardian of my property, 
 however small it may be. I dare say, to you, I may seem 
 almost a beggar, but Sebastian ■' 
 
 ' You make me pity you ! I do not think it right that 
 you should live under such a delusion any longer. Let me 
 tell you that you have no property except what my son 
 gives you. You live on his bounty. But for him you 
 would be a beggar.' 
 
298 PROBA TION. 
 
 'You are not speaking the truth !' said Hugo, suddenly 
 standing before her and bending his flashing eyes upon her. 
 ' You know you are not speaking the truth.' 
 
 ' Where is it now, the glory and the dream ?' 
 
 ' Am I not ? You had better ask Sebastian. It was he 
 who told me. I thought you considered him perfect in all 
 respects — not being his mother.' 
 
 ' Sebastian told you that I lived on him — that he ' 
 
 ' That your mother committed you to his charge, and he 
 took it into his head to adopt you. That, except what he 
 gives you, you have nothing. He told me that, and I think 
 it best that you should know it, for I consider your behaviour 
 and conversation very unfit for your position. That is all 
 that I have to say, or want to hear, upon the subject.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory's moral equilibrium was almost restored ; 
 she felt distinctly more cheerful and better satisfied with 
 everything. For Hugo there remained only a hideous 
 chaos, a general bouleversement of his fixed, contented con- 
 ceptions of life and his sphere in it. 
 
 He walked out of the room, and stood in the hall a 
 moment. What should he do — whither go ? This was no 
 place for him. He had no right here. He was the object 
 of a rich man's pitying charity — a beggar. Mrs. Mallory 
 had said it, and said it after a fashion which left no doubt 
 possible. Instead of playing a grand piano in a luxurious 
 drawing-room, instead of going to balls and dancing with 
 beautiful young women of large fortune, and driving about, 
 and riding fine horses — all belonging to another man — 
 instead of this, he ought to be — what ? Well, if Sebastian 
 had left him at the institution where he was being brought 
 up, the authorities would at least have found him a trade 
 and apprenticed him to it : he might have been at this 
 moment a shopman or an usher, or a clerk, or somebody's 
 secretary and amanuensis. At least, he would not have 
 been anybody's dependent, loaded with so many obligations 
 that their weight crushed and overpowered him. 
 
 By this time he had almost unconsciously ascended the 
 stairs, and found himself in his own room. What must he 
 
PROS A TION. 299 
 
 do ? It was impossible to let such a state of things continue 
 any longer. What remained? To go, of course ! The 
 idea flashed like an inspiration upon him. He would fly 
 — now, at once, Sebastian was out ; Mrs. Mallory would 
 certainly not try to prevent his departure. What should he 
 take ? what leave ? He made an excited rush to his ward- 
 robe, his drawers, and began to turn them out. Then 
 another idea struck him. That would not do. They were 
 all Sebastian's things. Not one of them but had been 
 bought with Sebastian's money. He could not take any of 
 them. It would be stealing. He looked down with a 
 shudder at the very clothes he wore. No — he must take 
 nothing ; but lie must go — he must get away from here, 
 and go and earn some money, and pay Sebastian back. 
 
 But he never could do that. How could he repay the 
 kindness, the advice, the friendship — the care that had 
 watched over him, the generosity which had condoned a 
 thousand impertinences and wayward wearisome fancies ? 
 No money, no service, could ever repay these things. But 
 at least he must get away — must remove himself. That 
 very generosity which he had so often proved might, for 
 anything he knew, have wearied of him long ago, though it 
 would never say so. 
 
 He rose with the vague intention of getting out of the 
 house with as few impediments as possible, and, once out 
 of it, never to re-enter it. And then memory and con- 
 science again asserted themselves. What was it that he 
 had promised Sebastian only last night ? Not to do any- 
 thing of any importance without first telling him of his 
 intention. He could not even go, for he would not begin 
 his new career by breaking his word to the man to whom 
 he owed everything. He must wait. 
 
 ' Oh, Sebastian ! ' groaned the poor boy, flinging himself 
 face downwards upon a couch at the foot of his bed, ' it was 
 cruel, cruel of you ! You should not have treated me 
 thus ! ' 
 
 Men of Hugo's temperament weep sometimes with al- 
 most womanly facility, and Hugo, in his new-born anguish 
 and despair, wept now ; and when the weeping was over, 
 
3oo PROBATION. 
 
 he did not rise, but remained with his face buried in the 
 cushions, repeating to himself every item of Sebastian's gen- 
 erosity, and his own blind, besotted self-confidence and 
 ignorant assumption (such it appeared to him). A thousand 
 things rose up in his memory, and he asked himself how he 
 could have failed to comprehend their meaning, to have 
 some suspicion of his real position. He resolved, with 
 more and more impassioned eagerness, to go ; to wait till 
 he had redeemed his promise, and then to say farewell, and 
 bid Sebastian forget him. How his heart ached at the 
 thought ! But no alternative was open to him. He was 
 a gentleman. No gentleman could knowingly continue to 
 live as he had been doing. 
 
 The time went on ; whether long or short he could not 
 tell. He did not keep count of the minutes or hours. 
 His whole consciousness seemed to resolve itself into a de- 
 sire to be gone, which had grown overpowering and intense, 
 when a quick tap at the door was heard, then it was opened, 
 and Sebastian's voice said, 
 
 ' I say, Hugo, do you mean to go to this entertainment 
 or not ? Because if — why, what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 ' I never knew, Sebastian ! Upon my soul and honour I 
 never knew till Mrs. Mallory told me to-day ! ' exclaimed 
 Hugo, starting up and confronting his horrified friend, with 
 pale face, scintillating eyes, which bore traces of recent 
 weeping, hair wildly tossed up and down his head, and 
 generally demoralised aspect. 
 
 1 Didn't know what, my dear fellow ? What is all this ex- 
 citement about ? ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Mallory told me, just a little while ago, the truth 
 about myself,' said Hugo, speaking rapidly and vehemently 
 in German, as he nearly always did when agitated, and he 
 began to stride excitedly about the room. ' It was not right 
 . . . no, no ! it was very cruel ! you should not have done 
 it. I have no right to reproach you, but you should not 
 have laid such a burden upon me — a burden which is 
 greater than I can bear . . . aber, Gott im Himmcl ! what 
 do I mean by reproaching you, when I owe you the very 
 bread I eat, the very clothes I wear ! Sebastian ! Sebastian ! 
 
PROBATION. 301 
 
 It was not right!'* he reiterated passionately, coming to a 
 stop, and standing before the other, upon whose mind the 
 truth began to dawn. 
 
 His mother had played the traitor — had betrayed the 
 trust which he had been weak enough to repose in her be- 
 fore he had understood her so well as he did now, and the 
 result must be, in any case, a very painful explanation, 
 and perhaps failure to convince Hugo ; perhaps the aliena- 
 tion of a love which he prized more highly at this present 
 moment than he ever had done before. For the moment, 
 the first moment, his heart sank very low : he suddenly 
 seemed to see everything that he most prized deserting him. 
 Adrienne was lost to him, and his heart was yet smarting 
 under that conviction. Yesterday he had seen Myles 
 Heywood depart, expressing his gratitude, but, as he felt, 
 unconquered, untouched at heart. Now, here was Hugo 
 bitterly reproaching him for not having done what was right 
 towards him. One stroke coming upon the other almost 
 unmanned him momentarily, for the men with warm hearts 
 and cool heads are necessarily more susceptible both to 
 failure and success than the men with cool heads and cold 
 hearts to boot. 
 
 Then he suddenly gathered himself together. Hugo was 
 not gone ; he was only drifting away from him. He would 
 make a very strong struggle to still hold him fast to him ; 
 if he succeeded, he might take it as a good omen for the 
 future — if not, the future must look after itself. He came 
 into the room and closed the door. 
 
 ' You startle me, Hugo. This is something I did not ex- 
 pect. Suppose you tell me all about it, and we can dis- 
 cuss it. Shall we ? ' 
 
 ' There is nothing to be discussed. If it had not been 
 for my promise to you yesterday, I should not be here now. 
 As it is, I waited ; but only to say that I am going at once 
 — to clear myself — to tell you that I never knew . . .' 
 
 ' Why, Hugo, how could you know ? If you had known, 
 you would not have been what you are to me, the frank, 
 open-hearted comrade, whose friendship and companionship 
 have made me so happy.' 
 
PRO HA TION. 
 
 ' If I had known,' said Hugo, ' I should not have behaved 
 myself like a mountebank, such as I must have seemed to 
 you many a time, with my impertinences and fancies. Mrs. 
 Mallory is quite right — for me to be thinking of balls and 
 amusements and enjoyments is folly — madness. What an 
 ape ! what a confounded, conceited, self-important ape I 
 must have seemed all these years ! Acting as if I had 
 great prospects before me, while all the time I am a beggar. 
 It is hideous ! ' 
 
 He was getting excited again. His eyes began to flash 
 and his foot to beat the floor restlessly. Sebastian noticed 
 that he had not once looked at him during all this scene, 
 but away from him : anywhere rather than meet his eyes. 
 
 ' Let me go,' he added, in a choked voice. ' Let me go, 
 and forget me. That is all you and I can do, and it must 
 be done at once.' 
 
 ' You will never leave me, any more than I can, or shall 
 try to forget you.' 
 
 ' Why ? Because I am under such obligations to you, 
 that you can force me to obey you from very shame ?' asked 
 Hugo, bitterly. 
 
 ' Not at all, Hugo, but because you love me, and I love 
 you (if it were not so, after all these years, it would be 
 strange), and you could never find it in your heart to wound 
 me as such a proceeding would wound me.' 
 
 At last Hugo's eyes turned to him ; at last he stood still 
 and looked at him, and Sebastian returned the look from 
 his inmost heart. This soul-to-soul, searching gaze was a 
 prolonged one, and Hugo at last, turning away, sat down 
 on the sofa again, put his hand before his face, and said in 
 a broken voice, 
 
 ' You could always do what you liked with me, and you 
 can now. What do you want?' 
 
 ' I only want you to listen to me and bclicre me,' said 
 Sebastian. ' If you will only believe me, all will be well.' 
 
 A movement of the head showed that Hugo was listening. 
 
 'You have called me cruel — you have said that what I 
 have done was not right. I cannot hear such accusations 
 unmoved. Why have I been cruel ?' 
 
PROS A TION. 303 
 
 ' In putting me into a false position — making me believe 
 myself to be what I am not' 
 
 ' Somewhat insincere it may have been, but I do not see 
 how I could well have acted otherwise. When your mother 
 died you were equally badly off, so far as worldly circum- 
 stances go, as you are now. You did not know it. It was 
 her weakness that she could not bear you, whom she adored, 
 to know it. She had a horror of your learning that the 
 institution at which you were being educated was a ch — I 
 mean ' 
 
 ' A charity-school — yes.' 
 
 ' That's right, old fellow ! Put it as spitefully as you can. 
 If you like, it was a charity-school — and a poor coarse 
 inadequate place too, not the place for you. When I think 
 of you there, it is horrible ; I simply took the place of the 
 authorities of that school towards you. They had nothing 
 to bind them to you ; no single tie existed. / had every- 
 thing. I had been your mother's intimate friend ; she 
 gave me, in her goodness, that which no service of mine 
 could repay. I reverenced her in her lifetime, and I rever- 
 ence her memory now. She knew what I wished ; I dis- 
 cussed it with her fully and freely, and she gave her unquali- 
 fied consent. She trusted you to me — gave you to me. 
 Have you any right to impute wrong motives to her memory ? 
 You remember her perfectly well. You know what she was. 
 You must know that she never acted but as she thought, 
 from right and pure motives.' 
 
 ' I know ; that alters it. But all the same it is very 
 hard.' 
 
 ' I feel it so,' said Sebastian. ' Year by year I have been 
 more glad that I had you as my firm and faithful friend, 
 who would never desert me, whatever any one else did. I 
 firmly believed that it was so, and you — you have so little 
 regard for me, that you would leave me — quit me here at 
 an hour's notice, and why? Because you cannot, or will 
 not, rise above a few miserable, material interests ; because 
 you let a few paltry, sordid coins (that is what it comes to) 
 raise themselves between you and me, and make them into 
 a wall which neither of us can pass. Yet you told me the 
 
304 PROBA TION. 
 
 other night that you could not be fickle — to me. Which 
 am I to believe — your words or your actions?' 
 
 ' You may believe both now, when I tell you that I will 
 do what you please. Shall I stay ? I will do whatever you 
 like — just whatever you like,' said Hugo, in a dull, toneless 
 kind of voice. 
 
 1 You call that doing what I please — remaining though 
 you hate it. I thought — last night I was sure that it would 
 have caused you pain to leave me.' 
 
 ' It will — would, I mean, cause me agony ; but what am 
 I to think, when you have told Mrs. Mallory, who hates 
 me, my whole story, and kept it from me, whom you say 
 you love?' 
 
 'There I was wrong, Hugo — utterly wrong, I own it. 
 Had I known — but I must not say that. If I had it to do 
 now, I should keep silence. But if you will not allow me 
 one mistake, take your own way. Leave me alone. My 
 mother opposes my wishes bitterly. The girl I love won't 
 have a word to say to me. I have no one left but Hugo 
 von Birkenau — and he begs to decline my acquaintance. 
 So be it ! ' 
 
 He turned to leave the room. His hand was on the 
 door-handle, when Hugo overtook him. 
 
 ' Stop !' said he, almost in a whisper. ' You know me 
 better than I know myself. I cannot leave you thus. If 
 I thought I was of any good to you ' 
 
 ' I suppose I should go through all this, to keep a thing 
 I didn't care for. That is so like me !' observed Sebastian. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Hugo, with a half-laugh, half-choke, or sob ; 
 ' I never thought of that' 
 
 ' Of course not. You wish to repay me, as you call it, 
 Hugo. The only way in which you can do it is to let me 
 watch your future, as I have always hoped to do, till you 
 are famous, and I am known as your greatest friend, eh ?' 
 
 Hugo smiled faintly. 
 
 ' Your mother despises me,' he began. 
 
 Sebastian shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' My dear boy, you must have seen that my mother is 
 by no means graciously disposed towards any one or any- 
 
PROBA TION. 305 
 
 thing that I may have the misfortune to be fond of. As I 
 like you better almost than any one, she naturally dislikes 
 you proportionately. It is not a pleasant thing to have to 
 say, but it is true. Surely, if you and I understand each 
 other, it does not matter what outsiders think of us.' 
 
 ' No,' said Hugo, and once more there was heartiness 
 and confidence in his tone. ' Forgive me my folly. It is 
 over now.' 
 
 ' I thank you for making such a sacrifice to me. . . . 
 When I came into the room it was to see what you were 
 doing, as you didn't appear at dinner. And, behold, nearly 
 an hour has passed. The carriage will be here in ten 
 minutes. ' 
 
 ' I don't think I shall go.' 
 
 ' Pray do, though, or I shall have to think that this 
 reconciliation is only a sham one after all. Besides, 
 Helena's beaux yeux will not turn very amiably towards me, 
 if I come without you.' 
 
 ' It depends upon yourself how Helena's beaux yeux re- 
 gard you,' said Hugo ; ' but I will go. It would be 
 insulting to her if I did not. I'll get ready now.' 
 
 ' I must do the same,' said Sebastian, leaving the room. 
 
 Hugo proceeded to dress himself. He found himself look- 
 ing back upon the afternoon, when he had sat playing waltzes, 
 as if it had been separated by years from the evening, and 
 his present self was a stranger to himself of yesterday. 
 
 It was quite true. These few short hours had transformed 
 him from a boy to a man. The process, which in some 
 cases is one of such prolonged, lingering growth, had been 
 with him effected at a leap, a single bound. The change 
 proved itself most in the fact that he accepted the cross 
 laid upon him ; he felt himself possessed of that goodly, 
 manly virtue, the ability to wait ; two days ago he would 
 have tried to rush away from pain and difficulty — now he 
 could shake hands with them. As he dressed, he planned 
 his course as it should be, subject to circumstances ; not 
 with the furious, fitful temper of an hour ago, but with 
 calm, manly reasonableness and judgment. 
 
 When the carriage came round they stood in the hall, 
 x 
 
3 o6 PROS A TION. 
 
 and Mrs. Mallory looked curiously at his pale, altered, com- 
 posed countenance ; but she saw in an instant, by the look 
 that passed between him and Sebastian, that all was per- 
 fectly clear between them. The sweet accord of two noble 
 natures was a thing beyond her power to grasp ; but she 
 saw that she had not succeeded in separating them, and 
 recognised that she had done her cause no service by her 
 interference. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOW HELENA CAME INTO HER FORTUNE. 
 
 The rooms at Castle Hill were nearly full, and the ball had 
 just begun, when the Oakenrod party arrived. Sebastian 
 offered his arm to his mother, and she took it, both of them 
 having a very strong sense of the fact that the courtesy was 
 a mere outside show, and that they would rather have been 
 any number of miles apart. Followed by Hugo, they pene- 
 trated through the large square hall and the coffee-room, to 
 the drawing-room, which blazed in the full splendour of 
 unlimited wax-lights. In the centre of the room, looking 
 very hot and very uncomfortable, they found Mrs. Spence- 
 ley alone. Her lord was nowhere to be seen, though her 
 son was stationed at some little distance from her, help- 
 ing her in the discharge of her duties with a Thanshopian 
 grace and dignity all his own. 
 
 Sebastian, when his mother had finished her greetings 
 and congratulations, went up to Mrs. Spenceley, and in 
 his turn paid his devoirs. 
 
 The lady bore upon her face distinct traces of uneasiness 
 of mind. There was something terrible and bezarre in the 
 contrast between her expression and her attire. Helena 
 had considerately tried to arrange her dress for her, with 
 the natural sense of beauty and harmony of colour and 
 material which she so strongly possessed. She had en- 
 deavoured to soften down the radiant hues contemplated 
 by Mrs. Spenceley, and had succeeded in inducing her 
 rather to dress herself in a magnificent robe of black satin. 
 
PROBA TION. 307 
 
 Diamonds twinkled upon her spacious bosom, and diamond 
 pins fastened her gorgeous lace cap. Here Helena's efforts 
 had ceased to produce any effect. At this point Mrs. 
 Spenceley's own taste in dress asserted itself. She had 
 thrown over her shoulders a floating scarf of crimson gauze, 
 intertwined with lines of orient gold, and over which wan- 
 dered abnormally large bunches of abnormally large grapes 
 — purple grapes, with leaves of the same phenomenal pro- 
 portions. This treasure had been put on in order, as she 
 explained to Helena, ' to cover my shoulders and give me 
 a little colour ; for, say what you will, a black satin and a 
 white lace cap is not full enough for a woman of my years.' 
 
 In despairing resignation Helena had submitted, and the 
 result was the apparition already described, looking, with 
 the troubled, puzzled expression on her highly coloured face 
 and the restless wandering of her gentle dark eyes, alto- 
 gether so grotesque, that Sebastian's quick observation 
 instantly suspected something behind the gay show which 
 surrounded them. 
 
 ' I am glad to see you, Mr. Mallory,' she said, giving him 
 her hand, and with an effort giving her attention to him. 
 ' I hope you'll enjoy yourself, I'm sure. We've done all we 
 could think of to make people enjoy themselves ; but it 
 is very provoking, Spenceley's not coming at the last minute, 
 isn't it?' 
 
 'I thought I missed Mr. Spenceley. Is he engaged?' 
 
 ' Oh, it's this horrid business, you know. I said to him, 
 I said, " Spenceley, if business is so uncertain, it's a very 
 sure thing that we oughtn't to be giving balls in this style ; " 
 not but what I am very glad to see you, and I hope you'll 
 enjoy it,' she hastened to add. ' He had to go off to Liver- 
 pool early this morning, and he said he might have to 
 come home by Manchester, but he'd try to be with us 
 before we began. However, he hasn't turned up.' 
 
 ' Very likely he has been detained.' 
 
 ' I expect so. These are anxious times, and it keeps a 
 man on the strain, with things going first up and then down, 
 and not knowing how anything will turn out,' said Mrs. 
 Spenceley, lucidly. 'But aren't you going to dance, Mr. 
 
3o8 PROBA TTON. 
 
 Mallory ? There's lots of young ladies will be delighted to 
 dance with you. See ! there's little Fanny Kay sitting out 
 —the first dance, too. Do you know her?' 
 
 ' Yes, thank you. I don't think I will dance at present. 
 I'm looking for Miss Spenceley, to congratulate her ; but 
 she is not here, I think.' 
 
 ' She's in the ball-room. You see, she had to open the 
 ball, being for her own birthday, and all, and some of them 
 were very anxious to begin. It makes it very awkward, 
 Spenceley's being away. But you'll see Helena directly, I 
 dare say. She said she should come straight here when 
 the dance was over.' 
 
 ' I think I will go and see if it is over,' said Sebastian, 
 who saw Hugo leading off a white-robed virgin to the ball- 
 room. 
 
 ' Ay, do ; I'm sure they must be nearly done by now,' 
 she replied, drawing her dazzling scarf more closely about 
 her, and obstinately refusing to lessen her fatigue by sitting 
 down. 
 
 Sebastian crossed the hall, and at the door of the ball- 
 room met Helena and her partner coming out. She was 
 leaning on the arm of an elderly man, one of the Thanshope 
 magnates, to whose lot it had fallen to guide her through 
 the mazes of a duty-quadrille, by way of opening the ball. 
 Helena looked bored, and the gentleman no less so. They 
 were making straight for the drawing-room, in order to get 
 rid of each other as soon as possible. 
 
 Helena did not at once see Sebastian, and he had time 
 to notice how downcast and pale she looked, although so 
 lovely. Mr. Rawson, her partner, was at this moment 
 ' collared ' in a summary manner by an acquaintance, and 
 appeared particularly anxious to talk with him on congenial 
 subjects. Mr. Mallory, therefore, seized the opportunity to 
 advance and say : 
 
 ' Good evening, Miss Spenceley.' 
 
 Helena started, and turned quickly to him. 
 
 ' Mr. Rawson,' proceeded Sebastian, ' I see you are en- 
 gaged. Allow me to take Miss Spenceley to the drawing- 
 room — or wherever else you please,' he added, in a lower 
 
PROBATION. 309 
 
 voice, as Mr. Rawson, with evident gratitude, gave up his 
 charge, and they walked away, her hand resting lightly on 
 his arm. 
 
 ' Now he is happy with a friend of his own age,' remarked 
 Sebastian. ' I could not find you in the drawing-room, so 
 I came to seek you, in order to offer you my sincere con- 
 gratulations upon this occasion.' 
 
 ' Why so sincere ? You speak so emphatically that I 
 begin to doubt your sincerity. Why congratulate me at 
 all?' 
 
 ' What a question ! I always understood, from your own 
 words, that you looked forward to your twenty-first birthday 
 as a moment of emancipation, when you would not be 
 trodden down any more, and could really show the sex 
 which fails to meet your approval what you think of them, 
 and ' 
 
 ' I wish you would not keep talking in that way,' said 
 Helena. ' It does not amuse me in the least, and I don't 
 see what fun there is in it.' 
 
 ' Fun ! I had no idea of fun ! You shock me. I am in 
 the most solemn earnest. I beg to be allowed to offer my 
 congratulations to the heroine of the present occasion, and 
 to wish you " many happy returns of this day." You will 
 permit me to do that ? ' 
 
 ' I am not a heroine, and the present occasion requires 
 anything but congratulations,' was all Helena said. 
 
 Her wonted brilliance and high spirits had quite deserted 
 her, even in the presence of Sebastian Mallory, for whose 
 delectation they were usually wont to flow rather more 
 rapidly than at other times. In this new and more pensive 
 mood Sebastian found the charm, which he had always 
 owned, a strong one. He had never before found her so 
 attractive. Her dress was less splendid, and more airy and 
 girlish than usual. It was white and full and flowing, sug- 
 gestive of tulle illusion and silvery clouds, and was dotted 
 all over with little bunches of rosebuds. There was a string 
 of pearls around her lovely throat ; and, for all her paleness 
 and downcast looks, her beauty came out triumphant. 
 
 ' She is a lovely creature ! ' he thought, glancing down- 
 
3io PROBATION. 
 
 wards at the serious face and the dark lashes which swept 
 her cheek. 
 
 ' Not a heroine ! ' he said. ' You must be one to-night, 
 whether you like it or not. And as for congratulations, I 
 could offer you a hundred reasons why people should con- 
 gratulate you ; but to confine myself to one, you are Helena 
 Spenceley. Don't you think that is reason enough for 
 congratulation?' 
 
 They had wandered into a little anteroom, divided by 
 curtains from one of the other sitting-rooms, and as Sebastian 
 asked the last question they were standing in the middle of 
 the room, and Helena looked at him. Her face was sad, 
 and her eyes were bright with tears. 
 
 ' It is of no use ; you cannot make me angry to-night, 
 even by laughing at me. But if you want the satisfaction 
 of knowing that your remarks wound me, take it : it is so.' 
 
 ' Helena ! Miss Spenceley !' he stammered, in confusion, 
 for his words had not been free from malice, and he knew it. 
 What he had not known was that Helena was in no mood 
 for battle — that she did not even wish to quarrel with him. 
 
 ' If you are offended, I beg your pardon,' he said. ' I 
 did not mean anything like what you imagine. And, since 
 you do not choose to be congratulated, I withdraw the con- 
 gratulations. May I say you have my good wishes ?' 
 
 ' Not unless you mean it,' said Helena, coldly ; ' and, 
 when you think how different our thoughts and wishes, and 
 hopes and objects in life are, you will, I hope, hesitate before 
 making more pretty speeches.' 
 
 ' You are very severe. I think I had better say no more 
 upon the subject. But,' he added, with that air of almost 
 affectionate interest which Helena believed she so greatly 
 resented, ' you are downcast and out of spirits to-night — 
 not as you should be for your own birthday ball. How is it ?' 
 
 In so matter-of-fact a tone was the question asked, that 
 Helena scarcely felt it strange that he should put it, and 
 began in a docile manner to explain. 
 
 ' How can I be otherwise ? It is such nonsense. What 
 is the good of having a ball? I don't want a ball. I 
 wanted to be quiet. I go about every day, from house to 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 house, and see people starving — much better people than I 
 am, or ever shall be — and then I have to come home and see 
 money flung away on a ball — for me — because such an im- 
 portant personage has condescended to live twenty-one years 
 in this horrid, grimy old world ; and to put on a dress that 
 has cost — no, I will never reveal all my shame, but I could 
 tear my dress to pieces when I think of a woman whom I saw 
 this afternoon, and who was crying as if her heart would 
 break, because she had to pawn her husband's and children's 
 Sunday clothes, and their best tea-things, that she had when 
 she was married. I thought of this dress, which was got 
 on purpose for me at Paris, and which cost about ten times 
 as much as the materials that made it are worth,' said 
 Helena passionately, ' and when I put it on, I felt as if I 
 were putting on my shroud.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry — only you won't believe it, because I 
 say so, but surely now it will be different ? You must not 
 get morbid. That never does any good. You will have 
 wealth of your own now, and be your own mistress, when 
 you can take your revenge on all these fine clothes, and go 
 about in home-spun, or even sackcloth, if you choose.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Helena dispiritedly, ' I know ; but I should 
 not like it. I love expensive things, and I hate coarse and 
 common ones. And I am beginning to think that perhaps 
 I am not such a very fit person to have money. I have 
 heard a great deal about money lately, and I don't fancy it 
 is so easy to manage as I used to think.' 
 
 ' Miss Mereweather will assist you,' he said, half smiling. 
 
 ' Don't name Miss Mereweather to me,' said Helena, with 
 sudden animation. ' She has deceived me cruelly. I never 
 was so cut-up about anything.' 
 
 ' What has she done ? ' 
 
 ' She has got married,' said Helena, in a determined 
 voice, as if anxious to get the worst over. 
 
 ' Got married ! . . . Why . . . and a very good wife she 
 will make, if she has got the right sort of husband. I re- 
 member thinking, that evening I met her here, what a 
 capital head of a large establishment she would make. . . .' 
 
 ' Did you ? ' said Helena, with a curious quaver in her 
 
312 PROBATION. 
 
 voice, half laughter, half astonishment. ' Well, you must 
 have been right. She has married a clergyman who is the 
 head of a very large boys' school — a sort of college.' 
 
 ' The very thing for her. I wish, when you write, you 
 would ask if she remembers my insignificance, and offer my 
 warmest congratulations and good wishes.' 
 
 ' When I write !' echoed Helena, scornfully. ' I wrote 
 to her once, after I heard of it, but never again. I told 
 her my mind.' 
 
 ' Did you really ? What did you say ? ' 
 
 ' I said she was a traitor to her sex and her cause, and 
 that, as I still held my old opinions, I could not be her 
 friend any longer.' 
 
 ' How awful for her ! May I ask whether she made any 
 reply ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Helena, her colour rising, ' she made a 
 very stupid reply.' 
 
 ' Won't you tell me what it was ? ' 
 
 'No, it was too silly.' 
 
 ' I believe you got the worst of it.' 
 
 ' At least, it was too ridiculous to repeat.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she said, " Wait and see ;" or, " Don't shout till 
 you are out of the wood ! " only more elegantly expressed.' 
 
 ' She — oh, there is Hugo coming. This is my first dance 
 with him.' 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley, will you be very kind to Hugo to-night? 
 Really and truly, he has had a great trouble.' 
 
 'I will. Poor boy!' 
 
 ' And have you any dances left ? — a waltz ? Though I 
 can hardly hope it. You must have been engaged long 
 ago, for the whole evening?' 
 
 ' In that case you might have spared yourself the trouble 
 of asking,' said Helena, rather defiantly ; but as their eyes 
 met, hers wavered. 
 
 ' Perhaps you have still one left,' said he, capturing her 
 programme and opening it. 
 
 ' It looks very full,' he said ; ' but — ah, yes ! here is one, 
 a waltz — two waltzes. This is extraordinary — my luck, I 
 mean ; don't you think so ? And may I ' 
 
PROBATION. 313 
 
 He paused, looking inquiringly at her as he held the 
 pencil suspended over the card. 
 
 ' Two waltzes !' exclaimed Helena, innocently. ' Oh, but 
 that must be a mistake. I know when Mr. Consterdine 
 came just now I told him I had not one left.' 
 
 ' No doubt you told him what was good for him,' said 
 Sebastian, with laudable gravity. ' At least, we will make 
 it quite sure now. There: " S. M., 6," and "S. M., 10." 
 Thank you, very much.' 
 
 With a bow and a half-smile he resigned her to Hugo, 
 who came up at that moment to offer congratulations and 
 to claim his dance, while Sebastian walked away to while 
 away the time until ' Number 6 ' should begin. 
 
 As he danced only once or twice with any one but Helena, 
 he had ample opportunity of observing the general features 
 of the entertainment, and he soon saw that Helena's depres- 
 sion was but a part of that obvious more or less throughout 
 the whole assembly. The rooms were dazzling, the decora- 
 tions were unutterably gorgeous, the brilliance of the lights 
 amounted to an absolute glare, and became oppressive' and 
 terrible. On all sides there was evidence of the most lavish 
 expenditure ; flowers, furniture, attendants, refreshments, all 
 seemed to cry in loud and blatant voices, ' Try us ; we are 
 of the very best. No stint here, because expense is no 
 object, absolutely none at all' It would have been exceed- 
 ingly amusing, and Sebastian was by no means slow to see 
 the humorous side of ambitious entertainments of that kind ; 
 but the amusing part of it was quite overcome and swamped 
 by the great and nameless cloud and oppression that hung 
 over it all. What was the reason of that cloud? Surely 
 not the simple fact that the master of the house was absent. 
 That alone would have been a relief rather than otherwise. 
 
 For he came not, and came not, and poor Mrs. Spenceley 
 still looked ill at ease : and at last Sebastian noticed some 
 one else begin to look ill at ease too, and to glance round with 
 a suspicious, watchful air now and then. That person was 
 Frederick Spenceley. Something was wrong, something lay 
 behind it all, thought Sebastian, as he stood in the cool hall 
 after his first dance with Helena, that is to say, between ten 
 
314 PROBATION. 
 
 and eleven o'clock. During that dance they had quite for- 
 gotten to flout each other, or to do anything but enjoy 
 themselves. He had said all he could to raise that name- 
 less cloud from her face, and he had been startled to find 
 what brilliant success had attended his efforts. Helena had 
 soon smiled again, and had half confessed that she had 
 kept the two dances for him, and had even blushed and 
 laughed when he teased her about it. He was thinking of 
 that waltz, and humming the tune to which they had danced 
 as he paced about the hall, while he still seemed to feel 
 Helena lightly resting in his arms, her fleet foot keeping 
 pace with his ; and he began to wish that he had not four 
 whole dances to wait before his next one with her came. 
 
 ' She is very lovely, and there is something very bewitch- 
 ing about her,' he said to himself for the second time that 
 evening. 
 
 A dance was going on in the ball-room, and the hall at 
 the moment was empty, save for himself. He paused before 
 a huge mirror, which had been raised at one end of it, and 
 in front of which was erected a fragrant pyramid of flowers 
 and ferns, delicate hothouse blossoms, and feathery aromatic 
 leaves. There was a blaze of light all around, and the stair- 
 case and part of the gallery running round the second story 
 were reflected in the mirror. Sebastian stood before the 
 pyramid of flowers, and gently first touched one and then 
 the other, and then his eyes fell upon the reflection of his 
 own face, and he was surprised to see how grave it looked ; 
 for he did not feel particularly grave at the moment, and 
 that interview with Adrienne Blisset seemed to hang like a 
 dream in the far background of his consciousness, while 
 another face and form, flower-crowned and glowingly beau- 
 tiful, advanced to the front. 
 
 Suddenly he became conscious, as it were, of some 
 shadow crossing the glass, and looking higher, to where the 
 staircase was reflected, he saw the figure of a man stealing 
 carefully, softly, noiselessly up the stairs, keeping well to the 
 wall, with averted face, as if anxious to get as quickly as 
 possible out of all that obtrusive glare of light and stream 
 of dancing sound. 
 
PROBATION. 315 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HOW MR. SPENCELEY MET HIS DIFFICULTIES. 
 
 Sebastian's first thought naturally resolved itself into the 
 words, 'A thief in the night;' some evil-disposed person 
 who thought to penetrate to some of the bedrooms, in the 
 confusion, and perhaps reap a harvest of neglected brooches, 
 watches, or shawl-pins. In such a case, it was his duty at 
 once to warn the servants, and he was in the act of turning 
 to go and do so as quickly as possible, when the figure 
 reached the head of the first flight of stairs, and turned 
 to mount the next. As this happened, Sebastian caught 
 a momentary glimpse of the face. He was long sighted, 
 and not given to making mistakes in the matter of identity. 
 The man who was stealing so quietly up the stairs in such 
 evident fear of detection was, one would suppose, the last 
 person who should need to act in so strange a manner. 
 It was Mr. Spenceley himself, the master of the house. 
 
 With great presence of mind Sebastian checked his 
 movement to turn round, and neither started nor stirred, 
 but stood pensively trifling with a fern leaf, as he gave him- 
 self time to reflect upon what had happened. 
 
 The vague, floating rumours which he had heard, as to 
 the ' shakiness ' of Mr. Spenceley's commercial position, 
 recurred to his mind. Probably there was something in 
 them. His own business and that of Mr. Spenceley lay in 
 utterly different lines : he had not come across him in any 
 commercial transactions ; but he knew men who had, and 
 who were of opinion that Spenceley was playing rather a 
 dangerous game. During those troublous years some 
 fortunes were made, and many were lost — lost by men who 
 seemed as little likely to fail as 'Mr. Spenceley of Castle 
 Hill. Sebastian pictured the feelings of his mother, sup- 
 posing she were to hear any such rumour — his mother who 
 was probably at that moment listening with affecting interest 
 and politeness to some circumlocutory history from the 
 lips of Mrs. Spenceley, a propos either of Fred or of Helena. 
 
316 PROBATION. 
 
 This was the day on which Helena was to come into — not 
 her whole fortune — that was only to happen at her father's 
 death, or if she married — but of so much of it as would 
 make her what many people would call a rich woman. Sebas- 
 tian thought of this, and wondered if the fortune were but 
 
 ' A fleeting show 
 For man's illusion given.' 
 
 His thoughts turned persistently to the girl with whom 
 he had so lately been dancing. It was all in her honour, 
 this ghastly, hollow mockery of an entertainment, with its 
 spectres and shadows flitting and stealing about. All for 
 her ! She was crowned with roses, which were indeed the 
 fitting flower for so beautiful a rose as she was herself. 
 Those great pearls round her neck, and those massive 
 bracelets on her slender arm — his mind recalled each item 
 of her dress, and, as it were, every line of her beauty ; he 
 saw her standing, as she had stood more than once that 
 evening, with a crowd round her, of friends and well-wishers — 
 for she was popular — who congratulated her, and brought 
 her flowers and bouquets — chiefly roses — the flowers of love 
 and triumph. And ever, as he pictured her thus, that 
 shadowy, stealing figure seemed to lurk and crouch behind 
 them, now uncovering its face a little, and then, with a 
 smile of weird meaning, drawing the veil again. He 
 shuddered a little, and turned hastily towards the ball- 
 room ; stood in the doorway and looked. Yes, there was 
 Helena with Hugo ; he was glad she was with Hugo ; 
 smiling and laughing with him, as they flew swiftly by, past 
 the door, and her perfumed skirts brushed him and sent an 
 odd little thrill through him. 
 
 The ball progressed, and the evening drew drearier and 
 drearier ; he heard the excuses made by Mrs. Spenceley, 
 and saw the care growing darker upon her brow ; he heard 
 the regrets of the guests, and saw the increasing uneasiness 
 of the looks cast about him by Fred, with a strange sense 
 that he alone could, if he chose, point the way upstairs and 
 say, ' You will find the explanation of all, if you go there 
 and ask.' 
 
PROBATION. 317 
 
 As the tenth dance was about to begin, he saw Fred 
 make some excuse to the lady whom he was leading to the 
 ball-room ; heard the words, ' Very sorry — back in a minute.' 
 The young lady was put on a cushioned bench beside the 
 wall, and Fred quickly departed, with a look of resolution 
 on his face. Sebastian, with Helena on his arm, looked 
 after Spenceley. He was going upstairs. Mallory, through- 
 out all the dance, could not keep himself from wondering 
 what was taking place in one of those upper rooms. What 
 confession, or what revelation ? Were things very bad ? 
 Was the crisis a very critical one ? 
 
 ' You have become perfectly silent, Mr. Mallory — not to 
 say morose,' remarked Helena. ' And when I was dancing 
 with Hugo, I saw you looking in upon us with a sort of 
 glare. What is the matter?' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ! Miss Spenceley, when did you last see 
 your father ? ' 
 
 ' This morning, quite early : you know we have breakfast 
 at eight, because we are business people. He gave me 
 these pearls that I have on for a birthday present, and 
 though I would much rather have had no presents, they 
 were so beautiful, and I am so weak, that I was in ecstasies 
 with them. But papa said he had very important business 
 in Liverpool, and he might have to go to Manchester too. 
 Still, he is very late,' she added, as they began to dance 
 again. 
 
 The waltz was over. Every one was streaming into the 
 supper-room ; Helena, with Sebastian, remained in the ball- 
 room, watching the people out, to see that all went, when 
 voices made themselves heard : young men were calling 
 out, 'I say, Spenceley!' — 'Where's Fred?' — 'Who's to sit 
 where?' — 'Fred, Mrs. Spenceley wants to ask you something.' 
 
 'Where can Fred be?' exclaimed Helena, craning her 
 neck to look round. ' It is very strange in him to go away 
 just now, when he ought to be seeing after things.' 
 
 They were standing beside a door of the ball-room ; not 
 that leading into the hall, but one which opened into a 
 passage leading to the billiard-room, and thence to the 
 kitchen regions and offices. Almost as Helena spoke, the 
 
318 PROBATION. 
 
 door was suddenly opened, and a young woman appeared, 
 with frightened face, and widely distended eyes, who, seeing 
 Helena, began, after the manner of her kind, to wring her 
 hands, and exclaim, in much agitation, 
 
 'Oh, Miss Spenceley! Where's missis? Oh, how 
 dreadful! Oh!' 
 
 'What is the matter?' demanded Helena in a clear, 
 decided voice. 
 
 ' Oh — master, m' ! He's ' 
 
 'Stop !' said Sebastian, suddenly and sternly, as he took 
 the girl's arm, and gave it a little shake, to restore her to 
 her senses. ' Don't make such a noise ! Miss Spenceley, 
 wait here a moment. Come here !' he added to the girl — 
 one of the housemaids — as he drew her into the passage, 
 and closed the door. ' Now, what is the matter ? Your 
 master has returned. I saw him. Is he ill?' 
 
 ' Oh, sir,' she said, with an hysterical sob, ' he's dead ! 
 He's lying on the sofa in his room, and ' 
 
 ' Dead !' repeated Sebastian, and he knew in a moment 
 what it meant. 'Where is Mr. Fred? Is he with him?' 
 
 ' No, sir. I haven't seen him. I thought he was 
 here.' 
 
 Sebastian, with a growing fear that the whole thing was 
 much blacker and more dreadful than he had suspected, 
 bade the young woman wait a moment, while he returned 
 to Helena. He had rapidly reviewed the circumstances, 
 and found there was nothing for it but to go to her. Fred 
 was gone : he did not like to let the idea, ' absconded,' 
 shape itself, even in his mind ; but all the same, it was 
 there, like an ugly black spectre. To burst upon Mrs. 
 Spenceley with such news would have been in the highest 
 degree inhuman and improper. Helena alone remained to 
 take this fearful burden upon her shoulders. 
 
 He found Helena standing in the same place in which 
 he had left her, and the last of the guests disappearing 
 through the hall to the supper-room. Helena was com- 
 posed and calm, but her eyes, as they met his, told him 
 that she suspected a catastrophe. 
 
 ' I want you to come with me,' said he, drawing her arm 
 
PROBATION. 319 
 
 through his, and speaking in a low, gentle voice, and then 
 they stood in the passage, with the servant-maid. 
 
 ' Show me the room where your master is, and do not 
 speak,' he said to her ; she was crying bitterly, in a cowed 
 and helpless fashion, but was less excited, less inclined to 
 shriek out her dreadful news to every one she met. 
 Helena's face grew white, but she neither trembled nor 
 spoke, as they followed the girl up the backstairs to a 
 landing-door, which she threw open, and then they found 
 themselves standing on the gallery which formed the landing, 
 and from which all the bedroom doors opened out. 
 
 ' Which is your master's room?' asked Sebastian. 
 
 The maid pointed to a door, and cried more bitterly still, 
 while Helena's face grew whiter and more set every minute. 
 
 ' Have you seen Mr. Fred at all this evening?' 
 
 ' I saw him run upstairs, sir, and then I saw him go to 
 his own room ; but he's not there now, and I've never seen 
 him since.' 
 
 ' Very well, you can go now ; but remember, you are to 
 be silent, or it will be worse for you. Do you understand ?' 
 
 'Yes, sir. I won't say nothing, indeed !' said the weep- 
 ing young woman, going away with her muslin apron to 
 her eyes. 
 
 He turned to Helena. He felt he must not defer it any 
 longer. There was pity and tenderness in his eyes and in 
 his voice, as he said, 
 
 ' Now, Helena, you are brave, and you must be as brave 
 as you can to-night.' 
 
 'Tell me what it is!' she said; 'but don't keep me 
 waiting any longer.' 
 
 ' I must keep you waiting just a few moments,' said he. 
 ' I want you to sit down here, and not move, while I go to 
 your father's room — will you ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Helena, seating herself with a prompt docility 
 which contrasted strangely with her white face and distended 
 eyes. 
 
 Sebastian left her, walked into the room, and found it all 
 as he had expected. Mr. Spenceley had committed suicide. 
 He had taken prussic acid, and lay dead upon the couch 
 
320 PROBATION. 
 
 at the foot of his bed. Sebastian, looking quickly round, 
 saw a written paper lying on the floor at his feet. It was 
 merely a scrap of paper, with the words, 
 
 ' Dear Lizzie, — I am a ruined man, and I can't bear it. 
 I've never made you very happy, and the best I can do is 
 to leave you. I don't know what will be left, but there is 
 always your money of your own, and Nelly's that I ' 
 
 Here it broke off. It was not torn ; it was as if the 
 facts had rushed over the man as he wrote these words, and 
 he had failed to pen another syllable. There was no proof 
 that Fred had absconded, or that he knew his father's fate. 
 Sebastian knew he must put the matter in the best light ; 
 but he himself felt an absolute certainty of conviction on 
 the matter. 
 
 He took the paper and went out of the room, locking the 
 door and putting the key in his pocket. Helena looked up 
 as he came to her, but said not a word. 
 
 ' Helena,' he began, ' from what has happened to-night, 
 I fear your father has found that he is ruined.' 
 
 ' Is that all ?' said Helena, drawing a long breath of relief. 
 
 ' No. That, if true, is the least part of it. Remember 
 what this must have been to your father. Prosperity and 
 success were his very life' 
 
 'Do you mean that it has killed papa?' asked Helena 
 with unnatural calm, fixing her eyes upon his face. 
 
 ' I wish to spare your mother, or I would not tell you 
 this. It has killed him — that is, he could not bear to live 
 after such a fall. My poor child, your father has destroyed 
 himself.' 
 
 ' He has — oh !' came like a whisper from her white lips. 
 Face, cheeks, brow, lips, were white as the dress she wore. 
 She caught at a chair which stood near and supported her- 
 self upon it, looking at him with a stare of blank, utter 
 horror, which he felt to be almost unbearable. For weeks 
 afterwards he was haunted by the vision of the white figure 
 in its cloudy dress ; the roses scattered about it, all like one 
 white marble figure, save the dusky hair and eyes which 
 looked coal-black by contrast with her face. 
 
 1 Think of your mother,' said he, feeling that that spell of 
 
PROBA TION. 
 
 horror must be broken, and he gently put his arm round 
 her, and placed her in the chair on which she had been 
 leaning. She did not speak for a moment, but at last said, 
 
 ' Oh, poor mamma ! If she only need not know.' 
 
 ' I fear she must know a great deal of it.' 
 
 Then Helena put the question which he dreaded. 
 
 ' But where can Fred be all this time?' 
 
 ' He is not in the house. He may have gone away to 
 see if the failure is complete — if anything remains to be 
 saved,' said Sebastian; 'at any rate he is not here.' 
 
 'Ah, yes !' said Helena, and no suspicion like Sebastian's 
 conviction even for a moment troubled her mind. He 
 gave her the paper he had found. 
 
 ' I have read it ; I thought it best,' said he. ' And now 
 I want you to go to your own room, and I will send Mrs. 
 Spenceley to you, and ask all these people to go away. 
 You will allow me !' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said Helena, calmly. 
 
 ' You must break just what you think fit to Mrs. Spence- 
 ley,' he added. ' There is no one but you to do it, and she 
 will hear it best from you. For her sake, you will keep up 
 this brave, calm behaviour till the worst is over.' 
 
 'Yes; and then?' 
 
 'Trouble yourself about nothing else to-night. I will 
 see to everything until your brother comes back. I will 
 stay here all night. You need not leave your room again.' 
 
 Helena rose without speaking; looked at him with an 
 indescribable expression ; her lips moved, as if she would 
 have spoken ; but, without a word, she turned and went to 
 her room. Sebastian watched until the door had closed 
 after her, and that silence seemed to leave an enormous 
 want in his heart. There was silence, except a murmur 
 coming from the supper-room. That reminded him of his 
 duty. With another earnest look at that closed door, he 
 went downstairs. 
 
 He made his way to Mrs. Spenceley, and asked her to 
 go to her daughter in her room. With a deep flush of 
 terror and foreboding, she went. Neither husband nor son 
 was there to support her. A stranger took her to the foot 
 
 Y 
 
322 PROBA TION. 
 
 of the stairs and left her. Sebastian's soul was quite pos- 
 sessed with the idea of these two women ; one telling, the 
 other learning, the extent of their awful calamity, so far as 
 it was known. It haunted him, but he gathered himself 
 together, and easily catching the attention of the startled 
 company, he merely told them that Mrs. and Miss Spenceley 
 wished him to express their great regret at having to leave 
 their guests, in consequence of very distressing news which 
 they had just received. Frederick Spenceley had had to 
 leave home immediately, and he thought, as it was already 
 late, the kindest thing they could do would be to leave the 
 house as soon as possible. 
 
 Amidst a wild buzz of inquiries, suggestions, and specula- 
 tions, the guests dispersed. In an hour the house was quiet, 
 and Helena had gently told her mother the whole truth as 
 far as she knew it. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 DOWN IN THE WORLD. 
 
 It was not until late in the afternoon of the following day 
 that Sebastian, not forgetting his appointment with Myles 
 Heywood, found it possible to return to his own home. 
 
 That was a dreadful day, bringing in its course fresh dis- 
 closures of dishonesty on the part of both father and son of 
 the Spenceleys, fresh shame and humiliation to the sorely 
 proved Helena ; fresh bursts of wild, hopeless weeping and 
 meaningless questions from her poor mother. Mrs. Spence- 
 ley was, of course, perfectly bewildered by everything, and 
 could only reiterate that she had told Spenceley, over and 
 over again, that if business was so precarious, they had no 
 right to be giving balls j and she knew it would turn out 
 badly, she had said so all along. Then a fresh burst of 
 weeping, and the inquiries: 
 
 ' Helena, my dear, I s'pose we shall have to leave here. 
 What do you think we shall be allowed to keep? Will 
 everything have to be sold?' 
 
PROBA TION. 323 
 
 To all of which Helena, pale, composed, and gentle, 
 made answers as soothing as she could. 
 
 It was upon her head that the cruellest shame and 
 humiliation naturally fell. Sebastian asked her, almost as 
 soon as he met her in the morning, what friends or relations 
 there were with whom he could communicate on the subject 
 of her father's death, and to whom he could resign his pre- 
 sent authority. 
 
 ' But there is Fred,' said poor, unconscious Helena. 
 ' He is sure to be back soon. He will come by one of the 
 early trains from Manchester, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I doubt it,' said Sebastian, feeling his task a hard one. 
 ' And even if he did, it is not right that your friends and 
 relations should not be summoned. Don't think I wish to 
 withdraw the little assistance I can offer you, but I have no 
 right to the position. It is absolutely necessary that I give 
 the responsibility into some proper hands.' 
 
 ' I don't know of any one except Uncle Robert, and papa 
 and he were not good friends. He is mamma's brother. 
 I think he would come if we sent for him.' 
 
 ' Where does he live ? ' 
 
 1 In Manchester; I will give you his address,' said Helena. 
 
 When she had done so, Sebastian telegraphed to Mr. 
 Robert Bamford, requesting him to come over as soon as 
 possible on urgent business. An answer came to the effect 
 that Mr. Bamford would arrive some time in the afternoon. 
 It was for his appearance that Sebastian waited. He and 
 Helena were in the library. He was trying to explain to 
 her the circumstances which had made it possible for her 
 father to fail, and Helena was giving her best attention, 
 but, with all the goodwill in the world, utterly helpless be- 
 fore the technical business terms and details. Her sad face 
 with its serious, puzzled look, was in sharp contrast with 
 that of the Helena Spenceley whom Sebastian had always 
 hitherto known. 
 
 ' You see,' said she, suddenly looking up at him with a 
 wan attempt at a smile, ' you had every right to laugh at 
 me when I boasted my business capacities. No one could 
 be more ignorant. I see it now.' 
 
324 PROBATION. 
 
 ' It was not unnatural,' said he, gently. ' People with a 
 cheque-book and a balance at the banker's, are apt to think 
 they understand business when they don't. But it is of no 
 consequence, really. The thing has happened, and if you 
 had known all the secrets of the Stock Exchange you could 
 not have prevented it.' 
 
 ' Xo, I know,' said Helena, looking wearily round. ' I 
 wonder if Fred will come back with Uncle Robert. I dare- 
 say he has been to consult him. Don't you think so ? ' 
 
 ' It may be so ; at least, your uncle will be able to tell 
 us something about him.' 
 
 ' How 1 wish it was all over,' she went on, ' and that we 
 were safely housed in, wherever we go to — some back street 
 in Manchester, I dare say.' 
 
 ' Oh, it may not be quite so bad as that.' 
 
 ' I never said 1 thought that would be bad,' said Helena, 
 leaning her elbows, as if utterly tired out, upon the table, 
 and resting her head upon her hands. Sebastian felt a 
 deep pity stir his heart. She had already suffered so much 
 — she had still so much more, and so much worse to suf- 
 fer. Perhaps all this pain would make her what people, 
 what he himself, would call ' more reasonable.' But she 
 was very sweet in her unreasonableness. It seemed rather 
 sad that she must go through such an ordeal in order that she 
 might become like other people. 
 
 At this point a servant announced ' Mr. Robert Bamford,' 
 and Helena's uncle arrived. Now Sebastian felt sure some 
 painful truths would have to be told, and he again looked 
 with a strange strength of compunction at the beautiful, 
 weary, white lace of Helena. 
 
 Mr. Bamford was a very plain, rough-spoken man indeed, 
 who walked with a heavy step into the room, glanced at 
 Sebastian from a pair of shrewd, dark eyes, and without 
 waiting for an introduction, gave a stiff little nod, and said, 
 ' Your servant, sir ; ' and then turned to his niece with the 
 greeting, ' Well, Helena, this is a pretty business.' 
 
 ' It is very sad, uncle,' said she, facing him, pale, and 
 with dilated eyes. ' I think we had better not talk about 
 it, but see what is to be done.' 
 
PROBATION. 325 
 
 ' There's not much left to be done now that yon precious 
 brother o' yours has given us the slip.' 
 
 i WhatV said Helena, growing paler than before, and 
 putting her trembling hands upon the table to support her- 
 self. ' Fred given you the slip — what do you mean ? He 
 has gone to see about papa's affairs. He — I expected him 
 to come back with you. What has he done ?' 
 
 There was no defiance in the tone, only apprehension. 
 
 ' Done ! ' ejaculated Mr. Bamford, plunging his hands 
 into his pockets and almost running about the room in his 
 excitement. ' Done ! Why, he's taken everything he could 
 lay his hands on in the shape of money or money's worth, 
 and he's off — perhaps to America, but certainly to the 
 devil.' 
 
 'Do you mean that Fred has acted dishonourably?' 
 asked Helena, almost inaudibly, and trembling still more. 
 
 ' Dishonourably ! Why, you know nothing. Every one 
 in Manchester knows it by this time. There's been precious 
 little honour wasted on the whole business, my lass. We 
 know what to think when the men make away with themselves 
 one way or another, and leave the women and the debts 
 behind them.' 
 
 'But my father — it was his misfortune — he did not ' 
 
 ' The less said about your father's transactions, for the 
 last six weeks, the better,' said Mr. Bamford, curtly. 
 
 ' Consider Miss Spenceley's feelings, sir ! ' interposed 
 Sebastian, unable to endure seeing Helena's despair, and 
 feeling a glow almost of hatred towards Mr. Bamford, and 
 what struck him as his brutality. Helena had turned away 
 and covered her face with her hand, as a man might do who 
 is sorely hit on some vital point — it was more a man's ges- 
 ture than a woman's. Neither groan nor cry escaped her, 
 but Sebastian saw that the iron had entered into her soul. 
 That which she endured was the keenest moral anguish — 
 the supremest of all pains. He could understand it. Her 
 beauty was enhanced : the reckless, impetuous girl, with 
 her ' disorganised ' ideas, which he had laughed at before 
 now, was transformed into the noble woman, who must bear 
 things which only women can or do bear — the punishment 
 
326 PROBA TION. 
 
 for the sins of their masculine shields and protectors. ' She 
 has had a very severe shock already,' he went on, ' and it 
 cannot be necessary to pain her with ' 
 
 ' She must know the truth, and the sooner the better,' 
 said Mr. Bamford, irascibly. ' If she is a girl of spirit, she 
 will not wish to be deceived, and anyhow her whole life will 
 have to be changed, and come down a peg or two, for the 
 sins of her father shall be visited upon her.' 
 
 1 You are very kind, Mr. Mallory,' said Helena, turning 
 to them again and speaking calmly, though her face had, 
 even in those few minutes, taken an older, worn expression, 
 which shocked Sebastian. ' I wish to know the worst at 
 once. I can bear it. I did not know there had been any- 
 thing dishonourable. Go on, uncle. I am not afraid, and 
 I must know what I have to tell my mother.' 
 
 1 By , the lass has a spirit of her own ! ' observed 
 
 Mr. Bamford. ' Now that I see what she's made of, I may 
 try to explain things to her a bit.' 
 
 ' Then I will leave you,' said Sebastian. ' Miss Spence- 
 ley will tell you that I made what arrangements were 
 immediately necessary. I shall take the liberty of calling 
 soon,' he added to Helena, ' in the hope that I may be of 
 some assistance to you. May I ? ' 
 
 ' You are very kind,' she said, still with the same 
 unmoved calm, as she gave him her hand. ' I shall be 
 glad to see you whenever you call. Perhaps, another 
 time I can thank you better for your goodness ; but at 
 present ' 
 
 ' Pray do not thank me ; there is not the very least 
 necessity,' said he, as he left the room. 
 
 1 Now, Uncle Robert ! ' said Helena. 
 
 ' Who is that young fellow ? ' 
 
 1 Mr. Sebastian Mallory.' 
 
 ' Young Mallory of the Oakenrod, who has been acting 
 the philanthropist since he came from abroad ? ' 
 
 ' Has he? Yes, it is that Mallory.' 
 
 ' Any particular friend of yours ? ' 
 
 ' No,' was the cold response. ' He happened to hear 
 first of my father's death last night, and as there was no one 
 
PROBA TION. 327 
 
 else here, and no one to do anything, he has been kind 
 enough to arrange things for me since. I know very little 
 of him.' 
 
 ' H'm ! ha ! Well, we must get to business.' 
 In a very short time Helena was made acquainted with 
 what had happened, and with the bare and naked outline 
 of her approaching future life. The less said of her brother 
 the better, said Mr. Bamford. He believed that the sum 
 with which he had absconded was about two thousand 
 pounds. As for her father — he softened his tone a little, 
 out of consideration for Helena — he was to blame, too, for 
 not drawing in when first he began to find himself in diffi- 
 culties ; ' only that would have brought him down in the 
 world, and he couldn't bear it ; so, instead of going one 
 step lower, and then climbing up again when he had a 
 chance, he has waited, till he had to tumble down to the 
 ground, and can never get up again,' remarked the merchant 
 drily, while Helena listened. 
 
 She showed him the scrap of paper which Sebastian had 
 given her. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Bamford ; ' that money of yours is a 
 
 myth ' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' said his niece, in a deep, almost 
 resentful tone. ' And if it had been there — every penny — 
 I should not have kept it now, of course.' 
 
 ' And what your mother was to have had — it's all in the 
 business ; was, I mean. It has gone with the rest.' 
 
 'I am glad of that too,' observed Helena, concisely. 
 ' Then no one will have the power to say that we were well 
 off while other people suffered.' 
 
 ' Your wardrobe and jewellery will be your own, of course. 
 Your jewels and your mother's must be worth a pretty 
 good sum, Helena.' 
 
 ' My jewellery will be sold, and mamma's too.' 
 ' Please yourself about your own ; but if your mother is 
 not your father's most pressing creditor, I don't know who 
 is. Of course she will sell her jewels ; but she will keep 
 the proceeds, and you will abstain from meddling in matters 
 you don't understand.' 
 
328 PROBATION. 
 
 ' 1 understand right and wrong, uncle, and I shall do 
 what I feel to be right.' 
 
 1 Eh !' he repeated, with a kind of chuckle : ' the lass has 
 a spirit in her after all.' 
 
 They would have to leave Thanshope. Helena must 
 try to find some employment. He would give them a home 
 until that was accomplished ; to his sister as long as she 
 chose to stay with him. If she liked she might keep house 
 for him, but if she chose to also try some means of gain- 
 ing a livelihood, he would do what he could to help her. 
 More, he thought, they could not expect. 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Helena, composedly. ' We have no 
 right to expect so much, and may consider ourselves fortun- 
 ate in having you for a friend.' 
 
 She had always asked for work, she reminded herself 
 when she was alone — real work, necessary work — not the 
 fads with which rich women try to deceive themselves by 
 calling them work. Behold ! here was every prospect of as 
 much work as she liked, and yet she found nothing cheering 
 in it. Only — anything to get away from this sham life of 
 sham luxury, sham state, sham riches, sham everything — 
 away from the world's eyes and those of Sebastian, into ob- 
 scurity and poverty, which, she felt, would be no shams, 
 but stern realities, with front of brass and eyes of stone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 IRREVOCABLE. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Heywood, I wish you every success, and you 
 carry the assurance of success in yourself. You will return 
 to England a man of mark.' 
 
 ' I trust never to return to England,' replied Myles, 
 standing up in Sebastian's study, in the act of going. ' I am 
 afraid it will seem ungracious to you when I say I don't care 
 much about success. I want work j I don't care whether 
 it's successful or not There's a verse in the Bible about 
 
PROBATION. 3 2 9 
 
 " What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and 
 lose his own soul ? " There may be many sorts of souls, don't 
 you think so ? ' 
 
 ■ Yes, certainly. But I think time will soften these feel- 
 ings of yours. Some time you will find yourself wishing 
 to return to England.' 
 
 Myles shook his head, with a half-smile, at once melan- 
 choly and sceptical. He ever wish to return to the place 
 where Adrienne lived, Sebastian Mallory's wife ! They had 
 left the study, and gone to the hall door. 
 
 Straight before them, separated only by the garden and 
 the dirty little river, was the broad, busy street — the beauti- 
 ful building of the town-hall rose through the dusk before 
 them. Lights twinkled ; feet and wheels sped rapidly past. 
 As they paused before the open door, the chimes rang out, 
 clear and melodious ; nine struck solemnly, and the old tune 
 which haunted Myles, so interwoven was it with all the most 
 sacred feelings of his life, was borne through the air in broken, 
 fitful gusts of sound. 
 
 Sebastian heard it too. 
 
 ' Take that as an omen,' said he, earnestly. ' The old poet 
 old Martin Usteri, in his homely German town, touched 
 a deeper truth when he wrote that little song of his, than 
 all our present pessimistic sages put together can cram into 
 their learned books. Don't forget the tune when you are 
 away.' 
 
 ' I am not likely ever to forget it,' said Myles. ' Good- 
 bye, and thank you. I cannot say more.' 
 
 With a pressure of the hand he was gone. Sebastian 
 heard his quick step along the gravel — then he heard the 
 gate open and swing to after him ; and then Myles Hey- 
 wood's form and footsteps were lost in the general rush along 
 the busy street. Sebastian was left to listen to the last 
 echoes of the chimes, and to hum softly to himself — 
 
 ' Freut Euch des Lebens, 
 
 Weil noch das Lampchen gluht ! 
 Pfliicket die Rose, 
 Eh' sie verbliiht.' 
 
 Myles was striding quickly homewards. In the hurry. 
 
33Q PROBATION. 
 
 preparation, and excitement of the last two days his mind 
 had regained somewhat its vigour. It was not that he felt 
 at all happier, or satisfied, or contented — not that life 
 appeared much brighter to him, only it had to be lived. He 
 set that formula before his mind, and never allowed a doubt 
 upon the subject to intrude, because he dared not. He felt 
 that his only safe, his only reasonable course of action, was 
 to press forward sternly and as rapidly as possible ; to cast 
 from him his old life like a worn-out coat, and begin the 
 new one. 
 
 There was the prospect before him of life, struggle, striving, 
 which he knew was worth a hundred of the lives he had 
 been leading, which he knew it was his duty to accept and 
 fulfil. The mere idea of it — of the difficulties to be over- 
 come, and the possibilities to be attained — attracted him 
 and braced him up, even while all he must leave seemed to 
 grow dearer and more desirable as it was thrust farther into 
 the background. There was no turning back now ; a delay 
 was what he most dreaded. He had grown a little grim and 
 hard in his resolute pressing forward ; even Mary fancied 
 that he left them with a kind of exultation, and grieved the 
 more, even while she felt no surprise. 
 
 This evening he walked rapidly up the hilly street, ' for 
 the last time,' he kept saying to himself, and hoping so too. 
 How he had loved this prosaic, commonplace, dingy manu- 
 facturing town ! What memories hung about it ! Memories 
 of a childhood spent amongst those he loved, of a youth and 
 young manhood, which had not been without their honest, 
 hearty struggles, strivings, and conquests, as well as their 
 backslidings and failures ; memories of a love which had 
 grown upon him, stealing into his heart by such gentle, subtle 
 degrees that he could by no means define them — which love 
 had become the master passion of his earnest heart, with 
 heaven on its side, and chaos on the other. All this he had 
 lived through in grimy, smoky Thanshope, with the ever- 
 lasting roar of machinery as a sort of chorus; within sound 
 of the melodius, chiming bells. His whole surroundings 
 had ever been earnest and serious as his own thoughts and 
 bent of mind, and he felt that no other home would ever be 
 
PROBATION. 331 
 
 harmonious to him as this was. Yet he was going to leave 
 it all to-morrow, and his heart beat with a fierce gladness at 
 the thought. 
 
 Occupied with such reflections as these, he found himself 
 at his own door, and went into the house. Mary was in 
 the kitchen. All her preparations lay neglected ; she sat 
 in her rocking-chair, with her hands before her, looking at 
 nothing, her eyes wet with tears. 
 
 'What ails you, Molly?' 
 
 ' Eh, you're there, Myles ! Nothing ails me except think- 
 ing o' what Miss Blisset's been talking about' 
 
 ' Miss Blisset !' he echoed in a gentle voice, pausing to 
 look at her. ' Has she been here?' 
 
 ' Ay, she has so ! She only heard tell this morning about 
 poor Ned, and she came down to say how sorry she were. 
 Eh, but she is some and altered ; hoo's gone so quiet, I 
 ne'er saw nowt like it Hoo were ne'er a noisy one, but 
 now ' 
 
 Mary paused a minute. 
 
 ' I'd a deal to tell her — all about me and Harry, and 
 poor Ned, and about thy going away.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, in a dull voice. 
 
 ' Hoo fair started when hoo heard thou were going away. 
 Hoo were so surprised. I told her all about it, and hoo 
 said it were much the best thing, and I were to congratulate 
 you. And then hoo said it were a long time since hoo had 
 seen you, and, if you'd time, would you go up to-night and 
 see her, for she'd something she wanted to say to you. If 
 you do go,' added Mary, ' you'll have to go now, or it'll get 
 too late. It's after nine.' 
 
 ' I don't think it would be anything very important,' said 
 her brother, in a measured voice. ' And I have no time, 
 either. I've a lot of things to do to-night.' 
 
 'Won't you go?' asked Mary, opening her eyes wide. 
 4 Not go and say good-bye to her ! Such friends as you've 
 been !' 
 
 ' No,' repeated Myles. ' She will understand that I am 
 too busy' 
 
332 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' I don't think hoo'll understand nowt o' t' sort,' said 
 Mary very emphatically. ' But go thy own gait ! thou 
 knows best.' 
 
 He turned away from her, and went upstairs to nail up a 
 box with some books of his own in it, and to put up some 
 few things of furniture which Mary was to take away with 
 hei when she went to the Ashworths' house; and as he worked 
 his heart and his temples throbbed almost to bursting. 
 
 Go to her, after what had been said ! And, never to 
 mention that, why was he to go to her ? To hear something 
 she wanted to tell him 1 What could that be, but that she 
 was going to marry Sebastian ? He was to walk up and 
 hear that from her own lips, and then say good-bye to her, 
 and not betray himself ! After what had happened ! After 
 he had gone through with his bitter task, accepted favours 
 from Sebastian — all in order that he might never see her 
 again ! No ! Of course it might be ungrateful, brutal, 
 uncivilised ; it was nevertheless the only safe path for him 
 to take — to maintain absolute silence and let her think what 
 she pleased of him. What did it matter ? She had Sebas- 
 tian. He would soon be forgotten ; he would take care of 
 that. He knew, he was perfectly conscious all the time, 
 that he was doing wrong. As he drove one nail after 
 another into the box, each stroke of the hammer seemed 
 to say ' Wrong !' And, with his eyes open, he did that 
 wrong, because he was utterly miserable, and for the 
 moment utterly indifferent ; because he had suffered so 
 much and so long that even his will felt broken, and to 
 deliberately go to her and court still more suffering was 
 more than he could do. 
 
 The theory of the freedom of the will, says the latest 
 philosophy, is nonsense, and worse than nonsense. If we 
 seriously follow out such an idea, it leads us into a mad 
 confusion — an insane chaos of impossibilities piled on 
 impossibilities. We have no power to will this or that ; we 
 have the power of following and obeying the strongest 
 motives, and acting upon them. It was in strict accordance 
 with this principle that Myles behaved in this crisis of his 
 
PROBATION. 333 
 
 fate : he followed and obeyed the strongest motives — he 
 stayed at home. 
 
 Soon after eight the next morning he left. Later on the 
 same day, Mr. Hoyle, hearing of the disappearance of 
 Frederick Spenceley, was perforce reminded of the words 
 of the preacher, and learnt practically that he had wrought 
 in vain ; that, truly, all was vanity. 
 
BOOK III. 
 — ♦ — 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DAWN OF NEW DAYS. 
 
 It was August ; the second August since that memorable 
 one in 1862. This year, that of 1864, was in many re- 
 spects a remarkable one in the annals of commerce, more 
 especially in that branch of it known as the cotton trade. 
 
 Strange events had been witnessed ; amongst others, a 
 wondering world had looked on at the great 'scare' which 
 took place amongst the cotton lords, when the first mistaken 
 rumours of peace were spread. The members of a trade 
 whose greatest friend, it might have been supposed, would 
 be peace, turned pale and trembled when peace was men- 
 tioned, and actually wished for the continuance of war ; 
 some of them saying that for them the alternative was war 
 or ruin. Things grew somewhat more sane and better 
 balanced, later ; but the fact remained, that for once a 
 great industry had seriously inclined her ear unto Avarlike 
 councils, and had sought therein her profit. Despite all 
 drawbacks, however, this last mighty daughter of civilisation 
 was slowly arousing, and shaking off the paralysis which 
 oppressed her. She stretched her huge limbs, and found 
 that there was still life and vigour in them. Factories were 
 being reopened on every side, and amongst those which 
 were again working full time was that of Sebastian Mallory. 
 
 He sat breakfasting one Friday morning, alone, opening 
 his letters, and with the unopened newspapers beside him. 
 He usually breakfasted alone now, and had grown quite 
 accustomed to it. Mrs. Mallory rather avoided his society, 
 
PROBA TION. 335 
 
 and he, when he thought about the matter at all, felt the 
 absence to be a relief rather than otherwise. 
 
 Two years may or may not make a great change both in 
 the character and appearance of a man. Sebastian Mallory 
 was somewhat altered in the latter respect since he had 
 parted from Myles Heywood one evening, which, when he 
 thought of it, seemed a long time ago. His face had taken 
 an older, more decided expression ; his lips were more 
 firmly closed ; his eyes had lost much of their listlessness. 
 He had found plenty of work ready to his hand, and he 
 was not one of those persons whose work decreases. 
 Business accumulated about him. People had discovered 
 that he was useful, capable, and impartial. He did not 
 know himself how great his influence was, or rather he had 
 not known it until a few days before, when, to his great 
 surprise, he had been asked to contest the borough in the 
 Radical interest, so soon as a vacancy should occur. He 
 had promised to take the matter into consideration. In a 
 few days his answer was to be given. He was not wont to 
 waver or vacillate ; generally he could sum up the reasons 
 for and against a course, and decide in the most prudent 
 and reasonable way. On this occasion he had not found 
 the matter so easily disposed of. ' He would, and he 
 would not' Many considerations urged him to accept ; 
 he could scarcely assign any for declining. The only one 
 which would have been valid — that he felt no desire for a 
 public life, and no wish to increase his present occupations 
 — was absent. He had often felt a strong inclination for 
 such a life ; and he knew that he could manage to give 
 time enough to it. The core of the matter was that his 
 heart was not in it. As he read his letters this morning, he 
 thought of the coming interview with his supporters, and 
 had an odd sensation that he absolutely did not know what 
 to say to them, and that it was a case which might appro- 
 priately be settled by tossing up. 
 
 He laid two of his letters on one side, until the business 
 communications were disposed of, and then he took one of 
 them up. They both bore the Prussian stamp of two and 
 a half groschen, and both were addressed in a German 
 
336 PROBA TION. 
 
 handwriting. He took up the first of them, with a slight 
 smile hovering about his lips, or ever he began to read. 
 
 • Dear Sebastian,' it began, 
 
 ' What an age it is since I heard from you ! I look 
 out fervently every day for the postman, and he never 
 comes. I suppose you are busy ! How completely changed 
 you are, you who never used to be busy. I am writing 
 this at the midnight hour, because I have news for you. 
 Good news, of course ; if it were bad news, I should leave 
 it to travel to you on its own legs. Old Biermann, the 
 Dinktor, and I have, so to speak, buried the tomahawk, 
 and sworn an alliance ; and he is going to give my little 
 cantata, Hermann it. Dorothea, at the next concert but one. 
 This is a great step in advance. I hardly know what has 
 induced him to be so gracious ; but his word is given now, 
 and let him repent him never so much, he will be obliged 
 to carry it out. I need not tell you, however, that I look 
 upon it only as a step, and that my hopes and wishes con- 
 tinue to turn always to the opera. I am not hurrying about 
 it, because I want it to be worth hearing when it is done. 
 Mozart was only eighteen when his first opera (it's true it 
 was a comic one) was produced, and I am nearly twenty. 
 
 ' I am in luck's way, too. I have earned ten pounds by 
 my own exertions, teaching, in the last six months. It is 
 spread out before me in a beautiful shining row. No money 
 ever looked so charming before. Please remember this, 
 and make your next remittance ten pounds less than usual, 
 or else I shall not feel as if I had really earned it. 
 
 ' I cannot give you any news, for there is none ; still, I 
 will tell you what happened to me the other day. I was 
 walking in the Hofgartai, when I met a lady walking alone. 
 I looked up, and I thought : ' Helena Spenceley ! How- 
 did she come here ? ' In the surprise of the moment I did 
 not look at her attentively enough, but raised my cap, held 
 out my hand, and was going to accost her, when she smiled 
 and uttered a rather astonished ' Mein Hcrr, you are mis- 
 taken ! ' She was German, and when she smiled I saw the 
 difference ; she had not Helena's fire and spirit, and yet the 
 
PROBATION. 337 
 
 likeness was wonderful. The incident set me thinking 
 about these old days. You never mention Helena now. 
 Do you never see her? Tell me when you write. I have 
 never seen any one like her. I suppose you are too busy 
 to think of such things. I used to wonder at your coolness 
 all the time that she was suffering so, in consequence of 
 that wicked father and brother of hers. I used to make 
 her, in my own mind, the heroine of a hundred tragedies 
 and romances, in those days. And yet — forgive me for 
 saying so, I have always said things I ought not to say, to 
 you — I was nothing to her but an enthusiastic boy, to whom 
 she was kind, and you were a great deal — a man — I believe 
 the man. Since I met that lady in the gardens, I have 
 thought a great deal about it, and as I found a little poem 
 the other day, called Helene, I composed an air for it, and 
 made it into a song ; but I shall not sell it. You may have 
 it if you like ; but I shall not send it until I hear from you. 
 
 ' Ever your devoted 
 
 < Hugo.' 
 
 Sebastian put the letter down, the smile fading from his 
 face. The meeting with a strange girl, a passing likeness, 
 had set Hugo's memory working ; had prompted him to 
 write words which seemed striking to Sebastian. He had 
 thought, more than once — often — of Helena Spenceley, but 
 he had never seen her since, with disasters falling thick upon 
 her young head, she, with her mother, had left Thanshope. 
 They had gone to Manchester, he had heard. Once or 
 twice he had asked his mother if she had not heard from 
 Helena, for he remembered that Mrs. Mallory had told him 
 how Helena had been a ' kind of daughter ' to her ; but she 
 had composedly answered ' No,' and had added that she 
 did not know their address, and had reason to think they 
 did not wish to keep up any of their old Thanshope ac- 
 quaintances, which, she feelingly added, was really very 
 natural under the circumstances. At the time of their de- 
 parture, business had pressed upon Sebastian, as it had con- 
 tinued to press upon him ever since. He had been smart- 
 ing under the disappointment of his refusal by Adrienne. 
 
 z 
 
338 PROBA TION. 
 
 Helena and her misfortunes had touched him deeply; her 
 calmness, and the real heroism with which she met her 
 fate, had impressed him. He had firmly intended that he 
 should not be one of the Thanshope acquaintances whom 
 they dropped entirely ; but, by some means, they had slipped 
 out of his ken, and he had not been able to find them again. 
 Yet, many a time, Helena's beautiful face had seemed to 
 start up before his eyes, at strange moments : sometimes 
 when he was most busy, sometimes when he was in one of 
 his rare idle moods. Sometimes a song or a strain of music 
 would summon up the vision ; sometimes in a busy street, 
 or in a silent hour, it would hover before him. This morn- 
 ing, after reading Hugo's letter, he saw it more strongly 
 than ever ; but with the strength of will which belongs to 
 daylight and activity, he thrust it away, and took up his 
 other letter. 
 
 It was from his old friend, Herr Stismeyer, who asked 
 him if he was never coming to see him again, and added, 
 that he expected his son home some time during the 
 autumn, to take his place in the business. There were 
 further domestic details, and then the remark, ' Young Hey- 
 wood, whom you sent here to me, is my right hand, now 
 that I am somewhat laid up ; but he has been invaluable 
 ever since he fairly mastered the language. I should like 
 to speak to you about him too. There will have to be some 
 change when Julius returns.' 
 
 'Julius will return, will he? ' murmured Sebastian to him- 
 self. 'And Heywood is invaluable. He has gained the 
 old man's affections, and has not hardened his heart against 
 him, or indeed against any one but me. But I know the 
 reason, and can forgive him. It is an old story now. Still, 
 if ever L had the chance, I should like to test once again 
 his feelings, and see if he is as stiffnecked as ever.' 
 
 He put the letters into his pocket-book, and, having 
 finished breakfast, took his way to his office, pondering as 
 to whether it would be possible for him to get a brief holi- 
 day some time during the autumn, run over to Eisendorf, 
 see Herr Susmeyer, and observe with his own eyes how 
 ' young Heywood ' was getting on ; then go on to where 
 
PROBA T10N. 339 
 
 Hugo was studying, and carry him off with him to — Italy, 
 perhaps, or Switzerland. He began to long all at once 
 that he might be able to do so, and to yearn, almost, for 
 the sound of Hugo's voice ; to feel a sudden weariness of 
 this grey, dismal town — this never-ending strife with starva- 
 tion, this strained suspense, this sensation of standing on 
 the brink of a precipice, which had been present with him, 
 as it was with most men in his position, during all those 
 troubled years. The last two of them he had fought out 
 alone : to-day, for the first time, he felt the battle weary and 
 monotonous — almost ignoble. 
 
 ' Please, sir,' said Ben, who still retained his place in the 
 office, as Sebastian entered it, ' there's a message from Mr. 
 Sutcliffe to say he's very poorly this morning, and can't 
 come. He's very sorry, and he hopes he'll be better to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' 111, is he ? ' said Sebastian, going into his private room. 
 Mr. Sutcliffe had often been ill lately, and when he came to 
 his work he walked feebly, and coughed a good deal. 
 
 ' That's another question that must be settled, and before 
 long, too,' reflected Mr. Mallory, a shade of care upon his 
 brow, when he found himself alone. ' I must have a serious 
 talk with Sutcliffe, but how I'm to manage to make him 
 have assistance, and yet take the same salary, I don't know. 
 He is so confoundedly conscientious. 
 
 After working doubly hard, in order to make up for Mr. 
 Sutcliffe's absence, Sebastian found himself, shortly after 
 eleven o'clock, in the train on his way to Manchester, 
 Tuesday and Friday being the market-days in that city : 
 the days when merchants in the streets most do congregate, 
 and when that impressive spectacle, High 'Change, is wont 
 to be even more imposing than usual. 
 
 It was a busy day. Sebastian, after going on 'Change and 
 visiting his Manchester office, made certain business calls, 
 and, in the middle of the afternoon, found himself standing 
 in Mosley Street, exactly opposite the Royal Institution. 
 
 It was a hot, close, Manchester afternoon. Scarcely a 
 breath of air was stirring. The smoke pressed heavily 
 down upon the thick, yellow air. Faintly the coppery sun- 
 
34Q PROBA TIOX. 
 
 beams tried to struggle through it, and wavered, and seemed 
 to fail. There was a roar and a din in the much-frequented 
 street — all about the great black, grimy-looking buildings, 
 shops, offices, and warehouses. Omnibuses, carts, and lorries 
 were struggling in a 'lock' in the middle of the street, and 
 two exhausted-looking policemen were trying to restore 
 order. Sebastian's next destination was over the way ; but, 
 surveying the scene before him, he saw no immediate pros- 
 pect of getting over the way, and turned round towards 
 the Royal Institution, as if to consult that building as to 
 what he had better do. 
 
 Three large boards, covered with placards, caught his 
 eye. ' Exhibition of Pictures,' in large letters, stood at the 
 top of the boards, while profuse details followed in smaller 
 print below. 
 
 ' The pictures ! Why not go in and have a look ? ' he- 
 re fleeted, and straightway walked up to the door, paid his 
 shilling, secured a catalogue, and ran up the steps. 
 
 It was between three and four in the afternoon. If it 
 had been sultry out of doors, it was much more so within. 
 The rooms felt stiflingly hot, and the blaze of colour upon the 
 walls was oppressive. There were not very many visitors 
 present, and those who had come were going languidly 
 round. The people who had secured seats upon the chairs 
 or divans looked nearly asleep, and those who had not 
 secured such seats were looking enviously at those who had, 
 as if, with a little more provocation, they would forget con- 
 ventionality and sit down on top of them. 
 
 Sebastian glanced critically around. Now and then a 
 picture caught his eye and partially pleased it, but these 
 were few and far between ; and he passed rather quickly 
 from one room to another, until he came to the end one of 
 all, which was devoted to water-colours. The first object 
 that met his eye was an empty chair, and he promptly sat 
 down upon it. On examining the wall before him, he 
 found that one oil-painting had been admitted amongst the 
 water-colours, and that it was hung exactly opposite to him. 
 He sat in rapt contemplation of it, feebly endeavouring to 
 guess what it was meant to represent. A drab-coloured 
 
PROBATION. 34i 
 
 lady crouched together, nursing one of her own feet. She 
 was scantily attired, also in drab, and had a peculiar cast 
 of countenance, and an imbecile smile, showing rows of 
 very fine teeth, and was glancing upwards. She was 
 adorned with ropes of pearls of a size and value which must 
 have surprised even the author of ' Lothair,' could he have 
 seen them. An opaque veil prevented the colour of her 
 hair from being seen. She was drab ; the stones of the 
 palace-steps upon which she reposed were likewise drab. 
 The sand of the banks, the water of the river flowing by, 
 were all drab. Sebastian studied the composition, and shook 
 his head, referring in despair to his catalogue. 'Cleopatra 
 
 by the Nile, by . Price, one hundred guineas.' If a 
 
 little green ticket stuck in the margin of the frame were to 
 be believed, this work of genius was sold. 
 
 ' Some fellows do have most awful strokes of luck,' mused 
 Sebastian. ' Now, the man who painted this thing — I 
 wonder if he knew how the chances were against his ever 
 
 sell ' 
 
 ' You shan't ! ' 
 
 ' I shall ! I tell you I shall have that picture ; it's mine. 
 I like that little pussy. Mayn't I have that little pussy, 
 Miss Spenceley ?' 
 
 'Well, no, dear, I'm afraid not, unless you can persuade papa 
 to buy it ; because, you see, we can't take the things away.' 
 ' But I will have it ! I want that little pussy for my 
 own ! ' And a howl followed. 
 
 ' Oh, hush, Jacky, dear ! What shall we do if the man 
 comes to turn us out ? Come here. We'll ask papa about 
 the pussy, shall we ?' 
 
 Sebastian started from his chair, heat, listlessness, 
 ' Cleopatra by the Nile,' and everything else forgotten, and 
 turned suddenly round. The group was behind him, close 
 to him — yes, he knew that figure again instantly, even in 
 its present shabbiness, compared with its former splendour. 
 She was bending over an urchin of four or five summers, 
 whose engaging countenance was ominously puckered up in 
 readiness for another burst of infantile music. Two other 
 children, a girl and a boy, both older than the would-be 
 
342 PROBATION. 
 
 possessor of the pussy-cat, stood by, wrangling with each 
 other as to the possession of another work of art. She still 
 did not turn her face in his direction, but Sebastian, with 
 an eagerness and a pleasure which surprised even himself, 
 exclaimed very audibly, 
 
 'Miss Spenceley, have you forgotten me? Won't you 
 look at me ?' She started violently from her stooping 
 attitude, and, leaving the recalcitrant Jacky to his fate, at 
 last turned to him. 
 
 'Mr. Mallory, I — I — how you surprised me!' she 
 stammered, looking at first so pale and startled that he was 
 surprised. 
 
 He was shocked too, after the first glance, at the change, 
 the sad, mournful change, in her face. 
 
 1 You do know me again,' he said ; ' at least you might 
 shake hands with me. I fear you are not pleased to renew 
 our acquaintance.' 
 
 He had taken her hand, and as his fingers touched 
 hers, Helena's paleness fled, and crimson dyed her cheeks. 
 Tears rushed to her eyes ; her lips opened, but she did 
 not speak. His eyes were still fixed upon her face ; he 
 could not remove them ; he did not realise that his pro- 
 longed gaze distressed her. He felt unaccountably glad 
 to meet her, pleased, excited, light-hearted, as if he had a 
 great deal to say to her and ask her. He forgot all about 
 his engagements — about returning to the station, or going 
 home ; he wanted to talk to her, to hear her speak, to find 
 out all about her. 
 
 The colour gradually died out of her cheeks, and then 
 became again apparent the change these two years had 
 wrought in her. She was thin, decidedly thin, compared 
 with the full if delicate beauty of past days ; there were 
 hollows in her cheeks, and under her great dark eyes; there 
 was a painful line about her lips, and a melancholy, which 
 looked as if it were settled, in her expression. She looked, 
 what he had never thought she could look, patient and 
 subdued — not the impulsive, fiery-hearted girl whom he 
 had known and teased and quarrelled with. 
 
 Her dress, he also saw., was sadly altered. Helena had 
 
PROBA TION. 343 
 
 always had a weakness for splendid things : she delighted 
 in a rich colour, a soft silk, a sheeny satin — in all kinds of 
 luxurious, and beautiful, and fashionable things. Formerly 
 people used to laugh at this weakness. Other girls, whose 
 fathers had not been so rich as Mr. Spenceley, used to turn 
 up their noses, and say that she was vulgarly ostentatious ; 
 that it was exceedingly bad taste in a girl to dress herself 
 as splendidly as a dowager, and so on. In truth, it had 
 been no bad taste at all. The splendour was part of her 
 nature — one phase of her individuality ; it belonged to her 
 as much as her queenly shape and melodious voice. 
 
 But now — there was no splendour in that dress, of poor 
 material and last year's fashion. The silk mantle had been 
 handsome once — perhaps it was a relic of palmier days ; 
 now its shape was antiquated, and it was too good for the 
 poorness of the rest of the toilette. The glove on the hand, 
 which Sebastian still continued to hold, had been often 
 mended. Helena looked what she used to have the 
 strongest objection to — poor, shabby, and unprosperous, 
 her good looks faded 
 
 But not gone. No. Sebastian, staring on in the same 
 rude and reprehensible manner, satisfied himself that her 
 beauty was only clouded over, not vanished. 
 
 ' Do you know, I have been thinking about you a great 
 deal to-day?' he said. 'I had a letter this morning from 
 Hugo von Birkenau : he saw a German lady in the gardens 
 
 at , and thought it was you. Just fancy ! He made all 
 
 sorts of inquiries about you. How fortunate that I happened 
 to look in this afternoon !' 
 
 Helena seemed to have nothing to reply. Her face was 
 still downcast ; she remained silent. 
 
 ' It is nearly two years since we met,' he urged ; ' and 
 yet you do not say you are glad to see me.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am ! Very glad/ murmured Helena. 
 
 'You live in Manchester still?' 
 
 'Yes; mamma and I. We live in Woodford Street ' 
 
 She named one of the southern suburbs of Manchester. 
 
 ' Do you ? That is not far away. How odd that we 
 should never have met !' 
 
344 PROBATION. 
 
 ' I don't think so. Woodford Street is not a fashionable 
 locality.' 
 
 ' Is it not ? I must remember the name. I asked my 
 mother where you lived, but she said she did not know the 
 address. But now that we have met, I am sure you will 
 allow me to call, will you not?' 
 
 ' Our house is so very small ; we have so few visitors,' 
 she began in some embarrassment. 
 
 ' But, my dear Miss Spencely, you do not seriously mean 
 that you could urge that as an objection,' he exclaimed. 
 ' You are pleased to chaff me, I think, as you used to do.' 
 
 Helena turned abruptly away ; her lips set; her eyes 
 fixed upon a water-colour drawing immediately before 
 them. 
 
 ' Do you mean that you really would rather I did not 
 come?' he asked earnestly, and excessively piqued at the 
 idea, 
 
 ' If you really wish to come,' said Helena, rather proudly, 
 ' of course we shall be happy to see you, but I am sure you 
 will find it very inconvenient. I am engaged until after 
 four o'clock, and mamma ' 
 
 ' Until after four ? I shall remember that. The evenings 
 are long now, and there are trains going to Thanshope till 
 midnight, you know. How is Mrs. Spenceley ? ' 
 
 ' She is very well, thank you.' 
 
 ' Have you been bringing these young people to see the 
 pictures?' he inquired, for something in Helena's manner 
 forbade him to make the eager personal inquiries which 
 crowded to his lips. 
 
 Now that the first shock and surprise of meeting him 
 again had passed, and she had recovered her self-possession, 
 there was a certain pride and distance of bearing which 
 seemed to require considerable deference on his part. 
 Helena's troubles had indeed made her into a woman ; she 
 had most decidedly quitted the girlish stage. She had prob- 
 ably, thought Sebastian, become a great deal more reason- 
 able, and consequently a great deal less amenable to the 
 influence of other persons — Miss Mereweather, for instance, 
 and himself too. Willi regard to Miss Mereweather, it 
 
PROBATION. 345 
 
 might be a matter of rejoicing that Helena had forsworn her 
 tenets, but with regard to himself, perhaps that was not 
 altogether delightful. 
 
 'Yes,' said Helena, calmly, as she looked at the three 
 children, ' I have. They are my pupils.' 
 
 ' Are they good ? ' 
 
 ' I fancy they are as good as their parents will allow them 
 to be. It all depends upon that' 
 
 'How so?' asked Sebastian. Anything to prolong the 
 conversation ! 
 
 'Mr. and Mrs. Galloway are supplied with the newest 
 ideas upon all subjects, education included. The new edu- 
 cation theory is, that when children are allowed their own 
 way, they always do right ; or if they do wrong some one 
 else is to blame for it. That is why I say they are as good 
 as their parents will allow them to be.' 
 
 ' And are you generally the " some one else " who is to 
 blame?' he asked, wishing very much that she would utter 
 some complaint, afford him some chance of offering sym- 
 pathy or expressing fellow-feeling. 
 
 'Oh no ! ' she replied, quite cheerfully. ' I only come 
 in for my share, and they really are very fond of me ; only 
 they show it in rather a funny way. That is why I can't see 
 any one before four o'clock. I leave them then- — reluct- 
 antly, of course,' she added, with a smile which vexed 
 Sebastian, because he could not tell whether it was feigned 
 or not; 'but still, I leave them.' 
 
 ' Won't you sit down in this chair,' he said reproachfully, 
 'and tell me all about yourself?' He moved the chair 
 forward for her, for he saw that she looked tired, and indeed 
 she was very tired, and Sebastian looked to her wearied 
 eyes, so kind, so handsome, and so agreeable, that it was 
 with difficulty she maintained her little air of dignified 
 reserve : but the voice within was a powerful one : ' What 
 right has he to look at me in that gentle, reproachful way, 
 as if he, and not poor mamma and I, had been neglected ? 
 It is impertinent, and I won't submit to it.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' she said aloud, looking at her watch. 
 ' It is time to go. We must take a Victoria Park omnibus, 
 
346 PROBATION. 
 
 and it will pass in three minutes. Come, children ! Jacky, 
 Amy, Ted ! we must go.' 
 
 They came obediently enough, their failing appearing to be 
 in affection towards each other. They lavished affectionate 
 epithets upon their governess, and quarrelled, as Helena 
 said, ' because I have not three hands ;' but they cast looks 
 of suspicion upon each other, and took every opportunity 
 of falling out. 
 
 1 Good afternoon !' said Helena to Sebastian, and as the 
 children crowded round her and clasped her hands, she was 
 not displeased to see that his face fell. She was glad that 
 he should see that she was not altogether an object of pity. 
 
 ' I am going too,' he said. ' I will see you into the omni- 
 bus. It will save you a little trouble. Come, young lady, 
 take hold of my hand, or you will tear Miss Spenceley to 
 pieces.' 
 
 The little girl put her hand in his contentedly enough. 
 merely informing her brothers that they were ' nasty, selfish 
 things,' and the procession went downstairs. 
 
 As they stood on the top of the steps, waiting for the 
 omnibus, Sebastian, turning once more to Helena, said, 
 
 ' You have not told me the number of your house. What 
 is it?' 
 
 ' Fifty-seven,' said Helena ' Jacky, dear, if you pull 
 Teddy's hair again, I'll make you sit outside the omnibus.' 
 
 ' Fifty-seven. Best make a note of it, for fear I should 
 forget it,' he added, jotting it down, while Helena, with a 
 brave assumption of indifference, looked straight before her, 
 and choked back her tears. 
 
 ' You are not engaged until four o'clock on Sundays, are 
 you?' he suddenly asked. 
 
 ' No — but — oh, don't come on Sunday !' said Helena in 
 her old tragic manner. 
 
 ' I solemnly swear that I will not come on Sunday !' he 
 said. ' And equally solemnly I swear I will make you tell 
 me why I am forbidden to come on that day.' 
 
 'Why?' said Helena, with a kind of half-laugh, not quite 
 free from an hysterical sound — 'why, the reason is simple 
 enough. Because ' 
 
PROBA TION. 347 
 
 The omnibus is almost more relentless in its punctuality 
 than time and tide. Not another word could be exchanged. 
 They ran down the steps, and went through the ignominious 
 performance of hailing and catching the vehicle. Sebastian, 
 with great presence of mind, did manage to clasp Helena's 
 hand once more, and to repeat the words, 
 
 ' I shall come soon, and not on Sunday.' 
 
 Then he stood in the middle of Mosley Street gazing 
 after the omnibus, until an uproar caused him to look up, 
 and he found himself surrounded with infuriated lorrie-drivers, 
 swearing at him for getting into the way, while a hansom 
 cabman had just pulled his horse up on to its very haunches, 
 and was apostrophising him in a manner the reverse of 
 complimentary. Newspaper boys were jeering at him, and 
 an indignant policeman was ordering him to move on. 
 
 With an amiable smile, and a murmured general apology, 
 he made his way to the footpath, and then on to the station. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FENCING. 
 
 Towards five o'clock on the following Tuesday afternoon, 
 a hansom-cab drove rapidly up that Manchester thorough- 
 fare known as Oxford Street, and the address given by the 
 man who took it had been, ' Fifty-seven Woodford Street.' 
 
 As they spun rapidly along, he looked out wondering on 
 which side of Oxford Street Woodford Street might lie ; 
 how far from town, and if it would turn out to be a very 
 poor little street indeed. He remembered Helena's look 
 of embarrassment, as she said the house was small and 
 uncomfortable. They drove on ; the cab passed the Owen's 
 College, passed the ' Church of the Holy Name,' passed 
 some other buildings, and at last turned off to the right. 
 
 Sebastian shook his head. ' Not the best side. Poor 
 little Helena !' Why did he always think of her as 'little 
 Helena,' she who was taller than most women, and whose 
 disdainful head, set upon her long white neck, had been 
 
34S PROBA TION. 
 
 wont to look over the heads of a good many even o: 
 the men of Thanshope? Three whole days had passed 
 since he had met her in the Royal Institution — three whole 
 days, and part of a fourth, because she had told him not to 
 come on Sunday. 
 
 ' Why wouldn't she let me come on Sunday?' he had 
 asked himself many times, and had assigned all kinds of 
 imaginary reasons for the prohibition. The latest was, 
 ' Perhaps other people, or another person, may be allowed 
 to come on Sunday. I shall make her tell me — if I can. 
 1 wonder if I can call one of those old flashing smiles to 
 her face — one of those looks, which ran over it, and made 
 it more beautiful still, if that could be?' 
 
 Lost in profound conjecture upon this subject, he forgot 
 to look where they were going, until the cab had traversed 
 several smallish streets, and at last pulled up suddenly before 
 one of a row of moderately sized houses — houses of the 
 kind which would be called 'respectable.' It was not a 
 glaring new street : it was neatly kept, and as he jumped 
 out of the hansom and looked up it and down it, he did 
 not see a single barrel-organ — not even a perambulator. 
 
 Neither of these things did he behold ; but he saw Helena 
 Spenceley herself, just coming up to the gate, walking rather 
 wearily, and looking tired as she pushed it open. 
 
 'She has been walking, and I have been driving,' he 
 thought, with a strange sensation of guiltiness, as he dis- 
 missed the man and joined her. 
 
 ' You see, I have kept my word,' he observed. ' I have 
 come soon, and I have not come on Sunday.' 
 
 ' I am glad to see you,' said Helena, sedately. 
 
 They were airing themselves all this time on the top of 
 the door steps, Mrs. Spenceley's domestic, or domestics, not 
 seeming to be in any violent hurry to open the front door ; 
 but as Sebastian was about to make some further observa- 
 tion, it was suddenly Hung (as much as such a modestly 
 proportioned door could be flung) wide open, by a young 
 man whose appearance seemed to indicate that he belonged 
 to some one of the numerous tribe of clerks. 
 
 When he saw them he recoiled a step or two, and Sebas- 
 
PROBATION. 349 
 
 tian, to his great amusement, saw that he was honoured by 
 the surprised young gentleman with a scowl of peculiar 
 malevolence. Clearing his brow, after a moment, of this 
 unbecoming expression, he addressed himself to Helena. 
 
 ' Good afternoon, Miss Spenceley. I hope I see you well.' 
 
 ' Very well, thank you. Will you allow me to pass?' 
 
 ' You see I am somewhat earlier to-day ; in fact two hours 
 earlier than usual. I was, if I must tell the truth, on my 
 way to meet you,' with great emphasis upon the personal 
 pronoun, and a languishing but fascinating smile. 
 
 'To meet meV repeated Helena, with equal emphasis. 
 'Pray, on what errand, Mr. Jenkins?' 
 
 ' I thought, as the evening was so beautiful, you might 
 possibly not be indisposed for a — a — little walk after tea of 
 course; and if so, I ' 
 
 ' I am obliged, but I am engaged this evening, and I never 
 take walks after tea,' said Helena, with crushing coldness. 
 ' If you will kindly allow us to pass ' 
 
 Mr. Jenkins, plunging his hand into his breast, flattened 
 himself against the wall, and resumed the Giaour-like scowl 
 as Sebastian followed Helena. She opened the door of a 
 back room and invited him in. 
 
 ' I am afraid you will find it rather hot,' said she ; ' these 
 little houses are so thin, you know. They let the heat in, 
 and then it never seems to get out again, somehow. Take 
 that chair,' and she seated herself languidly upon another. It 
 is our only sitting-room, she added, drawing off her gloves, 
 and speaking deliberately, as she looked fixedly at Sebastian, 
 to see how he would take her announcement. It is dining, 
 and drawing-room, morning-room, boudoir, and library. At 
 Castle Hill we had them separately, but here mamma lets the 
 rest of her rooms to lodgers. Mr. Jenkins, who wanted me 
 to go for a walk with him, was one of them.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Sebastian, tranquilly. ' I also saw that I 
 did not rise in his esteem from the fact that I deprived him 
 of his walk.' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory ! ' exclaimed Helena, indignantly, as she 
 lost the languid look and suddenly sat upright, 'do you 
 insult me by supposing that I ever take my walks abroad 
 
;5o PROBATION. 
 
 with that horrid, presuming little man? But why should 
 you not suppose so?' she added with a little laugh. 
 
 ' I supposed nothing,' said Sebastian. ' I only saw that 
 he looked very much disappointed, and I could quite 
 sympathise with him.' 
 
 Here he ventured to look at Helena with some meaning 
 in his glance, but was met by a direct gaze of what seemed 
 to him cheerful, blank indifference — a gaze which chilled 
 him ; for Helena's looks and glances had suddenly risen to 
 a place of high importance in his mind. Their interview 
 on Friday, especially the first few minutes of it, haunted 
 him. He could not forget her agitation, nor how she had 
 turned, first pale, and then red as a rose, on meeting him. 
 He had wondered, and had determined to find out, what 
 the agitation meant. He had thought it would be quite 
 easy. The Helena whom he had known in former days 
 had not been adroit in concealing her feelings, but before 
 the present young lady he was obliged to own himself 
 baffled. Her appearance, attitude, expression, were languid 
 and weary ; she looked worn, and not very happy, but her 
 manner was composed, and a little hard in its ostentatious 
 cheerfulness. He could not tell what was real and what 
 assumed, and the desire to find out, to break down the 
 reserve, to conquer in short — his besetting foible — grew very 
 strong indeed. 
 
 'Can you drink tea at five o'clock?' pursued Helena. 
 ' We have ours at five. Teaching makes me thirsty, and 
 mamma likes her tea at five. Remember, there is no dinner 
 to follow after.' 
 
 ' If you invite me to tea, I am sure I shall be delighted 
 to stay.' 
 
 ' Then you are invited. Now I must go and take off 
 my things. I will try to find mamma. You will excuse 
 our leaving you alone for a short time.' 
 
 ' Pray don't mention it,' said Sebastian, and Helena left 
 the room. It was not a lofty room : the doorway was 
 decidedly low, and he thought she would have to stoop to 
 pass under it. 
 
 When he was left alone, he glanced round the room. It 
 
PROBATION. 351 
 
 was rather small, and was over-filled with furniture. Books 
 were scattered about, and in the most shady corner of the 
 room there was a vase containing a carefully preserved 
 nosegay, such as might be bought for a trifle at any green- 
 grocer's shop in the neighbourhood. Everything was 
 exquisitely neat and orderly, and in little touches here and 
 there he fancied he recognised Helena's hand despite the 
 plainness, and in some respects even poorness, of the 
 furniture. On the mantelpiece he detected two little vases 
 of Sevres — relics of former splendour, no doubt. There 
 was no piano, he noticed that. Perhaps because it would 
 have filled up the room too much, or perhaps because 
 pianos were rather expensive things to buy or hire. Yet 
 Helena used to sing, and had a very fresh, sweet voice. 
 How well he remembered her on that evening when he 
 had first seen her — in her beauty and splendour, in her 
 costly dress and sparkling necklace and rings. She had 
 sung, 'Since first I saw your face.' 
 
 That seemed a very long time ago ! 
 
 He hoped it would not be long before Helena came 
 down again. He hoped Mrs. Spenceley would not sit with 
 them all the evening, and he hoped they would not expect 
 him to go away very early. 
 
 Presently the door was opened, and, not Helena but her 
 mother came in. Sebastian was as much struck with the 
 change in her as he had been shocked with that in Helena, 
 but in a different way. Mrs. Spenceley looked better, 
 happier, younger, and more contented, than she had done 
 since her husband had made his fortune eighteen years 
 ago. And she looked so because she was so. She did 
 not mind the narrow means, the small house, the two girls, 
 and the constant necessity for her presence in the kitchen. 
 All that was as the breath of life to her, and she thoroughly 
 enjoyed it. Sebastian, with a sigh of relief, felt that here 
 no condolences were needed, no delicate skirting of danger- 
 ous ground. He might look cheerful, and ask Mrs. 
 Spenceley with confidence and success how she was. The 
 nature of her answer was visibly written upon her face 
 beforehand. 
 
352 PROBATION. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Mallory, this is a pleasure ! I could scarcely 
 believe it when Helena said she had met you, and you were 
 coming to see us. I said, " Eh, he'll never come, not he !" 
 But she said she thought you would; and she's right, it 
 seems.' 
 
 ' She certainly is. I am very glad to see you looking so 
 well, Mrs. Spenceley.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' said Mrs. Spenceley, lightly, flinging a 
 purple satin cap-string over her shoulder. ' I've nothing to 
 complain of, thank God ! I've got on much better than 
 I'd any reason to expect, and I'm thankful for it. It's hard 
 work sometimes, but I've a broad back.' 
 
 Which she certainly had. 
 
 ' That is very fortunate,' he said, with becoming solem- 
 nity. 
 
 ' Yes ; I've four gentlemen. You'd wonder where we 
 find room to put them all, but the house is more capacious' 
 (Sebastian conjectured that she meant spacious) ' than it 
 looks, and we've room for them all. Very nice gentlemen 
 they are too ; all in business in Manchester, you know. 
 They're quiet and well-behaved, and they pay up regularly ; 
 and,' she added, dropping her voice, ' none of your stand-off 
 gents. They are all disposed to be most friendly, all except 
 Mr. Harrison, and he's engaged to his cousin, who lives in 
 Northumberland. He hears from her regularly twice a 
 week.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Sebastian, with an air of the deepest interest 
 — the air of one thirsting for more information. 
 
 ' But all the others, Mr. Finlay, and Mr. Smithson, and 
 Mr. Jenkins — are most friendly, and quite gentlemen, every 
 one of them. Indeed. Mr. Jenkins,' she dropped her voice 
 again, ' is very much interested in Helena.' 
 
 • [s he ? ' said Sebastian, still with unfeigned interest. 
 
 ' Yes, he is. He's getting on, too. And a perfect gentle- 
 man — on Sundays' — Sebastian leaned eagerly forward — 
 ' on Sundays they often go out into the country for the day, 
 or sometimes even for the week-end ; but Mr. Jenkins, 
 never,' said Mrs. Spenceley, emphatically: 'Mr. Jenkins dines 
 with us.' 
 
PROBATION. 353 
 
 ' Poor Helena ! ' thought Sebastian, while he said, ' Oh, 
 indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Helena said I oughtn't to have entered into such an 
 arrangement ; but I think she's mistaken, and I think she'll 
 come to see her mistake in time.' 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley does not feel so much interest in Mr. 
 Jenkins, perhaps, as he feels in her ! ' 
 
 ' That I can't say ; but if she does, she conceals it, which 
 is but natural after all.' 
 
 ' Quite natural in such a case,' assented Sebastian. 
 
 ' Here's the tea-things,' continued Mrs. Spenceley, cheer- 
 fully, producing a bunch of keys, and going to a cupboard, 
 whence she drew forth, to speak metaphorically, flagons 
 wherewith to stay her guest, and apples for his comfort — in 
 the dry language of reality, a jar of apple-jelly, and a glass 
 dish containing conserves of a deeper, more sanguinary hue. 
 
 While Mrs. Spenceley was half-buried in the depths of the 
 cupboard, Helena came into the room again. She had 
 changed her dress, and attired herself in another relic of 
 splendour, a black silk dress, rich and handsome, if some- 
 what old-fashioned ; and she had tied an orange-coloured 
 ribbon round her neck, and put on a little lace frill, and 
 Sebastian felt that she looked lovely, and began to hate 
 those three gentlemen who were disposed to be so very 
 friendly, with a deadly hatred. Her eyes fell upon the 
 figure of her mother, half in and half out of the cupboard. 
 It was a very funny sight, and when she turned to Sebastian 
 there was a broad smile of amusement upon her face. It 
 looked as if it was the first that had been there for a very 
 long time, and Sebastian felt it only right to smile as genially 
 in return. 
 
 Mrs. Spenceley, emerging from the cupboard, summoned 
 them to the table ; Sebastian felt as if it were a dream, as 
 he handed Helena her chair, and took his place opposite 
 her. No surroundings, however poor, could take away from 
 the queenly beauty of her face and figure. She was indeed 
 more queenly than she ever had been before, he thought, 
 as he watched her across that simple board. The meal 
 was soon over, and then Mrs. Spenceley, rising, said, 
 
 2 A 
 
354 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory, you must excuse me if I leave you. I 
 must first go and see about Their teas, and then I've pro- 
 mised to go and sit with Mrs. Woodford, next door but one. 
 She's a great friend of mine. Her husband's father built 
 most of the houses in this street, and was a rich man, but he 
 never could keep anything, never ! and now she pays a rent 
 for the very house her father-in-law built. This world's 
 full of ups and downs.' 
 
 ' It is indeed. Then I shall not see you again this even- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' Well, no. We shall most likely have a little supper to- 
 gether, and so I shall leave Helena and you to have a little 
 chat. But I shall hope to see you again soon, Mr. Mallory, 
 if you don't mind coming all this way out of town.' 
 
 He hastened to assure her that he thought it a very nice 
 drive, and not at all far ; and Mrs. Spenceley, disturbed by 
 the sound of a ring at the bell, said, 
 
 ' There's Mr. Finlay ! I must go. Good evening, Mr. 
 Mallory.' 
 
 She was gone, and they were alone. Helena had taken 
 her work-basket to a little table near the window, and had 
 begun to embroider a little strip of muslin. Sebastian 
 thought the sofa, which was just on the other side of the 
 little table, offered a suitable place for the purposes of con- 
 fidential conversation, and he went and sat down upon it. 
 
 ' Is there no one in Thanshope about whom you wish to 
 inquire, Miss Spenceley ? ' he began. 
 
 ' I — oh, how rude of me ! I have never asked after Mrs. 
 Mallory. How is she ? ' 
 
 ' She is very well, thank you.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' said Helena, calmly ; and Sebastian 
 felt rather uncomfortable, for Mrs. Mallory had not displayed 
 any interest in the Spenceley family since their downfall. 
 
 4 Do you see much of the Thanshope people?' continued 
 Helena, in the same calmly indifferent tone ; not a resent- 
 ful tone, but a politely conventional one, which was much 
 more disagreeable to Sebastian than a resentful one would 
 have been. It implied that Thanshope and all that therein 
 lived had become a name, a memory, a thing of the past 
 
PROBATION. 355 
 
 to her. 'Do you visit much?' she added; 'go to many 
 parties?' 
 
 ' N — no. I am very busy. I am busy all day, and I 
 don't care much for the Thanshope people. All my near 
 friends, those in whom I took an interest, I have lost.' 
 
 ' How very distressing ! How has that come to pass?' 
 
 ' Hugo von Birkenau has gone to Germany. He is 
 studying music, and intends to make a profession of it. He 
 has begun to give lessons already.' 
 
 ' Hugo give lessons ! ' cried Helena, looking up sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ' Yes, I will tell you all about it another time. I see you 
 don't half believe it. But it is true. We have not quar- 
 relled, I am glad to say ; but he has gone. He has begun 
 life for himself, and henceforth our paths are divided. There 
 was another. You did not know him. I could scarcely 
 call him one of my friends, but I miss him. He is one 
 interest less. There was Mr. Blisset ; he is dead. There 
 was you — at least I hope so.' 
 
 ' I don't think we ever were really friends. I did not 
 like your opinions.' 
 
 ' But not enemies?' 
 
 'Well, perhaps not exactly; at least, not at last,' said 
 Helena with a sudden change in her voice. ' But,' she 
 repeated, ' I did not like your opinions. You shut me — I 
 mean, you denied to women the right to participate in those 
 larger questions which I hold they ought to be interested in as 
 well as men, for the sake both of men and of themselves ; 
 and I never would give in to that as long as I live.' 
 
 She did not speak vehemently, but with a decision and 
 calmness unlike her old agitation of manner. 
 
 ' I wonder how I shall ever make you understand my real 
 views on that subject,' he said despairingly. 
 
 ' You said you had no views on the question. Perhaps, 
 if you had ever tried to find out whether I had any under- 
 standing, you might have succeeded in discovering a tiny 
 scrap somewhere very low down. But never mind, it is of 
 no consequence now. I can never help forward the ques- 
 tions I take an interest in, as I once hoped to do ; so you 
 
356 PROBATION. 
 
 need not be afraid of my going astray. I have lost the 
 power.' 
 
 ' Miss Spenceley ' 
 
 ' I think you have forgotten one of your friends,' suggested 
 Helena, with a change in her voice, which she could not 
 quite conceal. 
 
 ' Have I ? Which ?' he asked very meekly. 
 
 ' Miss Adrienne Blisset' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! I actually had forgotten her. I never see her 
 now, either.' 
 
 'Does she no longer live in Thanshope?' asked Helena, 
 bending over her work. 
 
 ' She still has Stonegate, but she is scarcely ever there. 
 I think she has taken a dislike to the place. And when 
 she is there, I do not see her. As you say, she is lost to 
 me too, for we once were friends.' 
 
 Sebastian's voice did not change. It was quite steady 
 and composed. Helena still seemed interested in her work, 
 as she said, 
 
 ' I should think that must be the greatest loss of all to 
 you.' 
 
 1 In some respects it is. At first it was a great loss. Now 
 I feel it less. For two years I have been learning to live 
 alone. Smile scornfully to yourself if you like ! You may 
 not believe me, but it is true all the same.' 
 
 ' Oh, I can believe that you found it hard to lose Miss 
 Blisset's society. She was no ordinary young lady. If she 
 had once been your friend, it must have been difficult to 
 resign her. And people spoke of something more than 
 friendship. I heard, often, that you and she were en- 
 gaged.' 
 
 1 Did you ? I, too, have heard something of the same 
 kind ; but there was no truth in the report We were never 
 engaged.' 
 
 ' Ah ! people will talk, you see 1' 
 
 ' Naturally, but I don't think they talk so much anywhere 
 as in Thanshope.' 
 
 'Perhaps they haven't so much cause.' 
 
 ' That is rather too bad.' 
 
PROBATION. 357 
 
 ' You mean that people are not often so rude to you. I 
 can quite fancy so.' 
 
 'You will agree with me that I have lost all my friends.' 
 
 'You do not seem broken-hearted,' said Helena. 'You 
 look well and cheerful' She raised her eyes, and surveyed 
 his face, straightly and composedly. Sebastian wished the 
 look had not been so entirely self-possessed. 
 
 ' I lead too busy a life to be broken-hearted,' he replied. 
 ' Pray don't suppose that I spend my time in thinking how 
 lonely I am.' 
 
 ' I never supposed anything of the kind.' 
 
 ' It is simply that I once had friends, and circumstances 
 removed them, and I have not been able to fill up their 
 places. I have worked hard — really hard, and I think I 
 have learnt some good lessons in these sad years.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Helena, looking up, with the old eager interest 
 in her eyes, the old brightness upon her face. ' You must 
 indeed have learned some lessons. My greatest trouble in 
 leaving Thanshope was that I lost sight of all my friends 
 that I had made during the distress. I have had no 
 interest like that since then. You have. And you have 
 had other interests too. I saw that they had asked you to 
 be the Radical candidate, when Mr. Lippincott resigned. 
 There is a prospect before you ! Have you given your 
 answer yet?' 
 
 ' My answer is due to-morrow. And upon my honour, 
 I don't know what it is going to be. What would you 
 advise?' 
 
 ' Mr. Mallory !' 
 
 'Yes?' 
 
 ' Why will you persist in saying such things ? Do you 
 think it is amusing?' 
 
 ' According to you, I must have the most wonderful 
 faculty of amusement that any man possessed. Please, do 
 I think what amusing?' 
 
 ' Do you think it amusing to ask questions of that kind ? 
 — to solemnly ask advice when you don't want it ? To con- 
 sult a woman, and a young woman, upon an important step 
 in life ? We don't understand these things — at least you 
 
358 PROBATION. 
 
 say so, and I choose to take you at your word, so far as you 
 are concerned. I do not choose to be treated as you once 
 treated me, when I was in earnest, and then be appealed 
 to for an opinion. I have no opinion on the question.' 
 
 ' I wish I had never opened my lips upon that question. 
 You have never forgiven me, and you never will,' said he, 
 in a deep tone of mortification. ' I too was in earnest when 
 I asked you to-night what you advised. I have been vacillat- 
 ing, and considering and wondering what was best, like ' 
 
 ' Like a woman.' 
 
 ' Like a lonely man who has no counsellor to whom to 
 apply.' 
 
 'How pathetic !' 
 
 'Will you really not give me one word of advice? 
 Would you accept or not?' 
 
 ' You do not want my advice. You — it is absurd ! 
 You have lots of men to advise you. What can you want 
 my advice for?' 
 
 She spoke impatiently. Stung by her tone, words, and 
 manner, he leaned suddenly forward, saying, 
 
 ' I do want your advice, Helena. I acted like a conse- 
 quential fool towards you at one time. When your troubles 
 overtook you, I was made thoroughly ashamed of myself. 
 You behaved like a heroine. Tell me, should I accept or 
 refuse? Give me your opinion, and, by heaven, I will 
 abide by it ! I can trust you.' 
 
 ' Then accept ! With your abilities and your respon- 
 sibilities, you have no right to refuse.' 
 
 ' I shall accept,' was all he said, and there was silence 
 for a time. 
 
 Helena went on working, with how great, how immense 
 an effort, he could not know. He sat and meditated on 
 what he had done, on the fact that he had submitted his 
 conscience to the guidance of a girl's voice, and that since 
 that voice had spoken, every hesitation, every doubt had 
 vanished. Not a difficulty remained. 
 
 ' You will be almost certainly elected,' said Helena, after 
 a pause. ' Then your life will be busier than ever. How 
 will you manage?' 
 
PROBATION. 359 
 
 ' That is a problem which is even now troubling me. I 
 must have some help. I do not know where to turn for 
 it. I am overwhelmed with business, really.' 
 
 ' Are you ? I wonder at you wasting your precious hours 
 here,' said Helena, and the moment after she had said it 
 her face became crimson. 
 
 ' You think the time wasted, and you wonder that I should 
 waste it here?' said Sebastian, and looked at her steadily. 
 
 Helena did, at this point, show a return of her former 
 sensibility. The flush remained high in her cheeks. Her 
 eyes fell, and her hands trembled as she resumed her work. 
 Sebastian was much too good a tactician to lessen the value 
 of the sign he had wrung from her, by coming to her assist- 
 ance with any casual remark. He remained perfectly silent, 
 till Helena, apparently finding the situation disturbing, 
 started up, exclaiming impatiently, 
 
 ' How hot it is ! Oh, how hot ! My needle gets sticky, 
 and I can't work with a sticky needle. . . . When you are 
 elected — and you are sure to be elected — you will, as you 
 say, be very busy ; but what an interesting kind of business ! 
 I shall often think ' 
 
 She stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' Never mind my life,' said he, beginning to see where 
 the power on his side, and the weakness on hers, really lay. 
 ' Tell me something about your own.' 
 
 'About mine — my life!' said Helena, with a laugh 
 'That would indeed be an exciting history — too much for 
 your nerves altogether, I fear.' 
 
 ' Tell me, or I shall not know how to think of you. It 
 is so annoying not to know the tenor of the life led by 
 some person in whom one takes an interest. What is the 
 name of the parents of your pupils ? ' 
 
 ' Their name is Galloway. ' 
 
 ' What sort of people are they?' 
 
 ' They are rich people.' 
 
 ' That is nothing to the point.' 
 
 ' They are people with fads, and yet they are very kind to 
 me. I teach their children — as much as they will allow me, 
 that is. They believe in letting the children grow up happy, 
 
360 PROBA TION. 
 
 and never punishing them, which means ' Helena 
 
 smiled. 
 
 ' Which means that every one else, and you particularly, 
 are to grow up unhappy, and live in a state of eternal pun- 
 ishment,' said Sebastian, resentfully; 'disgusting people!' 
 
 ■ ' They are not disgusting, and they have a right to bring 
 up their children as they think best.' 
 
 Sebastian found that Helena would not complain. She 
 evidently accepted the inevitable resolutely. She had be- 
 come very reasonable and sensible. He wished she had 
 been less so. 
 
 ' Mrs. Spenceley looks well and cheerful,' said he at last. 
 ' That must be a comfort to you.' 
 
 ' Poor mamma ! Yes, it is,' said Helena, with sudden 
 tenderness. ' What a great deal she has had to go through, 
 and how brave, and cheerful, and uncomplaining she is. She 
 makes me feel ashamed of myself, and yet I cannot see 
 things in the light in which she sees them.' 
 
 ' Mr. Jenkins, for instance, on Sundays.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Helena, and then, after a pause, 
 ' No ; mamma and I differ very much on the subject of 
 Mr. Jenkins.' 
 
 'You see, I know why I may not come on Sunday,' said 
 he, rising. 
 
 ' Do you ? I thought you would not enjoy Mr. Jenkins's 
 society, but now, if you like, you may come on Sunday, 
 and have the pleasure of meeting him. We are glad to see 
 our friends, if they care to visit us.' 
 
 ' Our friends ! ' It was the turn of the eminently reason- 
 able Mr. Mallory to feel most unreasonably annoyed at being 
 classed, along with Mr. Jenkins, as ' our friends.' Helena 
 had succeeded in turning the tables very completely upon 
 him. It was useless to try not to feel mortified and 
 snubbed. He felt both; and Helena stood, the picture of 
 unconscious innocence, waiting for him to finish his good-bye. 
 
 'You have changed, Miss Spenceley,' said he. 'You 
 have developed the power of being very ' 
 
 ' Rude and unkind ? ' suggested Helena. ' Perhaps ad- 
 versity has soured my temper. It has that effect upon many 
 
PROBATION. 361 
 
 natures, and I never was one who could endure thwarting 
 as you may remember.' 
 
 ' May I be allowed to come again ? ' he asked, almost 
 humbly. 
 
 ' We shall be happy to see you, whenever your other en- 
 gagements allow you to call,' said Helena, quite coolly and 
 distantly. The answer chilled him and stung him, and yet 
 he asked himself, what more would he have had her say? 
 
 'You say you are so very busy,' she continued remorse- 
 lessly, ' and if you accept this invitation to stand, and if 
 Mr. Lippincott resigns, which I suppose he really intends 
 to do now, and the election comes on, your time will indeed 
 be fully occupied.' 
 
 ' But I am not forbidden to come when I have time ? ' 
 
 ' Forbidden ! Oh no ! As I said, we are always glad to 
 see our friends.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said he. ' Remember you are answerable 
 for the step I am going to take.' 
 
 ' You say so, but I wonder how it would have been if we 
 had never met,' said Helena, carelessly. They shook hands, 
 and Sebastian was gone, with the words still echoing after him : 
 ' I wonder how it would have been, if we had never met ! ' 
 
 'How indeed?' he muttered to himself. 'And how is it to 
 be now that we have met ? I don't know how it will end, but 
 you shall look at me differently from that, Helena, or ' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN THE RAIN. 
 
 It was more than three weeks later. The month of August 
 had almost come to its close. The scene was again the bright 
 and cheerful city of Manchester, on one of its typical days. 
 August was going out, as she often does in Lancashire, 
 with a sullen, streaming rain, which poured on, relentlessly 
 and unceasingly. Helena Spenceley had been struggling 
 all the morning with her pupils, who had turned refractory, 
 and, unable because of the rain to go out, had vented their 
 
362 PROBA TION. 
 
 youthful spirits in a series of experiments upon Miss Spence- 
 ley's endurance. They were not bad children ; indeed 
 they had in them ' the makings ' of very good children, and 
 were, as their governess had informed Sebastian, as good as 
 their parents would allow them to be. They had been 
 allowed to find out that everyone and everything in the 
 establishment was to yield to their comfort and convenience. 
 They knew their power, and used it. 
 
 The morning's lessons were over. Usually, at twelve 
 o'clock, Helena took her pupils for a walk, but to-day that 
 was impossible, so they remained indoors, and she was un- 
 derstood to be amusing them. It was a dreary kind of 
 amusement. She had been feeling weary and exhausted 
 all the morning, and now, the close room, the shouting 
 children rushing wildly about, almost overpowered her. 
 She felt herself growing each moment more numb and 
 stupid. At last the bell rang for Mrs. Galloway's lunch / 
 and the dinner of Helena and the children. Pell-mell they 
 rushed in, and forgot for a time, in the pleasures of the 
 table, their quarrels and disputes, relating chiefly to the 
 possession of certain precious objects and fetishes, over 
 which they wrangled with ever fresh acrimony and avidity. 
 
 The meal was over, and Helena returned to the school- 
 room. The children were to remain downstairs for an 
 hour with their mother. Helena took a chair to the win- 
 dow, and, resting her chin upon her hand, looked drearily 
 out upon the streaming rain, the dripping trees, and the 
 misty outlines of other houses in the park. Idle tears filled 
 her eyes, and a lump rose in her throat. She choked both 
 back, and smiled drily and drearily to herself. 
 
 ' What a fool I was,' she thought, ' to expect him again ! 
 It was a passing fancy. He is naturally polite — that means, 
 a little deceitful — and he could not have said anything rough 
 or rude if he had tried. But he will never come again. It 
 is not likely. I was most foolish to be so glad to see 
 him. I might have known it would bring me nothing but 
 pain and sorrow. I wish we had not met again, and then, 
 if I had not had the pleasure, I should not have had the 
 pain either. I had almost given over thinking of him, and 
 
PROBA TION. 363 
 
 now I have nothing else to think of, and he has everything 
 else. Why did he come and spend that one evening, and 
 brighten everything, and take me into another world, and 
 force me to like him ? Why did he ask my advice — as if 
 he wanted it ? It was too bad, and I was a fool. But I 
 always was that. He is not shallow — no, it is not that. It 
 is simply that his life is a full one, and mine is an empty 
 one, and that what to him is a chance meeting — a passing 
 act of politeness, is to me a great event — a thing to think 
 about. I wish I had a great deal to do — a work, a regular 
 career. Soon, if these miserable, restless feelings do not 
 leave me, I must bestir myself, and find something more 
 absorbing than this teaching. I have been more dissatis- 
 fied ever since I knew that he had the prospect of making 
 himself a name and an influence. And I will do something, 
 too. There must be things to be done ; there must be 
 some way of curing this sentimental folly — some way of 
 working it out, till nothing is left of it. I will find a way, 
 or I will die.' 
 
 She started as the door opened, and Mrs. Galloway, the 
 mother of her pupils, entered. 
 
 ' Are you sitting moping, Miss Spenceley ? You should 
 never mope,' said she ; 'it is a very bad habit, and leads 
 to all kinds of follies.' 
 
 ' Does it?' said Helena. 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' replied Mrs. Galloway, who did not look 
 as if she moped much herself. 
 
 She did not either speak or look unkindly ; she was only 
 devoid of tact and judgment. She held three books in her 
 hands ; and as she spoke she advanced to the window and 
 looked out. 
 
 ' I am afraid it is not going to clear up,' she began, 
 looking first at the rain, and then at the books. 
 
 Helena also expressed the same opinion. 
 
 ' I am rather in a dilemma,' continued Mrs. Galloway. 
 
 ' Can I be of any help to you ?' 
 
 ' I was on my way to ask you to do something for me ; 
 but I had no idea how very wet it was, and I do not think 
 it fit for you to go.' 
 
364 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Was it to go out?' asked Helena, wondering whether it 
 would not be pleasanter to brave the elements than to return 
 to her task of teaching the little Galloways that day. 
 
 ' The fact is, Mr. Galloway forgot to take the books to 
 Mudie's this morning, and we had arranged to have some 
 reading aloud to-night, and ' 
 
 ' I will go and change them for you with pleasure,' said 
 Helena, almost with animation ; ' only the children ' 
 
 ' It will do the children no harm to miss their lessons this 
 afternoon ; in the depressed state of the barometer, it is 
 cruelty to make them study. But it is such a day ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mind. It will do me no harm ; I don't 
 take cold easily, and I can take an omnibus from Oxford 
 Street, you know.' 
 
 ' Really, since you don't seem to mind, I think ' 
 
 ' I will get ready now,' said Helena. 
 
 ' I can lend you a waterproof,' suggested Mrs. Galloway, 
 to whom it did not seem to occur that a cab would be the 
 most effectual kind of waterproof. 
 
 ' I have one, thank you ; I am ready now. I will put 
 the books in this strap. Have you put a list with them ?' 
 
 ' The list is quite ready. Then you will bring the books 
 back here ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Helena, cheerfully, so pleased at the prospect of 
 escaping the afternoon's lessons that she would willingly have 
 gone if, in addition to the rain, it had blown a hurricane. 
 
 Mrs. Galloway followed her to the hall-door, uttering de- 
 precating observations, and Helena, unfurling her umbrella, 
 stepped out into the rain. 
 
 After a short walk through the damp, soaking avenues of 
 the park, she at last emerged in Oxford Street, and stood 
 waiting in the wet until an omnibus came by. It was nearly 
 full, but Helena managed to squeeze herself in between two 
 stout ' Turkish merchants,' and opposite a fat old woman 
 with a bundle. Who does not know and love the classic 
 atmosphere of a crowded omnibus on a wet, close day? 
 
 The omnibus took her to Market Street, from whence she 
 took another walk into Cross Street, and turned into the 
 narrow lane, sacred to Mr. Mudie's library and fancy shops. 
 
PR OB A TION. 3 6 5 
 
 Her enthusiasm was beginning to glow less brightly. She 
 felt very wet, very draggled, and very tired — exceedingly 
 tired. She went into the library, and found herself alone 
 there; the young man who came forward to serve her looked 
 almost compassionately at her, and remarked what very bad 
 weather it was. Helena languidly agreed with him, and 
 presented her list. He gave her two heavy massive volumes 
 of travels, and she took them. They would not go into the 
 little strap which had held the three volume novel, and 
 Helena was in that mood in which a trifling inconvenience 
 makes one feel that it would be best to put an end to one's 
 existence at once. 
 
 ' Suppose you were to take only one volume,' suggested 
 the young man. 
 
 ' No, I'll have both,' said Helena, stoically, manfully 
 seizing them, and going on her way. 
 
 As she left the library some one almost knocked up 
 against her, some one who was going, like herself, towards 
 St. Ann's Square. 
 
 'Beg your pardon. Oh, Helena — Miss Spenceley ! 
 What, in the name of all that is damp, brings you here on 
 such a day ? ' asked Sebastian, stopping suddenly and look- 
 ing at her. 
 
 To meet him thus, after her recent reflections, came upon 
 Helena with almost a shock : but she mastered herself 
 quickly, and said, 
 
 ' I have only been to the library.' 
 
 ' Only been to the library ! Suppose you give me those 
 books. I have tried to call at your house again,' he added, 
 ' but I have been so awfully busy. You would see all 
 about my acceptance and Mr. Lippincott's resignation in 
 the papers.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I did not expect you to call again,' said Helena, 
 distantly. 
 
 ' Did you not ? You speak as if you were offended. 
 What have I done ? ' 
 
 By this time they were in the square, near the cab-stand, 
 and it was high time to decide whether they were going in 
 the same direction or not. 
 
366 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Where are you going ? ' asked Sebastian. 
 
 'To the omnibus office, till a Victoria Park omnibus 
 comes, and then to Mrs. Galloway's with the books. Where 
 are you going ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to see the pictures again,' said Sebastian. 
 ' Don't you think you had better come and see them too ? ' 
 
 ' I ! Oh, I am afraid I have not time,' said Helena, 
 taken aback by the proposal. ' It is nearly four o'clock, 
 and the books ' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind the books. I am sure you want to see 
 the pictures ; and you must explain to me what I have done 
 to offend you, and we can't do that under an umbrella in 
 the street.' 
 
 He signed to an observant cabby, who drove up, and 
 Sebastian politely handed Helena into the vehicle. She did 
 not know why she got into the cab, unless it was because 
 Sebastian looked as if he were quite determined that she 
 should do so, and she did not feel able to resist. 
 
 I Royal Institution,' said he, and followed her. They 
 drove rapidly away. 
 
 I I ought not to have come ; it is very absurd,' said 
 Helena, uncomfortably. 
 
 ' I am quite sure you ought,' he said, decidedly. 
 
 He saw that Helena's manner was changed. From her 
 gravity and almost monosyllabic answers to his remarks he 
 concluded that she was for some reason offended with him. 
 He did not know that three weeks' absence and silence had 
 done more to favour his cause than three months' assiduous 
 courtship would have done. 
 
 ' Here we are ! Now for the pictures ! ' he observed, as 
 they stopped before the Royal Institution. 
 
 Helena laughed nervously, and did not know why she 
 laughed. They stopped to leave their umbrellas with the 
 porter, and she found Sebastian unfastening her cloak. 
 
 ' Because we shall be here a good while,' said he, gravely. 
 1 The pictures are not to be done all in a minute.' 
 
 Helena did not resist It was all very strange — comical 
 almost. She felt as if it had been a pre-arranged meeting, 
 and yet, she solemnly assured herself, that was impossible. 
 
PROBA TION. 3 6 7 
 
 They went up the stairs, bestowing a very scanty meed 
 of attention on the much-talked-of pictures. Sebastian 
 seemed in very high spirits, thought Helena, unconscious 
 that her own cheeks were burning with their old brightness, 
 that the actual sight of her and her eyes had turned her 
 companion's head ; that he had thought more of her than 
 of his work since they had parted ; that her face, and her 
 eyes, and an orange-coloured ribbon, had seemed to float 
 before his eyes by day and by night, haunting him in all 
 his business, and intruding themselves in the most solemn of 
 committee meetings or political dinners. She was con- 
 scious that whenever she looked at him he seemed to be 
 looking at her, and, she thought, often when she was not 
 looking ; that there was something in his eyes and his man- 
 ner which made her tremble strangely, and that she sud- 
 denly felt quite certain that whatever might have been the 
 case in the past, he did not care for Adrienne Blisset now. 
 
 On that wet afternoon there were not more than half-a- 
 dozen persons in all the suite of rooms. They walked 
 through one after another, and would probably have gone 
 on for ever, had they not found that they had come to the 
 last : they were stopped by a wall, and could go no farther. 
 
 ' Sit down,' said Sebastian, suddenly, taking her hand and 
 drawing her to the settee in the middle of the room, 
 which was empty, save for themselves. 
 
 ' You know I am in the midst of electioneering ? ' said he. 
 
 ' I supposed so, from what I read in the papers.' 
 
 ' That has been the only reason why I did not call. 
 Twice I have tried to do so, but, with the best will in the 
 world, I could not manage it. And poor Sutcliffe, my 
 manager, is ill, so I have had double duty to do.' 
 
 ' I am sure you are busy,' she repeated mechanically. 
 
 'It is thought that I shall win,' he added. 'The Con- 
 servatives seem to have got desperate. No local candidate 
 would present himself, so they had down a Q.C. from the 
 Junior Carlton. I don't fancy he has much chance, though 
 he is a good fellow.' 
 
 ' Oh, he will have no chance. You will win. I shall be 
 very glad.' 
 
!68 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Will you really? You really meant what you said when 
 you told me I had no right to refuse?' 
 
 ' I am not in the habit of saying what I don't mean.' 
 
 ' That is true, but you were very brief in your remarks 
 on that occasion. Do you think that I really can do 
 good ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Helena, crushing down all the ungenerous re- 
 marks which occurred to her, and answering him frankly, 
 according to her conviction, ' I do. I think, with your ex- 
 perience of a different, broader life than most of our young 
 manufacturers have led, and with the practical talents that 
 you have too, you ought to rise to influence. You may do 
 a great deal. I think you have a noble career before you, 
 if you will follow it worthily. And — I — I shall always read 
 with interest of your progress.' 
 
 ' You really think this, though you so bitterly opposed me 
 upon some other questions?' he asked earnestly. 
 
 ' Yes, I do. I have seen not the error of my ideas, for 
 I still believe them to be true and just in principle, but I 
 have seen that a man may be utterly against them, and may 
 yet be capable of very great things. I believe this of you. 
 I shall be sorry if I ever hear of your rising and lifting your 
 voice against these ideas that I believe in ; but I shall try 
 to think that my cause is not so important as a great many 
 others, and ' 
 
 ' But, will you give me a hearing now, while I tell you 
 that my views have changed, too, as much as yours ? ' 
 
 'Have they? How?' 
 
 ' I always did believe that the woman's cause is man's. 
 I told you that, even when we most disagreed and least 
 understood each other. During these two years in which I 
 have lived alone, I have learned to feel that still more 
 strongly. I have felt that no friend, no ma?i, could give me 
 the help and sympathy that I wanted ; that no man, and 
 no woman, pitted each against the other, could do any good, 
 but that " the twain together well might change the world." 
 I shall never uplift my voice against those theories of yours, 
 never.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that, very glad. It would have hurt me 
 
PROBATION. 369 
 
 dreadfully ; it would have seemed as if — it would have cut 
 me up/ said Helena. 
 
 ' How careful I shall have to be, as to what I say and 
 do, now.' 
 
 ' Because of what I have said ? You have a larger public 
 than ine to think of. You must do what is right — you must 
 say all that you know of the truth.' 
 
 ' Helena, will you help me to try and discover what is 
 right and true? I have been wondering for a fortnight 
 whether you would, and sometimes I have dared to hope 
 it. Have I been too bold?' 
 
 ' You mean ' said Helena, with trembling lips and a 
 
 face which had suddenly grown pale. 
 
 ' I mean that for a year, for more, I have loved you un- 
 consciously, Helena ; that since I met you three weeks ago, 
 I have known it to my very heart-depths. Will you help 
 me ? Will you be my wife ?' 
 
 ' You forget,' said she, her face grown still paler, and its 
 expression more pained ; ' you forget.' 
 
 'Forget what?' he asked, surprised and chilled by the 
 tone, yet unable to think that the expression in her eyes was 
 one of indifference. 
 
 ' You forget whom you are asking to be your wife. 
 You ' 
 
 ' I am asking Helena Spenceley to be my wife. Who 
 has a word to say against her ? ' he asked, his face darkening. 
 
 ' You must remember that I am not alone,' said Helena. 
 ' There is the past : my father, my brother ; oh, it is not to 
 be thought of — for you.' 
 
 ' Is that a roundabout way of telling me that you do not 
 love me, and will not marry me?' he asked, taking her 
 hand, and looking at her until she looked at him. ' I would 
 rather you said it straight out — I am waiting.' 
 
 ' But I cannot say that,' murmured Helena ; ' I do love 
 you.' 
 
 ' Then let the other things take care of themselves,' said 
 he pleadingly, for something in her face forbade him to 
 draw her to him, or do anything more than plead. 
 
 ' No,' said she. ' It is not fit that a man like you, in 
 2 B 
 
37o PROBA TION. 
 
 your position, should marry a girl with the — connections — 
 that I have.' 
 
 1 You mean this seriously?' 
 
 ' I am quite decided about it.' 
 
 ' Then good-bye,' said Sebastian, abruptly rising ; ' I will 
 bear it as best I can.' 
 
 He was going, but suddenly turned to her again and 
 stooped over her. 
 
 ' Helena,' he said, and his voice was so changed that 
 she looked up affrighted — ' is it that your pride is stronger 
 than your love ? Because, if so, yours is not real love.' 
 
 ' My pride ! ' she ejaculated. 
 
 ' Yes, your pride, which is afraid lest it should be said 
 that I stooped to you ? That is the secret of this objec- 
 tion. You would ruin our two lives for the sake of gratifying 
 your pride.' 
 
 1 Sebastian ! ' 
 
 'Helena?' 
 
 ' It is not that . . .' 
 
 ' What else is it?* 
 
 She was silent, in pain and uncertainty, till he said : 
 
 ' Jfr pride is not so great as my love. You have con- 
 quered me, Helena. I would go through fire and water to 
 win you. Once more, will you tell me again to go ? ' 
 
 His voice had sunk to a whisper. He was leaning over 
 the settee, and she, with a sudden shiver at the idea his 
 words conjured up, looked up to him. He stooped, by an 
 involuntary, instinctive impulse, and kissed her. 
 
 ' Must I go, or may I stay? Answer me, my darling.' 
 
 ' Do not go !' said Helena, almost inaudibly, and Sebas- 
 tian stayed ; but he could not conceal from himself that he 
 had yet much to win, much service to do, before he could 
 call Helena his own. 
 
 She loved him ; she said so ; she felt it, but she was 
 proud : he had been right when he said so. Despite her 
 love, she w r as half ashamed, half angry at finding herself 
 conquered, and the glance was a shy and wavering one 
 which he met. It was a strange fact, that though he wished 
 very much that Helena would ask him to go home with her, 
 
PROBATION. 371 
 
 though he had a couple of hours to spare, yet he dared not 
 venture to hint at the invitation. All he could venture upon 
 was to say to her, 
 
 \ You will allow me to take you to Mrs. Galloway's, as it 
 is late ? ' 
 
 'Yes, please,' said Helena, rising. 
 
 And they went downstairs. Sebastian gave Helena her 
 umbrella, carried her cloak, opened the door for her, in a 
 strange silence. She had just accepted him, and yet he 
 had never felt so completely held at arm's length before. 
 Helena's own shyness and timidity effected what the most 
 cunningly laid stratagem could not have accomplished — 
 they raised her lover's fervent admiration into absolute 
 worship. He called a cab, and in it they drove towards the 
 Victoria Park. When they were nearly there, Sebastian, un- 
 able to endure the silence any longer, said, 
 
 ' Helena, when may I come to see you ? Will you not 
 even look at me ? ' he added, almost vehemently. ' You 
 cannot know how hardly you are treating me.' 
 
 ' Hardly ! ' she repeated. ' I — it is so strange. It is a 
 most wonderful feeling.' 
 
 ' But pleasant, I hope ? ' suggested Sebastian, earnestly. 
 
 ' Oh, very ! ' 
 
 'Then may I come soon to see you? To ask Mrs. 
 Spenceley's consent ' 
 
 ' Oh ! there is Mrs. Mallory. I am sure she will object,' 
 said Helena, suddenly, and with animation. 
 
 ' Leave her to me ! ' said he, almost impatiently. ' See, 
 Helena, we are almost at the park, and you have not given 
 me one look, one word, to tell me that you are really mine. 
 I have not deserved to be so treated.' 
 
 ' Forgive me ! ' said she, suddenly, in a voice of tender- 
 ness. ' I was so unhappy this afternoon before I saw you, 
 and now I am too happy for words. I am afraid of my 
 happiness. Come soon to see me, and I will try to behave 
 better.' 
 
 She looked at him at last with an April face, beneath 
 whose showers lay a broad and fathomless heaven of love. 
 Sebastian was satisfied. 
 
372 PROBATION. 
 
 ' And may I write ? ' he asked. 
 
 1 Yes, do ! ' returned Helena, and the cab stopped at 
 Mrs. Galloway's door. Helena and the books got out, and 
 Sebastian Mallory drove away again, to the station — and a 
 meeting. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A CONQUEST. 
 
 ' My dear Mallory, I am glad to see you here at last ! 
 Were you unexpectedly detained ? ' asked Canon Ponsonby, 
 greeting Sebastian at the door of the room in the town- 
 hall in which the meeting was to be held. It began at 
 half-past seven, and that time had been already past when 
 Sebastian arrived. 
 
 ' I was very unexpectedly detained,' replied the young 
 man, pressing Canon Ponsonby's hand with a fervour which 
 seemed a little extravagant to that gentleman. ' But I am 
 quite ready now, quite fit,' he added. ' Suppose we go to 
 the platform. They seem to be getting impatient' 
 
 They ascended the platform, and Sebastian was surprised 
 at the heartiness of the greeting he received. He had not 
 known how popular he was, and in his present mood he felt 
 absolutely touched by these signs of goodwill on the part of 
 the ' people.' All things combined to-night to rouse and 
 inspire him. One or two even of his warmest friends and 
 supporters, and most earnest admirers, had said they feared 
 Mallory's coldness of manner might be mistaken for indif- 
 ference, that he was a little too prone to betray some of the 
 contempt which he felt for party and party feeling : and had 
 a way, in the extreme philosophy of his radicalism, of say- 
 ing things which might be mistaken by the uninitiated 
 Thanshope mind for distinctly Conservative expressions. 
 On this occasion, these doubting hearts were agreeably 
 deceived. Sebastian's tact came strongly into play ; he 
 made one of those fortunate speeches, in which the right 
 was happily touched off, and in which the truth was told 
 without disturbing people's feelings. He felt himself pene- 
 
PROBATION. 37: 
 
 trated by an enthusiasm as rare, with him, as it was 
 agreeable. Every now and then he seemed to lose sight 
 of the sea of faces below him, and to see only one ; his 
 own voice seemed to die away, while Helena's voice bade 
 him do what was right, and tell the truth as far as he knew 
 it. Under that influence questions which had hitherto 
 seemed even a little contemptible were suddenly revealed 
 as susceptible of being raised and ennobled ; and the effort 
 which he had at first thought of making, chiefly in compliance 
 with the wishes of certain friends, and because he felt (like 
 Myles Heywood) a thirst for constant work wherewith to 
 fill up his life — this effort, not a very hearty or enthusiastic 
 one, was now changed completely by the consciousness that 
 there was not only Sebastian Mallory, indolent and indifferent 
 by nature, to be consulted, but also Helena Spenceley, ear- 
 nest, vehement, and enthusiastic, who would exult in his 
 success, and be bitterly disappointed by his failure. Indeed, 
 she was so calmly confident that he would win, that he felt 
 he dared not lose. All this combined in his favour that 
 night. There was no want of unanimity in the voice of the 
 meeting. The speaker was so carried away himself that he 
 carried his audience away with him. They separated in 
 the highest good-humour with him and themselves — full of 
 confidence in their candidate, and of amiable contempt for 
 his Conservative opponent. 
 
 There followed a gathering of some of his friends, and 
 supper at home. Politics, and nothing but politics, engrossed 
 the conversation, and it was late when Sebastian found 
 himself alone. He drew a long breath of relief, but checked 
 it again immediately — as he remembered the interview which 
 was to follow. 
 
 ' Best get it over at once,' he reflected, going to the 
 drawing-room ; but finding it empty, he went upstairs and 
 knocked at his mother's dressing-room door. 
 
 'Who's there?' she asked. 
 
 ' It is I — Sebastian. May I see you for a few minutes ? ' 
 
 ' Come in ! ' was the answer, and Sebastian entered. 
 
 Mrs. Mallory was seated before her looking-glass, and 
 her maid was brushing her hair. 
 
374 PROBA TION. 
 
 ' Be quick, Emma,' said she ; ' and sit down, Sebastian ; 
 I shall be ready directly.' 
 
 He threw himself into a low chair by the hearth, and in 
 two minutes was lost in a pleasant, pleasant dream. 
 
 ' Now !' said his mother's voice at last, and he speedily 
 awoke to reality again. 
 
 The lady's maid had twisted up her mistress's hair into 
 a loose knot in the gaslight. With the soft frills of her 
 dressing-gown round her neck she looked a very young and 
 handsome woman. 
 
 'What beautiful hair you have, mother!' he exclaimed, 
 struck with its gloss and abundance. ' Why do you cover 
 it up with a cap ?' 
 
 'Is that all you have come to say?' she inquired drily. 
 'What kind of a meeting did you have?' 
 
 ' It appeared very unanimous and successful. Ponsonby 
 said it was, and he ought to know. I wish you had been 
 there. I saw a good many ladies.' 
 
 ' Very likely ; but not ladies of my opinions.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I forgot,' said Sebastian, smiling. 
 
 He felt soft-hearted to-night, and hardly noticed his 
 mother's coolness. 
 
 ' Have all those men gone ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; the last of them has departed, and I am glad of 
 it. But I did not come to keep you talking about Radical 
 meetings, mother. I wished particularly to see you to-night ; 
 I have something to tell you.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory knew in an instant the nature of the coming 
 communication, and prepared herself to hear something 
 disagreeable. She had not omitted to provide her son 
 with many opportunities of changing his estate. She had 
 had plenty of visitors at her house, and chiefly young lady 
 visitors. None of them had had a hundred thousand 
 pounds, but equally none of them had been quite portion- 
 less, and all of them had been more or less good-looking, 
 and what are called ' nice girls.' She had seen all her efforts 
 wasted ; had seen Sebastian studiously polite and amiable, 
 even putting himself out of the way often to attend her and 
 her visitors when they wanted an escort. She had seen him 
 
PROBATION. 375 
 
 follow them to concerts and dances and garden-parties ; she 
 had seen him play the host- — and nothing else — to admira- 
 tion ; and she had seen the look of relief which dawned 
 upon his face when the duty could conscientiously be left, 
 and he could return to his books, his plans, and his business 
 — that business which seemed to have become the very 
 breath of life to him, and from which no girl, however nice, 
 could succeed in drawing him away. 
 
 But some one had at last found this power — probably 
 some one whom she would dislike excessively. Most prob- 
 ably he had met Adrienne Blisset again somewhere ; had 
 proposed to her a second time, and been accepted. Mrs. 
 Mallory thought she would have preferred him to come and 
 tell her that he was going to marry any one — a barmaid, a 
 milliner — any one rather than ' that girl,' whom she hated 
 with a virulence which grew with time. 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' she made answer, and left him to inflict the 
 blow. It was exactly as she expected. 
 
 ' I am going to be married, mother.' 
 
 'To be married?' she repeated mechanically. She had 
 long ago said that she had no power over her son, but she 
 felt bitter at this proof of the truth of her words. 
 
 ' Yes. I hope you will approve my choice.' 
 
 ' If your choice is Miss Blisset, Sebastian, I shall never 
 approve it, and so I tell you distinctly.' 
 
 ' But it is not Miss Blisset, mother. She refused me two 
 years ago — she would refuse me now, and she would refuse 
 me through all time. Then I was a good deal cut up about 
 it. Now, I am very glad. No ; it is some one whom you 
 used to like very much. At least, I always understood you 
 to say so.' 
 
 It is a fact that the idea of Helena Spenceley did not once 
 enter Mrs. Mallory's mind. She had so come to believe 
 that her son never could, under any circumstances, turn to 
 her former favourite, that since the downfall of Helena and 
 her family she had altogether dismissed them from her 
 thoughts. Even now, as Sebastian paused, she did not think 
 of Helena, but said, after a moment, 
 
 ' I cannot imagine whom you mean, Sebastian, and I 
 
376 PRO DA TION. 
 
 never could guess things of that kind. Who may the lady 
 be?' 
 
 ' Helena Spenceley.' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory actually started from her chair. 
 
 ' Helena Spenceley ! What will you tell me ? ' 
 
 ' You surely cannot disapprove of that. My dear mother, 
 you at one time wished me to marry her. You told me so.' 
 
 ' You have the most extraordinary, perverted ideas of 
 right and duty, Sebastian. Can you suppose that I ever 
 wished you to marry a girl whose father committed suicide 
 after behaving in a far from honourable way in his business 
 affairs, and whose brother absconded with a large sum of 
 money which he had stolen, and who is now — who knows 
 where he is, or what he is doing, or what trouble he may 
 cause his relations even yet?' 
 
 Sebastian almost smiled at the utter opposition of his 
 mother's ideas to his own. They never saw but one 
 side each of the other's nature — not because neither had 
 another side to show, but because of the formation of their 
 respective mental eyes. Yet, for the sake of appearances, he 
 must argue the matter out. 
 
 'Suppose we had married at the time you wished it,' 
 he suggested. ' These things would have happened all the 
 same. As it is, they are now nearly forgotten. No one 
 with any feeling would wish to remind her of them. If you 
 could only see her, you would forget them all, in looking at 
 herself. She was always a beautiful girl, but now she is 
 lovelier than ever, and more charming.' 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 ' Will you not say you approve of this, mother ! You know 
 I will not seek a wife with a fortune. If she had happened 
 to have money, well and good ; but I would rather have 
 her without, and with the beauty and the love that Helena 
 gives me.' 
 
 ' It is a mockery to ask me whether I approve of it. You 
 will do it whether I approve or not.' 
 
 ' But if you will approve — if you will hold out your hand 
 to Helena, and accept her as my wife, you will gratify me 
 beyond measure. You know, it is really your fault. You 
 
PROBATION. 377 
 
 threw Helena in my way at first, and she must have made 
 a much deeper impression upon me than I knew, for a few 
 weeks ago, when I met her unexpectedly, I was scarcely 
 master of myself. It was all over with me from that 
 moment.' 
 
 ' And suppose I do not approve ? ' 
 
 ' I should be unspeakably grieved. We are alone in the 
 world, almost. You are the very nearest relative a man 
 can have ; but you will agree,' and he stooped and gently 
 kissed her cheek. 
 
 She started. With that kiss seemed to come suddenly to 
 her a great revelation, the revelation of the love which she 
 had thrust obstinately away from her. She had received 
 her son as a child, and had tried to curb and control him ; 
 and when he acted as a man, she had enclosed herself 
 within a wall of icy reserve, and had repelled every advance 
 he had made. The truth rushed upon her mind now Avith 
 overwhelming force. She was a selfish, a profoundly selfish, 
 woman; but somewhere, not quite withered away within 
 her, there lay the remains of a mother's heart. 
 
 ' I am your mother, Sebastian,' she said, with a sudden 
 tremor in her voice. ' It is very strange that we should 
 have got on so badly since you came home. ... I have 
 had no wish but for your prosperity and well-being, and 
 yet' ' 
 
 ' I know you have. I fear I have not been all that I 
 might have been to you. Forgive me !' 
 
 He refrained, and she noticed it, from even speaking of 
 the other side of the question — from saying, ' You have 
 deliberately set yourself against every plan and project of 
 mine, until at last, in very self-defence, I have been obliged 
 to be silent, and to keep my hopes and wishes to myself.' 
 This behaviour was generous, and she knew it was. It 
 appeared that Sebastian did love her, and prized her good- 
 will. The emotion she felt was not an unpleasant one. 
 And then, as he certainly would marry Helena, she put her 
 hand on his shoulder and said, 
 
 ' I consent, Sebastian, though it is a trial. No ; I don't 
 mean that I disapprove of Helena. I know a more lovely 
 
378 PROBATION. 
 
 girl could not easily be found. It is her — well, never mind ! 
 Are you going to be married soon ?' 
 
 ' Thank you ! I thank you from my very heart?' he ex- 
 claimed. ' My great fear was lest you should be displeased. 
 Shall we be married soon? I do not know in the least. I 
 am obliged to go abroad before the autumn, and if I can 
 persuade Helena, we will be married before then ; but I am 
 not sure that I can. She is not by any means inclined to 
 rush into my arms. She is very much changed. She used 
 to be so impulsive, and to betray her feelings so easily ; and 
 now, I assure you, her dignity has already almost overwhelmed 
 me more than once.' 
 
 ' When you are married, or, at any rate, when you return 
 from abroad, you will want the Oakenrod to yourselves,' she 
 suggested graciously. 
 
 ' My dear mother, I hope you will stay in it exactly as 
 long as you feel disposed to do so. Helena wishes very 
 much to please you,' he added, drawing a bow at a venture. 
 
 ' Does she ? When next you see her give her my — my 
 love. Perhaps I had better go and call upon her.' 
 
 ' Or I will bring her over here to spend the day with you.' 
 
 ' Yes, perhaps that might be better. Has she given up 
 any of her old notions yet?' 
 
 ' We both find that our views on these points are consider- 
 ably modified, so that we are quite able to meet each other 
 and agree together.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it. I think it must be getting late.' 
 
 ' It is indeed. You must excuse me, mother. I seem 
 to have found more than a wife to-day,' he added, kissing 
 her hands one after the other. ' Good night' 
 
 Mrs. Mallory drew her son's face down, and kissed him, 
 strangely moved. 
 
 ' Good night, my son. God bless you !' 
 
 Sebastian left her. The conquest was won. From that 
 day Augusta Mallory was a happier woman than she had 
 been. There was always a certain distance about the inter- 
 course between her and her son and his family, but there 
 was amity and concord ; and later, when Helena won 
 triumphs by her beauty, grace, and spirit, which no money 
 
PROBATION. 379 
 
 could ever have purchased for her, and when Mrs. Mallory 
 heard on all sides of her beautiful and charming daughter- 
 in-law, she began to think that after all Sebastian had not 
 done so badly, even in a worldly wise point of view ; and 
 her respect for him increased accordingly. 
 
 In the course of a week the election came off, when the 
 Radical candidate headed the poll by a large majority. 
 Despite the exceeding business of that week, Sebastian had 
 found time to pay several visits at 5 7 Woodford Street, and 
 there had used such arguments with Helena that she had 
 consented to the early marriage he wished for. Sebastian, 
 Mrs. Mallory, and Canon Ponsonby went over to Manchester 
 one evening, and the next day there was a small wedding at 
 a quiet church in some fields. 
 
 Helena was given away by her uncle of the uncompro- 
 misingly truthful disposition. Mrs. Mallory looked calmly 
 dignified. Mrs. Galloway was there, subdued by the fact 
 that Helena had taken the liberty to contradict her hypo- 
 thesis that governesses always make disastrous marriages. 
 Mrs. Spenceley was there too, weeping in an obtrusive 
 manner ; and, when it was all over, they returned to their 
 respective dwellings, except Helena and Sebastian, who went 
 to the London Road station, to a compartment in the Euston 
 express marked ' engaged.' They were on their way to 
 Germany, but before they arrived at Euston Square Sebastian 
 had told Helena the whole history of his earlier love for 
 Adrienne, and his own misty conjectures as to how things 
 stood between her and Myles Heywood — a recital which 
 aroused the romantic Helena's most compassionate and 
 interested feelings — and so ended Sebastian's courtship. 
 
BOOK IV. 
 QUITS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' ist Friend. Well, you've tried it : is your problem solved ? 
 2d Friend. I have lived so long in the dark, I do not know. 
 15/ Friend. Out, into the wind and sunshine then, and try ! ' 
 
 What is the difference, save in size, between one manu- 
 facturing town and another ? How will you say, reader, on 
 the first view, where this town lies to which I am about to 
 lead you ? You shall have heard no word of the language 
 of its people, seen none of its customs, only had a quick 
 bird's-eye view of it, with its long chimneys and its canopy 
 of smoke, its blackened grass and dingy trees. Not to 
 make the survey tedious, let me say that it is no English 
 town, but a German one. Let us not linger longer than is 
 needful in its streets ; here is a sloping road that leads to 
 the railway station ; and here, after ascending the hill, we 
 arc within the great noisy arena. 
 
 Amidst the crowd of hurrying passengers and phlegmatic 
 officials, one figure stood perfectly still on the platform, 
 waiting quietly, and looking composedly around him with 
 quick, observant eyes. W T hether a German, an Englishman, 
 or even a Frenchman, the casual observer would have found 
 it hard to say until he spoke, and then the accent would 
 have betrayed the Englishman. 
 
 He was much changed. The two years of absence, the 
 better outward circumstances, the habit of authority, the 
 necessity of accommodating himself to a life new and strange 
 
PROBATION. 381 
 
 to him, together with whatever inward thoughts might have 
 had their part in moulding and shaping his mind- — all these 
 had had their influence. He was still Myles Heywood ; but 
 between him and himself of two years ago there was just 
 the difference that there is between the reflective man and 
 the passionate child. 
 
 As he stood waiting, a little round, quick-looking fair- 
 haired German man came up to him and began to talk to him. 
 
 ' Now, Mr. Heywood, you have finished your business in 
 the town?' 
 
 ' Yes, Herr Sternefeld ; I am, as you may see, waiting 
 for the train to Eisendorf.' 
 
 ' How goes all there ? The old man is in rather feeble 
 health, I hear.' 
 
 ' Yes. He has not been strong this summer. He thinks 
 he will be better when the cooler weather comes.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the little German, ' and still he keeps grinding 
 away at the business?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Myles, rather indifferently ; ' or rather, I do. 
 He leaves it pretty much to me at present.' 
 
 'Yes, to be sure,' said Herr Sternefeld, with a somewhat 
 significant nod and smile. And there's your train. Herr 
 Susmeyer will be glad to see you back again. An revoir! 1 
 
 He bustled away, and Myles, stepping forward to take 
 his place in the Eisendorf train, soon forgot him. 
 
 From the great manufacturing town of feld, the 
 
 home of turbulent spirits and birthplace of social democracy, 
 to the mining and manufacturing village of Eisendorf, was 
 some three quarters of an hour's railway journey. The way 
 was so thickly set with factories, houses, great collieries, and 
 other evidences of manufacturing industry, that scarcely had 
 these been left behind, and a strip of green grass and some 
 distant hills been allowed a chance of showing themselves 
 in a purer air, than they too were swamped, as it were. 
 More collieries, more great buildings, cranes, hoists, and a 
 canal, became dominant in the landscape, while the train 
 rolled into Eisendorf. 
 
 Myles got out of the train, and left the station. Going 
 quickly in the September evening through the busy main 
 
?82 PROBA TION. 
 
 street, he presently turned aside and went down a kind of 
 alley, at the end of which light and trees were visible. It 
 was the way into a restauration and Biergarten, much fre- 
 quented by the middle and better class of Eisendorf. Here, 
 on almost every evening in the week, music was to be heard, 
 and here, beneath the trees, one might sit and take one's 
 supper. 
 
 This was apparently Myles's intention, for he walked 
 through the lighted garden, seated himself at one of the 
 tables, and gave an order to a waiter, who presently returned 
 bearing a dish, a table-cloth, and all the other paraphernalia 
 of a supper. 
 
 Myles did not spend a long time over this meal. The 
 table was soon clear again, with the exception of the indis- 
 pensable bottle of yellow wine, and the accompanying green 
 glass. He leaned his elbows upon the table before him and 
 stared dreamily forward across the garden, beyond the groups 
 of merry guests — young men and girls, and whole families, 
 with Vater and Mutter in full amplitude ; he seemed to see 
 none of them. The band in the orchestra, fifty yards away, 
 were playing soft strains ; the lamps twinkled with a mild, 
 pleasant brightness ; the trees above them looked ink-black 
 by contrast. The sky beyond was like a vault of violet 
 crystal, and the lamp-like stars beamed out mildly here and 
 there. The breeze rustled gently now and then, but it was 
 a very gentle breeze, with nothing of the storm in its 
 breath. All around was the hum of laughter and talk, 
 and the murmur of flirtation ; now and then the clanking 
 of spurs and the rattling of swords as the company was 
 reinforced ever and anon by fresh specimens of the in- 
 evitable lieutenant ; it was all very pleasant, very calm and 
 peaceful. Myles, somewhat languid after a long day's busi- 
 ness in the de-oxygenised atmosphere of the offices and 
 warehouses of a large town, felt, at the moment, perfectly 
 neutral ; neither glad nor sorry, but content, so far as he 
 was anything, to sit still, with his arms on the table, taking 
 an occasional drink of his pleasant, if not strong, straw- 
 coloured Neckar wine, and listening to the whispers of the 
 band, as one instrument after another died away in the final 
 
PROBA TION. 383 
 
 bars of a little serenade of Haydn's. He would have been 
 content to stay there for an indefinite time, for Myles had 
 arrived at that mental state in which a man finds it easiest 
 and pleasantest to go on doing the same thing. Whether 
 the thing were work or idlenesss was almost immaterial to 
 him, when he had once begun it. It was the effort of turn- 
 ing his attention from one thing to another which brought 
 mental pain and inconvenience. All day he had wrought 
 hard, and asked nothing better than to continue doing so. 
 So long as he could go on, he was almost at ease. But 
 when the work was over — when the offices were closed, and 
 men had finished their toil, and were going home to 
 ' play them ' — to use an idiom of his own native dialect — 
 then it was that despondency seized him ; then it was that 
 he felt a sudden blank, an emptiness, a sense of being lost 
 and unprovided for ; then it was that the effort to find some 
 other pastime, something else with which to fill his thoughts, 
 was a dull pang which he dreaded continually. It was this 
 feeling of desolation that kept him sitting up till all hoirs 
 of the night, with book and dictionary open before him, 
 studying or reading until his eyelids fell over his weary eyes, 
 and he could go upstairs, certain that he would fall asleep as 
 soon as he tumbled into bed. It was this which made him 
 dread to awaken in the night watches, or to lie awake with 
 nothing to do ; this that, as soon as he opened his eyes in 
 the morning, made him rise instantly and begin to do some- 
 thing. He had got an unconquerable horror of those hours 
 of silent thought and meditation which had once been a joy 
 and a privilege to him, as they are and must be to all 
 robust, properly ripening minds. 
 
 It was for this reason that, being tired with his work, 
 soothed with eating and drinking, and pervaded by a feel- 
 ing of quiet calm and contentment unusual with him, he felt 
 reluctant to move, and sat on, his handsome bronzed face 
 set in a gravity that amounted to solemnity, and a fixed 
 listlessness in his dark and brilliant eyes. Soon, he knew, 
 the transient pause would be over — for the contentment 
 was abnormal — soon the aching sense of desolation and un 
 rest would return, and he would have to awake again. 
 
384 PROIiA TION. 
 
 Very soon, indeed, the spell was broken. A party of 
 young men, strolling through the gardens, saw him, greeted 
 him, and sat down beside him. They began to talk — per- 
 sisted in drawing his attention to this girl and that girl, and 
 in asking him if he had heard this piece of gossip or the 
 other. 
 
 They were well-conditioned, kind-hearted young fellows 
 enough ; they had liked him, and had treated him with 
 friendliness ever since his advent amongst them, and they 
 continued to seek his company, in spite of his unvarying 
 sedateness and gravity. Myles, in these latter days, was 
 courtesy itself to all who merited courtesy; if Adrienne 
 Blisset could have heard the yea, yea and nay, nay of his 
 daily communication at present, she would have been quite 
 unable to accuse him of being ' scornful ' or ' disdainful,' 
 as she once had done. What she might have felt about 
 the little air of proud, absent, patient indifference, who 
 shall say? 
 
 Despite absence and indifference, Myles was very well 
 liked amongst the better sort of the young men of Eisendorf. 
 They were of various nationalities ; chiefly, however, Ger- 
 man, Dutch, and English, with a sprinkling of French. 
 They were all engaged in commercial pursuits, with the ex- 
 ception of one or two young professional men, and an oc- 
 casional 'lieutenant' — that much-laughed-at, much-abused 
 equivalent of the English curate. It was known — Myles 
 had never attempted to make any secret of it — that he had 
 left a workman's situation in an English town, to come and 
 be the overlooker at Herr Siismeyer's works — that since 
 then he had rapidly risen to the post of manager and head- 
 man ; that Heir Siismeyer had greatly attached himself to 
 him ; and it was thought more than probable that Herr 
 Siismeyer's son, Julius, would never abandon his favourite 
 occupation of travelling in foreign lands, and that when 
 Herr Siismeyer had provided for the said Julius, he would 
 most likely retire, and leave his business in the hands of 
 Myles Heywood, who — so every one agreed — was quite the 
 most proper person to succeed to it. 
 
 Myles happened to know better — to know that Julius 
 
PROBA TION. 385 
 
 Susmeyer was even then on his way home, with every in- 
 tention of devoting himself to the career of a merchant, but, 
 at Herr Siismeyer's request, he had not named the fact. 
 
 He sat, this evening, listening to the talk and jesting of 
 the others for some little time, and then rose. 
 
 'Why are you going?' cried one of them. 'Why not 
 stay here ? The evening has only just began. It's only 
 nine o'clock. I expect we shall have some dancing in the 
 Saal when the concert is over.' 
 
 ' Thanks,' said Myles, with a gleaming smile which lighted 
 up his dark face ; ' dancing is not in my line, as you know.' 
 
 ' No,' said a young Englishman, laughing. ' One would 
 almost as soon expect to see old Michel Angelo's Juliano 
 de Medici step from his pedestal and begin to dance, as you, 
 Heywood. . . . Now that I look at you,' he added, thought- 
 fully, putting his head on one side, ' there is a likeness 
 actually ; at least about the nose and mouth. Look here ! 
 If you were to put your hand across your face so ' 
 
 ' And twist my other arm into a commanding position — 
 thus — you would see a man in the attitude of Michel Angelo's 
 ' Pensiero ' Medici, and that would be all. Good night ! ' 
 
 ' Odd fish, Heywood !' murmured his countryman, shak- 
 ing his head. ' I wonder if he was ever less solemn than 
 he is now.' 
 
 The object of that speculation took his way out of the 
 gardens and the town, walking northwards, along a road 
 leading to that suburb in which lived most of the more 
 wealthy and distinguished inhabitants of Eisendorf. He 
 walked for half an hour or more, till he arrived at the house 
 of Herr Susmeyer, the largest and pleasantest of all these 
 residences. He went up the dark garden walk, and pulled 
 the bell ; soon the great door was thrown open, and he was 
 in the presence of his chief, a delicate, kindly-looking old 
 man, with a gouty foot laid up on a stool before him, and a 
 crutched stick leaning against the table which stood hard by 
 his easy-chair. The table was covered with books and 
 papers ; a reading-lamp cast a softened light over the page 
 which the old man was reading. He was quite alone ; there 
 was perfect rest and perfect stillness around him. 
 
 2 c 
 
5 86 PROBA TION. 
 
 He glanced up over his spectacles, and laid down his 
 
 book, as if well satisfied when he found who his visitor was. 
 
 ' So late ! ' said he. ' I had hardly expected to see you 
 
 to-night, after your long day's work. What business in 
 
 fekl?' 
 
 .\ I vies entered into details as to the business he had done, 
 with an incidental disquisition upon the state of trade in 
 general at that time. Then the conversation drifted off into 
 other channels. 
 
 ' Your holiday-time will soon be here,' observed Herr 
 Siismeyer ; ' you mean to spend it in Berlin, I think you 
 said?' 
 
 ' I shall go to Berlin, amongst other places,' said Myles, 
 who had assumed the very attitude which the young 
 Englishman had wished him to take, and who sat, his 
 hand half across his face, looking out, through the open 
 window, into the darkness of the garden. ' I suppose I 
 shall wander from one place to another. I do not much 
 care where I go. You know it is your doing, sir, that I 
 am going at all' 
 
 ' I wonder that you should go to Berlin, from one town 
 to another. I should have thought the green woods and 
 
 fresh air of Thuringen, or ' 
 
 Myles shook his head. 
 
 ' No ; I don't care about the country. It is dull.' 
 1 Or to England, to see your friends?' 
 The young man started. 
 
 ' No — oh, certainly not,' said he. ' The last place I should 
 wish to go to. No, Herr Siismeyer ; with your introductions 
 and through your kindness, I shall meet with friends in 
 Berlin and other places, and shall see a great deal that is 
 interesting, and which I have long wished to see. I shall 
 come back here refreshed and ready for work again, until 
 
 your son ' 
 
 ■ We can talk about that when Julius arrives. Time 
 enough, time enough ! I hate changes,' said Herr Siismeyer. 
 ' Meanwhile, I have had very good news to-day — excellent 
 news.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
PROBA TION. 387 
 
 ' Yes ; a letter from Sebastian Mallory.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Is he coming, then ?' 
 
 ' He is coming — yes, but not alone/ said Herr Siismeyer, 
 a smile of much satisfaction playing upon his face. He will 
 bring his bride with him. What do you think of that? 
 He says I must see her. But you say nothing ; you did 
 not know?' 
 
 ' His bride !' repeated Myles, in a low voice. ' No, I did 
 not know. But — when does he come?' 
 
 ' In a few days. They are already at Cologne. They 
 
 will travel through Dusseldorf and feld, and come here 
 
 for two nights only. Then they are going on. It is their 
 wedding-tour. I have already given orders,' continued the 
 old man, ' to receive them. I must make much of my friend 
 Sebastian. It is as if a child of my own brought his bride 
 to see me. I have ordered the guest-chambers to be pre- 
 pared, which have not been used since the death of my 
 blessed Amalie, my wife.' 
 
 Thus the good old man prosed on, with childlike pleasure 
 in the prospect of meeting ' his ' Sebastian again, and of see- 
 ing his bride, so engrossed in the anticipation that he did 
 not even look at his listener, who sat still, composed and 
 pale, hearing distinctly all that was said, and occupied, he 
 too, in picturing the scene : how Sebastian Mallory would 
 lead forward his bride, who would be glad that his old 
 friends were pleased to welcome her. Myles could exactly 
 realise how she would go up to good old Herr Siismeyer 
 with both hands held out, and eyes shining with happiness, 
 and he — perhaps he need not be there at all ; but, at any 
 rate, if he only kept sufficiently in the background he would 
 not be observed, and he could bear his pain alone. This 
 stroke had been long delayed, but it had come at last — as 
 he knew it must. Those words he had heard spoken in 
 the Thanshope Park had held good. Why there had been 
 so long an interval he could not tell ; he had often wondered, 
 had many a time sought the papers through with sickening 
 anxiety, and had never yet seen what he expected and 
 dreaded to see. But at last all uncertainty was over. He 
 could never doubt again : and now, he thought to himself, 
 
388 PROBATION. 
 
 life would be much easier to live, for he had too much sense 
 to bewail his lot when he knew what it was ; it was uncer- 
 tainty which was so wearing, and no doubt it was uncertainty 
 which had caused all his mental pain and distress. Now, 
 certainly, things would be better. 
 
 Thus consoling himself, he rose to take his leave of Herr 
 Slismeyer, who shook hands with him, and thanked him for 
 calling, and said, 
 
 'You know, you too must see Mr. Mallory. He will 
 wish to see you ; indeed, he says so in this letter.' 
 
 ' Yes, I shall see him, of course,' said Myles. 
 
 Then he went away — walked back to town to his lodg- 
 ings ; found his lamp burning, and his books open as he 
 had left them ; said to himself, 
 
 ' Now, at last, I can study with a mind at ease,' and 
 straightway prepared to do so. 
 
 In vain ! Echoes from a life that he had tried to believe 
 lived out thronged in his mind, and resounded there. 
 Faces seemed to flash past him and voices to ring in his 
 ears. All sorts of scenes vividly recurred to his mind : 
 always he and she were together ; always there was exquisite 
 delight mingling with his pain, till he recalled the scene in 
 which Frederick Spenceley had come scowling through the 
 committee-room, in the great distress. It was after that that 
 his life had become so intolerable to him. His thoughts 
 wandered off to the Spenceleys in general. Of course he 
 had heard of the great failure ; of Mr. Spenceley's suicide ; 
 of Fred's dishonourable flight. What was the wretched 
 fellow doing now ? he wondered. And there had been 
 others : a good, homely-looking mother, who seemed ill at 
 ease under her greatness ; and a daughter — he remembered 
 her too — the most beautiful girl in Thanshope, so every one 
 had said, and Myles also had been compelled to give her his 
 meed of admiration when he saw her, day after day, working 
 with Adrienne Blisset. He had often thought what a con- 
 trast they formed — like a beautiful crimson rose and a white 
 violet : the one with her fair hair and delicate, pale face ; 
 the other with dusky locks and great dark eyes, the rich 
 colour that came and went, the vivid life in every movement, 
 
PROBATION. 389 
 
 the splendid attire. Yes, he remembered her — she was 
 most beautiful ; but to him a violet was more exquisite and 
 precious than the most gorgeous rose, and it seemed other 
 people shared the same opinion. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ROSE OR VIOLET ? 
 
 Two days later, Myles took his way, in the evening, towards 
 Herr Siismeyer's house. The travellers had arrived, he had 
 heard, early in the forenoon. There had been a cere- 
 monious Mittagessen, or mid-day dinner, at which different 
 treasured friends of Herr Siismeyer's had been present — 
 friends also of Sebastian in former days. Myles, too, had 
 received a pressing invitation to be there ; but, feeling that 
 he would much rather descend of his own free will into the 
 crater of Mount Vesuvius, and there spend the remainder of 
 his natural life, than sit a long three hours (for German 
 congratulatory dinners are not amongst the briefest of cere- 
 monies) at Herr Siismeyer's table under the proposed cir- 
 cumstances, he had declined, on the plea that it was a very 
 busy day at the works, and he could not possibly be spared 
 before evening. At the evening meal (the Abendbrod), Herr 
 Siismeyer insisted that he should be present ; and Myles, 
 not quite sure, when it came to the point, that the last 
 arrangement was not worse than the first, had perforce 
 consented. 
 
 The house was lighted up, he saw, as he approached. 
 There were lights in the windows of those guest-chambers 
 which had once been the pride of her life to the selige 
 Amalie of Herr Siismeyer. There, in that house, under that 
 roof, he was to meet Adrienne again — no longer the girl 
 whom he might dare to love because she was free, but as the 
 wife of Sebastian Mallory, henceforth to be looked upon 
 with other eyes. A rush of recollections, sweet and bitter, 
 alike filled his mind for a moment, and were very strong. 
 
59 o PROBA TION. 
 
 But his will was still stronger. He had not endured his 
 years of sorrow, trial, and probation, to emerge, at the last, 
 a weaker and worse man than he had been at first. He 
 was prepared to endure the pain that awaited him, piene 
 forte et dure though it might be — to endure and perhaps, in 
 the end to conquer it ; to bear it, moreover, so that it and 
 its cause should be known to himself alone. 
 
 It was with a feeling of sadness, but without any of bitter- 
 ness, that he entered the house. He felt clearly and dis- 
 tinctly that he could meet his successful rival without a 
 feeling of grudging or ill-will. 
 
 He was ushered into the large commodious room which 
 was Herr Siismeyer's library, and in which he always sat when 
 alone, or with intimate friends. Myles, going in, saw his 
 old master in his gala dress of faultless black cloth and 
 dazzling linen, his gouty foot laid up on the stool before 
 him ; his best-pleased smile upon his face, looking up to 
 where Sebastian Mallory stood talking, his elbow resting on 
 the top of the piano. There was no one else in the room. 
 Sebastian, who was looking towards the door, changed his 
 position quickly as Myles came in, and went to meet him 
 with outstretched hand. 
 
 ' Ah, Heywood, lam glad to see you again. We were 
 talking about you at this instant.' 
 
 Myles found it strangely hard at first to return the greet- 
 ing, but he sternly beat back the grudging feeling which 
 momentarily raised its head, and spoke with cordiality. 
 How well Sebastian looked ! How happy ! How self- 
 possessed, and at harmony with life and circumstances, 
 naturally, thought Myles. He had everything to make him 
 so. He was little changed. Perhaps there was a degree 
 more of animation or abruptness in his manner ; a little 
 more of the active combatant, and less of the amused by- 
 stander, looker-on at the world's game. That was natural 
 too, thought Myles, and to be expected, while Sebastian 
 was thinking he had never seen any man with manner, ex- 
 pression, almost appearance, so completely changed as this 
 'revolutionary weaver,' as Hugo von Birkenau had once 
 called him. He could scarcely realise the excessive change 
 
PROBATION. 39i 
 
 which had taken place. All the old froward defiance ap- 
 peared to have vanished, and instead there was 
 
 ' The reason calm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,' 
 
 which were the qualities he himself most highly prized in 
 man and woman. They stood patent on his ex-workman's 
 broad brow, in his steady eyes, and upon his firmly, though 
 not sourly, set lips. Sebastian was divided between pleased 
 surprise and self-congratulation on his own foresight ; for, 
 from the first, he had hoped and expected to see Myles 
 turn into something of this kind. 
 
 Occupied with these feelings, the two young men scarcely 
 spoke, but left Herr Stismeyer to do the talking, which was 
 exactly what he wished. The first thing that really roused 
 them to reality again was a remark of Herr Slismeyer's : 
 
 ' Your dear wife (/Are Hebe Frau) is absent a long time, 
 mein B ester! 
 
 ' Oh,' said Sebastian, with a sudden flash of the eyes, 
 which did not escape Myles, ' she will not be long. I told 
 her at what time you took your supper. She was resting 
 when I saw her.' 
 
 'So '.'said Herr Siismeyer, adding, for the hundredth 
 time, ' I trust she finds herself accommodated with all she 
 wants upstairs.' 
 
 ' Oh, everything, thank you. She says she thinks Ger- 
 man hospitality is the most delightful she ever had.' 
 
 'German hospitality !' thought Myles. 'Strange! She 
 passed her happiest years in Germany ; she told me so.' 
 
 While he was marvelling at this (to him) peculiar remark 
 of Sebastian's, the rustle of a silken gown became audible 
 on the polished floor of the passage ; sAe was coming now. 
 
 'There she is!' said Sebastian, catching the sound too, 
 and starting forward to open the door. 
 
 ' I hope I'm not very late,' said a voice — (silvery, though 
 not tAe voice) — and it was just at that moment that Myles 
 began to wonder if he were labouring under some wild and 
 extraordinary hallucination — whether long brooding and 
 the last blow had really driven him mad. 
 
392 PROBATION. 
 
 He was conscious, but in a dream-like, unreal manner, 
 of rising, as Sebastian led a lady into the room — a lady who 
 laughed a happy laugh. He was conscious, also dreamily, 
 of seeing a figure which had been in his thoughts quite 
 lately — a tall, superbly shaped, queenly figure — not the 
 figure of Adrienne ; of seeing a lovely face, glowing with a 
 soft flush of health and happiness ; of meeting eyes which, 
 for darkness and fire, might match his own ; of seeing a 
 long, white throat, a dress of silk and lace, rings flashing on 
 white hands, and a dazzling smile making the brilliant whole 
 more brilliant still. Nothing like a sweet violet, indeed, 
 but a rich and gorgeous rose, in the full pride of its queenly 
 beauty. 
 
 ' Helena, this is Mr. Heywood, of whom you have often 
 heard me speak. Heywood, Mrs. Mallory.' 
 
 (' How fearfully he stared at me, dear !' said Helena 
 afterwards. ' He is really a very remarkable-looking young 
 man, and I liked him when I talked to him ; but he stared 
 most alarmingly at first.') 
 
 Myles was still dimly aware that the brilliant vision, 
 which he kept expecting to see fade away like a dissolving 
 view, to be followed by that of Adrienne, held out her 
 hand graciously, saying something about ' My husband has 
 often told me about you,' or words to that effect ; and that he 
 took the hand and bowed over it — very creditably, consider- 
 ing his state of mind. Then Sebastian placed a chair for 
 — yes, his wife — it must be his wife, Myles argued within 
 himself, and the conversation was taken up, and he 
 listened to it in silence for a time, gradually comprehending 
 that he had been labouring under a delusion, but a different 
 delusion than he had imagined. By and by he became able to 
 answer some remark addressed to him by Helena, and then 
 she continued to talk to him, and Myles found himself 
 being drawn out to show to the best advantage, saving 
 clever things which he had had no idea that he could say, 
 until they were elicited by the tact and sympathy of a 
 woman like Helena. Still, he could not altogether get rid 
 of the sensation that he was in a dream, and he continued 
 to feel so for the rest of the evening. 
 
PROBA TION. 39: 
 
 When he was going away, Sebastian asked him if he 
 could see him on the following morning. 
 
 ' At any time you please,' said Myles. 
 
 'Then I will call at the works in the forenoon. I can 
 soon say what I have to say' 
 
 On that understanding they parted. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHICH WINS? 
 
 The following forenoon, while it was yet early, Myles saw 
 Sebastian coming through the great yard, towards the 
 office where he sat. His face wore an expression of gravity 
 — even of trouble — and he frowned thoughtfully as he 
 came along. 
 
 Myles took him into his private room. He could not 
 help thinking of how he had received him on that eventful 
 morning when he came driving up to the office at Thanshope 
 with Hugo beside him, and Myles smiled a little sadly at 
 the change. 
 
 ' You came on business, perhaps,' suggested Myles. 
 
 ' Yes ; but I had no idea myself, until about an hour ago, 
 how pressing the business was. Herr Siisrneyer and I were 
 talking about you last evening before you came. He tells 
 me his son is on his way home, and that he intends devot- 
 ing himself to business.' 
 
 'Yes; I believe that is true.' 
 
 ' Under those circumstances, I presume, your position 
 would be somewhat changed.' 
 
 ' Certainly. It would naturally become more subordinate. ' 
 
 'Will you like that?' 
 
 Myles shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Herr Siisrneyer was talking to me about it. He gave 
 me a very high character of you. He very much regrets 
 your having to take a secondary position. He says he 
 would be very sorry to part with you for many reasons, but 
 not if you left him to your own advantage.' 
 
394 PROBA TION. 
 
 'Does Herr Siismeyer want to get rid of me?' asked 
 Myles. 
 
 ' On the very contrary. He only wishes to see your posi- 
 tion improved. I may as well come to the point. You 
 would hear that I have been returned as the representative 
 of Thanshope, in Parliament' 
 
 ' Yes. I think the Thanshope people showed their good 
 sense there, at any rate,' said Myles, with a smile. 
 
 ' Let us hope so. But you will easily understand that 
 such a position will take me away from home a good deal, 
 and make me unable to attend to my business as fully as I 
 have done.' 
 
 ' Naturally/ said Myles, with a sudden, quick glance up- 
 wards, as he first saw the drift of Sebastian's remarks. His 
 face flushed, and he rose from his chair, pacing about the 
 room. 
 
 ' For some time Mr. Sutcliffe has been quite unfit for the 
 post he held — I mean, as regards bodily health. I have 
 wanted very much to provide him with an assistant, but did 
 not know how to manage it without hurting his feelings. 
 My conversation with Herr Siismeyer decided me to ask 
 you to take the post. Since then — in fact, this very morn- 
 ing — I have a telegram from Wilson with the news of poor 
 SutclifTe's death. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I 
 liked him well. Such faithful probity, such diligence, and 
 such capacity, are not found in one man in a hundred. 
 But, long ago, I thought I had discovered them all in you, 
 and my errand to you this morning is to ask if you will take 
 Mr. SutclifTe's post in my business. Your energy, vigour, 
 and the talents for business which Herr Siismeyer tells me 
 you have, would be invaluable to me, and without doubt the 
 connection would be an advantageous one for you. What 
 do you say ? ' 
 
 Myles had come to a stop in his restless walk, his hands 
 plunged in his pockets, his brows knit, his eyes somewhat 
 downcast. He did not look elated. His first words were 
 not an explicit answer to Sebastian's question. 
 
 ' I think you are the most generous man I ever knew, 
 sir,' he said at last, almost abruptly. 
 
PROBA TION. 395 
 
 ' That is beside the question. There is no talk of gener- 
 osity, but of a business connection, a contract entered into 
 by us for our mutual advantage.' 
 
 ' It would at least be very much to my advantage. Have 
 you not considered that there are plenty of men, employers 
 like yourself, who would be glad to see sons of theirs 
 placed with you, and would furnish capital too, as a 
 premium ? ' 
 
 ' Mon Dien ! yes, I know. I have had hints to that 
 effect from more than one already. It does not suit me to 
 do anything of the kind. I don't want a young gentleman 
 with capital, whom I shall have to teach. I want a business 
 man, who can really take commercial care off my shoulders 
 when cares of another kind are laid upon them. I am not 
 a fellow to do things in a hurry. The whole matter has 
 been well considered, and it is a great object with me to 
 secure you. As to terms, we could come to some satis- 
 factory arrangement, I doubt not. What I want to know 
 now is, will you come to me, and take the place of manager 
 of my business?' 
 
 Again Myles began to pace the room, biting his lip and 
 frowning desperately. 
 
 'You must think me strangely callous and indifferent, 
 not to jump at such an offer,' he began. 
 
 ' No ; I see you don't want to come. I know your 
 reasons. No,' he added, as Myles started, ' not your very 
 reason, but I know that when you left Thanshope it was in 
 the hope never to see it again ; and that desire has not yet 
 changed.' 
 
 ' No it has never changed,' he owned. 
 
 ' But, if I guess rightly, there is no actual, tangible ob- 
 stacle to your return. It is a strong private feeling of re- 
 pugnance on your own part, arising from some cause or 
 causes to me unknown. Is it not so?' 
 
 'Yes, it is so.' 
 
 ' Well ; still I ask you to come. Come and try, at least. 
 Fight it down, and come and revisit your city of the dead. 
 Come and try whether there may not be new life hidden 
 for you there.' 
 
395 PROBA TION. 
 
 Myles shook his head. 
 
 ' There is not that,' said he. 
 
 ' Then, to put it in another light, come because I ask you, 
 to oblige me. Surely all that wrath and misunderstanding 
 which once existed between us is burnt out for ever now. 
 I am certain we can act together in most things. And — 
 excuse me, I have no wish to be impertinent — but let me 
 tell you that Stonegate is always empty now ; and if it were 
 not, I have introduced you to my wife.' 
 
 Myles turned abruptly away. Stonegate always empty ! 
 Whether empty or inhabited, he had forfeited all right to 
 approach it. 
 
 ' With the best wishes in the world for friendship, that 
 would have divided us, would it not?' continued Sebastian, 
 who, when he took up the probe, was not wont to lay it 
 down again, with the operation half finished, deterred by 
 the anguished face or fainting mien of the patient. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the only answer. 
 
 ' But it is gone. I know not what life may hold for you 
 in the future ; I do know that you have suffered in the 
 past, and that places where one has had that kind of suffer- 
 ing are haunted, and full of ghosts ; but again I urge you 
 — come ! I think you are leading a morbid, foolish life 
 here, rendered, by the motives which prompt it, not a par- 
 ticularly healthy one, and ' 
 
 ' Say no more, sir. I will come. I knew I should come, 
 as soon as you asked me. No wish of yours could be 
 other than a command to me now. It was only that I 
 could not force myself to say yes. But now I say it. I 
 will go whenever you like — that is, whenever Herr Siis- 
 meyer will spare me.' 
 
 'That is spoken as I hoped you would speak,' said 
 Sebastian, heartily. ' Let us shake hands upon it.' 
 
 ' On my agreement to take you for my lawful master, and 
 serve you faithfully and honestly,' said Myles, with rather a 
 forced smile, as he grasped Sebastian's hand. 
 
 ' I suppose that is the foundation of all such agreements, 
 but I trust we shall be something more worthy of us both 
 than mere master and servant. At least, you need not be 
 
PROBA TION. 397 
 
 afraid of rusting. I have dozens of plans which I have 
 never had time or assistants to carry out. Now, with my 
 wife, and I hope you to help me too, I shall get along 
 splendidly.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear there is plenty of work,' said Myles. 
 ' I was to have left here in a couple of days for a holiday. 
 Suppose I went to Thanshope direct, instead of Berlin, and 
 the other places I had thought of. That would leave the 
 field clear to Herr Susmeyer and his son, and I could get 
 to work at once.' 
 
 ' Better take the holiday first, hadn't you ?' said Sebastian. 
 ' It may be long enough before you have the chance of 
 another.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; but I would much rather go straight to 
 work. The holiday was none of my seeking. It was Herr 
 Siismeyer's doing.' 
 
 ' Very well. I will telegraph to Wilson that you will be 
 there in a few days, and he must have the books ready for 
 you. I will just give you an idea of how we stand at 
 present, and leave you to shake down before I come back, 
 eh?' said Sebastian, with as much nonchalance as if he had 
 been proposing nothing more difficult than that they should 
 take a stroll together. He knew, this astute young man, the 
 kind of nature he was dealing with. To have proposed com- 
 ing to Thanshope with Myles, and there standing by him 
 and smoothing out his way for him, would have been in the 
 highest degree distasteful to the latter. The charge im- 
 posed upon him was a heavy one ; it promised him arduous 
 and incessant occupation for some time, at least until 
 Sebastian's return from abroad. Already the idea of Thans- 
 hope looked less like a grim phantom. The way became 
 more practicable. He brightened visibly, to Sebastian's 
 private amusement. 
 
 ' Yes. How soon will you return ?' 
 
 ' It is impossible to say. It will depend a great deal 
 upon the reports you send me. This is my wedding tour, 
 really, though it has had a queer beginning, and I think my 
 wife has a right to complain of being dragged about to 
 German manufacturing towns in order to settle business 
 
398 PROBATION. 
 
 matters, when I promised to take her to the Italian Lakes. 
 We shall try to go on there, and to Switzerland, and make 
 a regular holiday of it, before coming back to settle really 
 to business. You will do the best you can.' 
 
 1 Yes, of course,' said Myles. ' I hope and think that my 
 reports will allow you to take a pretty long holiday.' 
 
 ' Then I can go,' said Sebastian. ' We leave to-morrow 
 morning. Suppose you come up to Herr Susmeyer's to 
 supper to-night, as you did last night, and we will take an 
 hour afterwards for business — yes? And now I must be 
 off.' 
 
 These rapidly made arrangements were all faithfully 
 carried out. In less than a week Myles, armed with 
 Sebastian's explanations and instructions, was on his way to 
 Thanshope. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ' Yet, ere the phantoms flee, 
 Which that house, and heath, and garden, made dear to thee erewhile, 
 Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free 
 From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.' 
 
 It would be difficult to overrate the completeness of the 
 change which had supervened, in both the outer and inner 
 life of Myles Heywood, between the time when he had left 
 his native town, and now, when he returned to it. 
 
 He was very busy, very quiet, and very lonely. Sebastian 
 had acted with the soundest wisdom in leaving his new 
 manager to take his place alone, and alone to fight down 
 the obstacles which he encountered, alone to strike back 
 the ill-will, the jealousy, and the insubordination — all of 
 which things raised their heads and gaped upon him with 
 their mouths on his first assumption of his new office. 
 
 Myles had accepted the post calmly, but he had known 
 perfectly well that he assumed no light task. It would have 
 been comparatively easy, if there had not been the envy 
 
PROBATION. 399 
 
 and prejudices of old friends to be overcome. Thanks to 
 the first-rate management of Mr. Sutcliffe, and to Sebastian's 
 own ubiquitous eye, the whole machine was in complete 
 working order; but this, perhaps, only left all the more 
 room for smaller spites and jealousies to make themselves 
 felt. There was, first of all, Wilson, the faithful old cashier 
 who had once been Myles's superior : he was a first-rate 
 accountant and bookkeeper, but no manager or man of 
 business, and utterly devoid of the faculty of arranging or 
 regulating things. None knew it better than himself, yet 
 it was something of a trial to his feelings to see the young 
 fellow, whom he had known from the time when he had 
 begun life as a c half-time ' of eleven, placed over him. In 
 justice to both the men, it must be said that this little 
 jealousy soon wore off. Myles won Wilson's heart by his 
 manner of treating him with scrupulous respect in the 
 presence of third persons, and without pretensions of any 
 kind when alone with him. Wilson, too, was an intelli- 
 gent man, who knew a clever man of business when 
 he met him. Myles very soon proved his perfect capa- 
 city for his post, and after that Wilson's soreness was at 
 an end. He backed up ' Mr. Heywood ' on every possible 
 occasion, and suffered no appeal from the said Mr. Hey- 
 wood's behests. 
 
 Myles found it a somewhat more difficult matter to dispose 
 of others, old comrades of his own, who were working away 
 in the same old places, no higher than they ever had been ; 
 and who, unable to rise themselves, were lost in astonishment 
 that he should be put over their heads. Some of them were 
 strongly inclined to be provokingly familiar ; first jocosely, 
 and then maliciously, insubordinate ; utterly unconscious of 
 the mental gulf between him and them. But the stronger 
 brain and will of the man who had risen beyond them was able 
 to check these manifestations of feeling. One or two sharp 
 examples, and a most unequivocal demonstration that no 
 nonsense would be endured, reduced them to their natural 
 places. Ever afterwards he had the name amongst them 
 of having become hard, inconsiderate, and a fine gentleman. 
 He knew it and regretted it, but accepted it as inevitable, 
 
400 PROBA TION. 
 
 remembering the time when he had resented the fact that 
 the law did not compel all men to live on the same level. 
 
 The new manager's eyes appeared to be ubiquitous — 
 nothing escaped them ; but good work and good conduct 
 were as keenly noted by him as bad, and he let the approval 
 be as distinctly felt as the displeasure. There was, moreover, 
 another thing which soon began to tell more than all the 
 others put together : he was utterly unconscious of deserv- 
 ing ill-will ; he was so evidently bent upon work, hard work, 
 and nothing but work, and not upon hectoring it over those 
 who had become his subordinates, that distrust gradually 
 subsided. Sneers and scoffs had no effect whatever upon 
 him ; they were ignored in a manner so complete as to re- 
 coil with disconcerting effect upon their originators. That 
 grave absorbed face, those eyes which noted everything, 
 that ready presence of mind, that seemingly unwearying, 
 untiring strength, that utter disregard of the amount of work 
 which fell upon his own shoulders, soon began to tell upon 
 individuals, and, through them, upon the mass. 
 
 Myles w T rote Sebastian regular accounts of his business 
 transactions, hoping they met with his approval. He never 
 named any disputes with the workpeople, leaving his master 
 to infer that he was, as the latter had said, ' shaking down ' 
 to his new work. 
 
 Outside that work his life was rather colourless. Mary 
 and Harry no longer lived at Thanshope. Harry had found 
 work in a manufacturing village some five miles distant ; he 
 lived in a cottage on the borders of an open moor, where 
 the air was pure, free, and bracing. He had grown, physi- 
 cally, much stronger in consequence of the change, and 
 thought that his hearing, if not actually better, did not be- 
 come worse so rapidly as when he lived in the town. 
 Occasionally, on a Sunday, Myles would go over to see them, 
 and nurse his sister's little boy on his knee, feeling a passion 
 of tenderness which he could not express for the little 
 round-faced thing, with its large, solemn, dark eyes — like 
 his own, Mary said, with affectionate pride. He would walk 
 with Harry over the moors, and gratify him by shouting 
 descriptions of his foreign life into his failing ears. But, 
 
PROBATION. 401 
 
 except for this one day in the week, they were lost to him ; 
 their incessant toil, and his own, preventing further inter- 
 course. 
 
 Very often his dead brother occupied a place in his mind. 
 Poor Ned ! What a life he could have given him now ! 
 He could have had him to live with him, and bought him 
 books and pictures, and given him music, and made his 
 existence a poetry to him. But it was too late : Edmund 
 slept his quiet sleep, killed off by the want and the sorrow 
 which had been too much for them all, at the time of the 
 great distress. 
 
 One face was missing — that of Hoyle, his old enemy. 
 Myles made some casual inquiries about him one day, and 
 heard that he had left Thanshope about a year ago. He 
 never knew the part the man had played between him and 
 Adrienne. 
 
 The young men who had once been friends of his (it 
 seemed as if it must be hundreds of years ago), and to 
 whose debating society he had once belonged, received him 
 with a mixture of timidity and admiration. Many of them 
 had advocated — perhaps still did so — the Proudhonistic 
 theory — ■' all property is a crime.' At one time Myles had 
 believed and ardently advocated the same delusion. He 
 had lived faster and grown faster than these old friends of 
 his, and now they were divided between embarrassment at 
 his open support of one of the most flagrant property-holders 
 of the district, and admiration of his cleverness, which had 
 swept such gains into his own lap. Myles felt little sym- 
 pathy with them, and had the uncomfortable sensation that 
 while they were shy of discussing things before his face, 
 they were very voluble, and chiefly about himself, behind his 
 back. 
 
 He found his most congenial associate in Mr. Lyttleton, 
 the Factory Inspector of Thanshope and some surrounding 
 towns, who lived in Thanshope — a middle-aged, highly edu- 
 cated man, who was attracted, the first time he saw him, by the 
 keen yet sombre countenance of Mr. Mallory's new manager; 
 and who, when he learnt the outlines of Myles's history, be- 
 came still more interested in him, asked him to his house, 
 
 2 D 
 
4Q2 PROBA TION. 
 
 and there introduced him to some young professional men. 
 of a higher class, taken all in all, than those he had known 
 in Eisendorf. The benefit was mutual, and Myles's circle of 
 acquaintances, if not of intimates, thus gradually extended. 
 Almost everywhere he pleased, but everywhere there was the 
 constant wonder why Heywood was so reserved, so almost 
 melancholy in manner, and so sparing in speech ; ' much 
 more like a Spanish grandee,' observed a young doctor to 
 Mr. Lyttleton, ' than a man who has risen from the ranks 
 of the working-men. I can't make the fellow out.' 
 
 Very few people could make the fellow out, though 
 many seemed to find a decided pleasure in trying to do 
 so. 
 
 Thus time passed until Sebastian and his wife came 
 home, and then Myles found that ' master and servant ' was 
 indeed far from expressing the relation which Mallory wished 
 to exist between them. Sebastian's regard, once won, was 
 dealt out with no niggard hand. He had got Myles to 
 yield to his will ; now it seemed he wished for more than 
 respect — regard. The best part of Myles's nature responded 
 to the call ; his liking warmed each day, till it grew to an 
 affection, reserved and reticent indeed in outward show, 
 but inwardly glowing as warmly as Sebastian himself could 
 desire. The former ill-will had burnt itself out. Master 
 and man were on a footing of perfect amity and accord. 
 The more Myles heard of Sebastian's plans, thoughts, and 
 schemes, the better he liked them, and the wiser he felt 
 them to be. He could appreciate them now ; three years 
 ago he could only have scoffed at them. He entered 
 heartily into them all ; he worked unremittingly till Sebas- 
 tian declared he was afraid of his energy, and refused rest, 
 saying he neither required nor desired it. 'Whatever his 
 own private and personal hopes, thoughts, or wishes (if he 
 had any), he kept them strictly and entirely to himself. 
 Helena was very kind to him, and they were very good 
 friends ; she, woman-like, always thinking of that back- 
 ground in his life, that hinted love-story, of which Sebastian 
 had given her some glimpses. Occasionally she and her 
 husband would speak of it. 
 
PROBA TION. 403 
 
 ' Sebastian, you know him best, and what he is capable 
 of. Do you think he is in love with that girl yet ? ' 
 
 ' I think, most reverend matron, that he is in love with 
 that girl — who, by-the-by, is rather older than yourself — 
 yet' 
 
 ' Then why doesn't he find her out and propose to her?' 
 
 ' I have not asked him.' 
 
 ' He cannot think she is too good for him.' 
 
 'I should not be surprised if he did.' 
 
 'Absurd!' 
 
 ' Pray take it upon yourself to tell him so. No doubt 
 you will succeed in convincing him.' 
 
 ' You are ridiculous, sir.' 
 
 When he, Myles, had by any chance a leisure hour, he 
 would go — even after the nights had grown dark, and frosts 
 of winter had set in — -up the dreary length of Blake Street 
 to the wicket of the empty Stonegate, and, leaning upon that 
 support, would stand gazing at the emptiness and the deso- 
 lation of it. No one lived there. A woman came some 
 few times in the week, and spent the day there, lighting 
 fires and throwing open shutters and windows; but that 
 was all. It had always, at the best of times, been a dreary- 
 looking, sad, cold place, but now it was forlorn in its mourn- 
 fulness. If it had not been so utterly lonely, Myles would 
 not have gone there. No one he knew ever came past. 
 He had his watch-post to himself, and probably found some 
 kind of mournful, unsatisfactory joy in his vigils. Always it 
 remained the same — empty, closed, desolate — always void 
 of her presence — always without sign or indication that it 
 would ever again be gladdened by it. Her name had never 
 been mentioned, either by him or his friends. He was 
 absolutely ignorant of where she was, or how ; of what she 
 was doing, whether she were happy or sad ; of every fact 
 and circumstance connected with her. 
 
4 o4 PROBA TION. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen ; 
 Du, du, liegst mir im Sinn ; 
 Du, du, machst mir viel Schmerzen — 
 Weiss' nicht wie gut ich Dir bin !' 
 
 The spell — the long silence — was broken at last. One 
 evening towards the end of April, when he had been seven 
 months in Thanshope, he first had any news of Adrienne. 
 The Mallorys were in London, and had been there since 
 the opening of Parliament in the beginning of February. 
 Myles had had all the work and responsibility at home 
 laid upon his shoulders. His work for the day was over, 
 and, the evening being fine and the air pleasant, he turned 
 out for his usual stroll up Blake Street. As he came nearer 
 to the house, he saw a man standing in the garden, and as 
 he approached still nearer, he recognised the man; he was 
 Brandon, Mr. Blisset's old servant and factotum. 
 
 The windows in the front of the house were all open, and 
 glittering in the rays of an April sunset — mild and cool. 
 Brandon was standing, looking meditatively towards that 
 sunset, and towards the moors to which it formed a flaming 
 background. His hands were in his pockets, and he was 
 softly whistling a tune. 
 
 Myles paused, and the man turned round. There was a 
 mutual recognition. Brandon had been three days in the 
 town, and had heard all the gossip there was — all about 
 Myles's changed position ; and while he looked pleased to 
 see an old acquaintance, he touched his cap as to a superior. 
 Myles, wishing him good evening, rested his elbow on the 
 gate, and said. 
 
 'Are you living in Thanshope?' 
 
 'No, sir. I only came here for a few days on business.' 
 
 Myles was gratified that he could at once satisfy the deep 
 yearning that lay at his heart — to ask after Adrienne — and 
 at the same time do what was natural and to be expected ; 
 
PROBA TION. 405 
 
 for who, if not her uncle's old servant, should know anything 
 about her ? He therefore inquired, 
 
 ' Do you ever hear anything of Miss Blisset now, since 
 Mr. Blisset's death?' 
 
 Brandon looked surprised. 
 
 ' Hear of her, sir ! I'm in her service.' 
 
 ' In her service?' repeated Myles mechanically. 
 
 ' Yes, when my late master died, Miss Blisset was good 
 enough to say that she particularly wished me to remain 
 with her, unless I had other views, which I had not. I 
 have served her and her family for thirty years, and I hope 
 never to serve any other.' 
 
 ' I had no idea you had remained with her. I am glad 
 to hear it. She must require a person to — an old servant, 
 who will be like a friend to her as well.' 
 
 ' Miss Blisset was so kind as to say, when she asked me 
 to remain, that she looked upon me as a friend. My wife 
 and I are the only servants she has.' 
 
 ' Ah ! How is Miss Blisset — or rather, how was she when 
 you left her?' 
 
 ' She was quite well, sir, thank you.' 
 
 ' Does she live in England ?' 
 
 ' At present she is living in London, and we have been at 
 Florence and Dresden.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Does she mean to stay in London?' 
 
 ' I think she will stay until autumn. Then she is going 
 abroad with some friends. I am not sure where, but I think 
 to Italy. Most likely she will take either my wife or me 
 with her, and leave the other behind.' 
 
 ' Then she does not think of coming to Thanshope at 
 all?' 
 
 ' No. Her lease of this house expires directly, and she 
 is not going to renew it. She has seen Mr. Mallory in 
 London, and made arrangements to give it up. I have come 
 to see about storing the furniture.' 
 
 'Yes. When shall you be returning?' 
 
 ' In about three days, sir, I expect' 
 
 ' The house will then be empty.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
4 o6 PROBA TION. 
 
 There was a pause. Myles's heart was beating. Brandon 
 was looking at him inquiringly, as if he awaited some further 
 word or some message to be delivered to his mistress. But 
 Myles dared not send any message. He could not forget 
 how he had ignored her own message to him, though head 
 and heart alike cried out that he was wrong. In ordinary 
 concerns he was clear-headed and practical enough : where 
 his love for Adrienne stepped in, his nature seemed changed ; 
 he became timid, nervous, and lost all self-confidence. To 
 have sent a mere conventional phrase of compliments or 
 kind regards, would, it seemed to him, have been deliber- 
 ate, insolent bravado — after what had passed. If he could 
 have seen her, if she would have spoken to him, he might 
 have confessed his fault and begged her pardon ; but there 
 was no word, no message that he could send through even 
 the most trusted of old servants — through any third person. 
 
 After a few more words with Brandon, he wished him 
 good night and moved on, leaving that worthy man to think 
 how ill-mannered he was. ' And he used to sit and look 
 at my young lady in a way that any one must have noticed,' 
 thought Brandon, rather indignantly. 
 
 Myles walked homewards, deciding in his own mind that 
 he would not go near Blake Street again until after Brandon 
 should be gone. He pictured Adrienne in London, with 
 plenty of friends, visiting the Mallorys, happy — the man 
 had given no sort of hint that she was not happy. Suppose 
 he happened to be in London, to be in the same room with 
 her, to pass her in the street ! He had forfeited the right 
 to claim her acquaintance ; he did not think he would have 
 the courage to address her. He had made a great mess, a 
 horrible mistake, when he repulsed that advance of hers ; 
 for that it had been an advance there could be now no 
 doubt, since there had never been anything between her 
 and Sebastian Mallory. What a shock, what offence, that 
 behaviour of his must have caused her ! The dead silence 
 which had supervened on her part showed how she must 
 have taken it. 
 
 His heart ached a good deal as he walked towards his 
 home. What profited him all this solitary, lonely prosperity ? 
 
PROBA TION. 407 
 
 If he could have exchanged it all for one more of those 
 evenings at Stonegate in the old days — for one more of 
 those glances from Adrienne, which used to intoxicate him 
 with their half-frank, half-timid expression — he would have 
 flung all he had to the winds, and begun life again to-morrow, 
 if he could have seen her once again betrayed into such a 
 look, such a tone, as that with which she had said, ' Oh, 
 Myles !' one Sunday afternoon. But that would never be. 
 She too had found that Thanshope was not the place for her. 
 She would never come to Stonegate again. When next he 
 saw it, it would be empty, dismantled, a shell. He wondered 
 — and immediately felt eager that it should be so — whether 
 Sebastian Mallory would let him have Stonegate. There 
 was no other place in which he cared to live. A fear seized 
 him, lest it might already have been promised to some one 
 else. He hastened his steps, and as soon as he got ia 
 wrote to Sebastian, and dropped the letter with his own 
 hand into the letter-box. He had written urgently. If 
 Mr. Mallory had not already disposed of Stonegate, might 
 he, Myles Heywood, become its tenant, at whatever rent 
 Mr. Mallory pleased, even to the half of his income ? Re- 
 pairs and everything of that kind (he mixed up business 
 and sentiment in a hurried jumble) were to be his concern, 
 and his alone. And might he have an answer soon ? He 
 did not care whether the reasons of his eagerness were 
 guessed or not by Sebastian. 
 
 By return of post he had an answer : 
 
 ' Dear Heywood — I am glad to find there is something 
 you seem to care much about, outside business. Since Miss 
 Blisset is leaving Stonegate, I could have no other tenant so 
 desirable as you, and I assure you applications have not 
 flowed in with the rapidity you seem to think. You are 
 at liberty to take possession as soon as she vacates, which 
 I suppose will be in a few days from now. It is not a 
 residence which I should have exactly chosen out from 
 amongst all others, but chaain a son goiit. — Yours truly, 
 
 ' s. m; 
 
 Myles carried this note about with him in his breast- 
 
4o8 PROBATION. 
 
 pocket, as if it had been a magic talisman. He studiously 
 adhered to his resolution not to go near Blake Street till the 
 three days of which Brandon had spoken should have elapsed, 
 but the shadow of the deserted house ' haunted him like a 
 passion ' — a longing, intense and increasing, concentrated 
 his thoughts upon that ' house, and heath, and garden,' the 
 'phantoms' of which had been 'so dear to him erewhile.' 
 
 Not until the fourth evening after this interview with 
 Brandon did he again take his way along the familiar street. 
 
 It was even such an evening as that earlier one. The 
 air was mild, the sun, now declining, had been bright — all 
 nature smiled. It was growing dusk as he drew near the 
 house. Why was his heart so low ? Why had he such a 
 great sensation of loneliness — of being cast adrift ? Why 
 did sad words of a sad song ring in his ears, and seem to 
 be borne in whispers to him with each breath of wind — 
 
 ' Away ! away ! to thy sad and silent home ! 
 Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth ! 
 Watch the dim shades, as like ghosts they go and come, 
 And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.' 
 
 ' The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall fall about thine head, 
 The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet, 
 
 But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, 
 Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may 
 meet. ' 
 
 He felt the idea dreadfully prophetic ; he felt as if that 
 were the fate he had selected for himself, as he at last 
 rested his arms upon the homely wicket of that lonesome 
 abode, and looked towards the front of the house. 
 
 He was prepared for closed shutters, melancholy wisps of 
 straw and scraps of paper, doors bolted and barred — such 
 as mark, with a brand not to be mistaken, the deserted 
 house. What he beheld was an open door and an open 
 window — the window to the right-hand ; he could see that 
 the hall was stripped of its fittings, that the windows were 
 curtainless, but the house was not empty — as yet, its hearth 
 was not ' desolated.' 
 
 What is that moving within the room? A figure; per- 
 haps one of ' the dim shades, as like ghosts they go and 
 
PROBATION. 409 
 
 come.' So dull are our senses, when night is falling, that 
 even he did not recognise whose form it was ; it was not 
 to a sight, but to a sound, that his nerves suddenly thrilled, 
 and his senses became tense and alert. 
 
 As he stood, a chord was struck upon a piano within — 
 another. A slight shiver shook him, but still he was not 
 convinced until a voice floated out — the softly melodious 
 voice which he knew in every fibre of his heart, not loudly, 
 but with a subdued intensity of feeling which made him 
 also absolutely tremble. For the song she sang brought 
 hopes, doubts, fears — and again, wild and tremulous, chaotic 
 hopes, crowding into his mind. It was the homely old 
 German Volkslied — 
 
 ' Du, du, liegst mir im Herzen.' 
 
 To every word his heart throbbed, as she apostrophised, 
 with the abandon of one who believes herself unheard and 
 unlistened to, that absent one — 
 
 ' Thou, love, shrined in my heart, 
 Thou, love, shrined in my mind !' 
 
 and sang how he ' caused her much pain, and knew not how 
 much he was loved.' A pause after that, till she went on 
 to the second verse — 
 
 ' So, love, e'en as I love thee, 
 So, so, by thee I'd be loved.' 
 
 ' For,' said the song, ' I must ever be drawn most tenderly 
 towards thee.' 
 
 ('Die, die, z'artlichsten Triebe 
 Fuhle ich ewig auf Dich.') 
 
 Towards thee — towards whom? Her voice vibrated, 
 almost failed, as she went on with a sad, pondering accent, 
 to the wonder expressed in the third verse, as to whether 
 he, that absent one of the careless spirit, might be trusted, 
 as he might trust to her ; and the notes swelled out again — 
 
 ' Weiss' nicht wie gut ich Dir bin.' 
 
 Myles's head had sunk down upon his arms. The 
 wonder, the mystery, the wild hope, that came surging over 
 
4 io PROBATION. 
 
 his heart almost unmanned him, and still the voice floated 
 out, as she sang the last verse of the song. Could it be ? 
 Might he dare to hope that, as she chose that hour, that 
 place, that song in which to express her feeling, that it was 
 he — for she was singing now — 
 
 * My love, when in the distance 
 
 In dreams thy face I see, 
 
 My heart, with fond insistance, 
 
 Turns evermore to thee.' 
 
 Whose face ? Her voice had faltered with the energy of 
 her own feeling, on the last lines — 
 
 ' Dann, dann, wiinsch ich so gerne, 
 Dass uns die Liebe vereint ! ' 
 
 She sang the last cadences again, as if she could not leave 
 them, as if weary of waiting and separation — 
 
 'Ja, ja, ja, ja ! 
 Dass uns die Liebe vereint !' 
 
 With a heart full of the wildest, most chaotic doubt, 
 wonder, surmise, Myles stood, his head raised again, his 
 dark eyes burning, as their wont was when he was agitated, 
 upon the open window. The dusk was too deep now for 
 him to see anything in the room. 
 
 His brain, his heart, all of him, were thrilling with the 
 aspiration conveyed in the last untranslatable words of the 
 song — the passionate, simple, primitive — 
 
 1 Dass uns die Liebe vereint ! ' 
 
 He saw nothing, heard nothing, until a footstep paused, 
 as if arrested in surprise, beside him — a figure interposed 
 itself between his eyes and the window at which he was 
 gazing. 
 
 ' Adrienne /' 
 
 The name fell, like a sigh, without his will or wish, 
 almost without his knowledge, from his lips. He scarcely 
 knew himself, or where he was, or anything, except that she 
 stood there, and had paused, stopped, was looking at him. 
 It was light enough to see that she had recognised him on 
 
PROBATION. 411 
 
 coming close to him, and that, when their eyes met, she 
 was trembling. 
 
 When she looked into his face, her own turned paler, and 
 a startled ' Oh !' fell from her lips. 
 
 For a moment they both stood silent thus. Then Myles, 
 seeing that she still trembled and looked startled, remem- 
 bered suddenly where he was, and how it all was. He 
 bared his head and stood before her, saying, in a low voice, 
 
 ' Pardon me ! I forgot ! I will not intrude. I did not 
 know you were here.' 
 
 He had turned to go, was absolutely moving, when she 
 herself opened the wicket wide, and said, in an indescrib- 
 able tone, 
 
 'Will you leave me without one word, as before?' 
 
 The tremulous appeal was a command. He entered the 
 garden, looking at her, as if awaiting a direction from her. 
 But at last he said, 
 
 ' It was that which made me fear to look at you. I can 
 scarcely believe you will speak to me. Do you mean,' he 
 added, with a sudden appeal in his voice — ' do you mean 
 that I may come in, and — talk to you?' 
 
 For all answer Adrienne held out her right hand, and 
 closed the wicket with the other, so that they stood together 
 within the garden. 
 
 Myles took that hand, but he could not at first speak. 
 
 ' Miss Blisset, I behaved unpardonably — like a ruffian — 
 two years ago. I do not deserve your forgiveness.' 
 
 They had been moving towards the house, and they now 
 stood in the almost dismantled drawing-room, by the open 
 piano. 
 
 ' At first,' said Adrienne, in a voice which still trembled, 
 ' I thought I never could forgive you. It was cruel on 
 your part ' 
 
 ' It was brutal — unpardonable.' 
 
 ' No ; you were mad with grief — I knew it afterwards — 
 and you could not know what it was I had to say to you.' 
 
 'What was it?' he asked, below his breath. 
 
 ' It was to say good-bye, and something more — to say 
 that I feared I had been unkind ! I had seemed to desert 
 
412 PRORATION. 
 
 you — in your trouble, but that it had never been so in reality, 
 for I had thought of you constantly ; and,' she added 
 steadily, ' to tell you, too, that I had heard something — that 
 some report had been set going about you and me ' 
 
 'You heard that! It was to spare you that — it was be- 
 cause I was almost mad at the thought ' 
 
 ' It was to tell you that I prized your friendship beyond 
 all those slanders, and that nothing could ever shake it. I 
 did wish to tell you that ; but after you were gone, after you 
 had left me in that manner, Myles, I dared not write.' 
 
 ' Fool that I was ! But I have been paying the price of 
 my folly for two years without ceasing. Till seven months 
 ago I believed you were going to marry Sebastian Mallory. 
 You may suppose I was anxious for nothing so much as to 
 be silent — to hear nothing of you.' 
 
 Adrienne made no answer, till Myles said, 
 
 ' And now you are going to leave Thanshope ?' 
 
 ' Yes, for ever.' 
 
 'You have come to say good-bye to the old place?' 
 
 ' I never meant to come. Brandon found some difficulties 
 about the arrangements I wished him to make, and tele- 
 graphed for me. I came this afternoon, and am leaving 
 again to-morrow morning.' 
 
 Adrienne had lost her self-command as he gained more 
 of his. Her voice shook uncontrollably, as she leaned her 
 elbow on the top of the piano. 
 
 ' I shall always feel happy that I have been able to see 
 you, to tell you that, whether you forgave me or not, I 
 have repented, and do repent, my churlishness, and to thank 
 you for your — your unspeakable kindness to a rough, stupid, 
 clumsy fellow like me,' said he. ' Your great goodness and 
 your gentle influence will go with me through my life ; and — 
 may you never know a sorrow or a care as long as you live !' 
 
 The aspiration appeared useless, for Adrienne had buried 
 her face in her hands, and was weeping with a quiet sorrow 
 that had something of despair in it. 
 
 ' But before I go,' he added, ' will you answer me a 
 question ? Perhaps I have no right to ask it, but I must. 
 I have been listening to your singing ; I heard every word.' 
 
PROBATION. 413 
 
 ' Yes,' was the almost inaudible answer. 
 
 c Tell me if you had some one in your mind when you 
 sang that song.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Adrienne, still scarce above her breath. 
 
 ' You had !' he exclaimed, and forgot the solemn farewell, 
 the almost benediction, he had just bestowed upon her, 
 while he hurried his words out desperately. ' Oh, Adrienne ! 
 forgive me if I am too presumptuous ; but have mercy ! 
 Tell me, when you sang' Du, du, liegst mirim Herzen' . . . . 
 But I am too bold — I ' 
 
 ' Do not look at me so strangely !' she began, raising her 
 tear-stained face. ' Tell me Ah ! ' she suddenly ex- 
 claimed, as with one movement they clasped each other, ' it 
 is you, Myles — it was always you ; but you were so dread- 
 fully proud.' 
 
 ' Do you mean,' he asked, after a long pause, ' that if I 
 had come to you that night — if I had forgotten myself, and 
 told you, as I felt sure I should, that I loved you, and that 
 no " friendship " could be anything but a wretched mockery 
 to me — do you mean that then you would have taken me, 
 ruined and wretched, and without one bright thought or one 
 hope for the future?' 
 
 ' If you had come then, and told me all that, you need 
 not have gone away without hope, and I should have spent 
 a different two years than I have done. But it is all right 
 now,' she added. ' The probation is over, my love, and you 
 have borne it bravely.' 
 
 ' If you think so, it must be so ; but at the time, I assure 
 you, I felt anything but brave. Now I feel — I feel at rest,' 
 said Myles. 
 
 There was silence. The darkness gathered. The air 
 blew softly in at the window, and bore with it the faint 
 sound of an old tune, in broken, melodious chimes. 
 
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