I 
 

ANTHONY FAIRFAX 
 
 flotel. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENT LEY AND SON, 
 
 publishers iit (DrMnarn ta ^jer ^jftujesti} the 
 
 1885. 
 [All Hights Reserved.} 
 


 I 
 
 /H0'> 
 
 ANTHONY FAIEFAX. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
AFTHONT FAIRFAX. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. :"'"'* 
 
 ' A prison-grate, 
 Which slurs the sunshine half a mile.' 
 
 UST outside the town of Middleton 
 stands the County Gaol, a large 
 building, or rather set of build- 
 ings, surrounded by a high massive wall of 
 red brick. Children going on their walks 
 pass the prison slowly, staring at the 
 frowning wall, and wondering how the 
 prisoners on 1jie o pjier f ,. side feel. When 
 
 Mo^yx. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 they come to the doorway, they shrink 
 a little and grasp their nurse's hand 
 tightly; but they cannot turn away their 
 gaze from a little, narrow door, high up in 
 the wall, which they have been told was 
 used formerly to let out condemned men 
 when they came to suffer death. The 
 children; r are fascinated by the horrible 
 .association," and they must stare, though 
 ' tney 'are 'glad ' when they have left the big 
 prison behind. 
 
 It is a gloomy place at whatever time 
 of year you see it ; and on a certain day 
 in June it looked dreary and cheerless, 
 although strong sunlight fell on the bricks 
 and brought out warm touches of red. 
 The shadows of the frowning walls did 
 
 o 
 
 their best to obscure the sunshine and chill 
 the heat, and the very sky over the build- 
 ing did not look bright. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 The door swung slowly open, and two 
 men came out. One hurried over the 
 threshold, and made a few quick steps 
 away ; the other came slowly, with a 
 dragging, reluctant step neither turned 
 back to give a last look at the place they 
 were leaving. The first a big, rough- 
 looking young man in workman's clothes 
 paused, and waited for the other to come 
 up to him, and they walked on side by 
 side. 
 
 The entrance of the prison stands back 
 from the road. As they reached the path, 
 a young lady passed, holding a large bunch 
 of red roses. The workman's eye fell upon 
 them, and he exclaimed involuntarily : 
 
 4 Eh, what bonny flowers !' 
 
 The girl heard him and looked at him, 
 smiling. She stopped and offered him. 
 some of her roses. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 i Would you like them ?' she said, in a 
 sweet, clear voice. 
 
 The man looked embarrassed, turned a 
 little red, and accepted the gift. 
 
 ' Thank you, miss/ he said, touching 
 his cap awkwardly. 
 
 The girl turned to his companion to 
 bestow some flowers upon him, and was 
 stretching out her hand, but she drew it 
 back with an expression of perplexity and 
 embarrassment. He did not belong to 
 the class who would beg for the gift of a 
 flower as she walked through the poor 
 quarters of the town. She blushed in her 
 annoyance as she saw that she was accost- 
 ing a man who looked like a gentleman, 
 though he was walking abreast of this 
 common workman. 
 
 The young man lifted his eyes for the 
 fi rst time since he had put his foot over the 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 threshold of the prison-door, and looked at 
 her with an absent gaze, almost as if he did 
 not see her. She turned her eyes away, and 
 saw the door which was just shutting, 
 started, and looked back again with an ex- 
 pression of bewildered, incredulous sus- 
 picion. An answering flash of defiance 
 came into the dull eyes, which still regarded 
 her mechanically. He threw back his head, 
 drew himself up, and walked straight on 
 with a firm step. 
 
 The workman hastily followed, and for 
 a short way they walked at a quick pace. 
 Then the other's spurt of energy seemed 
 exhausted, and he paused at a cross- 
 
 ing. 
 
 'I suppose, Mr. Lingen, I'd better say 
 good-day here ?' said Bob Dixon. ' It'll do 
 you no good to be seen with me, and of 
 course a gentleman like you is above my 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 company. I thought I'd just like to say 
 good-bye/ 
 
 ' Which of us, do you think, looks most 
 disreputable ?' asked the other. 
 
 c Why, sir, for the matter of that, I don't 
 see that either of us need be disreputable. 
 You've done nothing at all ' 
 
 ' That's your opinion/ 
 
 4 Yes, sir, it is my opinion, and I'll stick 
 to it. I'm not fool enough to believe that 
 you could do a shabby trick. And as for 
 me, bless you, there's nothing disreputable 
 in killing a hare or two. But that's neither 
 here nor there. Good-bye, sir. Don't get 
 down-hearted.' 
 
 ' Good - bye. You're a good fellow, 
 Dixon/ 
 
 4 If I might make so bold, sir, might I 
 ask where you're going ?' 
 . * To the devil/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 1 But which r(5ad, sir ? That's not much 
 of a direction.' 
 
 Anthony Lingen laughed a very mirth- 
 less laugh. 
 
 4 1 don't know where I am going. I've 
 got nowhere to go to,' 
 
 4 Your friends, sir ?' 
 
 ' My good fellow, I haven't a friend in 
 the world. There is not a soul whom I 
 ever knew who would speak to me now. 
 And I didn't think of it till this moment 
 I have no money either.' 
 
 ( Lord !' said Dixon, in a tone of 
 consternation. He appeared far more dis- 
 turbed than Anthony himself. 
 
 < What will you do ?' 
 
 ' God knows,' in a hopeless, indifferent 
 tone, which made the words sound almost 
 blasphemous. 
 
 Dixon kicked a stone into the road, 
 
io ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 and devoted some persons unspecified to 
 perdition ; then he took off his cap and 
 wiped his forehead, looking pityingly at 
 Mr. Lingen. 
 
 'Hold on, sir!' he exclaimed, catching the 
 other's arm as he suddenly turned deadly 
 white. ' Aren't you well ?' 
 
 He was drawing him towards the nearest 
 shop, but Lingen resisted, and shook his 
 head. 
 
 ' It's nothing, 7 he said faintly, when he 
 could speak. ' I felt giddy.' 
 
 'I say, look here!' said Bob. ' Come 
 along with me now. I'm going to my 
 brother who lives in the town. He's a 
 kind sort of chap, and we'll get something 
 to eat, and you can sit down and rest a bit 
 you look quite shaky and make up your 
 mind what you'll do next.' 
 
 He made the proposal half-eagerly, half- 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. n 
 
 shyly. It seemed too great a freedom to 
 take, and he was surprised when Mr. 
 Lingen said : 
 
 f Thanks, Dixon ; I'll walk that way 
 with you at all events/ 
 
 4 Haven't you thought at all of what 
 you'd do when you were out ?' said Bob, as 
 they walked onward. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I've thought of it/ rejoined 
 Anthony, with a touch of irritability which 
 made his tone sharp. 
 
 Thought of it ! He had thought of little 
 else lately. Since he had realized that his 
 dreary days of punishment, long as they 
 seemed, would come to an end, his mind 
 had dwelt on that end persistently. But it 
 was not with the feelings that the pros- 
 pect of freedom might have been expected 
 to rouse that he looked forward not with 
 impatient expectation and hope, but with 
 
12 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 pain and shrinking. His imagination was 
 too benumbed and stupefied by the routine 
 of prison-life to be capable of forming plea- 
 sant images. He could not anticipate any- 
 thing good. 
 
 He would be no better off out of prison 
 than in it indeed, as the day of his de- 
 parture drew near, he became aware of a 
 morbid reluctance to leave the gaol. He 
 could not bear to think of stepping out 
 into the free, outer world. He had lost his 
 place there. Kather than face the life of 
 degradation he was condemned to, he would 
 hide himself for ever. 
 
 He had lain awake night after night, 
 every mental nerve racked as he thought of 
 the shipwreck which had befallen him, 
 thinking with horror of his approaching 
 release, ready to wish that he could die 
 before the day. It stood up like a blank 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 13 
 
 wall before him; he could never go beyond 
 it with thoughts or wishes. On the other 
 side of it there was nothing but a horror of 
 darkness, a life which was unbearable, a 
 miserable confusion. 
 
 Now that the day had come, and he was 
 no longer shut in by friendly prison walls, 
 his chief desire was to escape from the open 
 street and to find some shelter where he 
 could be protected from human eyes. He 
 shrank from the glaring light, and dared 
 not look at the passers-by, for it was pos- 
 sible that among them there might be one 
 who had seen him in the dock a year ago. 
 He felt as if the prison stamp was indelibly 
 marked upon him. Even that girl had 
 seen that he was fresh from a cell. 
 
 He went with his rough companion 
 because he clung to the only human being 
 who had a kind word or thought for him. 
 
14 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Only a little while ago, he would have 
 scoffed, like Hazael, if he had been told 
 that he would one day feel a thrill of 
 gratitude for the kindness of a convicted 
 poacher. 
 
 Bob Dixon led him in silence, not know- 
 ing what to say, and a little awed by his 
 look of blank despair. He did not under- 
 stand it; and no description could have 
 made him enter into the misery which 
 possessed the other. It was an awful pity 
 that Mr. Lingen had fallen into ' trouble ;' 
 but he would get over it in time. There 
 was a blunder somewhere, Dixon was firmly 
 convinced, and that blunder must be recti- 
 fied sooner or later. There was no need 
 for Mr. Lingen to make himself miserable 
 about it now. His prison-time was over, 
 and he ought to be glad of that. 
 
 That Mr. Lingen was very much worse 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 15 
 
 off than himself in pocket and character, 
 Bob could not see. He could not associate 
 destitution with him. Something must 
 turn up, he felt assured a gentleman like 
 Mr. Lingen couldn't stay down in the 
 world. 
 
 Bob had conceived an enthusiastic attach- 
 ment for his prison acquaintance, and he 
 had an ardent belief in him. He had 
 noticed him first in the gaol-chapel. Look- 
 ing idly round one morning, when he felt 
 severely bored by the prayers they were 
 meaningless to him, and it was a point of 
 honour with him to pay no attention to 
 them, for he had been brought up in one of 
 the straitest sects of Dissenters he had 
 been struck by Anthony's face. 
 
 Among the other faces some hardened 
 by want, some brutalized by crime, some 
 dull with ignorance, some haggard with 
 
1 6 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 hard drinking the young, refined features 
 were peculiarly noticeable. ' How in all 
 tbe world did be get there?' thought Bob 
 to himself. ' He can't have been stealing, 
 or drinking, or poaching.' 
 
 Bob watched him with such close interest 
 that he forgot to fidget, and stood perfectly 
 quiet; and still as be gazed his wonder to 
 see a gentleman there increased, and a deep 
 commiseration took possession of him. 
 For it was clear, even to Bob's somewhat 
 dull brain, that the stranger was suffering 
 keenly. He looked crushed and hopeless, 
 and he never raised his head, or looked up 
 from the page which he was not reading. 
 
 After that day Bob watched him when- 
 ever he could, and at last they became 
 acquainted. Bob's interest in his fellow- 
 prisoner only grew and deepened, and it 
 was an appreciable addition to his joy at 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 17 
 
 his release that it took place on the same 
 day as Mr. Lingen's. 
 
 He wished that Mr. Lingen would show 
 some natural satisfaction at regaining free- 
 dom; it made him uncomfortable to see him 
 appear so wretched rather so stupefied; 
 and he would have liked to indulge in con- 
 versation now that there was no check upon 
 his tongue. But Mr. Lingen remained 
 silent almost the whole way. He opened 
 his lips once to finish his answer to Bob's 
 question. 
 
 ' Of course, the first thing I intend to do 
 is to get away from this place. I must sell 
 my watch and chain that will surely give 
 me money enough to buy a railway 
 ticket. 7 
 
 ' You ought to get a good price for them 
 if the watch is as good as the chain, sir/ 
 said Bob. 
 
 VOL. i. 2 
 
1 8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 They made their way through several 
 streets inhabited by the poorer class; across 
 a bridge, and down a road which a king 
 took on his way to battle and death four 
 hundred years ago. They had left the 
 noise of the town behind them when they 
 came to a row of small houses. Bob opened 
 the door of one, and led the way into a 
 little parlour, furnished in the usual style 
 of such rooms. The carpet was too bright 
 in colour and too crude in design, the 
 paper was too like the carpet in these 
 respects; there was the inevitable group of 
 wax flowers under a shade ; but everything 
 was so clean and neat that the room looked 
 attractive. Some plants in the window and 
 some books on a set of shelves at one side 
 of the fireplace softened down the effect of 
 the furniture. 
 
 ' Sit down here, sir/ said Bob gently. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 19 
 
 ' Is there anything I can get for you ?' he 
 added, as the other sat down without speak- 
 ing or giving a glance at the room he 
 was in. 
 
 ' No, thank you; I only want to rest a 
 few minutes till this giddiness has quite 
 gone. Go and speak to your people, 
 Dixon.' 
 
 ' And do you know, Cousin Margaret/ 
 the heroine of the roses was saying about 
 this time, ' I wondered for a moment 
 whether he had been staying in the prison, 
 and I felt quite shocked.' 
 
 'What was he like?' 
 
 ' He was tall and very slight, with dark 
 hair and a pale face, and dark eyes with 
 such a miserable expression in them when 
 he looked at me first ; and then when he 
 saw I was treating him like the poor man 
 
 9 Q 
 
 i w 
 
20 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. . 
 
 and offering him flowers, he looked 
 offended. It was very stupid of me not 
 to notice at once that he was a gentleman. 
 He must have thought me a very strange- 
 mannered person.' 
 
 4 Just coming out of the prison, you 
 say?' 
 
 ' No, I don't know that he was. I 
 fancied that he might be, as the door was 
 just closing; but that was nothing, of 
 course. Somebody might have been going 
 in.' 
 
 'Your description fits poor young 
 Lingen. Perhaps it was he whom you 
 saw, Bee. It is about the time when he 
 would be coming out, isn't it, Charles?' 
 
 'No, I don't think so. He would be 
 out before this, certainly. Don't you 
 remember, my dear?' And there was a 
 somewhat long statement of the calcula- 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 21 
 
 tions by which he settled the date of young 
 Lingen's release. 
 
 'Who was young Lingen, and what did 
 he do, Cousin Charles?' asked Bee. 
 
 ' He was tried for robbing his employer 
 a relation of his,' said Cousin Charles 'and 
 he was sentenced to a year's imprisonment.' 
 
 'It was a sad thing/ said Cousin 
 Margaret. ' He was very young a mere 
 lad, and he belonged to a very respectable 
 family in the town. It made a great deal 
 of talk. One couldn't help being sorry 
 for him, and some people wouldn't believe 
 he was guilty.' 
 
 ' I always thought he was a mere tool 
 in bad hands,' said Cousin Charles, ' and ' 
 (changing his metaphor) 'he was used as 
 a scapegoat when it became convenient/ 
 
 Beatrice listened, with a pensive look 
 coming over her face. 
 
22 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 * What a miserable story!' she said. 
 ' The young man I saw looked unhappy 
 enough for that Mr. Lingen. He made 
 me feel quite ashamed as if I had no 
 right to be happy when other people were 
 so gloomy. I was enjoying the beautiful 
 morning and my roses so much, and it was 
 so strange to see that wretched face in the 
 sunshine. 7 
 
 4 Most likely you imagined the wretched- 
 ness, Bee.' 
 
 1 Perhaps. I hope I did. It isn't com- 
 fortable to think of people being so wretched 
 in reality.' 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.' 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 >OB went into the kitchen behind 
 the parlour, and there found 
 his sister - in - law, a young 
 woman about twenty -five, strong-looking, 
 and red-cheeked as only one brought up 
 in the country can be. She looked up 
 from the ironing-board, and exclaimed : 
 1 Bob, is it you ?' 
 1 Ay, it's me.' 
 
 ' I'm glad to see you,' she said, heartily 
 shaking hands. ' I was expecting you. I 
 told Joe you'd come here first of all. Sit 
 
24 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 down, and I'll get you something to eat 
 in the twinkling of a bedpost. Poor lad! 
 you'll be fairly starved. Joe will be glad 
 to see you. Sit down.' 
 
 ' Wait a minute, Lizzie. I've brought 
 some one with me.' 
 
 Lizzie stopped in an energetic dash across 
 the room, and fixed her eyes steadily on 
 her brother-in-law. 
 
 1 If it's anybody respectable, Bob ' 
 
 she said meaningly. 
 
 i Whisht, woman ! he'll hear you. Of 
 course he's respectable ; would I bring him 
 to your house if he wasn't ? It's just a 
 gentleman that's been' Bob paused for a 
 euphemism 'in trouble. It wasn't his 
 fault, I'll go bail ; and now he's come out, 
 and he says he hasn't a friend in the world, 
 I felt fairly sorry for him, so I brought him 
 here to rest a while. He looks awfully ill 
 poor chap P 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 25 
 
 'Well, Bob,' said Mrs. Dixon, 'if he is- 
 not well, of course he's welcome to stop 
 here a bit. But it's a queer thing that he 
 has no friends.' 
 
 ' Some folks always turn on a man when 
 he's down in the world. It isn't everybody 
 that's got such good friends as I have/ said 
 Bob. 
 
 'It would be a poor tale if we turned 
 against you because you'd got into a 
 scrape. Not but what I think you were 
 to blame, Bob, and I've always said so, 
 and told Joe so, over and over again, when 
 he's been talking of you and called you all 
 sorts of things.' 
 
 ' Called me !' said Bob, in a tone of 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Oh, he hasn't called you anything bad ; 
 he took your part from the first. He says 
 you're the " victim of an unjust law," and 
 a lot more like that. You know his way. 
 
26 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 But I said : " Joe," says I, " whether the 
 law's just or not, I can't say; but as it 
 is the law, Bob was a fool to go and 
 break it." ' 
 
 6 Ay, ay ; you're right, Lizzie. I shan't 
 go poaching any more. It don't pay, and 
 that's a fact. But just give me some water 
 for Mr. Lingen. He had a faint turn as 
 we came along.' 
 
 He went with the water into the other 
 room. Next moment a frightened call of 
 ' Lizzie !' was heard ; and Mrs. Dixon 
 hurried after him, and found him bending 
 over a man who was lying back on the 
 little couch. 
 
 ' He was lying like this when I came in,' 
 said Bob. 
 
 * He's fainted,' said Lizzie, taking the 
 water from him and dashing some in the 
 stranger's face. ' He'll be round directly.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 27 
 
 She looked in great amazement at her 
 uninvited guest. The unconscious face was 
 very young and handsome, with well-cut 
 features, and an air of delicacy and refine- 
 ment. Bob had called him a gentleman, but 
 Lizzie had expected to see a much coarser 
 specimen of humanity. 
 
 ' Poor lad ! he's very good-looking,' she 
 exclaimed, as she pushed back a lock of 
 soft, dark brown hair. 
 
 It was some time before he gave any 
 sign of consciousness, and when at last he 
 opened his eyes, he seemed very imper- 
 fectly recovered. He answered Bob's 
 inquiry as to how he felt, and then sank 
 back into a semi- stupor. 
 
 Lizzie gave it as her opinion that he had 
 better be left to recover in quiet, and Bob 
 withdrew with her to the kitchen. Anthony 
 was still lying, apparently asleep, when, a 
 
28 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 little after twelve, the elder brother ap- 
 peared, making his entrance by the back- 
 door. He was a house-painter, and hap- 
 pened to be at work so near his home that 
 he had time to come to dinner. He was 
 short in stature and thin, pale and pock- 
 marked, with brows knitted over short- 
 sighted eyes, which gave him a frowning, 
 repellent aspect. 
 
 He greeted his brother warmly more 
 warmly than a prodigal might expect to 
 be received. But Joe Dixon, though he 
 would have shut his doors against a brother 
 who had broken any other law, could not 
 deal harshly with the man who had broken 
 the Game-laws. He was an advanced 
 Eadical indeed, he prided himself on being 
 ' advanced ' in his opinions on religion and 
 politics ; and he disliked the Game-laws so 
 heartily that he inclined to consider the 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 29 
 
 poaching, which Bob had committed out of 
 pure lightness of heart as a good bit of fun, 
 a noble rebellion against a bad system. 
 
 Though he would not have taken that 
 way of protesting against the system him- 
 self, he could not help respecting Bob for 
 resisting it in a practical way ; he hoped it 
 showed that the youth had formed strong 
 opinions on the subject ; and in the cha- 
 racter of a victim of injustice, Bob rose 
 above the position of stupid younger brother 
 which he had hitherto held. 
 
 Joe was therefore very benign in the first 
 moments of reunion, and they sat down to 
 dinner in much family harmony. 
 
 But when he was told that/ Bob had 
 brought one of his ' partners in distress ' 
 a man who had not been poaching under 
 his roof, he was not well pleased. He had 
 no notion of having gaol-birds in his house; 
 
30 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 and he made a few sensible remarks about 
 the necessity for prudence in the choice of 
 acquaintances, and expressed surprise that 
 Bob didn't hold himself too good to associate 
 with characters of that kind. 
 
 When Bob warmly defended Mr. Lingen, 
 he fell abruptly from his pedestal. He was 
 no longer one who had suffered by com- 
 bating unjust privileges ; he was simply 
 the dull boy whom Joe had always ad- 
 monished and despised, and his opinion was 
 not worth considering. 
 
 The elder brother gravely warned him 
 against being drawn in by disreputable 
 persons. Bob injudiciously declared that 
 his prison acquaintance was a thorough 
 gentleman, and this only increased his 
 brother's prejudice against him. Mr. 
 Dixon was at no time an admirer of 
 gentlemen as gentlemen. He objected to 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 31 
 
 regarding them as his betters, and, as a 
 good democrat, held strongly that all men 
 were equal. He insisted so much on the 
 doctrine of equality that he quite lost sight 
 of another article of his creed that of 
 fraternity. In his zeal against class dis- 
 tinctions, he forgot that his so-called 
 superiors were his brethren, and had no 
 fraternal feeling to spare for them. 
 
 ' Well, I hope you'll have nothing more 
 to do with him after this, Bob/ he re- 
 marked. l I've no opinion of your gentle- 
 men thieves, and by what you say, that's 
 what this Mr. Lingen is.' 
 
 4 He's only staying here till his faintness 
 goes off/ said Bob gruffly. t He isn't a 
 thief, and I'll thank you not to call him one. 
 If you knew him you would know better. 
 You needn't grudge him house-room for 
 an hour or two. He'll go away directly.' 
 
32 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Joe's in one of his tempers/ remarked 
 Bob, when his brother had departed to his 
 work. 
 
 Mrs. Dixon shook her head expressively. 
 Joe's tempers were acknowledged to be 
 peculiar. 
 
 1 He'll be all right when he comes back,' 
 she said, with the confidence of experience. 
 ' He soon gets over it. Just go and see 
 how he,' nodding towards the front room, 
 ' is now, Bob, and ask if he'd like a cup of 
 tea.' 
 
 ' I don't know what to make of him,' said 
 Bob, returning. ' He isn't asleep, for his 
 eyes aren't quite shut ; but he took no 
 notice when I spoke to him. 7 
 
 ' Can he have fainted again ?' cried 
 Lizzie. 
 
 She hastened to apply restoratives, but 
 this time they had no effect. Cold water 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 33 
 
 did not rouse him ; burnt feathers were of 
 no good. She tried to force some drops 
 of whisky down his throat, but he did not 
 swallow the stimulant ; she rubbed whisky 
 on his hands and temples, but the death- 
 like unconsciousness was not stirred. He 
 lay pale, cold, breathing faintly and irregu- 
 larly ; and the two lookers-on grew much 
 alarmed. 
 
 i Kun for the doctor, Bob!' cried Lizzie 
 at last. ' I can't do anything. It's more 
 than a faint. Eun for the doctor ! There's 
 one in Queen Street he's the nearest/ 
 
 Bob was off at once. He returned 
 speedily. The doctor was out, but he 
 would come shortly. But they looked for 
 him in vain all the afternoon; and when 
 Joe. returned from his work at half-past 
 five, he heard with much disgust that his 
 house was not yet free of the intruder. 
 
 VOL. i. 3 
 
34 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Hang that chap !' he cried pettishly. 
 4 Is he here still?' 
 
 ' He's ill, I tell you/ said Lizzie. 
 
 Joe muttered something about shamming. 
 
 4 Very likely he is/ said Lizzie calmly. 
 ' Go and look at him, and see for yourself. 
 Me and Bob aren't such good judges as 
 you are. P'r'aps you'll find out that there's 
 nothing the matter.' 
 
 c He looks very bad/ said Bob, in a 
 broken voice. 
 
 4 He hasn't spoken a word nor noticed a 
 thing since you went out/ added Lizzie. 
 
 ' Why upon earth haven't you got the 
 doctor to him ?' said Joe, getting uneasy. 
 
 c Bob's been for him twice, and he hasn't 
 come yet.' 
 
 ' I wish you would come and give him a 
 look, Joe/ said Bob, and Joe yielded. 
 
 The little peppery, sharp- tongued man 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 35 
 
 had a very tender heart, and when he saw 
 the motionless white face, pity overcame 
 him. The boyish look which still lingered 
 on the features, and the young man's 
 piteous position ill and helpless among 
 strangers appealed irresistibly to him. 
 He came out with a grave, anxious ex- 
 pression, and he was just setting out on a 
 third quest for the doctor, when that 
 gentleman reached the house. 
 
 He examined the patient, asked a few 
 questions as to the time and manner of the 
 seizure, and, to Lizzie's amazement, made 
 no attempt to rouse him. 
 
 ' Can't you bring him round, sir ?' she 
 asked. 
 
 The doctor shook his head. 
 
 4 He will be unconscious like this for 
 some time/ he said. t You had better get 
 him to bed as quickly as possible.' 
 
 32 
 
36 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Would you step into the kitchen, sir ?' 
 said Lizzie hastily. ' You'd better speak 
 to my husband about it.' 
 
 ' What's the matter with him ?' demanded 
 Joe, when the doctor entered the kitchen. 
 
 6 The brain is affected.' 
 
 ' Is he very ill ?' 
 
 ' It is a serious attack. What is his 
 name ?' 
 
 ' Smith/ said Joe promptly. 
 
 ' It would scarcely do to move him,' said 
 the doctor. 
 
 Lizzie's face fell, and she looked in some 
 alarm towards Joe. 
 
 ' We don't want him to be moved,' said 
 the master of the house tartly. ' The poor 
 fellow's here, and we must do the best we 
 can/ 
 
 ' Well, you must charge him for all this 
 trouble,' said the doctor, who supposed that 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 37 
 
 the patient was a lodger in the house, and 
 was much too full of thoughts of more im- 
 portant matters to notice any incongruity 
 between the young man's appearance and 
 his supposed quarters. ' Keep him as quiet 
 as you can.' And after giving a few direc- 
 tions about the treatment of the invalid, 
 the doctor departed. 
 
 Lizzie stood by the fire after he had gone, 
 waiting to hear what Joe would say. In 
 spite of his declaration to the doctor, she 
 expected an outpouring of wrath on Bob's 
 head, and an expression of general disgust 
 at having the necessity of taking a stranger 
 in forced upon them. She was vexed and 
 worried herself to think of the trouble 
 which she would have, and she was pre- 
 pared to say ditto to her husband. 
 
 Joe spoke, and his accents were dulcet 
 and mild. 
 
38 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' You'll have to give up your bed, Bob,' 
 he said. ' I suppose it's all ready, Lizzie, 
 and me and Bob can carry that poor fellow 
 upstairs/ 
 
 'Yes; the bed's ready,' said Lizzie, in 
 great amazement. 
 
 ' We'll get him up then/ said Joe, 'and 
 then we'll have our tea.' 
 
 Joe's compassion had conquered every 
 other feeling. He might grumble later, 
 when he realized in full detail what he was 
 undertaking; but for the present he was 
 almost as much interested in Mr. Lingen as 
 Bob himself, and he was ready to do all he 
 could for him. 
 
 Anthony could not have fallen into better 
 hands. Lizzie Dixon was a capable, ener- 
 getic woman, and she nursed him carefully 
 and kindly. No one was told who their 
 new inmate was ; and it was the easier to 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 39 
 
 maintain secrecy on this point, because the 
 Dixons were not given to gossip with their 
 neighbours. They had few acquaintances, 
 for they came from the north of England, 
 and had not been long settled in the town. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable.' 
 
 Timon of Athens. 
 
 OUNG Lingen lay unconscious 
 for some days. Once the doctor 
 said : ' If he has any relations, 
 you had better let them know how ill he 
 is ;' but his advice was not taken. 
 
 The Dixons had had no difficulty in 
 discovering what relations their guest had 
 in the town. A few inquiries brought Joe 
 the information that they were only dis- 
 tantly related, and that they had all cast the 
 culprit off at the time of his disgrace. Joe 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 41 
 
 therefore decreed that no communications 
 should be made to these kinsfolk, arguing 
 that when the poor fellow recovered, it 
 would be unpleasant for him to find that 
 any appeal on his behalf had been made to 
 his people. 
 
 ' They'll give him money, mebbe,' said 
 Joe, 4 and fling it to him as if he was a 
 dog ; or, just as likely, they'll say he may 
 go to the workhouse. Cousins don't count 
 for kin; and when they could go and 
 put him in prison damning a poor chap 
 for life / wouldn't take a farthing from 
 'em/ 
 
 4 Mr. Lingen said hisself that not a soul 
 he knew would look at him now,' said Bob, 
 'and it would none please him to take 
 charity from them.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay ; that's what such folks are P 
 said Joe. ' They'll always kick a man 
 
42 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 that's down. We'll do better for him than 
 his own.' 
 
 Joe smoked placidly with the conscious- 
 ness of virtue, pleased to do a generous 
 deed, for he had a double share of the 
 kindly instincts of the North-country 
 peasant ; and specially pleased to do this, 
 because he felt that he was sheltering one 
 on whom Joe's enemies his betters turned 
 their backs. It gave him satisfaction to re- 
 flect that old Mr. Lingen, who ought to have 
 succoured his young cousin, was a regular 
 chapel -goer and a deacon, and yet in 
 humanity was inferior to the painter, who 
 was a secularist. 
 
 'Well, Joe, there's this to be said,' 
 observed his wife, ' it's expensive having a 
 sick man in the house.' 
 
 i Bless my soul, we shan't be beggared 
 by that !' said Joe, rather angrily. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 43 
 
 ' And if his relations gave something to 
 pay the doctor's bill, it would be so much 
 gained/ went on Lizzie, who was not at all 
 afraid of her husband's temper, and was not 
 to be put down. 
 
 ' They'll not pay enough to make it 
 worth while to ask for it,' quoth Joe. 
 ' That old Lingen's a screw a regular 
 screw, folks say and it isn't likely he'll 
 put his hand in his pocket. I never asked 
 anybody for a penny yet any gentlefolks, 
 I mean ; I've borrowed from other chaps 
 now and then and I'm not going to begin. 
 We've had to take this poor fellow in ; we 
 couldn't do otherwise. You wouldn't have 
 turned him out of doors, lass ?' 
 
 ' Why, no ; of course I wouldn't.' 
 
 'And what I do, I'll pay for,' said Joe, 
 ' and ask no man's leave or help. I 
 wouldn't have these folks pay all the 
 
44 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 expenses of this poor lad's illness as they'd 
 do it. Coming and prying to see as he has 
 all he should have, and poking their noses 
 into one's house to make sure that none o' 
 the brass goes into my pocket ! Nay, nay ; 
 well keep our house to ourselves, and no 
 gentlefolks cross my door to ask what I'm 
 doing. An Englishman's house is his 
 castle,' said Joe, with the air of a person 
 who is making a striking quotation. 
 
 ' There's something in that,' agreed Lizzie, 
 who shared her husband's tenacious dislike 
 to intrusion by strangers. i And comin' as 
 he did, I don't see how we could help 
 taking him in. But if he should die ?' she 
 added. 
 
 ' Why, then we can tell old Lingen who 
 prosecuted him, and make the old brute 
 ashamed of himself, for it's he that's druv the 
 poor fellow to his death,' said Joe, thinking 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 45 
 
 with some complacency of a dramatic scene 
 in which he should announce to the rich 
 and hard-hearted oppressor of the poor 
 in the person of his own kinsman the 
 result of his harsh persecution. 
 
 1 1 hope it won't come to that, though/ 
 said Lizzie. ' He seems rather better to- 
 night/ 
 
 Slowly Anthony revived. The stupor 
 passed away very gradually, and he began 
 to take notice of his surroundings. Once 
 when the doctor was paying him a visit, 
 he looked at him with more intelligence 
 than he had shown yet, and said almost 
 eagerly ; 
 
 4 Am I really very ill ?' 
 
 1 You've had a pretty sharp attack/ 
 
 1 Shall I get better?' 
 
 The doctor w r as of course accustomed to 
 these appeals, and he always answered them 
 
46 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 hopefully. He held that you might as well 
 give an invalid poison as tell him that the 
 chance of recovery was small; and he 
 maintained that you ought to keep up a 
 sufferer's hope and courage as long as pos- 
 sible nature would break the truth quite 
 soon enough if he was to die. In this case 
 he confidently expected recovery now, and 
 he was beginning a cheery reply, when his 
 patient said: 
 
 4 Don't you think I shall die ?' and to 
 his amazement he saw that the young man 
 positively had no wish to live. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ; I hope not,' he answered 
 hastily. l You will soon be better now. 
 You must not give way to such gloomy 
 ideas.' 
 
 Lingen sighed wearily. The faint light 
 of expectation went out of his eyes, and he 
 turned his head away feebly. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 47 
 
 ' You seem to think it is a pity that you 
 are getting well/ said the doctor, moved by 
 curiosity. But he got no answer. 
 
 When Anthony fully understood where he 
 was he seemed distressed by his position, 
 and begged Bob to dispose of the valuables 
 he had with him. But Joe stoutly refused 
 to allow this, and was indeed loftily indig- 
 nant at the suggestion. He was pleased 
 with his own hospitality, and it hurt him 
 to have his guest mention money. There 
 was time enough to think of pawning or 
 selling when the invalid was stronger ; 
 meanwhile, what he had to do was not to 
 worry himself, but keep quiet as the doctor 
 said. 
 
 ' And/ added Joe, ' you'll want money 
 more later/ 
 
 1 That's true enough/ said the sick man, 
 with a sigh. 
 
4 8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 Now don't you bother,' said Joe. 
 * We'll settle our accounts by-and-by.' 
 
 ' You are wonderfully kind,' said Anthony, 
 looking at his host with a faint smile. 1 1 
 have found a good Samaritan when I least 
 expected it.' 
 
 t Oh, you'll find a lot that you don't 
 expect,' said Joe gruffly, for that smile 
 touched him, and he hated to be overcome 
 in that way. ' Lor' bless you, what could 
 we do ? You wouldn't have turned me 
 out, would you, if I fainted in your house? 
 There's nothing to make a talk about.' 
 
 Lizzie,' said Joe that evening, c where' s 
 the story of the "good Samaritan"?' 
 
 4 Why, Joe, in the Bible!' cried his wife, 
 horrified at his ignorance. 
 
 4 Ay, ay, I know that. But whereabouts 
 in the Bible? Just get it, and show me.' 
 
 Much surprised, Lizzie sought her Bible, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 49 
 
 and after some search, handed it, open at 
 the eleventh of St. Luke, to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 4 What's taken you to want it ?' she said. 
 ' I thought you didn't believe in it/ 
 
 ' Lass/ said Joe, ' what's that got to do 
 with it ? I don't believe it's what some 
 folks say it is ; but still it's a book that one 
 should know something on. And if one 
 only read what one was sure one could 
 believe, one would read precious little/ 
 
 He read the parable through, and nodded 
 with satisfaction at the end. 
 
 ' I remember it fairly well,' he said. 
 i It's bonny, too ; it sounds like poetry. 
 But I think we've done better. Taking 
 him into one's own house is more trouble 
 than sending him to an inn/ 
 
 A little later Anthony, who was slowly 
 gathering strength, bethought him of send- 
 
 VOL. i. 4 
 
50 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ing Bob to his old lodgings to get the 
 things he had left there. Bob did not find 
 his errand a pleasant one. The landlady 
 treated him with lofty disdain, as one who 
 was connected with a disgraced person. 
 She appeared to resent his coming, declared 
 that she had had more trouble than enough 
 about Mr. Lingen, and never wished to 
 hear his name again. Bob was assured 
 two or three times that never had she had 
 such a shocking experience before as that 
 of having a thief in the house ; and he had 
 to listen to a description of her sensations 
 on the evening when a police officer had 
 come to arrest her lodger, and had taken 
 him away in a cab. Bob heard her out, 
 and stolidly repeated a statement of his 
 business. 
 
 ' There's not so much/ said the irate 
 landlady, ' for his uncle had some of his 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 51 
 
 things sold to pay the rent that was owing 
 to me. A real gentleman he is, and awfully 
 cut up about his nephew's wickedness ; but, 
 says he, " Mrs. Brown, I will not see you 
 suffer. You have enough to bear without 
 losing your money, and I will see you 
 paid." ' 
 
 ' Yes, ma'am,' said Bob, ' but I'd like to 
 have the things that you haven't taken. I 
 have to send them to Mr. Lingen. 7 
 
 It had been impressed upon Bob before 
 he started on this errand that he must 
 carefully conceal Mr. Lingen's whereabouts, 
 and give the impression that he was not 
 in the town. 
 
 * I taken ? Young man, let me tell you 
 as I had nothing to do with it. His uncle 
 it was that ordered some of his things to 
 be sold to pay his just debts, and not let 
 a poor widow be robbed, though he had 
 
 42 
 
52 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 been. " I will not see you suffer," he said. 
 
 Those were his verv words.' 
 
 / 
 
 1 That's all right. Mr. Lingen will be 
 glad you've got your money, ma'am. But 
 there are some things left, you say, and he 
 wants them/ 
 
 ' You can have them. They're all packed 
 and locked, and glad I shall be not to have 
 them in the house, taking up room, for it's 
 little I can spare. And there's a letter for 
 him, too, that came this very morning. I 
 was going to send it on to old Mr. 
 Lingen.' 
 
 ' Better give it to me. His uncle doesn't 
 know his address, and I do.' 
 
 Mrs. Brown examined again the cre- 
 dentials which the messenger had produced 
 a sheet of paper, on which Anthony had 
 written a request that she would allow the 
 bearer to remove his things. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 53 
 
 1 1 suppose it will be all right,' she said, 
 ' if I let you have them. 7 
 
 She demanded Bob's address, which was 
 readily given, and then let him depart. 
 
 When on his return he produced the 
 letter, Lizzie and Joe both gave it as their 
 opinion that it should not be delivered to 
 its owner yet. He was not able to bear 
 any excitement at present, and must be 
 kept as quiet as possible. 
 
 ' There won't be anything pleasant in the 
 letter/ Joe pronounced. i It'll be full o' 
 preachin' and ratin', telling him how he has 
 disgraced himself, as if the poor chap didn't 
 know that. He shan't be bothered till he's 
 picked up a little.' 
 
 So the letter was put away by Lizzie in 
 the drawer where she kept things valuable 
 enough to be locked up. 
 
 A day or two after, the Dixons were 
 
54 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 surprised by receiving a visit from a young 
 gentleman. Bob answered the knock, and 
 admitted the caller to the parlour, where he 
 and Joe were smoking their pipes, while 
 Lizzie knitted a long grey stocking. Joe 
 refused to sit in the kitchen on warm 
 summer evenings; and spite of the re- 
 monstrances of his wife, who was dismayed 
 at such a violation of her ideas of what was 
 suitable, he would take the good of their 
 best room. He could not see, he said, why 
 he should stew in the kitchen beside the 
 fire, when he could be cool and comfortable 
 in the parlour ; and when Lizzie urged that 
 nobody ever sat regularly in their best 
 room, he seized upon that fact as a reason 
 why they should do so. It was well that 
 somebody should break through such a 
 senseless custom. 
 
 Therefore, when the young man stepped 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 55 
 
 in as soon as Bob opened the door, he 
 found himself in presence of the whole 
 family. Joe regarded him austerely, sus- 
 pecting at first that the intruder had come 
 with an offensive design of doing them 
 good. He had experienced some attempts 
 at promoting his spiritual welfare, and he 
 regarded them as gratuitous impertinence, 
 and *a part of that general readiness to 
 interfere with the working classes and set 
 up for their betters, which distinguish the 
 middle and upper ranks. 
 
 1 They wouldn't dare go into the house 
 of a rich pawnbroker or innkeeper/ growled 
 Joe, ' and ask whether he went to church 
 regular,. and say his house was beautifully 
 clean. And I don't see why they should 
 give me such sauce. I'd like to kick them 
 out of the place/ 
 
 Joe's stare on this occasion was almost 
 
56 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 as forcible a hint to depart as a kick could 
 have been; but the visitor did not notice 
 it, being already much embarrassed, and 
 only anxious to say quickly what he had 
 to say. 
 
 4 1 I just called,' he said, looking at 
 Bob, 'to ask I understood from Mrs. 
 Brown that Mr. Anthony Lingen was ill, 
 and that you knew where he is. Could 
 you tell me how he is?' 
 
 Bob fell back and looked at Joe. He 
 felt that his brother's powers of discourse 
 were more equal to the occasion than his 
 own. 
 
 ' Will you sit down, sir ?' said Joe, 
 hospitality getting the better of churlish- 
 ness the faster because this gentleman's busi- 
 ness was not what he supposed it. 
 
 * Thanks, no I'm rather in a hurry. I 
 can only stay a minute. I was anxious to 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 57 
 
 know how my that is, I knew Mr. Anthony 
 Lingen and I feel sorry/ making a pause 
 before the last word, and uttering it with a 
 jerk. 
 
 ' He's been ill, sir/ said Joe frigidly ; 
 ' but he's better now. 7 
 
 ' Oh ! You are sure he's better?' 
 
 * Sure and certain/ 
 
 1 1 am glad to hear it. Could you give 
 me his address?' 
 
 'Not without his leave, and from what 
 I understand he's not anxious to give 
 it.' 
 
 4 Well, perhaps it would be better not. 
 Could you take him or send him a 
 message from me?' 
 
 ' I dare say I could.' 
 
 4 If you would, tell him that some of his 
 relations would be glad to help him, and 
 send him this/ producing a sealed en- 
 
5 8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 velope, ' I should be much obliged to 
 you.' 
 
 ' I'll do it. Who shall I say has sent it ? 
 or perhaps it's written inside?' 
 
 ' No, no ; there's no need for him to 
 know. It doesn't matter. Only say some 
 of his relations he will understand.' 
 
 4 All right,' said Joe. 
 
 The young man put the envelope on the 
 table, made a step towards the door, and 
 then paused. 
 
 1 Thank you for taking the trouble,' he 
 said nervously. i Good-night.' 
 
 There was a silence after the door had 
 closed, which Bob broke. 
 
 1 He seems a kind-hearted chap, yon.' 
 
 1 Confound it!' said Joe pettishly. i One 
 has no peace o' one's life with strange folk 
 in the house. Can't one sit in peace at 
 night without being bothered?' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 59 
 
 Finding his remark so ill received, Bob 
 prudently forbore to pursue the line he 
 had begun. 
 
 4 Who wants them coming in upon one, 
 I'd like to know?' 
 
 4 Well, I'm sure / don't/ said Lizzie ; 
 ' not folks like him/ 
 
 4 What fault have you got with him ?' 
 said Joe, who at times, in the pressing 
 necessity of opposing somebody, forgot to 
 be moderately consistent. 
 
 ' I don't like folks that can't look you i' 
 the face,' said Mrs. Dixon firmly; 'and 
 yon lad never looked at one of us fair and 
 straight.' 
 
 < He's a relation/ suggested Bob, ' and 
 mebbe feels a bit ashamed. But it looks 
 well that he should do something for 
 him.' 
 
 A snort from Joe. 
 
60 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 * Ay, they'll give him some money to 
 get him safely out of the way, but 
 they won't give a kind word along with 
 it.' 
 
 ' My belief is,' said Lizzie, ' that that 
 young man knows more about it than he 
 chooses to tell. If he didn't take the 
 money himself that was laid to this poor 
 lad, he knows who did.' 
 
 1 Stuff !' cried Joe, with lofty contempt- 
 1 You women always go so fast ; you never 
 stop to find a reason.' 
 
 4 We're fools, no doubt,' said Lizzie ; 
 ' but a fool may be right sometimes ; and 
 you mark my words, that young man's 
 mixed up with the business. He hasn't 
 an honest face bless you, he doesn't walk 
 like an honest man ! I wouldn't trust him 
 as far as I could throw him.' 
 
 ' That's neither here nor there. Because 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 6r 
 
 you wouldn't trust him, it doesn't follow 
 that he's as bad as you make out.' 
 
 Lizzie only shook her head with pro- 
 found meaning over her work. 
 
 When Anthony was out of danger, the 
 doctor thought that he did not rnend as 
 fast as he should have done; there was a 
 slowness in regaining strength which was 
 not accounted for by his physical condition. 
 He was young and had a splendid constitu- 
 tion; he ought to shake off the morbid 
 state of depression which at first seemed 
 caused by weakness. 
 
 To Anthony himself it seemed that he 
 recovered with startling rapidity. Each 
 day he could measure progress ; each day 
 he travelled further from that delicious time 
 when he had lain half -unconscious, too 
 weak to think or feel, so feeble that he 
 could do little but sleep, and in his waking 
 
62 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 hours cheat himself with dreams that this 
 helplessness meant death. He was so tired 
 of life, and a long sleep seemed the only 
 thing he could desire. 
 
 But the extreme weakness passed away ; 
 and with the power of thought came the 
 painful realization of the life he had hoped 
 to slip out of. It was most literally a 
 mortal coil to him ; a dark confusion which 
 crushed hope out of him ; a heavy burden 
 which he must carry grudgingly and re- 
 belliously. Yet since death would none of 
 him, he must act like a man, and take up 
 his responsibilities again. Though he hated 
 to recover, he resolutely set himself, when 
 once he knew that there was no escape for 
 him, to act in the way which would make 
 his recovery most speedy. He obeyed the 
 doctor's rules ; he ate as much as he could ; 
 he put aside as far as possible the thoughts 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 63 
 
 which depressed him. He could not and 
 would not prolong the time when he must 
 receive the charity of strangers. 
 
 As he grew stronger his melancholy 
 deepened, and the gloom of his face and 
 manner became more marked. Lizzie and 
 Bob pitied him for his depression ; but it 
 worried Joe to see it perhaps because Joe 
 had more power of entering into such 
 feelings than his wife and brother and he 
 grumbled freely at times at his own soft- 
 heartedness in taking such a wet blanket 
 into his house. 
 
 4 It- shows a poor spirit/ argued Joe, 'for 
 a chap to give way like that. He should 
 pick up a bit of heart, and not mope as if 
 he thought of cutting his throat. Why, if 
 he'd done the thing, he might put a better 
 face on it.' 
 
 ' It's every bit as bad for him as if he had 
 
64 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 done it.' said Lizzie. f It will always stand 
 in his way.' 
 
 But though Joe spoke thus to his wife, he 
 always treated his guest unexceptionably. 
 His kindness was thoroughly genuine, if 
 somewhat impatient now and then ; and he 
 showed a consideration which made it as 
 easy as it could be made to take his hospi- 
 tality. 
 
 He not only pitied the poor young fellow, 
 and firmly believed in his innocence; but 
 he had a liking for him. There were points 
 in his character which were just what Joe 
 could appreciate. He was pleased that he 
 made no application to his relations for 
 help in his straits. This might be called 
 wrong-headed by many people ; but Joe's 
 heart warmed to it, and he called it proper 
 spirit and independence. He admired, too, 
 his resolute abstinence from complaint. It 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 65 
 
 would have been impossible for Joe to keep 
 up such a strict silence if he had been in 
 trouble, and he respected the power. Best 
 of all, he liked the way in which his guest 
 accepted his kindness ; his undemonstrative 
 gratitude and unfailing courtesy. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NTHONY could not spare much 
 time for his convalescence. The 
 necessity of facing the future 
 pressed upon him with returning strength ; 
 and when the doctor declared that he 
 needed no more professional visits, he 
 felt that he must put an end to his 
 inaction. He went out that day for the 
 first time hy broad daylight; hitherto he 
 had shrunk from appearing out of doors, 
 and he had taken in the dusk the fresh air 
 which was prescribed for him ; but to-day 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 67 
 
 he was preoccupied, and anxious to have 
 quiet which should run no risk of disturb- 
 ance. He went out in the afternoon not 
 the pleasantest time of day in July, but he 
 preferred it to the evening, because there 
 were fewer people to be met with then 
 and walked for some distance along the 
 bank of the river on which Middleton 
 stands. 
 
 As he walked, he thought of the life that 
 lay before him, trying to imagine what he 
 was to do with it, wondering what ways 
 it would lead him through. His passive 
 time was over; he must form some plan 
 of action. It was all very well for the 
 doctor to tell him that he must be care- 
 ful not to exert himself: he must exert 
 himself. 
 
 He must pull himself together, and begin 
 the world again. It was a desperate busi- 
 
 52 
 
68 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ness enough as he looked at it. Here he 
 was, four-and -twenty, beggared of character. 
 He was weak and shaken with an illness 
 which had left his nervous system in a 
 peculiarly susceptible state. And he had 
 .very little money. He had come out of 
 prison without a coin in his pocket. He 
 had been offered the small sum which is 
 bestowed on a discharged man, but he had 
 refused it. Now his watch had been sold, 
 and he had a few pounds which the sale 
 had brought ; but he could not keep even 
 the whole of that miserable sum. He must 
 pay the doctor's bill, at least. As to the 
 Dixons, they must be paid by instalments 
 when he got work. It would be very little 
 that he would take away with him ; he 
 would know what want meant before long. 
 His head was not equal yet to any effort of 
 thought ; and he soon found himself power- 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 69 
 
 less to fix his mind to any practical con- 
 siderations. He got confused and weary in 
 the endeavour ; the longer he pondered, the 
 more deeply he felt that there was no way 
 out of the pit he had fallen into. 
 
 He could see nothing but misery wherever 
 he looked. One can bear anything as long 
 as one has hope. But he had lost all hope : 
 his ruin was complete. There was no 
 motive strong enough to nerve him to fight 
 his way : the most he could expect (and he 
 was very doubtful about that) was to find 
 some way of earning scanty bread, and 
 human energy requires a more potent 
 stimulant than such a prospect to call it 
 out. 
 
 He sat down by the river- side presently, 
 and mechanically watched the water ; think- 
 ing of the time when he had rowed there, 
 and thinking with a piteous, incredulous 
 
70 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 wonder of the contrast between that time 
 and this. His old self seemed far off and 
 strange : he could scarcely realize his state 
 when he had been gay and light-hearted, 
 with no deeper trouble than the sinallness 
 of his salary, and an occasional attack of 
 discontent at the little chance he had of 
 ever doing much in the world. He had 
 had flashes of ambition then, and wishes to 
 make himself somebody. He remembered 
 this now with the amusement which is 
 more painful than regret. But what a 
 happy fellow he had been ! How sorry he 
 would have felt for the poor wretch he was 
 now ! and he winced at the imagination of 
 his dead self's pity. How was he to bear 
 this load of shame ? 
 
 As he watched the river, which was clear 
 and deep there, a languid fancy came to 
 him which one feels sometimes in gazing 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 down into pure water. How cool it was ; 
 how pleasant it would be to lie with that 
 cold freshness about one and over one ; 
 how quietly one would sleep in it ! The 
 fancy laid hold of him and became more 
 than a passing dreamy imagination : he 
 thought of the peace and oblivion with a 
 fascinated longing. 
 
 The water drew him. This would make 
 a quick, sure way out of all his troubles. 
 Here was nothing but hopeless, grinding 
 poverty for what employment could a man 
 who had no character get ? a life which 
 must sink lower and lower, a hideous 
 struggle with coarse men for bare means 
 of subsistence, till it ended in God alone 
 knew what it might end in. The gentle- 
 man who has dropped out of his proper 
 place is infinitely worse off than the work- 
 ing-man. His knowledge is useless; his 
 
72 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 manner inspires suspicion ; his refinement 
 only serves to make him wretched. An 
 outcast, he makes acquaintance with the 
 waste places of civilization, and realizes the 
 blackest possibilities which dog want and 
 disgrace. 
 
 Anthony was cruelly conscious of what 
 lay in store for him. What could he do, 
 without money or friends ? How was he 
 to set about making a living ? How was 
 he to take the first steps ? And what good 
 was his life to him that he should try to 
 preserve it? 
 
 The river would be better. He rose and 
 walked to the edge of the bank, and looked 
 down intently. The sun-rays turned the 
 surface to gold. Through the clear air 
 came the voices of children gathering 
 flowers in a field at some distance. The 
 calm of the afternoon, the deep sunshiny 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 73 
 
 blue of the sky, the brightness on the 
 water, intensified his own black, chill 
 misery, and made it unbearable. 
 
 He was forsaken by God and man. He 
 stood outside of all brightness and sweet- 
 ness ; the very beauty, which he felt as if 
 the throbbing wretchedness in his heart 
 made his senses and perceptions keener, 
 maddened him. Never ~r-never would he 
 be able to look up with a light heart at the 
 sky : never would the peace of Nature do 
 anything but mock him by forcing on him 
 the remembrance of the shameful, miserable 
 past. 
 
 Ruined disgraced friendless! He was 
 nearly mad : perhaps he was quite mad in 
 his desperation, for he deliberately felt in 
 that moment that suicide was good and ad- 
 visable. He refused life, and chose darkness. 
 
 He gazed down into the water with a 
 
74 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 certain exultation. He was not quite help- 
 less he could fling away the spoilt, odious 
 thing which his existence had been made. 
 Let the guilt if there was any rest on 
 the heads of those who were to blame for 
 his extremity. 
 
 He was looking still when the sound of 
 a footstep struck his ear. A man was ap- 
 proaching him a slight, sickly-looking 
 creature, who walked lame. He touched 
 his cap and asked what time it was. 
 Anthony saw him with a new, almost un- 
 bearable pang of pity. Here was another 
 who seemed beaten. 
 
 'I I haven't my watch on,' he said 
 hastily. ; Where are you going?' he added 
 abruptly. 
 
 1 To the town, sir to look for work. 
 I've tramped from one place to another for 
 the last month.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 75 
 
 ' That's hard work for you.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I don't mind it in summer. 
 Looking for work in winter is worse.' 
 
 The uncomplaining patience of the tone 
 struck Anthony. 
 
 1 Do you think you'll find work here ?' 
 he said. 
 
 ' I don't know,' was the answer, in almost 
 an indifferent tone. 
 
 Anthony gave him a shilling, which was 
 taken with a look of surprise and unfluent 
 thanks. Then the man plodded onward in 
 the sunlight, a weary, slouching figure, 
 without lively hope or sharp despair. 
 Anthony looked after him for awhile, and 
 then followed to the town. 
 
 The mad impulse was over. If he had 
 to be as unfortunate as this poor creature, 
 who took disappointment and deprivation 
 as his natural inheritance, he must at least 
 
76 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 have as much courage. He did not say so 
 in so many words ; he only felt that it was 
 possible to live still. 
 
 He walked painfully back, through the 
 poor streets which were noisy with children 
 coming home from school. He had over- 
 rated his strength, and he realized with 
 painful completeness what bodily weakness 
 is, before he reached his destination. He 
 had never had an illness before, and this 
 sense of powerlessness was horribly new 
 and depressing. Like all men, he was 
 easily dejected by physical discomfort ; and 
 when he entered the Dixons' door, he was 
 utterly worn out and wretched. Was his 
 health ruined for good ? Was this sick 
 giddiness, this almost terrified sensation of 
 weakness to return often ? The dew stood 
 on his forehead, he was shaking from head to 
 foot, when he staggered into the little house. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 77 
 
 i You've stayed out too long, sir,' said 
 Lizzie compassionately. ' There, lie down 
 here, and I'll get you some tea. You 
 had better have a drop of whisky, mean- 
 time.' 
 
 Bob, who was at home, would have 
 lavished clumsy attentions on the invalid ; 
 but Lizzie, having administered the whisky, 
 frowningly signed to him to retire to the 
 kitchen, and followed him there herself. 
 
 1 What use men make of their sense I'd 
 like to know,' she said wrathfully, as she 
 stirred the fire into a blaze. i Poor, help- 
 less creatures, it's more than any woman 
 can do to keep them from making fools of 
 themselves. Here's this lad got tired out, 
 and'll very likely have a back-cast and be 
 ill again, when you'd think a child of ten 
 would have been wiser than keep out so 
 long. And now, when you see he's that 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 weak and tired he isn't fit to be spoken to, 
 you must stand gaping at him and asking 
 him questions, and creaking about with 
 those thick boots of yours, as though that 
 would do him any good. Do sit down and 
 keep quiet out of a body's way ! It's bad 
 enough to do for one man ; but three, and 
 one of them bad, and another a fair fool 
 it's more than I can manage.' 
 
 Much subdued, Bob sat down meekly in 
 silence. 
 
 ' Do you think he'll get a back-cast ?' he 
 asked presently. 
 
 ' How can I tell ?' said Lizzie. * He 
 looks like a sheet. You can toast the 
 bread for me, for he wants some good 
 food.' 
 
 Bob accepted the toasting-fork with 
 alacrity, and knelt down by the fire. When 
 Mr. Lingen's tea was ready, he took off his 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 79 
 
 boots, and was going to carry the tray in ; 
 but his sister-in-law forbade him. 
 
 4 You'll not disturb him till he's had a 
 sup of tea,' she said decidedly. 4 He isn't 
 fit to talk.' 
 
 The resolute young woman was more 
 than a match for her big brother-in-law, 
 and Bob yielded the point. Lizzie, entering 
 the parlour, was convinced anew of the 
 inferiority of the male intellect in some 
 respects. For there was Joe, just returned 
 from his work, talking to his guest ; 
 ' though anybody might see with half an 
 eye he was near fainting,' said Lizzie to 
 herself; 'but men see nothing.' 
 
 ' You'll need money to go away with and 
 start fresh/ Joe was saying in a cheerful 
 tone. 
 
 Lizzie did not know how peculiarly 
 irritating this suggestion was ; but she 
 
So ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 could see well enough the expression of 
 pain on her patient's face, and she inter- 
 posed. 
 
 1 Here's your tea, sir. Now, Joe, tea is 
 just ready/ 
 
 i All right ; I'm ready for it, too. But 
 as I was saying, you can't get away without 
 money, Mr. Lingen, and you'll mebbe like 
 to hear that there is some for you.' 
 
 Mr. Lingen made no reply. 
 
 ' A gentleman came here when you were 
 ill, and left some with us to give you.' 
 
 ' A gentleman ? What was he like ?' 
 
 ' A young man not very tall, light- 
 haired nothing much to look at.' 
 
 4 What did he say ?' 
 
 4 He said that this money was from some 
 of your relations, and he was sorry to hear 
 you were ill. It is in a sealed envelope. 
 Lizzie's got it locked up. Just fetch it, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 81 
 
 Lizzie, and let Mr. Lingen have it, and the 
 letter too/ said Joe, with serene confidence 
 that he was doing the right thing at the 
 right time. 
 
 'I can't go now/ said Lizzie brusquely. 
 ' Let's get our tea.' 
 
 1 There's no hurry about the tea/ said 
 Joe airily. 
 
 c Mr. Lingen should get his at once. 
 He's too tired to be worried with anything 
 just now.' 
 
 ' Not he/ said Joe obstinately. 
 
 And Lizzie, seeing that nothing was to 
 be done, gave up her point with a mental 
 protest, and brought the sealed envelope 
 and the letter downstairs. 
 
 ' Do have some tea before you look at 
 them, sir !' she urged, as she gave them to 
 their owner. i We didn't tell you before, 
 because you were too weak to be bothered.' 
 
 VOL. i. 6 
 
82 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Joe passed into the kitchen, a touch of 
 something like good-breeding making him 
 scorn to show any curiosity about his 
 guest's private affairs ; but Lizzie lingered, 
 because she really feared that a fainting-fit 
 was inevitable. 
 
 Anthony opened the sealed envelope with 
 nervous hurry. There were some bank- 
 notes inside ; but not a scrap of writing. 
 
 i I thought so, 7 he muttered, as he turned 
 them over. 
 
 He threw them down on the table in a 
 way which alarmed Lizzie, who regarded 
 bank-notes as things to be treated tenderly 
 and respectfully. One of them fluttered to 
 the ground, and she picked it up and put 
 it on the table. Anthony looked at her as 
 she did so, and a change came over his face. 
 He glanced from her to the money, as if a 
 new train of thought had occurred to him, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 83 
 
 and hesitated for a minute. Then he 
 said : 
 
 ' Will you keep this till I see how much 
 of it I shall need to make up the money to 
 pay you and the doctor ? I must take 
 some for that ; you must not lose by me.' 
 
 He pushed it towards her. She drew 
 back her hand. 
 
 ' Leave it now, sir ; you aren't strong 
 enough to think. Just get your tea.' 
 
 ' Keep it for me. I don't like the sight 
 of it. When I know what I owe you, I 
 can send the rest back.' 
 
 f Lord, sir, you'd better keep it for your- 
 self !' 
 
 ' If I was starving, and that money was 
 offered me, I would prefer starvation to 
 taking it,' he said, in a calm, matter-of-fact 
 way, which was more impressive than any 
 violence. 1 1 hate it so much, that I would 
 
 62 
 
84 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 rather not take any to pay you,' he added, 
 half smiling. 
 
 ' Don't talk of paying, sir. And do get 
 your tea before it's cold. There, now, 
 don't you mind about anything but getting 
 well again/ said Lizzie, in a maternal tone, 
 as she departed. 
 
 Anthony lay back in the reaction after the 
 agitation which that money had stirred up 
 in him. It had been brief, and he had 
 given it little expression from sheer lack of 
 physical power to do so ; but this had not 
 lessened the fierce disgust and loathing, the 
 revolt against the unbearable injustice of 
 his position, that shook him. 
 
 He could do nothing ; he could not raise 
 his voice in protest against the vile wrong 
 that was done him; he could not find 
 words for futile outpouring of his wrongs ; 
 he had no strength even to curse his enemy 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 85 
 
 aloud. The storm swept over him and left 
 him helpless, with the hatred and thirst for 
 revenge which only the helpless know. 
 
 Presently he moved a little, and sat up. 
 The instinct of bodily need overcame every- 
 thing else ; and he ate the food with a faint 
 craving, which made part of the miserable 
 despair he was enduring. It was horrible 
 to be so at the mercy of one's physical sensa- 
 tions. Would this illness drag him so low 
 that he would be forced to keep that 
 money ? He shuddered. ' Never, never !' 
 he said to himself c never while I can re- 
 member ! It is only fair that he should pay 
 for this : it is his own work, and he takes 
 the profit. He should bear some of the 
 expense. And it would not be right to 
 keep in debt to those people. I can pay 
 him back later. But I will not touch 
 another penny of it/ 
 
86 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 He was left alone at Lizzie's express 
 command, which, backed up by dark threats 
 as to what might follow if the invalid was 
 further fatigued that evening, restrained 
 even Joe's fidgety spirit of self-assertion. 
 The men went out for a walk, and Lizzie 
 knitted in the kitchen. 
 
 Anthony lay too weary to sleep or think. 
 His impotent rage passed away ; he was too 
 sick at heart to indulge it long. The utter 
 destruction that had laid waste his life was 
 present to him, and he passively contem- 
 plated it without any conscious exertion of 
 his mind. 
 
 It grew dark outside, and Lizzie came in 
 softly to see whether her charge wanted 
 anything, and finding him awake, lit the 
 gas and drew down the blind. Anthony 
 would have preferred the dusk, but he did 
 not feel at liberty to interfere. He was only 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 87 
 
 there on sufferance ; he was not important 
 enough to have his fancies consulted : the 
 time when he might command would never 
 come. 
 
 It was a very small matter, being roused 
 in that way ; but it seemed to bring him a 
 poignant realization of his fall. His life 
 was spoilt, down to the minutest details. 
 The little room, the light which dazzled his 
 weak eyes, the feeling that he was not at 
 home, made the bitterness in his heart 
 bitterer. The masculine inability to endure 
 patiently made it all the worse for him ; he 
 did not know how to take his wretchedness. 
 He could have cried like a girl, with sheer 
 weariness and disgust, and a yearning for 
 comfort. And all the comfort he could 
 reach was given by the homely woman, who 
 fretted him by making such a noise as she 
 drew down the blind. 
 
88 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 1 How do you feel now, sir ?' said Lizzie. 
 
 ' Better, thank you.' 
 
 i You are getting on well ; you'll soon be 
 quite better/ she said cheerily. 
 
 She had no second meaning, but Anthony 
 thought : ' They'll be glad to see the last 
 of me ;' and while he acknowledged fully 
 that he had been treated with marvellous 
 kindness, it was an additional drop of gall 
 to know that he had to be dependent on 
 kindness to which he had no claim. 
 
 He sat up on the couch, and seeing the 
 letter lying on the table, he took it up. It 
 had to be read ; and he might as well read 
 it then. There would be something un- 
 pleasant in it; perhaps an outburst of 
 reviling from one of his few relations, 
 upbraiding him with the disgrace he had 
 brought upon himself, and solemnly re- 
 nouncing him ; or perhaps it was a bill. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 89 
 
 The envelope looked like a bill a bill 
 which he would pay when ? He was a 
 little in debt not deeply but enough to 
 add to his humiliation in his own eyes. 
 
 He opened the envelope slowly and 
 wearily, without looking at the post-mark, 
 prepared for another taste of bitterness, and 
 feeling languidly indifferent to whatever it 
 might be. 
 
 He read the letter read it once, twice, 
 thrice ; then it dropped from his hands, 
 and he burst into tears. If it had come 
 a year ago, it would have saved him. 
 That was his first emotion: keen dis- 
 appointment and rebellious wonder why, 
 if this was to happen, it should come too 
 late. It was a stroke of irony now. 
 
 His emotion was quickly spent, and he 
 started up with a vague notion of doing 
 something at once, of taking some step. 
 
90 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 He would have a great deal to do, and now 
 lie had power to act. 
 
 He looked round the poor little room 
 with the kindliest feeling he had had yet 
 for it. His querulous impatience of his sur- 
 roundings was gone, and warm gratitude 
 for the humanity that had given him 
 shelter took its place. He did not chafe 
 at being indebted, for he could pay his 
 debts with interest ; and it depended on his 
 own will how long he stayed there. He 
 was free to do as he chose free as he had 
 never been in his life before. 
 
 There was one thing that he could do 
 that night ; and he went to the door and 
 asked Mrs. Dixon for writing materials. 
 
 ' I have to answer this letter/ he said, in 
 a tone which she had not heard from him 
 before. 
 
 There was reviving life in it. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 91 
 
 'I hope it's good news, sir,' said Lizzie, 
 as she set what he wanted before him. 
 
 ' It is as good news as I can hope to 
 get now/ he answered. ' I have had some 
 money left me/ 
 
 ' Eh, sir, but that is good news ! I'm 
 glad to hear it. That'll start you fair 
 somewhere else.' 
 
 4 Thank you. I shall need no help now 
 to pay you the debt I owe you. I can't 
 pay you for the kindness, but I can partly 
 make up for the trouble you have had.' 
 
 ' There's no hurry about that, sir,' said 
 Lizzie. 
 
 There was a slight change in her manner 
 already, a shade of respect for the person 
 who had had money left him, which she 
 had not shown to the needy convict. 
 
 ' Oh, but there is/ said Anthony. i I 
 must think of it now. I must go to 
 
92 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 London at once to see about this business. 
 I shall start to-morrow.' 
 
 He wrote his letter to the lawyer; and 
 Bob, coming in, undertook to hurry with 
 it to the General Post Office, as it was too 
 late for the pillar-boxes. 
 
 Joe expressed his satisfaction at seeing 
 his guest look brighter. 
 
 ' Mr. Lingen has had real good news,' said 
 Lizzie. f He's had some money left him.' 
 
 1 I'm glad to hear it,' said Joe. ' I hope 
 it's enough to do you some good.' 
 
 ' It's enough to make me independent for 
 life.' 
 
 Joe whistled. 
 
 4 Shall you be rich ?' he asked, rather 
 curtly. 
 
 ' Yes, I 'believe I shall. I don't know 
 quite how much I shall have, but it will 
 certainly be riches to me.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 93 
 
 1 Ay, you wouldn't get a good screw in 
 that warehouse, I'll be bound.' 
 
 ' Very far from it/ 
 
 f I suppose you'll go out of England to 
 live/ 
 
 ' I I haven't thought yet what I shall 
 do ; but I suppose yes, that will certainly 
 be best for me/ 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 EXT day Anthony went to 
 London. He travelled by the 
 first train; he was full of uncon- 
 trollable impatience to leave the hateful scene 
 of his disaster behind him. In his eagerness, 
 he rather hurt the feelings of the Dixons, for 
 he seemed to think of nothing but how he 
 could get away most speedily; and when 
 you have done a man a great service, it is 
 somewhat obtuse on his part to show an 
 irrepressible desire to leave you. Lizzie 
 made excuses for his abruptness; but Joe 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 9 5 
 
 did not like to see him rush away as if it 
 was a deliverance. 
 
 1 Of course he's glad to go, but he 
 needn't be in such a desperate hurry, as 
 if he hated every extra half-hour here,' said 
 Joe that evening. i I suppose he'll forget 
 all about us now, or anyway think that we 
 didn't do very much for him. Very likely 
 we'll never hear of him again after he's 
 paid us. This is what comes of making a 
 fuss about a gentleman, Bob.' 
 
 And Joe relieved his feeling of injury by 
 worrying poor Bob, who was sad at seeing 
 the last of his friend, and had not spirits 
 to make any defence against the attack. 
 He only shook his head and occasionally 
 sighed, as Joe made unpleasant remarks 
 about ingratitude, and the folly of showing 
 any kindness to folks who thought them- 
 selves above you. 
 
96 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 It was a fine summer morning when 
 Anthony took his departure. The level, 
 early sunshine was breaking through a 
 delicate haze ; the sky was clear ; the air 
 that came in at the open window, as the 
 train swept smoothly onwards, was fresh 
 with the coolness of the first morning 
 hours and fragrant with country scents. 
 
 No journey was ever more pleasant than 
 that. Anthony never forgot the peculiar 
 delight of it the feeling that every minute 
 was taking him away from old associa- 
 tions, that he was leaving behind all the 
 fetters which the past had fastened on 
 him. 
 
 This was his release. His day of freedom 
 before had only been the beginning of 
 freedom in name. Then he had, as he 
 believed, entered upon the second part of 
 his punishment, the longest and the hardest, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 97 
 
 a long endurance of want and ignominy. 
 But now he had escaped that bitter servi- 
 tude ; and in the first intense relief, he felt 
 that he could forget all that had happened, 
 and make what he chose of his life. 
 
 He felt bright and hopeful ; his youth 
 asserted itself; it seemed already that his 
 dark yesterday was far off. The common- 
 place features of the country through which 
 he passed were beautiful to him ; the bright 
 green of the fields where the hay had been 
 cut, the darker green of the trees and hedge- 
 rows, the glimpses of water flashing in the 
 sun ? gave him that intense enjoyment which 
 one feels when, after the agitation of a pain- 
 ful crisis has spent itself, one comes back 
 to the sensations of ' plain daylight life,' 
 and simple pleasures thrill one with surprise 
 and thankfulness. 
 
 By the time he reached London, the 
 VOL. i. 7 
 
98 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 rapture of the first relief was over. He 
 was weak and easily fatigued, and he was 
 wondering whether the lawyer whom he 
 must see knew his story, and dreading to 
 face him. However, it had to be done, and 
 the sooner the better. He went to an hotel, 
 and after he had eaten and rested, he set 
 out, first nervously examining himself in a 
 glass to see how long his hair was. It was 
 quite long enough for the most respectable 
 member of society ; the dark crisp waves 
 could not possibly excite any suspicion. 
 
 The lawyer's greeting set him at rest. 
 Mr. Newton was evidently ignorant of any- 
 thing to his client's discredit. He was 
 very civil, if somewhat anxious to get their 
 business done quickly ; he was too busy to 
 take any but the most limited professional 
 interest in his new client. He gave the im- 
 pression of thinking that the money which 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 99 
 
 Anthony had inherited was rather insignifi- 
 cant; and he casually mentioned two or 
 three people whom he did business for, who 
 certainly put Anthony and his new posses- 
 sions into the shade. Even lawyers have 
 their little weaknesses and vanities, and 
 Mr. Newton was proud of his wealthy and 
 aristocratic clientele. 
 
 But Anthony's standard of comparison 
 was not formed by acquaintance with the 
 estates of peers ; and he was surprised to 
 find how rich he was, as Mr. Newton told 
 him how so much was invested here, so much 
 there. He would have far more than he 
 had expected. It was strange to think that 
 only yesterday it had been very doubtful 
 whether he could ever earn a bare living. 
 
 The money came to him from a distant 
 relation of his mother an old single lady 
 whom he had known nothing of till two 
 
 72 
 
ioo ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 years ago, when she had found him out and 
 written to him, claiming kinship, and ask- 
 ing him to pay her a visit at a seaside place 
 where she was staying. He had spent a 
 few days with her, having no idea that he 
 was there on inspection, and that on the 
 impression he made, his future fortune 
 depended. He was not even aware, at that 
 time, that Miss Fairfax had more than a 
 modest competency. He had pleased his old 
 cousin. She thought him a steady, well- 
 principled young man, who was not likely 
 to squander money recklessly ; and she 
 liked his manner to herself, for he had the 
 finest grace of manliness, a great respect 
 for a woman advanced in years. 
 
 She was not a person given to enthu- 
 siastic likings, and she did not adopt him 
 on the spot and make him a handsome 
 allowance ; she made no attempt to im- 
 
A NTHONY FA IRFAX. .'..*,(: 
 
 prove his position then. She merely paid 
 his expenses, and gave him a present of 
 money, saying that she was nearly enough 
 related to him to make him such gifts. 
 When he had gone, she burnt a will which 
 she had had made, and resolved that an older 
 one should express her last wishes. It left 
 her property to her cousin, Mary Fairfax, 
 daughter of Edmund Fairfax, or her heirs ; 
 and she put with the document a paper, 
 giving the name of the only child of Mary 
 Fairfax. 
 
 Occasionally afterwards she wrote to 
 Anthony short, kindly, formal notes. 
 Her letters had stopped some three months 
 before his trial. Now he was told that she 
 had fallen ill then, and had been a helpless 
 invalid till the time of her death, nailed 
 down by paralysis, and slowly losing 
 power of speech and thought. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' We found your address among her 
 papers/ said Mr. Newton. ' I suppose you 
 had changed your lodgings, as you were so 
 long in replying to our .letter/ 
 
 c Yes ; I was not there. And I I had 
 been ill, and the letter was not given me 
 at once/ 
 
 c I was just going to send some one to 
 make inquiries as to your whereabouts/ 
 said the lawyer. 
 
 Anthony mentally thanked Providence 
 that these inquiries had not been made, and 
 Mr. Newton went on with the business 
 details. 
 
 ' There is the property in Kent ; Miss 
 Fairfax owned some land there, and the 
 Manor House at Cheynehurst. She had it 
 managed by an agent; she took no per- 
 sonal interest in it. The house is let at 
 present furnished, and the lease has a year 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 103 
 
 or so to run. I should advise you to 
 keep on the same agent as Miss Fairfax 
 employed, as you cannot live there for the 
 present/ 
 
 Anthony intimated his intention of taking 
 Mr. Newton's advice. He certainly could 
 not live there for the present. 
 
 4 There is another thing/ said Mr. New- 
 ton, when he had finished his account of 
 the Fairfax property. f Miss Fairfax ex- 
 pressed an intention in a letter to us of 
 imposing one condition on you that you 
 should take her name. She meant to add 
 that to her will, but it was never done. 
 She put it off till she was in no state to do 
 business. You are not obliged to do it ; 
 but perhaps you may not object to carry 
 out her wishes. 7 
 
 1 Not at all. I am quite willing to take 
 the name/ 
 
io 4 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 In as short a time as might be, the 
 formalities were gone through which put 
 Anthony in possession of his inheritance. 
 The first use which he made of his wealth 
 was to express his gratitude to the Dixons. 
 He would have liked to bestow largesse 
 upon them unsparingly, but Joe stoutly 
 refused to take more than such payment as 
 might reasonably be demanded for lodging 
 and attendance. He fixed the sum himself, 
 and Anthony had enough comprehension 
 of Joe's peculiar temper to yield to him. 
 He understood that Joe's pride and inde- 
 pendence would be sorely wounded by the 
 offer of large money gifts ; and he only 
 indemnified himself by adding to his pay- 
 ment a valuable gift for husband and wife, 
 to be kept in remembrance of him. 
 
 Bob was still out of work. His poach- 
 ing was bringing him heavier consequences 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 105 
 
 than lie had anticipated consequences 
 which he felt dimly were really unreason- 
 ably hard punishment for his offence. He 
 had had no serious meaning when he got 
 into a scrape ; it had been a mere freak, 
 entered upon because he had a few unoccupied 
 weeks between leaving one place and going 
 to another ; and, being very dull, he craved 
 diversion. He had gone out for a night, 
 chiefly to see what it was like ; and ill- 
 luck ordained that his party should fall in 
 with the gamekeepers, and, with strong 
 personal spite against Bob, that he should 
 be caught. 
 
 Anthony proposed that Bob should go to 
 America ; and the youth acquiesced grate- 
 fully in the plan, and came up to London 
 that he might be properly fitted out and 
 started. While he was there, a slight indis- 
 position laid Anthony up for a few days, the 
 
106 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 natural effect of excitement and exertion 
 while he was still weak, When he was con- 
 fined to his room, Bob appointed himself, 
 as a matter of course, his chief attendant. 
 He was an awkward one in some ways, but 
 his patience and tenderness were unweary- 
 ing ; he never forgot anything ; he was 
 ready at every call ; he ran errands ; and 
 Anthony would have been badly off without 
 him. He slipped into the position of 
 Anthony's servant, and left England in that 
 capacity. 
 
PART II. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ' A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Sweet looks, by human kindness bred !' 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 PRETTY group was on the 
 lawn of Cheynehurst Vicarage, 
 engaged in a game of tennis. 
 Mr. Clare, the Vicar, who had come out of 
 the side-door, stood on the steps, looking 
 at the picture, and admiring at least one 
 figure in it. Three of the players were 
 small boys, who are not particularly charm- 
 ing, as a rule, to their father; but the 
 fourth was attractive enough to please eyes 
 
no A NTHONY FA IRFA X. 
 
 more critical than those of a man who 
 saw in her his first-born child and only 
 daughter. 
 
 It was not merely paternal vanity which 
 made Mr. Clare look with pleasure at the 
 slight figure, noting the graceful lines as 
 she sprang forward with upraised racquet, 
 the easy motion, the alert poise of her 
 head. 
 
 Turning to see which way the ball had 
 gone after a very wild hit of one of 
 the boys, Beatrice saw her father, and 
 came running over the lawn towards 
 him. 
 
 ' Oh, papa/ she said, with some conster- 
 nation in her voice, ' I thought you were 
 out ! I hope we haven't disturbed you 
 with our noise ?' 
 
 1 You have not disturbed me at all/ said 
 Mr. Clare. 1 1 am just going out ; but 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 there is a button wanting on this pair of 
 gloves, and I can't find another.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry ! I carried off your 
 gloves yesterday to stitch the buttons on 
 more firmly. I will fetch you a pair.' 
 
 She disappeared within the house, and 
 returned directly with the gloves. 
 
 ' So careless of me not to put them back/ 
 she said gravely. 
 
 She stood beside her father, swinging her 
 racquet, as he slowly drew on his gloves. 
 She was short and slight in form, but in 
 her appearance there was none of the 
 fragility which one generally associates 
 with such a frame. On the contrary, there 
 was a look of overflowing health about her. 
 Her fresh, clear complexion, her bright 
 eyes, her way of moving and walking all 
 told of perfect physical soundness, and an 
 enviable power of enjoying life. 
 
Ti2 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 She had hazel eyes large and clear, 
 with a light of sunshiny mirth in them ; a 
 beautiful mouth with lips w r hich smiled 
 readily ; dark lashes, and wide clear eye- 
 brows. Her hair was brown, golden in the 
 high lights ; her hands and feet were small 
 and delicately made. 
 
 Mr. Clare was a man of about the middle 
 height, with a spare figure, eyes whose 
 expression could be acute but was oftener 
 indolent, and dark hair sprinkled with 
 grey. There was very little distinctively 
 clerical in his appearance, though he was 
 attired in the orthodox manner ; the regu- 
 lation coat and white tie did not give him 
 the professional stamp which they confer on 
 most of their wearers. 
 
 4 Where are you going, papa?' 
 
 1 To the Manor House, for one place.' 
 
 4 Already ?' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 113 
 
 i I must go sooner or later, Bee/ in a 
 tone of resignation ; ' and as I have to go 
 to Thorn End to-day, it struck me that I 
 might as well take the Manor on my way, 
 and get it over.' 
 
 4 That is an economical arrangement. 7 
 
 ' Exactly, and therefore it commends 
 itself to me.' 
 
 ' 1 am glad you are going so soon. I 
 thought you would put it off as long as 
 you could ; for you know, papa, you shirk 
 calls of ceremony when you can/ 
 
 i I fear I cannot defend myself against 
 that accusation. My sense of duty is 
 certainly dull with regard to calls/ 
 
 1 It is really noble of you to do what 
 England expects of you so promptly and 
 so cheerfully/ said Bee, with a teasing 
 glance. 
 
 VOL. i. 8 
 
ii 4 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 i Perhaps Mr. Fairfax will be out. That 
 possibility supports me/ 
 
 ' Oh, I hope not ! I hope you will see 
 him. I feel quite curious to know what 
 sort of a person he is.' 
 
 4 It is a pity, then, that you cannot make 
 my call for me, for my curiosity is very 
 faint.' 
 
 ' But, papa/ coaxingly, c do be very kind, 
 and notice him carefully, so that you can 
 gratify my curiosity.' 
 
 4 1 will do my best. What are the special 
 points which you are desirous of having in- 
 formation about ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I want to know all you can find 
 out ! Nobody knows anything of him ; 
 nobody here has seen him ; it is quite 
 tantalizing. I am particularly anxious to 
 know whether he intends to live at the 
 Manor House.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 115 
 
 ' If he did come with that intention, I 
 should think the first sight of the place 
 would check it. It is a most uninviting 
 dwelling.' 
 
 Bee looked across the garden through a 
 gap in the evergreens, which divided it at 
 one side from a meadow. The opening 
 showed fields and orchards lying in the 
 calm autumn sunshine. Here and there 
 was an oast, and the hop-gardens, stripped 
 of their green, looked dark and rather 
 dreary. The ground sloped very gradually 
 from the Vicarage, and then rose again. 
 Upon the opposite slope there was a glimpse 
 of a building through the trees. Only a 
 few chimneys were distinctly visible; but 
 Bee knew well enough the house which was 
 hidden there by the foliage, and could see it 
 as it looked a great barrack of a place, 
 with long rows of high narrow windows, 
 
 82 
 
u6 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 mostly shuttered, and a gloomy, forsaken 
 aspect. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders a little as she 
 imagined the impression which anyone 
 seeing it for the first time must^receive. 
 
 * It is a desolate abode/ she said. ' I 
 shouldn't like to live in it as it is/ 
 
 ' It is only fit at present to be lived in 
 by some one who is doing penance/ quoth 
 Mr. Clare. 
 
 4 Poor Mr. Fairfax ! I hope he is not 
 doing penance. The house could be made 
 very comfortable if he took the trouble/ 
 
 4 It requires a vivid imagination to picture 
 such a change. Perhaps I shall find that 
 he has fled from the general mouldiness, and 
 taken refuge at an hotel in Stonehurst. 
 Let me see, he has had three nights 
 already. One would drive me away/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 117 
 
 ' I look for better things. I hope he will 
 stay, and bring his people here.' 
 
 ' If he has any. 7 
 
 ' Oh, surely, papa ! sisters and brothers if 
 he is young, or nieces and nephews if he is 
 middle-aged ; and we shall have some 
 pleasant neighbours. Now, if he shows an 
 amiable inclination to like Cheynehurst, 
 don't discourage it.' 
 
 c If he can like the Manor House, he is a 
 remarkable person. He may certainly have 
 forgotten to be fastidious, in his travels.' 
 
 Mr. Clare walked down the drive, and 
 Bee accompanied him to the gate. She 
 parted from him there, and ran back to the 
 boys, who were getting impatient at her 
 delay. 
 
 ' You've lost no end of time talking to 
 papa,' grumbled Eustace, the second, a pale 
 boy about nine, with a sharp, querulous 
 
n8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 tone in his voice, which told of a sickly 
 constitution. ' Next thing we'll have to be 
 going in, because you think the grass is 
 getting damp/ 
 
 i It won't be time to go in yet,' said Bee 
 reassuringly. ' We have plenty of time for 
 playing/ 
 
 1 We needn't go in when you have to, 
 Eustace,' said Archie, the eldest, about a 
 year older than Eustace. ' Alf and I don't 
 catch cold directly.' 
 
 ' Hush, Archie ! we needn't talk of any- 
 body going in yet,' said Bee, interposing 
 before Eustace could utter his disgust at 
 this flaunting of his brother's superiority. 
 
 But the play that afternoon was not to 
 be uninterrupted. They had just started 
 again, when the click of the gate was heard. 
 The boys made grimaces expressive of 
 their annoyance, and turned a gaze of 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 119 
 
 resigned anticipation towards the drive. 
 
 They brightened up when a young lady 
 
 
 came in sight. 
 
 ' It's only Helen,' said Eustace. 
 
 ' It's not one of the old ladies, thank 
 goodness !' said Archie fervently. 
 
 Bee went to meet her visitor, and the 
 two girls kissed each other warmly. Helen 
 Carlyon had a tall figure, very beautifully 
 formed ; her features were regular ; her 
 complexion dazzlingly fair, with a lovely 
 rose-tint. She had large dark blue eyes, 
 with a wistful, appealing look in them, and 
 a dreamy, half-sad expression of face. Her 
 hair was much lighter than Bee's ; but it 
 was scarcely bright enough to be called 
 golden. She was twenty-one -just two 
 years younger than Beatrice, and they were 
 great friends. Bee, who had never had a 
 sister, and had lost her mother some years 
 
120 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ago, was glad of the society of a companion 
 of her own kind; and Helen, an orphan, 
 who made her home with a childless aunt 
 and uncle, was as glad of her affection. 
 
 f Come and play with us, Helen/ said 
 Eustace politely. 
 
 'But there are four of you already/ 
 
 ' You can play instead of Alf ; he's very 
 little good.' 
 
 Alf, a square, sturdy boy, with big hazel 
 eyes like his sister's, set in a decidedly 
 plain face, silently acquiesced in this pro- 
 posal, and offered his racquet. 
 
 4 / don't care,' he said placidly, when 
 Helen demurred. ' You may have it, 
 Helen; I'll fetch the balls.' 
 
 When the boys at last were tired of 
 tennis, and betook themselves to another 
 part of the garden, Bee and Helen sat down 
 and indulged in a little talk. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 121 
 
 c Do you know that Mr. Fairfax has 
 come to the Manor House ?' said Bee. 
 
 { No ; I haven't heard anything about it/ 
 said Helen indifferently. 
 
 Living in a village, surrounded by an 
 atmosphere of gossip, Helen had acquired a 
 strong contempt for that kind of talk. She 
 thought it beneath the dignity of a reason- 
 able human being to care for its trivialities ; 
 and to her mind, it was the one fault to be 
 found with Bee that she did care to gossip, 
 and could take a frank and hearty interest 
 in the village doings, always remembered 
 family events, and discussed comings and 
 goings. It was a lamentable weakness 
 in one who was capable of better things, 
 and had intellectual interests. 
 
 4 Haven't you heard ? I thought you 
 would be sure to have done so !' 
 
 Helen shook her head. 
 
122 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 4 My aunt has been away for a week, 
 you know. She only came home this 
 morning. She is sure to hear any piece of 
 news at once.' 
 
 i Tell her this piece when you go home ; 
 I know she will be interested.' 
 
 < Why ?' 
 
 ' Dear me, Helen, don't you know that 
 Mr. Fairfax is specially interesting because 
 he is the first Fairfax that has been near 
 the place for years ? The last owner took a 
 dislike to the Manor House, and wouldn't 
 live in it ; and it seemed as if the dislike 
 had gone with the property, for this owner 
 has stayed away a long time. It will make 
 a great difference if he settles here.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I suppose so,' said Helen. ' Where 
 has he been living ?' she added, in the tone 
 in which one puts a question which is in- 
 tended to keep up the talk. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 123 
 
 1 Nobody appears to know exactly. All 
 that I hear is that he has been travelling. 
 Mr. Hurst the agent for the Fairfax pro- 
 perty talked of a journey round the world. 
 At all events, he has been out of England 
 for years/ 
 
 4 Well, I must be going,' said Helen. 
 
 1 Can't you stay to tea ?' 
 
 1 My aunt will expect me back, thank 
 you. I did not mean to stay so long when 
 I came in. My visit was an impromptu 
 one. I only came because ' 
 
 She stopped and coloured. 
 
 'My dear Helen, don't say that you 
 didn't come out of a desire to enjoy my 
 society/ said Bee laughingly. 
 
 ' It is rather cool, certainly, to make use 
 of you ; but the fact is, I came in to get 
 rid of Mr. Martin. He joined me in the 
 village, and he seemed to take it as a 
 
124 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 matter of course that he should walk home 
 with me. His conversation is not interest- 
 ing, and I turned in at your gate to 
 escape.' 
 
 1 Quite right. I am glad our gate came 
 in so opportunely. You would have 
 suffered if he had walked the whole way 
 with you talking about himself.' 
 
 'Ah, I should not mind that so much/ 
 said Helen ; then catching herself up, she 
 said hastily : ' I must make haste, or my 
 aunt will be vexed with me for staying out 
 so long. And I should not like to annoy 
 her, for she isn't very well just now. She 
 is worrying about my uncle, because it was 
 so stormy last week just after he started, 
 and she will be anxious till she hears from 
 him/ 
 
 4 Poor Mrs. Carlyon ! Yes, you ought 
 not to leave her alone too long/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 125 
 
 e One would suppose that she was 
 hardened by experience to stormy weather, 7 
 said Helen ; i but she fidgets every voyage 
 as though they had only just been married.' 
 
 'Well, I don't wonder at it,' said Bee. 
 ' It must keep one anxious to belong to a 
 sailor's family. Don't you fidget some- 
 times ?' 
 
 ' Only when the weather is very bad 
 indeed,' said Helen. ' I cannot get into a 
 state of nervousness at every high wind. 
 Life isn't worth having at such a cost. So 
 I take a hopeful view, and try to cheer my 
 aunt, and she thinks me cold-hearted and 
 callous.' 
 
 1 Will Captain Carlyon be away long?' 
 
 ' He is to come back some time in 
 January.' 
 
 Helen said good-bye, and took her de- 
 parture. 
 
126 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 i Something has vexed her/ thought Bee, 
 as she watched the slight graceful figure 
 walk away. ' She looked quite put out 
 when she came first. I suppose Mrs. 
 Carlyon has been worrying her about 
 something. She is always irritable when 
 she is anxious about her husband. Poor 
 dear Helen! I wish she had a pleasanter 
 home.' 
 
 Bee sighed a little as she thought how 
 much better off she was than her friend 
 she, the mistress of her father's house, 
 always treated by him with proud, in- 
 dulgent affection, with her three brothers 
 to love and care for ; while poor Helen had 
 only her aunt and uncle, and had to pas? 
 the greater part of her time with Mrs 
 Carlyon, whose temper was occasionally 
 uncertain. 
 
 Even in worldly things Bee had greatly 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 127 
 
 the advantage. She enjoyed the comfort 
 and moderate luxury of easy means. The 
 Carlyons were not so well off as Mr. Clare, 
 and lived very quietly. Bee, as the clergy- 
 man's only daughter, was a much more 
 important personage in the neighbourhood 
 than Captain Carlyon's penniless niece. 
 
 Bee had none of the stolid selfishness in 
 her nature which makes people give thanks 
 that they are more richly endowed than 
 others. She would have liked to see every- 
 one else as happy as she was. ' I must 
 have Helen here oftener and cheer her up/ 
 was the characteristic resolution in which 
 her thoughts of her friend ended. She 
 likes coming here, and it always does her 
 good/ 
 
 Then Bee strolled round the grounds in 
 search of the boys who were very busy 
 gardening, and ordered them into the 
 
128 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 house. They left their work, and obeyed 
 unmurmuringly ; perhaps because it was 
 tea-time. But, to do the young Clares 
 justice, they were always obedient to their 
 sister. She was the representative of 
 authority to them. Mr. Clare was fond 
 of quiet, and he had very little to do with 
 his sons. The discipline lay in Bee's 
 hands. Her father was the Court of 
 Appeal, but it was very rarely that she 
 needed to trouble him by invoking his 
 authority. It was her business to keep 
 the boys quiet and good, and prevent them 
 from disturbing their parent's peace. This 
 was her view of her duty, and she carried 
 it out admirably. 
 
 After tea Archie produced the lessons 
 which he had to prepare for the curate, 
 who added to his income and filled up his 
 time by acting as the boy's tutor, and 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 129 
 
 called upon Bee for help. Till the dressing- 
 bell rang, she had to smooth his way 
 through a bit of Csesar, acting as dictionary 
 and grammar in turn, and sternly refusing 
 to listen to Archie's views upon the utility 
 of studying the classics. 
 
 * Now, papa, tell me all about it/ said Bee 
 after dinner, when the servant had withdrawn. 
 
 ' All about what?' said Mr. Clare. 
 
 1 Your visit to the Manor House, of 
 course. You must have found it pleasant, 
 I should think, as you were so long away. 
 I expected you much sooner/ 
 
 1 Ah, but I did not spend the extra time 
 at the Manor,' said Mr. Clare. 
 
 1 It is wrong to be curious and gossip- 
 loving, no doubt, papa,' said Bee, as he 
 added no more ; ' but don't you think it is 
 almost as grave a fault to be unkind, as 
 you are in keeping me on tenter-hooks in 
 
 VOL. i. 9 
 
130 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 this way ? Tell me what I long to hear, 
 and then you can lecture me for my narrow 
 interests.' 
 
 1 1 ought also to give you a lecture on 
 filial respect, young lady. Well, Bee, I 
 will come to the point. I am very sorry 
 for you. I am like the knife-grinder. 
 " Story! I have none to tell." I have not 
 made Mr. Fairfax's acquaintance.' 
 
 ' Did your good resolutions fail ?' 
 
 'No. I carried them out without once 
 faltering. Having made up my mind to 
 be a martyr to social duty, I marched to 
 my figurative stake, without any weak 
 attempt to postpone the infliction. But I 
 was not admitted to the Manor House/ 
 
 6 Oh dear, what a pity ! Mr. Fairfax 
 was out, then?' 
 
 6 Well, strictly speaking, he was in ; but 
 I was told that he was not at home.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 131 
 
 c How do you know he was in ?' 
 
 1 1 saw him go into the house as I went 
 up the avenue. He crossed the lawn to 
 the side-door.' 
 
 1 Rather rude to treat you so when you 
 were making a first call/ said Bee, with a 
 little frown. 
 
 c It might be inconvenient to see me just 
 then/ 
 
 ' Still, he ought to have admitted you 
 when he really was at home. Perhaps it 
 was a mistake, and the servant thought he 
 was out/ 
 
 ' No ; it was Mrs. Hunter, the house- 
 keeper, who opened the door, and I could 
 see by her manner that he had given her 
 directions. She was quite embarrassed at 
 having to send me away, and having to tell 
 me what she regarded as a falsehood. She 
 stuck to the form that he was not at home, 
 
 92 
 
j 3 2 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 and was careful not to say he was out, and 
 she told me several times that she was very 
 sorry. 7 
 
 4 Poor old thing ! Is Mr. Fairfax old 
 or young, papa?' 
 
 ' Youngish, I should say ; but I did not 
 see his face. He has a youthful figure ; 
 but he walked in a slow, dragging way, 
 not like a young man. I can satisfy your 
 curiosity on one head: he is alone. I 
 asked Mrs. Hunter, and she said there was 
 nobody with him.' 
 
 4 1 wish you had seen him,' said Bee. 
 'It will be too disappointing if, after we 
 have wished so long for a non- absentee 
 owner of the Manor, he isn't nice to 
 you.' 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 T appeared that Mr. Fairfax had 
 no intention of being ' nice ' to 
 his Vicar. Instead of returning 
 his call, he merely left a card, which pro- 
 ceeding seemed to Bee the height of rude- 
 ness, and rather surprised Mr. Clare 
 himself. Either Mr. Fairfax was a con- 
 firmed lover of seclusion, or he did not 
 intend to live at the Manor House. Under 
 no other conditions could he aiford to treat 
 the Vicar so coolly. The other gentlemen 
 of the neighbourhood who called had no 
 better reception. * Mr. Fairfax was not at 
 
i 3 4 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 home/ said the servant; and at the latest 
 day which etiquette allows, a return card 
 was delivered at their door. 
 
 The village society felt itself injured. 
 They had rejoiced at the prospect of having 
 the Manor House inhabited, and had hoped 
 for a sociable neighbour, who would give 
 plenty of entertainments, and make the 
 place gay. It did them no good to have a 
 recluse at the house, who declined all offers 
 of acquaintance, and shut himself up in 
 gloomy solitude. 
 
 Perhaps Mr. Fairfax's eccentric conduct 
 was as great a boon, in one way, to his 
 new neighbours, as reckless hospitality 
 could have been. It roused their curiosity 
 and interest to a high pitch, and provided 
 them with a topic which invited endless dis- 
 cussion, chiefly consisting in variations on the 
 theme, ; I wonder this, that, or the other.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 135 
 
 Mr. Fairfax was closely scanned when he 
 was met out of doors. He was seen here 
 and there, sometimes walking, but oftener 
 riding, scarcely taking any notice of the 
 people he passed. His appearance was 
 voted to be very interesting ; his dark eyes 
 had a peculiar melancholy in them which 
 suggested a history, and he was hand- 
 some enough for a history of romantic 
 incident. 
 
 He came to church regularly on Sunday, 
 and behaved himself in an unexceptionable 
 way during the service, keeping his eyes on 
 his Prayer Book, and paying no attention 
 to his neighbours. So complete was his 
 absorption that Bee, who sat opposite him 
 in the chancel, was disgusted at herself for 
 casting one or two curious glances at 
 him. 
 
 Bee heard scraps of gossip daily about 
 
136 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 the new owner of the Manor House. The 
 servants there, of course, talked to their 
 friends, and every bit of information 
 however trivial was eagerly caught up, 
 discussed, and embroidered, till the first 
 person who gave it would not have recog- 
 nised it. One might have known what 
 Mr. Fairfax usually ate at breakfast ; it was 
 known by many that he did not care for 
 sweets at dinner, and drank very little 
 wine; also that he sat up later at night 
 than the ' best-regarded ' people of the 
 village were accustomed to do. 
 
 ' I do wish,' said Bee one day to her 
 father. ' that Mr. Fairfax would come out 
 of his seclusion, and stop the talk about 
 himself. I am tired of hearing these con- 
 jectures as to what must be the cause of his 
 hermit life. Mrs. Holmes thinks that he 
 must be a member of some secret society, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 137 
 
 and is occupied in making dynamite in the 
 cellars of the Manor House/ 
 
 ' I shouldn't have given her credit for so 
 much imagination/ observed Mr. Clare. 
 
 ' I was amazed at her boldness in starting 
 such a theory. She thinks he must be a 
 Nihilist or an Irish conspirator ; she rather 
 inclines to the fancy that he is both : any- 
 how, she is sure that he has some very 
 good reason for preserving such a strict 
 and mysterious retirement. I wish that Mr. 
 Fairfax would visit his neighbours like an 
 ordinary member of society, or go away.' 
 
 ' I hear that he intends to do the latter/ 
 
 4 Who told you so, papa ?' 
 
 ' I met Hurst this morning, and he said 
 that Mr. Fairfax only came for a short 
 stay.' 
 
 ' I am glad he is going.' 
 
 1 That is somewhat ungrateful of you, 
 
138 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Bee. You have got many a half-hour's 
 gossip out of him.' 
 
 4 Oh yes ; I acknowledge that ! Helen 
 has despised my frivolity more heartily 
 than usual. I was very glad of Mr. Fair- 
 fax's eccentricities at first : they were a 
 pleasant change from the ordinary gossip, 
 and being new, they interested me more 
 than Mr. Moore's flirtations, or the Ham- 
 monds' last entertainment. But I have 
 had enough of Mr. Fairfax, papa. I know 
 all that there is to be known about him, 
 and the whole is really not remarkable. 
 The last item is that Tom Hammond met 
 him strolling in a lane, smoking. He 
 didn't speak to Tom ; he " glared upon him 
 and went surly by," like the lion in " Julius 
 Caesar." ' 
 
 ' It is well he is going,' said Mr. Clare, 
 i for he is doing no good in the parish.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 139 
 
 1 Does he acknowledge its existence ?' 
 c He has been visiting some of the poor 
 people, and giving them money in a most 
 injudicious way. He has found out that 
 knot of miserable cottages near Thorn End, 
 and has done his best to demoralize the 
 inhabitants. They are a lazy, drunken set 
 there ; and they should not be encouraged 
 by reckless almsgiving/ 
 
 4 Still it is good of him to be generous/ 
 * It would do more good if he would give 
 the money through me. There are plenty 
 of people in the village who deserve help ; 
 but he has ingeniously hit upon the least 
 independent he could find/ 
 
 ' Why don't you write to him, papa, and 
 beg him to stop his demoralizing course ?' 
 
 ' Well, when a man has as nearly as pos- 
 sible cut you, you don't feel at liberty to 
 offer him advice/ 
 
140 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' You would be glad to do him good, 
 but you must be excused till you are intro- 
 duced.' 
 
 i Just so. I might overcome my scruples 
 about etiquette if he were going to live here ; 
 but as it is, he will not have time to do 
 much harm.' 
 
 That afternoon Mr. Clare paid a visit to 
 the old man who lived in the lodge at the 
 Manor. He was ill and near his end, and 
 the Vicar went frequently to read to him. 
 He was just finishing the part of the 
 Visitation of the Sick which he thought 
 the invalid could attend to, when the door 
 opened, and a gentleman came in. It was 
 Mr. Fairfax. He stopped short at once, 
 and hastily began an apology. 
 
 ' Come in, sir come in !' said old Hum- 
 phrey. 
 
 f I have just finished/ added Mr. Clare, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 141 
 
 4 and I am going. Pray don't let me drive 
 you away/ 
 
 Mr. Clare had a pleasant smile, and an 
 address which was very attractive. Few 
 people did not take a liking to him at first 
 sight. 
 
 { I'm glad to see you, sir/ went on old 
 Humphrey. l I've been telling the Vicar 
 what a good landlord we've got in you.' 
 
 Mr. Fairfax uttered an inarticulate dis- 
 claimer of this praise, and after asking the 
 old man how he was, said he would not 
 talk to him then, and departed. Mr. Clare 
 followed him downstairs, and made a remark 
 or two as they stood in the little porch, such 
 as strangers address to each other. 
 
 i I am glad to see you,' said Mr. Fairfax, 
 in rather a constrained tone ; ' I was think- 
 ing of calling on you before I went away. 
 I wished to consult you about some of the 
 poor in the village.' 
 
i 4 2 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Are you walking my way ?' said Mr. 
 Clare. ' You might make your call now. 
 I am going home/ 
 
 ' Thank you. 7 
 
 He turned with the clergyman, and they 
 walked side by side. He began at once 
 about the points on which he wanted 
 advice; and Mr. Clare was surprised at 
 the thoroughness with which he had ap- 
 parently studied the condition of the 
 village. Somehow or other he had picked 
 up a good many facts about the poor, and 
 he was prepared to do much more to im- 
 prove their state than Mr. Clare had dreamt 
 of in his wildest flights of fancy. He was 
 eager to have as many as might be per- 
 suaded to emigrate, and when Mr. Clare 
 said: 
 
 4 You forget that these people couldn't 
 raise money enough easily to pay the 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 143 
 
 railway fare for the whole family to Lon- 
 don/ he said carelessly : 
 
 4 Oh, the money can be found if they 
 will go.' 
 
 i Found where ?' 
 
 4 1 would let them have it,' he said, in a 
 matter-of-course tone. 
 
 Mr. Clare became deeply interested ; not 
 so much in the talk as in his interlocutor. 
 He had a deep scepticism as to the ad- 
 vantage of such plans, which perhaps was 
 partly caused by his professional acquaint- 
 ance with the condition of the poor. He 
 had no firm belief in the power of any 
 outward means to raise the needy. 
 
 ' What can you do?' he would say hope- 
 lessly, ' with a man who regards it as a 
 necessity of nature that he should be helped 
 to maintain his family?' 
 
 But though he did not suppose that his 
 
144 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 parishioners could be much improved, he 
 was pleased with this enthusiast who was 
 so liberal and so inexperienced ; and they 
 became quite friendly as they talked. Mr. 
 Fairfax was altogether unlike what Mr. 
 Clare would have supposed him to be. 
 There was no churlish stand-offishness in 
 his behaviour, no disagreeable coldness or 
 stiffness. He was simple in his manner, 
 and remarkably devoid of the self-conse- 
 quence which one might expect to find in 
 a man who had enjoyed a large fortune 
 only for a few years. 
 
 The Vicar took him to his study; and 
 there they smoked and talked for a length 
 of time which was beyond any limit usual 
 for a first visit. When at length Mr. 
 Fairfax discovered that he had stayed long 
 enough, Mr. Clare's ' Must you go ?' was 
 much hon ester than that speech usually 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 145 
 
 is ; then he added, in an overflow of hospi- 
 tality : 
 
 4 Can't you dine with us, this evening? 
 We shall be quite alone my daughter and 
 I so you will not be breaking far through 
 your hermit rule of life.' 
 
 Fairfax was silent for a moment or 
 two. 
 
 c Do you think I am a hermit ?' he said, 
 with a slight laugh. 
 
 ' You have certainly produced that im- 
 pression by your determination not to be 
 troubled with your neighbours. Of course, 
 as you are only making a flying visit, it is 
 natural that you should shirk calls.' 
 
 ' Exactly. It did not seem worth while 
 to begin acquaintances which I could not 
 keep up,' said Mr. Fairfax, in an embarrassed 
 tone. 
 
 * But as you have made a beginning 
 
 VOL. i. 10 
 
T46 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 with me, won't you give me your company 
 this evening?' 
 
 ' Thank you. I shall be very glad.' 
 
 ' Papa,' cried Bee, with lively indigna- 
 tion, when her father sought her to 
 announce the coming guest, 'how could 
 you ask him?' 
 
 ' Why should I not ask him ?' 
 
 f Because there is no dinner. Why 
 didn't you give me proper notice, and I 
 could have had a respectable meal to set 
 before him ? Eeally, papa, you might have 
 known better!' 
 
 ' My dear child, I suppose there will be 
 enough to eat!' 
 
 ' It isn't the quantity it's the quality 
 which I am thinking of. There is cold 
 beef,' said Bee, clasping her hands with a 
 tragic expression, ' and no fish!' 
 
 4 Well, well, never mind!' said Mr. Clare 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 147 
 
 hastily. Of all things in the world he 
 hated domestic details. ' Mr. Fairfax 
 knows that he was invited at the last 
 minute.' 
 
 ' Of course/ said Bee, recovering herself 
 and blushing at her own thoughtlessness 
 in speaking of the housekeeping to her 
 father. 'We shall manage very well, 
 papa/ 
 
 She went off at once to the cook to order 
 some changes in the bill of fare. Bee 
 rather piqued herself (and with very good 
 reason) on her housekeeping, and it was 
 mortifying to have a stranger brought in 
 on her with no warning ; but the cook rose 
 to the occasion, and cheerfully undertook 
 to do what could be done on such short 
 notice. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax was shown into the drawing- 
 room just before seven, and was received by 
 
 102 
 
148 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 a young lady, who advanced a few steps to 
 meet him, and held out her hand. 
 
 ' My father has not come down yet,' she 
 said. ' He was kept by somebody from the 
 village. How do you do?' 
 
 She spoke with an unaffected smile 
 which was very winning ; and her manner 
 was pretty with its mingling of straight- 
 forward frankness and gentle graciousness. 
 The grave-faced man whom she greeted 
 was as thorough a contrast to her in her 
 bright youthfulness as could be imagined, 
 and some such thought crossed his mind 
 as he took her hand. It was how long ? 
 since he had touched an English lady's 
 hand, and heard a refined woman's voice 
 address him. 
 
 Miss Clare sat down, and tried to en- 
 tertain her visitor. She had time to make 
 a few remarks before the Yicar appeared. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 149 
 
 Each was answered with a certain hesita- 
 tion and absence of manner which dis- 
 pleased the young lady. Mr. Fairfax did 
 not seem at his ease ; and Bee, in her own 
 mind, set him down as awkward. 
 
 1 1 suppose he has travelled so much in 
 out-of-the-way places that he has forgotten 
 how to talk in an English drawing-room/ 
 she said to herself at first ; then, after her 
 father appeared and they went to dinner, 
 she changed her mind. 
 
 ' No ; he is not awkward and stiff with 
 papa: he has plenty to say to him,' she 
 thought, as the gentlemen conversed on 
 the topic which had engaged them that 
 afternoon. l Perhaps he is one of those 
 charming men who think it isn't worth 
 while to talk to girls. We bore them by 
 our frivolous discourse.' 
 
 Bee held herself very straight as this 
 
150 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 thought occurred to her, and assumed as 
 much dignity of deportment as she possibly 
 could. She thought it very bad manners 
 in Mr. Fairfax to pay her so little atten- 
 tion, and treat her as if she were a little 
 schoolgirl she who was treated by her 
 father as a companion and almost equal. 
 
 Bee liked to have her share of talk 
 indeed, she was not a little of a chatterbox 
 on occasion ; and to be set aside and re- 
 duced to the passive part of a listener, as 
 if she could not make a rational contribu- 
 tion to the conversation, was little short of 
 insulting. 
 
 She was not much better pleased when 
 Mr. Fairfax at last turned to her with a 
 halting apology for talk which could not 
 interest her very much. 
 
 i Oh yes, I am interested/ she replied. 
 ' I am delighted to think that something is 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 151 
 
 going to be done for our poor. But I am 
 afraid that you will find it much harder 
 work than you expect to persuade them to 
 emigrate.' 
 
 Mr. Fairfax looked somewhat surprised 
 at this frank statement. 
 
 4 But when they know the advantages, 
 surely they will be glad to go.' 
 
 'Ah, but that is the difficulty, to per- 
 suade them of the advantages. They dread 
 the idea of leaving home. They haven't 
 imagination enough, poor things, to picture 
 a place where they could prosper ; and 
 they have imagination enough to think of 
 Australia or Canada as a country full of 
 dangerous wild beasts, and inhabited by 
 people who don't speak English. Oh, I 
 assure you,' cried Bee, as her two listeners 
 laughed, M am not exaggerating in the 
 least !' 
 
152 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 Come, Beatrice, admit that you are 
 exaggerating a little for the sake of effect/ 
 said her father. 
 
 1 No, papa ; I am not. You remember 
 old Mrs. Groves ? She was a very respect- 
 able old woman quite above the class you 
 wish to help, Mr. Fairfax and she was 
 persuaded to go out to Australia with a 
 married son of hers. When I went to bid 
 her good-bye, she told me that she had no 
 doubt she would soon be able to learn the 
 Australian language, and then it would be 
 comfortable for her.' 
 
 ' I must remember that/ said Mr. Fairfax, 
 'and assure these possible emigrants that 
 they will not have to learn a foreign tongue.' 
 
 1 It would be a very good thing if some 
 of them could be persuaded to move,' said 
 Bee. ' They will never do any good here. 
 I hope you will be successful.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 153 
 
 c Thank you/ he answered gravely. 
 
 Then he was silent, and after a pause, 
 Miss Clare started a fresh subject. 
 
 ' How do you like the Manor House ?' 
 
 c Not at all/ he replied briefly. 
 
 ' It must be depressing to live in it, I 
 should think. It always looks so gloomy/ 
 
 4 It has a very gloomy look/ 
 
 t It must be the oddest change to be 
 dropped into an old lonely house in a quiet 
 country place, after you have had an ex- 
 citing life seeing the world/ 
 
 It struck Bee that Mr. Fairfax changed 
 colour for a moment. 
 
 ' I do not know that I have had a very 
 exciting life/ he said in a constrained tone, 
 keeping his eyes on his plate. 
 
 ' We understand in Cheynehurst that you 
 must have had all sorts of strange experi- 
 ences and adventures in your wanderings/ 
 
154 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 4 1 have seen a good many places,' he 
 said, with a more marked constraint of 
 manner. 
 
 ' No wonder you are not inclined to settle 
 in Cheynehurst.' 
 
 * Where are you going next ?' said Mr. 
 Clare. 
 
 1 1 don't exactly know. I haven't made 
 up my mind what I shall do/ 
 
 ' How delightful !' said Bee. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon ?' he said, looking at 
 her as if with an effort. 
 
 ' 1 mean it must be pleasant not to be 
 bound to do anything in particular. The 
 feeling of freedom must be pleasant. Papa, 
 wouldn't it be nice just for three months 
 to be able to choose what you would do 
 with yourself ?' 
 
 f I am too old to care for that sort of free- 
 dom,' said Mr. Clare. ' I prefer the routine 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 155 
 
 which saves me the trouble of choice, and 
 so will you when you are wiser.' 
 
 After dinner the gentlemen came into the 
 drawing-room, deep in parish talk again. 
 They had got to statistics by this time, and 
 Mr. Clare produced certain papers which he 
 laid before his guest, and asked Bee to get 
 him some books from the study. 
 
 4 You always know where my books are,' 
 he said, with the contented helplessness 
 which is peculiar to some men. 
 
 Bee went for the books, a little surprised 
 and much disgusted that Mr. Fairfax paid 
 no attention to her exit, and did not open 
 the door for her. ' He looks as if he ought 
 to have better manners,' she reflected. It 
 was rather disappointing to find such an 
 ignorance of the forms of courtesy in a man 
 who had such a refined face and the accent 
 of u gentleman. 
 
156 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 When she returned, clasping some volumes 
 which it took both her arms to hold, he did 
 awake to a sense of the proprieties. He 
 came quickly towards her, and took the 
 books from her. 
 
 * Miss Clare, I am ashamed that you 
 should be put to so much trouble for me,' 
 he said, reddening. 
 
 * They are rather heavy for you, my dear, 1 
 said her father. ' I forgot that they are so 
 unwieldy. However, now you can see, 
 Mr. Fairfax/ etc., etc. 
 
 Presently Mr. Clare asked for some music. 
 He was very proud of Bee's singing. It 
 was the one thing that she had learned 
 thoroughly and scientifically. Her other 
 studies had been carried on in a desultory 
 way, at the mercy of many interruptions. 
 She had had a governess in her childhood, 
 and her father had given her uncertain 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 157 
 
 lessons in Latin ; then she had been sent to 
 Queen's College, but had been called away 
 after a year by her mother's serious illness. 
 Since her mother's death, she had had the 
 responsibilities of the feminine head of the 
 household on her shoulders, and found it 
 impossible to secure regular hours for 
 study. She taught the two younger boys, 
 looked after their health and their manners ; 
 she had to keep the house, to receive and 
 make calls, and to do some parish work. 
 But Mr. Clare had insisted on her culti- 
 vating her voice ; and for some years she 
 had gone up to London once a week for 
 lessons, and by rigid economy of time had 
 managed to practise about half as much as 
 her master entreated. 
 
 Her voice was not strong ; but it was 
 sweet, clear, and pure in tone, and there 
 was something in its quality which went to 
 
158 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 one's heart, a sadness which was the more 
 moving because it was such a contrast to 
 her careless gaiety. 
 
 She sang first an English ballad, then 
 she struck a few chords, and gave them 
 Schubert's ' Ueber alien Gipfeln.' The sacl, 
 wistful words, the beautiful melody, were 
 given with fullest effect by her low, pathetic 
 voice. 
 
 It rather spoilt it that she rose at the 
 end of the song, and said lightly : 
 
 1 1 am sorr} r I am hoarse to-night, papa. 
 I can't sing any more.' 
 
 i Thank you, my dear,' said Mr. Clare, 
 ' Yes ; you must not try another ; you are 
 a little hoarse.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Fairfax, rising to offer 
 her a chair by the fire. 
 
 He spoke in a formal, expressionless way, 
 as if the singing had been a bore to him 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 159 
 
 Bee thought. There was no complimenting 
 her, no expression of enjoyment or admira- 
 tion. Never before had her songs been 
 taken so coldly, and Miss Clare was a little 
 amused at this frank silence. It was re- 
 freshing to meet a man who sincerely 
 showed his real sentiments, and had none 
 of the small coin of civility. ' If he comes 
 again/ she thought, ' I will warn papa 
 beforehand not to ask me to sing. If he 
 doesn't care for music, he shall not be 
 forced to hear it.' 
 
 All this passed through her mind with 
 a flash between his cold ' Thank you,' and 
 her acknowledgment as she took the chair. 
 She glanced up at him as she spoke, and 
 stopped short in the middle of her sentence, 
 for, to her utter amazement, she saw a 
 moved look on his face, and there were 
 positively tears in his eyes. 
 
160 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 She had never received such a tribute to 
 her power before. She hastily finished her 
 sentence, and looked down into the fire 
 with a thrill of excitement a vague per- 
 ception that somehow she had touched a 
 chord of memory or feeling which vibrated 
 painfully. She felt a curious sympathy 
 with the emotion, whatever it was, which 
 she had aroused, and a ridiculous impulse 
 to say or do something to show her 
 sympathy instead of averting her eyes in 
 well-bred unconsciousness. 
 
 Her fluent tongue was silenced, her self- 
 possession was overthrown. It was only 
 for a moment or two that the disturbance 
 lasted, and then she was ready to shrug her 
 shoulders scornfully over her own senti- 
 mental folly ; and, while she wondered at 
 it, explain it calmly as an effect of the 
 songs she had been singing. Music and 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 161 
 
 poetry had a great power over one's fancies 
 sometimes. 
 
 ' Do you sing, Mr. Fairfax ?' she asked. 
 
 ' No, not at all/ 
 
 I ISTor play ?' 
 'No.' 
 
 ' I think it is a pity that men are not 
 taught music more/ said Bee. ' I mean all 
 my brothers to learn, so that they may 
 have something to do in the evening at 
 home. 7 
 
 i You have brothers ?' said Mr. Fairfax, 
 after the slightest pause. 
 
 I 1 have three. Probably you have seen 
 them at church.' 
 
 ' Yes, I believe 1 have. I have an im- 
 pression that I have seen some boys with 
 you.' 
 
 i The boys would be very indignant if 
 they knew that they produced such an 
 
 VOL. i. 11 
 
162 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 indefinite, collective impression,' said Bee, 
 laughing. i Have you any brothers ?' 
 
 1 Neither brother nor sister/ he curtly 
 rejoined. ' I am quite alone in the world/ 
 
 Something in his tone made Bee feel that 
 he disliked being asked personal questions, 
 and an unpleasant suspicion that he was 
 snubbing her curiosity came over her. But 
 after all, anybody might ask such a question 
 without ill-bred inquisitiveness. However, 
 as he was so ultra-particular and reserved, 
 she would not put him to the necessity of 
 giving her another hint to hold her tongue ; 
 and she began talking about the weather as 
 an eminently safe subject. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, 
 That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.' 
 
 King John. 
 
 NTHONY FAIRFAX walked 
 slowly from the Vicarage to 
 the Manor House, meditatively 
 smoking, and turning over in his mind 
 the impressions which the evening had 
 left. It seems absurd to say that he was 
 profoundly excited by such a commonplace 
 experience. Nothing duller than dining 
 en famille with a country clergyman can 
 well be imagined; the clergyman himself 
 
 112 
 
1 64 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 would be the first to say that such a 
 ceremony could have no interest for a 
 young man who had seen the world. 
 
 Yet it was true that he was moved in 
 a way which made the pleasure of seeing 
 the world seem cheap and poor. He had 
 had enough of that ; perhaps the knowledge 
 that he could always have as much as he 
 chose made it less valuable. 
 
 He had carefully abstained from one 
 kind of enjoyment. Anything coarse or 
 disreputable he had turned away from ; 
 partly because his tastes were too refined 
 for him to take pleasure in debasing him- 
 self, partly because he was determined not 
 to sink to the level to which it had been 
 predicted that he would fall. Most men 
 would have been made utterly reckless by 
 what Anthony had undergone, and, having 
 lost character, would have hastened to fling 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 165 
 
 off the restraints which character imposes, 
 and taken a savage delight in as much 
 license as circumstances would permit. But 
 he had not slipped down the inclined plane 
 of desperation. He had felt no desire to 
 defy the world and indemnify himself by 
 self-indulgence and lawlessness for what 
 he had suffered. He had rather taken a 
 gloomy satisfaction in keeping himself 
 blameless as far as might be ; and while he 
 wandered restlessly about, his pleasures had 
 been innocent enough. 
 
 He had sought distraction and occupa- 
 tion in travelling, and he had seen a good 
 deal of countries which lie beyond the beat 
 of the ordinary traveller. He had visited 
 Asia Minor and the north of Africa; he 
 had gone through the more unsettled parts 
 of the United States ; lie had done Japan 
 and cruised among the islands of Polynesia. 
 
1 66 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 It had been a strange life; very full in 
 some ways, and very empty in others. He 
 had satisfied to the full his desire of seeing 
 new and strange things ; he had learnt a 
 great deal ; and he had enjoyed himself 
 thoroughly at times. The movement, the 
 stir of life, the constant stimulus to 
 curiosity and interest, had been pleasant. 
 The change of scene, the entire novelty of 
 his surroundings, the spice of adventurous - 
 ness, had roused him, and passed the time 
 in a satisfactory way. 
 
 But now and then he had felt tired of 
 it. A listlessness had stolen over him, a 
 failure of desire and motive which made 
 everything appear lacking in zest. He 
 began to ask, ' Cui bono ?' What did it 
 lead to, this aimless drifting? 
 
 When that mood came upon him, he 
 looked at the unsatisfactory side of his life, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 167 
 
 and a dreary realization of loneliness beset 
 him. He was literally alone in the world. 
 He was cut off from his past. He would 
 not have been induced by any consideration 
 to put himself in communication with any- 
 one whom he had known before the prison- 
 door shut upon him. He avoided forming 
 any but the slightest acquaintance with his 
 equals whom he met in the course of his 
 wanderings. 
 
 He moved about in as deep a solitude as 
 if he were shut up in a monk's cell, only 
 associating with his fellows when it was 
 necessary, never forgetting that men who 
 waited on him would despise him if they 
 knew the whole truth about him. 
 
 This morbid sense of disgrace and 
 shrinking was not overcome as time passed, 
 though he partially forgot it when he was 
 sailing over the Pacific, or strolling through 
 
1 68 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 a foreign town. He got used to it, as men 
 get used to the pain which is the symptom 
 of chronic disease, and he tried to dull it by 
 mental stimulants and opiates. 
 
 He did not attempt to work upon it by 
 physical means, though he had been sorely 
 tempted once or twice to take opium. But 
 he was held back from this by his proud 
 determination not to lower himself by any 
 act of his, and by sound common- sense 
 which urged that the calm of the opium- 
 eater was dearly bought by ruining his 
 health. It was bad enough to bear these 
 fits of depression when he was in good 
 health ; he shrank with horror from what 
 they might be if his brain were weakened 
 and his nervous system shattered. His one 
 illness had given him a just conception of 
 the value of bodily well-being. 
 
 He had begun his travels with a sick 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. i6g 
 
 desire for change, fancying that he should 
 live down his bitter memories, and over- 
 come that time altogether. As he re- 
 covered bodily strength, calmness and peace 
 would come back to him ; and he would 
 shake off his misfortune as one shakes off 
 a hideous dream. It was merely a pre- 
 paration for an existence which he did not 
 describe to himself, but which not only 
 must fulfil his youthful dreams of what 
 made life worth living, but make amends 
 for the great wrong he had borne. 
 
 He set out, believing with the half- 
 arrogant, half-divine faith of inexperience 
 that things must come right, that there 
 must be ample compensation somewhere. 
 
 He had hoped at first to clear himself, 
 and to that end he had employed a detective 
 to ferret out the truth, which would prove 
 that he was innocent. But nothing had 
 
iyo ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 come of this, and the enterprise had been 
 given up. Still he would not despair. He 
 must be cleared some day ; and meanwhile 
 he was young and rich, he had taken a new 
 name, and could go where the gossip of 
 Middleton could never reach him ; the world 
 was before him. 
 
 Slowly he had found out that that one 
 episode in his life was the most important 
 thing that had happened to him. It was 
 not to be cast out of his thoughts as done 
 with ; it was not to be forgotten. It laid 
 a cruel grasp upon all his being; it held 
 him, and he could not escape. 
 
 Those twelve months were the centre of 
 his life ; all the time that came afterwards 
 was flavoured with their bitterness, and 
 their influence did not weaken as they 
 became more distant. Always they were 
 with him ; however long he lived, he would 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 171 
 
 be a man who had a miserable secret which 
 he dared not tell; he would hate to re- 
 member what had been, and would have no 
 spirit to look forward to what might be. 
 
 His mind dwelt on this with a sense of 
 degradation intolerable to bear. The prison 
 disgrace would cling to him for ever; he 
 could not forget that he had stood in the 
 dock, worn a felon's dress, and obeyed a 
 warder. His natural sensitiveness was acute 
 enough, and it became acute to the point 
 of disease about this. He had not tough- 
 ness enough to bear it with equanimity. 
 His illness on coming out, and the sus- 
 ceptible state in which it had left his brain, 
 had deprived him of the power of rising 
 above depressing influences. 
 
 The effect which the shock of finding 
 himself disgraced and the prison life had 
 produced on him, had been indelibly im- 
 
172 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 pressed by the weeks after he became free. 
 He had no touch of recklessness in him to 
 take the life in gaol as a bit of out-of-the- 
 way experience, and bear it lightly because 
 he had not deserved it. He only saw the 
 shame, and every detail of his imprisonment 
 was hideous to him ; of everything that 
 took place on the first day, he said despair- 
 ingly to himself, i How am I to bear it 
 daily for twelve months 7 
 
 Twelve months ! The time had dragged 
 itself out to years ; he felt worn and old 
 before it was over. He never dared think 
 of it or of his trial steadily now ; it was 
 only vaguely, as a time of torture, that it 
 figured in his mind. 
 
 He grew more dejected as he found that 
 he was not living down that time ; and his 
 wandering became listless and aimless. 
 The free happy life he had hoped for was 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 173 
 
 impossible ; and the transitory period which 
 was to heal him had proved a failure, and 
 could not go on. He began to entertain a 
 project which had crossed his mind at 
 intervals since he inherited his money. 
 He could not find a place among the 
 fortunate people who knew nothing of 
 unjust disgrace and blighted reputation ; 
 but he might be useful to those who, like 
 himself, had fallen among thieves, and 
 needed a helping hand. There was misery 
 enough in the world which he might relieve. 
 He dreamt of devoting his energies and 
 substance to the unfortunates to whose 
 level he had really sunk; perhaps that 
 would give him interest and occupation. 
 
 He was thinking of this when he received 
 a letter from his lawyer, which set forth 
 that his presence was imperatively needed 
 in England. He obeyed the summons with 
 
T 7 4 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 alacrity. It was pleasant to have something 
 to do which must be done ; an obligation 
 was a godsend. The property in Cheyne- 
 hurst required special attention, and he 
 went to the Manor House. When he was 
 there, he wished himself away. The place 
 was gloomy, and it depressed him painfully. 
 The business which he had to do was not 
 very interesting to him ; a great deal of it 
 was matter of detail, which did not exercise 
 his mind, and which it struck him might 
 have been settled by letter. The calls of 
 his neighbours produced a panic in him. 
 Four years' brooding over one idea had 
 made him thoroughly morbid ; and, know- 
 ing that he would not be recognised socially 
 if his history were known, he refused all 
 advances. He would not take civilities 
 from people who were under a mistake 
 about him. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 175 
 
 He realized his exclusion from society 
 more fully here in his own house, and it 
 deepened his dejection. He had passed 
 some very miserable hours before his meet- 
 ing with the Vicar. Mr. Clare never knew 
 how strangely his friendly words came upon 
 the bitter desolation of the young man. 
 
 He was very sad that afternoon: his 
 depression was becoming so continuous and 
 intense that he was growing afraid of it. 
 Was he losing his control over his thoughts ? 
 Was he going to fall ill again ? 
 
 It was a relief to have his attention 
 diverted, and to hear a kindly human voice. 
 He had accepted the invitation to dinner 
 with a feeling that he must have some 
 society ; he had reached the limits of 
 endurance, and his solitude must be broken 
 through. It could do no harm. He was 
 going away directly, and Mr. Clare was not 
 
176 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 at all likely ever to learn that he had enter- 
 tained a convicted felon at his table. 
 
 The change had done him all the good 
 he could have hoped for, and had diverted 
 his mind effectually. He walked home 
 now through the cool night air, thinking 
 of the evening he had spent to the exclu- 
 sion of everything else. It was a blessed 
 change to have his thoughts turned to 
 anything pleasant and simple ; it was like 
 a lull in fierce attacks of pain. He was 
 soothed and quieted ; his feverish weariness 
 was calmed for the time; his imagination 
 was relieved from the strain it had under- 
 gone lately. 
 
 The glimpse of home life was inexpressibly 
 beautiful to him. The picture was still 
 before his eyes as he passed by the hop- 
 gardens and the cherry orchards ; he saw, 
 instead of the rows of hop-poles and the 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 177 
 
 whitewashed trunks of trees, the pretty 
 drawing-room ; he breathed the scent of 
 the flowers ; he heard the voices which had 
 spoken to him kindly. The atmosphere of 
 peace had soothed him ; the very simplicity 
 of the scene made it more charming. He 
 had scarcely formed a clear idea of Mr. 
 Clare and his daughter; it was not their 
 individuality which concerned him, but 
 their relation to himself. He was touched 
 and attracted by Mr. Clare's friendliness, 
 without distinctly asking what sort of man 
 he was ; and he was more attracted by Miss 
 Clare. She represented to him the side of life 
 which he had not known yet affection and 
 home ; it was not any flesh and blood girl 
 whom he saw in her, but the ideal woman, 
 the tender home angel, the sweet caretaker. 
 He could not have said what she was like ; 
 he only knew that seeing her had roused 
 VOL. i. 12 
 
i 7 8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 new, vague yearnings in his heart, and 
 made him aware of possibilities which he 
 had barely dreamt of before. 
 
 To have a home like that, full of peace, 
 with a soft -voiced gracious presence all 
 one's own ! The indefinite imagination, for 
 he gave no form to the sweet influence he 
 coveted, made his pulses beat faster, and 
 stirred him strangely. He thought of it 
 with longing, but no hope; as poor men 
 think how they would enjoy riches. But 
 though it was only a dream, it took pos- 
 session of him, and he indulged it. If it 
 were true and real ; if She were with him 
 now, leaning on his arm, talking to him in 
 her soft sweet voice, calling him by his 
 name; believing in him, making such an 
 atmosphere of calm for him that his grim 
 memories would not dare to assail him ! 
 It was strange how he longed for this 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 179 
 
 imaginary being, and how real she seemed 
 to be, while every attribute remained unde- 
 fined and vague. 
 
 He reached the dilapidated old house, 
 where neglect was making havoc, and went 
 into the room which was his sitting-room. 
 It was dimly lighted by a lamp which 
 burnt badly, and there was no fire. Ah, 
 if She were here, his home-coming would 
 be very different ! He contrasted this 
 chilly dark room, with its air of discomfort, 
 where no one cared whether he came or 
 went, with the drawing-room at the Vicarage 
 with its books and ornaments, the look of 
 fresh daintiness which characterized every- 
 thing in it, and a strong feeling of dis- 
 content came over him. 
 
 He was striking a light to comfort him- 
 self in man's fashion, when a servant-girl 
 appeared at the door. 
 
 122 
 
i8o ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Please, sir, Mr. Dixon has come.' 
 
 Fairfax started a little. His thoughts 
 were a long way off. 
 
 1 Tell him to come in.' 
 
 Bob entered. Four years had altered 
 him greatly. His figure had developed 
 into splendid proportions ; he looked 
 quicker and shrewder, and had lost his 
 awkwardness. 
 
 ' Well, Bob, how are you? 7 said Fairfax, 
 shaking hands. 
 
 ' Quite well, thank you, sir. You don't 
 look very well, I'm sorry to see.' 
 
 1 I'm well enough,' said Fairfax, throw- 
 ing himself into an armchair and beginning 
 to smoke. ' Shut the door. Bob, and sit 
 down ; have a cigar, and tell me how your 
 brother is.' 
 
 c Thank you, sir, I'd rather not smoke 
 to-night/ said Bob. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 181 
 
 Fairfax, who was aware with some com- 
 punction that he was bored by the necessity 
 of talking as usual to his faithful friend, 
 made no answer. Bob sat down, and said 
 slowly : 
 
 i He's right-down bad, is Joe.' 
 
 1 I'm sorry to hear it/ said Fairfax heartily 
 enough. 
 
 Yet he was thinking most of that dream - 
 presence. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I knew you'd be sorry. It's 
 a regular bad job, and no mistake about 
 
 it; 
 
 6 Are they could you do anything to 
 help them? Did they need it?' 
 
 'Well, sir, they're not as badly off as 
 some folks would be in their place. Joe 
 he has his club, and he gets so much a 
 week from that. But still it isn't as if he 
 was working, and illness comes expensive, 
 
1 82 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 and they haven't done as well since they 
 left Middleton.' 
 
 c I hope you made them understand that 
 they must draw on me.' 
 
 i I told them what you said, sir, and they 
 were both obliged to you/ 
 
 'Nonsense!' 
 
 ' Joe doesn't talk, but he felt it ; and 
 Lizzie fairly cried when I gave her the 
 money you sent. 7 
 
 '* Is your brother still disabled?' 
 
 4 He can't walk yet, and the doctor says 
 it'll be some time before he can. He talks 
 of months, and that's a poor look-out. It's 
 hard on Joe, and he frets about it.' 
 
 1 Poor fellow !' said Fairfax. 
 
 ' The doctor says that he should get 
 away into country air,' went on Bob ; ' and 
 I wanted to know, sir, whether I could 
 have a bit more holiday, so that I could 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 183 
 
 find him diggings. Lizzie can't go about 
 she's tied to look after Joe. and the 
 sooner he's moved the better.' 
 
 ' Of course you can have as much time 
 as you like. Look here, though suppose 
 your brother and his wife came here. They 
 could live at the lodge the old man there 
 is going fast. You say your brother will 
 be laid aside for months how would it be 
 if they had the lodge ? They would have 
 the house rent-free and I really forget 
 what the pay is a week. It would be 
 better accommodation than they could get 
 in lodgings, and your brother would 
 rather have a house to himself, I should 
 say.' 
 
 ' It's very kind of you to think of it, 
 sir,' said Bob heartily. 
 
 ( Now, Bob, don't talk stuff. I never 
 can do as much for your brother and sister 
 
1 84 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 as they did for me. My debt to them is 
 too great to be paid.' 
 
 1 Indeed, sir, they've no such thought. 
 You've done a vast for them/ 
 
 I Well, well, think about it, and see what 
 they would like. I propose this, because it 
 would make them feel less as if they were 
 taking a favour, and I know how indepen- 
 dent your brother is. But if you think he 
 wouldn't like the position, and the offer 
 would offend him, don't mention it to 
 him.' 
 
 4 It's hard to say how Joe may take a 
 thing; he has such queer notions,' said 
 Bob meditatively ; ' but I'll put this afore 
 him. I like the idea myself; it would 
 make him more independent. And if you're 
 staying a bit longer here, sir, I could see 
 more of him.' 
 
 I 1 shall be off soon/ said Fairfax quickly. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 185 
 
 * I can't stand this house a day longer than 
 is necessary.' 
 
 1 I'm sorry for that, sir ; I hoped you'd 
 take a fancy to the place and settle down.' 
 
 Fairfax made no answer. Bob saw by 
 the look of his face that he had made an 
 unwelcome suggestion. 
 
 4 Of course you can stay a while/ said 
 Fairfax, after a pause. ' You ought to 
 have some time with your brother/ 
 
 His tone in speaking to Bob was peculiar. 
 It had none of the imperativeness of master 
 to man ; it was friendly and considerate, 
 and was almost the tone which a man 
 might adopt towards his equal. Bob was 
 deferential, yet with a touch of familiarity, 
 and he eyed his master with an interest and 
 affection almost pathetic. 
 
 ' Oh, I've had a good spell already !' said 
 Bob ; ' and of course I would go with you 
 
186 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 that is, if you wanted me, sir. If you were 
 going to a place where I should be no good 
 to you, it would be another pair of shoes.' 
 
 Fairfax had thrown away his cigar by 
 this time. He looked at the big man with 
 a sudden smile. 
 
 ' You're a good fellow, Bob/ he said 
 gently. He got up, and laid his hand almost 
 caressingly on Bob's shoulder as he passed 
 his chair. ' The best fellow in the world.' 
 
 Bob made a little uneasy movement, and 
 looked stolid, betraying none of the enthu- 
 siastic devotion which stirred him at this 
 demonstration. 
 
 ' Where are you thinking of going to, 
 sir ?' he asked. 
 
 i Oh, I don't know ! Nowhere in par- 
 ticular,' said Fairfax, with a painful dreari- 
 ness in his tone. ' I wish I could think 
 of going somewhere, or doing something.' 
 
CHAPTER IY. 
 
 T was the custom of Bee and 
 Helen to meet twice a week for 
 the laudable purpose of im- 
 proving their minds by studying in com- 
 pany. These readings were chiefly kept up 
 by Helen's interest. Bee was not so much 
 in earnest about them as her friend was, 
 and did not quite like being tied down to 
 read with a companion. 
 
 She was an eager reader herself, and had 
 a bad habit of hurrying breathlessly through 
 a book, ' tearing the heart out of it ;' while 
 
1 88 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Helen liked to go steadily through a work 
 from beginning to end. 
 
 The day after Fairfax dined at the 
 Vicarage was one of their reading-days, 
 and Helen appeared punctually at the fixed 
 time. Bee was in the schoolroom, with 
 the German book they were studying on 
 the table before her, and another book, 
 which Helen regarded disapprovingly, in 
 her hand. 
 
 4 Have you prepared what we fixed ?' 
 said Helen, after they had kissed each 
 other. 
 
 i I haven't prepared a line/ said Bee 
 frankly. 
 
 Helen regarded her with mute re- 
 proach. 
 
 ' Never mind, Helen dear ; it really is not 
 altogether my fault this time. That trouble- 
 some Eustace has had a cold, and I have 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 189 
 
 had to amuse him in the afternoons, and 
 yesterday evening my time was taken up. 
 Quite an event happened. Guess who dined 
 with us/ 
 
 * Mr. Fairfax I have heard already.' 
 
 ' Have you ? I'm rather sorry. I wanted 
 to surprise you by the announcement. How 
 did you hear ?' 
 
 4 1 met Miss Bell this morning, and she 
 told me. Let me see, how was it ? Oh, 
 I remember ! Your Eliza told the butcher's 
 boy, and he told Mrs. Watson, and Mrs. 
 Watson told Miss Bell.' 
 
 4 1 wonder Miss Bell hasn't been here 
 already to ask me about it.' 
 
 'Fortunately she had an engagement to 
 lunch with the Hills at Stonehurst,' said 
 Helen. 
 
 ' That's a good thing ! We shall escape 
 a catechism this afternoon.' 
 
i 9 o ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 i Oh yes !' said Helen. ' It would be too 
 "bad if she interrupted our reading.' 
 
 < Papa fell in with Mr. Fairfax ' 
 
 4 Bee dear, excuse me, but it is ten 
 minutes past three.' 
 
 ' What a fidget you are, Helen !' said 
 Bee, with perfect good-humour. 
 
 ' If we begin talking about other things, 
 we shall get no reading done at all,' said 
 Helen firmly. 
 
 ' Well, let us begin lessons. I thought 
 even you would be rather interested about 
 the first appearance of the recluse.' 
 
 1 1 am more interested in our German at 
 present. We can talk afterwards/ 
 
 ' I want you to have tea with me this 
 afternoon. I shall be alone. The boys 
 have gone for a long walk, and they will 
 probably be back late. Now,' opening her 
 book, ' let us begin work.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 191 
 
 They read steadily enough for an hour. 
 Bee had the knack of throwing herself into 
 whatever she was doing, and her attention 
 to the woes of the Maid of Orleans was 
 closer than Helen's. The latter, indeed, 
 cared more for the reading as an exercise 
 which would benefit her mind than for the 
 pleasure of it. But if she was not moved 
 as Bee was by the scene where the maid 
 is given over to shame, and stands mute, 
 forsaken apparently by God and man, she 
 had the satisfaction of getting a piece which 
 had puzzled her cleared up. 
 
 ' What a splendid scene !' said Bee at the 
 end. i Isn't it tragic ? How cruel that 
 there was nobody to take her part !' 
 
 ' I wish it wasn't so far from fact,' ob- 
 served Helen. i Schiller had no right to 
 take such liberties with history.' 
 
 ' How could they all turn away from 
 
192 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 her?' said Bee, looking before her dreamily, 
 as if she saw the scene. 'Now, Helen/ 
 coming back to every -day life, ' let us have 
 tea. Well go into the drawing-room, as 
 you say we are quite safe from an invasion 
 by Miss Bell, and I will tell you about our 
 guest last night/ 
 
 Helen allowed herself to unbend now, 
 and showed more curiosity than she usually 
 did about Bee's gossip, even going so far as 
 to put several questions. They made them- 
 selves comfortable in feminine fashion over 
 the fire; Helen lounged in a low chair, 
 with her feet on the fender, and Bee poured 
 out the tea, and rattled away. 
 
 4 1 can't make him out/ she said thought- 
 fully, after she had given a brief outline of 
 the way in which the evening had been 
 passed. 
 
 1 How (Jo you mean?' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 193 
 
 ' He puzzles me. He is so quiet and 
 unapproachable. ' 
 
 ' Does he give himself airs ? I suppose he 
 will think himself an important personage, 
 like that Mr. Bernard who was too great to 
 talk to us.' 
 
 Helen spoke with concentrated bitterness. 
 Bee laughed. 
 
 4 Poor Mr. Bernard ! He thought that 
 lofty reserve towards us so imposing, and 
 imagined we admired him for taking so 
 little notice of our existence. He thoroughly 
 enjoyed showing off in that way, and posing 
 as a superior being u too bright and good 
 for country damsels' daily food." 
 
 * If Mr. Fairfax is like him, he must be 
 detestable/ 
 
 ' But he isn't. Not the least in the 
 world. I fancied at first he was, and then 
 I saw I was wrong. He hasn't any airs ? 
 
 VOL. i. 13 
 
194 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 indeed, he is the most unaffected man I ever 
 saw. I don't believe he is aware he is 
 handsome, and few handsome men produce 
 that impression on one/ 
 
 1 Do you think him handsome when you 
 see him close?' 
 
 1 Decidedly so. And that subdued, 
 melancholy look he has sets him off to 
 great advantage.' 
 
 1 You speak as though you fancied he 
 cultivated the expression on purpose to be 
 interesting.' 
 
 4 No, I don't think that. I believe he 
 really feels as sad as he looks. He must 
 have had some great trouble, and it has 
 knocked half the life out of him. A 
 young man ought not to be so quiet and 
 subdued.' 
 
 * Depend upon it he knows how becoming 
 his melancholy is, and he affects the languid 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 195 
 
 tone/ said Helen. ' Some men set up to 
 care for nothing.' 
 
 c He affects nothing, and he is not exactly 
 languid. He doesn't drawl, and he does 
 not give himself the appearance of caring 
 for nothing ; on the contrary, he was very 
 much interested in talking to papa about 
 the poor of the village. He got really 
 enthusiastic about some plans he has for 
 persuading them to emigrate. That was 
 the only subject ,he seemed to care for; 
 he couldn't talk of any thing' else.' 
 
 ' That must have been very interesting.' 
 ' Yes, I was interested at first ; but my 
 interest was put on one side so completely 
 that I felt it was superfluous. I don't like 
 being overlooked,' said Bee, with whimsical 
 offence. ' No doubt it is very wrong, but 
 I like to be attended to ; and Mr. Fairfax 
 neglected me -flagrantly. He thought me 
 
 132 
 
196 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 incapable of entering into his pet subject, 
 and lie snubbed me ruthlessly when I tried 
 to talk to him. He wouldn't talk back ; he 
 just answered me and let the subject drop ; 
 and now and then he made a little pause 
 before he answered, which was inde- 
 scribably exasperating. It made me feel 
 so small.' 
 
 'How?' 
 
 ' Oh, I can't describe how he produced 
 the effect, but he did it to perfection. If 
 ever you want to crush a person who is 
 boring you, Helen, you have only to 
 hesitate just a second or two before you 
 reply. You must inevitably reduce him or 
 her to silence by that treatment/ 
 
 ' It doesn't sound very alarming treat- 
 ment.' 
 
 'Wait till you have experienced it. I 
 felt as if I was making a series of stupid 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 197 
 
 tactless remarks, and when I had put a 
 question he made it appear an inquisitive 
 one.' 
 
 ' You don't like him, then? 7 
 
 Bee paused for a moment. It was 
 difficult to sum up the various impressions 
 she had received yesterday evening, and 
 put them into a definite form of words. 
 Her tone was dubious as she replied 
 slowly : 
 
 4 Well, no, not exactly. How can I like 
 a man who makes me feel insignificant ? 
 But though I was not charmed by his 
 conversation, I was interested in him. He 
 mystifies me. I should like to make him 
 out.' 
 
 6 Did he tell you where he comes from?' 
 
 ' No ; he told us next to nothing about 
 himself.' 
 
 At this point the parlour-maid appeared. 
 
198 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 4 If you please, miss, can you tell me 
 when the master will be back ?' 
 
 4 He will soon be in, I think.' 
 
 'Mr. Fairfax wants to see him. Shall 
 I ask him to wait, miss ?' 
 
 ' Yes, you had better. Ask him to walk 
 in here. Now, Helen/ said Bee, in a rapid 
 undertone, as the door closed, ' you shall 
 see him for yourself; that is, if he can face 
 me alone. Probably he will prefer going 
 back unverrichteter Sache.' 
 
 Bee's anticipations were wrong. Mr. 
 Fairfax accepted the maid's invitation to 
 wait, and was shown in. 
 
 It was a pretty picture that greeted his 
 eyes as he entered. It was a cloudy day, 
 and though it was daylight outside, the 
 drawing-room was sufficiently dark to 
 make the fire the principal light in the 
 room. Its bright, flickering illumination 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 199 
 
 fell on the two girls on Bee's wavy hair 
 and rosy face, and on Helen's graceful 
 head, deep shining eyes ? and sweet pensive 
 expression. 
 
 4 How do you do, Mr. Fairfax?' said Bee, 
 shaking hands. ' I am sorry papa is out, 
 but I expect him back every minute. You 
 will not have to wait long. Mr. Fairfax 
 Miss Carlyon.' 
 
 A slim willowy figure rose from the 
 other side of the hearth, and made him a 
 bow. 
 
 4 Will you sit down near the fire ? It is 
 quite cold this afternoon.' 
 
 She pointed out a chair near Helen's 
 that her friend might make the most of this 
 opportunity of gratifying Her curiosity 
 about the recluse of the Manor House. 
 But it seemed that Helen was not disposed 
 to improve the opportunity. She barely 
 
200 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 looked at Mr. Fairfax, and did not speak to 
 him. Bee had to support the conversation 
 herself, and she did so with a feeling of 
 injury. Helen might at least help a little, 
 instead of looking meditatively into the fire. 
 It was her way to be silent with strangers; 
 but she might make an exception now. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax did not help her at all; he 
 was as dead a weight this afternoon as he 
 had been last night. He originated nothing, 
 and he was still chary of response. 
 
 While Bee valiantly talked on, Fairfax 
 was regretting that he had come. He was 
 painfully aware that he was doing himself 
 no credit, and that the little lady who 
 entertained him was bored by his heaviness. 
 He felt like a clown. It was plain enough 
 that he was disqualified for society, when 
 he felt that he could not conduct himself 
 like other men. He was more conscious of 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 201 
 
 his social deficiencies now than he had been 
 yesterday ; for Mr. Clare and he had had 
 so much to say to each other that Bee had 
 been in the background, and the impres- 
 sions of the evening were so new and vivid, 
 that he had not thought of himself. But 
 almost tete-a-tete with Miss Clare, he found 
 himself unready and much at a disadvan- 
 tage, and disagreeable conjectures as to her 
 opinion of his manners troubled him. He 
 was making up his mind to take his depar- 
 ture without waiting for Mr. Clare, when 
 the front-door was heard to open, 
 
 1 That must be papa/ said Miss Clare. 
 ' ISTo,' as a great tramping was heard in the 
 hall; 'it is the boys.' 
 
 The heavy tramping was directed towards 
 the drawing-room door. It w T as opened 
 noisily, and the three boys marched in, 
 then paused and hung back, seeing visitors. 
 
202 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' Come in, boys,' said Bee ; ' come and 
 speak to Helen and Mr. Fairfax.' 
 
 Helen turned and held out her hand with 
 a smile. They shook hands in turn, then 
 went through the same ceremony with the 
 stranger, eying him with less than the 
 usual shyness of young boys. A clergy- 
 man's family, even in the quietest country 
 parish, are too used to notice from people 
 outside the home circle to be bashful. 
 Having made their salutations, they fell 
 back upon their sister. 
 
 1 Where are we to have tea, Bee ?' 
 
 6 Let us have it here,' said Archie. 
 
 ' Do you mind, Helen ?' asked Bee. 
 
 1 Mind ? I should like them to stay.' 
 
 6 Well then, yes, boys. Go and wash 
 your hands first. Please ring the bell, one 
 of you ah, thank you, Eustace.' 
 
 The maid brought in more cups larger 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 203 
 
 than those already in use and a good 
 supply of hot tea-cake and bread and butter ; 
 and the boys made themselves comfortable, 
 and very soon became the most important 
 personages in the room, taking the talk into 
 their own hands, and giving gracious atten- 
 tion to their elders. They had much to tell 
 about their walk, and presently were in- 
 forming Mr. Fairfax as to the attractions of 
 his park, and making inquiries as to whether 
 he intended to shoot the rabbits himself. 
 
 'Would you like to go out after them 
 with me ?' said Fairfax to the eldest. 
 
 An ecstatic look in Archie's blue eyes 
 a rather blank expression on the faces of the 
 other two. 
 
 4 Oh yes ! thank you/ cried Archie. 
 
 ' All of you, I mean/ said Fairfax, with 
 an extraordinary complacency in the eager 
 pleasure which his invitation gave. 
 
204 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 1 They would enjoy it very much,' said 
 Bee's soft tones. ' But won't it give you 
 a great deal of trouble? Perhaps if one 
 went ' 
 
 'No trouble at all. I should like it/ 
 said Fairfax, almost as eagerly as the boys. 
 4 It will be better fun for them if they are 
 together. The more the merrier.' 
 
 After this the boys regarded him as an 
 eminently sensible person, and Bee took 
 him into favour on the general principle 
 that a man who is kind to children must 
 have much good in him. 
 
 4 He did it so nicely/ she said to Helen 
 afterwards ; i he spoke as if he would enjoy 
 it himself, and of course that must have 
 been sheer good- nature. Fond as I am of 
 the boys, I don't suppose a grown-up man 
 would cultivate their society for its own 
 sake.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 205 
 
 But Bee was wrong in crediting Fairfax 
 with disinterested benevolence. The society 
 of these boys was pleasant to him for its 
 own sake. It refreshed and soothed him. 
 Their innocent chatter, their eager interest, 
 were like a waft of cool air. He was quite 
 surprised at the thoroughness with which 
 he entered into and enjoyed their anticipa- 
 tions of pleasure in the shooting expedition. 
 They were deliciously frank about it, and 
 did not leave the subject till the day had 
 been settled. It gave him a curiously fresh 
 pleasure to be able to give pleasure to the 
 lads. He had often enough relieved want 
 and helped the unfortunate ; but it was new 
 to rouse the unchecked enjoyment of child- 
 hood. Perhaps no giving confers so much 
 simple, unalloyed satisfaction as the giving 
 a treat to a child. You are sure of attain- 
 ing your end (unless you choose a blase 
 
206 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 child, the most hateful product of modern 
 society, as the object of your kindness, 
 which no wise person would do), and you 
 have your reward at once. 
 
 The shooting expedition came off; and 
 the boys enjoyed to their hearts' content 
 watching Mr. Fairfax and Bob shoot the 
 rabbits. With the unerring instinct of 
 their years, they discovered that they might 
 do pretty much as they pleased with master 
 and man ; and they took full advantage of 
 this. Bob listened to their remarks with 
 his placid smile, and was untiring in his 
 patience with them, remaining unmoved 
 when Alfred contrived to get into such a 
 position that it was a miracle he escaped 
 receiving a discharge in his sturdy person. 
 Even this narrow escape of committing 
 homicide by misadventure, which would 
 have upset most men, did not ruffle Bob's 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 207 
 
 sweet temper. He only breathed a sigh of 
 relief when he saw Alf still on his legs, and 
 mildly suggested that the boys had better 
 keep out of the way more carefully. 
 
 Bob, indeed, would have borne much from 
 the young Clares, for the sake of the plea- 
 sure which their society seemed to give his 
 master. It did his heart good to see 
 him look bright. Bob was aware that his 
 master had been very ' low ' since they 
 came to England, and he knew it was bad 
 for him to shut himself up as he had been 
 doing. He was thankful to see him roused 
 from his own thoughts, and inclined to 
 associate with his fellows. i It's awfully 
 bad for him to have nobody to speak to/ 
 reflected Bob ; ' and the longer he keeps 
 himself to himself the worse he'll get, and 
 the harder it'll be for him to get over his 
 downness. As Joe says, it'll prey on 
 
2o8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 him, and set him off his head sooner or later 
 if he keeps on remembering bygones. It 
 really is enough to make a man melancholy 
 mad to go on fretting as he does.' 
 
 For the present Fairfax's unwholesome 
 isolation was at an end. Before the boys 
 went home that day, the date of their next 
 visit was fixed. They were rejoiced to 
 bestow their company on a person who had 
 Mr. Fairfax's attractions a park to shoot 
 in, a big house which they could explore, 
 and a store of traveller's tales which he 
 related in a most interesting way. Bob 
 also was a congenial companion, and under 
 
 judicious questioning would tell them of 
 
 ** 
 
 adventures in which his master had dis- 
 tinguished himself by his pluck and coolness. 
 These things to hear the boys did seriously 
 incline, and Fairfax became a first favourite 
 with them. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 209 
 
 Mr. Clare, too, showed a strong liking 
 for him, and saw so much of him that Bee 
 declared her father would be accused of 
 showing a preference for the society of his 
 richest parishioner and neglecting the poorer 
 ones. 
 
 ' It is well he isn't going to stay long/ 
 she remarked, i for I think he would bewitch 
 you and the bo} 7 s if he did. I am almost 
 jealous. The boys care nothing for my 
 society now.' 
 
 VOL. i. 14 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 OME ten days after the boys made 
 their first visit to the Manor 
 House, they returned from a 
 walk in the afternoon, bringing Mr. Fairfax 
 with them. 
 
 1 We met Mr. Fairfax/ said Archie, 
 ushering him into the drawing-room, 'and 
 he wanted to see papa, and to ask you 
 something, Bee/ 
 
 c So we brought him back/ said Eustace, 
 surveying his friend complacently. ' We 
 knew you would be in, and we thought 
 papa would/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 211 
 
 ' Papa is in/ said Bee ; 4 but unluckily 
 he is closeted with some one in the study. 
 Perhaps you won't mind waiting a few 
 minutes, Mr. Fairfax ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Fairfax has something to ask you, 
 Bee/ said Alf. 
 
 ' To ask me ?' cried Bee, laughing. ' Have 
 you idle boys got him to ask for another 
 holiday for you ?' 
 
 ' It was all Mr. Fairfax/ said Eustace. 
 
 ' Yes ] he asked us quite out of his own 
 head/ said Archie. 
 
 4 He wants us he said so/ cried Alf. 
 4 Now, didn't you Y he continued,' going 
 across to Mr. Fairfax, and laying a chubby 
 hand on his knee. 
 
 i It is clearly another holiday that is 
 wanted/ said Bee. ' I think Mr. Fairfax 
 much too benevolent towards you, boys, 
 and I highly disapprove of your wasting so 
 
 142 
 
212 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 much time. But if it is only Mr. Fairfax 
 who wishes it in this case, and you do 
 not ' 
 
 She paused and gravely regarded the 
 boys, who grinned unabashed. 
 
 6 Oh, but we want to go awfully !' 
 
 i What is it ?' said Bee, turning her 
 merry eyes on Fairfax, who was listening 
 to the chatter with a look which struck her 
 strangely. He was smiling, but he looked 
 more wistful than amused. 
 
 He explained that he and the boys had 
 been laying plans for the celebration of the 
 5th of November on a truly magnificent 
 scale. They proposed to have an enormous 
 bonfire and a lavish display of fireworks, 
 which must be bought in London. Would 
 she let the boys go with him to town to 
 choose them ? 
 
 6 But it will give you so much trouble !' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 213 
 
 cried Bee. l Take the boys to town for the 
 day ! You have no idea what a labour you 
 are undertaking. They will be dreadfully 
 in your way.' 
 
 ' I should like to have them with me/ 
 he said simply. 
 
 Murmurs from the boys that they would 
 be anything but a trouble. 
 
 ' If that is your only objection, Miss 
 Clare ' said Fairfax. 
 
 * It is a very strong one, though/ said 
 Bee, knitting her brows. ' You see I know 
 what a charge these three are ; I have 
 taken them to London myself, and I am 
 ashamed that you should be worried with 
 them.' 
 
 ' It will be a pleasure. I shall like it 
 much better than being alone. And they 
 must get the fireworks themselves ; it will 
 be half the fun for them/ 
 
2i 4 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 I Oh, yes !' from the chorus. 
 
 * You will let us go, Bee ? there's a 
 darling !' said Eustace coaxingly. 
 
 4 You will let us, won't you, Beauty ?' 
 teased Alf, using his baby name for his 
 sister. 
 
 ' Oh, you boys ! I suppose I must say 
 yes. I am sorry for Mr. Fairfax.' 
 
 I 1 am very much obliged to you/ said 
 that gentleman. { I should have been quite 
 disappointed if you had refused permission. 7 
 
 The boys, having gained their point, dis- 
 appeared, and Bee was left alone with her 
 visitor. She still found it hard work to 
 entertain him. He had not shaken off the 
 peculiar restraint which had marked his 
 manner to her from the first; and occa- 
 sionally he seemed unaware of her presence, 
 and sat silent when he ought to have talked 
 to her. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 215 
 
 1 It is very kind of you to give them so 
 much pleasure/ she said when the door 
 shut upon the boys. ' It is really the 
 noblest deed of self-sacrifice that I ever 
 heard of, for you to undertake to personally 
 conduct such a party. 7 
 
 1 Oh, it passes the time for me !' 
 
 ' You will stay, then, till the 5th of 
 November ?' 
 
 6 Yes/ he answered, in the brief fashion 
 in which he replied to questions. 
 
 ' That will be a fortnight longer/ said 
 Bee thoughtfully. ' Do you really dislike 
 making acquaintance with strangers, Mr. 
 Fairfax ?' 
 
 He made a rather longer pause than 
 usual before answering that question. 
 
 4 1 am afraid I do rather. I was very 
 glad to make acquaintance with you all; 
 but ' 
 
216 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 That is the exception to your rule,' she 
 ended, smiling. ' I asked because I was 
 wondering if you would mind meeting a 
 few people here, as you are staying longer 
 than you intended; but of course if it 
 would bore you to do so ' 
 
 1 Thank you ; you are very kind/ he 
 said, in a non-committal tone, which was 
 so little of an answer to her remark that 
 she was goaded into speaking further. 
 
 ' I won't be silenced as if I was an in- 
 quisitive little girl,' she thought. 
 
 t Oh no, not kind at all. I only thought 
 if you would dine here with some of our 
 friends it would please them to meet you. 
 You have managed to rouse a good deal of 
 curiosity, you see.' 
 
 ' Have I ? Curiosity about what ?' 
 
 1 As to why you don't long for the 
 society of your neighbours. The village 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 217 
 
 inclines to the belief that you are a 
 dynamite conspirator.' 
 
 Mr. Fairfax laughed not very naturally 
 or merrily. 
 
 1 The village pays me more attention 
 than I deserve/ 
 
 ' The village has an abundance of atten- 
 tion always for gossip/ said Bee ; and of 
 course you, being a stranger, are interesting.' 
 
 ' I am a dynamite conspirator, then.' 
 
 t You are a member of one of those 
 dreadful secret societies ; and you are 
 making dynamite at the Manor House, 
 which is to be used in blowing up Cheyne- 
 hurst first, and then London. By-the-bye,' 
 said Bee, laughing, ' I dare not let the boys 
 go with you to buy fireworks. The gossips 
 will look upon that as confirmation of their 
 wildest theories. I did not think of that 
 before.' 
 
:z 1 8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 i And you think that if they meet me at 
 dinner, these good people will feel some 
 confidence in me?' 
 
 They will feel satisfied that there is no 
 ground for their fancies. But of course if 
 you would dislike it, I won't make you 
 go through the form of refusing an invita- 
 tion/ 
 
 1 Indeed, Miss Clare, I hope I should not 
 he so rude. If you are kind enough to ask 
 me, I can only accept gratefully.' 
 
 6 1 am glad,' she said frankly. f Your 
 presence will make our dinner-party a great 
 success.' 
 
 1 You are joking.' 
 
 4 No, not at all. Have you not been all 
 over the world, while we have vegetated 
 all our lives in this corner ? You will be 
 quite a lion for me ; a stranger is always a 
 precious addition to a party here, even 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 219 
 
 an ordinary stranger who has not seen 
 savages at home, as the boys say you 
 have.' 
 
 ' Must I talk of what I have seen ?' 
 4 Oh, if you would, it will be so good of 
 you ! To hear something fresh at a dinner- 
 party why, it will be an unprecedented 
 event. We have the same things over 
 and over again, till I know the list by 
 heart; I don't wonder you shrink with 
 horror from settling down here, and prefer 
 
 roving. 
 
 ' Eoving is pleasant enough, but it has 
 disadvantages. The part of the rolling- 
 stone is not very dignified or comfort- 
 able.' 
 
 ' No ; I can imagine that one grows tired 
 of it. Are you thinking of settling down 
 to gather moss here?' 
 
 He did not answer at once; and Bee, 
 
220 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 feeling rebuked for her curiosity, made a 
 remark about something else before he 
 opened his lips. 
 
 She flushed as she spoke, and her tone 
 was slightly ruffled. Fairfax noticed these 
 signs of mood, and was faintly curious as 
 to what they meant. Was she vexed with 
 him ? He was so little accustomed to 
 regard other people's moods partly from 
 his solitary life, partly through the way in 
 which he was preoccupied by his own 
 feelings that this was quite a startling 
 fancy; and it was by a rather elaborate 
 process of thought that he arrived at the 
 conclusion that he had offended her. Look- 
 ing at it from her probable point of view, 
 he saw that he had been ill-mannered in 
 making no reply, and blushed for him- 
 self. 
 
 4 1 have thought sometimes that I couldn't 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 221 
 
 find a pleasanter place to settle in,' he said, 
 answering her question ; ' but I haven't got 
 further than that/ 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I did not mean to 
 be inquisitive/ said Beatrice, drawing her 
 head up, while her colour deepened a 
 little. 
 
 He was right. He had offended her. 
 Somehow he did not feel as remorseful as 
 he ought to have done. He rather liked to 
 see her angry. 
 
 1 1 could not possibly think you so,' he 
 said. ' On the contrary, it is pleasant to 
 have any of you show the faintest interest 
 in my doings. After wandering about as 
 I have done, the kindness that I have re- 
 ceived here is more valuable than I can 
 well tell you.' 
 
 He forgot just then that hitherto he had 
 disliked questions about himself, and had 
 
222 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 shrunk from them. The habit of reserve 
 had grown upon him with every day in 
 which he felt that he had a secret to guard 
 and must live apart ; but it seemed possible 
 to break through it now. 
 
 Bee was a little surprised at his warm 
 tone. It was not what she expected from 
 Mr. Fairfax. 
 
 ' We have done very little to make your 
 stay here any pleasanter, I am afraid,' she 
 said. ' There is so little to amuse people 
 here/ 
 
 ' You have made me enjoy it very much/ 
 he replied, 
 
 Mr. Clare entered, and on hearing that 
 Mr. Fairfax intended to prolong his stay, 
 and had consented to be introduced to his 
 neighbours, he expressed hearty satisfac- 
 tion. 
 
 ' I am glad you are not rushing off in 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 223 
 
 such a hurry/ he said. ' Perhaps you will 
 be persuaded to stay the winter now. I 
 wish you were going to live here. It 
 would be a good thing for the neigh- 
 bourhood if you took your proper place 
 in it.' 
 
 ' Papa is thinking specially of a good 
 thing for himself/ said Bee demurely. ' He 
 would like to have you as his churchwarden, 
 Mr. Fairfax ; that is what he means by 
 taking your proper place here.' 
 
 Mr. Clare laughed. Fairfax looked at 
 Bee, with a brighter smile on his face than 
 she had seen yet. 
 
 He was much less constrained in his 
 manner for the rest of his call; he talked 
 more, and, as Bee put it afterwards to 
 Helen, he seemed quite humanized and 
 friendly. He was a little surprised him- 
 self at the warmth of feeling which he was 
 
224 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 conscious of towards these new friends. 
 The conversation had led him to a full 
 recognition of the change their genial kind- 
 liness had made in his life. 
 
 He was turning aside from the course he 
 had marked out for himself, because they 
 wished it. He was prolonging his stay 
 solely, in the first instance, to give the 
 boys pleasure ; and now he was drawn a 
 step further, and, at the sister's suggestion, 
 he broke his resolution to avoid society. 
 
 It did not matter very much. He had 
 already partially given up his seclusion 
 this further step would have no conse- 
 quences ; it would be wiser, as he was 
 connected with the place, not to affect a 
 singularity which set people's tongues 
 wagging and roused their curiosity ; and, 
 lastly and chiefly, Miss Clare wished it. 
 
 She made up the party for him ; it would 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 225 
 
 be too ill-mannered to refuse her kindness ; 
 and she had said she was glad when he 
 accepted. And for a smile of hers, he was 
 quite ready to exhibit himself to gratify the 
 curiosity of his neighbours, or to do any- 
 thing else which she might please to ask. 
 
 What he would have shrunk from a few 
 weeks ago, seemed easy and simple when 
 she proposed it. 
 
 In the course of the talk, the Yicar asked 
 if Mr. Fairfax had thought of anyone to 
 take the lodge after old Humphrey, who had 
 died a day or two before. Mr. Fairfax had. 
 He intended to give the place to a brother 
 of his man-servant, who had been disabled 
 by an accident, and was laid aside for an 
 uncertain time. He seemed very anxious 
 that the lodge should be made comfortable 
 for its new inmates, and with a little hesita- 
 tion and many apologies for putting her to 
 
 VOL. i. 15 
 
226 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 any trouble, he asked Bee if she would look 
 at the house, and tell him what furniture 
 was needed for it. 
 
 4 It is a rather cool request ; but a lady 
 understands these things so much better 
 than a man,' he said. 
 
 ' I will do it with pleasure,' said Bee. 
 * It will give me little enough trouble. It 
 is only fair, too, that I should make some 
 return for the work you save me with the 
 boys. When you have them in London, 
 I will go over the lodge and see what is 
 wanted/ 
 
 i Thank you. I wish it to be as com- 
 fortable as possible, you understand, Miss 
 Clare/ 
 
 ' Do you give me carte blanche f 
 
 ' Certainly. Pray tell me of any arrange- 
 ment which would make the place pleasanter 
 for an invalid.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 227 
 
 ' These people are lucky to get such a 
 benevolent employer,' said Mr. Clare, 
 smiling. 
 
 ' It is not benevolent at all,' said Fairfax 
 slowly. ' The man is ill, and I know him 
 very well.' 
 
 ' Of course you will do more for him as 
 his brother has been so long with you,' said 
 Bee. ' According to the boys, your man is 
 quite devoted to you.' 
 
 1 1 believe he is.' 
 
 ' He must be more like your friend than 
 your servant.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 He had fallen back into his monosyllabic 
 fashion of talking, and his thoughts appa- 
 rently were at a distance. His unwonted 
 animation had disappeared. Bee felt rather 
 sorry, but she made no attempt at reviving 
 
 152 
 
.228 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 it ; and Mr. Clare filled up the break that 
 was imminent in the talk by some general 
 remarks as to the rarity of such attachment 
 between master and man. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 |EXT day Bee was writing her 
 invitations for the dinner-party, 
 when Helen appeared. 
 ' 1 hope you are not engaged for the 
 2nd of November ?' said Bee. 
 
 f Not that I know of. Engagements are 
 not so plentiful here. Why ? 
 
 ' I want your aunt and you to dine with 
 us then to meet Mr. Fairfax. I am think- 
 ing of putting that form on each note ; it 
 will bring acceptances from everybody.' 
 ' Is he really coming out of his shell ? J 
 
2 3 o ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' For positively one appearance only/ 
 
 * Whom are you asking to meet him ?' 
 
 ' There isn't much choice. Look at my 
 notes/ 
 
 c I will fold them up for you/ said Helen, 
 as Bee pushed the sheets towards her. Her 
 face clouded as she looked at one. 
 
 ' Can't you avoid asking him ?' she said. 
 
 ' Mr. Martin ?' said Bee, glancing at the 
 note. 
 
 ' Yes. Are you obliged to have him ?' 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 ' He is so tiresome/ 
 
 1 Why do you call him so ?' 
 
 Helen coloured. 
 
 ' He is stupid, and I don't like him. Of 
 course, though, it is too cool for me to ask 
 you not to invite him/ 
 
 c He is such an ornament to a room, 
 Helen dear/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 231 
 
 ' That's a matter of opinion/ said Helen, 
 folding the sheet. 
 
 ' Only one opinion, he would think. He 
 hasn't a doubt on the subject. But you 
 haven't explained the reason of your aver- 
 sion to him. Has he shown himself capable 
 of admiring you as well as himself ?' 
 
 Bee spoke with a laugh in her eyes, and 
 a touch of surprise in her tone. Helen 
 coloured more deeply, and drew her head 
 up with a haughtiness which her long 
 slender neck made very becoming. 
 
 4 He has been good enough to pay me 
 some compliments lately ; and he has even 
 called a few times at our house.' 
 
 ' Well, it could scarcely have been to talk 
 to your aunt,' said Bee. 'It must have 
 been to awake your admiration. Poor 
 Helen ! But I cannot very well avoid 
 asking him and his mother to dinner this 
 
232 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 time. I am really sorry ; it is too annoy- 
 ing. Fancy his taking it into his head to 
 pay attention to you /' 
 
 From Bee's tone it might have been 
 supposed that Helen's attractions were very 
 few. 
 
 4 Isn't it horrid ?' said Helen simply. 
 
 ' It can't be your fancy/ said Bee thought- 
 fully. * His attentions would have to be 
 pointed before you noticed them/ 
 
 ' Oh, I am quite sure of it/ said Helen. 
 ' The worst part is that my aunt sees it, 
 and she is very glad, and does all she 
 can to encourage him. She thinks it a 
 good thing for me a very suitable match.' 
 
 * Why, he isn't good enough to tie your 
 shoe-string/ said Bee bluntly. 
 
 ' But you see he is very well off in his 
 way/ said Helen drily. ' He owns the land 
 he farms, and he has a good house/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 233 
 
 1 He is well off, but you would be miser- 
 able with him. Your aunt must see that 
 he isn't good enough for you/ 
 
 4 My aunt takes a different view. She 
 thinks of the material advantages. Such 
 trifles as suitability and liking are of little 
 consequence. To get a husband is the 
 great thing it matters less what kind of 
 one you get. She talks as if that was what 
 she thought. She seems to consider it a 
 triumph for me to have won Mr. Martin's 
 gracious favour; she respects me twice as 
 much herself because of it.' 
 
 Helen laughed an angry, jarring laugh. 
 
 ' Fancy one's value being heightened by 
 his good opinion!' 
 
 ' Don't worry yourself about it, dear. 
 After all, you can easily put a stop to it. 
 You can discourage him.' 
 
 6 It is very uphill work to discourage 
 
234 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 such a man. And my aunt will make a 
 fuss ; that is so tiresome. It is well to be 
 you, Bee. You have nobody to interfere 
 with you. Mr. Clare will never wish to 
 get you married.' 
 
 1 Oh, I shall not marry/ said Bee, in a 
 matter-of-course way. ' I have something 
 else to do. I could not leave papa and the 
 boys/ 
 
 6 Ah. you are lucky. My aunt is so 
 anxious to get me married that I hate the 
 very idea of it. She thinks of every man 
 that comes near me as a possible admirer. 
 It is disgusting/ 
 
 Bee made a soothing answer, and led 
 the talk, as soon as she could, to another 
 subject. This was an old grievance of 
 Helen's. Her aunt's anxiety to get her 
 married, and her machinations to bring 
 that desirable consummation about, were 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 235 
 
 a real trouble to the girl, who was proud, 
 shy, and fastidious. Mrs. Carlyon had not 
 a wide field for her tactics, but she was 
 unwearying in making the most of it; and, 
 quiet as Cheynehurst was, Helen's beauty 
 had already brought her some few admirers, 
 any one of whom her aunt held it to be her 
 duty to encourage. But Helen turned a 
 cold shoulder on the young men of the 
 neighbourhood. Neither small proprietor 
 nor curate pleased her. If Mrs. Carlyon had 
 not stood by, eager to mark the symptoms 
 of dawning admiration, and ready to en- 
 courage them by every manoeuvre which a 
 devoted relation can employ for a girl's 
 good, Helen might have taken a more 
 romantic view of men's attention. As it 
 was, what she had received so far had 
 been more of a trouble than a pleasure to 
 her. 
 
236 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 All the invitations to that dinner were 
 accepted, and Bee went about her prepara- 
 tions with even more than her usual energy. 
 But she found time to comply with Mr. 
 Fairfax's request, and she paid more than 
 one visit to the lodge. She was interested 
 by his anxiety to make these humble friends 
 of his comfortable ; she was touched to see 
 him take so much thought about it. and 
 
 O 7 
 
 enter into the details as he did ; and she 
 helped him to the best of her power. She 
 was a little amused at the way in which 
 he received her advice. He followed it 
 with implicit deference; she had only to 
 suggest a thing to have it done imme- 
 diately. She was amused, and of course 
 pleased. 
 
 They became much more friendly over 
 their consultations. He was decidedly im- 
 proved; his stiffness wore off, and his 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 237 
 
 reserve became less marked. Bee supposed 
 that the change in him was merely that 
 contact with society had rubbed off the 
 rust which had grown over his manners 
 during a solitary life. His manners were 
 very good ; it was impossible to call him 
 awkward now; and if he was still grave 
 and silent, that was certainly more be- 
 coming to him than a flow of light talk 
 would have been. 
 
 She went to the lodge the very after- 
 noon on which the Dixons were expected 
 to make a final inspection, and see that the 
 woman who had been employed to make 
 ready had everything in proper order. 
 When she came down from a visit to the 
 upper rooms, she found Fairfax in the little 
 parlour. 
 
 * I came in to speak to Mrs. Excell,' he 
 said. 
 
238 ANTHONY FAIRFAX, 
 
 ' I have just been over the house,' she 
 said, i and I think it looks very nice.' 
 
 4 It is very good of you to take so much 
 trouble.' 
 
 ' If they are not comfortable here it will 
 be their own fault. You have done all 
 that can be done.' 
 
 She had some chrysanthemums and ferns 
 in her hand, and she began arranging them 
 in a glass. 
 
 1 1 thought some flowers would brighten 
 the room and make it more home-like,' she 
 said, as she put them in. 
 
 Fairfax was standing beside the fire. He 
 watched her as she stood bending over the 
 table watched intently the quick move- 
 ments of her slender fingers, the outline 
 of her profile, and the crisp little waves of 
 hair which just showed under the brim of 
 her hat. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 239 
 
 ' There,' she said, giving a last light 
 touch to a fern-spray, and setting the glass 
 in the middle of the table, ' that is an im- 
 provement.' 
 
 She looked up at him as she spoke, and 
 met his gaze. There was an expression in 
 it which she had not seen before, and which 
 made her feel conscious for a moment. She 
 swept up a few leaves from the table, and 
 threw them into the fire. 
 
 * I must go,' she said. 
 
 ' I don't know how to thank you for your 
 kindness,' said Fairfax earnestly. 
 
 4 Oh, I have done nothing. It is a very 
 small return for your goodness to the 
 boys. I owe you several good turns for 
 the pleasure you have given them.' 
 
 She went out of the lodge, and Fairfax 
 followed and opened the gate for her. She 
 was turning to say good-bye, when he said: 
 
240 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 May I walk back with you ?' 
 
 ' If you are going into the village. But 
 I don't need an escort at this time of 
 day.' 
 
 It was late in the afternoon. The sun 
 was near the horizon, and its level beams 
 cast long shadows on the park, and here 
 and there brought out a bit of rich colour 
 on the trees. The west was bright, but 
 cold with the golden-green which one sees 
 at that time of year. Fairfax accepted her 
 permission in silence, and they walked on 
 together. But Bee was not fond of silence. 
 Her companion's meditations whatever 
 they were about were speedily broken in 
 upon. She began talking about the boys' 
 visit to London, which had taken place a 
 day or two before. 
 
 ' They enjoyed it so much ! It was an 
 unusual treat for them/ she said cordially. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 241 
 
 ' It was more pleasure to me to take 
 them than it was to them to buy the fire- 
 works. I quite enjoyed seeing their serious 
 interest in the business/ 
 
 4 You spoil them. It is demoralizing for 
 them to have so much indulgence as you 
 give them. I don't know what they will 
 do when you go away/ 
 
 He was silent in his way, which Bee was 
 getting used to now, and learning to make 
 charitable excuses for. It was not strange 
 that a person who had lived so long out of 
 society should be absent at times. 
 
 ' They were talking about it this morning/ 
 she went on. 1 1 was unfeeling enough to 
 start the subject, and it was quite amusing 
 to see how their faces fell when I said, 
 " What shall you do when Mr. Fairfax has 
 gone ?" They were as melancholy as owls 
 at once, and the only consolation they could 
 VOL. i. 16 
 
242 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 find was that you had not gone yet. They 
 are sure of you till the 5th, and they go on 
 the principle of letting the morrow take 
 care for itself. They wonder how you can 
 iind anything so entertaining in any place 
 as shooting rabbits in their company/ 
 
 * I dont expect to do so/ he said, rather 
 listlessly. 
 
 She looked at him, lifting her eyebrows 
 slightly with an incredulous expression. 
 
 4 You must not let your partiality for the 
 boys lead you into flattery, Mr. Fairfax/ 
 she said, with her gay laugh. * You take a 
 very exaggerated view of the charms of 
 their society/ 
 
 4 1 am not exaggerating. As I told you 
 the other day, wandering about strikes me 
 occasionally as dull work/ 
 
 1 Then why ' began Bee, and stopped 
 
 short. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 243 
 
 He gave her a strange look a look 
 which she did not fully understand, and 
 which moved her curiously; there was so 
 much settled sadness in it. It was the look 
 of a person who is accustomed to gloom, 
 but not resigned to it ; and to her fancy 
 there was a shade of desperate, unhoping 
 appeal in his eyes. She looked quickly 
 away, and the colour deepened in her 
 cheeks. 
 
 i Why don't I give it up ? I have got 
 into the habit, and I can't break myself of 
 it,' he said, in an apathetic tone. 
 
 They were silent for a moment or two. 
 She walked a little faster for a few yards ; 
 but her escort did not take the hint. He 
 persisted in their former pace, and she fell 
 back into it; then they slackened speed 
 decidedly. 
 
 1 That is just what everybody would say/ 
 
 162 
 
244 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 observed Fairfax abruptly. c Why should 
 a man be so imbecile as to drift on doing 
 what he is growing tired of, when it neither 
 profits him nor anyone else ?' 
 
 Bee kept her eyes down, and said in a 
 matter-of-fact way : 
 
 ' But perhaps living at home would tire 
 you more/ 
 
 He drew an impatient sigh. That phrase, 
 * at home/ affected him strangely. Coming 
 from her lips it had a bitter sweetness. 
 
 1 You fancy that you would like being 
 here because the quiet is a change ; but you 
 would soon find it more than you cared for, 
 and you would pine for something wider. 
 I suppose that is really the reason why you 
 drift. It is pleasanter on the whole than 
 tying yourself down/ 
 4 Perhaps that is it.' 
 ; Of course. If you really preferred a 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 245 
 
 humdrum life, you would take to it. You 
 can do as you please, not being the Flying 
 Dutchman or the Wandering Jew.' 
 
 She talked as gaily as usual till they 
 reached the Vicarage, keeping at a safe 
 distance from his wishes and doings. 
 
 ' Will you come in on the chance of 
 finding papa?' she said, as she stopped at 
 the garden gate. 
 
 1 Thank you, no ; not to-day. I have 
 some letters to write/ 
 
 4 We shall see you to-morrow ?' 
 
 He looked an inquiry. 
 
 4 Mr. Fairfax/ in a tone of mock indigna- 
 tion, ' it isn't possible that you have forgotten 
 your promise to dine with us ? I sent you 
 a note, and you answered it. You are 
 coming, aren't you ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes, of course ! I forgot for the 
 moment,' he said, absently. 
 
246 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Bee made a gesture of despair. 
 
 ' You won't forget to-morrow ?' she said. 
 ' It will be heart-rending if you do.' 
 
 ' No ; I certainly shall remember. It 
 was stupid of me not to do so just now; 
 but I was thinking of something else when 
 you spoke.' 
 
 ' Good-afternoon,' she said, giving him 
 her hand. 
 
 She ran indoors, not in quite such a 
 sunny humour as usual. She felt a little 
 disturbed, and her serenity was vaguely 
 ruffled. She was not pleased with the part 
 she had played in the conversation: it 
 vexed her to remember that she had led 
 Mr. Fairfax to speak about himself. He 
 would be annoyed afterwards at having 
 shown any feeling. It vexed her more to 
 remember how his ]ooks and words had 
 moved her. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 247 
 
 Then she gave herself an impatient, 
 mental shake, and forbade herself to think 
 about the walk any longer. She had 
 chattered a little too fast, and that was 
 mortifying; but she was paying far more 
 attention to the matter than it deserved, 
 and her fancy must not be allowed to run 
 away with her. 
 
 4 Why should I notice or care how he 
 looks at me ? Why should I feel sorry for 
 him ? He has everything he wants ; it is 
 absurd, after all, to pity him. He cannot 
 really be unhappy.' 
 
 Fairfax walked back by the way he had 
 come, thinking of her. 
 
 He went into the lodge. It was close to 
 the time when the Dixons were expected, 
 and he had intended to be there to give 
 them a word of welcome. The little parlour 
 struck him as peculiarly pleasant and home- 
 
248 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 like. He forgot that he had any proprietor- 
 ship in it ; he regarded it merely as Beatrice 
 Clare's work, and he admired it. 
 
 There was one thing which he grudged 
 the Dixons, and that was the glass of 
 flowers. He would have liked to carry it 
 off for himself. He took one chrysanthemum 
 out a white one and put it in his button- 
 hole with a smile. 
 
 4 That will not be missed, and she will 
 not know.' 
 
 He stayed for a few minutes. The room 
 reminded him of her. She had stood there; 
 she had moved that chair ; she had put that 
 table-cover straight. He liked to remember 
 it ; and presently he went out, and struck 
 across the park. He wanted to indulge in 
 this reverie, and let his thoughts drift on 
 this new current. It would be a trouble 
 to rouse himself to speak to anyone ; and 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 249 
 
 all at once he shrank from seeing the 
 Dixons, and felt that he would rather put 
 it off. 
 
 He strolled about for some time in the 
 deepening October twilight. The old house 
 looked comfortless and deserted when at 
 last he approached it. The front was dark, 
 and only a red gleam of firelight shone in 
 one room at the side. But Fairfax looked 
 at the grey building with a more cheerful 
 feeling than it had ever inspired in him 
 before. 
 
 < Why not ?' he said to himself. ' Why 
 not?' 
 
 Why should he not defy the past, and act 
 as if it had not been ? Why should he not 
 stand upon his innocence, and make 
 himself a future as other men might do ? 
 Why should he not try to win happiness, 
 instead of tamely yielding to his evil fate 
 
250 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 and passively submitting to all the conse- 
 quences of the great injustice which had 
 befallen him ? 
 
 It was weak, and wrong, and blame- 
 worthy to acquiesce in what was unde- 
 served ; it was consenting, ' in some large 
 measure,' to injustice not to fight against 
 it. He had endured long enough; he felt 
 that fate owed him some compensation. 
 
 Why should he not yield to this witchery, 
 and let it do what it would with him ? Why 
 should he not follow as he was drawn, and 
 put away his feeling that he had no right 
 to think of such things ? He had a right ; 
 he had suffered unjustly ; and he would 
 not have all the good of life spoilt by 
 that. 
 
 Vague delicious possibilities thrilled him; 
 glimpses of a might-be dazzled him ; he felt 
 another man. The tide of life ran quicker 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 251 
 
 with him. After his long night of gloom, 
 was sunlight breaking upon him ? Was 
 the cell in which he had been walled up 
 from hope and brightness thrown open at 
 last ? 
 
not.' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DO hope,' said Bee anxiously, 
 'that it will go off well. I 
 shall be mortified if it does 
 
 It was half-past six on the evening of 
 the dinner-party, and she was standing 
 before the fire in the dining-room, looking 
 at the table, and critically examining the 
 general effect. Helen had come early, and 
 was regarding the flowers which she had 
 helped Bee to arrange that afternoon. 
 
 1 Of course it will go off well/ said 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 253 
 
 Helen, in quite an animated tone. i Every- 
 body will enjoy themselves because they 
 will meet Mr. Fairfax. If you gave them 
 a leg of mutton and brown bread, they 
 would not mind much, when you provided 
 such an attraction in addition.' 
 
 'Oh, I didn't mean that exactly/ said 
 Bee. ' I was wondering whether Mr. Fair- 
 fax would find it a great bore.' 
 
 4 1 don't feel very confident that he will 
 not,' replied Helen. 
 
 ' You see, if he does,' said Bee, medi- 
 tatively changing the position of some wine- 
 glasses, ' I shall feel that it was a mistake 
 to ask him.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind,' said Helen. ' It 
 doesn't matter much whether he enjoys 
 Cheynehurst society or not, as he isn't 
 going to stay. Bee, I think it would have 
 been better to mix those azaleas.' 
 
254 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 Which ?' asked Bee, raising dreamy eyes. 
 
 1 There are only these. What are you 
 thinking of ?' 
 
 1 Nothing. Oh, the azaleas you said. 
 No, certainly not, Helen; they are much 
 prettier apart. The mass of white and of 
 red is far more effective than a mixture 
 could be. Well, we had better go to the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 There they awaited the arrival of the 
 guests. They were a contrast in almost 
 every point as they stood together Helen, 
 with her tall figure and fair statuesque 
 face; Bee, with her slight little form and 
 animated irregular features. As if to keep 
 up and emphasize the contrast, the beauty 
 was arrayed in much simpler and cheaper 
 attire than her friend. Her dress was an 
 old black one, behind the fashion ; and she 
 had scarcely any ornaments, except some 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 255 
 
 flowers at her throat and in her hair ; but 
 her grace carried off the shabby dress, and 
 made it a becoming garb. Bee wore a rich 
 dark blue silk, well made, and with creamy 
 lace round her fair neck and falling from 
 her elbow-sleeves ; she had bracelets on her 
 wrists and pearls round her throat. Every 
 detail of her dress had the finish and com- 
 pleteness which can only be attained by 
 those who can pay for such qualities. 
 
 Helen looked at her admiringly. 
 
 ' You look so pretty to-night, Bee.. That 
 dress suits you perfectly.' 
 
 1 Do you think so ?' 
 
 4 Dark blue suits you better than any 
 other colour/ 
 
 4 Then I am glad I chose this dress/ said 
 Bee gravely. < But, Helen, white suits you 
 best. Why didn't you put on a white dress ?' 
 
 ' Because my aunt wished me to do so/ 
 
256 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 1 Oh, I see/ said Bee, laughing. ' Mr. 
 Martin?' 
 
 1 Exactly. She was quite anxious about 
 
 it; 
 
 ' Well, why shouldn't you oblige her?' 
 
 1 If it was only a question of obliging 
 her, I would do it at once. But ' 
 
 4 Why not look your best in spite of 
 Mr. Martin?' 
 
 ' He is quite vain enough to suppose I 
 had put on my prettiest dress for his grati- 
 fication,' said Helen. ' He believes that 
 every girl whom he approaches feels her 
 heart beat faster with hope that she has 
 gained favour in his eyes. Perhaps some 
 day I may wish to make a man admire 
 me. But sooner than lay myself open to 
 the suspicion of wishing to please that 
 man, I would wear shabby dresses all my 
 life. This dress is not at all becoming, is 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 257 
 
 it ? I don't think it will be taken as a 
 tribute to his vanity. 7 
 
 ' No,' said Bee, laughing rather con- 
 strainedly ; i it doesn't look as if you had 
 been anxious to deck yourself/ 
 
 ' You are standing too near the fire, Bee. 
 It is flushing you.' 
 
 Bee moved away. ' After all, your dress 
 is of no consequence. It doesn't make 
 any difference; you are not dependent on 
 fine clothes for your looks.' 
 
 ' I should look better in another dress,' 
 said Helen, regarding herself gravely in a 
 mirror. ' And it is dress that wins half 
 men's admiration, I believe.' 
 
 A ring was heard at the door, and in due 
 time Mr. Martin himself was announced. 
 He entered with a rather perturbed expres- 
 sion; he was consumed with self-reproach 
 at finding himself the first to arrive; it 
 VOL. i. 17 
 
258 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 was countrified to be so ultra-punctual, and 
 if there was anything whj/jh Mr. Martin 
 dreaded, it was to seem countrified. He 
 desired earnestly to appear a man of the 
 world; and his struggle to do so was the 
 more severe because his ideas of the cha- 
 racter were vague. 
 
 He was a good-looking fellow most 
 people called him handsome, and he was 
 quite sure that that adjective described him 
 fairly. He was tall, and he carried himself 
 with the air of a man who is conscious of 
 being well worth looking at ; he had dark 
 eyes and hair, a sunburnt complexion, and 
 a heavy moustache, the object of his care 
 and pride. He might have been agreeable 
 if he had not been vain and affected ; but 
 these qualities do not make a man accept- 
 able to his fellows. 
 
 He greeted Miss Clare with his most 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 259 
 
 languid air he had several manners, and 
 he thought the lazily indifferent the most 
 likely to produce a proper impression on a 
 young lady. 
 
 Close upon his heels came another guest 
 Miss Bell, a tall woman, with a pleasant 
 comely face one of the greatest gossips 
 in the parish. Mr. Martin became more 
 gloomy at the sight of her. Everyone 
 knew that Miss Bell was always first at 
 any gathering. He compared his watch 
 with the timepiece, and said to Bee : 
 
 i I think I must be fast, Miss Clare, if 
 your clock is right. I timed myself to 
 arrive just at seven/ 
 
 1 Oh, you are decidedly fast/ said Miss 
 Bell briskly ; ' or else you must have 
 driven much quicker than you intended. 
 Which horse did you drive ?' 
 
 ' The grey.' 
 
 172 
 
260 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 6 That's it ; you have come at a good 
 pace. That grey is a capital one to go 
 the fastest horse in the neighbourhood/ 
 
 4 He is a pretty good horse/ assented 
 Mr. Martin complacently. 
 
 Having made it appear that his un- 
 fashionably early appearance was caused 
 by no fault of his, he felt more at his 
 ease, and unbent graciously towards Miss 
 Bell, who was catechizing him about his 
 mother's health, and the exact reason why 
 he had dismissed a man from his service 
 last week. Mr. Martin took this curiosity 
 in good part ; it was natural indeed 
 inevitable that his affairs should rouse 
 interest ; and he was quite willing to dilate 
 upon the misdeeds of the erring groom, 
 the singular acuteness with which he had 
 discovered them, and the swift retribution 
 which had followed. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 261 
 
 i I wasted no words on him. I just said, 
 " Excell, you can take a week's wages, and 
 be off at once." By Jove, he was dropped 
 on ! But I wasn't going to put up with 
 it.' 
 
 Mr. Martin drew himself up with the air 
 of a man who can act with dignity and 
 promptness on occasion. 
 
 Mr. Clare had come in ; the other guests 
 were arriving, and Bee was engaged in 
 receiving them. Mrs. Carlyon came among 
 the rest; a big woman, with a plain face, 
 and a manner which was spoilt by a 
 conscious effort to be agreeable. She 
 greeted Bee with exaggerated amiability ; 
 then she smiled her sweetest on Mr. Clare, 
 and swept on to where Mr. Martin was 
 exchanging remarks in an undertone with 
 Mr. Moore, the curate. 
 
 Mr. Martin made a point of talking as 
 
262 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 much as he could to men on festive occa- 
 sions. It looked well, and gave him a 
 comfortable sense of his advantages as a 
 man to stand apart from the ladies, and 
 think that they must regret his preference 
 for more solid mental fare than their light 
 conversation. He really preferred talking 
 to girls ; but he enjoyed the display of lofty 
 indifference and the sweet consciousness 
 that he was not making himself cheap. 
 Accordingly, he was rendering Mr. Moore 
 very unhappy, to judge from his expres- 
 sion, by addressing to him a few remarks 
 on the weather and the market. Mrs. 
 Carlyon delivered the curate, who instantly 
 put himself at a safe distance, while the 
 lady conversed graciously with Mr. Martin. 
 Fairfax was the last to arrive. He was 
 a little late ; and his tardiness caused a 
 slight excitement, which brushed the surface 
 
' ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 263 
 
 of the talk and raised a lively ripple upon 
 it. Questions were put as to whether he 
 had accepted the invitation ; fears were 
 expressed by some doubting souls lest the 
 morbid distaste for society which he had 
 shown already had broken out again, and 
 he was not coming ; speculations were in- 
 dulged in by others as to what made him 
 late. Mr. Martin charitably suggested that 
 his watch might be slow, adding : 
 
 f Mine is fast, and it made me a quarter 
 of an hour earlier than I meant to be.' 
 
 The elder men were beginning to look 
 grave and reproachful ; but they had only 
 to wait a few minutes after the hour of 
 dinner before Fairfax was shown in. 
 
 Bee greeted him pleasantly; but her 
 manner in speaking to him was not quite 
 so easy as it generally was; there was a 
 shade almost of shyness in it. Seeing him, 
 
264 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 she remembered her foolish fancies yester- 
 day, and the remembrance was unwelcome. 
 
 They went in to dinner directly. Mr. 
 Somers, the Rector of a neighbouring 
 parish, took in Bee ; Fairfax was on her 
 other hand. She was too busy in helping 
 soup and talking, to think of less prosaic 
 realities ; and her faint embarrassment dis- 
 appeared as she attended to her duties as 
 hostess. 
 
 She soon became aware that she might 
 rest content that the dinner was going off 
 well. The dishes were well cooked ; the 
 guests were eating and talking with an 
 appearance of enjoyment ; and what was 
 more important Mr. Fairfax did not seem 
 bored. He did not fall into fits of silence ; 
 on the contrary, he was quite talkative. 
 Bee's satisfaction at this was not shared by 
 the company. Fairfax's animation rather 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 265 
 
 disappointed them. They had imagined 
 that he would be a forbidding personage in 
 society, addicted to a tragic gloom as of a 
 man who had a past. A gentleman with a 
 cheerful smile, who ate his dinner with a 
 good appetite, was too everyday a character. 
 
 c He looks quite different now/ com- 
 plained one romantic young lady to Mr. 
 Martin. When I met him out of doors, 
 he looked miserable, as if he had something 
 on his mind.' 
 
 4 Very likely he has/ said Mr. Martin. 
 
 ' He was quite interesting ; he put me in 
 mind of the king who was it ? who never 
 smiled again. Which king was it ?' 
 
 ' Don't you remember ?' said Mr. Martin. 
 He had forgotten himself, as his knowledge 
 of English history was but slight ; but he 
 was not going to expose his ignorance. 
 
 ' I don't just now. Who was it ? One 
 
266 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 of the Henrys. Henry VII., of course. But 
 Mr. Fairfax looks quite jolly to-night. He 
 has plenty of smiles. I think he is hand- 
 somer with that sad expression.' 
 
 ' Do you call him handsome ?' 
 
 ' Of course I do ; don't you ?' 
 
 1 Well, he isn't bad-looking,' allowed Mr. 
 Martin ; ' but he wants go. Too quiet- 
 looking for my taste/ 
 
 The young lady had tact enough to 
 change the subject, and Mr. Martin was 
 not troubled with further talk about the 
 new-comer. But Mr. Fairfax was alto- 
 gether too prominent a figure to please him. 
 He did not enjoy seeing himself so much 
 less important than another man. Mr. 
 Martin found himself indulging in cynical 
 reflections on the power which curiosity 
 exerts, as he noted the attention paid to 
 this stranger all because he had shut himself 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 267 
 
 up at first, and rudely declined his neigh- 
 bours 7 advances. Everybody wished to 
 know him, because he had made acquaint- 
 ance valuable. 
 
 After dinner, Mr. Martin tried to get 
 some talk with Helen Carlyon ; but she 
 baffled him for a while by taking up a 
 position between two elder ladies, to whose 
 entertainment she devoted herself with 
 singular perversity. His turn was only 
 secured by some exertion on his part. 
 Once caught, Helen was too well-bred to 
 be anything but courteous. Her gentle, 
 chilly politeness rather perplexed him. He 
 understood a girl making herself very 
 agreeable to him in a warm way, showing 
 pleasure in his talk, and trying to keep him 
 at her side ; he would have understood also 
 the snub direct and a decided turning of 
 the cold shoulder ; he had experienced that 
 
268 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 once or twice, when he had inadvertently 
 come between a girl and a man with whom 
 she was flirting ; but this considerate 
 civility he was not so well used to, and he 
 could not decide what it meant whether 
 it was caused by natural girlish shyness, 
 or was the disguise of deeper and even more 
 flattering feelings. 
 
 Helen was quite right in her belief that 
 she had found favour in Mr. Martin's eyes. 
 He was more deeply smitten with her than 
 she supposed, and he had made up his mind 
 to give her his hand I do not write offer, 
 for he never dreamt of being refused. He 
 was of the opinion which I once heard a 
 man of experience utter that a man can 
 always win any particular woman on whom 
 he sets his fancy ; at least, he felt that the 
 saying was true when he was the man in 
 question. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 269 
 
 He was very much in love with Miss 
 Carlyon. He admired her beauty im- 
 mensely ; he liked her quiet ways, and the 
 pride of which her neighbours accused her ; 
 his wife ought to be a proud woman ; he 
 even admired her reputed cleverness, as 
 another distinction. The fact that she had 
 no money of her own, and that it would be 
 long years before her uncle could reasonably 
 be expected to die and leave her his savings, 
 had at first been a drawback in Mr. Martin's 
 eyes ; and it had been a little time before 
 he had given up his prudent intention of 
 marrying money ; but Helen's charm 
 wrought upon him so strongly that it 
 made him overlook her want of worldly 
 goods, and having made up his mind to 
 follow his affections, he was pleased by the 
 romantic aspect which this gave to the 
 affair. He could afford to listen to his 
 
270 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 heart ; and also he wisely considered that 
 a portionless wife would be more amenable 
 to control than a woman of independent 
 means ; perhaps more economical, too. 
 
 His mother had injudiciously strengthened 
 his determination by violently objecting to 
 his chosen bride. Her arguments and re- 
 monstrances were admirably adapted to 
 urge him on in the way which she wished 
 him not to take. All Mr. Martin's dignity 
 and self-importance were roused. Listen to 
 his mother's advice ? Xot he ! Of course his 
 mother objected. She would always object 
 to his marriage, and dislike a daughter-in- 
 law ; it was only natural that she should be 
 jealous. With lofty contempt for these 
 petty feelings, Mr. Martin went on his way, 
 and refused to listen to the maternal en- 
 treaties. It gave him considerable gratifica- 
 tion to assert his own independence and 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 271 
 
 freedom of action. That very afternoon he 
 had had a scene with his mother, who was 
 kept away from the Vicarage by a bad cold. 
 She had implored him to think of some one 
 else, not a stuck-up madam who would be 
 too fine to look after the house, and would 
 do nothing to advance his fortunes ; and he 
 approached Helen now, strung up to carry 
 through his purpose, and full of admiration 
 for the depth and disinterestedness of his 
 attachment which made him disregard 
 worldly considerations, and steeled him to 
 endure these unpleasant family scenes. 
 
 He was not allowed to enjoy his lady's 
 society long. Miss Clare soon came to ask 
 him to sing, and he was constrained to 
 obey. He played on the piano in a rather 
 rough but effective fashion ; and he was 
 always expected to perform at any gather- 
 ing in the neighbourhood. His forte was 
 
272 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 in lively, stirring songs ; but on this oc- 
 casion lie chose to sing a sentimental love- 
 ditty. 
 
 1 The nearest approach to a serenade he 
 can well make/ whispered Bee to Helen. 
 
 Mr. Martin had his reward. He could 
 see that Miss Carlyon's face wore an ex- 
 pression of fixed gravity, and her eyes 
 were downcast. Evidently she understood, 
 and was affected ; and he could bear with 
 fortitude to hear Miss Clare say at the 
 end: 
 
 1 Thank you, Mr. Martin. How pretty ! 
 Now> please will you sing something 
 amusing ?' 
 
 After his second song, Helen was called 
 upon to play, and she went with cheerful 
 alacrity to the piano. 
 
 4 Something noisy/ said Bee, aside to 
 her. ' They talk more freely then/ 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 273 
 
 Helen nodded, and began Liszt's arrange- 
 ment of the March in Tannhauser. Very 
 few listened. They were old-fashioned in 
 Cheynehurst, and had not learnt to con- 
 sider instrumental music as anything but 
 an accompaniment to their own sweet 
 voices. 
 
 During the performance, Mrs. Price the 
 doctor's wife talked steadily and persever- 
 ingly to Fairfax. He had been introduced 
 to her a little while before, and she wished 
 to make the most of her time, and push her 
 acquaintance with him as quickly as she 
 could. She was a youngish woman, with 
 fine black eyes and black hair the sort of 
 hair that looks coarse. Her figure would 
 have been well-proportioned if she had not 
 laced too tight, and her voice was harsh in 
 quality. As only one part of her dis- 
 
 VOL. i. 18 
 
274 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 course made any impression on Fairfax, it 
 is only necessary to record that. 
 
 'What do you think of Miss Carlyon's 
 looks ?' she said, as Helen sat down. 
 
 Fairfax looked at Helen, and said that he 
 thought her beautiful. He spoke in a cool, 
 dispassionate tone, much as he might have 
 said that a picture was beautiful. 
 
 1 She certainly has a beautiful figure, but 
 she is rather too pale/ said Mrs. Price, 
 who was given to talk in a depreciating 
 way of everybody. Man or woman 
 whichever the subject of her remarks was 
 she spoke of the person either with 
 gentle, excusing tolerance, or open censure. 
 ' I like Miss Clare's looks better on the 
 whole.' 
 
 Fairfax made no reply. He did not even 
 glance towards Miss Clare. He objected 
 strongly to hearing remarks on her looks, 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 275 
 
 and he would have felt it impertinent to 
 make any on his own account. What busi- 
 ness had he to compare her with another 
 girl ? 
 
 Mrs. Price did not find this want of 
 response as irritatirig as Bee did, and she 
 pursued calmly: 
 
 ' It is a pity that Miss Carlyon gives 
 herself such airs. It spoils her. She has 
 too high an opinion of herself, and it isn't 
 becoming in her position. Have you heard 
 the story about her father ?' 
 
 1 1 have only heard that he is dead.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ; and in such a shocking 
 way/ Mrs. Price lowered her voice dis- 
 creetly. ' He got into some scrape failed 
 in a dishonourable way. It was a disgrace- 
 ful affair altogether, and he committed 
 suicide/ The last words were whispered 
 impressively. ' Blew his brains out/ said 
 
 182 
 
276 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Mrs. Price, with a smile of enjoyment at 
 telling such a sensational fact. i Such a 
 sad thing, you know/ 
 
 Mr. Fairfax again made no reply. Bee, 
 catching a glimpse of him just then, 
 thought : ' He is trying to snub her, and 
 she won't be snubbed. How can she go 
 on talking while his expression says so 
 plainly that he disapproves of her gossip !' 
 
 No disapproval could touch Mrs. Price. 
 She e continued to smile, 7 and spoke 
 further : 
 
 . ' It is a terrible thing for the family, 
 of course; and it will always stand in 
 Helen's way. I have never mentioned it 
 to her' in the tone of one who speaks 
 of a heroically kind and truly forbearing 
 act 'I have never spoken of it before 
 her.' 
 
 ' How long ago was it ?' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 277 
 
 1 Oh ! a very long time when she was 
 quite a little girl/ 
 
 i She doesn't know then, probably ?' he 
 said quickly ; ' that is, if her friends are all 
 as considerate as you/ 
 
 4 Ah ! I am afraid that people are not 
 always considerate/ said Mrs. Price, 
 graciously accepting this compliment with 
 no perception of its irony. ' But I believe 
 she doesn't know I have heard so/ 
 
 ' Poor child !' said Fairfax, under his 
 breath. 
 
 He turned away from Mrs. Price, and 
 listened to Helen's playing, watching her 
 meanwhile with an attention he had not 
 given her before. The information which 
 had just been bestowed upon him gave a 
 new interest to the girl's face, and a new 
 meaning to her wistful eyes. Something 
 of the same shadow which had darkened 
 
278 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 his days had fallen over her life ; and if 
 she was unconscious of its presence now, 
 she had already felt its chill ; and her eyes 
 would be opened to its blackness sooner or 
 later. 
 
 He was drawn to her as he had never 
 yet been drawn to any human being ; there 
 was a fellowship between them. She 
 would learn the truth about her father's 
 end ; hear it probably in a cruelly ex- 
 aggerated form. ' Poor child poor child !' 
 he said to himself, as he looked at the 
 delicate face, with its fine clear lines ; she 
 was not strong enough for the pain she 
 must bear. 
 
 Helen had finished her performance and 
 risen, but Fairfax stood still deep in 
 thought, when the light touch of a fan on 
 his arm roused him, and he turned to look 
 down at Bee. Her eyes were raised with a 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 279 
 
 laughing light in them, a soft rose-colour 
 tinted her cheeks, her lips were parted in a 
 smile ; the up -turned face was so lovely, 
 that a sudden admiration sprang into his 
 grave eyes. He had not seen her half so 
 fair before. His saddened sympathetic 
 mood vanished at the sight of her ; yet he 
 half sighed. This radiant smiling beauty, 
 which had ' felt no age/ and looked as 
 though it had ' known no sorrow,' was 
 very sweet; but what had it to do with 
 him ? She belonged to the sunshine from 
 which he was shut out. 
 
 ' I am not doing my duty, I know,' he 
 said, with an amused, deprecating glance. 
 
 ' Are you tired of talking ?' she said, 
 rather dubiously. 'I don't wish to tease 
 you and make a duty of it.' 
 
 ' You are punishing me by taking my 
 speech literally. I am not tired at all 
 
2 8o ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 only I had fallen into a reverie while Miss 
 Carlyon played.' 
 
 ' I came to ask you to talk to her a little. 
 That will be easy for you, as you know her 
 already/ 
 
 4 That is very kind and considerate of 
 you.' 
 
 ' Helen/ said Bee, when she had led him 
 to her friend, 'will you show Mr. Fairfax 
 those views ? Perhaps he can tell us 
 whether the foreign ones are good.' 
 
 Helen assented, and exerted herself in a 
 grave business-like fashion to entertain Mr. 
 Fairfax. She was less cold to him than 
 she was to her admirer; she had caught 
 something of the general interest in him 
 and some of Bee's pity, and she liked his 
 quiet, courteous manner. They grew quite 
 friendly over the views. He treated her 
 with even more gentle deference than 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 281 
 
 before ; there was such a pathos in her 
 position. He fancied he could read the 
 influence of that blight which she was 
 ignorant of in everything about her, even 
 in her shabby dress. Her father had left 
 her to bear poverty and to be reared by 
 the grudging charity of relations. This 
 was rather hard on Mrs. Carlyon, who 
 spent as much as she could afford on her 
 niece's dress, and was that evening mourn- 
 ing that the old-fashioned dress had been 
 brought out, while a fresh handsome white 
 one was in the wardrobe at home. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ;HE morning before the dinner- 
 party, Fairfax called at the lodge 
 to bid the Dixons welcome. He 
 went with something of an effort, of which 
 he was privately ashamed. It was distaste- 
 ful to him to see these people again ; and 
 he was weakly afraid of the power their 
 presence might have to stir up memory 
 of the past time they were connected 
 with. 
 
 In the few weeks which had elapsed since 
 his proposal that they should come, his 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 283 
 
 feeling about that time had changed greatly. 
 The remembrance of it had passed from him 
 in a great measure, and he thought less of 
 it than he had ever done before. It was 
 less important, and required less attention 
 than the small events of every day a walk 
 or drive with the boys, or a visit to the 
 Vicarage. Each day seemed to set it 
 further off. 
 
 He shrank nervously from any disturb- 
 ance of this peaceful frame of mind. But 
 it was too shabby to entertain such a feeling 
 towards the people to whom he owed such 
 a heavy debt; he could not be so inhumanly 
 ungrateful. His reluctance to have them 
 near him was not complicated by any fear 
 that they might betray his secret. Most 
 people would have thought of this at first, 
 but it did not occur to Fairfax. He felt no 
 less safe with Joe and his wife than he did 
 
284 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 with Bob : it was simply the effect which 
 seeing them again might produce on him 
 that he dreaded. 
 
 Yet, as he went through the park that 
 morning, he thought less of his errand than 
 of his talk with Bee Clare yesterday after- 
 noon. The memory of her looks and words 
 pushed aside all former memories and made 
 them faint and dim. 
 
 After all, his visit was much easier than 
 he expected it to be. There was nothing 
 painful for him personally in it; Joe and 
 Lizzie were both too much altered to 
 remind him of their first acquaintance. 
 He forgot himself in his regret at the 
 change. 
 
 Lizzie was a pale thin woman now, with 
 a face showing lines of anxiety and toil, 
 and the subdued unexpectant air of one 
 who knows trouble; and the white-faced 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 285 
 
 invalid, helpless in the armchair by the 
 fire, was sadly unlike the active, restless 
 little man Fairfax had known. Only his 
 eyes, bright and quick as ever, were the 
 same. He talked, too, in much his old 
 way, but his irritability was sharpened by 
 his weakness ; and now and then he made 
 a resolute effort at controlling it, and 
 was carefully gentle in a way that was 
 pathetic. 
 
 ' I was going to say, Joe, that I'm sorry 
 to see you here/ said Fairfax ; ' but that 
 doesn't sound very civil. I wish, though, 
 I could see you in any other way.' 
 
 4 And I can say that I'm sorrier to be 
 here than you can be to see me,' quoth Joe, 
 with a twinkle in his eyes. 1 1 can't say as 
 I'm a willing guest, sir.' 
 
 ' Indeed, sir/ put in Lizzie, ' we are both 
 very glad to come, and very much obliged 
 
286 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 to you. You mustn't mistake Joe ; lie will 
 say queer things.' 
 
 4 Oh, I understand Joe quite well/ said 
 Fairfax. 
 
 ' I'm sure I'm thankful to be in such a 
 beautiful place.' 
 
 ' I hope you find the house comfort- 
 able/ 
 
 * It's more than comfortable, sir ; I can 
 thank you enough. 7 
 
 4 There's nothing to thank me for. I 
 hope the country air will bring Joe round 
 
 soon. 7 
 
 ' He'll pick up here, sir, I'm sure. He'll 
 soon feel stronger in this air, and with the 
 beautiful fresh eggs and milk won't you, 
 Joe?' 
 
 4 1 hope so/ said Joe, in an unhopeful 
 tone. * Anyway, you've given me the best 
 chance I could have, Mr. Fairfax. The 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 287 
 
 doctor said that if I ever was to pull round, 
 I must go into the country.' 
 
 * Oh, Joe, he said that you would soon 
 be all right if you were only away out 
 of that dreadful London/ said Lizzie 
 anxiously. 
 
 Joe looked at her with a softening of his 
 face, and only said: 
 
 1 Was that it, lass ? Well, then, you 
 may be easy about me, as we have got out 
 of London/ 
 
 ' Oh yes, of course he'll get strong here/ 
 said Fairfax cheerily. 
 
 In the first freshness of the spring which 
 had broken upon the 'winter of his dis- 
 content/ he could not but be hopeful for 
 everybody. 
 
 Next day Joe was alone in the house, his 
 wife having gone to the village to make 
 some purchases. He was sitting by the 
 
288 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 fire, which, bright as it was, could not 
 thaw the chilliness caused partly by his 
 injuries, partly by want of exercise; and 
 he was looking moodily towards the view 
 framed by the window. It was only a 
 square of turf, with a distant tree or two, 
 and a bit of blue sky. A. few sheep were 
 diligently cropping the grass, and the 
 peaceful sunshine of a fine November day 
 brightened everything. It was a much 
 pleasanter outlook than the grimy houses 
 and roofs which he had seen from his 
 lodging in London, till he was sick of their 
 straight lines and hideous monotony; but 
 Joe was not thinking of this. He was 
 pondering over the contrast between his 
 hard lot, his helplessness and suffering, his 
 days and nights of pain and restlessness, 
 and this quiet world, with its blue sky and 
 sunshine. 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 289 
 
 He heard a knock at the outer door, and 
 he was irritated to remember that his wife 
 was out. He could not move to admit the 
 visitor, whoever it might be. It must be 
 Mr. Fairfax. Joe's face brightened a little. 
 He would like a talk with him ; it would 
 be a cheering change. Surely Mr. Fairfax 
 would have sense enough to know that he 
 was alone, and would walk in. But perhaps 
 Lizzie had fastened the door. Another 
 knock, louder and more peremptory ; then 
 the door was opened. 
 
 Joe drew a long breath of satisfaction, 
 and said eagerly, ' Come in,' as a knock 
 came at the room door; then he was dis- 
 appointed, for not Mr. Fairfax, but a young 
 lady, entered. 
 
 Now Joe disliked young ladies even 
 more than he disliked young gentlemen. 
 He had a great respect for the women of his 
 VOL. i. 19 
 
2 90 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 own class, for he had had a clever, capable 
 mother, and his wife was shrewd and ener- 
 getic. A man's estimate of women is a 
 pretty sure measure of the capacity of his 
 feminine belongings. If they are fools, he 
 generalizes like Hamlet, who, being shocked 
 by his mother's weakness, sprang to the 
 conclusion, ' Frailty, thy name is woman !' 
 and sets down all women as fools ; if they 
 are such as he must respect, he is respectful 
 to the sex. But young ladies were idle and 
 helpless, fond of dress, and no good at all 
 in the world, according to Mr. Dixon : they 
 toiled not, neither did they spin, and he 
 despised them heartily. 
 
 1 1 beg your pardon/ said his unwelcome 
 visitor ; * I knocked twice and nobody came, 
 and I thought that perhaps Mrs. Dixon was 
 busy and did not hear. I hope I haven't 
 come at an inconvenient time.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 291 
 
 Joe was somewhat mollified by the plea- 
 sant face and voice, and he highly approved 
 of her manner. It was as courteous as if he 
 had been her equal. 
 
 ' My wife is out/ he said. i She won't 
 be long. Will you sit down and wait for 
 her ?' 
 
 ' Thank you ; I shall be glad to do 
 that.' 
 
 She drew a chair near the fire and sat 
 down. 
 
 4 1 am Miss Clare/ she said. ' My father 
 is the clergyman here. We know Mr. Fair- 
 fax, and he told me about your illness. I 
 called to ask how you are. I hope you 
 bore the journey pretty well.' 
 
 < Thank you, ma'am/ said Joe, feeling 
 obliged to be very polite to this friendly 
 young lady, ' I stood it fairly. It shook 
 me a good bit/ he added, with the con- 
 
 192 
 
292 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 scientious attention to detail with which 
 most men speak of their health. 
 
 4 1 hope you will like Cheynehurst. The 
 country round is rather pretty, but this is 
 a bad time of year. If you stay till spring, 
 you will see it at its best.' 
 
 4 1 don't know how long it will suit Mr. 
 Fairfax to have us stay,' said Joe grumpily. 
 
 Miss Clare's speech reminded him that 
 his stay there did not depend on himself; 
 and because it galled him to know this, he 
 spoke of it the more openly. 
 
 4 1 meant that perhaps you would be well 
 before spring, and that you might not care 
 to stay after you recovered/ 
 
 4 I'm afraid that'll be a long day/ mut- 
 tered Joe. 
 
 i Oh, I hope not ! You must keep up 
 your spirits, and hope to get better soon. 
 But you will feel dull at first, coming to 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 293 
 
 a strange place, and the fuss of moving 
 would tire you.' 
 
 i It lias upset me a bit, I dare say/ said 
 Joe. 4 But a man gets disheartened to be 
 tied to a chair like this, and not able to stir 
 a foot. It comes heavy on one to be a 
 burden on other folk's hands.' 
 
 ' Yes ; it must be very hard. Mr. Fairfax 
 said you would feel it very much, as you 
 were so active naturally.' 
 
 Joe shook his head with a half- sigh, half- 
 groan. 
 
 ' 1 suppose you can read,' went on Bee. 
 ' I mean/ laughing at his offended start, 
 * that you are strong enough to amuse your- 
 self in that way ?' 
 
 4 Yes ; I can read without tiring myself.' 
 
 She asked about the kind of reading he 
 preferred, and she was surprised to find 
 that he had read so much. Joe was not 
 
294 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 unwilling to show his pretty visitor that he 
 was a man of superior tastes and acquire- 
 ments, and he discoursed at some length 
 upon his studies. 
 
 Enter Lizzie, with a look of amazement 
 at finding her husband engaged in amiable 
 converse with a young lady. Bee intro- 
 duced herself, and in a few minutes Lizzie 
 was talking to her freely, and pouring out 
 her troubles with the confidence of one who 
 is sure of a sympathetic hearing. It was a 
 comfort to talk to a woman who had time 
 and patience to listen, and was not, as 
 Lizzie's late neighbours had been, too deep 
 in care herself to spare kindly feeling for 
 others. 
 
 Bee heard a long account of the accident 
 to Joe : how he had fallen off a high pair of 
 steps as he was painting, and the steps had 
 come down with him and upon him: how 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 295 
 
 he had been bruised and his back strained, 
 while the shaking had upset his nerves, and 
 made him at first as cross as a teething 
 child. 
 
 i Ay, you had a bad time with me then !' 
 said Joe, in a shamefaced way. ' You 
 should have sent me to a hospital.' 
 
 ' As if I would ever let you be beholden 
 to strangers when I can do for you, Joe ! 
 He likes to say queer things, ma'am/ 
 
 Then Lizzie talked about the house and 
 her shopping. When Bee departed, pro- 
 mising to lend Joe some books and news- 
 papers, she left two people much better for 
 her call. 
 
 6 She's a sweet young lady,' said Lizzie, 
 with unwonted fervour. c She's a lady 
 every inch of her ; you can see that by her 
 pleasant way. You didn't mind her coming, 
 Joe?' 
 
296 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 Lizzie was rather anxious on this point, 
 as her husband, after he had consented to 
 come to Cheynehurst, had grumbled freely 
 at the prospect of living in a village, where 
 the parson would come bothering him, and 
 charitable ladies would probably insist on 
 thrusting their acquaintance upon him. 
 He had been atrociously rude to the district 
 visitor of the street in which he lived in 
 London ; and he had driven the curate from 
 him, declaring that he wanted neither tracts 
 nor prayers ; and Lizzie trembled lest he 
 should offend Mr. Fairfax, and bring dis- 
 credit on his patron and on himself, by 
 acting in the same way here. 
 
 1 That's a fool's question, anyway/ he 
 said tartly. ' Why should I mind ?' 
 
 ' Why, you said that you wouldn't have 
 gentlefolks coming to pester you/ 
 
 1 Well, you needn't fash yourself. Miss 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 297 
 
 Clare hasn't pestered me. She behaved to 
 me as civilly as if I was a curate myself, 
 and I'm not likely to be uncivil to her. 
 You might see yourself she's not one of the 
 sort I hate. She didn't say a word of 
 preaching, and she left my soul alone, and 
 didn't set up to know better than I do.' 
 
 This was high praise from Joe, and Lizzie 
 felt that Miss Clare had produced a very 
 favourable impression indeed. 
 
 6 1 hope she'll come again,' said Lizzie. 
 
 i She'll come, sure enough. She said she 
 would; and she isn't one to talk as she 
 sits ; she means what she says.' 
 
 When, a day or two after, Mr. Clare 
 called on this new parishioner, the visit 
 was not quite so successful as his daughter's 
 had been. Joe regarded parsons with bitter 
 contempt and aversion. He felt towards 
 them much as a fashionable Conservative 
 
298 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 feels towards a thorough - going Kadical, 
 except indeed that his dislike was not 
 flavoured with fear. 
 
 His notions about them were crude and 
 rather too sweeping. They were 'mostly 
 fools/ and very often hypocrites, who could 
 not possibly believe what they taught. 
 
 Mr. Clare talked pleasantly enough to 
 him ; but Joe was quick to detect that the 
 kindly phrases were a form, and that the 
 call was paid as a duty. He did not make 
 allowance for the fact that when showing 
 kindness is a part of professional work, it 
 becomes a matter of routine more or less, 
 and is done sometimes in a mechanical way. 
 When we have to say the same things a 
 few thousand times, we use the same 
 phrases till they are worn threadbare, and 
 our feeling is worn as thin. Mr. Clare 
 was sincerely desirous of showing himself 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 299 
 
 friendly to the invalid, but lie could not 
 flatter him by the fresh interest which Bee 
 had displayed. He was thirty years older, 
 and he did not care much for his pastoral 
 office. 
 
 He asked a question about the church 
 which the Dixons had attended in London. 
 Joe answered curtly that they did not go 
 to church. 
 
 ' Ah, I beg your pardon/ said Mr. Clare. 
 ' I did not know that you were Dissenters. 
 There are two chapels in the village.' 
 
 ' I'm not a Dissenter either, exactly,' said 
 Joe ; ' at least I suppose you wouldn't call 
 me one, though I dissent from more than 
 they do. The fact is, I'm a Freethinker. 
 I'd better tell you at once, sir; you'll be 
 wasting time over me, for I have nothing 
 to do with your church, or any church.' 
 
 Mr. Clare raised his eyebrows a little, 
 
300 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 but he gave no other sign of surprise. 
 Nor did he attempt to bring Joe to a sense 
 of the error of his ways. 
 
 ' I am sorry to hear you say so/ was all 
 he said. 
 
 ' It's only fair that you should know. 
 I'm not going to hide my opinions, and 
 sham religion/ 
 
 ' Certainly ; it is much better to be 
 honest. Still, I hope you don't feel that 
 it will be waste of time for me to come 
 occasionally to ask after you while you are 
 in my parish ?' 
 
 ' I only meant that any parson's talk 
 was thrown away on me.' 
 
 Lizzie was in the room when this took 
 place. Her consternation was great ; and 
 she came as near being angry with her 
 husband as she could be while he was ill. 
 She could have cried with mortification 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 301 
 
 that Joe should be so wrong-headed as to 
 make a confession which must put a stop 
 to any notice from the Clares. She was 
 pleased with their visits : it was like a 
 revival of her childish days when she the 
 daughter of a gentleman's gardener had 
 been noticed by the ladies at the Hall. 
 And it was very hard to lose the kindness 
 of that pretty Miss Clare. 
 
 When Mr. Clare rose to go, Lizzie found 
 courage to say : 
 
 ' I hope, sir, you won't mind what my 
 husband said, and keep Miss Clare away. 
 She said she'd come again ' 
 
 4 I'd be sorry if the young lady stayed 
 away because of me,' interrupted Joe. ' My 
 wife was glad to see her, and so was I.' 
 
 c Oh, of course she will come again if you 
 wish it,' said Mr. Clare. 
 
 6 Joe will talk in that way ever since he 
 
302 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 got to know some of them lecturing people, 
 and they put all sorts of things into his 
 head,' said Lizzie ; ' but he doesn't mean 
 half.' 
 
 Few things can be more exasperating to 
 a man than for the wife of his bosom to 
 attribute his originality of thought to 
 some one else. If his own wife doesn't 
 respect his intellect blindly, who will ? 
 And to have it said that he doesn't mean 
 his statements of his convictions is almost 
 worse. But Joe heroically restrained any 
 expression of anger, and only said : 
 
 i Anyway, I can promise not to talk in 
 that way before Miss Clare.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Mr. Clare. < I will tell 
 her that you would like to see her, Mrs. 
 Dixon.' 
 
 He took his departure, and Lizzie gave 
 it as her opinion that he was as nice as his 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 303 
 
 daughter in his way ; and then scolded her 
 husband pretty freely for his want of 
 manners to the clergyman. 
 
 ' What call had you to go and tell him. 
 that you weren't a decent Christian ?' said 
 Lizzie, who was more deeply convinced of 
 the folly of Joe's views since his accident. 
 That had proved the impolicy towards 
 heaven of heresy ; and open confession of 
 the heresy was as impolitic towards men. 
 i I'm not going to be a hypocrite.' 
 'Nobody asked you to be a hypocrite. 
 You might just have held your tongue and 
 said nothing. You aren't obliged to tell 
 all you think. But you must out with 
 everything; just as if you w T ere proud of 
 them notions of yours, which will bring 
 you no good here or hereafter. Oh, Joe, 
 do keep yourself quiet, and don't go 
 setting folks against us ! If you must 
 
304 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 think such dreadful things, keep 'em to 
 yourself.' 
 
 Joe became cross on this remonstrance, 
 and they had a warm dispute, which ended 
 in his falling into a fit of sulky silence for 
 some time. After tea, Bob came in to 
 spend an hour or two. 
 
 ' How are you to-night, Joe ?' he asked. 
 ' Getting on ?' 
 
 ( I doubt there's precious little chance of 
 that for me/ said Joe, who had not re- 
 covered his good - humour, and in his 
 present temper felt some pleasure in ex- 
 pressing a despondent view of his condition. 
 It would do Lizzie good to be reminded 
 how ill he was. 
 
 ' Come, you mustn't talk like that ; you 
 look a vast better already,' said Bob cheer- 
 fully. ' You'll soon be on your legs 
 again.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 305 
 
 4 Ay, it's easy to talk/ 
 
 > 
 ' Do you feel any worse to-night, Joe ? 
 
 said his wife anxiously. 
 
 f I don't feel any better,' was the pathetic 
 rejoinder. 
 
 Bob produced his pipe, and filled it. 
 This process did not tend to soothe Joe's 
 ruffled feelings. He was forbidden to 
 smoke, and the deprivation was a serious 
 one for a person of his irritable nerves. 
 He looked on with a deepening frown as 
 his brother pressed the tobacco down in the 
 bowl, then lit it, and drew long, regular 
 whiffs with an expression of placid enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 i This is a more comfortable place to 
 smoke a pipe in than your room in London, 
 Joe,' he said, with a complacent glance at 
 the glowing hearth. 
 
 Joe never liked to be reminded of 
 
 VOL. i. 20 
 
306 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 London. He had gone there in a fit of 
 restlessness in the face of his wife's strong 
 opposition, and the event had proved that 
 he had acted foolishly. He had found 
 little work in his new sphere, and had made 
 a closer acquaintance with poverty than 
 was at all agreeable, and, what was to 
 him infinitely more unpleasant than the 
 necessity of living closely, the harass of 
 uncertainty. 
 
 Bob's speech was also irritating, because 
 it suggested that his patronage had secured 
 these comforts ; and Joe did not quite relish 
 the fact that his stupid, slow, younger 
 brother had blundered into a snugger berth 
 in life than he had. It was contrary to the 
 rules which should regulate the course of 
 affairs, that Bob's fortune should have been 
 on a superficial view made by his going 
 to prison once ; while Joe, who had kept 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 307 
 
 himself out of scrapes, had come down in 
 the world. 
 
 It is a very old difficulty, and a very 
 crude one the caprice of fortune ; but it 
 is as fresh to each of us as if it had not 
 been felt in every generation ; and Joe's 
 perplexity was as great as that of the 
 Psalmist when he wrote : 4 He putteth 
 down one, and setteth up another/ 
 
 ' Ay, Bob, it is that,' said Lizzie. ' I'm 
 sure I can't be thankful enough for the 
 change. It was a good day for us when 
 you brought us Mr. Fairfax. Eh, how 
 well I remember seeing him the first 
 time !' 
 
 ' We'll not talk of that/ interrupted Bob 
 hastily. ' Say nothing's a canny thing/ 
 
 ' I shouldn't talk of it except to you or 
 Joe,' said Lizzie, somewhat disgusted at 
 being suppressed. 
 
 202 
 
3 o8 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 ' A still tongue makes a wise head/ 
 returned Bob oracularly. 
 
 ' It's not what I ever thought to come 
 to,' said Joe querulously, ' to be beholden 
 to any man, and to take a servant's place 
 like this.' 
 
 ' You might be thankful to have the 
 chance/ said Bob drily. ' It's hard to 
 please you. 7 
 
 i Thankful to be a helpless creature taking 
 a kind of charity ?' 
 
 ' It isn't charity. Mr. Fairfax would 
 put somebody else here if you hadn't come. 
 And if it was charity, you needn't be so 
 over-proud as to mind taking it from him. 
 He doesn't look on it as anything but a 
 return. He told me so himself, in those 
 very words. " Bob," says he, "your 
 brother and sisler saved my life, and I owe 
 them a vast more nor I can do for them." ' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 309 
 
 Bob lowered his voice as he uttered the last 
 words, and spoke in a mysterious way. ' It 
 isn't a thing that I'd talk of, and nobody 
 must know how we came to know him.' 
 
 ' Why, Bob, I should think not !' cried 
 Lizzie. i We aren't such fools !' 
 
 { You needn't trouble yourself,' added 
 Joe. * Lizzie and me can hold our tongues 
 as well as you.' 
 
 4 Ay, ay, I know that/ said Bob. ' Bless 
 you, I'm sure of that ! But it gives me a 
 queer feel to talk of it I can't help looking 
 round to see if anybody's near enough to 
 listen. Not a word of it has crossed my lips, 
 except to you, since the day we went away.' 
 
 ; Doesn't he ever speak of it ?' said Joe. 
 
 Bob's shake of the head was emphatic. 
 
 1 Never never a word. He thinks about 
 it a deal too much.' 
 
 4 Ah, poor fellow, it was a terrible thing 
 
310 ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 
 
 for him !' sighed Lizzie. ' It's a pity but 
 he could forget it.' 
 
 * I hope he'll stop here awhile. He's 
 been more cheery since he took to going to 
 the Vicarage.' 
 
 ' Eh/ cried Lizzie, with quick interest, 
 * if he found a wife there, that would be a 
 fine thing for him !' 
 
 ' Well, that's as it turns out/ said Bob. 
 ' I think it would be the best thing he 
 could do to settle. It's bad for him to be 
 so much alone ; there's nothing to keep 
 him from thinking.' 
 
 'Well, I'd back a wife to do that for 
 him/ rejoined Joe significantly. 
 
 1 He'd have her to talk to and enliven 
 him/ said Bob, missing the point of his 
 brother's sarcasm. 
 
 ' But I doubt/ again sighed Lizzie, < that 
 tha told story '11 stand in his way.' 
 
ANTHONY FAIRFAX. 311 
 
 ' Don't be always casting that up/ said 
 Bob, almost pettishly. 
 
 4 I'm none casting it up/ 
 
 ' Why should that stand in his way ? 
 It's done him harm enough already, and 
 it was all a lie from beginning to end. 
 Besides, nobody need ever know.' 
 
 1 Eh, I don't know. Things come out so 
 queerly.' 
 
 ' There's no reason why this should ever 
 come out,' insisted Bob. ' He'll find a 
 wife fast enough if he likes. Any young 
 lady would jump at him. He's good- 
 looking, and a thorough gentleman, and 
 well-off he needn't go far.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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