/. ~'^^am^ *^ L I 5 R.ARY OF THE UN I VER.5ITY or ILLI NOI5 w^^'m^ Return this book on or before the Latest Date stamped below. University of Illinois Library 1 . 1 6 1 — I I 4 1 k FOE LILIAS. Jl flobcl. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, author of wooed alfd siapwried,' ' xot like other girls,' 'Nellie's memories,' etc. IX THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, J3ttblishers in ©rbimiry tff ^ev ^Hajcstn the (SJuccit. 1885. [j^ll Bights BeservecL] C \2f C3 o — f C/3 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. ?i CHAPTER I. ACROSS WOODLEIGII DOWN II. RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS III. * MARJORY DAW ' - - - IV. A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH - V. MRS. chard's STORY - - - VI. AT THE BLUE BOAR viL murrel's end - - - - Vin. 'which is POPPLES ?'- IX. ' I AVILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN ' - X. THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE XI. THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY - XII. ' I WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF ' XIII. ON THE EAST HILL XIV. 'I DO NOT LOVE MINE' XV. 'you MUST COME TO ST. KILDA'S XVI. PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH - 1 15 3r> 103 124 144 158 174 193 212 233 241) 270 288 FOR LILIAS. CHAPTEE I. ACROSS ^yOODLEIGH DOWN. 5^S7^I|HIS is the story of a woman who, like (^ i^^ many another, in the mere fooHsh- ^yfJu^ ness and exuberance of her youth dreaded nothing so much as the uniform mono- tony of a too well-known path ; preferring to explore unbeaten tracks in search of wider horizons and pastures yet unknown. A woman who, in spite of many imperfections, won for herself much love ; who in after-days would have amended the Litany, adding to it a special clause, ' From the sins of youth and from the beguiling subtlety of our own will we would VOL. I. 1 2 ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN. fiiiu be delivered ' — for she wrote these words in the margm of her Prayer-book, and signed them, not with her old, but with her new name. * Of course I knew it must be Marjory ! no one else in tlieir sober senses would display such exquisite wisdom as to sit dreaming on an open bench in a public road, with a delicious east wind blowing freely round her ; only youth could indulge in such folly with impunity on a March day !' These words, spoken in a keen incisive voice, might have been endorsed by the few passers- by, w^ho one and all had cast wondering glances on the girl, who sat wdtli her eyes fixed on the white dusty road in front of her — so lost in abstraction that the well-known tone of a friend made her start and change colour. ' Of course I knew it must be that wise w^oman Marjory !' repeated the voice, with aggravating and condemnatory calmness. ' And of course no one else but you, Mr. Frcre, would have followed me with the express purpose of saying disagreeable things,' replied the girl, with an annoyed air. * To some classes of mind truth is always MR. FRERE IS A PHILOSOPHER. 5 disagreeable,' was the unruffled answer, as the speaker drew a dusty circle with his stick, and then whistled to a small grey terrier who was burrowing among the last year's dead leaves in a dry ditch. He was a broad-shouldered well-built man about forty-five, with a shrewd kindly face, a face that was more remarkable for its intelli- gence and keenness than for its good looks. The thick closely cropped hair was already prematurely silvered, and so w^ere the whiskers that were cut carelessly in a b3^gone fashion. Everything about the man was unstudied and unconstrained ; fine clothes could not have made him a dandy, and the finest manners would have matched quaintly with a bluntness that was far from being ungentle. * I have been all my life trying to draw a perfect circle,' he continued, in a cool philo- sophical voice. ' It is something to make one's mark even in the dust of ages ; there is a humiliating affinity between us humans and these atoms. Some one says, '^ A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom ;" I have an idea that not Solomon, but a descendant of the wise man said that. It strikes me,' looking round 1—2 4 ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN. him reflectively, * that tlie world is in a mighty mess this afternoon. We have strong need of the old "vvoman who essayed to sweep the cob- webs from the sky. Nature is carpet-beating, I suppose ; preparing, like a thrifty housekeeper — grand old soul that she is — for her spring clean.' * Oh, I may as well go home with j^ou,' in- terrupted Marjory impatiently ; ' it seems one can never be alone and enjoy one's thoughts in peace.' * You were enjoying them, then ? I thought they were cheerful reflections, from the way you were puckering up your forehead. Anne will have to iron out the creases for you, if you show her that sort of face.' * What a tiresome mood you are in !' she re- turned, with decided irritability. * I wish you had not followed me — you would have mado an excellent detective, Mr. Frere. I think an idle man about the house is created for tho sole purpose of tormenting his womankind.' * Come, now, I call that candid : it is some- thing after all to know your real opinion.' * Desultoriuess is such a mistake,' she ob- served ; ' everyone ought to have a fixed MARJOR V IN A BAD TEMPER. 5 purpose and occupation in life — every man, and certainly every woman/ ' I am so glad you agree with me and Dr. Watts, my dear,' he returned, evidently de- lighted that he had driven her even into ill- tempered discussion, for she spoke with much sharpness and sense of injury. ' How often since your childhood — and what a naughty child you were, Marjory! — have I inculcated this ex- cellent maxim : It is better to do nothing grace- fully, than everything by fits and starts. Jerky virtues are my abhorrence. If I were old ■enough to be egotistical, I would deduce ex- amples from my own experience : ever since I was a youngster I have never taken a walk without trying to draw a perfect circla with my •stick, and have never done it yet.' The pleasant humour with w^hich this was said would have charmed a less self-absorbed listener ; but there are moods when the voice of a siren would fail to please. And Marjory, leading the pace with swift even steps, turned a persistent deaf ear to her companion's good- natured raillery. Not that this disturbed him in the least ; he was more quizzical than aggrieved, and more amused than either. 6 ACROSS irOODLEIGH DOWN. It seldom suited Mr. Frere to be long silent — never when he was with this girl — so after a pause, during which he employed himself in whistling up his dog, he began again, this time putting his hand on Marjory's arm and com- pelling her to slacken her pace. * There now, I call that worth looking at* After all, these March days are not without their beauty. Look at the grand effect of those windy lights, and the shadow out yonder acros-^ the common. You can get a peep between those houses.' Hitherto they had been walking up a steep road, bounded on one side by houses, and on the other by a fir plantation ; but now they had reached the church, and before them lay the long lime avenue, stretching across Woodleigh Down. It was a broad, picturesque road, pleasantly paved with red pantiles, and the houses on either side were handsome, well-built residences standing far back in charming gardens. In early spring — especially when the limes were in their tenderest green — Woodleigh Down was a delightful place for a morning or evening' caunter. Now and then v»ere delicious peep;^ UNDER THE LIMES. between the houses at the wide-stretching country that hiy round Moorbridge ; and not many steps from where Mr. Frere and Marjory stood was one of the entrance - lodges to Frampton Castle, the cottage standing against a background of blue-black firs, and its broad white road stretching into the grand old park. ' How I wish we lived on the opposite side and enjoyed our neighbour's view over Moor- bridge Common!' observed Mr. Frere, as they pursued their way more slowly. * It strikes me, Marjory, now I come to think of it, that you have heard me make that remark before.' ' Only every day for the last seven or eight years — ever since we came to live at Murrel's End,' she returned, with a little scorn. ' I really believe that even Anne is beginning to find the remark monotonous, though she would not say so for worlds ; but then, all your speeches are perfect in her eyes.' ' Oh, as to that,' he returned cheerfully, ' he is a poor fellow who is not a hero to somebody. Even a harmless philosopher like myself, who wins the word '* desultoriness " from year's end to year's end, must have one devoted follower.' 8 ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN. * And of cQurse that is Anne/ * Cda va sausdiir. You would not class your- self as a believer in the Frere philosophy. Do you know your incredulity is a splendid counter- poise to Anne's perfect faith ? It adjusts the balance admirabl}^' ' Oh, you will not provoke me into an ar<;'ument,' she answered negligently. ' Anne's opinions and mine often clash. My nature is different to hers — it asks more, requires more ; l)ut I cannot expect either of you to understand me,' dropping her voice a little sadly. ' Well, no,' he returned placidly. ' It is of course beyond the limits of possibility and common - sense to expect two sober-minded, middle-aged people, like Anne and myself, to comprehend the girl whom v>^e have attempted (mark the word, Marjory) — attempted to bring up from the mature age of three. Everyone laiows how deep, how many-sided, how alto- gether inaccessible is a girl's nature ; its pro- I'lmdity, how baffling ; its wisdom innate, and never purchased second-hand at the circulating library.' 'No, you shall not provoke me,' she re- peated, clasping her small well-gloved hands ' YOU ARE BENT OX TEA ZING ME. together, and looking straight before her. * You are bent on teasing me this afternoon, and I suppose you must have your way. If your i-emarks do not interest me as much as usual, it must be my fault. Anne would have been a more appreciative listener.' ' I wonder what Anne will say to us when I bring home the truant. Depend upon it she will treat you to a lecture if the east wind brings on my rheumatism. I wonder where jou get your love of wandering ? Fluff and I are always discovering you in unsuspected places. I think you must have gipsy blood in your veins ; there is really a trace of the Zingara about you in your brown skin.' He gave her a swift sidelong glance as he spoke, but his lip did not relax from its quiz- zical curl — for some reason, best known to himself, he seemed bent on rousing her. Then, for the first time, she turned her eyes fully to him, and the angry blood rushed over her hand- some young face. * This is generous of you, this is kind, when you know — you know ' pausing as though her breath were suddenly impeded ; but he took up her incomplete sentence and finished it. TO ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN. * " When I know your mother/' you were ^oing to say ; well, and so I do, and an honest hard-working creature she is, who seems to- love her child better than herself — which is not the way with all mothers. Still, I had no knowledge of your father, and there is no need to look at me so fiercely when I hint at a possible gipsy progenitor. I am rather fond of gipsies, and you are certainly a bit of a Bohemian in your way.' * Why do you talk to me of my mother T she said, panting a little, and looking at him with a sudden gleam in her ej^es ; ' where is the need of bringing up such a painful subject ?' * Has not Anne told you T he returned pointedly — ' you and I are going to White- cliffe next w^eek. No, do not leave me, my dear, just yet,' for they had reached Murrel's. End, and her hand had already touched the gate ; evidently she was used to obey him, for, though there was reluctance in her look, she suffered him to close it again. ' There ia just one word I should like to say to you before you go in, Marjory : do try to be a little less hard and repellent in your manners to Mrs. Chard. Picmember that, though she is ' I OWE HER NO affection: ti poor, she is still your mother ; there is no need for you to wound her so.' . * I owe her no affection,' returned the girl sullenly. * From the hour in which she lost me — or rather left me a miserable little outcast child at your door — from that moment the re- nunciation was complete, and I only belonged to you and Anne.' ' True, and I love to hear you assert your claims on us. In one sense you are certainly Anne's adopted child, for she found you, not I ; nevertheless, we cannot wholly set aside nature.' ' In my case it must be set aside,' she re- turned, in a voice of great decision ; and her tone was singularly harsh and vibrating, as though her whole nature were jarred bj^ his Vv'ords. * This once I will obey you. Anne has my promise, and I will not go back from it. I will consent to accompany you to White- cliffe next week ; but if I live a hundred years, never once again — never once !' * And what is to become, then, of my pro- mise to Mrs. Chard — that as long as you are under my sister's care, she shall see you once a year ? Is this fair on me, Marjory ?' I 2 A CROSS WOODLEIGH DO \VN. * I have nothiii^^ to do with such promises,' Avas the firm rcpl3\ ' My mother does not care for me — do you think I do not feel that ? Oh, I am not so mean as you suppose ! What would her poverty matter if you could convince me of my mother's love ? but I am not to be duped by fair words.' * No,' he repeated gravely, ' you are only duped by yourself. You are truth itself, Marjor}^ so I know you believe every w^ord you say ; but, nevertheless, your mother's lowly birth and want of education are heinous sins in your eyes, and make you blind to her virtues. You are always bewailing things that cannot bo helped, spoiling all the sweet wholesomeness of your youth by thoughts that ought not to belong to you ; every day you grow less like the old Marjory, and yet you will not let us know what ails you.' He paused here, and seemed to wait for her answer, as though he half-hoped or expected some outburst of girlish confidence ; but she only turned her face aside with a quick, impa- tient sigh, and made no response. * Ah, well !' he returned with a disappointed air, as he watched her ; * Anne was always your 'IT MUST BE THE EAST WIND: 13 coDfidante, not I. The walk has not been as cheer- ful as usual, has it, clear ? It must be the east wind, I think : some natures are wonderfully sub- ject to atmospheric influences. A day like this always brings to my mind all the disagreeable details of life — unpaid bills, for example ; the sins of youth ; smoky chimneys, and all other ills to which the flesh and spirit are liable. But here we are again atMurrel'sEnd, and you have been bored by my company long enough.' He opened the swing-gate as he spoke, and nodded to her with a smile as she looked back at him a little wistfull3\ She had been angry with him, but now there was visible relenting in her eyes. She even walked slowly, as though she expected him to overtake her; but in another moment the gate had closed behind Flufi* and Lis master. * I have found out where the shoe pinches,' said Mr. Frere to himself, as he walked on rapidly in the teeth of the wind. * I could have sworn to her thoughts when I found her in that brown study on that bench yonder; but I wanted to be sure — that is, if one can be sure of anything in this crazy world ; there is a screw loose somewhere. How comes Marjory, for 14 ACROSS WOODLEIGH DOWN. example, to be her mother's child ? There is no sort of affinity between them. I knew the girl was right in what she said, only it w^onld not do to let her see that I thonght her so. I never liked that woman : I never believed in her. She is hard-working and respectable, a church-goer, and all that ; bat there is some- thing a little underhand, to my thinking. Marjory, with all her faults, does not take after her mother in that respect : she at least tells the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. That sort of character always rights itself in the end. But she is not happy — it seems to me she grows more restless every day : she is like a caged bird who wants to escape, heaven only knows where ! And yet, where would she find a home like ours, and a friend so faithful and loving as Anne ? She seems to cling to Anne most. I wonder, after all, if she confide in her T He sighed, breaking off the thread of his reflections by a strong effort, and in another moment he was whistling cheerfully to Fluff as they descended the steep road that leads to the town of Moorbridge. CHAPTER II. EAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. !HEPiE are few spots more affected by Londoners than Moorbridge, and yet in some respects its glory may be said to have departed. The whole place, indeed, has the passe air of a faded belle ; its triumphs are only in memory, and belong to the age of patches and powder and sedan-chairs. Once beauty and fashion lingered lovingly on the old parade ; wits and beaux jostled each other on the pantiles, or drank the famous chaly- beate waters in the early morning. Scholars and actors, poets and divines, the belles, the dandies and roues of the eighteenth century, loved to congregate in this Kentish retreat ; and the balls at the two assembly-rooms were so largely attended by a motley assembly, that a news- i6 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. paper letter of the period mentioned * no fewer than seventj^-two coaches stood at the doors.' Now a curious drowsiness has crept over the quaint old town ; and as one strolls down the deserted parade, it is difficult to recall the days when Garrick, and Dr. Jolmson, and Mrs. Thrale, with a host of other worthies, wero to he met upon the pleasant promenade on summer afternoons. And here, on one occasion, * all the grand company on the pantiles came to stare at Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, the woman who could talk Greek faster than any woman in England.' But though fashion has ceased to stamp it for its own, Moorbridge is still a favourite re- sort in summer-time, and to the inhabitant still more than to the mere visitor. The place is full of varied interest ; the wide stretches of furzy common, with its ling, and heath, and luxuriant brake ; the curious rocks ; the long straggling town with its steep wind-blown streets and old - world mounts ; its fine views and country roads winding round grand fir planta- tions — are all alike, full of attraction. Some seven or eight years before this story opens, the Freres had bought a house on Wood- RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. 17 leigh Down ; until then the brother and sister had lived in a quaint old Queen Anne's house in old Kensington, where their parents had Jived before them. Miss Frere's health had long been in an unsatisfactory state, and her removal to a more bracing place had been urged by their family friend and ph^^sician, Dr. Bartle ; and on this account solely they had fixed on Moorbridge, as its salubrious air and proximity to London were strong inducements in its favour. As Mr. Frere was an idle man, and likely to remain so, there was no real obstacle to their flitting, except that natural reluctance that some people feel to leave a home endeared by early associations. With Capel Frere the wrench was far harder than to his sister : women can more easily adapt themselves to a change of circumstance — they cling more to persons than to things. Miss Frere's home was with her brother ; with him were her Lares and Penates ; her affection and interest were all centred on him and Marjory ; with these two beloved beings she could have made her home happily in a desert. But with Mr. Frere matters were somewhat VOL. I. 2 i8 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. different. He was essentially a creature of habit ; he found it more difficult to uproot him- self, and plant himself afresh on a new spot of earth. Moorbridge was rather dead and alive after London ; he was farther from his club, from his friends ; he liked walking — no man was a more persevering pedestrian — but he abhorred railways, and any trouble concerning the taking of tickets was abominable to him. But, alas ! the mountain could not come to Mahomet, neither could his club in St. James' ap- proach Mr. Frere's beckoning finger ; so twice or thrice a week he threw himself, grumbling a little over his hard fate, into the corner of a second-class carriage, from which he would emerge an hour later, still shaking his head and moralizing over the enforced waste of time. An unemploj^ed man never has time for an}'- thing. Mr. Frere was no exception to this rule. Early rising was not classed among his favourite virtues — he allowed candidly that it w^as good for most men, but it did not agree w^ith his constitution ; but as the day was never long enough for his purposes he encroached widely into the night. Omnivorous reading MR. FRERE BURNS MIDNIGHT OIL. 19 requires time and quiet, and Mr. Frere read prodigiously. It could not be said that Miss Frere alto- gether approved of her brother's system of burning the midnight oil — it was bad thrift, she considered, and ruined eyesight ; but she was a wise woman who had learnt wisdom by virtue of necessity, and she knew men were wilful and would go their own way. When she differed from him, she held her peace. After forty, she thought, a man's habits become fixed, and need more powerful regeneration than a sister's influence. So she let him alone — which in other words was making him com- pletely happy — and never even complained of tobacco-smoke when he left the door of his den open — she would even haye suppressed her cough, if she could have so far resisted nature. Anne Frere was two years younger than her brother. She was a tiny woman with a beauti- ful little head, and a countenance that was full of brightness and expression. In her youth she had been much admired. ' Little and good,' as people often said of her. And she still retained many traces of good looks. In a mixed company, or where she was not 2—2 20 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. sure of full sympathy, Miss Frere was a little silent and reserved ; but in her own small circle she could be garrulous enough, brimming over with gentle fun, sparkling, almost witty ; a charming companion on wet days, not to be damped by east wind or a fog ; the sort of woman that a man might well love to see by his fireside when he came home tired and worn from his day's work. At jMurrel's End these virtues were almost thrown away. Mr. Frere was no day-labourer in this world's mart ; by his friends and by himself he was always considered an idler. He was a clever man — a man who could have left his mark among his fellows ; he would have made a capital barrister or an admirable preacher, and his few writings — chiefly essays and newspaper articles — bore distinct trace of talent ; but a few thousand pounds falling un- expectedly to his share, just as his university career had finished, had spoiled the plan of his life and robbed him of all energy. Perhaps this alone would hardly have sufficed to drive him from all public office ; but following upon this moderate ingathering of wealth was a certain failure, a love disappointment, which » MR. FRERE FALLS INTO BACHELOR WAYS. 21 meeting him in the full strength of his early manhood, took far too tenacious a hold of him, destroying for a time his faith in women, and depriving him of his greatest incentive to am- bition. So, instead of falling to work, he travelled ; then he came home and dropped into desultory bachelor ways. He was quite cured — a man was never killed yet by being jilted ; he had been shunted off the lines of matrimony, that was all, and had gro\vn a little caustic in his wit on the subject of the fair sex ; but perhaps he was better off as he was — he had his freedom, his club, a comfortable in- come, a sister who was ready to efface herself most slavishly at his merest whim ; what more could a man closely verging upon forty-five ask of life ? Such were his expressed opinions, with which he favoured his friends, but it may be doubted whether he found even such a large allowance of creature comforts sufficient for his inward needs. Under the outer crust of good- humoured indifference and mere indolence of will lay a softer nature than the world ever imagined — large-hearted sympathies with which they would hardly have credited him. He was a good fellow, they allowed, a capital com- 2 2 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. paiiioD, but rather too easj^-going for this hard- working go-a-head nineteenth century. He had plenty of brains, but was a Httle wanting in backbone. A. man is bound to be something, thought these stern morahsts. He was not even a phiLanthropist ; he did not take up any of the catchwords of society ; women woukl have had no rights, according to him, for he never allowed the}^ had wrongs ; he left Outcast London to its own devices, and only observed, i')i j^assant, that in his opinion the modern Knights of the Round Table were sanitary com- missioners — that they, more than the clergy, were fighting against the devil and all his works. He was a model Churchman, according to his own ideas, and always worshipped publicly once every Sunday; but he would rather have sub- scribed for public wash-houses than for churches, and would have printed up in golden letters in every street, ^ Cleanliness is next to godliness.' No one knew — not even his sister, though she might have guessed it — how largely Mr. Frere gave in charities, how his left hand literally did not know what his right hand dealt out : on this point he was secretive — he was •even ashamed of his own magnanimity : nothing 'AS CHOLERIC AS A WELSHMAN: 23 abashed liim more in his own eyes than when a deed of mercy was traced to its source by some grateful recipient of his bounty. He hated to be thanked. He reddened un- easily at the first word, and the second would drive him away to his harbour of refuge from annoyances, his beloved smoking den. In spite of his habitual good-temper, he could even be cross at such times, and find a vent for his modesty by indulging in splenetic speeches to his much-enduring woman- kind. ' Capel could be as choleric as a "Welshman, on occasion,' his sister would say, laughing ; but so well did she know his idiosyncrasies, that she would exercise the greatest tact and ingenuity in preventing some unworthy applicant from reaching the ear of the master of Murrel's End : he would not believe the story in the least — he was far too keen-witted for that, she knew — but at the first crocodile-tear, at the first whimper of misery, his hand would play him false and find its way to his pocket. It was mere pandering to self-indulgent pity ; it was wrapping round his sensibility in cotton- wool, to keep its edges from being wounded by the sight of unrelieved pain. He was a moral i4 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. coward, so he told himself nearly every day ; nevertheless, an oppressed animal, or a fellow- creature needing help, appealed in-esistibly to his sympathies; and never was he louder in his cen- sure of indiscriminate charities and the evil effects of relieving paupers, than after he had just sent some hulking rogue or some whining, white- faced w^oman rejoicing on his or her way ; never was he more derisive on the subject of district- visiting and the inevitable and ever-to-be - abominated tract. *Well,' he would say to his sister, in a satirical voice, when they met at luncheon, ' I hope you have spent a profitable morning, gossiping with a lot of old women. Have you got a list of their ailments off by heart ? Never mind, Anne, my dear ; we must all have our bits of pleasure. I have my club, and you have district-visiting ; but I don't doubt for a moment who has talked the biggest lot of rubbish to-day.' But these sort of remarks she treated as mere bluster, and passed them over in dignified silence. When the Frercs first came to Moorbridge, it was a matter of surprise to most people that A MIDDLE-AGED ROMANCE. 25 Miss Frere should be still unmarried — she must have been so very pretty in her youth, they thought, and was still so admired ; it would have astonished them not a little if they had known that both the brother and sister had passed through the same painful ordeal — that they had both placed their affections un- worthily — but that, of the two, Anne's experience had been the more bitter. Most unmarried women have some sort of story in their past — some dead-and-gone mystery that they have buried safely out of sight. One can meddle with few middle-aged lives without stumbling- over a gravestone or two ; true, the name may be half obliterated, there may be nettles and rank grass instead of memorial garlands, but there was a time when the fresh mould was trodden in with many tears, when the un- disciplined nature sat down in the ashes and refused to be comforted. It was not that Anne had greater capacity for suffering than her brother, but that her case was exceptionally hard. ' Conscience that makes cowards of us all ' stepped in just when her happiness was complete, and by filling her mind with a dread of future possibilities, made 26 RAKING UP DEAD CIXDERS. her put away with her own hands what she most loved. Her engagement with Mark Gardiner had been pronounced by all her friends to be an excellent thing : he was a 3'oung man of good family, in a good position, and had all the gifts that make a man popular in society. He was so pleasant natured, people said, he was ready to do a good turn for everyone ; he was culti- vated and accomplished, and a sort of Admirable Crichton in a small way ; and then he was so handsome — he w^as almost too beautiful for a man, some of his adorers would add. A wiser woman than Anne might have lost her heart to him with small blame. 'When Anne loved, she loved most thoroughly ; and there was a time when she looked back on her affection for Mark with something like shame, and owned it was little short of idolatiy. She never quite knew when the awakening first came — when the first flaw in Mark's per- fection became visible to her eyes. Little by little, most gradually and painfully, with many revulsions of tenderness, the truth stole upon her that her lover was not what he seemed, SHOULD SHE MARRY HI Ml 27 that his nature was lower in tone than she had beHeved it was, that under the fair exterior and bright boyish speech lurked the dangerous seeds of self-indulgence and a w^ill more prone to weakness than to energy. Then came the time of ordeal, a time of miserable indecision and conflict. Should she marry him — should she, with her eyes open at last to his faults, put her whole life into this man's hands ? Sometimes in her anguish she told herself that it must be so ; that loving him as she*^ did, she must go on with it and try what her affection and influence as a wife would do to raise him to a higher moral standard. His heart belonged to her most loyally ; she knew that well ; according to his lights, and as far as his nature permitted him, he w^ould be true to her ; but what if her woman's strength would not avail to raise him ? what if she should have to stand by, and see him slowly sink from her level ? It w^as an awful ordeal for a girl of three - and-twenty ; but she passed it alone and un - helped. Her friends would be against her, she knew ; no one believed any harm of Mark — not 38 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. even her brother ; he was young and impulsive, he woukl come right. Anne was too prudish, too strait-laced in her notions ; men were dififerent from w^omen. The same rules could not do for both, it was nonsense to try and hold him in so tightly ; w^hcn he was married he would settle down and make a model husband. Anne listened, and strove to believe her brother's worldly wisdom ; but after a time all such comfort failed her — her womanly instincts were safer grounds. She loved Mark, alas ! and, alas ! she must always love him, she thought ; but she could not respect his character. It was not for a wife to support her husband — one day she told him so, firmly and sadly, and they parted. Mark was very cast down, but he did not try to shake her resolution ; he was beginning to see for himself that he w^as no fit mate for a woman like Anne ; he could not stand on tiptoe all his life to make himself taller. He was of the earth — earthly— and it was no good pretend- ing that such as he could be fashioned into a hero ; if she would ouly take him as he was, and make the best of him, he thought he would never disgrace either of them. He liked to MARK WAS MARRIED THEX. 29 take life easily, that was all. Anue did not see tilings in this light — she worried herself ; and if they married, most likely she would worry him. Perhaps, after all, things were better as they were. Anne fretted all her fine health away, in the doubt whether she had acted rightl}^, and whether Mark would ever forgive her renuncia- tion of him ; but when some years after she saw him again, her cure became rapid, and she never had another moment's doubt. Mark w^as married then. He had been dis- consolate for a long time, and had mourned for Anne very truly, after his own fashion ; but when a decent interval had elapsed, he suc- cumbed to the charms of a handsome American, who was just then turning the heads of all his friends. She made him a good sort of wife in her way. She kept his house well, and gave him good advice, and scolded him soundly when he did not follow it ; but as she had no high views of life herself, she did not trouble him ^vitll unnecessary scruples, and Mark's laxity had fine scope for growth. Anne's heart sank when she saw him. Mark was not quite so handsome, people said : he had 30 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. Cfrown a little stout and coarse, but lie was still a charming man. He might he so to strangers, but Anne's keen eyes could read between the lines ; she saw the marks of self-indulgence, of pampered appetite, plainly legible. He had sunk lower already, and his wife was not the sort of woman to save him. - She was too hard, too self-engrossed, too fond of pleasure ; and they had no children. It was at a party thej^ had met ; and, to their mutual embarrassment, Mark had been deputed by their hostess to take Anne dovvu to supper. Anne was suffering much at the unexpected sight of her old lover; but she hid all such feelings with womanly reserve and dignity. It was Mark who was most confused and off his guard. * I never thought to have met you here,' he observed in an irritated tone. But Anne took no notice of this speech, and retorted by some ordinary commonplace remark ; they were merely strangers indulging in the civilities of society, and Mark, recovering him- self, presently followed her lead. But it was not long before Anne forgot herself and the part to which she had schooled herself. * WHY DID YOU THROW ME OVER? 31 She noticed with dismay, as he sat beside her, how flushed Mark's face seemed to be, and how freely he was indulging in champagne. It was what she had feared for him ; and once, as he stretched out his hand towards the bottle, as though to fill his glass again, she whispered — * Mark, Mark ! it pains me so to see you do that !' in such a troubled voice — with such utter oblivion of everything except his wrongdoing — that his hand dropped on the table, and he turned to her with a sudden compunction and remorse. ^ Ah ! Anne,' he returned huskily, ' why did you throw me over ? I should have been a better man if you had married me. She ' — with a movement of his head towards the place where his wife sat laughing and talking, with a small crowd of gentlemen round her — ' she is not a bad sort, but she does not understand, and she never notices this sort of thinor ' — touching his glass. ' A habit like this growls upon a man, but it is not what you think, Anne. I am not such a poor creature as that.' ' Yon were always your worst enemy,' she replied, fixing her soft eyes pityingly on his face. "Was there a time — good heavens ! could 32 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. there have beeu a time — when she had thought she had never seen any face to compare with his ? ' Your wife is not to be blamed for this. Give it up, Mark ' — pushing it gently away — ' give it up before it masters you. I used to tell you so, and,' her voice trembling and nearly inaudible, ' 3'ou would not believe me.' But he stooped his head, as though abashed before her, and made no answer. Did he know that he had already begun the downward descent, and that for a will so weak as his there could be no pulling up the steep incline again ? That night Mr. Frere detained his sister as she seemed about to leave him. She was standing by the fire warming herself, for she was a little pale and numb, as though wdth cold. But as she folded her wraps round her and said good-night, he put his hand gently on her arm. * Wait a moment, Anne; there is no hurry, my dear ; you have no maid waiting to help you to undress, and I want to make a confession.' ' Eeally ?' she answered in assumed careless- ness, and arching her brows a little ; ' but I am afraid, Capel, that I am rather too tired to-night to listen to you.' * Oh, I will be brief,' he returned; * brevity CAPZrs OPINION OF MARK. 33 is always to my taste. I am not a wor.ly man. May I ask why you are smiling ? It is your great fault that you are so satirical, Anne. I have no patience with satirical women.' ' Is this your confession ?' she asked with a fine assumption of meekness, calculated to aggravate him ; but all of a sudden he became as grave as a judge. ^ Never mind all that, dear ; I meant some- thing very serious, Anne. I want to tell you that I once wronged you. I thought you a little too hard upon poor Mark. I quite took his part when you gave him up, but ' he stopped, looking at her a little wistfull}', as though he hardly knew how she would take it. * Well ?' and her lips parted a little anx- iously. Surely, after all these years he need not be so afraid of speaking to her of Mark ; women are faithful enough, poor souls, but they cannot sufier for ever. * To-night, when I saw him, I knew that I was wrong and you were right. You are a fine creature, Anne; your judgment has put mine to shame. We men are not sufficiently pure to censure others ; our passions obscure our sight. When a man's character is being VOL. I. 3 34 RAKING UP DEAD CINDERS. sifted, we make excuses for him — put ourselves in his place. My dear, j^our innocent eyes read more truly. Thank God that you would not let us marry j^ou to Mark ! he would have broken your heart. He is going down the hill fast ; and that loud-voiced wife of his is not the best drag on him.' ' I hope you are not right now ; I. mean that things are not quite so bad as that,' she re- turned, with a sad smile at his vehemence. Capel never did anything by halves ; he praised or censured fiercely. If a man were not a good fellow, he must be a sort of fiend in- carnate. This was all she said ; she knew better than to entrust to her brother's ears that episode at the supper-table. That was sacred to Mark and her. Poor Mark, who held his own reins so unsteadily that an angel sitting by his side could not have guided him to safety ! "When Capel would have enlarged a little on the subject, for he had been much shocked at the appearance of his old friend and favourite, Anne put up her thin little hand and silenced him. *Let it rest,' she said gently; 'it is no use ANNE PLEADS FOR SILENCE. 35 raking up the past. It has been painful for me to-night, and for him too, poor fellow ! It is best to say nothing, when one must con- demn. If I Jiad not known all along in my deepest consciousness that I was right, I must have died from sheer trouble ; but I had the clue — the right clue — and God helped me. He always helps those who try to do right to themselves and others ;' and when she had said this she put up her face to be kissed, and left him standing there, wondering why all women were not so wise and so true and loving as Anne. 3—2 CHAPTEE III. * MARJORY DAW.' NNE FEERE'S one romance had ended miserably. For many years her health was impaired, and her spirits broken ; but even when recovery set in, she always declared that matrimony was not for her, that she was cut out for an old maid, and that Anne Frere she would remain until the end of the chapter. She was so very pretty at that time, so m'Kjnonnc and spiritiicllc , with such a lovel}^ little face and charming manners, that lovers might have been as plentiful for her as black- berries, if she would have only offered them the slightest encouragement ; but she invariably froze up at the first overture. She was hard to please, they would say sadly ; she was quite ANNE RESOLVES TO BE AN OLD MAID. 37 beyond the reach of any moderate ambition. Anne saw them 2:0 without a moment's com- punction ; not one of them, she thought, was to compare with Mark — with Mark, that is to say, as he first appeared to her, hedged in with the glories of his young divinity ; they might be lovable for other girls, but not for her. The great interest of a woman's life was withheld from her ; but after a time a new object appealed to her tenderness, and in the love of her adopted child — for so she always called Marjory, as Mr. Frere never laid claim to any share in the foundling — she found a never-ending source of comfort. It was some four years after her parting with Mark, and she was still wearing mourning for her mother — her father had died many years previously, and they were living in the quaint old Queen Anne's house in Kensington — when she first saw the child Marjory. How accu- rately she remembered every detail of that memorable evening ! It was Christmas Eve, and she was sitting alone in her pretty, old-fashioned drawing-room, waiting for Capel to come in to their late tea ; for dinner had long been over, and he had 38 ' MARJOR Y DA W. ' gone out for his usual prowl, to walk off the restlessness of old memories. Anne, for a wonder, was not either working or reading. The candles in the tall silver candlesticks were still unlighted, hut the Christ- mas log that Capel had placed on the fire was spluttering and hissing, and diffusing its ruddy gleams over the whole room. Anne, w^ho loved firelight and her own thoughts, and wdiose head ached a little wdth the incessant sound of her hrother's voice — for he had kept rather an excited flow of talk all dinner-time — had drawn her low chair to the very edge of the white rug, and sat basking and dreaming in the warm glow. It must have been a pleasant picture, if any- one had opened the door at that moment. The firelight seemed to transform the old room as though by the finger of magic : the worn velvet curtains, growing threadbare by long use, looked fit for a king's palace ; the dusky tables and cabinets were burnished and shone like ebony ; the china, that was so precious to Anne, showed daintily on the velvet-lined shelves ; Anne's brown hair had golden gleams in it ; the thin hands crossed on her black dress A MEMORABLE CHRISTMAS EVE. 39 looked almost as white aiid transparent as alabaster. She was lost in thought, and there was a pained line across her forehead, as though some distressing recollection were forcing itself unhidden on her mind, when she was startled back into the present by fancying she heard a child's voice crying pitifully under the window. She rose hastily, and then reseated herself with a smile at her own credulity. It was late, and the air was bitterly cold ; she had noticed some light flakes of snow on the ground when she had accompanied her brother to the door. Was it likely that any child would be out on such a night ? But even as she reasoned with her- self, still smiling, the pitiful sound was again audible. Anne jumped up and went cautiously towards the window, moving aside the thick curtain that she might listen unimpeded. Yes ; some child was crying, not many paces from where she stood. That careless Capel must have left the gate open, and some poor little carol- singer had strayed into the front garden, and was most likely crying with cold. This was 40 * ATARJOR V DA W. ' quite enough for Anne, and in another moment she had hurried out into the hall, and had set the door wide open. It was colder than ever, and the air was now thick with driving particles of half-frozen snow ; it pelted Anne's delicate face ruthlessly as she peered out into the darkness. * Who is it ? "\Miat is it ?' she called again and again, each time more loudly. * Come here, you poor child, w^hoever you are, and let me see you ! ' And then she added reverently to herself, * Yes, come, for the sake of the Child who was born this very night.' There was no fancy, for the crying suddenly ceased at the sound of her kind tone, and some- where near, hidden by an angle of the house, a little voice said : ' Opie, opie ! Margy-doo is toming ! Margy's a-toming.' And there were little trotting steps on the paved walk. A child ! Good heavens — a mere baby ! As the hall light streamed into the portico, there suddenly appeared a small figure in a red gipsy cloak and hood, and a dimpled hand pounced eagerly on Anne's black gown. * Marg^y's tome, Margy's here ; Margy-doo is ANNBS CHRISTMAS GIFT. 41 ^ — — — ■ — SO told !' And a small face, blue and drawn with cold, and still wet with tears that had not been wiped away, hid itself confidently in her gown. ' In the name of all that is pitiful !' gasped out Anne, quite unnerved by this unexpected apparition. And then she caught up the child with a sudden movement of indignation and sorrow that such sweet infancy should be left unguarded, and bore her swiftly into the warm room she had left. The bell she at once set pealing brought a protesting and injured face to the door. Mackay had not lived nineteen years with her mistress to be affronted by such ringing as that ; but before she could utter her first word of protest, Anne's voice, speaking very sharply and quickly, reached her unwilling ears: ' Mackay, take a lantern and search the front garden. No, I forgot ; it will bring on your rheumatism. Ask cook and Eliza to be quick, and they had better go right round the house.' ' Goodness me, Miss Anne ! What a turn you did give me ! And the front door wide open, and the snow making a fine mess on the 42 * MARJORY DA \V. ' new oil-cloth ! And, gracious Leavens ! that mite of a child on your lap !' ' My good Mackay/ returned Anne, rather crossly ; ' please do not waste time, but give my message to cook and Eliza. They must look for the person who brought this child. The poor mother will be in a sad fright when she misses this little creature. Tell them to look out for your master. And if a policeman passes, they must call him in. Quick, quick !' And Anne waved the old servant away, ' Mackay is in a temper, but she will do mj^ bidding thoroughl}^ for all that,' she thought, as she sat in her low chair, still holding the child, and now beginning to examine its dress and face curiously. It was a pretty little creature, though its face was rather w^an and thin, as though from exposure ; apparently between two and three years old ; perfectly clean, and very nicely dressed, though in a somewhat incongruous fashion. The hood and cloak were decidedly shabby, coarse in texture, and stained and dis- coloured ; but when Anne unfastened the latter she discovered the frock underneath was of finest French merino, and a cursory view of the ' WHERE IS MAMMIE T 43 under-garments showed them equally fine in material, while the little sodden boots were burst at the sides, and might have been owned by a beggar. Anne drew^ them off with some difficulty, and here again was an incongruity, for a dainty pair of socks came to view ; they, as well as the boots, were soaking. iVnne had them off in a trice, and was now rubbing the little icy feet tenderly with her warm hands, while the child laughed from very excess of comfort. ' Dat's mammie !' she cried gleefully. ' Mam- mie 'ubs Margy-doo. Margy not told now. Margy loves the pretty fire.' * Where is mammie, my darling ?' asked Anne, stroking the child's head. What a sweet little face it was, she thought ; and the head was covered by tight curly rings of dark hair. Perhaps she would be able to discover something from the child's prattle, though it was certainly difficult to make much sense out of such broken language. ' Where is mammie ?' she asked coaxingly. The little one laughed again, as she held out her hands to the blaze, and then drew them away in a hurry. 44 'MARJORY DA W: ' Margy's burning. Naughty fire to burn Margy !' was her response to this. * Perhaps poor mammie would like to be sitting by the fire,' observed Anne artfully. But the small head was shaken at this. ' Mammie's dot lots of fire. Mammie's never told.' And then she stopped, and leaning her curly head against Anne's shoulder, she began patting her own hands and playing with them. ' Margy runned away; poor mammie will kye.' * Oh dear! oh dear!' thought x\nne, full of pity for the unknown mother. * I was right ; this little one has stra^^ed and got lost. Capel must go to the police-station and give full particulars. I know I should break my heart if this little creature were mine, and I had lost her.' And Anne sighed vaguely, as women will when they are soft-hearted and there is a child in the question. Just then, as though in answer to her thoughts, her brother appeared on the thresh- old with a puzzled and not over-pleased expression on his face. As nothing ever happened to put him out in their comfortable and well-organized household, the faintest ap- pearance of bustle was in itself a grievance. • CAFEL FINDS THINGS TOPSY-TURVY. 45 He expected to find tea-things, a hissing urn, and Anne with a cheerful face — whether she felt cheerful or not — ready to talk to him on any subject he liked to propose ; instead of Tvhich, at his o^\ti gate he found himself con- fronted by cook with a stable-lantern in her hand, and Eliza bringing up the rear rather flightily, after the manner of young house- maids. * If you please, sir, missis has found a child. And will you be good enough to beckon that policeman across the road ?' she said. ' What child ? Stuff and nonsense ! What does your mistress want with a policeman T returned Mr. Frere, wrathful at the mere idea of a mystery. And he actually pushed the lantern aside and marched into the house, w^here he found Mackay in the hall with her apron over her head. * What is all this fuss about ?' he asked, hanging up the old hat he kept expressly for evening prowls. It was a hat that had seen better days, and was now evidently ashamed of its own existence, for it seemed to collapse of its o^vn accord on the peg. ^ There is a mite of a thing in there,' retorted 46 * MARJOR V DA JV. ' Mackay, with an oflfeuded toss of her head ; ' and missis has set cook and EHza to catch their deaths looking for some beggar-woman or other that has played us this fine trick on purpose. It ouglit to go to the police-station — that's where such as them ought to go.' Mackay's ill-tempered remarks did not mend matters, and as her master entered the drawing- room with the frown of Jove on his brow, it appeared as though his domestic world was suddenly turned topsy-turvy, and that things were about as bad as they could be. He had come home punctual to his minute — though he hated punctuality like poison — -for fear Anne should be dull, sitting alone on Christmas Eve ; but the candles were still unlighted, and the little square table stood in its shining blackness with no dainty white drapery, no snug tea-tray or suggestive muffineer. Instead of tliat, there was that most industrious of women, Anne, keeping blindman's holiday, with a brat of a child sitting comfortably in her lap, toasting its bare feet at the fire, with honest disregard of appearances. Mr. Frero sat down and looked at them both gloomily. Kot for worlds would he have owned A STRANGE RECEPTION. 47 at that moment that it was the prettiest sight that old room had ever witnessed. The child stretched out its pink toes till they almost crinkled in the hlaze. Then she pointed rather a dirty finger at the aggrieved Capel. ^ Dat's the milkman,' she crowed ; ' nice milk for Margy-doo.' * Will you ring the hell, dear ?' observed Anne, in a voice full of womanly tender- ness. ' This poor little thiug must have some bread-and-milk at once. ISio, Mackay ; it is not for tea,' as Mackay appeared with the gay little tea-cloth. ' That is of no consequence — w^e can wait for that. A nice basin of hot bread-and-milk, please. Make it yourself, Mackay, and be as quick as possible. And now, Capel, I am so thankful you have come in, for you will know exactly what to do. But first, I must tell you how I found the child.' ' Humph !' w^as the somewhat grumpy answer. Nevertheless, he listened pretty sharply, as Anne, with a woman's innocent garrulity that revels in details, and would not omit a single unnecessary particular, narrated all that had occurred within the last half-hour. * This is a nice business!' he exclaimed 48 'MARJORY DAW, ' testil}^ when she had finished. * Some beggar- wife or other has played us this confounded trick. It is a dodge for getting rid of the child. I may as well go at once to the i)olice- station.' ' Oh, do you think so !' she exclaimed, taken aback at this view of the case. And then her eyes fell on the lace-edging of the frock. ' Tramps do not dress their children so well,' she said triumphantly. ' Look at these socks, Capel — such fine open work ! Depend upon it, you are wrong, dear ; though you are such a clever man ' — with a winning stress on the adjective. * Her nurse has taken her out and lost her ; or she has been stolen ' — her mind reverting all at once to the shabby cloak and burst sodden boots ; but her eagerness was checked by the child's querulous voice : ' Dustman's toming to Margy-doo.' And, in- deed, the round eyes were growing decidedl}' heavy. Mr. Frere laughed satirically^ ' Marjory-doo — Marjory Daw. I suppose that is what the imp means.' xVnd he repeated the couplet viciously : ' " See-saw — jMarjory Daw, Sold her bed to lie ou straw." CAPEL GOES TO THE POLICE-STATION. 49 Well, I may as well be off to the police- station, or we shall have this small waif left on our hands/ * Oh, Capel !' pleaded Anne, with tears in her eyes at this ; ' surely to-night, of all nights in the year, we can be content to have this dear little one, for the sake ' and again she dropped her voice reverently, ^ for the sake of that Child in the manger/ This drove him away without a word ; for when a woman begins to talk religiously, there is nothing for a man to do but to beat a retreat, unless he wishes all his worldly wisdom cut away from under his feet. He certainly did say, * It is a confounded plague, turning out again into the cold,' as the sympathizing Mackay helped him on with his coat, for it was one thing to prowl about in the winter dark- ness for his own amusement, and quite another to be ordered abroad by the whims of his w^oman- kind, so of course he had a right to be cross. But he did his duty like an Englishman, for all that, making himself thoroughly disagreeable all the time. He questioned half-a-dozen police- men on their beat, and did at last elicit from one of them that a tramp, who certainly looked VOL. I. 4 50 ' MARJOR V DA W. ' up to no good, a harsh-featured, dark-com- plexioned woman, had been seen hanging about a neighbouring pubHc -house, in conversa- tion with a rough sort of man, and there was a child in a red hood and cloak between them. Being further interrogated by the inspector, who had accompanied Mr. Frere from the police-station, the man, with a fine honest brogue, averred that he had not had a good look at the child. She was crying, and the woman was shaking her, but not violently ; only he did hear her say something that was enough to frighten the child. Being further cross-examined by his superior, he recollected the exact words, ' Give over, you little devil, you, or I will fetch my big stick !' and then the man had growled something at her, and they had all gone into the public-house. The young lady at the bar was next ques- tioned, but she answered airily, and not much to the purpose ; though the inspector's civility made itself felt at last. There had been plenty of folk that night, but she did not recollect any woman with a child. Being pressed most urgently to recall all that passed that evening, SIFTING EVIDENCE. 51 she did remember a man asking for two three- penn'orths' of gin, and that he had drunk one glass standing at the bar, and had taken the remaining portion to a woman who was sitting just behind the sw4ng-door. No, she had not seen her — that was to say, she could not tell a bitwhat she was like, for she sat too far away for that ; that she had a child in her arms, half hidden under her shawl, for she heard it crying, though it only looked like a huge mishapen bundle ; but its hood was red, she could swear to that — and the woman was tall and big, almost as tall as the man. This was fragmentary and disjointed ; but as they could contrive to extract nothing more explicit, they went back again to the police- station, and after browbeating the man on whose beat the whole thing had occurred, the in- spector proposed a detective accompanying Mr. Frere to the house, that he might take do"\vn further particulars. * Depend upon it, sir, that woman hid the child all the time they were in the public-house. Most likely she carried it in the same way to your house, and finding the gate open, put it under the window, and then hid herself behind 4—2 5 2 ' MA RJOR V DA W. ' the bushes until the lady opened the door ; that's the dodge, sir ! I will make every pos- sible inquiry, and our officer shall go back "with you and examine the child's clothes ;' and as Mr. Frere saw no objection to this, they started for home. The snow was falling faster now, obliterating every trace of footsteps ; nevertheless, the de- tective examined the small plot of garden- ground most narrowly, and brought back a tropin^ in triumph to Mr. Frere, in the shape of a small piece of dirty fringe that he had found hanging on a laurel-bush. ' It is just as our chief says,' he observed, with a low laugh ; ' the woman was stooping down under that clump of laurels, and in moving away in rather too great a hurry, she caught her shawl against the bushes and tore it. It is rather a shabby specimen,' he continued ruefully ; * there isn't half enough of it, but I dare say it will help us to identify the woman. Let me see,' spreading it out in the palm of his hand : * it is about an inch and a half in length, and jagged ; it must leave a tidy gap in the stuff. And I should not be surprised if the shawl were plaid — what should you say, ma'am ?' ad- THE CHILD WAS ASLEEP. 53 dressing Anne civilly, as sxie stood by listening in some surprise. Anne examined it critically. *A checked red and black shawl, I should say; but it is so dreadfully dirty, you see,' shrinking a little from the interesting trophy ; but the detective, handling it most tenderly, deposited it in the pocket of a formidable leathern book, and then addressed himself to further business. Anne answered all his inquiries with elaborate care. ' The child was asleep in her bed,' she said; * but if his boots did not creak, he might go up and look at her.' Mr. Frere grumbled a little at the extra trouble, but he nevertheless followed them uninvited. x\nne had first fed, and then care- fully washed the little creature from head to foot, and had wrapped her up in a piece of new flannel she had by her, as there was no store of childish garments in that grown-up household. In this rudely fashioned garment the child lay dimpled and rosy with warmth and sleep, with one arm bare to the shoulder flung out upon the coverlid. The officer stooped gently over 54 * MARjoR y daw: the bed, and took the arm between his finp^er and thumb, turning it towards the light that Anne was shading so carefully with her hand. ' A little nearer,' he whispered, ' there is some sort of a mark here ;' and as all three bent their heads closely over it, they saw plainly a faint blue mark, almost like a tattoo, in the shape of an L. ' Some one must have tattooed her !' ex- claimed Anne indignantly ; but the detective shook his head. * It is a natural mark, she has been born with it ; it is not properly a letter, it is more like a blue veining. It is just above the vaccina- tion mark ; perhaps it has something to do with that — one sees these little blemishes sometimes. Has she any other mark on her ?' * Oh no,' Anne answered decidedly ; * she is a beautifully formed little creature — not very fair- skinned, perhaps — but then her hair and eyes are dark. Do 3^ou see that string of blue Vene- tian beads, with that curious medallion ? I wanted to take it off when I undressed her, but she cried so at the idea of parting wdth it, I was obliged to let her sleep in it.' The detective nodded and examined the ' THAT WOMAN HAS STOLEN THE CHILD: 55 beads carefully ; and then he turned to the pile of little garments that Anne had placed in readiness. They were soiled, and the little petticoat was sadly torn, but all the other things were un- injured. The linen was beautifully fine, but the marks had been carefully picked out, and in one case cut out, as though the unpicking had been too tedious a process. ' There is only one conclusion — one inference to be drawn,' observed Mr. Frere solemnly, for the detective only looked at them with unutterable meaning in his eyes : ' that woman has stolen the child, and then got tired of it.' ' Do you mean she lost it on purpose T ex- claimed his sister, horror-stricken at this view of the case, and yet her own judgment coincided with it. * Yes ; she found it did not pay. Children — especially when they are not one's own — are such a nuisance ; most likely it was a trifle too old for her purpose, or she was afraid of con- sequences.' ' Very probably she got into trouble, and some of our people were down on her,' re- turned the officer oracularly. ' Shall I send up 56 ' MARJOR Y DA W. ' one of our men to fetch her to-morrow ? She will have to go to the workhouse until we can find her belongings ; we shall advertise, of course, but there may be some delay/ ' Oh, we will keep her here to-night,' ob- served Mr. Frere magnanimously. She was such a pretty child, and Anne had certainly w^ashed and made her tidy, but how she could put her in her own bed — good heavens ! the ways of women were past finding out ! and he shrugged his shoulders and went downstairs, while Anne lingered for a moment with the officer. The man was smiling as he went out of the house — perhaps he, too, was moralizing over the droll ways of women. Mr. Frere was standing before the fire rub- bing his hands, well pleased, as his sister entered. There was no urn, but a kettle was boiling on the trivet, the teapot was hooded in its old-fashioned cosy, and the muffineer was in its usual place. He was cold and tired, and the room looked unusually snug, and his favourite armchair decidedly comfortable. * That's right, Anne, my dear,' he said briskly ; ' pour me out a cup of tea, and let ' SHALL NEVER HAVE A CHILD 0EMY0lVJV.'s7 US forget all this bother ; you must be tired too, after all your exertions.' Anne shook her head ; but instead of bring- ing him the tea at once, she stood for a mo- ment opposite to him, and he could see that there were tears in her eyes. ^ Capel/ she said, with a sort of restrained eagerness in her voice, ' you will not let that little creature go to the workhouse ?' ' Aye — why not ?' he returned, staring at her. * I thought you would let me keep her until the parents should be found,' she murmured slowly. * Oh, she is so pretty ; she has such a dear little voice ! I could not bear her to be sent there.' ' And supposing her parents are never found,* he answered, with a man's harshness of logic. * There are parents who disown their own flesh and blood. It may be a conspiracy — they may be in league with this woman.' * That is not likely,' she replied, still in the same subdued voice ; ^ but if it were so, if they were never to claim her ' * Well, what then, Anne, my dear ?' * I shall never have a child of my own,' she 58 'MARJORY DAW.' returned, blushing suddenly over her sweet- face ; ' for I shall never marry. I should like to keep her, if no one else will own her. Oh, Capel, my dear brother, there are only two of us, and sometimes the house is a little dull ; and by- and-by we shall get old, and a little selfish ' but she could not finish, only leant her head against his shoulder, and the quiet tears flowed down her cheeks. * Keep Marjory Daw — adopt her as your own child !' he exclaimed, almost too much astonished to believe his ears: And then he w^histled and laughed off his perplexity, and finally he Idssed her, and bade her cheer up like a good little woman, and promised to think of it; and then Anne dried her eyes, and allowed herself to be comforted. CHAPTER IV. A PHILOSOPHEK AND A BABY WITCH. SLIGHT occurrence that very night seemed to corroborate still further the detective's suspicion that the child had been kidnapped from its natural pro- tectors. Anne, who was kept wakeful by the strange events of the evening, and still more b}^ the soft breathing of her little bedfellow, was very much startled in the middle of the night by the child suddenly rousing from some dream or nightmare, and seeming as though almost convulsed by terror. * Go away, naughty woman !' she screamed, pushing away an imaginary person in the dark- ness. ' I hate the bad stick ; it hurted Margy- do. Oh, mammie !' with a lamentable cry, * Margy's dood, and won't run away. Margy hurted drefiful — and so told !' 6o A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. *Husli, darling!' exclaimed Anne soothingly. The little creature trembled all over as she took her in her arms, but she soon quieted down and slept again. It was Anne who was lying so open-eyed in the silent Christmas morning, with her tender heart wrung with pity. Who could tell, she thought, how many oppressed and desolate children were sleeping shiveringly in the nooks and alleys of the great city — children whose only heritage from their mother's breast was woe and want, for whom there was no rescue, no love, nothing but an existence of ignorance and wretchedness ? And as the mystery tortured her sensitive spirit, she could only comfort herself with the remembrance ' that not a sparrow falleth to the ground ' without the knowledge of the Almighty Father. As soon as possible inquiries were set on foot ; an advertisement, with a full description of the child, was sent to the leading papers, but with no satisfactor}' results ; the police em- ployed their utmost vigilance in tracing the woman, but after a time all clue dropped. The shawl was, indeed, most cleverly traced to a pawnshop in the Seven Dials. A tall, dark- complcxioncd woman, answering to the police- A FAINT CLUE. 6i man's description, had certainly that very same night parted with a red and black plaid shawl, and a pair of laced-up child's boots. The shawl had a little piece of fringe missing, but the boots were nearly new, and had fetched a good price ; but on leaving the pawnshop, every trace of the woman disappeared, though a person somewhat similar in appearance had taken passage a few days afterwards as a steerage passenger in a steamer leaving Liver- pool for America. The man who accompanied her was working his way across, and appeared by all accounts to be a sailor ; the woman w^as dressed differently, but the police seemed con- vinced of her identity, though Mr. Frere re- mained doubtful. ^ The clue is too slight a one,' he remarked, rather contemptuously ; * most likely our beggar- wife is at present in one of the rookeries in the neighbourhood of the Seven Dials. I don't believe she has gone to America at all.' And this opinion he maintained in the face of all argument to the contrary. Mr. Frere had worked throughout with a zeal that almost hurt his sister ; she could not understand that it was only his sense of duty that was stirring him up to such unwonted 62 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH exertion. She thought in her sensitiveness that her appeal had displeased him, and that he was anxious to get rid of the child. And yet the little one was growing very dear to them both. ^ Marjory Daw/ as Mr. Frere always persisted in calling her — though Anne with much patient persistence had translated the child's broken words into 'Marjory dear,' or 'little Marjory,' as she always named herself — was fast becoming the pet of the whole house ; even Mackay, in spite of her sour speeches, secretly caressed and made much of her. She was certainly a most engaging little creature, with a tongue that ran on like a purling brook; and though by no means faultless — for even at that early age she developed a fair amount of self-will and temper — she had a way of kissing and making up for her naughtiness that was extremely winning. * Margy won't kye no more. Little Margy dood now,' was her favourite speech after one of her tantrums ; and she would run and put herself in the corner, unbidden, until she was fetched out and for- given. ' Oh, Capcl, I do not know how I shall ever bring myself to part with her!' Anne said one CAPEL HATES TO MAKE UP HIS MIND. 63 day when the child had been with them about three months, and no one had yet claimed her. * One can see she has been dreadfully spoiled, and I dare say she will give us plenty of trouble by-and-bye, her will is so strong even now ; but how is one to help loving her T * I do not see that you need try to help it,' he returned rather drily, as he unfolded his Times, It w^as damp, and that ruffled him a little. And then he thought, from Anne's expression of countenance, that he was in for a serious discussion about Marjory ; and though he liked the child, and would have missed her sorely, he did so hate making up his mind, or being wheedled into some decision that might prove troublesome hereafter. Anne knew her brother's shiftj^ ways by this time ; but she could be mildly obstinate on occasions, and she had determined that Capel should tell her his mind on this subject. ' You remember what I asked you on Christ- mas Eve ?' she said, looking at him rather wistfully. * Oh yes, I suppose so ; but your remark struck me that night as singularly premature.' 'It was a sudden instinct — an inspiration,' 64 ^ PHILOSOPHER AXD A BABY WITCH, she returned quickly. * I opened the door, and then she came to me, holding- out her dear little hands. I felt it was my Christmas gift coming to me across the snow. Oh, I cannot describe it !' ' Gifts are generally kept,' was the gruff response, for he understood the drift of her speech, though it was a little too gushing to suit his masculine taste. He could not tell, for his part, why she should call it an inspiration — it was too high-flown a term. But there, he would not quarrel with her, for she had risen from her seat, and her hand was on his shoulder, stroking him gently. * Oh, Capel ! Do you mean it ? May I keep her really ?' ' She seems shunted on to us,' was the cool reply ; ' we have simply no choice in the matter, unless we send her to the workhouse, and that goes against the grain somehow. In fact, I should not much like that myself.' * You are fond of her, dear ?' ' Oh yes, I am fond of her,' he returned grudgingly, for he was not in an amiable mood that morning, and he wanted to get to his Times, ' She is very well, as far as children CUPID ADVANCES STRANGE OPINIONS. 65 go. If she were ugly, now, I could not tolerate her for a moment. I do not think ugly children should be suffered to live. People are always calling out for a censorship of the press ; but I think we need more a public censor for babies.' ' Oh, what nonsense, Capel !' * Let me tell you,' in a combative voice, * we should have a stronger and better gener- ation if all the weakly and deformed babies were put painlessly out of the world. Of course it would be a difficult and unpleasant post — but so is the public hangman's, and yet plenty of men could be found to fill that. We should want a very special sort of person as censor ; and, as a matter of fact, I don't think it w^ould be easy to find such an one. Then, if the law passed, I am afraid here and there we should find a parent in opposition, and there would be much writing to the Times, and no end of a row. You see, most parents are so confoundedly selfish ; they care more for their children than they do for the common cause of humanity. Instead of thinking of the future good of unborn generations, they are full of their own Harries and Toms. Harry may be rickety, or Tom VOL. I. 5 66 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. deaf and dumb, but you would never get them to believe in the utility of a little chloroform.' ' My dear Capel, I am glad no one else hears you talk in this horrible manner : they might really believe that you meant it/ ' Of course, it must be done young — in the ver}^ earliest infancy,' he went on, without heed- ing her shocked protest. ' We are not quite barbarians, and everything would have to be done in the most merciful way, with a strict regard to the parents' feeling. But, there ! "what is the use of starting theories ? We English will never be as enlightened and practical on this point as the Spartans. The fact is, we have a national prejudice in favour of life. ** Live and let live " is our maxim. When we mas- sacre, we do it wholesale.' * Oh, I do not follow you in the least,' she said, shaking her head at him. ' Of course, we must get rid of our surplus population,' he continued carelessly ; ' some- times we poison a river. Ask our Sanitary Commissioners what I mean by that. And sometimes we snugly nurse a fever, or some foul pestilence, bred and engendered in the wretched hutches we call dwellings for our poor, and we 'THE RIGHT WILL TRIUMPH: 67 get a hundred or two mowed down in that w^ay — the " visitation of Providence," is not that what they call it ? but I should think the dying ^vretches lying in their fever- tainted holes know it more truly for the devil's work. Ah, this is a fine nation — a grand nation, Anne, my dear; but I think you would own we had our flaws and our weak points, if I took you into certain haunts I know in the East End of London.' ' You make me shudder to hear you when you talk like this. You make me feel as though we were all wrong, somehow ; and yet how much good is being done everywhere !' ' There are too many tares among the wheat/ he returned gloomily. ' We have centuries of wrong-doing to undo, and evil weeds thrive best in some soils ; we cannot change the face of things all at once : it will be a hand-to-hand fight as long as the world and the Church last.' 'Just so; but the right will triumph.' And then she added softly : ' The thing is for every- one to do a little. It always seems to me that people need not sacrifice their whole lives, and make other people uncomfortable, by wearing themselves out by some mighty eflort, if one will just do the little bit of work nearest to them.' 5—2 68 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. * All, I believe you are about right there, Anne. If I had my will, I would level every convent and Anglican community place down to the ground.' 'Leave them alone,' was the equable reply; ' the Sisterhoods mean well. On the whole, they are excellent creatures ; but I fancy charity could be organized in a wider and different way. Suppose, for example, every householder in London were to make him or herself responsible in some sort of way for one waif or stray.' ' A very pretty idea, Anne, but not practical,' he returned hastily. ' By-the-bye — reirnons a nos moiitom — we have forgotten our own special waif and stray, Marjory Daw. So it would really make you happier for me to consent to your adoption of the child ?' ' Oh, so much happier!' she assured him, with sparkling eyes. ' Then, ni}' dear, let it be as you wish. The trouble will be yours, not mine — for heaven forbid my meddling with nursery arrangements ! As far as I am concerned, the " bit lassie " does not interfere with my comfort : she warms my slippers now, and may prove ver}^ useful by-and- by. To be sure ' — correcting himself — ' she MAR/OR Y'S NEW PL A YFELL OW. 69 burnt one of my Turkey-red ones that you were so good as to work for me ; but I have no doubt her intentions were excellent, though Mackay scolded her so severely for her scorched pinafore. I thought Marjory Daw's reply was very reasonable, and not wanting in philosophy. ^' Stupid fire burnted them," she remarked very truly, *' not Margy-do." Of course, on calm reflection, one agreed with the child.' * Yes ; but, Capel, no one in the house spoils her as you do. You really should not let her see how much her little tempers amuse you.' ' Of course, she will be excellently brought up,' was the somewhat rude reply to this. ^ Old maids' children and bachelors' wives are always paragons.' And after this he was suffered to enjoy his Times in peace. But, in spite of Mr. Frere's grudging philo- sophy, and that profound satire in which his soul delighted, Marjory and he were soon in- separable. The child was simply devoted to him, and regarded him in the light of a big playfellow. * Where's my F'ere ?' was her cry from morn- ing to night ; and she trotted about the house 70 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. after him like a sturdy little dog. When he went out she would climb up on her high chair by the window to waft kisses to him until he vvas out of sight ; and, generally, the first thing he saw on his return was the curly head nid- nodding on the window-seat, where she and her dolls were established, waiting for him. Once she w^as ill with some childish ailment, and a little fractious and contrary — after the manner of small people under like circumstances. Anne, who was by this time quite bound up in the child, was secretly chagrined by the way Marjory craved for her brother's presence. ' Tell my F'ere Margy wants him,' she would say with much dignity, when Mackay or one of the other servants entered the room. And if he came to her — as he often did, with the utmost . good-nature — she would order him to sit down and tell her a story, or make him carry her about the room. Once Anne found them threading beads together, and Capel's brown, well-shaped hands perfectly laden with red and blue rings, with which Marjory had adorned him. Capel gave an odd little laugh as he met Anne's quizzical glance. CAPELS WEE WIFIE. 71 * We shall soon be in our dotage/ lie said, with a shake of his head ; * this baby-witch is fooling us both. See here, my dear — this is my wedding-ring. In nursery marriages both the happy couple wear one. Mine is blood-red, you see, emblem of faith to the death ; Marjory Daw's is blue.' * Margy's F'ere's wife,' answered Marjory triumphantly, as she leant her flushed face against his hand, for she was tired, with her play, and then she patted him softly. * My F'ere's a lubbly man, and Margy loves him, and will give him one, two, three kisses.' It was certainly strange, but Marjory, from the first, always tried to conceal her naughtiness from Mr. Frere. Her fits of temper and obsti- nacy, the wilful ways that presently gave Anne so much trouble, were all kept for her adopted mother. She loved Anne — indeed, she was an affec- tionate child, and loved everyone that showed her any kindness — but she was high-spirited and rather combative by nature, and Anne's mild but firm rale often fretted her. She would have liked to have played from morning to night, and to have led as free a life 72 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH as the butterflies that skim so aimlessly through the summer air, being a most idle and merry little soul ; but Anne, who had been well brought up herself, and had fine theories on the subject of woman's work and mission, was determined to lay a good foundation from the earliest age. So Marjory had her baby-lessons, and, at a certain time every day, brought her little painted work-box to Anne, and sat down on the stool at her feet, to do her inch or two of laborious hemming. It was generally a bad time for both of them unless Capel was in the room. Marjory, who hated work, alternately shed tears and pricked her fingers. Very often the mere sight of her little work-box, with its pleasing view of Green- wich Hospital and a pensioner or two in the distance, brought on a fit of naughtiness ; but all in vain — Marjory might sulk, and stamp, and cry until her eyes were red, the baby-task must be done. Once Capel, who was present, interceded for his little favourite. * Do let her off this afternoon, Anne. I declare it quite makes me uncomfortable to see MR, FRERES VIEWS ON EDUCATION. 73 that child stabbing herself every minute with her needle. That little stained handkerchief is quite pathetic/ ' Marjory is too clumsy ; she ought not to prick herself,' returned x\nne severely ; but she exchanged an amused glance over the culprit's curly head. When the work was laid aside, and Marjory's fat little legs had carried her out of the room, Anne remarked candidly : ' I do not like making her so unhappy, but first steps are always difficult, and most children Late work. I know I did, and gave my mothei- plenty of trouble. You see, if I did not master her she would soon get the better of me — for you have no idea how excessively naughty Marjory can be.' ' Naughty children always turn out best,' was Mr. Frere's response to this. * We all of us have got a devil in us — perhaps not you, Anne, my dear, for you were always a good sort, but the rest of us poor humans. It has to be exorcised ; sometimes half a lifetime passes before we really cast it out. But there ! what is the use of talking to a little saint like you?' 74 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. But in spite of Marjory's wilfulness, and though Anne at times felt an uneasy sense of responsibility, neither she nor Capel would have been happy without the child. She seemed to fill the void in Anne's life, and lend to it a little of the importance and jo}' of maternity; the interest that is often missing in a single woman's life was hers by adoption and choice. When Anne said, in her innocent wav • * I love Marjory as though she were my own child,' she really believed what she said, and could not have understood that there was anything want- ing to her complete satisfaction. People would remonstrate with her sometimes on the impro- priety of a mere baby, such as Marjory was, calling her adopted mother by her Christian name. * It is such an easy name to say,' Anne would answer deprecatingly ; ' she has taken to it from the first. You see, she hears Capel calling it all day long, and so it has come naturally to her.' Things went on smoothly in this way for three years, until Marjory was seven years old ; and then there came a sudden interruption — an event that threatened the happy little household with A STRANGE EPISODE. 75 a moral earthquake, and which caused Anne irreat distress of mind. It happened one fine summer morning that Mr. Frere and Marjory were crossing Kensing- ton Gardens on their way home, wiien Marjory, who was a little hot and tired from playing hide- and-seek with the dog, Fluff's mother, among the trees, pleaded to rest a little on one of the benches. Mr. Frere, who had his paper with him, very willingly consented to this arrangement. There was a woman sitting on the bench, and Mr. Frere, as he opened his paper, gave her a cursory glance, as men will when they find themselves in a stranger's company. She seemed a respectable person, very neatly dressed, evidently the wife of a small tradesman — at least, that was his opinion as he took stock of her. She was a good-looking woman, too, who might have been handsome in her youth, but was now careworn and depressed. ' It is astonishing how many careworn faces one sees among women in London,' Mr. Frere thought to himself ; for among his numerous hobbies was the study of physiognomy, and many an hour had he passed sitting on this 76 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. self-same seat, watching the faces of the people as they passed him, and speculating on them and their prohable histories ; but being some- what weary on this occasion, he forbore liis usual study. So he read calmly, while the woman sat and rested herself on the other end of the bench ; but Marjor}^ who was never long tired, and needed perpetual motion like a kitten, slipped from her seat and began teaching Zoe to walk on her hind-logs, to that creature's infinite dis- gust. The leading article was interesting, and claimed all Mr. Frere's attention, so that he did not even notice the wayward grace of Marjory's movements as she danced lightly hither and thither in the pleasant shade — though he was generally pleased to watch her ; but a few minutes afterwards he was fully roused by hearing a stifled scream from the woman beside him. She had risen, and was standing stiffly, point- ing with her outstretched hand to the child. Marjory's white cape had become loosened with her play, and the necklace of Venetian beads witli the medallion, that she constantly wore, BLUE VENETIAN BEADS. 77 was plainly visible against her white frock. It was this that had attracted the woman's atten- tion, and to which she was pointing. ' Who gave her that ?' she asked in a shrill, agitated voice that frightened the child, for she ran up to Capel and caught hold of his hand. * Marjory ! — yes, of course it is Marjory. I might have known it some minutes ago, instead of puzzliug over the face so. But she is grown — she is grown, and I could not be sure.' Mr. Frere felt himself turning a little pale. ' Do you know this child ?' he asked. ' Why do you call her by her name ?' And then, as he asked the question, he remembered that he had not himself spoken to Marjory — that the silence between them had been unbroken. * Who are you ? What does this mean ?' he continued harshly, with the thoroughly English dislike of being duped strong in his mind. The woman shivered a little at the question, and sat silent. She was almost ghastly in her sudden paleness, but as her lips remained closed, her eyes perused the child's face hungrily. ' It is the same and not the same,' she mut- tered ; ' children's faces change so. But that ' — pointing to the medallion — ' there are not 78 A PHILOSOPHER AND A BABY WITCH. two of them. It opens, sir, does it not ? — and there is M.L.C. in a monogram, finished witli three Httle i^earls ? Ah, I knew it !' as Mr. Frere seemed too confounded by this strange statement to make any reply ; and then slie shivered again, and her hps became ahiiost bhie, in spite of the summer heat. * Come to me, Marjor}^ !' she said, in a highly strained voice ; * come to your mother, my dear !' CHAPTER V. MRS. CHARD S STORY. S the woman uttered these singuhir words, she stretched out her hands with a little gesture of entreaty ; but the child shrank from her, and hid behind Mr. Frere. ' Come away,' she said, trying to pull liim with all her force ; for he was standing as though lost in some dream. * Come away. I do not like that woman ; she stares so.' ' You will not come and make friends with me, my dear ?' in a humble, almost deprecating voice. ' No, I will not,' returned Marjory flatly. * I never had any mother, and I want to go home to Anne.' * Hush, child, hush !' remonstrated Mr. Frere, So MRS. CHARD'S STORY. quite shocked at his p'otcfjccs rudeness. It was not often that he saw Marjoiy in one of her little tempers, and he hardly approved of the scorn with which she was regarding the stranger. * My good woman/ he continued, in an emharrassed voice, ' you must forgive me if I hardly know what to think ; the whole thing is so unex- pected. You claim to he this child's mother, you profess to recognise her, and yet for four whole years this child ]ias heen under our care, and, in spite of all our efforts to find her natural guardians, she has remained unclaimed.' * I can explain all that,' she returned ; hut he noticed, with a little surprise, that she dropped her eyes as she spoke. ' There will be much to ask and much to tell, for it is a strange story altogether.' ' You will have to give us very sufficing proofs,' he interrupted sternly, for the woman's manner did not please him. She seemed to avoid his scrutinizing glance, and, though her agitation appeared real, there was a nervousness and uncertainty about her that seemed strange under the circumstances. * Of course I shall furnish you with proofs,' she replied a little sullenly. ' I can give you MR. FRERE DISGUISES HIS ANXIETY. 8i one at the present moment. Has not the child on her left arm, just above the place where she was vaccmatecl, a curious blue mark — a faint tracing almost like the letter L ?' ' My sister will tell you about that/ he re- turned hastily, for he was not anxious to com- promise himself ; but a chill feeling of discomfort came over him at her words. He had seen the mark himself, and he could not but own that the woman was already giving him strong proofs of her intimate acquaintance with the child. No one but Anne and himself knew that the medal- lion opened, and the existence of the monogram had never been revealed to another person. His anxiety was intense, but he tried to dis- guise it under an abrupt manner. * We cannot talk about such things here,' he said rather shortly. * The child is tired, and I must take her home. I will give you my address, and you can come and give us all the necessary particulars. It is too important a matter to discuss in a huriy, and I warn you my sister is too fond of Marjory to give her up lightly.' * I am thankful she has fallen into such good hands,' she returned, in a subdued voice. * The VOL. I. 6 82 AfRS. CHARD'S STORY. child was stolen from me, and I have had no peace thinking how she had fared all these years. Heaven is good to us when we least deserve it. Yes, I will come to your house, sir — to-morrow maybe. I see you are a gentleman, and will give a poor woman fair play.' ' And you must bring your proofs,' he re- peated. * By the way, you have not given me your name.' * Mrs. Chard, sir— Miriam Chard.' * Do you mean that is Marjory's name ?' look- ing sharply at her. This time there was perceptible hesitation in her manner. The question seemed to sur- prise her a little. * No, that is not her name,' she replied slowly, and again he noticed that strange blue- ness and twitching of her lips. * I've married again since I lost her. My first husband's name was Deane — Eobert Deane.' ' Was that Marjory's father ?' * Yes, that was Marjory's father,' she replied quickly, and her countenance lightened. * Poor Eobert never saw much of our child, for he left us and went to Australia, and very soon afterwards I heard of his death.' MARJORY REFUSES TO MAKE FRIENDS. 83 * Well, well, we will talk of this again,' he said, a little impatiently^ * Marjory, you must shake hands with this person. She says she knew you when you were a little baby.' But Marjory put her hands behind her, and obstinately refused the slightest overture. ^ Let her be,' returned the woman, brushing away some tears. She looked so grieved and patient, that, in spite of his instinctive dislike, Mr. Frere felt almost sorry for her. * Children have short memories ; but, of course, it feels hard to see the creature one has nursed at one's own breast, and rocked to sleep night after night, turn away like that. But there, I will come to- morrow, and maybe we shall be better friends ;' and then she sat down on the bench again, and watched them until they were out of sight. Marjory was very cross and contrary all the way home. She hung with all her weight on Mr. Frere' s arm, fidgeted incessantly, asked questions without ceasing, and clamoured fret- fully for his answers ; was first hot, and then thirsty, and then so tired that he thought seriously of carrying her, big girl as she was. At last, being very wearied and irritable himself, G— 2 84 MRS. CHARD'S STOR Y. he lost patience with her, and desired her quite roughly to hold her tongue, at which unex- pected treatment — for he was generally her uncomplaining slave — Marjor}^ relapsed into tears and sullenness, in which state she remained until they reached home. Mr. Frere was longing and yet dreading to see his sister. * HapjDy the man,' he thought, ' who had such a sensible woman as Anne to consult in all his difficulties !' but even as he fortified himself with this reflection, he remem- bered that the intelligence he had to impart would wound her grievously. This made him faint-hearted, and induced him to slacken his footsteps as he approached the house and saw Anne, in her large broad- brimmed hat and neat gardening- apron, raking the beds under the drawing-room window. He always admired her in this costume ; she looked so young and girlish in it ; with her slim, tiny figure, one could almost have taken her for a child. His courage sunk as he looked at her : she was so happy, so tranquil. She was humming a little French air, always a sign that things were well with her; but now he must bring a cloud to her face. MARJOR V OPENS THE SUBJECT. 85 As he crossed the little plot of grass, he was wondering in what words he could best clothe his unpleasant communication. He must beat about the bush a little first, he thought ; but Marjory saved him all trouble by precipitating herself upon Anne with a childish sob and pour- ing out her grievance. ' Oh, Anne, such a horrid walk ! and he ' — pointing in a pettish manner to Mr. Frere — ^ has been so cross ! And there was a nasty woman, with big black eyes, who called me Marjory, and said she was my mother ; but I told her I had not got any mothers, and I won't have any, except my dear, darling Anne. And she's coming to-morrow ; but she shan't take me away, for I won't go — no, I won't ! I will scream and hold on to the palings until the policeman comes !' and Marjory stamped as she spoke. ' Hush, my pet ! no one shall take you away,' returned Anne, kissing her fondly ; but Mr. Frere saw that she had become suddenly very pale, and her lips trembled. * Run to Mackay, darling, and ask her to give you some milk and a sponge-cake, and I will come to you directly.' 86 MRS. CHARD'S STOR V. But the moment Marjory had run off, she threw down her rake and led the way round the house to a covered hench, where they would be unseen and undisturbed. * Now, Capel, what does this mean ?' she asked breathlessly ; and she fixed her e3^es anxiously on his face as he narrated the strange ch'cumstance of the morning. * You should have brought her back with you,' she said feverishly, when he had finished. * You did not think of me and my suspense. How am I to live through the night until I know if this woman's story be true ?' * My dear Anne !' he remonstrated, for her vehemence quite alarmed him ; she was always so quiet and reasonable, even in her troubles; but now there was a red, angry spot in her cheeks, and her eyes shone with excitement. * Oh, Capel, it is too hard, after all these years, and just when we have got to look upon her as our .own. I cannot part with her — indeed I cannot !' ^ Nay, my dear, be practical. Not part with her to her own mother ?' * Oh, how coldl}^ you speak ! But that is the way of men, I suppose. She must be a strange ANNE IS NOT REASONABLE. 87 sort of mother, to judge from your account. Mrs. Chard — Miriam Chard. Oh, what a hateful name ! She must be a hateful woman, I am sure. Don't look at me in that way, Capel. I'm not reasonable — not a bit, where Marjory is concerned. If it were not for you, I think I should run away with her.' ' You had better go and lie down, dear ; you have tired yourself raking those beds in the sun, and now this has upset you. Go into the house and rest yourself,' he added, in his most affectionate manner. He had never seen Anne so moved, so angry before, and it almost frightened him. He could not understand how even a quiet woman can be roused to excitement at any attack threatening the peace of one dependent on her ; the in- stinct of protection is so strong in some women. Anne smiled faintly at this advice, but she was sensible enough to take it ; for her head began to throb ominously, and she knew a few hours of pain and misery were in store for her. Capel was left to his own devices for the re- mainder of the day, for Marjory sulked most perseveringly, and would not open her lips. 8S MRS. CHARD'S STOR V. ^ I am holding my tongue/ she said ma- jestically, when he inquired why she was so cross. ' You told me to do it, you know.' Mr. Frere looked at her with grave rehuke, but he very wisely refrained from his usual coaxing, and poor Marjory was left to enjoy her enforced silence in peace. Anne looked very worn and jaded when she made her appearance the next morning. She had not closed her eyes the whole night, and even Mr. Frere, when he joined them some hom's later, owned that his rest had not been as unbroken as usual. ' The whole thing is such a confounded bore, one hates being mixed up in this sort of mess,' he said rather crossly ; but Anne did not carry on the subject. She set about her usual busi- ness — occupying herself with a heavy heart, it is true — and so the morning dragged on. Both of them were anxiously looking for their unwelcome visitor, but it was Anne who faltered and turned pale when the dreaded name was announced. Mr. Frere had had time to collect his forces, and was as cool as possible. It had been arranged between them that he MRS, CHARD TELLS HER STOR V. 89 should be spokesman ; and he addressed the woman at once, very guardedly : * We should like to hear all you have to tell us, Mrs. Chard. You may be as explicit as you like, not only about Marjory, but about yourself and your surroundings.' 'I have no objection to tell you about myself,' she returned very civilly, but in the same sub- dued voice in which she had spoken yesterday. He had placed her in a chair facing the window, and was himself sitting with his back to the Hght. By this, he would not lose a single change of expression. He saw at once that she was not unconscious of his intention of watching her ; for she darted an uneasy look at him before she began. But from that time she kept her eyes fixed on the hands that were folded so tightly in her lap. It could not be denied that she told her stoiy very fairly. She had been a servant, she said, and had kept her situation until she had married ; and, strange to say, her mother had served her old mistress in the same capacity. * I was in the house as a child, and played with my young mistress many a time when we 90 MRS. CIIARUS STORY. were cliiklren together,' she went od. 'It was always understood that as soon as I was old enough I should come to the Grange as under- housemaid ; for m}^ old mistress always thought a good deal of my mother, and she wanted me to be trained under her own eyes. I was always happy at the Grange ; for I respected my old mistress and I dearly loved my young one * ' And their names T demanded Mr. Frere abruptly. Mrs. Chard coloured a little at the interrup- tion. ' My old mistress's name was Mrs. Weston, and my young mistress's was Miss Lilias.' ' Lilias Weston. I shall remember that ; it is rather an uncommon name.' * She changed it about the same time as I changed mine,' returned Mrs. Chard, with another flickering uneasy look at him. * We were married within a month of each other. My old mistress had been dead only six months ; but she made me promise to stop on at the Grange until Miss Lilias was married.' * And who did Miss Lilias marry ?' asked Mr. Frere carelessly. * His name was Carr, sir,' catching her breath 'AND YOU MARRIED ROBERT DEANE ?' 91 for a moment. ' I can't rightly say his Christian name, but I think it was PhiHp, or maybe Sydney ; anyhow, he was a fine, handsome gentleman, though not so rich as they thought ; for something went wrong with his money shortly afterwards, and they had to go to Peru, where he had a mine. But, however that may be. Miss Lilias doated on him, as all the world could see.' * And they went away ?' * Yes, sir ; and they are away still, for all I know. Her mother's dead, and the Grange has been let, and has passed into other hands ; and it is not likely that, even if they came back to England, they would take the trouble to find me out — eight years is a long time.' * And you married Eobert Deane — Marjory's father ?' A softened look came into Mrs. Chard's eyes. ' Yes, sir ; and more's the pity, as the neigh- bours would tell you, if you asked them ; for Eobert did not treat me as well as he should, though I was that fond of him that I was only too ready to forgive him. We lived down at Chigwell — Eobert's father had the forge there, and Eobert had worked under him from a boy ; 92 MRS. CHARUS STOR Y. but he was uppish, and always wanted to be master, and one day he and his father had words, and then nothing would do but Eobert must go to Australia.' ' Do you mean that he left you behind ?' She nodded mournfully. * Well, you see, sir, Eobert was a bit gay ; and, like many young fellows, he was for seeing the world — never remembering his father's words that ^' Eolling stones gather no moss." He was very fair-spoken, was Eobert, and he was for ever telling me that a good workman like himself would do better in Australia ; and that, as Marjory was too young to bear the voyage, he must go alone first, and then I could follow him later with the child. There were other reasons, too, for my staying behind, but I need not trouble you with all that.' And she hurried on: ^ When I bade him good-bye, I never thought it was my last look at him : he died on the way out, and that was the first news I had of him.' * How long ago did that happen ?' * Between five or six years — my baby was not quite eighteen months old when I heard that I was a widow. Everything seemed to come on me at once : for my father-in-law died LITTLE SISSIE. shortly afterwards ; and not six months after that, my mother followed — so for a time I was quite friendless/ * And Marjory ?' observed Mr. Frere signi- ficantly ; for he feared a long dissertation on the young widow's woes. Women love to dwell on their griefs, he thought ; and, after all, this had very little to do with Marjory's disajDpear- ance. * I am coming to that,' she said, as though deprecating his abruptness ; ' but I thought you and Miss Frere wished to have it all plain from the beginning. That is why I troubled you with the sad story of my married life. I kept on the cottage at Chigwell, because I had nowhere else to go. I had another little girl with me, whom I had brought up with my own. Her mother was in a lunatic asylum, and her father, poor man, wanted a likely nurse for her, as he paid liberally. I found little Sissie a great help to me.' ' Little Sissie ?' * We called her that instead of Cicely, sir. Her father was a Captain Cooper, in the Hussars, and she and my Marjory were rare playfellows.' 94 MJ^S. CHAKUS STORY. * Wait a moment, Capel !' exclaimed Anne, in an agitated whisper. She seemed struggHng with some effort of memory. * When the child first came to ns, I rememhcr that for two or three nights she cried because she had not said good-night to Sis. I wondered at the time whom she meant.' ' It was just her little bedfellow, Sissie,' returned Mrs. Chard, with more emotion than she had 3'et shown. * They used to sleep together — the pretty dears ! — and many a time have I stood and watched them, looking like little angels, with their arms round each other. She was always so fond of Sis, was Marjory.' * Is the child with you still, Mrs. Chard ?' * Oh dear no, sir,' with another flicker of the ej^elids in his direction. ' Her poor mother died, but an aunt came and fetched her away very soon after I lost Marjory. It was a double loss, as I may say, for I cared for one almost as much as for the other ; but I am bound to say they paid me handsomely when they took her away.' ' And now about Marjory ?' * Very well, sir ; I will tell you all about that. Marjory was three years the very day CROSS-EXAMINATION. 95 she was stolen. I remember that morning far too well. Sis was not very well, and I had laid her on her bed for a good sleep, and I was wash- ing in the little outhouse while Marjory played in the kitchen.' ' How was she dressed that morning ?' putting the question very carelessly, as though the answer w^as of no importance. But she replied without a moment's hesitation ; * Well, it was her birthday, you see, and she had begged me to put on her best dress — a grey merino — that a kind lady had given her. Some of Sissie's clothes were outgrown, for she was a big girl, and Marjory always took those. So she was nicely dressed that morning, and looked like a lady's child ; and she had on her beads, too. She always wore them on Sundays and holidays.' * Will you mind telling me how you came by such things, Mrs. Chard, and the meaning of the monogram M.L.C. ?' Mr. Frere put the question with studious politeness, but there was no perceptible hesi- tation in the woman's manner as she answered him : * They are curious beads, are they not, sir ? 96 MRS. CHARD'S STOR Y. Some one told me they came from Venice. They belonged to my old mistress, Mrs. Weston, and the monogram is the initials of her maiden name — Maud Lilias Cardigan. She left stores of fine ornaments when she died, and Miss Lilias picked this out for me to keep. Mar- jory was fond of it from a baby, so I let her wear it.' ' Well, go on,' he returned, as though satis- fied. ' I was washing, as I said, and a little bit hot and irritable with my work ; and when one of those pedlar-women came to the door, and wanted to show me her wares, I did not answer her quite as civilly as I ought to have done. She was a tall, dark woman, and I remember she had a red and black shawl.' (Here Mr. Frere and his sister exchanged looks.) * She had a cast in one eye, and I did not much like the look of her. She seemed a likely sort to lay hands on anything within reach. ' '* I don't want any of your w^ares, and I will thank you to tramp ofi" these premises as quickly as possible," I said rather roughly. * ** You might have answered a body civilly, missis," she said, with a sort of unpleasant ' / NE VER THO UGHT OF MARJORY: 97 scowl on lier face ; and I heard her mutter something to herself as she turned away. But Sissie woke just then, and was crying out for me ; so I just dried my hands from the suds and ran into the back room where the children slept/ ' And Marjory was playing in the kitchen T * Ah ! I never thought of Marjory/ she re- turned, in a shamed voice. * I thought she had been quieter than usual during the last half- hour, but I never went to the door to call her, as I generally did, to make sure she was safe ; and I fear — I very much fear she had strayed into the high-road, as she was a daring sort of child, and there the tramp must have found her. It was naughty of her to run out, for she had no hat or cloak on ; but she had done it once before — she and Sissie together — for play. I was with Sissie some time — for she was feverish and fractious, and would not be left — and then I went into the kitchen to look for Marjory. There were her bricks and doll under the table they called their cubby-house ; but I found one of the bricks afterwards by the gate, and another lying outside in the road, which prove what I said — but no trace of the child anywhere. VOL. I. 7 98 MRS. CHARHS STORY. Well, sir, you may judge how frightened I was, and how I called '* Marjory! Marjory!" until I was hoarse ; and then all at once I remem- bered the pedlar- woman, and then I got nearly crazy with terror. Well, I searched every- where, and I got my neighbours to help me ; but none of them had seen the child. The woman had called at several houses in the village, and had regaled herself at the ale-house, but that was before she came to my cottage. No one had seen her afterwards, and no one had noticed Marjory. I walked miles that day, and questioned everyone I met. We applied at the police-station — at least, one of the men did when he came home from work ; for I was too much out of my wits to do much more than pace the roads, calling out to the child ; and, to make a long story short, from that day to yesterday I never came across a trace of Mar- jory, though I heard long afterwards that a woman answering to the description had been seen in a waggon going towards Loudon, but there was apparently no child with her.' * It is very strange,' observed Mr. Frere thoughtfully, as the woman paused with a weary air, as though her narrative had exhausted her. MRS. CHARD HAS BRAIN-FEVER. 99 ^ Surely you must have seen our advertise- ments, or the police must have identified the child ?' ' I did answer one advertisement/ she replied despondently, * but the child they brought to me was not Marjory ; and soon after I had brain- fever with the worry, and for weeks I lay with- out sense. Some cousins of mine, hosiers in Whitechapel, took me away after that, and I lived with them till I met Ephraim Chard ; and he made me promise to marry him, and then we went down to Whitecliffe, where we live now.' ' You must give me time to make all possible inquiries,' observed Mr. Frere, as she paused again and seemed to wait for him to speak. ' Your story is very clear, and I am sure that the tramp who brought Marjory into our garden on that Christmas Eve must have been the same as your pedlar-woman.' ^ Christmas Eve!' she repeated eagerly. ' That would not be so many days after I lost Marjory. Her birthday was on the 18th of Decem- ber ;' and she listened intently with breathless interest as Mr. Frere briefly narrated how his sister had found the child. 7—2 loo MRS. CHARD'S STORY. * You must let me consider what is to be done,' he finished. * I shall be glad if 3'ou will allow a week to elapse before you ask for our decision/ * You are welcome to that,' she answered ci\illy. * I am staying with my cousins now, and Ephraim is coming up to fetch me ; to tell you the truth, sir, my husband is a near man, and not over-fond of children. I am not so sure that he will be glad I have found Marjory.' ' I dare say we shall be able to arrange some- thing satisfactory to all parties,' returned Mr. Frere a little impatiently, for he wanted to get rid of the woman and to be left alone with Anne. Mrs. Chard seemed to understand this, for she rose, and without asking to see Marjory again, took her leave. * I will not see her again until things are more settled,' she said, when Mr. Frere asked if she wished Marjory to be fetched ; 'she did not seem to take to me, and I am too much agitated to bear any more ;' and then she curtsied and withdrew. ' Oh, Capel, I am afraid it is true, and that she is Marjory's mother !' exclaimed poor Anne, when the front door had closed on Mrs. Chard. MR. FRERE IS PUZZLED. loi ^ She seems civil-spoken and respectable, but I do not like her somehow ; there is not a true ring about her.' ' There is only one flaw in her evidence that I can see,' returned her brother, pacing the room uneasily : ' how can our advertisement have escaped the local police? And there is another thing ' — with a start — ' do you not think it strange, Anne, that the woman should not have pawned the beads as well as the shoes T This seemed to puzzle Anne also. * Perhaps she meant to do so, only some sudden difficulty made her part with the child too quickly ; most likely the police were after her for some theft. Do j^ou know, Capel, the clasp that confined the beads was so concealed and so difficult to unfasten that I was obliged to let Marjory sleep in them for two or three nights before I could master it at all ; and every time I tried, Marjory cried and struggled and made such a fuss.' ' She may have done the same when the beggar- wife touched her,' replied Mr. Frere, rather struck by this, ' or she may have found the clasp too hard for her clumsy fingers ; and after all, the beads are more curious than valuable.' 102 MRS. CHARD'S STORY. * Shall you go down to Chigwell to make inquiries T asked Anne, with a sigh. * Yes, to-morrow; and perhaps you would like to go with me ? Do not look so unhappy, Anne, my dear. I begin to see a way out of our diffi- culties. If Ephraim Chard objects to children, he may consent to our adoption of Marjory.' ' I am glad, at least, that Marjory's name will not be Chard,' observed Anne grudgingly, for she had taken an unreasonable dislike to the woman. ' I do not see that Deane is much better,' returned her brother drily ; and then Marjory's entrance into the room hindered any further discussion. CHAPTEE VI. AT THE BLUE BOAR. ^^F course, x\nne accompanied her brother to Chigwell ; she was one of those ^^^^^ innocent meddling women who loved to occupy themselves with other people's business. She had a sort of faith in her own instincts, that made her believe that things would not progress so well without her. ' Men are all very well in their way,' she would say, with a shrewd nod of her head, ' but they have an objection to details. Capel would not pick up a pin if it lay before his eyes ; I have been his pin-gatherer all our joint lives.' Mr. Frere did not object to her company ; he always loved to have her with him on all occasions. But of course he thought, in his mas- culine wisdom, that he could have managed I04 AT THE BLUE BOAR. things in about half the time without her. She wasted a precious half-hour, for example, by mere sentimentality. Who on earth but Anne would have insisted on their making a pilgrimage to the very cottage from w^hence Marjory had been stolen, that she might see with her own eyes the birthplace of Iiqy inotcgcc ; the very red -tiled kitchen where she had played with her bricks in the cubby-house under the table ; and the little path between the gooseberry bushes where her truant feet had strayed that memorable day, in her eagerness to seek a forbidden world — so like Marjory — so like wilful Marjory ! On his part, Mr. Frere would have been quite content with inspecting the baptismal register, when he had found the entry ' Marjory Lilias Deane/ and with the facts that he had contrived to glean from the parish clerk, the mistress of the Blue Boar, and one or two of Mrs. Chard's old neighbours who could afford him any information. Mrs. Whelks, the rosy-faced owner of the Blue Boar, gave him the most satisfactory par- ticulars; the woman who had owned the cottage adjoining Mrs. Chard's had lately left the neigh- bourhood, and no one quite knew what had become of her. AfRS. WHELKS BECOMES CONFIDENTIAL. 105 ' Jenny Wheeler — that was the body's name " — and Miriam Deane were rare cronies/ observed Mrs. Whelks, as she filled a tall, old-fashioned glass with foaming ale and handed it to Mr. Frere. There was no one but himself in the snug bar, for Anne was still talking to the garrulous clerk in the church porch, so he and the rosy- cheeked landlady became quite confi- dential. * Miriam — that is Mrs. Deane — was a little high,' continued Mrs. Whelks, ' and was not what you would call neighbourly — I think her ladies had spoiled her. And then Eobert's roving ways soured her a bit. She lived mostly alone like after he was gone ; no one but Jenny ever crossed her threshold. But we would see her at church with the children — pretty, well-behaved little creatures they were, too, dressed alike in their white pelisses and sun-bonnets. Jenny has told us since that Miriam was that proud of them, you could not have told which was her own child.' It was evident Mrs. Whelks loved the sound of her own voice ; her narrative soon became colloquial, and the ' I says ' and ' she says,' so dear to the uneducated classes, soon garnished io6 AT THE BLUE BOAR. lier speech freely. Mr. Frere found himself compelled to mtcrpose an abrupt question, or a brusque reminder that time to gentlemen of his calibre was a valuable commodity ; now and then he took out his watch and looked at it gravely. By these salutary measures he con- trived by the end of half an hour to extract all he needed from the good woman. Mrs. Chard's story received full corroboration. Mrs. Whelks well remembered the time when Eobert Deane first brought his young wife home, and how somebod}^ had set the bells ringing, and how her own goodman had said to her that very day: ' ^'Now, Peggy, folks won't talk so much of your red cheeks, so you needn't be so proud of them, lass ; there's Bob Deane brought home a rare handsome wench, that has no more colour than an image, and there's our Jakes '* — that's the ostler, sir — ** says it is a pleasure only to look at her.' " She had much to say also on the subject of Eobert Deane's iniquities. His wife had smoothed matters over a little ; he had been evidently a mauvais sujct, a ne'er-do-weel, as Mrs. Whelks called him. He was a strong 3'oung fellow, but he did not love work ; he was always idling ROBERT DEANE EMIGRATES. 107 round at the Blue Boar. He and his father quarrelled at last — the old hlacksmith cut up rough, as the landlady phrased it — and Kobert marched off, declaring he would have nothing more to do with the concern ; and a month after- wards he had taken his passage for Australia. * Well, she was better without him, if she would only have believed it,' went on Mrs. Whelks ; * but you can't get a woman to own that, however brutally her husband may treat her. And Jenny says she fretted dreadfully about it all ; and when the news of his death came she was like a wild thing, just crazy with grief, only the children's pretty ways brought her round.' With regard to Marjory's disappearance, there was little that anyone could tell. Mrs. Wheeler had gone away for three or four days, and had left the key of her cottage with Mrs. Deane, so her testimony was wanting. Mrs. Whelks w^as only just recovering from her confinement, but her husband had been in the bar that day, and had served out three-pennyworth of rum to a pedlar- woman, for she had unstrapped her basket and placed it on the counter, and had shown him some of her wares. Mrs. Toosey, io8 AT THE BLUE BOAR. the butcher's wife, had bought a comb and a ribbon, and Emma Grubbius, from Hollytree Farm, had also purchased a brass thimble and some grey cotton ; but neither of them had liked the look of the woman, and Emma always vowed she had cheated her of sixpence. When the news reached the Blue Boar that Miriam Deane's little Marjory was missing, there had been a great commotion in the village. Mr. Frere seemed to see it all without Mrs. Whelks's graphic description. Everyone was talking at once ; the few rustics were gaping and scratching their heads under the portico of the Blue Boar, without wit or sense except to stare and do nothing. Miriam was rushing up and down, with half a dozen children and dogs at her heels ; and Anthony Whelks and ' our Jakes ' were pondering the matter heavily, long before they made up their minds to harness Grey Madge to a light cart and just go a mile or two along the London road. If they had only been quicker in their move- ments Mr. Frere was sure that they must have overtaken the woman before she had come up with the waggon, unless she had crept behind some hedge or haystack ; as it was. Grey Madge LITTLE SISSIE WAS FETCHED AWAY. 109 trotted nearly to London before Jakes gave up the search in despair ; it was not until evening that a carter had come into the Blue Boar for a tankard of ale, and had described a woman that he had seen perched up on the top of the waggon, but as far as he could see there was no child with her. After this there was very little satisfactory information to be extracted ; the local police had done their work inefficiently, and no trace of the woman or child had been discovered. Jenny "\Yheeler had been called away to London to nurse a dying sister, and during her absence little Sissie, the other child, had been fetched away by a lady, and after this Miriam Deane had been attacked by brain fever. * She was badly ill — at death's door, I have been told,' continued the landlady. * It was as much as Betty Morgan could do to keep her in bed when the fits came on, though Betty is a powerful woman, but a trifle deaf. What do you say, sir ?' — for Mr. Frere was tr^'ing to interpose a question here — * What has become of Betty ? Why, dead, sir — dead this twelve months ; but she always did say that the toughest bit of work she ever did in her life no AT THE BLUE BOAR. — and Betty was no chicken — was nursing poor Miriam Deane.' ' I suppose,' observed Mr. Frere thoughtfully, as she actually paused for breath, * that it was owing to her illness that Mrs. Deane failed to see my advertisement ?' * Some of us saved them for her,' returned Mrs. Whelks. ' I know the moment she got strong she went up to London, for she told Betty that she thought the London police had some clue. She saw two or three children, I believe. Lideed, she made more than one journey to London, but always came back dis- appointed. She was never the same woman after her illness. She used to shake and call out if anyone spoke to her suddenly. She could not abide her cottage without the children — for she pined after Sissie as much as after her own child — and so she sold all her bits of things, and went to her cousin in Whitechapel. Some- body was saying the other day that they heard she had married again. Oh, indeed, sir ; it is the truth, is it ? Well, and what better could she do ? — being a pretty young woman, and lonesome, and without chick or child, as they say. Must you be going, sir ? Well, I think MRS. CHARUS STORY IS VERIFIED, iii I have told you all I knew myself. There is Eoger Knowles with the lady standing in the porch. Better let me make the lady a cup of tea, for she looks fagged and poorly like.' As Anne was thankful for the tea, and quite pleased at the idea of a chat with the comely landlady, Mr. Frere promised to call for her in half an hour, and set out for the forge and the butcher's shop ; but though the people were civil, and anxious to tell him all they knew, that was little enough to the purpose. But he had already verified the salient points of Mrs. Chard's story, and he knew that she had not lied to him. She had told it in a consistent, straightforward manner, keeping strictly to the sequence of events, and saying little about her own feelings. She had been brief, too, on the subject of her husband's faults, though he dis- covered now that they were heinous ; but she had shown repressed agitation at the very men- tion of his name. ' Depend upon it, she cared more for that scapegrace, Robert, than she does for her pre- sent husband,' he observed, as they walked towards the station in the cool of the evening. * What was it she said about Ephraim Chard — 112 AT THE BLUE BOAR. that he was near, and hated children ? Very well, Anne, my dear. Now to open negotiations with Marjory's step -father.' Anne shuddered. ' You have sufficient proofs, Capel, that Mrs. Chard is really Marjor3^'s mother ?' ' We cannot well ask for more,' was the grave rejoinder ; and then for a little time they were both silent. Anne was making up her mind to the worst long before they reached home. Her Christmas gift must be given up — her child was to be hers no longer ; and though, after a time, her fears were modified, and Marjory still remained with her adopted mother, still from that day a shadow had fallen over Anne's perfect satisfaction — the fulness of her content was slightly marred. Marjory could never be quite her own with a living mother in the background. In spite of Mrs. Chard's solemn asseverations to the con- trary, a time might come when she would claim her, or the child might turn round in sheer wilfulness with a plea for her natural parents. ^ Nature is nature, and, after all, Marjory is not our own flesh and blood,' she would say EPHRAIM CHARD CALLS. 113 anxiously, ^vhen Mr. Frere scouted this notion with indignation. When Mrs. Chard paid her promised visit she did not come alone. Her husband accompanied her. Ephraim Chard was certainly not well- favoured. He was a tall, dark, saturnine man, with eyes set rather closely together, and a heavy jowl that denoted obstinacy. His appearance was fairly respectable. He looked an ordinary type of a small tradesman in tolerably good circumstances. His coat was black and glossy, he had agold watch and chain, and his wife wore a silk dress which cast Anne's grey stuff gown in the shade. They had evi- dently done their best to make an imposing appearance. * I have brought my husband, sir, because he wished to be present at our interview,' began Mrs. Chard timidlv. It struck Mr. Frere at once that her manner was more nervous and flurried, and that she was undoubtedly in some trepidation at what her husband might say. ' I should like to hear what you have to tell us,' returned Ephraim Chard, in a loud, harsh VOL. I. 8 114 AT THE BLUE BOAR. voice. * My wife makes a rare muddle of things when she is left to herself, and so I thought I had better come with her and put in a word when needful. You have been down to Chig- well, sir — so I suppose you have found it all right about the child T Mr. Frere gave him a brief summary of their visit. * As far as I am concerned, I am quite satis- fied in my own mind that Mrs. Chard has every right to claim Marjory.' ' There, Ephraim, I told you so !' observed his wife, and a red spot of excitement came to her cheeks. But Ephraim 's reply to this was a decided scowl. * That will do,' he said rather roughly ; and then, addressing Mr. Frere : * You see, sir, the fact is, me and my wife have been having words about the child. AVhen I married Miriam I made up my mind that the girl was as good as lost, and never troubled my head about her. Children were never much in my line, and I never had a fancy for bringing up another man's child. I took up with my wife as now is because she had no troublesome EPHRAIM DISCARDS MARJOR V. 115 belongings, and I do not see that she has any cause to be so vexed because I am not over- pleased about her finding the child.' ^ You would rather be without Marjory, in fact ?' asked Mr. Frere, with assumed careless- ness. * I would much rather by a long way,' re- turned Ephraim eagerly ; and then he stopped, and the two men slowly regarded each other. * There seems to me no difficulty in the whole business. I am sure we can arrange matters to please all parties,' observed Mr. Frere, after a moment's consideration ; and true enough, before another quarter of an hour elapsed, there was an amicable arrangement. Mrs. Chard, at her husband's instigation, and evidently acting under compulsion, renounced all formal rights to Marjory, and gave her sanction to Anne's adoption of the child. Her sole con- dition — and to this her husband made no objec- tion — was that Marjory should pay her an annual visit, and remain at least a week with her, and that she herself should be allowed the privilege of seeing her child from time to time at her own pleasure. * I shall not abuse my privilege,' she said rather S— 2 ii6 AT THE BLUE BOAR. huskily. * I shall not often ask to see her as long as she is well and happy. I know it is a fine thing for Marjoiy to he under your care, for you are hringing her up like a real lady, and Ephraim and me are just plain people, and could do little for her heyond giving her a respectahle education. Yes, it is hest as it is ; and thank you kindly, Miss Frere, for all your goodness to ni}^ Marjory. As long as I see her sometimes, and have her all to myself once a 5'ear, I'm hound to he content, as Ephraim says.' And with these words the matter was settled. Anne had thankfully acquiesced in Mrs. Chard's modest terms. Both she and her hrother were fully satisfied with the existing arrangements. Many parents hefore now had sufi*ered their children to he adopted hy wealthy friends or relatives — it was only common- sense on Mrs. Chard's part to sacrifice her maternal feelings for the good of the child. Anne would hring her up carefully, give her an excellent education, accustom her to the habits of gentle-people, and leave her suflficient ju'o- vision at her death. Neither of them would liave been willing to give her into her step-father's MARJORY REFUSES TO BE AMIABLE. 117 custody. He was decidedly a hard man, with little consideration for anyone's feelings, and of a selfish, grasping nature. His wife did not aj^pear at her ease with him — she was evidently repressed and made timid by harsh usage ; and a high-spirited child like Marjory, with a strong will of her own, would have fared badly at his hands. IMarjory evinced a repugnance to him from the first moment of introduction. She would not go near him or hold out her hand ; she glowered at them both sulkily from behind Anne's chair, and not all Mr. Frere's remon- strances or her mother's coaxing speeches could induce her to relinquish her hold of Anne's gown. ' She will be a pretty handful one of these days,' observed Ephraim Chard, with a shrug of his shoulder. And then he bade his wife con- temptuously to cease all that palaver, for it was time for them to be going. ' Oh, Marjory ! how could you be so naughty?' sighed Anne, quite shocked at the child's obsti- nacy, for she had resisted kissing her mother to the last. * I won't have mothers if I don't like,' re- turned Marjory pettishly. ' And I would not ii8 AT THE BLUE BOAR. let that ugl}^ man touch me — no, that I woukln't! And I don't care if I am naughty, not a bit/ But Anne wisely took no notice of this wilful speech, for she knew how useless it was to argue with Marjory when one of these perverse moods was on her. But from that day Marjory's wilful- ness increased ; it really seemed as though the mere fact of her mother's existence threw a sort of blight over her happiness. Her annual visits to Whiteclijffe were always preceded by a week or two of contrary mcods, and she never returned to them without bitter complaints from her step- father of her high and mighty ways, and her unnatural behaviour to her poor mother. Marjory would shed floods of tears when Anne reasoned with her on her unfeeling conduct, but she would never own herself in the wrong. She hated her step-father, and it was odious to her to be brought in contact with him. And she had very little respect or liking for her mother ; and though, when she grew older, a sense of decency prevented her from carrying her antagonism into speech, and she learned to conduct herself with outward civility, still the breach remained unhealed, and her */ WISH I DID NOT BEIONG TO HER: 119 visits to AYhitecliffe were quite as grievous to her as when she was a wayward chikl. When her step-father died — which happened when Marjory was seventeen — Anne hoped that Marjory and her mother might he drawn a little nearer together. Ephraim Chard had never shown her any kindness, and most likely the constant presence of such a man might he intolerable to a girl like Marjory ; hut her mother had always treated her with the utmost consideration, giving way to all her whims and fancies, petting and making much of her. ' In fact, she would have made herself into a mat for Marjory to wipe her feet on, if Mar- jory Daw would have condescended so far,' was Mr. Frere's sarcastic observation one day. But all this obsequiousness and kindly atten- tion on Mrs. Chard's part could not win the child's heart. Marjory never willingly spoke of her mother ; but now and then a chance word showed Anne that she had formed a low estimate of her mother's moral nature. * I wish I did not belong to her!' she said once, very passionately, in Anne's hearing ; * it maddens me sometimes to think I had not a I20 AT THE BLUE BOAR. better father and mother. How am I to be good, coming of such a stock T * My dear Marjory, you must not say such things about your parents/ * My father was not good,' she returned sorrowfull3\ ' A good man would not have refused to work, and run away from his wife and child. And sometimes — oh, I am very wicked, Anne — I feel as though my mother were not good, too/ * My darling ; j^ou must not sj^eak out such thoughts, even to me.' * Why should I not speak as well as think them ? Ought we not to be true — absolutely true r ' That were hardly possible in this world, Marjory !' ' It ought to be possible — it must be possible. You would not have me a hypocrite/ * No, indeed!' with a smile into the sad, earnest face. * You would make a very poor hypocrite, I fear.' ^ Yes, I should pretend badly ; but, do you know, I think it comes naturally to my mother. She was pretending the other day, when some neighbours came in, that she was grieving for MARJORY CENSURES HER MOTHER. 121 Mr. Chard's death. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, but I am sure she did not shed a single tear. How could she, when she knows in her heart that she is only too glad to be free T * But, my dear, Mr. Chard was her husband. You would not have her rejoice openly at his death — no woman worthy of the name would do that!' *No, but I would have her do nothing — neither rejoice nor pretend to mourn. Of course, the Eogers did not believe her any more than I did. They know how unkind he was to her, and that she is much happier without him.' ' Yes ; but, Marjory, I do think you are very severe on your poor mother. It was a very small offence, just pretending to be sorry when a kind neighbour called to condole with her on her husband's death.' ' Perhaps so,' returned Marjory slowly, ' but then she is not altogether true in other things ; she slurs over facts when she is telling them, and somehow they never sound quite the same, she twists them so. She says she forgets, and makes mistakes ; but I know she often told downright fibs to Mr. Chard, and he believed her.' 122 AT THE BLUE BOAR. * Well, well, my dear, you must remember her hard life aud many troubles; aud then she was so afraid of her husband,' returned Anne, not knowing exactly what to say; but, to her great relief, Marjory changed the subject of her ow^n accord. Marjory had grown by this time into a striking- looking girl. Her beauty was very peculiar in its tj^pe; indeed, many of her female acquaint- ances would not allow that she could lay claim to the word at all. She was uncommon-looking — a fine girl, but that was all. Mr. Frere and a few more admirers held quite a different opinion. Marjory was taller than most girls, but she carried her height well. Her figure was graceful, and her head was set remarkably well upon her neck, and the carriage of the head and shoulders was unusually fine. She had a clear brown skin, and when she was a little flushed her colouring would be splendid. Her features were not remarkable in any way, but she had a bright smile, and large dark eyes that could be expressive at times. Her forehead was low and broad, as one sees in Greek statues, and her hair grew very closely A DESCRIPTION OF MAR/OR V. 123 to her temples — it was this that gave her a pecuHar look. At first sight, it seemed to strangers as though she was over-weighted with her own hair ; there was such an abundance of it that she had to coil it in heavy plaits around her head, in opposition to the reigning fashion, and in sombre moments or moods it seemed to overshadow her face. For the rest, she was just like any other healthy, high-spirited English girl. She had a tolerable stock of vanity, though it was not in the least excessive ; had plenty of faults, and a corresponding amount of virtues; had got through the poetry-writing age without much detriment ; had never once believed herself in love, but was not quite sure ; and was at present in that glorious state of discontent with herself and her surroundings that high feeding and dearth of hard work produces in an undisciplined nature. But no complaint being possible under such circumstances, she was driven by stress of fair weather into interior storms to produce an emotion ; and just now Marjory was longing for something to happen, * for nothing ever does happen at Murrel's End,' Marjory was fond of saying to herself. CHAPTER VII. MURREL S END. HEN Mr. Frere had left Marjory at the gate of Murrel's End, on that March ijji^j^s^^i^ afternoon when he had found her sitting on a bench in the open road, with a strong east wind blowing round her, seemingly impervious to all but her own thoughts, she had paused for a moment at the gate as though unwilling to leave him without a softer word than she had yet spoken. She was in one of her contrar}^ moods, and at such times any utterance of soft words seemed well-nigh impossible to her. Never- theless, she would have constrained herself to speak in some sort of conciliatory fashion, only he gave her no opportunity of doing so ; on the contrary, he had nodded to her in his usual careless good-humoured way, and had set his MARJOR V GR UMBLES A LITTLE. 1 2 5 face towards the town, whistling to his dog as he went. The girl walked on slowly and a little sadly, as though she were disappointed. * He will pretend not to care,' she said to herself, * but I know that I hurt him when I shut myself up and do not respond to his kind- ness. Oh, how good he is ! he never will quarrel with me, however badly I behave. If he would only not joke with me, when he sees my heart is sore ! But that is just what I say — neither of them understand. Because they are satisfied with their life, they think it must content me ; but you might as w^ell ask the squirrel to be content with his revolving cage. I tliink if he were asked to choose he would prefer the woods and liberty, and the nuts he found for himself before he cracked them. All my nuts are ready cracked for me, and somehow they lose their flavour in that way.' Here she shrugged her shoulders, with a curious little smile, and quickened her steps. Murrel's End was a low, red-brick house, with a shady veranda running round it. The three sitting-rooms, that all communicated with each other, had French windows opening out on it. The garden was very pretty. The well- 1 2 6 MURREVS END. kept lawn was bordered by rare shrubs and beds of azaleas and rhododendrons, makmg a gorgeous background of colour in their season of bloom in early spring. There were beds of golden and violet pansies, to be replaced later by the deeper tints of verbena and geraniums. Eoses climbed up the veranda and twined round the porch, and behind the house was a rather small se- cluded lawn, and a long shady path leading to the conservatory, where Anne planted her favourite ferns and grew periwinkles and white harebells and tall foxgloves, and many old- fashioned flowers that would have been banished from the gay parterres in front. This was called ' Anne's Walk,' and old Andrew Penrose, the gardener, was not allowed even to extract a weed from those cherished borders. As Marjory walked up the carriage-drive the French-window belonging to the morning-room was opened lightly, and Anne's neat little figure and beckoning hand were clearly visible between the shrubs. Marjory frowned, but she crossed the lawn obediently nevertheless. Some unwelcome visi- tor would be waiting for her, she feared, to prevent her escaping to her own room. A VISITOR IN THE MORNING-ROOM 127 ^ Oh, Marjory, where have you been all the afternoon ?' exclaimed Anne. ' And Capel has gone out in this bitter wind to look for you — and this morning he was complaining of feeling a twinge of rheumatism in his shoulder.' * He might have sent the town-crier instead,' returned Marjoiy scornfully, * ** Lost, stolen, or straved for the last two hours and a half, and most likely an odd five minutes, an extremely valuable young lady." Oh, Mrs. Curwin, I did not see you were there!' and Marjory broke off her ironical speech to shake hands with a stout, comely-looking woman ; but there was no smile on her face as she did so. ' Mrs. Curwin has been waiting to see j^ou for the last half-hour,' returned Anne, with gentle reproach in her voice. ' She w^ants us to go to the Yicarage on Thursday evening to meet a few friends. Have we any engagements for that day, Marjory T Marjory reflected gravely for a moment. * Let me see : this is Monday. Then to- morrow we dine at the Buttenshaws' ; on Wed- nesday 5^ou have asked Mrs. Huskisson and Miss Carpenter to dine here ; and the Pikes have fixed Saturday ' 128 MURRErS END. ' Then Thursday is a free day,' repHed Anne, who was watching her face anxiously. * It would have been free, undoubtedly,' re- turned Marjory, in a pointed tone ; but here Mrs. Curwin interposed in a breathless voice — she was one of those good-natured, fussy women who could do nothing quietly, and she always spoke in breathless, disjointed sentences : ^ So good of you, Marjory ! Sophy and Theo will be delighted — my girls are so fond of you. Just a little music and conversation — our new curate, Mr. Erskine, to be introduced — a most charming man, my dear. A little high, per- haps ; but, as Mr. Curwin says, they all begin so. It is just youth and inexperience. He will come right in time ; they all do — the swing of the pendulum, as Mr. Curwin says. I'll tell the girls Thursday, then. But now I must run away — yes, positively, my dear Miss Frere. There is a sad case. George Felton has broken the pledge, and has been drinking again. I have been looking out that invaluable tract, ^' Buy your own Cherries." I must leave it with George as I go back. Ah, you are laugh- ing, Marjory ! You always laugh at my tracts, you naughty girl 1 but a word in season, you ' TRACTS AND FUSS: 129 know — as Mr. Curwin always says. But there, you must not keep me ! On Thursday, then ? Very well ; my girls will be charmed !' And Mrs. Curwin bustled out of the room, talking to Anne as she went. Marjory's face looked decidedly cross as she threw off her hat and jacket. * How I do detest that woman !' she thought. * Tracts and fuss ! No wonder her step- daughters find it hard to tolerate her. Sophy has too much sense to be smothered by such a moral feather-bed. How can Anne be so civil to her ? And now for another purgatorial even- ing at the Vicarage. I hate the very sight of that house !' Anne looked a little grave as she re-entered the room, but for the moment she said nothing — only rang for tea and busied herself with collecting Marjory's wTaps and carrying them out into the hall ; for she was a tidy little soul, and these offences against the minor morals were endless pin-pricks to her. Then she stirred the fire, until the pleasant glow lit up the whole room ; and when Mackay brought in the tea- things, she poured Marjory out a cup of tea and placed it gently within her reach. VOL. I. 9 30 MURRErS END. * You are tired or dreaming, my dear,' she said, in lier soft voice, as Marjory roused her- self as though she were a little ashamed, and thanked her. ' Our good friend who has just left us, did not meet with a very warm reception from you.' Marjor}^ wrinkled her forehead until her hair and eyebrows met. It gave, her a curious, old- womanish look. * Mrs. Curwin ? Oh, she is too tiresome ! I am not particularly partial to either Sophy or Tlieo, but I must say I feel sorry for them. Fancy Mr. Curwin, who is a clever man in his way, bringing home a woman like that to be mistress of his house !' * She makes him a very good wife,' returned Miss Frere in an equable voice. ' He is far happier than when Sophy tyrannized over him. They are very well-principled young women, but they have unfortunate tempers. Mrs. Curwin may be a little lacking in common-sense — she is cer- tainly not a strong-minded woman — but she is good-natured, and, on the whole, I do not dis- like her — neither does Capel, though he does make fun of her tract-giving.' * You might have made an excuse for me on MARJOR V IND ULGES IN SARCASM, 1 3 £ Thursday/ observed Marjory fretfully. 'You know how I dislike these evenings at the Vicarage. There will be no one of my own age. Sophy and Theo are middle-aged themselves, and so they do not care for young people. I wish you w^ould let me stay at home sometimes with Mr. Frere. I am tired to death of the people about here !' and as Anne only sighed and made no answer, Marjory leant back in her chair and clasped her hands over her head with a gesture of utter weariness. * Woodleigh Down is just like a rabbit warren,' she continued. ' We pop in and out of each other's holes towards evening ; in the morning we are too busy burrowing in our own holes. Mr. Frere and I were counting up the other da}' how many widows and widowers and old maids lived on the Down, and how few young people.' * Yes, indeed ; I wish for your sake it were otherwise,' returned Anne, in a resigned manner, for this was an old grievance with Marjory. * I am afraid so much dissipation this week will quite indispose me for the perfect retirement of Whitecliffe,' went on Marjory, in the same sarcastic voice ; ' the Buttenshaws are compara- 0-2 132 MURRELS END. lively youthful — I do not think they are more than fifty — but Mrs. Huskisson and Miss Car- penter are staid old ladies ; and the Pikes, father and daughter, are simply bores. Oh, Anne, how can you be happy with such people round you ?' ^ My dear,' responded x\nne, in rather a huffed tone, ' you are finding fault with some of my best friends. Mrs. Huskisson is a dear old lady, and her sister Charlotte is one of the most noble women I have ever known. Mr. Pike is a clever, amusing old man, and Capel delights in him ; and as for Miss Brender, she is a good creature with no harm in her.' * No harm — I call that meagre praise.' * It is a favourite amusement with you, Marjory,' returned Anne, in a hurt voice, 'to find fault with our friends ; there are pleasant people on the Down — the Ferrards and the Arnolds and the Bassenthwaites, and I am sure Mrs. Walford is charming.' I * Oh, I will grant you that — both Mrs. Walford and NelHe ' * And there is Mr. Brooks, of Beechlyn — I suppose you do not class a handsome widower of thirtj^-fivc amongst the old fogies ?' but A HANDSOME WIDOWER. 133 Marjory made a little face at the mention of this name. Mr. Brooks had called rather often at Murrel's End lately, only the gossips on the Down were not quite sure whether he did not call quite as often at Parkside, where pretty Nellie Walford lived with her widowed mother. When a man has four little motherless girls, it behoves him to be extremely careful in what direction he turns his steps when he has made up his mind to take a second wife ; and Marjory and Nellie were rival beauties, the other young ladies on the Down being decidedly mature in age, and not especially favoured with good looks. ' Woodleigh Down might be healthy,' as Marjory once wickedly observed, * but it somehow dis- agreed with very young people.' * Oh dear,' sighed Anne, as Marjory put on her provoking expression, * Capel and I must be growing old, or you would not shelve us in our sprightly middle-age as though we had ceased to belong to your generation ; and yet, in some ways, Capel is the youngest of us all — age and grey hairs do not always go together.' ' As though I do not know that,' returned Marjory scornfully ; ' compared with you I feel a sort of female Methuselah ;' and then, with a 134 MURRELS END. sudden transition from irony to pathos, which was natural to her quicksilver temperament, she said penitently, ' Oh, how I wish I were more like you, Anne ; you are always so good and pretty and well-behaved — you never let people see when they bore you/ This made Anne smile, but she answered a little quaintl}^ : * But I am not sure that they do bore me; on the contrary, I find even the most commonplace people amusing.' ' Even our worthy friend Mrs. Curwin ?' * Undoubtedly Mrs. Curwin is extremely dull; and sometimes I often enjoy a good laugh at her expense. Study of character is my hobby, Marjory ; as you know, I am exceedingly fond of my fellow-creatures — human nature is always interesting. You have to dig very far below the surface sometimes before you find a trace of the real metal, but there is good in everyone if you only start with that belief.' * That is just what I cannot do,' returned Marjory dejectedly; 'when you laugh at people, Anne, it does not seem to hurt them : vou are loving them all the time, even the stupid, fussy ones ; but I feel as though I want to push them LONGING FOR THE PALACE OF TRUTIL 135 all away from me. I long to say to them what I should say out loud if we were in the Palace of Truth : "Go away, you people, you are all stupid and tiresome and matter of fact ; you say just the same things one after another: you have no individuality, no characteristic hut general dulness." I want persons with whom I can exchange ideas, and be in sympathy. I — oh surely, Anne, the world is a big place, and there must be nice people if one could only get at them!' Anne laughed at this girlish outburst. ^ You are restless, Marjory,' she said, in an indul- gent tone ; * 3^ou are discontented because you are young and do not know what trouble is.' ' I think monotony and ennui are as bad as any trouble,' returned Marjory stubbornly ; and then she softened in an instant, and wrapped her arms caressingly round Anne. ^ Oh, how disagreeable I am to-day ; it must be the east wind, as Mr. Frere says ; do not mind what I say. I am never tired of you — I never shall be ; but there is a warp in my nature somewhere. We will not talk any more until I feel good. Oh ! how late it is — nearly six ! and Kellie will be 136 MURREL'S END, looking for me, and I have not changed my dress.' * Pain away, dear, and make all the haste you can,' responded Anne cheerfully; ^I had quite forgotten your invitation to Parkside.' And as Marjory's graceful figure disappeared she said to herself, with a sigh, ' It will do her good; Nellie is natural and girlish, and she will laugh her out of these fancies ;' hut, notwithstanding, there was a careful, almost a troubled look on Anne's face as she sat alone in the twilight — a look that had come to her of late, as though she felt the brooding of some cloud that threatened her domestic peace. But she assumed a sprightly air as soon as she heard her brother's latch-key turning in the lock — her ear was so well trained that she de- tected in a moment that his footstep flagged a little as though he were tired. It was impossible for the fire to blaze more brightly, his armchair stood already in the snuggest and warmest corner, his papers and reading-lamp were ready to his hand ; there was nothing more that she could find to do for his comfort, so she sat still and smiled her welcome as he opened the door. * It is a confounded east wind,' he began ; and ' BEECHLYN IS A CAPITAL HOUSE: 137 then be stopped, and looked round the room. * Why, where is Marjory T ' She is dining at Parkside this evening. Mrs. Walford asked her. I believe Mr. Brooks is to be there, and Nellie wants to sing duets with her.' * ''How happy should I be with either, were t'other dear charmer away," ' replied Mr. Frere sarcastically. ' I suspect that would be Mr. Brooks's feelings if we were to ask him ; it is a toss up which of the two girls he admires most.' * Oh ! I don't know,' returned Anne, with all a woman's seriousness at approaching such an interesting topic ; ' he has been" here twice already this week, and they have not seen him at Park- side. Nellie is very pretty — she is a sweet girl, Capel — but surely you will not compare her to our Marjory.' * I, my dear ? I was under the impression we were discussing Brooks's preferences.' ' Well, you know what I mean, Capel,' in a rather provoked tone. * Do we ever know what a woman means ?' he responded, warming his hands comfortably. * Well, Beechlyn is a capital house. I only wish we had the same view from our back 1 3S M URREUS END. windows ; and he has furnished it in the orthodox high-art style. Brooks is no Phihstinc ; to be sure, the four little flaxen pig-tails might scare some girls of twenty ; but as Brooks is a good- looking fellow, they might tolerate even them for his sake. Marjory does not exactly strike me as a very fitting person for a step-mother, but we all know your good sense, Anne, my dear, and it is evident that you think differently in Marjory's case. I should find the pig-tails extremel}" trying.* * How you run on !' observed Anne pettishly ; ' it does not follow that because Mr. Brooks admires Marjory she is bound to accept him.' ' To be sure, that is a very true observation.' * Yes ; but do be quiet a moment, or 3'ou will go away with all sorts of absurd notions in your head. I do not believe, myself, that Mr. Brooks has made up his mind which girl he prefers — most likely the one who gives him the most encouragement will turn the scale in the end.' * Then it will not be Marjory, for she does not care for a hair of his head,' rejoined Mr. Frere, with alacrity. * Have you noticed that, Capel ?' returned his sister, astonished at this shrewd remark. ' I MR. FRERE ENDS THE SUBJECT. 139 thought men never took much heed of these Httle affairs ; they helong more to our province.' ' You are right there/ with great briskness, * with the exception of afternoon tea, I do not think there is anything an old maid enjoys more than a love affair.' * Now you are rude, Capel, and I will not talk to you any more. Eeally it must be the east wind, as the child remarked just now.' ' Did she say that ? ' and now his manner became more serious in a moment. ' Anne, my dear, we wdll not discuss the Brooks episode any more at present — most likely he is only flirting four passer k temps — there is time enough to talk about it when he has made up his mind which of the two young ladies he really prefers ; and, if he take my advice, he will dismiss all idea of Marjory Daw. She might treat the pig- tails like Sampson's foxes when she got into a tantrum with Papa Brooks. Faugh ! the idea sickens me. Brooks, too, the most matter-of- fact prosaic fellow, with only two ideas — making- money and spending it.' ' Capel, you are not a bit more charitable in your estimate of people than Marjor}'' ; everyone on the Down likes poor Mr. Brooks.' 140 MURRErS END. 'Poor Mr. Brooks!' he reiterated; but it struck Anne that there was an underlying trace of bitterness in his manner. * Depend upon it that fellow was born to nothing but luck. He marries a woman with lots of money and a decided temper; Providence, in due course of time, releases him of the woman and leaves him the money. He is now free, with a pocket full of experience, and a world full of pretty faces out of which to choose. A burnt child dreads the lire. If Marjory shows him a grain of her temper, it will be all up with her chance.' ' I thought, Capel, that we were to dismiss the Brooks episode from our conversation.' Mr. Frere reddened slightly at this home thrust. 'It was your fault,' he returned, rather crossly; ' you flung the firebrand, and so, of course, it will keep smouldering afresh. When I came in I was tired, and wanted to talk to you about a veiy different subject.' * Well, dear, and you have only to speak, as you know, and I will gladly listen to you ; ' and, as usual, her gentleness disarmed his rising wrath in a moment. ' You are a good soul, Anne. Dear, dear, 'I MEAN TO GO WITH HER: 141 what east- windy mortals we are. I do believe I was almost cross with you. Well, I had it in my mind to speak to you about Marjory ; the girl is not quite like herself. I think she finds our life dull, and wants a change/ * I hope you have not told her so, Capel ? And Anne's forehead contracted with a sudden line of anxiety. ' I have told her nothing ; not even that I mean to go with her to Whitecliflfe on Wednes- day.' * And you have fully made up your mind about that T * If you have no objection,' he returned, with a forced smile. ' Marjory is your child ; so, of course, we must ask your august permission. Seriously, Anne, there is no need to subject the girl to so severe a penance. A week spent in that woman's company is too heavy an infliction for Marjory's excitable temperament ; she will be happier to know one of us is in the place. I shall take rooms at the Crown, and tell Mrs. Chard that my health requires sea-air. Of course she will want me to occupy her best bedroom, and of course I shall decline. I have no faith in Mrs. Chard ; and a sense of honour 142 MURRELS END. as absurd as it is absolute will not suffer me to accept her hospitality. I can take Marjory out for a walk, or she will know where to find me, if she wants me. There is some good in being an idle man after all — one can benefit one's fellow- creatures sometimes.' ^ Capel, no w^onder Marjory is always talking about your goodness to her ; you spoil her even more than I do. I am hard-hearted enough to think that even a week's dulness will not hurt her.' ^ It is my theory that young things ought to be happy. Dulness is only for middle-aged people, like you and me, Anne.' ' And that is why I am to be left in solitude next week,' she said, with a natural touch of soreness. But the next moment she asked him, with much sweetness, if he would not v\rite to secure rooms for himself. ' Never mind, dear ; I was only joking,' as he looked at her in rather a crestfallen manner. * The change will do you good, and I am fiir too busy now to feel dull. Mackay and I will set about our spring cleaning ; and really, I shall be thankful to have your den put in order. So it is nicely arranged for me as well as Marjory.' 'HE IS EVERYTHING TO ME: 143 So Anne talked on in her usual blithe fashion, and her brother never knew that a sudden thought, as painful as it was unwelcome, had darted into her mind — a transient flash that had gone in a moment. * He is every- thing to me ' was the thought. ' I love them both ; but of course he must come first. Will the time ever come, I wonder, when I shall cease to be first with him ? What if Marjory — my child Marjory — should come between us ? I have heard of such things — but no ; it could not be.' ' What is it, Anne, my dear T asked her brother, with a twinkle of lazy good-humour in his eyes, as he noticed her abstraction. * Oh, nothing, Capel !' was the hasty reply. * It was only just a '^ nonsense thought," as baby Marjory used to say. It was gone as soon as you spoke.' ' All right. Then I will go and change my coat for dinner,' w^as the cheerful rejoinder. And he sauntered out of the room whistling a bar of his favourite ' Bonnie Dundee/ a tune with which he generally enlivened his toilet. CHAPTER VIII. ' WHICH IS POPPLES ?' ARKSIDE stood a little below Murrel's ■^^(l End, on the opposite side of the road, and Mrs. Walford's pretty drawing-room commanded that view over Moor- bridge which Mr. Frere so vainly coveted. Marjory, who had lingered over her toilet more in absence of mind than vanity, was a little late, and the other guest, Mr. Brooks, had already arrived and was talking to his hostess and Nellie. Nellie flashed across the room to meet her friend with uplifted finger and a most re- proachful face. 'You naughty girl,' she said with a pout, and no one could pout so prettily as Nellie Walford. * What makes you so late ? Mamma HE WAS A FAIR, WELL-BRED MAN. 145 and I have been expecting you a whole hour.' * Am I so very late ?' returned Marjory, with nonchalance. ' I am so sorry, Mrs. Walford ;' and then she stooped over her chair and kissed her affectionately, and shook hands with Mr. Brooks. ' Miss Deane likes to be fashionable,' re- sponded that individual, with a smile. He was a fair, well-bred man, with a heavy brown moustache ; his hair had w^orn off his forehead slightly, but in spite of this he was still very young-looking, and no one but Mr. Frere ever found fault with him. The young ladies on the Down considered him singularly handsome, and even the elder ones spoke of him as ' that poor dear Mr. Brooks,' and hoped that he might one day find some one worthy of him. It could not be denied that Mr. Brooks played his vole of interesting widower to perfection ; without being exactly disconsolate, his voice and countenance had just that tinge of melancholy that befitted his sense of loneliness ; he never laughed, but his smile was frequent and exceedingly pleasant. When he appeared at church with his four little girls, strangers invariably noticed him and VOL. I. 10 1 46 ' WHICH IS FOPPLES T pointed him out to each other — * Poor fellow, how very sad !' they would say ; ' and how devoted he seems to those children!' The four little girls were not pretty children — their mother had been a plain woman — hut their black ribbons and solemn pale little faces were very effective. Dora, the eldest, was a prim little girl, and gave herself airs, spreading out her short skirts on the cushions, and using her mother's big prayer- book in exact imitation of that lad}- 's somewhat lackadaisical manner; but Susie, the youngest, a small roundabout child, with a comical face, and staring blue eyes like a doll's, always kept close to her father, and patted him softly from time to time. ' One can see what an affectionate father he is,' people would say, when Susie's hot little hand grasped his lovingly. Mr. Brooks certainly loved his children in a quiet temperate fashion, but people were mistaken if they supposed that they were perpetually in their father's presence. 'With the exception of this church-going, and half an hour in the morn- ing, and again in the evening, they were seldom invited to beguile the solitude of those long hours. When visitors were there, they came down as a matter of course in their little white ' PAPAS AL JVA YS KNO W E VER YTHING: 147 frocks and black bows — Dora leading Susie, and Ada and Popples following hand-in-hand. Mr. Brooks would look at them and sigh, and sometimes Susie, and even Popples, would be lifted on his knee ; but he was a man who did not understand children : it embarrassed him to keep up a long conversation with them. They had a tiresome habit, Ada especially, of asking questions that he could not answer, especially on Biblical subjects, and then regarding his puzzled face with round critical eyes. * I don't believe papa knows,' Ada said once, when she found herself outside the library door. ' He only said "Humph, humph,*' like a big bee, when I asked him once if he were not sorry for the poor devil — I am, because he is so wicked. I do hate to be humphed at like that !' ^ Of course, papa knows all the kings of Israel and Judea by heart, only he could not remember the name of David's grandson all of a sudden, and you learnt it last Sunday. Papas always know everything,' finished Dora, with the beauti- ful faith of childhood. But though Mr. Brooks found the company of his children very embarrassing at times, he con- tinued to interlard his conversation with his 10—2 148 ' WHICH IS POPPLES V female friends — for he knew better than to bore ]iis male hearers — with choice anecdotes con- cerning one or other of his little girls. Miss Frere always listened to him with much interest, but she could be a little shrewd and quizzical in her speeches, and Mr. Brooks stood somewhat in awe of her. Mrs. Walford was a more sympathizing auditor. She was a soft- spoken placid woman, with few original ideas, and she never made troublesome suggestions, or gave him wholesome bracing advice, such as Anne gave to her friends ; on the contrary, she petted him, and talked to him in a caressing way, as though he were her own son. ' Poor little darlings ! it must be a heavy responsibility for a man of your conscientious temperament,' she would say, with unconscious flattery ; but then it was always so natural to Mrs. Walford to pet her jjrotegees after this fashion. Nellie would never be quite so pretty as her mother had been, but she had a charming English face — candid and open. And then her com- plexion was lovely, if her features were irregular. No one found fault with her face ; she was charming — that was generally allowed on all sides. A WIDOWER'S CRITICISM. 149 Mr. Brooks looked at her and Marjory some- what critically that evening. If Anne had been there, she would have said that he was seriously comparing their merits. Marjory always looked well of an evening. Both the girls wore white, but Marjory's gown was made of a soft clinging material that fell in graceful folds round her figure, and it was trimmed with white fur, after a somewhat quaint fashion. Marjory was fond of dressing herself in a picturesque uncommon way ; her gowns were never quite like other people's, but seemed to belong to herself. Of course, her detractors said that love of dress was her besetting sin, and that she wasted much time in studying effects ; but this was a libel. Such things came intuitively to her ; but all the same she would assert loudly, that one of a woman's first duties was to make the best of herself. It could not be denied that Nellie, piquante and sparkling as she was, looked just a little ordinary beside Marjory to-night. The wind had heightened Marjory's colour, and her eyes were clear and bright ; the sullen mood had passed away, and had only left a sort of recklessness that seemed more like exuberant spirits. She T50 ' WHICH IS POPPLES V talked and laughed a little faster than usual, that was all. Mr. Brooks seemed fascinated, in spite of himself. He spoke less to Nellie, and his eyes followed Marjory's tall figure as she crossed and recrossed the room. When the girls sang their duets together, the tones of Marjory's fine con- tralto seemed to drown Nellie's clear limpid notes. Nellie's pretty fair hair seemed colourless in the lamplight, beside those heavy bro^^^l plaits that crowned Marjory's head. ' The little Princess,' as her friends lovingly called her, was almost eclipsed to-night. ^ Come here, girls; you have sung enough,' Mrs. Walford said at last, for to her maternal eyes Nellie looked just a trifle pale. ' Take this low chair beside me, Marjory dear — I want to hear all about this evening at the Vicarage.' * There is not much to tell/ returned Mar- jory, smiling to herself at the simple woman's ruse to break the spell that kept Mr. Brooks hovering round her chair. Nevertheless, she seated herself obediently by her hostess. It was not her fault that he at once followed her, and took up his position on the rug, facing them both. Nellie came up timidly by-and-by. It MARJORY IS INDIFFERENT TO POPPLES. 151 was a little dull remaining at the other end of the room, turning over the leaves of her music. Besides, Mr. Brooks was talking about Popples, and Nellie did so love children, and she was especially fond of Popples. Marjory was using her long Indian fan with almost the grace of a Spaniard. She had a small, well-shaped hand — not particularly white, which was perhaps the reason why she never wore rings ; but no one had ever seen a ring on Marjory's slim fingers — and as she fanned her- self, she looked with bright, interested eyes at Mr. Brooks. But as Nellie joined them, and seated herself a little in the background, as though she felt herself dc trop, Marjory darted a swift, searching glance at her half- averted face, and immediately her manner changed, and the soft expression of interest faded out of her eyes. ' Popples is a dear child,' observed Mrs. Walford, when the anecdote had been re- tailed. ' Yes, indeed,' sighed Nellie, who even at this moment could not resist adding her testi- mony to the virtues of the absent Popples. * Which is Popples ?' asked Marjory indififer- 152 * WHICH IS POPPLESr ently. ^ Of course, I see them every Sunday at church. Is it the pale one with the big prayer- book ? By-the-bye, Mr. Brooks, I wish you would ask her to open and shut that liea\y clasp less noisily. Or is it the little one with the china-like eyes, like a wax doll? Do you know,' — with a little laugh — ' I often wonder if her eyes ever will shut. Some dolls will not, you know.' Marjory's voice was very sprightly, but the father felt himself a little wounded. ' I thought you knew m}^ children, Miss Deane,' he said, in a slightly aggrieved tone, and his eyes were very reproachful. ' All Mr. Curwin's congregation know my four little girls by sight. Popples is the youngest but one. She and Susie sit one on each side of me.' 'Poor little loves!' observed Mrs. Walford, as though she were invoking blessings on their heads. ' So they do, the pretty dears ! and everyone says how nicely they behave.' * It must be a little hot and distracting in summer-time,' returned Marjory, arching her eyebrows in an innocent fashion ; ' but then, you see, I am not particularly fond of children. MARJORY SHOCKS MR. BROOKS. 153 I object to have my gowns trampled on by dusty little boots ; and children, even the best of them, will kick. Children are delightful in the ab- stract, but close to one ' Here she gave an expressive shrug that suffi- ciently completed the sentence. * Fie, my dear Marjory ! what unwomanly sentiments !' exclaimed Mrs. Walford, quite shocked at this speech. * Do not believe her, mamma,' returned Nellie, with wonderful magnanimity under the circumstances ; for had she not been cast into the shade a whole evening on Marjory's account ? * She says these sort of things to plague people, but she doesn't mean them in the least. She was ever so good to Freddy Bassenthwaite when he fell from the ladder and broke his arm.' * Because I knew how bad a broken arm must be,' answered Marjory, not a bit grateful for this defence. * Anyone would have been kind to the poor little fellow under the circumstances ; but now he is well, I detest Freddy. I told his mother one day he was a greedy little monkey, and that I longed to box his ears. T often long to box children's ears, and I am afraid I should 154 ' WHICH IS POPPLES ? do it if I ever got the chance ; only mothers are so stupid, they object to that sort of thing. But then I never professed to care for chil- dren,' finished Marjory, with aggravating calmness. * Oh, Marjory, how can you talk so !' re- turned Nellie, quite piteously. * Mamma, it is all nonsense. She would not touch them, I am sure.' ' Never mind. Miss Walford ; we all know how good you can be to them,' replied Mr. Brooks, looking the embarrassed girl full in the face. Nellie had almost forgotten him in her earnest- ness to vindicate her friend in her mother's eyes. Mrs. Walford was very intolerant of anything she called unwomanliness, and her daughter never liked her to hear any of Marjory's reckless speeches. Nellie's grey eyes were fall of plead- ing ; she looked so pretty and pathetic, that Mr. Brooks wavered in the balance again. Miss Deane was handsome ; indeed, he must own he had never seen her to such advantage as he had that evening. She was the sort of girl that could take a man's heart by storm, and bring him almost against his will to her feet ; MR. BROOKS IS OFFENDED. 155 but he was not sure she would be good to live with in the same house. She had a temper ; he was beginning to suspect that. If he could only make sure of it, his fancy would be cured. He was offended with her, too, for her want of interest in his children. Of course, it was pure nonsense, all her talk. She would not really box their ears : that was merely girlish perversity. But to maintain that she did not know Popples, when she had seen them for a score of Sundays and had often spoken to the child ! — it seemed complete indifference ; and such is human nature, that, though Mr. Brooks was by no means the doting father that his neighbours imagined him to be, he had never felt himself more wounded. When Marjory went up into her friend's little sanctum to put on her wraps, Nellie stood beside the pretty toilet-table, looking at her with eyes that seemed to have grown all at once very sad and wistful. * You ought always to wear those soft, creamy materials, with just the relief of a crimson knot or flower,' she observed; for Marjory invariably added some dark, rich-tinted flowers or cluster is6 ' WHICH IS POPPLES r of berries to her evening toilet to set off her clear bro^vn skin. ' Yon were looking your best this evening — really superb, Marjory.' Marjory laughed a little triumphantly. She would not have been mortal woman if a compli- ment failed to please her. * Oh, what nonsense you talk sometimes !' she said very graciously. * I think it was you who talked nonsense to- night,' returned Nellie, with another pout. * It was so silly of you, Marjory, when you know mamma always believes everything one says.' * Yes, indeed ; Mrs. Walford has no sense of humour. I must say that, Nellie, though she is your mother.' * You may say anything to me — you always do, you know; but — but ,' hesitating a little, ' I am afraid Mr. Brooks believed it all, too. He did not look pleased, Marjory ; he quite left off talking to you, and before he hardly seemed able to speak to anyone else.' * Oh, indeed !' returned Marjory, in an inex- plicable tone. ' Well, I dare say I shall sleep just as soundly to-night under the Brooks' wrath. Good-night, my little Princess. Do not worry * GIVE MY LOVE TO POPPLES: 157 your dear head any more about me. I love to shock people. That is one of my bad habits.' And a few minutes later, as Mr. Brooks shook hands with her at the door of Murrel's End, she said quite affably, and as though they w^ere the best of friends : * Good-night, Mr. Brooks. Give my love to Popples, and tell her I will have a good look at her next Sunday ; and please ask the other little girl — I don't know her name, though Nellie does — not to shut up that big prayer-book quite so noisily.' ,^ mN^, wsW^^^N^ ^ CHAPTER IX. * I WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN.' FEW evenings after Marjory's visit to Parkside, she and Anne had a sHght altercation, and, as usual, Anne was worsted in the argument. AVhen Marjory had decreed to take her own way, ' mountains would not move her,' as Mackay once feelingly observed. Anne was sitting on the low couch in Mar- jory's room, looking quite young and pretty in her black silk and delicate lace ruffles ; but there was a cloud on her face as she w\atched Marjory add the finishing touches to her dress. The girl's room bore evidence of loving eyes and hands. Without being luxurious, it was as cosy and pretty as a room need be : the tent- bed, with its snowy hangings and Indian em- ' CAPEL WILL BE SO VEXED.' 159 broidered quilt^ was in one corner of the room ; a little square table, with flower-vases and books and writing materials, occupied the centre of the room ; a bright fire burnt in the grate — the couch and a work-table stood beside it ; the toilet-table was full of tasteful knick-knacks ; a few well-chosen pictures hung on the walls, and a canary piped from its gilded cage in the window. One would have said at once that it was the room of an idolized girl whom the whole household had conspired to spoil. But as Anne looked round her, the cloud deepened on her gentle face. * Capel will be so vexed when he sees you,' she said, returning again to the argument ; ' it is all very well to say it is nonsense to be put out at such a trifle, but I think you should have more regard to my wishes.' * I did not know that Mr. Frere w^as going to the Yicarage,' returned Marjory, drawing the mittens over her finely-formed arms. * How pleased Mrs. Curwin and Sophy will be !' 'Of course he is not going,' replied Anne, quite crossly for her ; ' and I wish I could stop at home, and not have to look at you all the evening, now that yow have made such a i6o '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: fright of yourself. I really wonder at you, Mar- jory; I do indeed — and when you pride yourself so much on your good taste/ ' Do I look a fright ?' asked Marjory, with a sudden pang; and then she regarded herself in the glass with some anxiety. ' Blue never did suit me, and this gow^n is so badly cut. But' — with a little indecision in her voice — ' I don't think I look quite so bad as that.' ' I have never seen j^ou worse dressed,' re- turned Anne with decision, for she thought Marjory was wavering. 'Do change that gow^n, dear — we have plenty of time ; and what does it matter if we are a little late ? If you are tired of white, there is your black velveteen, or your silk with the Spanish lace.' ' No, I will not change it,' returned Marjory slowly, but she looked at herself a little uneasily as she spoke. * Don't worry any more about it, Anne ; it is not worth all this fuss. What does it matter if I do not look quite as well as usual this evening ? — it will be all the same a hundred years hence,' finished the girl philosophically. Anne rose from her seat with a half-suppressed sigh. She had contested the point long enough, and her dignity forbade any further argument. ' SHE DOES NOT LOOK FIRST-RATE: i6i Marjory had persisted in treating the whole matter as a trifle, but to Anne it was no trifle. She was proud of Marjory ; she loved to see her pet queening it among other girls ; but to-night she would fail to achieve any success. It wounded her, too, that her expressed wish should have such little weight with Marjory. Anne would have changed her own gown half a dozen times if she or Capel had found fault with it. To yield in trifles seemed to Anne the essence of w^omanliness. Mr. Frere came out of his smoking-room in his loose grey coat as soon as their footsteps sounded on the stairs. ^ I have gathered you some flowers, my dear,' he said, putting some into Marjory's hand, and then he stopped all at once and regarded her with puzzled eyes. ' What has she done to herself, Anne ? she does not look first-rate this evening. You are too brown, Marjory Daw, for that blue gown.' ' Oh, what a fuss you people make about my appearance!' returned Marjory, with decided temper. ' Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Frere, but you see I cannot wear them to-night; they would not harmonize with this colour.' * I do not think your dress quite suits you,' VOL. I. , 11 1 62 '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: he replied gravely, drawing back to let her pass. * You are out of harmony somehow to-night, Marjory.' * Do not tease her, Capel,' whispered his sister, who was beginning to dread that Marjory would insist on staying at home. * Why do you not look at me ? I am sure my gown is very nice.' * You are always nice,' he returned, with an approving glance ; * you beat all the girls hollow even now, Anne ;' but he did not look again at Marjory. She had laid his flowers down on the hall table, and was humming a little tune care- lessly to herself; they found them still there with limp stalks and withered buds on their return a few hours later. The Vicarage drawing-room was already filled with guests when they entered it* It was one of Mrs. Curwin's peculiarities, and which greatly annoyed her step-daughters, to begin by asking just one or two people to tea and music, and to end by inviting half the parish. The result was a mixed, incongruous gathering of ill-assorted people, who herded in separate cliques in different corners of the room, and objected to any sort of fusion. The Bassenthwaites and Goldhursts W'Cre not on speaking terms, and the Arnolds THE EVENING AT THE VICARAGE. 163 had almost drawn daggers with the Slopers ; nevertheless, there they all were, caged between the same four walls, and compelled to jostle each other for want of elbow-room. Miss Theo Curwin, who was a tall, spectacled young woman with decided views, was engaged in an engrossing discussion, at least on her part, with a little fair man, who proved to be the new curate, Mr. Erskine. Marjory, who was being piloted by the elder Miss Curwin to a seat in a remote corner, caught the words ^ Homes for working girls urgently needed — a most palpable necessity/ as she smiled and nodded at Nellie, who was sitting by the window talking to Mr. Brooks. Mr. Brooks put up his eye-glass, for he was rather short-sighted, and looked after Marjory a little dubiously. * Yes, go to her; I mean,' continued Nellie confusedly, ' that I am sure Marjory does not w^ant a tcte-a-tete wdth Miss Curwin. Sophy is so tiresome sometimes.' ' I will go to her by-and-by ; just now we are very comfortable,' returned her companion, with a pleasant smile. ^ I think I must call round at Parkside to-morrow and ask your mother to 11—2 i64 '/ WILL NEVER IVEAR BLUE AGAIN: advise me about Dora's governess. Dora is nearly nine now, though you would not believe it to look at her, and a child of that age needs some sort of womanly guidance.' ' Yes, indeed,' replied Nellie innocently ; * Nurse is a very superior person, but, as mamma says, a gentlewoman would do best for the eider ones. Let me see. Miss Frere was only telling us the other day of such a nice ladylike person she knows who sadly wanted employment ; don't you think if you were to speak to her, Mr. Brooks ?' ^ Thanks,' with another smile ; ' but I have such confidence in Mrs. Walford's judgment that I am sure I could rely on her advice. Miss Frere is charming, but she is a little too bracing in my opinion ; my poor children must be tenderly guided. Ada is so sensitive and delicate that any strong-minded woman ' but here Nellie struck in with a little protest — she was always BO loyal to her friends. ' Miss Frere would not recommend a person of that sort ; she is far too wise and gentle herself. Think how good she has been to Marjory all her life ; she was such an atom of a child when she adopted her,' WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE. 165 * True ; yes, to be sure/ returned Mr. Brooks, caressing his moustache. Little Miss Walford was looking very pretty, he thought, this evening, and her manners were so naive and animated. She was rather young for a stepmother, he feared, but his late wife had been some years older than himself, and he had made up his mind that this had been a mistake — it made women jealous and masterful ; and he had quite decided that if he married again the disparity must be on the other side. ' Miss Deane could not be much over twenty, he remembered, and here again he put up his eye-glass. She was not looking so handsome, he decided at last ; her face looked dark and shadowy under her hair, there was no play of features, no animation ; he was not quite sure that she did not look absolutely plain. Poor ]\[arjory did not find her conversation with Miss Curwin at all interesting ; it was, as usual, on Sophy's favourite topic — her step- mother's errors of judgment. ' It is so absurd of Mrs. Curwin herding all these people together,' went on Sophy, in an aggravated whisper. She was tall and freckled, but not uncomely, only the lower part of the 1 66 '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: face was too heavily moulded, and showed a decided temper. ' I wonder how my father can bear it, with his love of quiet and peace ; but if old men will take to themselves wives when they have daughters to care for them ' * Mrs. Curwin is so very sociable,' observed Marjory, not knowing exactly how to reply to this ; ' I think she likes making people happy — at least, Anne says so,' remembering that she herself differed from Anne. * Oh, it is only her love of fuss,' replied Sophy, with rather a vixenish look, which made Marjory all at once rather sorry for Mrs. Curwin. ' She likes trotting in and out of people's houses and inviting them ; it makes her feel important. When she came home yesterday, and told Theo and me of the last batch of people she had asked, Theo said, ''Would it not save you trouble, ma'am, if my father were to send round the town crier?" I thought that so clever of Theo.' Just then Mrs. Curwin caught sight of Marjory, and bustled up to them with a beaming face. * So glad you have come, Marjory, my dear,' she said, tapping her on the shoulder with a white plump hand. * She looks charming ; does she not, Sophy ? My girls were so delighted ' THIS IS OUR NEW CURATE: 167 when they knew you were coming. Isn't this nice, now?' looking round her with satisfied eyes; * everyone I asked has come — not one missing. Your father said just now the room was over- heated. Sophy, what do you think ? shall we let the fire out, or open the window ?' ' I should recommend both plans,' rejoined Miss Curwin, in a freezing voice. ' The place must certainly resemble the Black Hole at Calcutta, you have crowded the room so nicely, you see.' ' Dear, dear, I hope no one else thinks so,' returned her step -mother, visibly alarmed. * Where is Theo ? I must ask Theo. My dear, your sister thinks we ought to let the fire out and open the window. Oh, is that you, Mr. Erskine? Don't let Theo monopolize you ; there is a young lady in the room to whom I want to introduce you ; or rather, I should say — at least, it is the other way round. Marjory, my dear ; Miss Deane : this is ournewcurate — you know hisname — Mr. Erskine. He is rather High, you know — a little dangerous,' tapping him on the arm with her fan, * but we mean to cure him of that. Sophy, won't you give Mr. Erskine your seat by Marjory ? I want you to talk to poor dear Mr. Pike ; he does look t68 '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: SO out of his element.' And having made both lier step-daughters decidedly uncomfortable, she bustled away, in search of further victims to her benevolent intentions. Marjory had grown weary of her corner and of Sophy's ill-natured remarks, so she hailed the new-comer with her brightest smile. He was not so handsome or interesting as Mr. Brooks, and, of course, Nellie had far the best of it this evening. He was a meek little man, with un- assuming manners ; nevertheless, she behaved herself graciously to him. Half the evening had passed before Mr. Brooks seemed able to pilot his way to Marjory's corner. By that time he thought Miss Deane had been sufficiently punished for her behaviour to Popples, and perhaps he was becoming a little uneasy at the prolonged conversation with the new curate. Marjory saw him coming, but barely raised her eyelids to welcome him. ' What a crowd there is to-night ! ' he said pleasantly ; * there is no getting to one's friends. You seem fond of this special corner. Miss Deane, but it is far cooler by the window. Miss Walford wants you to join us.' * Tell Nelhe I will come to her by-and-by, MARJORY INTERESTED IN THE CUR A TE. 169 when Mr. Erskine and I have finished our argument/ returned Marjory indifferently. ' Mr. Erskine was enlightening me on the subject of ecclesiastical architecture. I have been so much interested.' ' Oh, indeed/ returned Mr. Brooks, feeling himself snubbed, while the curate looked radiant ; * it is a very large subject — very. Pray do not let me interrupt you. Miss Walford and I were far more frivolous : we were only discuss- ing the last new novel.' *Yes; Nellie reads far too many novels,' re- sponded Marjory calmly. ^ I wonder her mother allows it. You ought really to see Eutherfield Church, Mr. Erskine ; it was early English, and has been restored. The roof is arched and of chestnut wood, and there is a wooden cover to the font, curiously carved and shaped, that bears the date 1533;' but Mr. Brooks lost the rest of the sentence. Only, as he recrossed the room rather gloomily, he told himself that Miss Deane gave herself far too many airs for so young a girl. She was uncertain — very un- certain. A man could never be sure what sort of reception he might expect from her ; and from that moment Marjory's fate was sealed. Never lyo '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: would Popples's father ask her to have compassion on his motherless children. * Oh, Marjory dear/ whispered Nellie, as they came out together in the moonlight, * has it not been a delightful evening ? I have never enjoyed myself so much.' ' I am glad you have been so happy/ returned Marjory rather brusquely. The girls were walk- ing arm-in-arm under the limes ; Mr. Brooks was following with Miss Frere. Marjory had shaken off the little curate with some difficulty, for he had pleaded hard to escort tliem; but she was determined to enjoy their homeward stroll in peace. ' And you,' questioned Nellie rather anxiously. ' why did you keep in that corner all the evening ? I am sure you were bored, Marjor3\ I never heard you laugh once.' * It was a detestable evening, 'responded Marjory fiercely. ' I don't mind telling you, Nellie, for we are such friends, that I never felt so cross in my life. There, it is over now, but I could not do it again — it is too great a sacrifice. I never knew before what a vain creature I really am, but it is a good thing to see one's own faults clearly. No, I am very fond of you, Nellie, and I am sure you AN UNFLATTERING CRITICISM. 171 are quite welcome to him, Popples and all, but I could never do it again/ ^ What do you mean ?' faltered poor Nellie, turning very red in the dim light and casting a furtive look behind her, fearing that Marjory's words would be overheard. ' You do say such strange things, dear. You cannot mean that you stopped in that corner on purpose to avoid Mr. Brooks T 'No, thank you,' returned Marjory rather shortly ; ' I did not care to be more prominent this evening. Anne's criticism is very whole- some, but it somehow takes the spirit out of one. Never mind what I do mean, Nellie ; but one thing I must say : he is not good enough for my little Princess ; he is far too ordinary and commonplace, and in spite of his good looks, I call him terribly shallow and uninteresting.* ' Oh, Marjory !' with a catch of her breath ; ' how can you say such things ? And if it were so,' with a little laugh, * some one must be kind, even to these ordinary men. Isn't it George Eliot who speaks so feelingly about unattractive commonplace men ? I cannot re- member the name of that uninteresting clergy- man in her *' Scenes of Clerical Life": but I 172 '/ WILL NEVER WEAR BLUE AGAIN: know that beautiful Milly loved him enough to marry him.' ' Amos Barton — that is the name, Nellie, my dear. Your Amos Barton will be a far hand- somer edition of humanity. I wish you joy of Popples, and ' But here Kellie covered Marjory's mouth with her little gloved hand, and said * Hush !' in such an alarmed voice that Marjory immedi- ately turned the subject. * Have you had a pleasant evening, Marjor}^ Daw ?' asked Mr. Frere, as he came out to meet them ; for this was one of the pet names that had somehow abided with Marjory from childhood. Marjory shook her head. ' You were quite right,' she answered rather seriously ; * nothing harmonized. It was all a muddle. Oh, the poor flowers !' stopping to pick them up as she passed, and showing their withered leaves. ' You will never give me any more, Mr. Frere, after my throwing your gift away like this.' ' Oh yes ; I shall give you the opportunity of flinging them away a score of times yet,' he replied, touched by a certain wistfulness in the LITTLE SALL V DR UMMONUS PELISSE. 1 73 girl's face, and the way in which she had laid the poor withered things against her cheek, as though she w^ere sorry for their blighted loveli- ness. But she made him no answer, only to bid him a subdued good-night. A little later on, as Anne was sitting by her bedroom fire, there was a quick tap at her door, and Marjory entered in her flowing white dressing-gow^n, with her hair falling round her like a brown veil, and in her arms she carried a confused mass of blue drapery. * There !' she said, throwing it with a dis- gusted look at Anne's feet ; * I never intend to wear blue again as long as ever 1 live. You may cut it up for little Sally Drummond's pelisse, if you like, or throw it in the fire. Of course, I looked a fright ; but I never will again.' And then, without waiting for a reply, she ran out of the room. CHAPTEK X. THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. !^N the evening before Marjory's pro- jected visit to Whitecliffe, Mr. Frere (i^^^to) announced his intention of ac- companying her in his usual careless manner. ' Constant change of air seems a sort of fashion in these latter days. It is bad form to remain too long in one place — not to be behind the times, I have put up a spare collar and a pipe, and I suppose you did not forget a brush and comb while you were about it, Anne ? And I mean to enjoy myself thoroughly in good bachelor style at the Crown, while you are moping in Mrs. Chard's little parlour.' Marjory was leaving the room as he spoke ; but she stopped and regarded him with an astonished look. MR. FRERE ENVIES THE MILLER OF DEE. 175 * You — you are coming ^vitli me, Mr. Frere !' ' I do not see wlij" I am not to have a holiday sometimes,' ^vas the cool reply. ' Of course, I should prefer an expedition to Colorado, only Anne objects to the distance. When a man has womanfolk about him, he ceases somehow to be his own master. It is years since I felt the joys of absolute independence. I think that miller of Dee was an enviable man : *^ I care for nobody, no, not I; and nobody cares for me." That old fellow must have had a good time of it.' ^ Oh, I understand you,' she replied. And as she turned away he could see her eyes were slowly filling with tears. Nothing farther was said on the subject ; but the next morning Marjory said good-bye to Anne with a more cheerful countenance than she generally wore on such occasions. * I will try to behave better to her,' she whispered, as Anne looked at her with meaning tenderness. * Oh, I mean to be so good now — that I feel he is near me,' with a grateful glance at Mr. Frere, as he watched Marjory's new trunk and his own shabby portmanteau being hoisted on 176 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. the top of the fly that was to carry them to the station. Marjory was very quiet during the journey. She leant back, looking out at the moving land- scape with grave unseeing eyes, while Mr. Frere busied himself over the paper, or rummaged in his bag for possible and impossible articles. It could not be denied that Mr. Frere was at all times a very fidgety fellow-traveller. The ventilation of the carriage never could be ad- justed to his liking. He generally opened and shut the windows a dozen times in an hour. Either there was a draught, or danger of suffo- cation, or a tunnel was looming in the distance, or the dust was bad for their eyes ; and as all these manifestations were accompanied by an incessant strain of good-humoured grumbling, it required some philosophy, and not a little patience, for his companions in ' durance vile ' to adapt themselves to his various whims. * This is my window, sir, I must beg you to observe,' one very irascible old gentleman was heard to say. ' Oh, indeed,' returned Mr. Frere politely, as lie retreated to his corner. ' I am very glad to hear it. There is always something new, as RUNNING UP A CODE OF SIGNALS. 177 Solomon says. I had no idea before that the directors let out their windows. I suppose they take it out in extra fare/ * Look here, Marjory/ observed Mr. Frere, as they drove slowly down Station Koad, and the air blew freshly into their faces, bringing a delicious whiff of seaweed with it. ^ I cannot quite peep into Mrs. Chard's parlour window, because my host of the Crown has given me my old room facing the Parade ; but when you want me, my dear, you can fasten that thing in the window' (pointing to a gold-coloured silk scarf that Marjory wore), ' and I shall see it plainly when I prowl up and down on the Parade. Bless you, we might run up a code of signals in no time ! Scarf waved from right to left : ' ' Please come at once, as I have a lit of vapours, and mother is grumpy." From left to right: ^* Am coming out for a walk. Wait for me by the illuminated clock" — and so on.' Marjory smiled faintly at this, but the grave look was still in her eyes. They were coming to the well-remembered corner now. There was the General Post Office ; and Queen Street, with its gay shops ; and the tall clock ; and the Crown Hotel, the side windows of which had a VOL. I. 12 178 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE, full view of the high narrow house where Mrs. Chard lived. There was a large fishing-smack, as usual, lying high and dry in the middle of the road. On the palings of the little puhlic garden there were hrown nets hanging out to dry. From Mrs. Chard's front windows one had a side view of the sea, and the shelving beach, with yellow and brown boats lying side by side, and knots of fishermen in their blue jerseys loitering and smoking under the white steps that led to the Parade and the Crown Hotel. It was rather a lively corner, as Marjory knew. There was a restaurant belonging to the hotel, where people strolled in for their lunch and dinner. A string of hackney coaches was always waiting for hire. A little shoe boy drove a brisk trade just opposite. In the evening, the hotel lights and the illum.inated clock threw gleams of radiance across the road, and showed the dim masts, and the dark sea-line, and the shadowy forms of the passengers coming from the old part of the town, by Crown Street, as it was called. Mr. Frere shook hands with Marjory as soon as they reached the house, and strode off with MRS. CHARD HAS LODGERS. 179 his portmanteau in the direction of the hotel, while Marjory walked up the steps rather wearily. Mrs. Chard opened the door herself. ' You have come at last, my dear/ she said, kissing her a little timidly, for, strange to say, she was never at her ease with the girl. * I have been sitting at the window more than an hour watch- ing for you ; but Martha was out, and just then the drawing-room bell rang, and I w^as forced to answer it.' ' You have lodgers then ?' observed Marjory, in some surprise, as she followed her mother into a long narrow parlour, somewhat shabbily furnished, but with one large pleasant window looking down Crown Street, and another very small one, opening full on the beach. * I hope my coming does not inconvenience you. When you wrote, you said the house was empty.' * They only came last evening, dearie,' returned Mrs. Chard, trying to make a black cindery fire bum more brightly. 'There was a telegram in the afternoon, and then they arrived — ^just miss and her brother. Another gentleman travelled with them and slept at the Crown, but he went away this morning.' 12—2 i8o THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECIIFFE. * Indeed/ returned Marjory, interested, like all young people, in listening to the affairs of her neighbours. * What is their name, mother ?' * I didn't rightly hear their names/ replied Mrs. Chard, fidgeting with the blind: * It looked like Cayleyon the telegram. Mrs. Fowler, who was with me four months last year, recommended the lodgings. They wanted a quiet place, be- cause the poor young gentleman is a bit of an invalid. It put me rather in a fuss, Marjory, for Major Dakins only left yesterday morning, and Martha is so slow, though she is a good girl ; and there were the rooms to turn out, and clean curtains to put up. I did not finish until nearly twelve last night.' * You should have put me off/ returned Mar- jory, rather absently ; for just then she caught sight of Mr. Frere, who had deposited his luggage and had gone down on the beach to fill his lungs with pure sea air before enjoying his dinner. He saw Marjory, for he turned and waved his stick at her, which brought him into collision with a donkey that was carrying up stones from the shore. The result was disastrous ; for the donkey kicked, and Mr. Frere stopped and MRS. CHARD SEEMS STARTLED. I8I rubbed his knee ruefully, at which Marjory laughed. ' Who is that, ray dear ? You seem to know the gentleman,' asked her mother. * My eyes are not as they used to be, and I don't rightly distinguish people when they are so far off as that.' * It is Mr. Frere,' replied Marjory, nodding to him. ' He wanted a week's holiday, and so he has taken rooms at the Crown. It will be plea- sant for me, for I shall not have so many soli- tary walks when you are busy.' * Mr. Frere !' faltered her mother, and the next moment the Venetian blind that she was still manipulating — for a piece of the webbing had broken — fell from her hand with a clatter. If Marjory had turned round just then, she w^ould have seen Mrs. Chard staring at her with blank, wide-open eyes, and her face twitching and pale ; but the girl was still watching her friend, and took no notice of the exclamation or the silence that followed it. ' Am I to have my old room ?' she asked at last, when Mr. Frere had disappeared round the corner. iS2 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. * Yes — no, I should say ; for all the upper rooms are engaged/ returned her mother tremulously. * I am very sorry, Marjor}^ — that I am ; and you dislike that blank wall so much. But there is no other room hut the one at the hack of this. I wish now I had put you off — I do from my heart ; only I was fairly moithered yesterday, and had not my wits ahout me.' * Nonsense !' returned Marjory, a little dis- dainfully. ' What a fuss you always make, mother, about things ! The room will do well enough, and I can put up with even the blank wall for a week.' * Well, it can't be helped now,' observed Mrs. Chard, in a depressed voice. ' Things will go wrong sometimes. Take off your things, dearie, and make yourself smart, and I will get the tea- things and the kettle. And there is a beautiful piece of ham I must put down to broil ; and by that time, perhaps, Martha will be back, and we can sit down comfortably.' And then she hurried out of the room. But when she was in the passage outside, she stood still for a moment and pressed her hands on her temples. ' My brains still feel moithercd-like,' she * TRUTH FA YS BEST IN THE END: 183 muttered. ' I am all in a twitter, as the saying is. To think of his coming ! and he is that sharp he would ferret out a thing in a moment. I said it would not matter with the girl — no more it would. Where would be the mischief ? What a fool I was to haggle about the name, and tell that fib about Mrs. Fowler ! There is mischief in even fibbing, Ephraim always told me so. Truth pays best in the end, as he often said, and I begin to believe him. What with bad dreams, and these palpitations, and the fear of going off sudden one night in the dark, I feel as though I must make a clean breast of it and get at peace some- where ;' and here she sighed and wrung her hands. ' Mrs. Chard !' suddenly exclaimed a girlish voice, and there appeared at the top of the stairs a very slim figure in grey, but the face was hidden by the balustrade. ' Is Martha still out, for my brother is getting anxious for his dinner.' * It will be ready to the minute, my — Miss Lilias, I mean,' returned Mrs. Chard, as her face seemed to brighten all at once. * Tell Mr. Barry the chicken is down — I set Martha's little 1 84 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. sister to watch it — and I will lay the table in a trice, and by that time Martha will be in.' * I hope so, for the poor boy's sake,' returned the young lady, and then the grey gown whisked out of sight, just as Marjory, impelled by curi- osity to see the owner of so sweet a voice, opened the parlour-door cautiously. * Lilias and Barry — what pretty names !' she said to herself. * I suppose that is the sur- name. It would look like Caj-ley in the tele- gram.' Marjory was getting hungry and impatient by the time Mrs. Chard entered with the kettle. The elder woman looked hot and exhausted as she began to arrange the tea-things. ' That girl wears me out with her slowness,' she grumbled. ' I only sent her to a house just underneath the East Cliff, and she has been out the greater part of the afternoon. She is back now, but I gave her a good scolding. Servants are made just to worry one's life out. I was better off when I lived in a smaller house and did without them.' * Mr. Frere always said he wondered at your letting lodgings,' replied Marjory, with languid interest, as she watched her mother's bustling LONELINESS A T SEA VIE W COTTA GE. 185 movements. It did not enter into her head to ofifer to help her, though she looked so unusually tired ; she was too self-engrossed to notice there Avas anything amiss. * I should have thought you would have been far more comfortable livinix by yourself at Seaview Cottage.' * No, dear, I should not. It was lonesome living on at the cottage when Ephraim was gone,' returned Mrs. Chard, with a sigh, * The girl that did the rough part of the w^ork always went home to her mother to sleep, and some- how those long evenings and nights grew quite dreadful to me. Sometimes the sea seemed to wash right up to the palings ; one could see nothing but the grey water closing round the house. The waves used to keep me awake hour after hour, until I was nigh crazy. I told my neighbours I might as well live in a lighthouse as at Seaview.' * It must have been a little desolate in winter,* returned Marjory. * Desolate ! — it was just barrenness itself, my dear. So, as this house was Ephraim' s, and it was just standing empty, waiting for a tenant, I thought to myself that lodgers would be more cheerful than my own company, and that it 1 86 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. would stir me up a bit, and keep me from fretting over what could not be helped, to have to wait on other people. It has answered very fairly ; and my neighbour, Mrs. Jenkins, is quite furious because I never have a " Let '' up more than two days, and she does not take hers down for weeks together. But I ain't what I was, Marjory, and sometimes the cooking and stairs are too much for me.' ' I do not think you are looking over-well, mother,' observed Marjory, scrutinizing Mrs. Chard's face for the first time. They were sitting opposite each other at the table, and Marjory, with her healthy young appetite, was doing full justice to the nicel}^- broiled ham and new-laid eggs. The spring twilight was just creeping over the room, but as the clear firelight played on her mother's coun- tenance, Marjory thought it looked old and shrunken. Mrs. Chard had been considered very hand- some in her younger da3'S. Hers had been no ordinary type of rustic beauty. She had always been pale in complexion, and the contour of her face and the form of her features had been as delicate and refined as a lady's might have been; MRS. CHARD LOOKS CAREWORN. 187 but, either from constitutional ill-health or the sorrows of her life, she had not worn well. The face had grown thin and long, and there was a pinched, careworn expression on it ; her forehead was deeply lined, and her eyes looked sunken and melancholy ; the weak, irresolute mouth, with its loose, twitching lips, had not grown firmer with years. A physiognomist would have said at once, on looking at this woman's face, that Mrs. Chard must possess a feeble moral nature — a nature not prone to evil by any means, but liable to be hurried into it by any strong impulse of love and fear — a nature that could sin heavily and repent bitterly, and yet be capable of many virtuous actions. Marjory felt a little twinge of conscience as she regarded her mother. No, she had never seen her look so old and ill before ; and what did that dark look about the lips mean ? *No, dear; I am not to call well,' returned the widow mournfully. ' I had in Mr. Gilbert more than once when I have been troubled with the pain and palpitation ; but he only says my heart is like a worn-out machine — that I have worked it too much, and must give it rest.' * I think it was horrid of Mr. Gilbert to tell 1 88 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. you that/ replied Marjory, vaguely disturbed at Mrs. Chard's account of herself. * It was only what I knew myself,' returned her mother, pleased with even this faint show of sympathy on Marjory's part, for she had seldom spoken to her so gently. ' I take the drops when the pain is bad; and there is the sleeping- draught when I can't bear the length of the nights ; and, for the rest, a little work does not hurt me. It is the mind, that is what Mr. Gilbert says — it is the worry of mind that is wearing me out, and how to put things right that have gone wrong.' ' But, mother ' began Marjory ; and then she stopped. How was she to point out to the widow that her husband's death must be regarded as a release, and not a trouble ? She must be talk- ing of past worries — dead and gone grievances ; and certainly Ephraim Chard had ruled his wife with a rod of iron. Marjory knew that her mother had hardly dared to say that her soul was her own in her husband's presence. He had dominated her weak nature by the force of a narrow, hard will that knew no mercy. If she had lied freely to him, it was because she TYRANTS MAKE SLA VES. 189 had been too great a coward to throw off his yoke. Tyrants make slaves, and a slavish nature is seldom a true one. Yes ; her mother must be alluding to the past. She was a free woman nowj and comparatively a happy one. Letting lodgings was no hard- ship in her station of life ; cooking and cleaning came as naturally to her as reading and music to educated people. If she had nothing to do, time would be a weariness to her : these sort of people have no resources in themselves. This was Marjory's view of the matter, but she thought it as well to give her mother one piece of advice. * If I were you, I should not work quite so hard,' she said, with youthful dogmatism. 'When the house is full, as it is now, I should get a girl to help Martha.' And here she ended the discussion by rising from the table and walking towards the window. She was still standing there half an hour later, looking across at the darkening sea, while Mrs. Chard was trying to set a smoky lamp right, when a little bunch of wet seaweed struck against the open palm of her hand. She was startled for a moment, until she saw a slip of iQo THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. white paper dangling from it; and then she caught it up with a merry laugh, and disen- tangled it with some difficulty. Of course, it must have been Mr. Frere who had tossed it at her witli such unerring aim ; and no doubt he was lounging round the corner, smoking his after-dinner cigar and waiting for her to come out to him. Marjory's eyes brightened with fun as she read the pencilled scrawl : ' I am writing this under a lamp-post, and after this reckless disregard of rheumatism and appearances, neither you nor Anne need groan that there is no nineteenth-century knight- errantry, and that the age of chivalry is gone. I feel a second Bayard ; a modern edition of any of those old fellows of the Eound Table, w^ho did impossible things for the sake of some lorn damozel. If you w^ant to see a fine study in blacks and browns, with just a suspicion of foam- coloured wiiite, open the street door, and you will find your obedient servant.' * Mr. Frere is waiting for me ; I suppose T can run out to him for half an hour ? asked Marjory, with a delighted sniff of tlie seaweed. It was MR. FRERE HAS EN/0 YED HIS DINNER, t 9 1 good of him to come for her, just as she was dreading a long evening's tete-d-tcte with her mother. * Run along, dearie, and don't keep him wait- ing,' returned Mrs. Chard hurriedly. And Marjor}', thankful for the permission, had soon put on her hat and thrown a plaid round her. She found Mr. Frere still in contemplation of the lamp-post. 'This is a remarkably fine cigar/ were his greeting words, as Marjory slipped her hand through his arm, and turned him forcibly in the direction of the dark beach. ' I am in that mellow, benevolent humour that a good dinner, thoroughly digested, produces on the masculine mind. The fish was delicious, crisp, and brown to a nicety, and the cutlets done to a turn, and the Gorgon- zola was excellent ' but here Marjory uttered an impatient ' Pshaw !' ' I always notice that a woman says '^ Pshaw" when a man talks of his dinner,' observed Mr. Frere resignedly ; ' and yet it is an important item in the day's business. If his food does not rightly assimilate — if his steak is tough or stringy, for example — the whole man seems out of gear ; he is grim, choleric, or taciturn, according to his 102 THE FIRST EVENING AT WHITECLIFFE. nature. A well-cooked dinner, served with uu- deviating punctuality, not half a minute's grace for a lagging guest, and the same man is soothed and made happy, his moral heing expands, he is capable of charit}^ he hates his enemies less fiercely and loves his friends more tenderly, he feels a man every bit of him — and where, in the name of mystery, are you flying ofi" in a tangent, Marjory Daw ?' ' Oh, I will not hear you,' she returned, stop- ping her ears ; * it is only old men who talk of their dinners. I will listen to the waves ; they will have something to tell me more interesting than that.' And before Mr. Frere had made up his mind to follow her, she had run down the pebbly beach, with her plaid flying out behind her, and was standing like an image at the brink of the dark water, while the waves came lapping about her feet. CHAPTEK XI. THE YOUXG LADY IN GREY. S Marjory opened the house door, the faint sound of singing, unaccompanied by any instrument, seemed to blend harmoniously with the monotonous wash of the waves on the shore. The voice seemed pur- posely low pitched, but was pleasant in the extreme ; and the air was familiar to Marjoiy, for it was one that her friend Nellie had often sunor. Marjory closed the door noiselessly, scarcely answering Mr. Frere's cheery good-night ; and then, prompted by a curious impulse, stole up the staircase, and paused for a moment in the dark passage. The drawing-room door was partially opened, as though for coolness, and only the play of fire- light threw a fitful brightness over the room. VOL. I. 13 194 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. Marjory could see nothing but the shining black- ness of the old chiffonniere and the red folds of the curtains. Most likely the singer was sitting in the low chair by the fire. The voice was sweeter than Nellie's, and there was a pathos, almost a melancholy, in the full well-sustained notes that brought the tears to Marjory's eyes. A girl singing in the firelight ; and outside, the long, endless refrain of the waves, making the night musical. The voice sang : ' " Tired % ah, yes, so tired, dear ; The day has been very long, But shadowy gloaming draweth near ; 'Tis time for the evensong." ' A querulous sigh interrupted the song. * It won't do, Lil ; nothing does to-night ; we may as well light the candles and go on with the book.* * Oh dear, oh dear !' returned the same girl's voice that had so charmed Marjory early in the evening; ' is the pain so bad, my poor boy ? Let me try a little longer, and I will screen the fire- light from your eyes ; this has so often sent you IN THE GLOAMING. 195 to sleep. There, shut your eyes;' and she went on : ' *' I'm ready to go to rest at last, Ready to say 'Good-night.' The sunset glory darkens fast ; To-morrow will bring me light." ' ' No, it won't do,' interrupted the boy still more querulously; Hhank you all the same, Lil, but it seems to wake me up to-night, somehow. Tired ? I should think I am tired. Life is an awfully puzzling thing, after all. I wish one were allowed a choice in the matter ; I am not so sure I should have cared to exist.' * I am not going to scold you, poor fellow, though you are such a heathen. I dare say I should be as bad under the circumstances. Never mind existence ; I never could talk philo- sophy. I wonder when Hurrell will go over to St. Kilda's for the books. By-the-bye, how dull poor mother will be without us to-night !' ' Without you, you mean.' 'No, without us,' she repeated. 'Oh, you foolish boy ! that is another of your whimsies, making believe that she is not just as fond of you as she is of me.' ' I can't help it, Lil, if the thoughts will come. 13—2 196 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. Mother is awfully good, of course ; but I am such a failure, you see, and ' but here Marjory, who had been gently tip-toeing from the door during the last few moments, was almost startled into a scream by a sudden jerk at her wrist, * What are you doing here, Marjory ?' was almost hissed into her ear ; and as the girl looked a little ashamed of herself, Mrs. Chard continued, as soon as they were in the parlour again, * Gracious me, you did give me a turn, standing there in the dark ! It ain't like you, Marjory, to be listening outside doors, and you know I never like my lodgers to be interfered with. As long as they pay they have a right to call their rooms their own.' ^What do you mean, mother?' returned Marjory, indignant at the accusation ; * I listen at doors !' drawing up her long neck wdth the majesty of an insulted princess. * Anyone maj^ listen to a song, I believe, without being con- sidered dishonourable ; and that is all that took me upstairs, just to listen to the sweetest singing that I ever heard in my life. As soon as tliey be<^an to talk I tried to get away.' * Well, well, don't be angry with me, my MARJOR Y IS INDIGNANT. 197 dear. I have a right to speak to you, haven't I, Marjory ?' in a humble, deprecating voice. ' No, no right at all,' returned the girl, with decided temper ; for she was angry with herself for her curiosity, and the least implied blame from this woman was hard to bear. * When I do wrong you may speak of it, but not before. I wonder what Anne and Mr. Frere would say if they knew you accused me of listening at doors.' ' But you won't tell them, dearie !' coaxed her mother, quite crushed by this show of spirit on the girl's part. ' You know I wasn't meaning anything by what I said. There, don't let us quarrel, Marjory, the first night; and I ain't over- well, and that is the truth. There is just one thing I was wanting to say to you, if you won't fly out at me ; don't, there's a dear, for it makes me nervous and twittery, and I ain't what I was even a year ago — that I ain't, Mar- jory.' ' Well, what is it ?' returned Marjory un- graciously, for she was much ruffled by this contretemps. * It is only for your sake I am naming it, because you are a grand young lady, and have 19S THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. such fine manners. If you should get speakmg to Miss Lihas — which you won't of course, but there is no accounting for accidents — you need not be mentioning that you belong to me. I shall quite understand your being silent ; it wiU be only natural, and I will put up with it, Marjory, my dear/ ' Do you mean that I am not to say that I am your daughter T returned Marjory, regarding her mother with some surprise, for this was utterly unexpected. ^ There is no call to tell our family history to strangers,' replied Mrs. Chard, becoming a little confused under Marjory's fixed look — her speech was always more illiterate when she was agitated ; * we ain't obliged to take folks into our confidence unless it suits us. It is j^ou I am thinking about, Marjory — you are so fine and grand, for all your quiet dress; and it is hard for you, dearie, to have to point me out for your mother when I look and work like a servant, and Miss Lilias only treats me as such.' Marjory contemplated her mother still more thoughtfully. Was this pure unselfishness and regard for her feelings ? or was there some crooked meaning involved in this ? Alas that 'DEANE ISN'T CHARD : 199 such suspicion should always follow her mother's lightest words. Mrs. Chard grew a little impatient under that wide-open glance. ' Gracious me, Marjory ! one would think I was speaking Dutch, to see you staring at me in that way, instead of pure common-sense. If you were staying with me for a month instead of a week, I would not say a word ahout keeping a silent tongue in your head. But a week is just nought, and nought's soonest said ; and Deane isn't Chard, and there is no need to humble yourself unless you want to do it. And all the world can see you are heaps finer than your mother, and that you oughtn't rightly to belong to me.' Marjory curled her lip sarcastically. ' ^* Speech is silver, but silence is golden." I suppose you mean that, mother. I am not likely to speak to your lodgers, or to trouble them with my private history. If I am asked my name I will tell it. If I see any need to identify myself with you, I hope no false shame or pride will cause me to hold my tongue. I dare say you mean kindly, mother, though it is difficult some- times to understand what you say ; but all the 2 00 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. same, I will leave the whole matter to chance. If you do not mind, I think I will go to bed now, for the sea air has made me sleepy.' * Aye, do so, my dear,* returned her mother, with alacrity. ' Early to bed and early to rise — that keeps the roses fresh on young cheeks. You ain't vexed with me any longer, are you, Marjory ?' ' No, of course not,' replied Marjory rather impatiently, as she gave her cool firm cheek to her mother to kiss. Never once had she offered her lips, or pressed them to Mrs. Chard's pale face. If she had followed her inclination, a hand-shake would have been all she would have proffered. Marjory was rarely demonstrative, even to those whom she loved; but where she was indifferent, her manners could be icy in their rigidity. Strangers often thought Marjory cold and hard, and spoke of her as a girl who could be an amusing com- panion, but had little or no heart. 'Just because I do not keep it pinned to my sleeve, for all the fools in creation to have a peck at it,' was Marjory's scornful rejoinder, when she once heard this opinion. When Marjory woke the next morning, she was not quite sure that existence was such a A WET MORNING. ' 201 desirable thing after all. In the first place, a high blank wall, about twenty feet from one's window, is not a very pleasing object with most people ; neither is the drip drip of raindrops on the flags below the most musical sound in the world ! A wet day — and Mr. Frere and the pleasant out-of-door world shut out by a wet margin of broken-up clouds, resolving themselves into a cold fluid atmosphere, with a taste of salt in it just to give it flavour. * Oh dear,' sighed Marjory, as she coiled up her heavy plaits before the cracked oval looking-glass, which, from deficiency of quicksilver, always gave her the appearance of a swollen face on one side. * I shall die of emiui before the day is out, unless I get up a good quarrel with somebody, which I am pretty sure to do, unless Providence gives me some sort of safety-valve,' which was not quite reverent. But then, Marjory had not yet said her prayers ; she was putting them off to the last moment, in the hope of feeling more in tune with her morning orisons. In front, the prospect was a little more enlivening. True, it rained — and rained steadily too, as though it were in earnest, and no mistake, and meant to take its own time about leaving off. 202 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. But somehow, the splash on the pavement was not nearly so depressing. And it was rather amusing to see the few fishermen that passed under the window, in their oilskin caps and leggings ; one or two had sacks over their shoulders by way of waterproofs. And the little shoeblack had picked up an old bit of tarpaulin, and had crept for shelter right under the bows of the fishing-smack in front. He had a tame brown mouse, which ran in and out of his blue shirt. He showed it to Marjory, with such a display of white teeth and good humour that Marjory at once proceeded to butter a nice hot roll for him, as there were two on the table, and she knev/ that her mother had already breakfasted. She was hindered in her benevolent task, however, by an unexpected sight. Her plate was filled with primroses and violets, wet with rain, but looking as sweet and fresh as though they had been just gathered and dropped pro- miscuously by some careless hand. There was no attempt at an-angement. There they lay, in neat little bunches, straight from some flower- seller's basket. Marjory's eyes opened to their full extent, and IT STILL RAINED HEAVILY. 203 a little dimple that was rarely seen came into full play. ' It must be he — Mr. Frere/ she said to herself. ' Mother would not have thought of such a thing. What would Anne say ? I am sure she would never believe in his early rising.' And somehow, after this, Marjory enjoyed her breakfast — and the little shoeblack enjoyed his. As soon as she had finished, she sauntered to the window again. Certainl}^ the prospect was not alluring. It still rained heavily, and the sea had a grey leaden aspect. The waves washed on the beach with sullen monotony. There were shops just round the comer. There was a special shop she knew, close to Trinity Church, that was a perfect fairyland of seaweed and shells. Marjory thought that she could while away a pleasant half-hour, selecting little gifts for Anne and her friend Nellie. There was no one to rebuke her for her recklessness. Mr. Frere would be reading his paper in the coffee- room ; with an ulster and an umbrella, where would be the harm ? Nevertheless, her resolution was a little shaken, as she opened the' hall-door ; the rain was falling so heavily. Marjory leant against the portico rather dis- 204 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. consolately, with her eyes fixed on an eddying little pool in the middle of the road. But the next moment she was startled by a voice behind her. * Oh, do you think we can venture ? The wind is rather high, certainly ; but if one could only get round the corner safely ' *I beg your pardon!' returned Marjory, a little flurried at being so suddenly addressed, for she had been deep in thought, and had not heard the light footsteps. There was a young lady in a grey waterproof dress standing quite close to her, with a mackintosh over her arm. She gave a little laugh at Marjory's start, but went on in the same pleasant voice : ' Do you think it will soon be over ? It seems almost too violent to last. Perhaps we had better wait a little ; but there was a shop just beyond Crown Street that I wanted to reach.' 'And I also,' returned Marjory, pleased with this frank address. * Perhaps in a few minutes it will not pour quite so heavily. It is pro- voking to wake up to a wTt morning; but possibly it may clear towards evening. At SHE WAS NOT PRETTY AT ALL. 205 present,' with a little shrug, ' it looks hope- less.' * Oh, nothing is quite hopeless — in weather or anything else,' returned the young lady, with another little laugh. And then they were both silent for two or three minutes, during which Marjory was scrutinizing her companion with an interest that was not devoid of disappoint- ment. She had been so charmed with her voice on the previous night that she had made up her mind, rather foolishly, that its o^^ner must be beautiful. The mistake cost her a pang. Marjory did so love beauty. The girl who stood by her was not pretty at all. On the contrary, many people would have called her plain. She had a long thin face, somewhat pale in colouring, and the nose was a little too long and pointed ; but she had soft brown hazel eyes, and the eye- brows were finely arched and pencilled. And Marjory could see she had beautiful hair, half- hidden under the close hat ; her figure, too, was slight and graceful. Nevertheless, Marjory rather pettishly owned herself disappointed. 2o6 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. Unconscious of all this scrutiny, the young lady Avas looking out at the rain somewhat anxiously. * It is not far/ she said, half to herself; ^ just down Crown Street, and that little hit of the Parade ; and I have my mackintosh.' * I think it would he wiser to wait,' returned Marjory rather hluntly to this. ' Some one's umbrella has just turned inside-out — the wind seems rising a little.' * If it were my own business,' observed the other dubiously ; ' but invalids never like to be kept w^aiting. My brother wants the second volume of this book, and the library is on the Parade. Oh yes, I think I must venture, thank you.' And then she nodded to Marjory with another smile, and five minutes afterwards Marjory saw her breasting the formidable corner. As there seemed little hope of the weather lifting before noon, Marjory soon made up her mind to follow her example ; but so desultory were her movements, that almost before she had turned into Crown Street, she caught sight of her late companion coming back with some 2:rcen volumes in her hand. She A WINDY CORNER. 207 held them out to Marjory in quite a friendly way. * If I had waited two minutes longer I should have lost them. A. lady came in for them just as Mr. Lyons was taking them down from the shelf for me. Isn't this delicious T she con- tinued : ' the wind and the rain, I mean. Things are never so bad as one imagines, looking at them from the outside.' And without waiting for an answer, she moved on, leaving Marjory quite cheered by the en- counter. She spent a pleasant hour or two after this, making her little purchases and looking into the shop -windows. She was feeling thoroughly damp and exhilarated as she returned laden with small uneven packages ; and her cheeks had a fine bloom in them when she stopped to accost Mr. Frere in a windy corner. • * No, you must not touch them,' as he at once offered to share her burthens. ' Most of them are brittle, and would be injured in chang- ing hands.' 'Will it please you, then, to be sheltered under my umbrella, as I see yours is useless ?' glancing at it quizzically. 2o8 THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY. * Yes, I must have it mended ; one of the ribs is broken. You need not look at my hat — it is only an old one. I am glad I came out ; the air is beautifully fresh, and I have done a great deal of business. I am quite in love with that seaweed shop. I have bought some nautilus shells for Anne, full of pink and coral seaweed ; and a spray for Nellie to wear. Is it not a prett}^ idea, Mr. Frere, for girls to wear seaweed instead of artificial flowers ? The spray I chose for Nellie is so fine and delicate — as feathery as possible — and all pink and coral.' Marjory was rattling on breathlessly, while Mr. Frere seemed only intent in shielding her from the driving rain, and kept his lips omi- nously closed until he had her safe in the portico. * Oh, thank you,' she laughed, for she was in quite a giddy mood from her adventurous morning. ' It is no use asking you in, I know.' But to her surprise Mr. Frere followed her into the little parlour. Mrs. Chard, who was laying the dinner-table, dropped a knife out of her hand, and stooped to pick it up before she greeted him. Perhaps it was the exertion that made her turn so suddenly NICE WEATHER FOR DUCKS. 209 red. Mr. Frere shook hands with her care- lessly. * Good-moming, Mrs. Chard ; what pleasant weather, to be sure — for ducks or any other amphibious creatures ! Perhaps, as Marjory does not belong to the tribe, you will be good enough to see that she changes her wet things at once. She is completely drenched, as you can see.' *Dear, dear !' fussed her mother, drawing her hand do^vn the girl's wet ulster ; * she is as wet as wet can be. What have you been doing with yourself, Marjory, all these hours since break- fast ? — and I have not had a moment to myself to look after you. And dinner is spoiling for the want of being eaten — as fine a chicken as ever you saw. There ! take off that wet thing — do, and I will have it dried. And the velvet on your hat is quite spoiled, Marjory ; and so is that beautiful feather, and ' * Oh, what provoking people you are !' re- turned Marjory, a little crossly. ' As though a little wetting hurt anyone ! If I had not been so hungry, I would have stopped out longer ; but I had all those parcels. Oh dear, how hungry I am !' continued Marjory, restored to good-humour at the thought of the chicken. VOL. I. 14 2IO THE YOUNG LADY IN GREY, * I am so ^lad to hear it, dearie. Perhaps Mr. Frere would stop and have a bit with us ?' observed Mrs. Chard, not looking at him, but at her daughter. *No, thank you,' returned Mr. Frere hastily. * I — I never eat luncheon ; at least, it is not a regular meal with me — is it, Marjory ? I have letters to write, and I must not wait — thank you all the same, Mrs. Chard;' and then he caught up his felt hat and hurried out of the room. Eeason with himself as he might, he felt he could not bring himself to break bread with this woman. He had old - fashioned notions of honour. The man or woman with whom he ate must be in some sort his friend ; he must be in amity with that person. The distrust he instinc- tively felt towards Marjory's mother would not Buffer him to eat bread in her presence and under her roof. Marjory spent her afternoon quietly in com- pany with an engrossing novel, while her mother dozed on the opposite side of the fire- place. Once Marjory raised her head from her book and contemplated Mrs. Chard's face thoughtfully. How worn it looked even in WATCHING THE SLEEPER. 211 sleep ! how lined and furrowed the forehead was ! how the blue, transparent veins showed on the temples and on the thin hands that lay- folded in her lap ! Marjory's fixed gaze, rather curious than sympathetic, seemed to disturb her strangely, for she woke after a minute with a startled look. ' Is that you, Marjory T she said. * I did not know it was you that was sitting there watching me.' Marjory gave a short laugh. * Why, who should it be, mother ?' To her surprise, the tears started to Mrs. Chard's eyes. * Oh, I suppose I was dreaming. Never heed me, dearie. I have odd fancies sometimes. I think a cup of tea would do me good. There ! I will get the tea-things in a trice, and Martha shall toast some muffins for us. Stir the fire, Marjory, and I will be back in a moment.' Mrs. Chard adjusted her widow's-cap with trembling hands, and brushed the tears fur- tively from her eyes ; and Marjory knelt down on the rug and stirred the red, glowing coals into a blaze. 14—2 CHAPTEE XII. * I WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF.' 'ARJOEY had not informed her mother of her brief conversation with her lodger ; she had a sort of intuition that it would have been displeasing to Mrs. Chard ; but she thought a great deal about the girl — her beautiful voice and charming manner, and the face that had somehow disappointed lier. Strange to say, it had seemed familiar. ' Where have I seen it before ? Where can we have met T mused Marjory, vexing herself with all sorts of fragmentary guesses, but at last giving it up in despair. She had hoped that twilight would have brought yesterday's strains with it, but all was quiet upstairs. Scarcely a movement overhead broke the stillness. Marjor}'' had been left alone 'ARE YOU GOING OUTV 213 for a little time while her mother had gone downstairs on some domestic business, when she heard the quick rustle of a dress outside the door, and the same voice that had accosted her that morning calling softly for Mrs. Chard. With a sort of impulse she could not resist, Marjory sprang to the door. ' Do you want Mrs. Chard T she asked. * She has just gone downstairs to sort some linen, because Martha is out. Shall I fetch her for you ? She can hardly hear if the kitchen- door is shut.' * Oh, thank you!' returned the young lady, but Marjory thought she looked a little sur- prised. ' But no ; I think I will not trouble you, if she be busy and Martha is out. It is only ' and then she stopped hesitat- ingly. * Are you going out ? — and it is so late and so dark !' exclaimed Marjory ; for the girl had on her hat and ulster. ' That is just why I wanted Mrs. Chard,' re- turned the other. * I thought that she or Martha would be good enough to go with me, as it is some little distance ; but if you say she 214 '/ WILL GO WITH YOU AfY SELF: is busy The fact is ' — knitting her brows in a puzzled way — * my brother wants this pre- scription made up. He is in pain this evening, and thinks it will do him good. It is rather a difficult prescription, and I wished to speak to the chemist myself. The one with whom w^e deal lives in King's Street. That is some little way off, you know.' ' Yes, indeed ; it is very near the fish- market. If you will wait a moment, I will go with you myself. It has quite left off raining, and a little fresh air will be delightful.' ' Oh, will you be so good ? Thank you. But, indeed, I do not like troubling you. I ought not — indeed I ought not to ask you to do such a thing !' * Oh, nonsense !' returned Marjory, with cheerful abruptness. ' I should like a walk beyond everything. It is so stupid sitting here alone.' * Are you alone ? Oh dear, how dull you must be!' observed the girl" compassionately. ' Mrs. Chard told us you had a gentleman belonging to you. Please don't think me rude ; but we were only asking because I thought you looked dull this morning.' A LAME EXPLANATION. 215 'Oh no, not particularly,' returned Marjory brightly. * My friend, that is my guardian — no, he isn't that exactly — but the gentleman in whose house I live Why, dear me ! ' exclaimed Marjory, interrupting herself with a laugh ; ' how droll it sounds, and how difficult it is to explain — when there is no relationship and his sister has adopted me ! But what I was going to say was, that he is at the Crown Hotel oppo- site, and looks after me.' * Oh yes ; I see,' returned the other girl, laughing out of pure sympathy. * Well, if you will be so very good as to do me this kindness, I am sure I shall be grateful. Shall I wait for you here?' as Marjory was about to dart into her bedroom ; and the permission being given, she walked quietly into the parlour, and began play- ing with the black cat, Joe, a great favourite with all the parlour lodgers. * Is your brother a great invalid ?' asked Marjory, as she and her companion turned their faces in the direction of the old town. ' Yes, indeed, poor boy !' was the sorrowful answer. * His health has been very bad for the last three years, and sometimes he suffers a great deal. He has had a bad cough this winter ; that 2i6 '/ UVLL GO WITH YOU MYSELF.' is why we have come here. We were all together at Brighton, but the east winds were too trying, and so I* brought him away ; we have only been here two days/ * I should think Whitecliffe air will do him good,' returned Marjory, in an interested voice. * I hope it will remove his cough ; as he is suffering from a spinal complaint, we cannot, of course, expect wonders in his case. How sad it seems for a boy to suffer ; it comes easier to women, I think. I have often longed to change places with Barry — to take his place on the couch, and see him run about. He is only seventeen, and it does seem so hard for him ; only, of course, it is wrong to say so. And to think he was once strong and healthy, and that it is all the result of an accident — some carelessness on the nurse's part.* * One hears of such things often,' observed Marjory, in the sympathetic tone that seemed to crave for more details. * Yes, indeed. I am afraid the world is full of sad things, only I do love to shut my eyes, and forget that it is not really the paradise I imagined it. I do think young people cannot help being THE GIRLS BECOME CONFIDENTIAL. 217 a little bit selfish ; they are so happy that they cannot realize that other people are miserable.* * I think young people can be miserable, too/ returned Marjory rather cynically. * Well, do you know,' observed her companion, with an unsteady little laugh, growing confi- dential in the darkness, * I am not quite so happy as usual myself. I have never had the sole charge of my brother before, and the respon- sibility frightens me a little. I lie awake, oh, for a long time every night — quite an hour — think- ing what I should do if he got worse, or had one of his attacks of faintness. My mother was obliged to stay behind at Brighton, and we have never been without her before. She would not have let us go any^vhere else; but, of course, knowing Mrs. Chard so well ' but here Marjory interrupted her a little brusquely. * Mrs. Fowler recommended you to the lodging, did she not T ' Mrs. Fowler ! I don't think I ever heard that name. No, I am sure I have not. Ah ! this is Gibbons's. I hope he will not be long making up the prescription. I shall be quite vexed if I have to trespass on your kindness for long.' Marjory assured her that she was in no hurry, 2iS '/ WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: and was even disappointed when, after a minute, she was told they need not wait, as the medicine could not be ready for some time, and the shop- boy should bring it as soon as he had put up the shutters. She wanted to study her new ac- quaintance in the full light, but the darkness soon closed round them again. ' I shall tell Barry what a good Samaritan you have been to me. Oh, how odd !' and here the girl began to laugh again ; ' we have been walking and talking in the most unconventional way, and we do not even know each other's names.' ' Mine is Marjory Deane/ was the somewhat stiff response to this. ^ And mine Lilias Carr; my second name is ' but here a passer-by jostled the girls so roughly that they were both somewhat frightened. ' That fisherman must have been tipsy. Oh, how I wish Mr. Frere were here!' exclaimed Marjory, taking her companion's arm involun- tarily. * It is such a dark night, and this street is so deserted ; and how desolate that grey sea-line looks ! I am afraid I was wrong to let you come with me.' THE GENTLEMAN IN THE GREY COAT 219 * Oh, what nonsense ! I like it ever so much better than that stuffy little parlour. I like, too, the idea of the scolding I should get if I were to meet Mr. Frere/ And Marjory laughed with wicked glee. * Is Mr. Frere young ?' asked Miss Carr in- nocentl3\ ^ Young ? oh dear no ! he is quite old — at least, is not forty-five old ? Only, I must confess, he is not old in his ways.' ' Oh, then it was he I saw this afternoon looking at the house so earnestly ; he had grey whiskers and wore a grey overcoat. Barry noticed him too. I was trying to amuse the poor boy by making up stories about the passers- by, and I know I made up one about the gentle- man in the grey overcoat.' ' Oh, do let me hear it !' exclaimed Marjory eagerly ; but Miss Carr shook her head. * Oh, it was only nonsense, such as one can talk to one's brother ; one could not repeat such things.' And, indeed, Marjory would have opened her eyes rather widely if she had heard those extravagant surmises in which Miss Carr had indulged, out of pure whimsical light - heartedness. 220 'I WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: Mr. Frere was a country gentleman with a large fortune and a most unhappy history. He had an insane wife shut up in a private asylum ; and the young lady downstairs who was watching the rain with such melancholy eyes was her daughter, whom her father had been obliged to send away from home out of the reach of her mother's violence ; and he had now come down, et cetera, et cetera. Miss Carr had entertaineii her brother quite half an hour with the supposi- titious history of the gentleman in the grey over- coat. No wonder she blushed guiltily in the darkness, and hastened to change the subject. * I wonder how one would like to live always by the sea-side T * I am quite sure I should like it better than Moorb ridge,' returned Marjory. * Oh, do you live at Moorbridge ? what a beautiful place ! We are Westmoreland folk. St. Kilda's is well enough in the summer, and, indeed, I love it all the year round, because it is my own dear home ; but all the same I must allow it is very bleak and desolate in winter, far too bleak for my poor boy, though he will not own it.' * You live in Westmoreland ?' remarked Mar- A MUTUAL ATTRACTION. 221 jory, in a disconcerted voice ; she felt a vague sort of regret at hearing her new acquaintance lived so far away. There was no denying she had taken to this girl at first sight, or rather at the first sound of her voice. She had no time to add more, for at this moment they had reached her mother's house, and Miss Carr was too full of her charge to linger an unnecessary moment. * Good-night, and thank you a thousand times, Miss Deane !' she exclaimed gratefully, holding out her hand to Marjory ; ' I shall never forget your kindness, never!' and then she ran lightly upstairs. ' Come here, Marjory. What is she thanking you about ? what is Miss Lilias thanking you for, and what have you both been doing?' asked Mrs. Chard fretfully, as the girl entered the parlour. She spoke in an excited tone, and there was a wearied, anxious expression in her eyes — the old hunted look, such as she had often worn when Ephraim Chard had been hard to her. Marjory told her story rather carelessly ; her mother's displeasure was nothing to her. But she was a little taken aback when she found herself overwhelmed with a torrent of reproaches. * I ain't pleased with you, Marjory, that I 222 '/ WILL GO WITH YOU myself: ain't ; it is not like a young lady to go trapesing about the streets at this time of night. Why, it is as near nine as can be, and me fidgeting here for the last three-quarters of an hour. What would Mr. Frere say to us both, I wonder — me for not looking after you better, and you for meddling in other folks' business ?' * Well, mother, I do call that too bad.' ' Now, don't you go answering me and flying out at me in your old way, Marjory, for I ain't fit to bear it, and that's the truth. If I had known you were going to put all this worry on me I wouldn't have let you come, that I wouldn't. You have never taken up with my lodgers before, but have always carried yourself as high and j)roper as a young lady should. You are just doing it to vex me, not but what I have always been as kind to you as possible ; but there, I'll speak to Mr. Frere myself, for I won't have any more of these goings on.' ' Have you quite finished, mother ?' returned Marjory haughtily. ' You need not trouble yourself to speak to Mr. Frere, for I will tell him myself that nothing will induce me to stay another day under your roof. I never wanted to come, and I shall be thankful to go. You A SERIOUS QUARREL. 223 can have your lodgers in peace to-morrow, with- out any fear of my interference/ And Marjory turned to leave the room. * There, now!' repUed her mother, with a whimper. * There's ingratitude ! after I have slaved and moithered myself to make things comfortahle and fit for a young lady — to fly out at me in that way, just because I ventured on a word of scolding. I put it to yourself, Marjory: Do you think it is becoming to walk about Whitecliffe with a young lady you never heard of in your life ? If Mr. Frere had met you, he would have had a word to say, I'll be bound. But just because I am a bit irritable, and say more than I mean, you threaten to walk out of your mother's house.' * It is no use — we shall never understand each other !' exclaimed Marjory, in a bitter tone. Mrs. Chard's slippery line of argument, her vacil- lating words — first angry and then apologetic — filled her with a sort of disgust. What did she mean ? What was there in this act of civilitv to a stranger that should excite her like this ? For that she was excited was evident : her cheeks had an angry patch of colour in them, and her head was shaking. For the first time 224 '/ n^ILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: in her life, a suspicion crossed Marjory's mind that her mother might have contracted bad habits in her loneliness. Had she been indulging in any stimulant ? — was this the reason of her excitement ? ' It is no use talking,' she con- tinued impatiently, as the thought intruded itself. * We are happier apart ; and so it is far better for me to go.' ' Well, but there is no need for you and me to quarrel, Marjory,' replied Mrs. Chard. But it struck the girl that there was a trace of relief in her tone. * If you don't feel you can make yourself comfortable, I won't hold to the week's end — you shall please yourself about that. I was a bit hard on you, dearie ; but I am that badgered that I hardly know what I am about. But there! you and me will make it up, and you shall sleep on it ; and if you make up your mind, to-morrow, that you would like to go back to Moorbridge, I'll not be hindering you, Marjory, for you are too good for the likes of me — and that is the truth.' * Very well,' returned Marjory, much be- wildered by this ready permission to depart ; and out of sheer contradiction and the perversity of human nature, not quite sure in her own mind A PARTHIAN ARROW. 225 whether she wished to go ; 'thenlwilldo mypack- ing to-moiTOW morning/ And then, as a sort of parting fling — a Parthian arrow — she observed casually : ' By-the-bye, Miss Carr told me this evening that she had never heard the name of Fowler; and yet you said — that first night * But her mother interrupted her testily : * Oh, don't be worrying my poor head any more to-night, Marjory ! I've a memory like a sieve, as I'm always telling you ; so folks' names get mixed up in my head, and I am always miscalling them.' ' But Miss Carr said that her mother knew you quite well, and that she would not have trusted them anywhere else,' went on Marjory in the most provoking manner. * Well, that comes of my having such good recommendations,' returned Mrs. Chard. ' One lady speaks to another, and so the lodgings get recommended ; but don't you go away with any wrong notions in your head. I have seen Miss Lilias, and her mother too, half a score of times at other people's houses; and so, in a way, I may be said to know them.' * Oh, indeed! I wonder why you gave me the impression then, that first evening, that they VOL. I. 15 226 'I WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: were total strangers to you/ said Marjorj^ to herself; but she did not speak her thoughts aloud. She only closed the conversation some- what abruptly by bidding her mother good-night, and walked out of the room with closed lips, as though she dared not trust herself to open them. * She cannot speak the truth. I am sure Mr. Frere thinks so — and so do I,' she thought, as she stood rather dejectedly by the toilet-table. ' To think of the humiliation of calling such a woman mother ! No wonder it drives me nearly crazy sometimes. There is something behind all this — something in which the Carrs are mixed up. I wish I knew what it was. I am almost tempted to stay on, in spite of her, and find it all out ; but I am so sick of the whole thing, that I shall be thankful to go.' Nevertheless, as Marjor}^ came to this resolu- tion, she thought a little regretfully of the young stranger with whom she had walked that evening. Marjory had formed her plans for the morrow, but she had little idea how entirely they were to be frustrated by a most unexpected circumstance. She had just finished her breakfast, which she had again shared with the little shoeblack, when A DOMESTIC CALAMITY. 227 she was very much surprised by the sudden appearance of Mr. Frere. Nevertheless, she welcomed him gaily ; and, of course, there was an allusion made to his early rising. ^ Well, you know,' he returned quite seriously to this, ' now and then a man must deviate from his usual habits — when his house is on fire, for example ; or when some domestic calamity has occurred — the death of a near relation ; or one's own projected departure to the North Pole or the Indies. An earthquake would get a man up very quickly, or the loss of his fortune might make the very softest bed uneasy to him.' * Oh yes, I can believe all that,' replied Maijory lightly ; ' but I am at a loss to know what domestic calamity has brought you here so early this morning.' He shook his head laughingly at this, and proceeded to seat himself. * Well, I may as well get it over as soon as possible. I have had a letter from Anne, and I regret to say that one of our household has been seriously misbehaving herself. I never thought w^ell of that girl — never.' ' Who ? What girl ? Oh, please go on ! 15—2 2-:8 '/ WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: You are quite frightening me/ And Marjory began to look anxious. * No, no ; keep yourself calm/ he returned soothingly. ' It is only Susan, the housemaid, has the measles. I never did like housemaids as a race — they are too fond of brooms and dusters. But Susan — no words can express the inconsistency and selfishness of her behaviour, for, as Anne feelingly observes in her letter — let me see if I can find the passage. Yes, here it is ; and most charm- ingly feminine and characteristic, as Anne's observations always are : '* It is too tiresome for Susan to have fallen ill just after her nice long holiday, and at the beginning of the spring cleaning. She only came home the night before last, and the rash is out this morning. The worst is, Marjory has never had it, and now she will have to keep away for another fortnight or three weeks. Of course, I shall send Susan home as soon as she is well, to make the house safe for Marjory. But the poor child will be vexed to stay away so long ; and I am vexed too, for my own sake " ' But here Marjory, who had been looking grave for the last few minutes, interrupted him. MARJORY HAS TO STAY AT WHITECLIFFE. 229 * It is too provoking ! Stay here, in this house, another fortnight or three weeks, just because Susan has stupidly got the measles ! And I told my mother that I should pack up and go back to Anne to-day.' * Eh ? Why, what does this mean ?' he asked quickly, looking at her disturbed face. * It means that I cannot be two days with my mother without her finding fault with me, and making me quarrel with her,' returned the girl rather defiantly. * Just because I did a little act of kindness to the young lady upstairs, by going with her to the chemist's to have a pre- scription made up for her sick brother, and it was dark and late before we got back, she went on scolding and worrying, and threatening to tell you, until I turned round and spoke my mind.' ' Now, my dear, this will not do at all,' he replied, looking at her very kindly. * Your mother is trying, no doubt ; but you must keep the peace with her while you are partaking of her hospitality. We have got to ask her a favour, Marjory, and it will not help matters to quarrel with her. The whole thing is pretty plain. Unless you want to catch the measles, you will have to stay here for the next three 230 '/ WILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: weeks ; and I mean to ask Mrs. Chard very prettily to keep you, and to do the best she can for you. For of course I shall have to go home, and cheer up Anne, though I will come back every few days and look after you — and three weeks will soon pass.' * Oh dear!' sighed Marjory. * If only the Walfords had been at home, how delighted Nellie would have been to have had me !' * True ; but as Parkside is empty at pre- sent ' But Mr. Frere cut short his observation on Mrs. Chard's entrance into the room. She looked, as usual, a little flurried at the sight of him. ' Good-morning, Mrs. Chard,' he said cheer- fully. ' I want you to read a portion of my sister's letter. You will understand then what sort of favour I have to ask on IVEarjory's behalf, which has brought me here this morn- iner.' Mrs. Chard glanced at him doubtfully as she took the letter. Both of them could see plainly that her face clouded as she read it. She evi- dently could not trust herself to speak, but gave it back without a word. ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN. 231 ' Well, Mrs. Chard/ said Mr. Frere, in a sprightly raanner ; ' so, you see, accidents will happen in the best - regulated families. As Marjory has never indulged in that delight- fully childish ailment, my sister and I are unwilling to expose her to the risk of taking it.' * And you want me to keep her, Mr. Frere, for a bit longer ? Well, there's no need to put it to me as a favour to be granted — Marjory's own mother. Of course, I am as willing as willing can be.' Nevertheless, Mrs. Chard's face showed no signs of gladness ; on the contrary, it looked most anxious and dejected. * It is quite true she and I had a few words last night, and I was just a trifle put out. It is not right for a young lady such as Marjory is to go out at all hours and take up with strangers.' But Mr. Frere very evidently did not agree to this. * Well, do you know, Mrs. Chard, I do not think there was much harm in what Marjory did. One must not watch young people too closely, and the young lady upstairs is quite a gentle- 232 */ JVILL GO WITH YOU MYSELF: woman. I followed her down Crown Street myself yesterday, and we were in the same shop together, and I liked her voice and manner ex- ceedingly/ ' Oh yes ; she is that, no doubt,' returned Mrs. Chard hastily. ' My lodgers are all a good sort. But there is the drawing-room bell, and I warrant Mr. Barry is ringing for his beef-tea. I must go and get it ready for him — poor young gentleman ! Oh, you may stay, Marjory, and welcome. What pleases you pleases me, and. I can't speak more fair than that.' And Mrs. Chard curtsied to Mr. Frere and withdrew. * Did you hear that bell, Marjory ?' asked Mr. Frere, when they were left alone. ' No,' she returned, with an odd look at him. * Neither did I,' he replied briefly ; and after that they were both silent for a few minutes. CHAPTER XIII. ON THE EAST HILL. ^^^t'E. FREHE was the first to break the silence. Maijory had walked to the window, and was standing there look- ing out at a knot of fishermen who were mending their nets in the sunshine. Somethinof in the girl's vexed, troubled face seemed to move him, but he hid all show of pity, and began cheer- fully : ' Well, it is no use crjdng over spilt milk ; we must just put the best face on things. A good heart will carry one over the worst road, and a little jolting breaks no bones. The first duty in life, in my opinion, is to get as much fresh air as possible ; so suppose that you and I put our vexations in our pockets and just go up the East Hill, and you shall show me your favourite seat, and ' 234 ON THE EAST HILL. * Oh, I will be ready in a moment !' she answered eagerly, without allowing him to finish his sentence ; and, indeed, it was one of Mr. Frere's idiosyncrasies to meander on so placidly from one subject to another, that his women - folk could not always introduce a word. * Mr. Frere is very fond of punctuation, with the exception of the full-stop,' as Marjory often remarked; and Anne would observe tranquilly to this, that * It was odd, but certainly most of Capel's sentences were entirely original in their grammatical construction, for they generally ended with the conjunction '* and." ' *I have a great respect for *' and," ' Mr. Frere would answer. ' It is the least exclusive and most sensible word in the whole vocabulary. It is not only a bond of union, but it is always suggestive of more. Take it all in all, "" and " is such a liberal fellow ; he does not shut the door in your face like *' but." ' Marjory soon recovered her spirits as they made their way through the old town and began to climb the steps in the cliff, and they were pre- sently chatting in their old way — only, of course, they started with an argument. 'BOW I LO VE THIS HILL P 235 Mr. Frere wished to cross Castle Hill, but Marjory had a fancy for the other route. She liked the narrow winding steps and the odd nooks and corners. Every now and then they came uj^on a secluded house, perched up high in some corner ; a few more steps, and then they would come to another, and another, and so on, until they stood at last on the clear open space leading to the East Hill, and below them lay the old town of Whitecliffe. * Oh, how I love this hill !' exclaimed Mar- jory joyously, as they stopped to gain breath after their ascent ; and she looked round her with keen enjoyment. On their right were the ruins of the old castle ; beneath their feet there seemed jumbled up a confusion of rocks and houses ; and beyond, a wide stretch of blue sea, with here and there a white or brown sail gleaming in the sun- shine. A little bell seemed tinkling from somewhere ; some goats were browsing near the edge of the cliff. Between the hills lay the fishing village, with its picturesque' red roofs; and westward, Hayes Glen, with its wooded slopes, and the white lines of cliffs standing uncovered in the sun. 2-,6 ON THE EAST HILL. * Oh, liow delicious this is !' she began again. * One can breathe here. The air comes straight from the sea, and blows over the houses. Everything human is below one's feet. There are only the birds of the air, and the goats, and ' * And a very old donkey behind you,' put in Mr. Frere, pointing out one that was tethered near them. ' Go where one will,' he muttered, ' one is never free from some specimen of that class, biped or quadruped ; they flourish in all climates and on all soils. But without them, nettles would be a drug in the market ; and Nature, frugal old dame that she is, abhors waste.' Marjory stepped up to the donkey, and tried to pat its shaggy coat ; but it took no manner of notice of her blandishments, being * an utter ass,' as Mr. Frere observed between his teeth. Marjory made a very pretty picture as she stood there, flicking a hazel wand before the animal's nose. She was dressed in a suit of warm brown, a colour that she much affected ; and in her little brown hat she wore the wing of some bright- plumaged bird, that seemed all manner of colours in the sunshine. ^ You look like some bright- A HOME THRUST. 237 eyed bird/ Mr. Frere said, as she came back to him, and seated herself a little soberly on the bench beside him. Their faces were towards the sea, with its panorama of moving sails. Mr. Frere planted his stick between his knees, and looked fixedly before him. He was secretly wondering where Marjory's thoughts were stray- ing just now. By-and-by he put the question to her. Great was his surprise when she answered at once, very readily, that she was thinking about him. * About me !' he said, with a slight start. * Oh, I often think about you,' she answered carelessly. ' Sometimes I wish I were a man, and try to imagine what work I should choose to do in life. I never can quite make up my mind ; there is so much that is interesting that it quite bewilders one's choice — and then I always come back to you.' * Why to me ?' he asked a little uneasily. * You will not be angry if I tell you T she said hesitatingly, as though she feared her words would displease him. ' I know there is no need for you to work, that there never has been any need, and yet I am always wondering how you can be content to do nothing.' 238 ON THE EAST HILL. He shot a swift side glance at her as she spoke, and a dusky flush rose to his temples ; but when she looked at him after finishing her little speech, he was apparently studying the donkey. * I have a notion that that fellow does not do much for his living,' he observed nonchalantly ; ' he eats to live, and lives to eat, and yet one would not grudge the poor brute his share of the common air and a few nettles. To be sure/ with a reflective air, * he may have done good work in his day. He has rather the air of a veteran who has been superannuated, and has retired on his pension. No ; I am afraid the donkey has the best of the argument after all.' 'Oh, how you run on!' she said, amused at this ; * it is no use asking you to be serious. Never mind, I am in the mood for telling you some of my thoughts. Oh, girls can think some- times, so you need not look so satirical.' ' Very well,' he said resignedly, as he pulled his felt hat a little over his eyes, and began his favourite occupation of drawing circles in the dust. ' If I were a man,' went on Marjory, * I should like my life to be crowded with interests ; you have so little in your life, Mr. Frere.' ' IT IS A GOOD SORT OF LIFE: 239 * I have my club, and my paper, and my pipe,' lie returned, in a lazy tone — ' three necessities to the English gentleman. Do you call these nothing? — the soothing pipe, the absorbing paper, the club, with its kindred and choice spirits, its snug little game of whist and ecarte.' * Oh, you have your club !' she returned impatiently ; * but what of that ? You get up, and you go to bed ; you eat and drink and talk, and you smoke and walk, and then you shut yourself up and smoke and read ; and, when the humour takes you, you write some stupid paper in some stupid magazine, about some Anglo-Saxon custom or other; and sometimes you go and see people, and sometimes you go to your club. Do you call this hfe ?' * Why, it is a good sort of life,' he said, defending himself. *Yes, I grant you that,' she returned, with wilful misunderstanding of his meaning. ' There is no harm in it ; you do nothing wrong ; you are always perfectly good-humoured; you would not hurt anyone, and you do your best to make us happy.' * And you call that nothing !' * Oh, I call it a great deal. I am not finding 240 ON THE EAST HILL. fault with you. I am only wondering that so little should content you ; that you are never restless, as I am ; that you do not envy other men who have made names for themselves ; that, in short — that you can bear to be only a looker-on in this great big bustling w^orld.' ' Perhaps I do not care to be jostled and shoved with my face to the wall,' was the reply. ' And then, I am getting old, Marjory — forty-five, and a fine crop of grey hairs.' ' Oh, 3^ou are not old — not one bit,' she re- turned, moved to momentary insincerity by his pained tone. ' People are only as old as they make themselves. No one cares for grey hairs when the heart is young.' Again he looked away from her, and a strange glow came into his eyes. Neverthe- less, when he spoke, it was in the old dry manner. * It never answers to tell a woman she is right — it handicaps a man, somehow. She is sure, on the next possible occasion, tj remind him of the fact. Eeiteration is always weari- ness. If it were not for this, I might confess that a fixed career is an advantage, in some cases.' 'JUST A LITTLE BLT DLSAPPOLNTED: 241 * Oh, then you do agree with me !' she ex- claimed triumphantly. ' If one had one's life over again,' he con- tinued without noticing this, ^ and could stand on one side in full maturity to map it out for one's self, I am not quite so sure that I should not have made up my mind to read for the Bar. Why, by this time I might have had a chance of the woolsack!' ' Oh, w^hat a pity !' she returned regretfully. ' And you are so clever that you would have made a splendid barrister.' ' Yes, I might have been flourishing in my chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and haranguing tlie learned judge for an hour together. You would not have been ashamed of me then, Marjory.' * I am not ashamed of you now,' she pro- tested, indignant at this. ' It is only that I wonder sometimes, and that I am sometimes a little — ^just a little — bit disappointed.' She ought not to have said it, knowing him as she did ; but she had really no idea how her words would wound him. They stung him with such a sense of unbearable pain, that for full five minutes he could not answer her. She VOL. I. 16 242 ON THE EAST HILL. was disappointed in him — in his life — this little girl who was so faulty herself; who had done nothing in her sweet innocent youth but in- dulge herself in her girlish fancies. And he, who had lived down so much pain, who had renounced a career of exploration and fatigue for his sister's sake, because she was lonely and unhappy and wanted him — that she should judge him thus harshly ! True, she was Anne's child, and not his ; but she had grown up under his eyes, identifying her young life so closely with his that he hardly knew himself in what light he regarded her, or what she was to him, except that nothing was good in his eyes unless it pleased Marjory, and that any possible loss of her would create a void and confusion in his own existence. Murrel's End without Marjory ! The very notion was in- tolerable. But he would not let her see how she had pained him. ' My dear,' he said very gently, * young eyes are not very far-sighted ; they cannot always look into a man's past. That is the best of getting old — one loses much of one's restless- ness — one ceases to expect too much of other people. A correct knowledge of human nature A YOUTHFUL JUDGE. 243 seldom comes early in life. So it is only the young ' — with a pause, and a smile at her — * who can afford to be uncharitable/ * I did not mean to be that,' she returned, somewhat abashed at his gravity. Had she taken a liberty with her kind old friend ? ' Oh, you are not vexed with me for my foolish speeches ?' * Am I ever vexed with you ?' he answered lightly, wdth another smile, as she laid her hand beseechingly on his coat-sleeve. ' Of course, I know I am only an idle old fellow in your eyes. You have not much of an opinion of me, have you, Marjory ?' But, to his sur- prise, he saw her lips tremble suddenly. ' Would you care to know my opinion of you ?' she said earnestly. * Could I have lived so many years in your house, and not think you the truest, and the best, and ' But here he checked her. * Hush ! Why, what nonsense, Marjorj^ ! Tears in your eyes, too ; and all because a worthless old fellow indulges in a bit of grumb- ling. Come, let us walk. I can talk better as I walk ' — holding out his hand, which Marjory held fast. Such was the sympathy between 16—2 244 ON THE EAST HILL. those two, that her instinct told her she had hurt him, and there was nothing she would not have said to make amends for her carelessness. * Marjory Daw,' he said, laughing at her, ' you shall have a peep, if you like, into an old fellow's life.' ' May I ?' she said, pressing closer to him, and her face brightened. ' May I, Mr. Frere ?' * Oh, there are no mysteries in it,' he returned indifferentl3\ ' I should have read for the Bar on leaving Oxford ; only some money fell in, and I grew lazy, and was bent on amusing myself a little. Isn't it Dr. Watts, my dear, who pre- dicts mischief to idle hands ? Well, it holds good with a young man's empty brains. Of course the young man, having nothing better to do, fell in love ; and then, when trouble came of it, what must he do but contract roving habits, on the plea of seeing the w^orld.' ' Oh, I never thought of that,' she murmured ; * I never dreamed that you had been unhappy.' * Of course not ; old fogies have no past histories, have they ? Well, a traveller I was, and a traveller I should have been to this day, if Providence had not furnished me with a sister ; but for her, I should have been in Central Africa ' THERE WAS ONCE A GREY GOOSE: 245 now — most likely only my bones though, bleach- ing in the desert.' * Do you mean you would have been an explorer, like Bruce and Livingstone, and all those other splendid men ?' * To think of that !' he replied calmly ; * that I might have lived to have heard myself called a splendid man !' * No, don't jest,' she entreated ; * not just yet, because I want to know this. And you tell me so little, even now ; you only imply things, and leave me to find them out. Did you really give up all your hopes of distinguishing yourself in life just for Anne's sake ?' * My dear,' he said very gravely, * I think 1 must tell you a parable ; parables conceal mighty truths. There was once a grey goose, who kept house with a little speckled hen ; and one day the grey goose wanted to have a swim across the big pond, but the little speckled hen would not hear of it, and set up a cackling at once. *' It is only swans that can swim, and you are nothing but a big grey goose. You will make a great hole in the water, and fall through, and I shall never be able to find you. Oh, oh, oh !" exclaimed the little hen, bemoaning her- 246 OX THE EAST HILL self. So what could the grey goose do ? He knew that he should not make a hole in the water. He knew he had yellow webbed feet, and that he was a tolerably gentlemanly bu'd in his own element — that he could hold his own among all his fellow's hisses ; but there was that brown sj^eckled thing clattering round him, and he was a soft-hearted fellow, and gave it up.' ' Oh, I can read your parable !' exclaimed the girl breathlessly. ' You gave it up for Anne — you gave it all up for Anne !' ' Well, and ^vhat of that T he returned, pretending to frown. ' Of course I was a goose. I have known that all these years. By-the- bye, Marjory, do you know I am wanted at the present moment out in Japan ?' * Impossible !' * Nay, it is true. Do you remember my old friend Fortescue, wdio has been obliged to come over to England on account of ill-health ? Well, it seems that his nephew and young Walter Fortescue have mismanaged things, and got the concern into no end of a mess. His brother Walter was never very good at busi- ness, and poor Fortescue would give worlds if I would run over there and give him some idea MARJORY WILL NOT HEAR OF JAPAN. 247 of the real state of things. He has a notion that Jackson — that is the nephew — is specu- hiting a bit. Of course, he did not ask me right out ; but he threw out a pretty strong hint. Did I not think a voyage would do me good ? I used to be so fond of the sea ; and had he not often heard me say that I should like a trip to Japan ? and so on. And what a clever fellow I used to be — shrewd enough to make my fortune in business. You know the sort of thing, Marjory.' * It was very cruel of him, I think. Why should you do his business ?' * Nay, Jack Fortescue was my old chum. We were at school together, as well as Freshmen at Oxford. I would rather like to do this turn for Jack ; and, as far as I am concerned, the trip to Japan would be just to my taste. But ' ' Oh, you must not go !' returned Marjory, in an alarmed voice. * What is Mr. Fortescue compared with us ? Anne would not hear of such a thing — neither would I. Go to Japan, indeed !' ' That is just the way the little speckled hen put it nearly twenty years ago,' he replied in 24S ON THE EAST HILL. the drollest voice, ' and the grey goose is a grej^ goose still. Now, hold your tongue : I will not have another word said about my past, present and future. By -the -bye, is that not your up- stairs friend, Marjory, the young lady in the grey gown, about whom you seem so in- terested r 'll z//^ fei^ was CHAPTER XIV. * I DO NOT LOVE MINE.' HEY were turning into King's Street as Mr. Frere spoke ; and just before them was an invalid chair, which blocking up the pavement until the chairman could safely propel it across the road. Miss Carr was standing beside it, looking anxiously from right to left for some one to come to their assistance ; for at this hour in the day traffic was rather busy. In a moment Mr. Frere had left Marjory and was beside her. ' Let me assist you. The road will be quite clear as soon as this coal waggon has passed.' And without waiting for her thanks, he began to push vigorously, and in another minute they were safely across and in one of the quiet streets leading to the shore. 2::o 'I DO NOT LOVE MINE: * Thank you so much !' exclaimed Miss Carr gratefully. *I am always so afraid of that crossing ; and Cowen is a little old and deaf, though he would not own it for worlds. Barry' — stooping somewhat eagerly under the hood of the chair — ' this is the young lady, Miss Deane, who went with me to the chemist's last night. I know you will like to thank her j^ourself. The medicine did him so much good/ she continued, looking at Marjory. * He had a good night, and did not cough at all — did you, Barry T ' No. I was very much obliged to Miss Deane,' returned the boy a little awkwardly. And then Marjory came round and spoke to him ; and in another moment the little cavalcade moved on again — the girls tacitly falling to the rear, and Mr. Frere, without waiting for any introduction, walking by the side of the chair, and talking to its boyish occupant as easily and cheerfully as though he had known him all his life. As soon as they had reached the corner by the Crown, there was another halt : a fishing- boat was being launched, and Mr. Frere had desired Cowen to stop, that they might watch it ; and in another moment the girls joined them. BARRY. 251 ' What fine fellows, Lil — ^just look at them 1' exclaimed the boy eagerly. * That dark one with the red cap looks like a Neapolitan fisherman. Ho^v bronzed and strong he looks ! What an arm ! What muscles !' * He has a well-developed biceps,' observed Mr. Frere drily. But his eyes rested a little pitifully on the speaker. ' A son of the Anakims, that.' * Yes,' observed the boy wistfully, * he seems veiy strong;' and then he drew back a little into the shade. Marjory watched him rather sadly. * Oh, w^hat a pity,' she thought — ' so young, and yet so heavily burthened with infirmity !' He w^as about seventeen or eighteen, but evidently his growth had been checked. It was a beautiful face, far finer in feature than his sister's ; but it had the elongated shrunken look that one almost alw^ays sees in deformed people, the preternaturally old expression that speaks of anxiety and suffering. In his recumbent position the narrow sunken chest and rounded shoulders were hidden from view; but the long white fingers gave Marjory an uncomfortable feeling — they were so thin and bony. And the brown pathetic 252 ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: eyes haunted her; they looked so pained and weary — so tired with their dreary look-out on life. Her reflections were cut short at this point, for Miss Carr suddenly discovered that it was their dinner-hour, and that Barry must be hungry ; and after this they hastily separated. Mr. Frere remembered that he had letters to write, and Marjory knew her mother would be waiting; so, telling him that she would be on the Parade as early as possible in the afternoon, she walked off so quickly that she was safely in the house before the chair w^as drawn up to the door. Mrs. Chard said very little during dinner, but she watched her daughter uneasily. ' I am troubling myself dreadfully about your being dull wdien Mr. Frere has gone,' she said once, as she brushed some crumbs from her lap. * It is that that worries me, Marjory.' * Oh, I don't mean to be dull if I can help it/ returned Marjory lightly. ' We must just make the best of things ; and, if I am not in your way, I dare say I shall manage to amuse myself;' and then she rose from the table. She had a letter to write to Anne — a long chatty letter — and by that time Mr. Frere would be looking for her. Perhaps her letter was too long, and he w^as MISS CARR WAITS FOR HER. 253 tired of waiting for her ; for when she reached the esplanade there was no light overcoat in sight — no lazy broad-shouldered figure sauntering to meet her. * How strange !' thought Marjory ; and then she caught sight of Miss Carr, sitting alone on one of the seats near the baths. She spied Marjory in a moment, and waved her hand to her. * I was waiting for you/ she said, making room for her. ' You are looking for your friend Mr. Frere, are you not ? Barry seems to have taken a fancy to him, for he asked him to go with him on the pier. The band is playing there this afternoon ; so, as I was a little tired, I said I would wait for you, and then we could follow them.' ' There is no hurry, and it is so nice and quiet here,' returned Marjory, too much pleased at this unexpected rencontre to remember her mother's absurd objections about her lodgers. Perhaps if she had recalled them, it would have made no difference. She had taken a stroni? fancy to this girl, and it was evidently recipro- cated, for Miss Carr looked equally pleased at their meeting. Marjory was beginning to wonder 254 */ DO NOT LOVE MINE: why she had thought her so plain at first sight. There was something so gentle and winning in her expression, that one soon forgot the features were by no means faultless. When she knew her better, she soon acquiesced in her friends' opinion — that whether she was plain or not, Lilias Carr was charming. One thing struck her, and she brought out her thought a little abruptly — so abruptly, indeed, that Miss Carr coloured a little with surprise. *You are not like your brother !' ' That is what everyone says;' and it struck Marjory her tone was a little vexed. ' He takes after my mother ; his hair and eyes are brown, like hers. I have fair hair and hazel- brown eyes, like my father — at least, mother often tells us so. If Barry were only strong, he would be so handsome ; he ought to be, to take after her, because she is so beautiful. "When I was a wee child,' continued Miss Carr, laughing, * I used to cry because I was not like my mother, and could never hope to be beautiful like her. What a vain mite I must have been !' * Children have strange fancies sometimes,' was Marjory's reply to this. ' THERE IS NO ONE LIKE HER: 255 * I used to resent it dreadfully, when people would tell my mother that I was not a bit like her. Barry often found me in tears after one of these remarks, but I never would tell him the reason. I am not so silly now, for I know she is quite content with me as I am. You must not let me begin to talk about my mother, because I shall never stop if I once commence, and I have no right to bore you.' ^ Are you so fond of her ?' asked Marjory a Httle curiouslj^ She knew she ought not to have put such a question to a stranger, but Miss Carr was so simple and unconventional, so different from other girls, and Marjory was un- conventional herself. Miss Carr's colour rose at this. * Fond of her ? why, I have worshipped her all my life ; there is no one like her — no one.' ' It must be nice to love one's mother like that,' returned Marjory slowly, and in an abstracted manner, as though she were revolving a problem in her mind. Miss Carr turned round and looked in her face. * ^Yhy, what do you mean by speaking in that 256 '/ DO NOT LOVE MINE: tone ? I suppose all girls love their mothers, do they not ?' Marjory shook her head. ' 1 don't know ;' and then the words dropped slowly from her lips, as though weighted with lead, each word separate and distinct : * I — do — not — love — mine ! ' The moment afterwards she knew she had made a mistake ; but at the time she felt as though some ma2:netic influence had drawn the words from her. But as she saw Miss Carr's shocked expression, and felt her recoil in absolute horror, she knew what she had done. It was too late for prudence; she must set her right at all risks. ' Don't YOU think we had better ioin them on the pier V observed Miss Carr a little coldly, as though the conversation were not to her taste. Her changed manner gave Marjory pain. ' Not until you acquit me in your own mind/ returned Marjory impulsively ; * what a pity I said that ! Of course, you could not understand. Perhaps you will not be so dreadfully shocked when you know that I have never lived with my mother since I was p. mere baby ; that I hardly know her better than I know you ; that we have nothing in common ; that my bringing up has 'IT WAS YOU WHO WERE LOSTV 257 been altogether different, as you will own when you know my mother's name.' * Your mother's name ?' and here Miss Carr began to look anxious and puzzled ; ' but I should not know it, should I, in any case ?' * Not if it be Miriam Chard ?' and Marjory's face had its hard, reckless expression as she pro- nounced the words. Miss Carr's start of surprise was very obvious. * Miriam Chard — our Mrs. Chard — your mother?' she returned confusedly; * but — but I thought your name was Deane.' ' So it is,' replied Marjory rather sullenly ; ' I told you so last night — Marjory Deane. My stepfather's name was Chard.' ' But I do not understand,' returned the other girl, in a bewildered voice ; ' Mrs. Chard would surely have told me if she were expecting her daughter.' * You knew she had a daughter T questioned Marjory. * Oh yes ; my mother always asks after her. She has been so interested about her ever since she knew that Miriam — Mrs. Chard, I mean — found her so unexpectedly. It was you who were lost, then?' in a still more bewildered voice, VOL. I. 17 258 ' / no NOT LOVE mine: * and whom some kind people had adopted as their own child ; and/ a light evidently breaking upon her, * I suppose it was our friend in the grey overcoat, Mr. Frere, who adopted you ?' * Not Mr. Frere, but his sister,' corrected Marjory. * I live with them ; Murrel's End is my home, not here.' ' Oh no, of course not,' replied the other hastily ; and then she w^ent on without lifting her eyes, ' How strange ! I cannot understand it even now. It was so odd of Mrs. Chard not to tell us; she must have known how interested Barry and I should be. It is not like her to be so close.' * You do not know my mother,' was on Mar- jory's lips, but she magnanimously forbore to utter the words ; on the contrary, some instinct of generosity made her resolve to shield her mother, if possible, from any charge of double- dealing. ' It was for my sake — she said so at least,' she returned, speaking with a little difficulty. * She thought it would be hard for me having to acknowledge it. She asked me to hide it, too, but I refused. I said I preferred to leave it to chance. I think,' in a steadier voice, * it is 'SHE WAS YOUR MOTHERS SERVANT: 259 always better to tell the whole truth about one's self — it prevents mistakes.' * You are quite right/ returned Miss Carr warmly; ' I am so glad you feel like that.' And then her face brightened. ' It was wrong of Mrs. Chard, but I can understand that she meant it kindly ; she is a good creature, and I am very fond of her. You know she was ray mother's ' but here she stopped confusedly, and bit her lip ; she had quite forgotten to whom she was speaking. ' That she was your mother's servant, I sup- pose ?' returned Marjory, in a stern unabashed voice — she was beginning to piece facts to- gether, and she instinctively grasped at this. And then, as an awkward silence intervened, she continued quickly, ' I am glad I told you ; I do hate anything that is not quite straightforward. We might have got to have known each other better during the next few weeks, and to like each other, and then it would have been painful to break it off; but now ' she did not finish her speech, but she drew up her long neck and looked down at the other girl with the air of an injured princess. * Oh, you must not take it in that way,' replied 17—2 26o ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: Miss Can* sootlimj]:lv. ' Of course it is true what you say, but I shall never think you belong to your mother — you are Miss Deane to me ; any- one can see you are a gentlewoman. Forgive me, but I could not help saying that, and no one could be mistaken in Mr. Frere for a moment. Why/ with a droll little laugh, as though to hide deeper feelings, * Moses was the son of Pharaoh's daughter, and I do not believe any of the people in the palace remembered that poor homely Jochebed at all.' ' Does that mean,' asked Marjoiy slowly, and her whole face flushed duskily, ' that you are not ashamed of knowing me T There was no one just then in sight, for the loiterers on the Esplanade had been attracted by the sound of the band towards the pier. As Marjory put the question in an anxious, shamefaced way. Miss Carr suddenly stooped towards her impulsively and kissed her on the cheek. * It means that I intend to know you — that you and I are going to be good friends !' cried the warm-hearted girl. It was that kiss and those few generous words that made Marjory love Lilias Carr from '/ WOULD WRITE A BOOK MYSELF: 261 that day ; and though she said nothing, and accejDted the caress with surprised passivity, there was a look in her brown eyes that spoke volumes. 'Oh dear!' laughed Lilias, but there were tears in her eyes, ' who would have thought, when I promised Mr. Frere to wait for you here, that we should have had this little scene ! Well, you feel better now, do you not ?' ' Oh yes ; I feel better.' ' Very well, then, you must talk to me. I am the most curious little soul in the world. I do so love hearing about other people, and knowing their histories and their feelings, and what they think and what they do. It is better than reading books. The most exciting novel would not be half so interesting. Two or three years ago, when I was at the poetry- writing sentimental age, I once thought — please do not laugh — that I would write a book myself.' ' A very good idea,' encouraged Marjory. * I had been ill, and during my convalescence I had perfectly satiated myself with novels. I never read so many before or since, and I got it into my head that they were all very stupid ; 262 ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: they all ended in the same way, to the jangling of wedding-bells, and a general let-off of moral fireworks ; and I determined mine should be quite different and altogether original/ ' Well r * Oh, of course it came to nothing ; the whole subject was too exhaustive for a girl's crude imagination. You see, I fixed the period at the time of Noah ; the heroes and heroines were to be distant relations of his, living in an obscure valley somewhere in the land of Nod ; and just when the plot got most interesting, and people would begin to be excited over it, I intended the flood to come and sweep them all away. No one has had an ending like that, you know. It would be perfectly novel — you must allow that.' ^ Oh dear, yes !' returned Marjory, thoroughly amused. ' It would certainly have had that merit.' ' I never got beyond the first two chapters.' replied Miss Carr, shaking her head. ' I managed the hero, Miznah Zeboim, very well ; but I found the talk and the manners and customs baffled me. You see, one knows so MARJOR Y'S PAST HISTORY. 263 little about that period, and has to draw so largely on one's imagination. So I gave it up. I was not original enough myself.' ' How could you think of such things !' ex- claimed Marjory admiringly. But Miss Carr refused to talk any more non- sense. On the contrary, she began to question her companion so gently and delicately about her kind friends at Murrel's End, and her own interests and manner of life there, that Marjory's reserve quite thawed, and she found herself talking in a girlish, open-hearted way, as she had never done to anyone but Anne and her old friend Nellie. Miss Carr was soon in possession of all the salient points of Marjory's past history — from the time her little tripping feet came across the snow and her baby grief was hushed in Anne's kind arms, up to the present date. The simple household at Murrel's End ; the quiet everyday life, so peaceful, so free from excitement ; the Down, with its sociable, prosaic inhabitants, its petty interests, its small carping jealousies — were all revealed to her ; but bright and graphic as Marjory's descriptions were, Lilias's sensitive ear lacked something in her narrative. The 264 ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: girl beside her, in Avliom she had grown so strangely interested, was not perfectly content with her life. Kow and then her speech breathed a spirit of heaviness ; there were words dropped here and there — short sentences that opened a margin of doubt — little things that she let fall, as it were, unconsciously. ' She had so few duties, and Anne had so many. Girls could not visit the poor ; besides, she never liked that sort of work. A little gardening, a little work, some reading, and a good deal of tennis and walking — well, she sup- posed that was enough for most girls, but it hardly contented her.' Then, again : ' Nellie was nice, and so was Mrs. Walford ; but most of the people on the Down were so stupid — had so few ideas beyond their own household, she (Marjory) never could get on with them ; they bored her to death. Anne was different. She liked everybody ; they were all interesting to her. Mr. Frere often nicknamed her *' Little Charit}^" and the name just suited her.' 'Oh, I know I should like your Miss Anne !' observed Lilias involuntarily ; and then she 'LILIAS FORGETS HER BROTHER: 265 started up. * Why, there they are coming back ! We have been sitting here an hour and a half, and I have quite forgotten my poor boy. To think of my troubhng Mr. Frere for a whole afternoon !' ' Oh, he will not mind. He will be pleased at the thought of setting you free for an hour. He said this morning that you looked fagged and tired, and what a pity it was you had no friend to help you with such a charge.' ' Oh, but I am quite ashamed of my careless- ness !' returned Miss Carr, in a low voice ; but she had no opportunity of expressing her con- trition, for Mr. Frere stopped her at the first word. ' You will not be so cruel as to take off the edge of my enjoyment,' he began, in the tone of lazy good-humour that Maijory knew so well, ' to deprive the cream of its richness. No one but a cat can enjo}^ skimmed milk, and she only makes a pretence at it. I was so grateful for the trust that you had reposed in me, in allow- ing me to accompany your brother ; and we have had a first-rate time of it — only you must not spoil it for us.' * Thank you ; then I will not say anytliing 266 ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: about my remissness/ she returned, with a pleased glance at him as she went to her brother's side. ' And you, Barr}^ — you have not been cold, or tired, or wanting me T * Oh no, Lil ; not a bit. I have been enjoy- ing myself famously. They played all my fa- vourite tunes capitally, and Mr. Frere had me wheeled into a sheltered corner, and covered me with this ' — pointing to a shabby black and white plaid that Mr. Frere always carried on such occasions — ' and we had such a talk !' ^ So have these young ladies, to judge from their faces,' observed Mr. Frere, looking at the bright countenances before him, one of which certainly had a more rested look. ' Now, Miss Carr, I may as well impart to your private ear that your brother is tired. He may assure you to the contrary, but I advise you not to believe him, but to take him home at once / and as Miss Carr smilingly bade them good-bj^e, and desired Cowen to wheel her brother home as quickly as possible, Mr. Frere stood for a moment watching them ; and then he touched Marjory's arm, and proposed a turn on the Esplanade before they separated. ' That boy has cheated me out of your company PROCRASriNA TION THE THIEF OF TIME. 267 this afternoon/ he said, in a would-be injured tone, * and now we have lost our last walk together ; for to-morrow I must go back to Anne/ ' Oh no ; not so soon as that,' she "replied quickly. * *' Procrastination is the thief of time/' Oh, Marjory Daw, have you already forgotten your copy-book wisdom ? When one has to take a plunge into cold water, it is foolish to stand shivering on the brink. Now, without knowing exactly why, I am loath to go away and leave you. The feeling is foolish, and altogether un- reasonable, for you are old enough to take care of yourself; so I am going to-morrow.' * You are always so sudden in your movements,' she pouted. ' Oh, I shall come back again when you least expect me ; just when you are contemplating some piece of mischief, I shall walk in, and take you by surprise. You have not got rid of my surveillance; please to remember that.' ' I wish you would come back to-morrow evening,' was her sole answer to this terrible threat ; for how could any girl in her senses object to so tender and generous a surveillance ? 268 ' / DO NOT LOVE MINE: He looked pleased at that. In her best moods she would often say affectionate things to him. * I do not think you will be dull without me, my dear,' he answered quite seriously. * That new friend of yours, Miss Carr, has quite taken m}^ fancy ; and her brother, poor fellow, has interested me almost as much. Was it not simple of the lad to ask me to go on the pier with him ? I think Miss Carr looked surprised for a moment ; and then she said, in such a nice way, that if I would be good enough to go with her brother, she would wait for you on the Esplanade, as she was rather tired. Certainly she did look tired.' 'I do not think she is very strong,' returned Marjory ; and then she repeated to Mr. Frere the substance of their conversation. ^ Why, that was brave of you,' he said, in a tone of strong commendation. ' I honour you for that bit of moral courage — I do indeed ; and as for that new acquaintance of yours, take my word for it, she is one in a thousand. I do not over-praise people generally — do I, Marjory ? — • but I think that girl is a trump.' ^ I do feel as though I could make a real friend of her,' replied Marjory, moved to demonstration MR, FRERE PRAISES LILIAS, 269 by this rare praise. ' Is it not strange, Mr. Frere ? for I have only spoken to her three times.' ' Oh, there is no accounting for these things,' was the reply; and as they drew near the house, he said suddenly: 'By-the-bye, if Mrs. Chard is fussy about her lodgers, and teases you any more, Marjory, you may just tell her from me that I hope she will not put any further check upon your intercourse with this young lady; that I quite approve of it. Do you understand ? That may silence her a bit, for she stands in awe of me, I know. Ah ! there she is, looking out for you. Eun in, my dear — run in ; most likely the tea is brewing, and all the Chard activities are in force.' CHAPTER XV. * YOU MUST COME TO ST. KILDA's/ AEJOPiY did not much enjoy her tea that evening. Before many minutes had elapsed, she soon discovered that something was seriously amiss with Mrs. Chard. She looked ill, complained of a bad pain in the recfion of her heart, and then followed a list of complaints in the fretted irritable tone that alwaj^s tried Marjory. ' It was hard on a poor woman that meant no harm, that her girl should have no respect to her wishes. Had she not passed at the back of the Esplanade that very afternoon, and seen, with her own eyes, how Marjory followed her advice, sitting there with her lodger, and the two of them talking as fast as though they had known each other all their lives ?' 'MR. FRERE AIN'T MY MASTER: 271 'Mother!' burst out Marjory, when she had listened to this tirade, and her patience was exhausted, *I wish you would let me speak a moment ;' and then she gave Mr. Frere's message, but, to her surprise, Mrs. Chard was not in the least mollified. ' What's it to him what I choose to do about my lodgers ?' she said crossly. ' Mr. Frere ain't my master, if he is yours ; a woman has a right to her own words in her own house. As long as you put up with me, Marjory, I ought to be minded, and not him.' And as Marjory remained silent out of pure prudence, she continued : * Of course, being so thick together, not half a yard between you, for the best part of an hour, and I doing my shopping all the time, you have been and let out what I charged you for your own sake to keep quiet — eh, Marjory?' with an uneasy glance at her. Marjory's lips settled into a hard, inflexible curve. ' Out with it, Marjory. Of course you have been and told it all to Miss Lilias T ' What should I have told her ?' returned Marjoiy, obstinately bent on making her mother explain her meaning. 272 'YOU MUST COME TO ST KILDA'S: * How that you are my girl/ replied Mrs. Chard, becoming more slipshod in her speech as her agitation increased. * Most certainly I told her that I was your daughter,' was the cool, exasperated reply. *I object to sail under false colours ; and were I ten times your daughter, I would not learn one of your crooked ways.' * What ever do you mean by that, Marjory ?' faltered Mrs. Chard, turning pale under the girl's fiery glance. ' Nay, you know best yourself, mother,' she answered, with quiet scorn. ' At one minute you have forgotten your lodger's name — you are not quite sure — it sounds like Cayley, you know. Some one else has recommended them to the lodgings. How odd that Miss Carr, then, should know you so well as to call you by your Christian name — Miriam Chard ! Not quite so odd, cer- tainly, if one recollects you were her mother's servant.' Mrs. Chard became still paler. ' Did Miss Lilias tell you that ?' ' No/ returned Marjory quite truthfully. * She stopped herself just in time, but I grasped her meaning somehow. I knew you had been a MRS. CHARD BECOMES PLAINTIVE. 273 servant, and somehow I put two and two together. She did not contradict me, cer- tainly ; so we may suppose my guess was correct.' * I was only keeping it dark for your sake, Marjory,' returned her mother, putting her apron to her eyes. * You need not be so down on me for telling a few^ fibs for my own girl's sake. I did not want you to despise me more than you do now. It is pitifully hard on a mother when her daughter is brought up over her head. You ain't like a daughter to me, Marjory — just be- cause I had not a bringing-up like yours. No one told me a fib was such a heinous sin.' ^ Oh, it's no use talking,' replied Marjory, pushing back her chair, for she felt another mouthful would choke her ; ' I do not wish to be unkind to you, mother. You are ill, and have your own troubles, and I need not add to them. If I do not feel like a daughter to you — and God knows I cannot ! — it is because you vA]\ not teach me to respect you. What does it matter for me to know that you were Mrs. Carr's servant ? Should I think less of you for that ? It is the want of truth — the crookedness —the ' VOL. I. 18 2 74 ' YOU MUST COME TO ST KILDA'S: Here she paused, faltering from sheer emotion; but her mother caught her arm piteously : ' Don't, Marjory ! — don't be so hard on me ! You will be sorry for it one day, dearie. I'm not long for this life — ask them that knows — and there may as well be peace between us.' ' Let there be peace, then,' replied Marjory wearily, as she sat down by the fire and let her hands drop in her lap. Yes, there should be peace, so she told her- self, when her mother had gone out of the room, crying quietly as she went ; there should be an end of all this wretched argument and re- crimination — this perpetual fretting and sore- ness between two alien natures. It was not for her to rebuke her mother's crookedness, neither was it in her power to alter her. Oh, by all means, while she was under her roof, let there be peace and quiet between them. But even while Marjory resolved on this prudent course, and vowed inwardly to keep her unruly tongue in order, it never occurred to her to avoid the bone of contention by holding aloof from her mother's lodgers. On the contrary, Mrs. Chard's opposition only strengthened her '/ KNEW YOU WERE ALONE : 275 in her self-will, and, to do Marjory justice, she had Mr. Frere's sanction for the intimacy. So when an hour or two later, as she was still sitting moodily staring into the fire, with her hands idle in her lap, a light tap sounded at the door, and a moment afterwards Miss Carr's bright face showed itself, she forgot all past w^orries in a moment, and welcomed her visitor with her usual joyousness. ' I knew you were alone,' observed Miss Carr, placing herself, without the least hesitation, in the low chair opposite Marjory. * Mrs. Chard was with us just now% and she complained of her old pain, and said she must go to bed ; and as Barry is tired too, he has gone off hours before his time, so ' but checking herself quickly at a sudden thought — 'you are not expecting your friend, are you ? I never thought of that.' ' Whom ? Mr. Frere ? No ; he never comes here in the evening. And as it rains again, we cannot have our usual prowl. How good of you to come down ! I was just feeling so dull, and hipped, and miserable,' bringing out her w^ords with a sigh. * Never mind ; I am not going to let you be miserable. No one is, in my company ; how 18—2 2 76 'YOU MUST COME TO ST. KILDA'S: can they be, with such a chatterbox ? Now, there is a gloomy thought in your eyes. Suppose you tell me what it is ?' * I only wanted to know if my mother had been talking to you,' asked Marjory anxiously. * Oh yes ; she has been unburthening herself, poor old thing ! She seems dreadfully unhappy about everything. I am so glad you told me what you did,' she said at once; *how she was hiding the fact of your relationship to her, for your own good. She owned to telling you a fib or two, but the poor dear evidently meant no harm by it, so I suppose we must forgive her. It is strange how differently some people feel about little lapses of this sort,' continued Miss Carr, in a musing tone ; and though she said no more, Marjory felt that her mother's want of truth had surprised as well as hurt her; and after this, they mutually changed the subject. * And now, what shall we talk about ?' con- tinued Miss Carr briskly. * Oh, I don't know,' hesitated Marjory; and then she stopped, and said with a smile : ' It does not matter — it is so nice to see you sitting there; it does me good, somehow.' 'I am glad of that,' returned Lilias frankly; * YOUR FACE REMINDS ME OF SOMEONE: 277 * that is why we are in the w^orld, just to do each other good. I wanted a httle rest this afternoon, and you and Mr. Frere gave it to me ; and now I must try to amuse you a little in return. Only, please tell me first why you are looking at me so intently T ' Because your face reminds me of some one, and I cannot tell who it is,' replied Marjory, in a puzzled tone. ' When I first saw you, I had a sort of impression that we had met before.' ' How very strange !' returned Lilias, in a startled voice. ^ I had the same feeling about you ; not that you were like anyone, but that we had seen each other before. Something in your voice seemed to vibrate quite familiarly in my ears ; it gave me such an odd feeling that I could not rest until I had heard you speak once more. And then the fancy left me, but now and then I catch it again.' Marjoiy's answering smile was a little grave. Miss Carr's words impressed her strangely. What did this undefinable attraction and sym- pathy mean between two strangers ? She had never seen Lilias without her hat before. The smooth broad forehead and heavy coils of fair hair had been almost hidden. It was true 278 * VOL/ MUST COME TO ST KILDASJ her face was too long and colourless for beauty, the chin was slightly elongated, and the mouth receded a little ; but her bright and varying expression redeemed all faults. And she had a very pretty figure, which her pale blue gown showed to perfection ; her hands were well- shaped, but rather large — perhaps this was the reason why she wore no rings. ^ You have no idea what expressive eyes you have,' observed Lilias, leaning back comfortably in her chair ; ' they seem to search one through and through. When people look at me very closely, I always think they are pitying me for my ugliness.' ' Your — I beg your pardon. What did j^ou say T asked Marjory, not believing her ears. * My ugliness. I am not afraid of the word ; but perhaps I ought to have said plainness. Oh, I am perfectly aware I have no beauty — I always tell people so. I do not mind it now in the least ; everyone is just as fond of me as I want, and no one wishes to alter me ; so why need I trouble myself?' ' But — but — you are not plain. I do not think so now,' with a sudden conviction that this girl's face was almost beautiful. ' / AM VERY SELFISH THEN: 279 Miss Carr arched her eyebrows and broke into a merry laugh. ' You say that because you like me. That makes me vain, because I can always make people like me ; and it is the real me they care about — Lilias Carr, not my face or a little bit of skin-deep beauty. That is what I call nice.' * You think a great deal about people liking you,' returned Marjory, watching her bright face a little wistfully. * That is because I like them. Oh, do you think,' with rather a troubled inflection of voice, ^ that one can care too much about that sort of thing ?' * About people liking you ?' Lilias nodded. ' Well, I do not know ! Girls get a little morbid sometimes on that subject. Anne always tells me that we ought to give out everything without thinking of return. She calls asking for much love a form of pure selfishness.' ' I am afraid I am very selfish then,' returned Miss Carr sadly. * If my mother did not love me in the way she does, I should break my heart. I want her to be engrossed by me ; to live for me ; to give me the same measure that I 2So 'YOU MUST COME TO ST KILDAS: give her — nothing else would satisfy me. It would not do at all to stand by, for example, and see her lavish all her love on Barry ; we must share alike, he and I ; and I will not let him have the least hit more.' " Anne would call that jealous love,' with a sudden warm conviction that this dearest friend of hers was immeasurably bej^ond them both. * It is only with my mother that I feel so,' returned Lilias, in a contrite voice, as though she owned her fault. ' I do not monopolize other people ; I am quite content with what they give me. But one's mother is a part of one's self ; I could not give her up to anyone. If my father had lived, of course it would have been different; she was devoted to him, but now she has only Barry and me.' 'And she loves you both equall}^;' but, to Marjory's surprise, Lilias coloured rather pain- fully. * I hope so, and I shall always hope so. No, I am not so selfish as you think ; I would share even my mother with Barry. It is we three against the world ; *' the threefold cord " that is never to be broken.' * And no one else is to come near you ^V LI LIAS CARR'S HOME. 281 questioned Marjory, half laughing ; but in her heart how she envied this girl, who could love her mother in that way ! But what did that glow mean on Lilias's face ; and why did she find it so difficult to parry this careless speech ? * How can one know ? oh, we do not mean to be so exclusive. Of course there are friends ; oh, of course one has plenty of friends !' 'I wonder what sort of place St. Kilda's is,' mused Marjory. ' I have only been to West- moreland once, when we spent a month at the Lakes; but I have never heard of St. Kilda's.' ' Oh, I dare say not ; it is not much of a place, though of course the neighbourhood is beautiful, and there are lovely walks and drives. The place is dreadfully cold and bleak in winter, and I am afraid it does not suit Barry ; but we are all very fond of it. It was my mother's home when she was a girl ; and when we came to England after my father's death, we settled there at once.' ' Did you live abroad T * Yes, in Peru ; his work was there. But when I was fifteen, we came to Mavis-bank to live ; it used to be called the Grange in my mother's time, but the people who took it on 2S3 * YOU MUST COME TO ST KILDA'S: lease changed the name. I do not think either name really suits it ; it is a white house, rather grim-looking outside, but so warm and comfort- able inside. A good many of the smaller houses in St. Kilda belong to my mother, or at least to Barry ; they will be his by-and-by. Father built them ; and there are two or three farms belonging to us, too. Years ago there was some trouble about it all — soon after I was born — and for a little time we were poor, and obliged to go abroad ; at least, my parents were, for they left me. And then things gradually righted themselves ; and my father recovered some of his money, and his investments answered. And so one of these days Barry will be quite rich ; not that he cares about that, poor boy !' ' But you must be glad of it for his sake.' * Yes, and for my mother. When you see her, 3'ou could not imagine her roughing it ; she looks as though she were born to be a queen — as though everything must be smooth under her feet. Life at St. Kilda's just suits her ; she likes going about among the people, settling their grievances, and making their homes habit- able. She calls herself Barry's viceroy ; but he will never be so fit to govern as she.' ' WHO 2S MR. WENTWORTHT 283 ' I do not see that. You must wait until he is older/ ' Yes, that is what Hurrell says — Mr. Went- worth, I mean. How strange that you should repeat his words !' ' And who is Mr. Wentworth ?' asked Marjory, with pardonable curiosit3\ Lilias's colour flickered a little. ' Ah, he is a friend of ours. His mother and mine were great cronies when my mother was a girl. They live in a dear old place at Thorpe, a picturesque village not far from us, and of course we are always meeting. Mr. Went- worth farms his own land, and he is my mother's referee in all matters of business. He laughs, and says he has two mothers ; and he certainly is as good as a son to her.' Marjory wisely kept her thoughts to her- self; but she glanced at Lihas's unringed hand. * I am afraid you would think Eedlands far cosier than Mavisbank at first sight,' continued Miss Carr, evidently warming to her subject. * It is an old red-brick house, with a sunny terrace, and a great shady lawn — almost like pasture-land — that goes sloping to the road ; 284 ' you MUST COME TO ST. KILDAS: and the garden is so sheltered and snug ; and there is quite a belt of green fields round it at the back. In the hay season it is perfectly delicious to ^vander about under the trees. We have all spent such happy days there. Mrs. Wentworth is such a beautiful old lady. I call her old, though she cannot be more than a few years older than my mother, who is quite young in my eyes ; but then, you see, Mrs. Wentworth has white hair, and she has settled into prosy old lady's ways — perhaps because she is rather an invalid. There is such a difference in people. I do not believe my mother will ever grow old.' * Have you many friends at St. Kilda's ?' * Not in the place itself. There are no gentlefolk living just in the town, with the exception of Dr. Ainslie and his daughter, and the Moores at the Vicarage. There is a large family of girls and boys there, and the governess — Miss Stallard — is a nice creature ; the rest are townspeople and farmers, and all sorts of respectable people, with whom one could hardly associate on equal terms. At one time Barry had a tutor, who lived with us — that was plea- sant ; but now Mr. Moore reads with him.' LIBERTY HALL. 285 ' And you do not find it dull ?' * Oh dear no ! It is a little quiet in winter, perhaps ; but there are always people driving or riding over in summer-time, to take luncheon or afternoon tea with us. There are several families at Thorpe — that is quite close, you know ; and we visit some people at St. Theo- bald's, an old market-town a few miles off. So that we are not so badly off for society, though we do live out in the wilds. And my dear Euby — that is my horse — takes me just where I want to go. Do you know, I have a plan in my head : you must come to St. Kilda's your- self, and see how we live.' ' I must come to St. Kilda's !' And Marjory's clear brown cheeks were suffused with crimson. * My dear Miss Deane, how surprised you look ! Mavisbank is just Liberty Hall. I invite anyone I like, and my mother just welcomes them — she is quite used to my taking fancies to people. I once took a fancy to two girls whom we met in the Engadine, and to please me my mother invited them for six weeks. They remained nearly six months. One of them married from our house, and is living not five miles away. Her sister is 286 ' YOU MUST COME TO ST. KILDA'S: stopping with her now. I did a good turn for Jessie Randall when I brought her to St. Kilda's, for there she met her fate in the shape of a young clergyman, and there she married him. And Mrs. Blake — our factotum — made the wedding-cake.* ' But that is different/ stammered Marjory. * Your mother would object to me if she knew ' ' My mother does know by this time. "We WTite every day to each other; and I never kept the ghost of a secret or mystery from her for an hour. I have told her all about you, and how kind you w^re that night. She will send a message to you to-morrow — a very pretty one, too.' * But all the same,' returned Marjory, ' you cannot suppose for one moment that when your mother knows my antecedents, that she ' ' Would welcome you most fully and heartily ? Yes, I do suppose it ; and what is more, I am sure of it. Wait until you meet next week, and see if she and I do not coax you between us. By-the-bye,' interrupting herself, *I came down this evening to ask you something. I am going to A PROJECTED EXPEDITION. 287 drive to-morrow to Hayes Glen. Barr^^ wants me to go, and Mrs. Chard has promised to sit with him in my absence. Our lawyer — Mr. Meredith — has a house there, and my mother has asked me to leave some papers wdth him. If you will trust yourself to me — I am an expert daughter of Jehu — I shall be so glad of your companion- ship. They have a capital grey pony at the Crown — he is such a spirited, pretty little fellow, I quite long to drive him. Do promise you will come !' ' Oh, I shall be delighted ! How kind of you to ask me!' returned Marjory, quite pleased at the idea. * Then that is settled, and I must wdsh you good-night ; for I am obliged to own that, in spite of the pleasure of your society, I am growing decidedly sleepy. For, as my mother always tells people, ''I am afraid Lilias is not so strong as she looks." ' And with these words, and a cordial grasp of the hand, Lilias took her departure, humming a little French refrain, as she ran lightly upstairs. CHAPTER XVI. PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. HE next morning, as Maijor}" was standing at the window, exulting in the prospect of a perfectly cloudless day, she was rather surprised to see Mr. Frere crossing the road with his travelling-bag and plaid over his arm. He was evidently on his way to the station, and yet he had told her positively on the previous evening that he should not leave for Moorbridge until the afternoon. She met him on the threshold with uplifted finger and the frown of a spoiled child. ' What does this mean ?' she asked, in an injured tone. *My dear,' he returned, Hhe wise man should be prepared for any emergency; to speak figura- tively, he ought to go to bed every night with ' ONE TROUBLE BRINGS ANOTHER: 289 his boots and spurs on. If you ^vill allow me to pass you, I will put down my bag a moment, for it is undoubtedly heavy/ And as she re- lieved him from the plaid, and grumbled a little because his coat was slightly dusty, he con- tinued, ' Never mind my dusty coat-sleeve. I shall be well powdered with fine grey fragments during the next two hours. The fact is, Marjory Daw, it never rains but it pours — one trouble brings another. Just because our domestic afi'airs are slightly involved — spring cleaning and the measles — and Anne is desirous of my presence and fraternal sympathy — there- fore a most tiresome bit of business calls me up to town, and will detain me there for the next two or three days. I hope you intend to sympathize with me under these trying circum- stances.' ' The business is about money, I suppose.' * My dear, you are young, and consequently ignorant ; when you arrive at the age of discre- tion you will know that money or women lie at the root of all evil. Ask the Eastern Caliph, whose world-renowned question, *'Who is she?" will be handed down to posterity as a wonderful piece of Oriental wisdom.' VOL. I. 19 290 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. ' As you are in no huri-y, Mr. Frere, I will put on my hat and walk with you to the station.* 'But as I am in the greatest hurry/ he calmly assured her, ' I must decline this tempting offer. My address is at the club, if you want me ; and I am afraid that, looking at things all round, from an impartial and unprejudiced point of view, 3^ou will not see me down here for another week.' ' Not for seven whole days T she said a little mischievously, for in spite of his assumed sprightliness, his eyes were so very grave. But instead of his usual merr}^ retort, he took her hands and held them for a moment firmly, and his whole manner changed. * Seven days — what are seven days ? Now, you will laugh at me, and think me a foolish fellow ; but do you know, I am leaving you most unwillingly ? I never did believe in presenti- ment, as Anne knows; but if I did, I should say I had one this morning.' * A presentiment — and about me !' she said, opening her eyes very widely at this. * Oh, it is sheer nonsense,' he returned more lightl}^ for she certainly looked a little disturbed at his earnestness. * It is indigestion, perhaps; A HASTY ADIEU. 291 morbid feelings are generally due to indigestion. Why, what should happen to you, unless you fell over the pier ? and then some one would be sure to fish you out. You are not the sort to be *' drownded dead," Marjory/ ' Oh no, you w^ould not get rid of me so easily as that,' she said, falling in with his humour. ^ I am your ' ^ old man of the moun- tain ;" I shall stick to you both.' ^ Let us hope so/ he returned, dropping her hands suddenly and picking up his bag. * Take care of yourself — God bless you, child ! Now I must be off, or I shall lose my train;' and so saying, he left the room so quickly that Marjory hardly reached the door in time to wave her last adieu. *Has Mr. Frere gone already?' asked Miss Carr, joining Marjory in the passage ; ' Barry wanted to see him this morning. I was just coming down to invite you both upstairs.' ' Yes; he is summoned unexpectedly to town,' returned Marjory. * Are you going out ? would you like me to go up and sit with your brother in your absence T * Oh, thank you ; I should be so glad. I am only going to fetch him some books ; but his back aches so that he will not be able to go out, 19—2 292 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESLL and so it will be a long day for him. Some one fresh to talk to him and amuse him a little would be a great boon/ * Very well, then, I will fetch my work,' replied Marjory, very amiably stifling a wish to climb to the East Hill this fine breezy morning. As she turned over her crewels, in search of a particular shade she w^anted, she smiled a little at the redness of her hands. ' He had no idea how he hurt me. I w^onder what possessed him this morning to hold my hands in that way/ she thought ; ' he is cer- tainly very fond of me — fonder than he used to be.' And then Marjory smiled again as she re- membered how different things used to be with them, and how she would go to him regularly for the morning and evening kiss, just as she did to x\nne. And then, all at once, when she was fifteen or sixteen, he had checked her, not a bit gravely, but in his joking way — she was so tall, quite a young lady now — he meant to shake hands with her in future ; and so he did from that dav. Marjory would have been sorry if he had known how often she had nearly forgotten this new rule he had put in vogue. It would have caused a 'ALWAYS SO KIND AND THOUGHTFUL: 293 little reserve on her side, but for his tact and kindness. But his manner never varied to her; morning after morning he would greet her with the same pleasant smile, and evening after evening his ^ Good-night, Marjory Daw,' bore the same caressing sound to her ear. 'Always so kind, so thoughtful,' she said to herself, gathering up her crewels and work-bag. * He was like no one else. No ; she had never seen anyone else to compare with him.' And then she remembered that she had never told him about their proposed expedition to Hayes Glen. How pleased he would have been to know that there was such a treat in store for her — and perhaps an invitation to St. Kilda's ; but that last thought was too exciting. It had kept her awake for hours last night, so she put it away most resolutely, and went upstairs. ' Has your sister told you that I am coming to sit with you a little ?* she said, in an easy, good-humoured tone, as the boy — for he looked little more than a boy — turned on his couch and looked at his visitor. * Oh yes ; Lilias told me,' he returned, rather shyly shaking hands with her. * Won't you 294 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. sit down ? It is awfully good of you, you know.' Marjory took possession of a chair midway between the couch and the window. She had often been in this room before, and she knew this special corner. It was a large, cheerful room, with three windows ; and the books and work that were littered about, and the vases of fresh flowers, gave it a bright, home-like air. The comfortable invalid couch, with its quilted- satin couvre-pied, was placed in the most in- viting angle. Nevertheless, the poor lad looked far more forlorn than he had done in his chair. Marjory could see more plainly how stunted and shrunken he was in figure, with his head sunk slightly between the shoulders, that were far too broad for his height. To judge merely from his face, one would take him for a year or two older than his real age ; but his voice was weak and boyish, and he had the manners of extreme youth. But for his sickliness and the sharp worn lines, his face would have been beautiful. The eyes were singularly so — dark, brown, and pathetic — and the eyebrows and eye- lashes peculiarly fine. The forehead was low ' JFE SHALL SEE HLM NEXT WEEK: 295 and broad, but hidden by a deep wave of brown hair that seemed to grow naturally close to the temples. The mouth was beautiful ; only the close pressure of the lips was a little painful at times, betokening suffering. * You have been awfully good to me already,' he continued, propping himself higher on his cushions, * turning out that damp evening ; and so was Mr. Frere yesterday. I wanted to see him again, he was so jolly and all that; but Lilias says he has gone to London.' * Yes ; but we shall see him next week, I hope. He was obliged to go — I imagine about some law business.' ' Oh ! by that time my mother will be here. We expect her next Wednesday or Thursday. Lilias would be sure to tell you that first thing.' ' She did not mention the day.' * No ; we only knew ourselves this morning. She has been nursing a sick friend, but now she has pulled through ; so mother says she will be able to leave her comfortably next week. Lilias and I have never been alone in this way before. I tease her dreadfully about being so mother-sick.' 296 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. * She seems perfectly wrapped up in her mother,' observed Marjory, with a sigh. 'Oh, my mother is equally devoted to her!' returned the boy, a little sadly. * I do not be- lieve they have a thought apart. You see, Lilias is so awfully good for a girl — she is not a bit selfish or cross, like other people ; and, though she is delicate, she never makes a fuss about herself, as some people do. Mother tells me sometimes that she thinks she is almost too good to live.' * There are not many people like that,' replied Marjory, a little enviously. He shook his head. * I only wish I could be half as good ; but then, you see, what chance can a fellow like me have for anything of that kind ? Why, I have been lying here for the last four months, and it may be as many more before they will let me try to walk.' ' I am afraid you have never had good health. ' * No ; I have been pretty bad for as long as I can remember, but things have been worse with me for the last two or three years. Dr. Ainslie will insist that I shall be able to get about by- and-by. I am sure I hope so, for it is a THE MYSTER Y OF PAIN. 297 horrid bore lying here and giving other people trouble. One can't help getting selfish, some- how/ ' It seems to me that you are very patient/ returned Marjory, feehng drawn by the strongest sympathy to this poor lad. He was almost as simple and frank in manner as his sister, only there was an under- lying tone of bitterness that spoke of a troubled spirit. Marjory had never regarded herself as a very sympathetic person, but as she sat and listened to this boy's w^eak voice, the strongest longing seized her to say and do something to comfort him ; and yet how was she, in the full- ness of health and strength, to comprehend the sad mystery of a life that seemed set apart for weakness and pain ? * You say that because you do not know,' he replied, turning his face away. * Perhaps with women it is different. It does not make them feel cross when people are always sorry for them and making a fuss over them.' ' Oh no ; we can stand a great deal of petting,' was Marjory's laughing response. * Do 3'ou mean that over-much sympathy makes you cross ?' 2ijS PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. ^ "Well, do you know/ he returned candidly, throwing back his head on the cushions and looking full in her face with his beautiful eyes, ' I do believe I have an abominable temper. Sometimes I sulk, and will hardly speak for days/ * Oh dear ! that must try your mother and sister dreadfully. I would not do that, if I were you.' ' Well, of course, I don't want to be disagree- able ; but what is a fellow to do when he is too miserable to talk, and all the w^omen are driving Mm crazy with their fuss ? It just comes down on one like a black cloud, shutting out all pros- pect, as a London fog does. Life seems a pre- ciously slow bit of business then.' ' I think I understand 3'ou,' returned Marjory slowly, and calling her own perverse moods to remembrance. ' In your case it is partly mental and partly physical. It is not pity — it is rousing you want when you are like that.' * Why, that is what Hurrell says,' he re- plied, looking at her a little eagerly. ' Hurrell Wentworth, I mean. He is a capital fellow — one of the bracing sort that gives j^ou plenty of A CHEERFUL MORNING. 299 common-sense. He is always going on at mother and Lilias for spoiling me, and letting me give way to despondent fancies. It is like a whiff of moorland air, hearing Hnrrell talk ; and, do you know ' — in a shyer voice — ^ I think you would do me good too.' ' Oh, I am so glad,' answered Marjory, blush- ing with pleasure. ' I never feel as though I could do anyone any good. Anne — that is Miss Frere, you know — says it is because I am too unsettled myself. She is always quoting Arch- bishop Trench's lines to me : * " Would thou go forth to bless, be sure of thy own ground. Fix well thy centre first; then draw thy circle round.'" * That's beautiful,' observed Barry, in a low voice ; and he seemed to repeat the words to himself. ' I must say those lines to Lilias — she is always spouting poetry. x\h ! here Sihe comes, to interrupt our talk. But you won't go, Miss Deane, will you ? Lil and I get awfully tired of each other's company, don't we, Lil ?' And as Marjory willingly consented to forego her walk, the three passed quite a merry morning. Marjory had hardly exchanged a word with ;oo PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. her mother since the previous evening. Mrs. Chard had evidently avoided her daughter. And although they sat together at the mid-day meal, there was little conversation between them. Marjory mentioned Mr. Frere's depar- ture, and spoke casually of their afternoon's expedition, but Mrs. Chard hardly made any response. ' I hope it is all as Mr. Frere wishes, for I shall wash my hands of your doings from this day, Marjory,' she returned, a little gloomily, when Marjory said a word about the pony-carriage from the Crown. ' It is a blessing that Mrs. Carr will be here next week, before j^ou 3'oung folk get into trouble.' And with this vague remark the subject dropped, and soon afterwards Marjory went to her own room to prepare for the drive ; and as soon as she was ready she joined Lilias, who was standing with Mrs. Chard in the porch. * Is he not a dear little fellow T she called out joyously, as soon as she caught sight of Marjory. ' He is as playful and frisky as possible — just like Ruby when she has had an idle day in her stable, and too many oats. That is what I like — a little bit of spirit.' 'HE WILL GO LIKE A LAMB: 301 * I should not advise you to touch him with the whip just at first, miss,' observed the ostler, who had overheard this remark. * Pepper is as good as gold, but he sliow^s his temper if he is put upon before he warms to his w^ork. He will go like a lamb, for all his play, if he is just humoured a bit at first/ * Oh, I will humour him,' returned Lilias, as she took the reins. * Don't look so dreadfully solemn, Mrs. Chard. I have driven Mr. Went- worth's pair of browns oftener than I can remember to tell you ; they ran away with us once. And our own Lightfoot has a decided temper, but I never have any difficulty with him.' Miss Carr was evidently a little proud of her own prowess and skill in driving ; and perhaps she was mischievously bent on frightening her companion, for she certainly gave the reins a little shake, which started Pepper oflf in a moment. Lilias laughed as she heard Mrs. Chard's stifled exclamation, and guided the pony dexterously round the first corner. ' You are not afraid to trust yourself to me ?' she asked, with a glance at Marjory. * Oh no — oh dear no ! I do enjoy going fast,' returned the other girl, as she leant to2 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. back comfortably in her seat, and watched Pepper's skittish pranks as he tossed his head, and threw up his Httle grey hoofs in full enjoyment of his scamper on such a fine after- noon. ' He is very fresh,' remarked Lilias once, when they had left the town behind them ; ^ he takes up all my attention, and I cannot talk. I hope you do not feel dull ?' But Marjory assured her that she was perfectly comfortable ; and, indeed, both girls were sorry when they reached Hayes, and the lawyer's house came in sight. It had been Miss Carr's intention just to leave the papers at the door, and to drive back without delay ; but unfortunately, as it turned out after- wards, Mr. Meredith had just come in from town, and nothing would satisfy his sense of hospitality except that the young ladies should come in and see his wife, and have a cup of tea. ' The boy will look after the pony ; he is a little hot — you have evidently driven fast — and Smith had better rub him down,' observed Mr. Meredith, assisting them to ahght. * My dear, I have brought j^ou some visitors,' he announced in a loud cheery voice, as he threw open the TEA AND GOSSIP. 303 drawing-room door. ' Miss Carr and a friend of hers — and you must ring for some tea.' Mrs. Meredith was a pretty little woman, with just a faint suspicion of brogue in her merry Irish tongue. She welcomed the girls heartily, and they were soon in the full swing of tea-table gossip. It was Marjory w^ho first called Lilias's attention to the lateness of the hour, interrupting her in the midst of listening to an anecdote of her mother's girlhood. She rose quite reluctantly. 'You were right in calling me to order,' she said presently. ' I am dreadfully careless — my mother often says so. I get interested in listening to people, and then I forget how the time passes. I like Mr. Meredith ; and his wife is such a nice chatty little woman. She is a second wife, and they have not been long married. She has step-children — somewhat a bore that must be, do you not think so ?' She stopped as Marjory acquiesced in this, and then continued, in rather an anxious voice : * Do you know, I am afraid they have been giving Pepper some more corn — he seems fresher than when he first came out. I must drive him very quietly.' The words were scarcely out of her mouth 304 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. before Pepper shied suddenly, and then, tossing up his head with a frightened whinny, tore dow^n the long country road as though the Furies were after him. Marjory said afterwards that she saw a boy with a pitchfork climbing the hedge, and that the pitchfork had fallen into the road, almost at Pepper's feet. It must have been this that startled him. ' Sit quiet, Miss Deane ! I have him well in hand,' called out Lilias, a little breathlessly; and Marjory obeyed her instructions, as she saw how firmly and rigidly the girlish hands were grasping the reins. Lilias's colour had not even varied, though her lips were tightly pressed together. The next few minutes were like a nightmare ever after in Marjory's memory : the hedgerows were flying past them ; the whole world, not they, seemed running away. Marjory began to feel dizzy. How could the girl beside her sit so motionless ? How was it they avoided, now a deep, watery ditch, and now a heap of stones ? How was it that they passed that huge waggon in safet}^, when the waggoner — foolish lout that he was ! — only put up his A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT. 305 hands and sliouted ? Was there really an inch between them and the hind-wheel ? The town was in sight now ; and they must have come miles. More stones — another cart ; more hairbreadth escapes, due to a girl's steady hand. Pepper must surely slacken his pace soon : he must feel the power of that light, strong touch. But — oh, good heavens ! what's that ? — children playing on a five-barred gate ; a barking dog snarling fiercely at the heels of a young heifer that has strayed on the road ; another heap of stones, with a man's white coat lying on it. Pepper has shied across the road again — there is a sudden shriek, a scream from the children — and Marjory knew no more. But the state of semi-unconsciousness only lasted for a minute or two. She was merely stunned by the sudden contact with the hard road. It seemed to her as though the children were still screaming — as though the sudden crash and plunging of hoofs were in her ears — as she con- fusedly opened her eyes and leaned on her elbow a moment before she stru^if^led to her feet. The children were standing: a friditened little group in the road; a doctor's gig, with a gentle- voL. I, 20 So6 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. man driving:; in it, was coming from the town ; the chaise lay overturned against the pile of stones ; and poor Pepper lay struggling in the traces, unable to rise. But that confused heap, half in the chaise and half on the stones, was surely not Lilias ? Maijory had to clear her eyes from the dust, and collect her stupefied thoughts before she could take in the real state of the case and go to her assistance. * Wait a moment: we will help you,' called out the gentleman ; and the next moment he directed the groom to hitch his own reins over the gate, while they lifted Lilias with difficulty from her jammed and perilous position, and laid her carefully on the grass, with a cushion under her head ; after which. Pepper — kicking and struggling, but otherwise unhurt — was got on his legs again. ' Is she hurt — is she much hurt?' asked Mar- jory, kneeling down on the grass, and dreadfully frightened at seeing Lilias 's eyes still closed, and a faint streak of blood showing under her hair. *I do not know; it is impossible to tell,' returned the gentleman, who was examining the girl with professional care. * We are just by A FRIEND IN NEED. 307 the town, fortunately. Will you tell me where you live ?' * At Mrs. Chard's— No. 26, Cro-svn Street/ returned Marjory. ' Oh, I know Mrs. Chard. I am Mr. Gilbert. Will you be afraid to hold your pony while my man drives the gig back for one of the Crown flies ? He will not be five minutes gone, and I will take care of your friend.' * Oh no,' replied Marjory, moving at once obediently to Pepper's head. The poor animal was much subdued by his fall, and looked dejected enough, trembling in every limb, and covered with dust and lather. He even whinnied faintly, in a contrite manner, as she went up to him. Those minutes seemed endless to Marjory, feeling shaken and bruised, and full of miserable conjectures as to Lilias's injuries. If she would only open her eyes — if only her face were not so dead-white ! When the fly came rapidly up, she could hardly bear to see her lifted in, looking such an inert mass of drapery. As she sat opposite to her, holding one of her hands, her eyes sought the doctor's face rather piti- fully. 20—2 3o8 PEPPER IS A LITTLE FRESH. * She may be only badly stunned. I hare not examined her properly,' he said, with pro- fessional reserve. ' It was those stones, you see. If she had only fallen in the road — but she has had a hard knock, somehow. Now, my dear young lady, this is twenty-six : will you run into the house, and ask Mi*s. Chard to get a room ready for my patient, and we will bring her in T ' Mother V exclaimed Marjory, bursting into the parlour where Mrs. Chard was evidently dozing by the fire, ' we have had an accident. The pony ran away, and we were overturned ; and Miss Carr is badly hurt — they are bringing her in. Mr. Gilbert ' but here she stopped, confounded by the look on her mother's face ; it was as of one suddenly stricken. She half rose, and then fell back in her chair. ' Lilias hurt — my Lilias V she almost shrieked. 'Ah, I am afraid so; she will not open her eyes, and there is blood under her hair. Oh ! mother, mother, why do you look so V ' I ain't your mother ; I am lier mother. What are you catching hold of me for, Marjory ? Let me go — let me go ! I say — to my own child,' and, as Marjory tottered back, putting her hands to MARJORY HAS A SHOCK. 309 her head as though she had received a blow, the excited woman rushed from the room; and through the open door Marjory could see her almost snatching Lilias's head to her shoulder, as her bearers stood for a moment in the entry. END OF VOL. I. BILLIUG AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. G., C.