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 http://www.archive.org/details/marybrowne01wilt
 
 Mary Browne 
 
 BY 
 
 L. E. WILTON 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1880 
 
 [All rights reserved}
 
 8£5 
 
 v. X 
 
 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * Mary,' said my mother, ' it's no use talking, 
 you must go to school.' 
 
 We had been arguing the point so long 
 ~ that I was no less tired of the subject than 
 she was herself, though my face was scarcely 
 as pale and careworn as hers, and the natural 
 carelessness of youth prevented my really feel- 
 ing as strongly on the subject under discussion 
 as I wished her to believe I did. ' After all/ I 
 thought, ' it will be a change.' Girls dislike 
 monotony — and accordingly I disliked the 
 life I was then leading. 
 
 My father had been dead two months. I 
 was old enough to feel the loss deeply, and to 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 understand that in consequence of it m)/- own 
 life had not much present promise of happi- 
 ness ; but I was, unfortunately, too listless to 
 realise fully how necessary it was that no 
 time should be lost in preparing- me for my 
 future profession — that of a governess. 
 
 * You see/ said my mother, after a pause, 
 during which she had been looking at me 
 with an indescribable expression of pity and 
 love on her face— ' You see, Mary, that if 
 you and Louis are well placed, I can give up 
 housekeeping, and may be doing something 
 myself, at once, to make the little money we 
 have go farther. We may even become 
 independent in time, and able to manage 
 entirely without your uncle's assistance.' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, in a tone of indifference, for 
 though I had resolved to give in and go to 
 school, I nevertheless felt an uncomfortable 
 determination to do it in as unamiable a 
 manner as possible — 'Yes, I understand. 
 When do you want me to go ? ' 
 
 She made no answer ; but rose, and left 
 
 ^Xtoffltf' 
 

 
 MARY BROWNE. 3 
 
 the room, evidently contented that I had 
 acceded to her wishes, however ungraciously ; 
 and probably thinking it better, for the mo- 
 ment, not to go into detail. I watched her 
 out, and; then, turning to the fire, hid my face 
 in my hands, and sat thinking. 
 
 Not pleasant thoughts, certainly, for a 
 girl of fifteen ! The predominant idea with 
 me was, that, all things considered, I surely 
 possessed but a small allowance of that 
 quality which is commonly designated ' feel- 
 ing.' From a petted, spoiled child, the idol 
 of my father, flattered by everyone, I had 
 become suddenly changed into a woman, 
 with the necessity for work before me, and a 
 great disinclination to do it ; and yet, as an 
 usual thing, I did not feel affected or de- 
 pressed by these circumstances in the least. 
 I felt angry sometimes, but that soon passed 
 off. i Perhaps,' I said to myself, ' the sudden- 
 ness of it all has, as it were, taken my breath 
 away — or, rather, stupefied me — and I shall 
 
 feel it afterwards.' I certainly did feel it 
 b 2
 
 4 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 afterwards, though not precisely in the way I 
 had imagined I should. 
 
 In the midst of my cogitations the door 
 opened, and my brother entered. He was 
 one year older than myself, and ten years 
 more self-reliant. 
 
 I raised my head quickly, dreading his 
 ridicule of my serious mood. He came up 
 to the fire-place with his hands in his pockets, 
 which latter, as he advanced, he turned 
 gradually inside out, without, however, 
 dropping anything, for there was nothing to 
 drop. There was something so ludicrous in 
 his face as he went through this performance, 
 that I laughed in spite of myself. 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said, joining loudly in my mirth, 
 1 you may well laugh. Pick up all I've 
 dropped, and make your fortune out of it, if 
 you can. That's the state of my finances. 
 Mary,' he added, looking suddenly serious, 
 ' have you any money ? ' 
 
 ' Why ? ' I asked, guardedly. 
 
 ' Because if you have, I shall be under the
 
 MARY BROWNE. 5 
 
 painful necessity of asking you to lend it to 
 me.' 
 
 He spoke so coolly, and so much as if he 
 considered it already his own, that I had 
 scarcely courage to ask him what he wanted 
 it for. 
 
 1 Want it for ? Why, to spend, of course. 
 What a ridiculous question ! ' 
 
 1 Come with me,' I said, ' and I'll give you 
 what I have.' 
 
 He followed me upstairs into my little 
 bedroom. I opened a drawer, and took from 
 it a small mother-of-pearl box, which my father 
 had given me on some long-past birthday. I 
 unlocked it, and told him to take what he 
 wanted. It contained a piece of gold and 
 some silver. His eyes glistened. 
 
 1 Do you mean what you say ? ' 
 
 1 Certainly. What does it matter ? What 
 does anything matter ? ' 
 
 He waited a moment, and then very 
 quietly possessed himself of the whole of its 
 contents.
 
 6 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Stay ! ' I exclaimed ; ' you are welcome 
 to the rest, but leave me that.' 
 
 I took from his hand a florin with a 
 peculiar mark upon it. It was my own 
 profile, minute, but still recognisable, which 
 had been cut neatly in the silver by an 
 old school-fellow of my brothers, who, 
 about a year previously, had sailed for India 
 in a ship which had never since been 
 heard of. 
 
 1 Nonsense,' he said, snatching it back. ' I 
 want that particularly.' 
 
 * What ! to spend ? ' I exclaimed, trying in 
 vain to unclasp his hand. 'Poor Harry did 
 it, you know, and I promised I'd never part 
 with it.' 
 
 ' Well, if it's taken from you by force, you 
 don't part with it. It parts with you, though, 
 like you, it can't help itself. Necessitas non 
 habet leges, nor affection either, nor constancy, 
 nor anything of the sort.' 
 
 He looked at me defiantly. I don't know 
 what induced me to part with my treasure so
 
 MARY BROWNE. 7 
 
 easily, but I made no further resistance 
 though my eyes filled with tears. 
 
 ' I'm glad you're getting so sensible,' he 
 went on ; * you're a good little thing, at heart, 
 I do believe ; only, you see, I must have 
 money. It's such a deuced hard thing for 
 a fellow to have to go about without any 
 cash in his pocket. / can't do it — that's a 
 fact.' 
 
 He stood looking at me while I locked 
 and put away the empty box, and then, 
 shrugging his shoulders, walked out of the 
 room. I followed him downstairs. He took 
 his hat from a peg in the hall, and again stood 
 looking at me as he put it on. 
 
 1 What are you staring at ? ' I asked, 
 returning his glance. 
 
 'I don't know, I'm sure,' he answered 
 slowly ; ' it's not at your beauty, for you 
 haven't got any. I really can't account for 
 the fascination of the moment, unless it's that 
 you look so amiable. There, Mary, be 
 friends and say " good-bye." '
 
 8 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 What do you mean by "good-bye " ? ' I 
 said. ' Won't you be home to dinner ? ' 
 
 ' What dinner is there, my dear ? Bread 
 and cheese, I suppose, and the contents of 
 some of the bottles in the surgery to wash it 
 down, if we decide upon indulging our natural 
 antipathy to water as a beverage. No! I 
 think I may safely say I shall not be home to 
 dinner. At all events, good-bye, in case 
 you've retired to your chamber when I do 
 turn up.' 
 
 I made no answen He stooped and 
 kissed me. I opened the hall-door for him, 
 and watched him as he went down the road, 
 with his hat on one side, and his hands in his 
 pockets — never once looking back. I watched 
 him as he went down the road — went quietly 
 from his mother and sister never to return to 
 them again.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 9& 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I was on my road to school. The separation 
 from my mother had roused in my heart the 
 passionate grief which the death of my father 
 and the disappearance of my brother had 
 failed to call forth, and alone in the railway 
 carriage I wept bitterly. At length I realised 
 my position, and felt it with the acuteness 
 always attendant upon the first real agony of 
 life. I had no idea of struggling with my 
 fate, no thought of striving to turn what 
 seemed to me a curse into a blessing ; the. 
 predominant feelings in my breast were an 
 unreasoning, savage hatred of my destiny, 
 and a growing bitterness towards my brother,, 
 as the only human being I could accuse of 
 being in any way responsible for any of my 
 present unhappiness. The rest God had
 
 TO MARY BROWNE. 
 
 sent, and I dared not openly rebel against it, 
 but his desertion (in my anger I could call it 
 by no other name) was his own act and deed, 
 committed in utter aggravation of my misery. 
 The recollection of the quiet way in which 
 my mother had taken it, only served to aug- 
 ment my grief and passion. A week after 
 my brothers departure she had received a 
 letter from him, stating, in the most concise 
 manner,' that by the time she received it he 
 should be on his way to Australia ; that he 
 considered that under the circumstances we 
 should agree with him that he had acted for 
 the best, and that in the event of his succeed- 
 ing in what he intended to undertake, we 
 should hear from him again. This satisfied 
 her. Her son was alive and comparatively 
 safe, and in her joy at knowing this, the utter 
 heartlessness of the writer did not seem to 
 affect her in any way. Sitting in that carriage 
 and pondering over it all, I began to hate him 
 so, that the intensity of my|own feelings seemed 
 to frighten me — till at length I resolutely
 
 MARY BROWNE. II 
 
 turned my thoughts away from him to the 
 contemplation of my future life, of which I 
 as yet knew little or nothing. 
 
 I was going to a ladies' college, situated 
 at the north side of London — that was all I 
 comprehended of it. I began picturing to 
 myself its details — wondering what the new 
 faces would be like, and whether I should 
 soon get accustomed to them. Wondering if 
 I should meet, in my unknown home, any 
 girls of my own age as utterly lonely and 
 hopeless as myself. Wondering if the time 
 to come would always find me as careless of 
 existence as at present. And so, wondering 
 and thinking, my eyes unconsciously closed, 
 and all my troubles were forgotten in a sound 
 sleep. 
 
 I was awakened by the sudden jerk of 
 the train stopping — then came the shouts of 
 the porters and the noisy confusion of the 
 passengers. My journey was at an end. 
 For the first time in my life I was in the 
 great City of London. I had received from
 
 12 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 my mother a few plain and simple directions 
 as to the completion of my journey, but for 
 the moment I was too bewildered to recollect 
 them. I stepped from the carriage, and 
 began to look round, but soon found there 
 was no time for that. I was pushed about to 
 such an extent, that after a few ineffectual 
 struggles to look after my luggage, as I had 
 been told to do, I decided upon moving out 
 of the crowd, and waiting till the way should 
 be clearer for accomplishing my object. As 
 I stood watching the living mass moving to 
 and fro, a porter came up to me and roughly 
 enquired my name. Not guessing his inten- 
 tion, I turned from him with as much con- 
 tempt in my face as it was capable of ex- 
 pressing. 
 
 •Well, Miss,' he retorted, 'if you feel it 
 against your conscience to answer me, I can't 
 see to your luggage, that's all.' So saying, 
 my would-be friend disappeared. 
 
 I waited, disconsolately enough, till the 
 platform was nearly empty, when another
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 3 
 
 member of the fraternity approached, and 
 pointing to my poor little trunks, nearly the 
 last remaining unclaimed, enquired in a gruff 
 tone ' if them there was my boxes ? ' 
 
 Wiser this time, I signified that ' them 
 there was my boxes.' 
 
 ' Cab ? ' he remarked, interrogatively. 
 
 I again made a sign of assent, and in a 
 moment was following him, and a truck, and 
 my boxes down the platform. 
 
 We stopped at a cab-stand. My con- 
 ductor placed my belongings on the top 
 of one of the vehicles, and himself at the 
 door, and then, putting his hand in at the 
 window, unblushingly demanded half-a- 
 crown. 
 
 1 What for ? ' I ventured to ask. 
 
 ' What for ? Why — for — carrying — them 
 — there — boxes.' He emphasised, and 
 stopped between each word in a way that 
 made my inexperienced blood run cold. 
 
 ' I ' — I stammered — ' I have nothing but 
 a half-sovereign.'
 
 14 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 That will do/ he said ; ' if you give it to 
 me, I'll get change.' 
 
 As I handed it to him, he asked where I 
 wanted to go, then, reporting my answer to 
 the cabman, disappeared, and the horse started 
 off immediately. In a moment I understood it 
 all. I pulled the check-string violently to attract 
 the drivers attention, but could not succeed 
 in doing so. My only alternative was to put 
 my head out of window, and call as loudly 
 as I dared. In rising to do so I did not 
 observe that the window was closed. My 
 head went through it, instead of out of it, 
 accompanied by a loud crash, a stream of 
 blood down my face, and the effectual stopping 
 of the cab. I scarcely knew what had hap- 
 pened when the owner of the unfortunate 
 window made his appearance, staring at me 
 through the broken glass. 
 
 * My head went through it/ I said, not 
 waiting to be questioned, ' but I'll pay you 
 for it, I will indeed, if you'll only get me back 
 my half-sovereign/
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 5 
 
 It's highly probable he thought I was mad. 
 At all events, he looked as if he thought it. 
 
 ' He's stolen my half-sovereign,' I went 
 on, heedless of the opinion of his face. ' He's 
 stolen it — the porter who carried my luggage. 
 I gave it to him to get change — go after him, 
 and find him.' 
 
 He looked at me doubtfully for a moment, 
 gave a prolonged low whistle, mounted his 
 box, drove back into the station, and then re- 
 appeared at the cab-door. 
 
 ' Now, Miss, you'd better go with me and 
 find him — I'll get a mate to mind the horse.' 
 
 I looked blank. 
 
 i I s'pose you'd know him, when you see 
 him again ? ' 
 
 'No!' I replied, in despair, 'I shouldn't 
 know him a bit. He kept his cap over his 
 face. I don't know what he was like. I 
 scarcely looked at him.' 
 
 'Well then/ he continued, in an im- 
 pressive tone, ' you'll never get your money 
 back. Haven't you got any more ? '
 
 1 6 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Only a little,' I said, ' but I can get some 
 where I'm going/ 
 
 'Oh! if that's the case, I'd better drive 
 s on. You see, if you don't know the man, he's 
 not likely to come for'ard and say he did it/ 
 
 This was indisputable ; so with a sad 
 heart, I again entered the cab, and my phil- 
 osophic companion started on our journey for 
 ;the second time. 
 
 My reflections were anything but pleasant. 
 The first thing I should have to do upon 
 centering my new home w r ould be to borrow 
 money. I had but two or three shillings left. 
 My poor mother having had little to spare 
 when she parted with me, had promised to 
 send me a fresh supply in a short time, telling 
 me that I should have no need of much at 
 first. Alas ! we had neither of us thought of 
 such a contingency as the present ! I put my 
 handkerchief to my still bleeding head, and 
 .cried quietly till the cab stopped, then, hastily 
 wiping away all traces of emotion, I alighted, 
 and running up the steps of the house before
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 7 
 
 me, knocked at the door. It was opened, 
 almost immediately, by a neat-looking house- 
 maid. 
 
 i Can I see Miss Grimshaw ? ' I enquired. 
 
 She answered my question in American 
 style, by asking another. 
 
 ' Are you a new young lady, Miss ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' I replied. 
 
 1 Come inside, if you please. If you give 
 me the money, I will pay the cabman for you, 
 and then look after your boxes.' 
 
 ' I must see Miss Grimshaw,' I said ; ' I 
 have met with an accident, and have not 
 sufficient money.' 
 
 She opened her eyes so wide that they 
 looked as if they would never come right 
 again. 
 
 1 You can't see her, Miss. She never sees 
 any of the young ladies after prayers, except 
 she sends for them herself ; and she never 
 breaks through the rules.' 
 
 ' Oh ! pray ask her to see me,' I exclaimed. 
 1 I don't know what to do ! I must see her.' 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 1 8 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 She hesitated. I saw my advantage and 
 pressed it. 
 
 ' Well, 111 go and ask her, Miss ; but I'm 
 sure to get into trouble. She won't be 
 pleased, I know/ 
 
 She was some time gone, and I had leisure 
 to look about, but I was too much occupied 
 by unpleasant thoughts to take advantage of 
 the privilege. She returned at last. ' Miss 
 Grimshaw will see you for a moment, Miss. 
 Please walk this way.' 
 
 She turned and said something in a low 
 tone to the cabman, then closing the door, 
 preceded me up a wide staircase. In a few 
 moments I was in the presence of the Lady 
 Principal of Victoria College. 
 
 It was a large brilliantly-lighted room. 
 Coming as I did from the dim street and a 
 dim staircase, this brilliantly-lighted room had 
 the effect of blinding me. I had drawn my 
 veil over my face to hide any tear or blood- 
 stains that might still disfigure it, and fearing 
 to lift it, stood blinking my eyes at some
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 9 
 
 object that was moving across the room 
 towards me. I had just enough wit left to 
 conclude that this object must be Miss Grim- 
 shaw. I did not see this woman — as we 
 usually see people — suddenly and distinctly. 
 If I ma)' use the expression, she gradually 
 dawned upon me. As my eyes became ac- 
 customed to the strong light, her figure grew, 
 by degrees, more palpable and tangible, till 
 she stood out before me, a bold, tall woman, 
 with a contracted, freezing look. She struck 
 me immediately, I remember, as being what 
 I should then have called, * put together in 
 unequal quantities.' Small eyes and a large 
 mouth. Low forehead and a lar^e head. 
 Thin cheeks and a prominent nose. Un- 
 naturally small waist and a naturally long 
 body. Still she had the appearance of a lady. 
 That I saw at a glance. 
 
 *■ Miss Browne, I presume?' 
 
 The tone was so in keeping with the 
 stern expression of the face, that I started, 
 and produced my ' Yes ' in a trembling voice. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Lift your veil, if you please, when you 
 address me/ 
 
 Her keen eyes seemed to pierce me 
 through and through. 
 
 1 1 — I — 1/ I stammered, obeying her 
 command, and displaying my face — ' I met 
 with an accident. I put my head through 
 the window of the cab.' 
 
 ' Miss Browne ! ' 
 
 The amount of astonishment she managed 
 to concentrate in these two words went far to 
 frighten away the little sense I had left. 
 
 1 I couldn't help it,' I went on, rallying, I 
 scarcely knew how. ' I gave the porter a 
 half-sovereign to change for me, and he never 
 brought it back, and in trying to stop the cab- 
 man to go after him, I put my head through 
 the cab window.' 
 
 ' Miss Browne ! ' 
 
 ' The cabman is not gone,' I continued, 
 in sheer desperation. ' I have not enough 
 left to pay for the cab, and nothing for the 
 window. He is waiting at the door.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 21 
 
 ' Miss Browne ! ! ' 
 
 I hung my head, and stood still, trembling. 
 She turned from me in silence, walked across the 
 room, and rang the bell. A servant appeared. 
 
 1 Request Miss Thomson to come to me 
 for a moment.' 
 
 In about two minutes a lady, still young, 
 entered. She was dressed in deep mourning, 
 and was quiet and gentle-looking. 
 
 ' Miss Thomson,' said Miss Grimshaw, 
 ' this is the young person respecting whom I 
 spoke to you this morning. Have the good- 
 ness to attend to her. You can go with that 
 lady, Miss Browne.' 
 
 Miss Thomson made a comprehensive 
 bow which took in both of us, and then walked 
 out of the room, I following in silence. 
 
 When she arrived at the top of the first 
 flight of stairs, out of sight and hearing" of 
 everyone but ourselves, this lady suddenly 
 turned round, took my hands in hers, and 
 kissed me on both my cheeks. The tears 
 again started to my eyes.
 
 22 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 * Don't cry,' she said softly ; ' you will be 
 happier soon, when you have been here a 
 little while and know some of us. You'll soon 
 get used to it' 
 
 I clung to her, still crying, but as grateful 
 to her at that moment for the sympathy that 
 she showed as I still am and always shall be. 
 We seldom spoke after that night, for our 
 duties lay apart, but the memory of the first 
 kind words addressed to me in that house, 
 and the fond memory of the one who uttered 
 them, will always rest with me. 
 
 6 We must not stop here,' she continued, 
 stroking my face caressingly. ' I must go to 
 the study and say "good-night" to those noisy 
 girls. Do you hear them ? You had better 
 come with me, and you can then go to bed 
 too. Will you do so ? ' 
 
 I assented, drying my eyes, and putting 
 my hand in hers as though I had found a 
 friend. 
 
 We w r ent up another flight of stairs and 
 through several long passages. At length
 
 MARY BROWNE. 23 
 
 my guide stopped, opened a door, and 
 entered a room, still leading me by the 
 hand. 
 
 The inmates of this room had evidently, 
 a moment before, been in a state of wild 
 tumult and confusion. Now, there was a 
 dead silence ; and, as if by common consent, 
 hundreds of staring eyes were fixed on me. 
 I say ' hundreds,' for the apartment contained 
 at least two hundred occupants. Unused to 
 such close scrutiny, I felt it painfully. 
 
 My conductor led me into the middle of 
 the room, and taking a whistle from her 
 waist, sounded it sharply. Half the eyes 
 were transferred from me to herself imme- 
 diately, the rest remained true to their first 
 idea. 
 
 1 Young ladies,' said the owner of the 
 whistle, ' I introduce a new companion to you 
 — Miss Browne.' 
 
 A suppressed ' Oh ! ' came from the back- 
 ground, and one voice in the distance uttered 
 a sarcastic ' Oh ! de-ar ! ' A few of the girls
 
 24 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 nearest to me came forward and shook hands, 
 but the majority evidently looked upon me 
 in the light of an intruder, whom they were 
 not bound even to tolerate, and would cer- 
 tainly not be familiar with, on any account. 
 In a short time my new companions found 
 the use of their voices, as well as their eyes, 
 and a buzzing sound, such as can only be 
 produced by a large number of people talking 
 together in an undertone, ran along the room. 
 It was not difficult for me to perceive that I 
 was the honoured subject of comment. But 
 my torture did not last long. The whistle 
 was again heard, producing a dead silence ; 
 and this time all eyes were turned on the 
 whistler. 
 
 ' Good-night to you all,' said that lady. 
 
 A loud ' good-night ' was returned ; and 
 in an incredibly short space of time, the room 
 was cleared of everyone but myself and Miss 
 Thomson. 
 
 ' Now, let me see,' said that lady, after 
 looking at me and reflecting. ' I think I must
 
 MARY BROWNE. 25 
 
 put you into Miss Launceston's room. Are 
 you ready to go to bed ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, quite,' I answered. 
 
 * Well, come with me.' 
 
 I again followed her ; this time into a 
 large bedroom containing a number of small 
 iron bedsteads, and occupants in proportion. 
 
 My presence seemed to have the same 
 effect on this fraction as it had had on the 
 whole body. Every eye was fixed on me — 
 though, not having heard any sound as I 
 ascended, I concluded that the tongues had 
 been previously silenced by some potent 
 cause, independent of the whistler, to me 
 unknown. 
 
 1 Miss Browne is to sleep in Bed No. 6,' 
 said my conductress to a tall girl standing in 
 the middle of the room. ' She is come to 
 take Annie Gray's place. There, that's the 
 bed, dear,' she added, turning to me, and 
 signifying its precise position by a motion of 
 her hand ; ' good-night.' 
 
 1 Good-night,' I said ; and she left the
 
 26 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 room without any further display of the 
 sympathy she had expressed for me in the 
 earlier part of the evening. I walked to the 
 bed she had pointed out, and sat down upon 
 it, still with the same battery of eyes fixed 
 upon me. 
 
 1 Miss Browne/ said the tall girl, intensi- 
 fying her own particular glance, as a sign that 
 she was looking at me now from some other 
 inducement than that afforded by the mere 
 vulgar curiosity which everyone in the room 
 shared — ' Miss Browne, you are come, Miss 
 Thomson says, to take Miss Gray's place. 
 The first bell will ring at half-past five. You 
 must be down by six, and hear four of the 
 little ones practise before eight, half-an-hour 
 each. That one will be the first/ pointing to 
 a small being about seven years old ; ' she'll 
 show you the music-lobbies in the morning. 
 Good-night. You mustn't talk in the bed- 
 room/ 
 
 1 Thank you. Good- night/ I replied. 
 
 All was silent again, but still the staring
 
 MARY BROWNE. 2 J 
 
 battery. No one spoke, but I knew in- 
 tuitively that not an action of mine escaped 
 the observation of one of them ; and that at 
 the first opportunity they would repay them- 
 selves for their present silence by discussing 
 me unmercifully. A sharp school-girl is only 
 another name for an incipient quiz of the first 
 order, and nothing is so dreaded by one — 
 even the sharpest — as the opinion of her com- 
 panions : so, although newly-fledged, I sat 
 looking round, sensible enough to be painfully 
 conscious of my unpleasant situation. But 
 not for long. I had not been three minutes 
 in my uncomfortable position, before my 
 attention was so forcibly and irresistibly at- 
 tracted, that I instantaneously forgot every- 
 thing but the object I was looking at. 
 
 I have said that all the eyes in the room 
 were fixed upon me, but I was wrong. 
 There was some one seated on a bed in the 
 distance who never, to my knowledge, looked 
 at me once. She had not commenced pre- 
 paring for rest, but was half-sitting, half-re-
 
 28 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 clining on the bed with a book in her hands, 
 on which her eyes were intently fixed. There 
 was something so unusual-looking about her, 
 something so utterly unlike anything I had 
 ever before seen or imagined, that I felt cer- 
 tain at the moment, and feel as certain now, 
 that had I met her casually in the street in- 
 stead of having the opportunity of observ- 
 ing her which I then had, I should none the 
 less have been struck by her individuality, I 
 should none the less have been impressed 
 with a constant and vivid remembrance of 
 her. As she sat there with her face in per- 
 fect repose, she might have been fifteen years 
 of age, or she. might have been five-and- 
 twenty, for any information on the subject 
 you could gather from the face itself. Its 
 youthful look had such a cast of thought 
 about it, such an earnest expression of intelli- 
 gence and power. The features of this face 
 were as singular as the character stamped 
 upon it, yet very beautiful. The forehead 
 was broad and bold and massive, with the
 
 MARY BROWNE. 29 
 
 hair thrown loosely back from it. This hair 
 was thick and dark, and clustered round the 
 shoulders in a profusion of waves and curls. 
 When I turned from the hair and glanced 
 aeain at the forehead, this forehead seemed 
 to me to have such a look of power, that it 
 actually impressed me with a vague feeling of 
 awe. It gave me the idea, in some way, that 
 I was a poor ignorant, stupid creature, with 
 no sense at all. There was none of the soft, 
 sweet indecision of girlhood about it. With 
 it, I think, it would have lost its force and 
 pride. The eyes I could not see, but their 
 lashes were dark, like the hair, and so long 
 as almost to rest upon the cheek. The nose 
 was straight, the nostrils thin and delicate. 
 The mouth was partly open, showing a set 
 of teeth, small and even, and of a pure dead 
 whiteness. But I forgot the teeth altogether 
 in looking at the mouth. It startled me by 
 its entire contrast with every other portion of 
 the face. The lips were full and red, and 
 had a doubting, irresolute expression, alto-
 
 30 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 gether out of keeping with the other features. 
 I thought they gave a wavering undecided 
 look to the whole face, and then thought they 
 would have done so, if the bold chin had not 
 come to the rescue. I thought they spoilt it 
 entirely, and then decided they would have 
 done so if they had not had the effect of toning 
 it down from a certain masculine sternness 
 (which it would certainly have otherwise pos- 
 sessed) to an expression of gentleness and 
 weakness never seen but on the countenance 
 of a woman. This strange face was flushed 
 slightly — probably from the excitement of 
 reading — but otherwise perfectly calm and 
 at rest. Though I watched it but for a few 
 moments, it remains so distinctly in my 
 memory as I saw it then for the first time, 
 that in describing it now I seem to be merely 
 tracing over with a pen some vivid, startling 
 likeness of it. I forgot the scrutiny I myself 
 was being subjected to in looking at it then. 
 I almost forget my present occupation and 
 everything around me in thinking of it now.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 3 1 
 
 The figure belonging to this face was, as far 
 as I could judge from its position, tall and 
 full, and was attired in black like myself. 
 There was a careless sort of grace about it, 
 a natural beauty which no art can give. It 
 seemed to me as if it had been made to suit 
 the lips, and not the rest of the face. There 
 was an air of nonchalance too about the style 
 of dress which helped to give me this idea. 
 The more I looked at this strange girl, the 
 more she impressed me with a restless feeling 
 of curiosity, mixed with a vague fear that she 
 was too far removed from me by some rare 
 mental power, for me ever to understand or 
 know her. It was not till some one spoke 
 that I roused myself from my temporary- 
 trance. The words were addressed to the 
 object of my observation. I heard them, 
 though the speaker whispered — 
 
 ' Put away your book, dear ; the gas will 
 be out in a minute.' 
 
 This was repeated twice, but still no sign 
 nor movement from the drooping figure. It
 
 32 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 was not till the speaker placed her hand over 
 the open page of the book, that she whom 
 she was addressing paid the least attention. 
 Then — a sudden start — and the dark eyes 
 appeared like a flash of light. If the fore- 
 head had not prepared me for them, I should 
 have wondered at their quick eager expres- 
 sion, and wild, lustrous beauty. She was 
 about to speak — angrily, I think, but the 
 other, a small child with a fair face, pressed 
 her fingers playfully on the full lips. Then 
 she checked herself, half-laughing, and after 
 kissing her little friend, began, in a hurried, 
 careless way, to prepare for rest. As she 
 did so most of the others in the room knelt 
 down to their prayers. In lieu of this she 
 resumed her book as quickly as possible, read- 
 ing even more attentively, if possible, than 
 before. I still watched her intently. She, 
 on her part, did not honour me with a glance. 
 I don't think she even knew I was present. 
 I w r as wondering if this was the case, when 
 suddenly the gas was extinguished, leaving
 
 MARY BROWNE. 33 
 
 us all in nearly total darkness. I almost 
 fancied I could see her gleaming eyes shining 
 through it. Shaking off the fascination, I 
 hurried into bed, and after several hours of 
 restless tossing, dreamed strange, troubled 
 dreams of home and happiness. 
 
 vol. 1.
 
 34 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Listening to, or perusing, a minute account 
 of the daily occupations of an ordinary life 
 is not an interesting employment. Feeling 
 this, I will be as brief as possible in de- 
 scribing my first day at Victoria College ; 
 which I should not do at all, only I wish to 
 present the reader with a sample of the life 
 led nowadays by hundreds of young girls 
 •who have the misfortune to be what are 
 called ' articled ' or ' governess-pupils ' in a 
 ladies' boarding-school. The day I am 
 about to describe was the first of many 
 hundreds, so much like each other in their 
 main points that, looking back on them 
 now, through a long vista of years, I can- 
 not pick out a dozen which any unusual
 
 MARY BROWNE. 35 
 
 event distinguished from its immediate 
 predecessors. But to describe this particular 
 day. 
 
 As I was told would be the case, I was 
 roused at half-past five by the loud ringing 
 of a bell. I arose immediately, according to 
 the orders of the previous night — descending 
 at six precisely with my first little musical 
 victim to a small music-room, where the tiny 
 creature ' practised ' for one half-hour under 
 my surveillance, and was then succeeded, 
 separately, by three others, who went 
 through the same improving process. This 
 filled up the time till eight o'clock, when the 
 before-mentioned bell w r as heard to ring 
 again. At the suggestion of my latest- 
 arrived little friend, as the last sound died 
 away, I accompanied her to another wing of 
 the house, where we joined a long stream of 
 girls entering the room in which, on the pre- 
 vious evening, I had made their acquaint- 
 ance. I will describe this room. 
 
 It was (I afterwards heard) seventy-two 
 d 2
 
 36 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 feet square. It was carpeted, and had nine 
 curtained windows on each side. A small 
 door, near one of these windows, led to the 
 ' music-lobbies,' as they were termed. At 
 one end of the room, at right angles with the 
 windows, was the principal entrance, re- 
 splendent with red baize, and at the other 
 stood a high desk, with a stool in proportion 
 — the scholastic throne of the lady principal, 
 or, in her absence, of Miss Thomson, the 
 head -governess. The space separating this 
 entrance and this throne was covered with 
 cocoa-nut matting, forming what seemed to 
 me to be a kind of gravel-path, bordered on 
 either side by nine tables covered with black 
 leather, their length to the breadth of the 
 room, a table to every window, and a row of 
 chairs on each side of each table. This was 
 the ! study,' not the ' school-room.' Schools 
 have ■ school-rooms ' and ' quarters.' Col- 
 leges have ' studies ' and ' terms ; ' the reason 
 being that the latter sound well, and ' pay ' 
 infinitely better. There is more in the judi-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 37 
 
 cious employment of words than thoughtless 
 people imagine. 
 
 I was nearly the last to enter this stud)', 
 and perhaps quite the last to catch a glimpse 
 of Miss Grimshaw, seated in state at the 
 before-mentioned desk, holding an open Bible 
 with both her hands, almost as if she were in 
 the act of throwing it from her. From this 
 book, when each young lady had taken her 
 place, she read a chapter, in a denunciatory, 
 not to say threatening tone, and then re- 
 peated the Lord's Prayer in a harsh voice, 
 all present, as far as I could judge, uniting 
 audibly. When this ceremony was over, 
 everyone rose and stood in silence for a 
 moment, then Miss Grimshaw called out in 
 a loud tone, 
 
 1 Number one/ 
 
 ' Twelve,' replied a voice. 
 
 1 Number two.' 
 
 ' Twenty-four,' was the response. 
 
 And so on, twelve beine added to each 
 number, till a voice at my table replied,
 
 $8 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Seventy-one.' This was productive of a 
 dead pause. 
 
 I understood by this time that this pro- 
 cess was a kind of muster-roll to ascertain if 
 anyone who ought to be present was absent. 
 The pause was broken by Miss Grimshaw. 
 ' Who is missing in number six ? ' 
 1 Miss Launceston,' said the voice at my 
 side. 
 
 * Where is Miss Launceston ? ' 
 ' She was reading, and not dressed when 
 the bell rang.' 
 
 ' Wliat was she reading ? ' 
 ' Shakespeare, I believe, Miss Grimshaw/ 
 ■ Fined on the Minor Penal list.' 
 This was Greek to me as yet, but I soon 
 learned the meaning of it. I listened at- 
 tentively while the remainder of the numbers 
 were called out. No further failure. When 
 all was over, the occupants of the room 
 formed themselves quickly and neatly into 
 single file, and walked round the apartment 
 three times to the sound of a march played
 
 MARY BROWNE. 39 
 
 on a piano, and by a pianiste, both invisible, 
 at least to me. I had been placed in the 
 rank by a friendly hand, and soon found 
 myself in a large dining-room, where the fact 
 of each young girl falling into her place with- 
 out the slightest confusion explained to me 
 the meaning of the march. This dining 
 room, I was told afterwards, was one hun- 
 dred and fifty feet long. It contained eight 
 tables, each capable of accommodating about 
 thirty persons. The breakfast consisted of 
 bread with a thin network of butter, and 
 pale, nominal coffee, both unlimited in quan- 
 tity. At the expiration of a half-hours si- 
 lence and eating, another bell was sounded, 
 and the room was vacated in the same order 
 as it had been entered. As I went out, I 
 received a direction from Miss Thomson, 
 who stood at the entrance of the room wait- 
 ing to bring up the rear of the procession, to 
 repair again to my music-room, where four 
 other half-hours were passed in the same 
 occupation as before — a bell ringing at the
 
 40 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 expiration of each, to dismiss one pupil and 
 summon another. This bell, I gathered 
 later on, was sounded every half-hour during 
 study time — no single occupation being con- 
 tinued by any pupil longer than that period. 
 Though many, like myself, had to rise at 
 half-past five — the majority of the girls did 
 not leave their beds till seven — the real busi- 
 ness of the day, except for the governess- 
 pupils and their early victims — always very 
 young children, by the way — commencing 
 with the prayers at eight o'clock. 
 
 When my second four half-hours were 
 expired, I again joined my companions for 
 five minutes, for luncheon in the dining- 
 room. This time there was no procession. 
 It was one tumultuous rush ; the small rolls 
 of dry bread being handed to us on trays, 
 and eagerly snatched and devoured by the 
 recipients. The noise was deafening. It 
 was the only time of real, unchecked liberty 
 allowed in the day. When it was ended, I 
 re-commenced my duties, this time on my
 
 MARY BROWNE. 4E 
 
 own account. First, a history class with one 
 of the governesses ; then a French class with 
 a master ; then a grammar class with Miss 
 Grimshaw. It was now half-past twelve, 
 and till three o'clock I was a^ain en^a^ed [ n 
 teaching in my music-room. (These hours, 
 however — from half-past twelve till three — 
 were not always occupied entirely in this 
 way, one of them being devoted to walking 
 exercise, on three days of each week.) 
 When I left my sanctum, the procession for 
 dinner was over, and I entered the dining- 
 room with my last pupil, in company with 
 several other young people of my class and 
 their last pupils, after grace had been said, 
 and while the meat was being served. This 
 meal lasted till a few minutes before four 
 o'clock. I then returned to my music-room 
 and its duties till six, when the bell rang for 
 tea, which with the preliminary march occu- 
 pied us till seven. 
 
 1 Now,' I thought, ' my day is ended ; ' 
 but I was wrong-. As I left the dining-room,
 
 42 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 I was directed by Miss Thomson, who was 
 again waiting at the entrance, to repair once 
 more to my — by this time hated — music- 
 room, and practise my own music till the 
 prayer-bell rang. 
 
 * May I not write home ? ' I enquired, 
 desperately. 
 
 ' Oh no, dear ! No one may write oftener 
 than once a fortnight ; and, unfortunately, 
 yesterday was the letter-day. Besides, all 
 the governesses and governess-pupils are 
 obliged to practise from tea-time till prayers. 
 Pass on, dear, you are stopping the others 
 going out/ 
 
 With tearful eyes, I obeyed orders. At 
 half-past eight we again assembled in the 
 study. Miss Grimshaw held the same Bible 
 in the same position, and went through the 
 same formula as in the morning. She then 
 pronounced a solemn * Good-night/ paraded 
 down the gravel-path, and disappeared on 
 the other side of the red baize. A breeze 
 sprang up immediately — the quick, eager
 
 MARY BROWNE. 43 
 
 rush of voices surging through the room like 
 wind. A sudden whistle, by the whistler of 
 the previous evening, followed by a dead 
 silence. Then the whistler's voice sounded 
 through the apartment. 
 
 1 Miss Launceston, Miss Harrop, and 
 Miss Browne — the young lady who came 
 yesterday, I mean — Miss Grimshaw wishes 
 to speak to each of you, separately ; please 
 to remain here. The others can go/ 
 
 Another whistle, and, with a loud ' Good- 
 night/ in which the gentle whistler's voice 
 was quite drowned, though I saw she was 
 returning the farewell of her young friends, 
 the room was cleared as quickly as it had 
 been on the previous evening, no one re- 
 maining but myself and two others. Even 
 the whistler on this occasion disappeared. 
 
 I looked at my companions in silence. 
 I looked at them as a stranger looks upon 
 strangers, with no feeling of interest or sym- 
 pathy ; they, at me, as though our want of 
 knowledge of each other was a thing to
 
 44 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 which they were too utterly indifferent to 
 wish it to be otherwise. In that moment we 
 were left together, is it possible that some 
 dim foreshadowing of the future loomed 
 before one or all of us ? Who shall say ? 
 In my memory of it now, it all seems a 
 blank. I know only that we looked at each 
 other in silence. 
 
 It was over. Miss Thomson re-entered 
 the room. She turned to one of my com- 
 panions — 
 
 ' You are to go, at once, to Miss Grim- 
 shaw.' 
 
 I followed the direction of her eyes, and 
 glanced at the person she addressed. I 
 have since felt certain that some strange 
 influence must have been over me during the 
 time we had been left together (though I 
 was insensible to it at the moment, and had 
 no memory of it afterwards), for though I 
 had looked at her distinctly, it had been as 
 though I had not looked. There had been, 
 on my part, no absolute recognition of the
 
 MARY BROWNE. 45 
 
 face, though, not long before, I had imagined 
 it to be indelibly impressed upon my memory. 
 It was the same which had so powerfully 
 attracted my attention the previous night in 
 the. bedroom. 
 
 'You are to go, at once, to Miss Grim- 
 shaw.' 
 
 1 Indeed ! ' said the young lady she ad- 
 dressed. ' And for what ? ' 
 
 1 I don't know, really.' 
 
 A curious look of irresolution came over 
 her mouth for a moment. Then she laughed 
 quietly, rose from her seat, and walked 
 slow r ly from the room with an air of listless- 
 ness and indifference that would have edified 
 Miss Grimshaw had she been present. Miss 
 Thomson followed in silence. 
 
 I turned hastily to my remaining com- 
 panion, a pretty inanimate-looking girl of 
 about sixteen, with a slight figure, soft blue 
 eyes, and an abundance of golden hair. 
 
 1 Who is that girl ? ' I asked, hurriedly. 
 
 1 That's Miss Thomson, the head-go-
 
 46 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 verness. She's not a girl, she's an old 
 woman.' 
 
 « I don't mean that one,' I said, impa- 
 tiently ; ' I mean the other.' 
 
 1 What ! Marion Launceston ? ' 
 
 * Is that her name ? ' 
 
 1 That's the name of the one that isn't 
 Miss Thomson.' 
 
 * Who is she ? ' I asked, impetuously. 
 
 * Who is she ? Why, she's one of the 
 girls. Who do you suppose she is ? ' 
 
 * I understood now how strange my 
 manner must appear to my evidently very 
 matter-of-fact companion ; so, after a short 
 silence, went on in a quieter tone. 
 
 * Is she clever ? ' I said, scarcely knowing 
 what to ask. 
 
 * Clever ? Yes, she's clever ', if doing 
 everything you have to do without trying 
 makes people clever ; but I don't like her, 
 and never did, with all her cleverness.' 
 
 \ Why don't you like her ? ' 
 
 * Because I don't. She's a proud, haughty,
 
 MARY BROWNE. 47 
 
 conceited creature, and thinks herself better 
 and cleverer than anyone else.' 
 
 1 Does she say so ? ' 
 
 My new friend evidently took my inno- 
 cence for satire. She glanced at me doubt- 
 fully for an instant, but the expression of my 
 face probably re-assured her. 
 
 ' Say so ? Of course she doesn't say so, 
 but she thinks it, and acts it. There isn't a 
 girl in the college that can come anything 
 near up to her, so I suppose she can think 
 what she likes. All I know is that I cant 
 bear her, and I'm very glad she is gone out 
 of the room.' 
 
 'But why can't you bear her ? ' 
 
 ' Because I can't. I've told you so once 
 before, and nothing will make me alter ; so 
 it's no good arguing.' 
 
 I was silent at this, thinking it prudent to 
 save my questions for some one who could 
 bear her ; but in less than a minute, my 
 companion, true to her woman's nature, 
 volunteered the information which, in her
 
 48 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 then peculiar mood, probably no amount of 
 questioning on my part would have succeeded 
 in extracting from her. 
 
 'You see,' she said, in a milder tone, 
 •■' Marion's so annoying, and she says such 
 queer things ; it puts me out of all patience. 
 No one understands what she means but 
 herself, and I dare say she doesn't, and yet 
 she keeps on saying them. She may think 
 they're very clever, but they're not. There's 
 nothing in them — nothing but absolute non- 
 sense.' 
 
 I think a question was expected at this 
 point, but I was too guarded to venture one ; 
 and, as I had been wise enough to conclude 
 would be the case, my informant soon re- 
 sumed her discourse without it. 
 
 1 Now, what do you think she said in 
 class to-day ? ' 
 
 ' I've no idea.' 
 
 1 Well, you know, it was Mr. Williams's 
 history class — he's always got dirty nails — 
 and it was all about the French Revolution,
 
 MARY BROWNE. 49 
 
 and murders, and drowning people, and all 
 that sort of thing. / don't believe any of it 
 — at least, it's pretty certain they make up a 
 good deal ; so you needn't believe more than 
 you like, and with me that's a very small 
 quantity. Well, Mr. Williams — his nails as 
 dirty as usual — was telling us about Robe- 
 spierre and his wickedness — his vile wicked- 
 ness, you know, and all that kind of stuff, 
 and she very coolly interrupts him in the 
 middle, and tells him she holds quite a 
 different opinion from him ! — Opinion, indeed ! 
 — and that she believes Robespierre was a 
 very good man at heart, only he made a mis- 
 take, or was mistaken, or something of that 
 sort. Now, did you ever hear anything so 
 absurd ? Contradicting Mr. Williams, you 
 know — her master that's teaching her — that's 
 read books, you know, and very likely knows 
 people that make them ! Now, whatever do 
 you think he did ? ' 
 
 ' Who ? ' I asked, scarcely able to repress 
 a smile. 
 
 VOL. T. E
 
 50 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Why, Mr. Williams. Now, I'll tell you. 
 Instead of giving her a fine for speaking 
 when she wasn't spoken to, or sending her 
 out of the class for interfering with and 
 contradicting him, as Miss Grimshaw would 
 have had the sense to do, he looks at her as 
 if he thought she was awfully clever, and 
 then — instead of going on with the class, as 
 he is paid to do — he keeps on arguing with 
 her about Robespierre all the rest of the 
 time, and winds up by telling us he wished 
 we were all like her ! And off goes her lady- 
 .ship, so conceited that she could scarcely 
 walk.' 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 • Ah ! ' said my companion, in a slightly 
 more good-humoured tone, ' it's all very well 
 for you to laugh, but you wouldn't laugh if 
 you knew her, and if she irritated you as she 
 does me. You'll see more of her in a week, 
 and see if you'll laugh at her then. Why, it 
 makes me so cross only to think of her, that 
 I'm always trying not to think of her. What
 
 MARY BROWNE. 5 I 
 
 I've told you is nothing. What do you think 
 she did at the end of last term ? Would you 
 like to hear ? ' 
 
 1 Very much indeed: 
 
 * Then I'll tell you. Well, you know, old 
 Grimshaw's got a mathematical master — I 
 think that's what she calls him. She's had 
 him ever so long, though no one cares much 
 to learn ; only about twenty go in for it in 
 the whole place. Well, at the beginning of 
 last term, when Marion came (I came the 
 term before, you know), she said she'd begin, 
 and she took it as such a matter of course, 
 that I thought I'd let her see I could be 
 as grand as she was, so I said I'd begin 
 too — though I never expected to under- 
 stand anything about it, and didn't want 
 to, for of all the stupid things in the world 
 it's the stupidest. Have you ever learnt 
 it?' 
 
 ' Learnt what ? ' 
 
 1 Why, mathematics, as they call it.' 
 
 ' No, never.' 
 
 E 2
 
 52 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 'Well, take my advice, and don't. I'll 
 just tell you what it is, and if that doesn't set 
 you against it, nothing will. I've not been at 
 it long, but I know all about it, for it's only 
 the same thing over and over again. You 
 have to make lines the same length, and then 
 you have to prove they're the same length — 
 as if you couldn't believe your own eyes. 
 What they call " proving " is only keeping on 
 saying it must be so. Then you have to see 
 that the points are the same size, and you 
 prove that in the same way as you proved 
 the length of the lines, that is, by saying that 
 they are ; and then you have to say that if 
 one's the same as the other they must be 
 both alike — as if everyone didn't know that ; 
 and when you've got to the end you say it 
 backwards, till you leave off where you began, 
 and then you say it's over. It's just like 
 " The House that Jack Built" — only not half 
 so interesting. / can't see any sense in it. 
 There isrit any sense in it ; it's perfectly 
 idiotical. You don't learn anything by it.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 53 
 
 I knew before I began that if two lines are 
 the same length they are the same length, 
 and that's all I know now. Now, isn't it 
 irritating ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said ; ' it does seem queer, I 
 must say.' 
 
 1 Well, to go back to Marion. Mr. Esner, 
 that's the man that teaches it, crammed us 
 with a lot about lines at first — all nonsense, 
 you know, I never remembered a word of it — 
 and then one fine morning he asked us if 
 we'd like to begin the Problems — Euclid, 
 they call it. It's a book, you know, made 
 up by some madman or other, I don't know 
 w r ho. Well, Marion sits next to me, so I 
 touched her to say " No " ; but she didn't 
 take the least notice — she can be very rude 
 when she likes. So she told him she'd do it, 
 and the next day she set to work. I never, 
 in my whole life, saw anyone go on in the 
 ridiculous way she did for the next week. It 
 was nothing but those lines and Euclid. She 
 was at it every half-hour she could get, from
 
 54 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 morning till night, and she never noticed any- 
 one who dared to tell her she would try her 
 eyes; she only turned her lip up when I 
 warned her if she didn't take care they'd 
 drop out on the carpet. In fact, she treated 
 everybody with contempt. She wouldn't 
 leave it. She's dreadfully obstinate, you 
 know ; you can see it in her eyes. Did 
 you notice them ? ' 
 
 ' I thought them very beautiful.' 
 ' Did you ? There's more obstinacy than 
 beauty in them, in my opinion ; but, however, 
 that's not to the point. Well, she kept at it 
 without minding anyone but her own evil 
 temper, in the most determined way ; and 
 the next class, she went into such raptures 
 about it with Mr. Esner that no one could 
 get in a word. Old Esner is just such 
 another ape as Mr. Williams — only his nails 
 are usually clean — so he stared at her all the 
 time she was talking as if he thought she was 
 perfectly wonderful. She said the stupidest 
 things I ever heard. That it was "so satis-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 55 
 
 fying she couldn't leave it ! " Did you ever 
 hear anything so ridiculous ? I always 
 thought when people were satisfied they, 
 as a rule, did leave things ; but, of course, 
 I'm nobody, and know nothing. I'm sure of 
 one thing though, and that is, that a precious 
 little of it satisfied me, and when I eot to 
 that point I didn't want any more of it. She 
 said that " for once in her life she'd found 
 something she couldn't quarrel with " (very 
 lucky too, I thought, for she agrees with 
 nobody ; not talking much, you know, but 
 treating everyone in a half sneering way, 
 which shows she's quarrelling at heart) — 
 " something," she said, " that conquered and 
 calmed her down in spite of herself." I've 
 seen her pretty far gone, but I've never seen 
 her in the silly, excited state she was that 
 day. Old Esner told her she was a " born 
 mathematician," or something of the sort, 
 and wound up by inviting her to his house, 
 where lots of these creatures meet ; but Grim 
 wouldn't let her go, though it's all proper,
 
 56 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 you know, and his wife, poor thing ! makes 
 tea for them.' 
 
 Here my informant stopped to take 
 breath. 
 
 * But why wouldn't she let her go ? ' 
 
 She opened her eyes so wide that they 
 really looked as if they would never come to 
 again. 
 
 ' Why ! Well, that's your ignorance ! 
 You won't ask such questions when you've 
 been here a week. Why, if the man had had 
 fifty wives she wouldn't have gone ! No ! ' 
 said my companion, with a power of concen- 
 tration in her speech, and an emphasis in her 
 voice and manner, of which I had certainly 
 not imagined her capable — ' No ! not if he 
 had had fifty wives, with fifty grown-up sons 
 with fifty thousand wives each, would Miss 
 Grimshaw have let Marion Launceston, or 
 any other Marion go !' 
 
 ' Possibly not, under those circumstances,' 
 I remarked. ' Such a state of things would 
 be rather more likely, I should imagine, to
 
 MARY BROWNE. 57 
 
 increase than to lessen Miss Grimshaw's 
 objection to her going. But I can't under- 
 stand why she should object at all/ 
 
 1 Never mind,' said my companion, draw- 
 ing in her breath in a cold, hard way, as 
 though to say it was no use arguing with me 
 — ' Never mind. Youll learn soon enough. 
 This is only your first night. Wait till 
 you've been here a week, and then, if you 
 still want to know why she didn't go, ask me 
 again — not that he'd be any great catch, if he 
 hadn't got a wife already to ill-treat. And 
 ill-treat her he does. They say he makes 
 her say six problems on her knees every 
 night before she goes to bed.' 
 
 'What! His wife?' I asked in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 1 Yes ; and if she makes a mistake he cuts 
 a bit of her hair off. I don't know if it's true, 
 but her hair's awfully short sometimes — 
 especially now ; so I suppose he's been at 
 it lately.' 
 
 I was so stupid, that till I had taken time
 
 58 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 to consider, I really partly believed this non- 
 sense. 
 
 ' Well, to go on with my story,' continued 
 my companion, not heeding my looks of 
 astonishment. ' She — Marion, you know — 
 knew such a lot of this stuff by the end of 
 last term, when she'd been at it nearly four 
 months, that old Esner said it was extraor- 
 dinary, and one day he made an awfully 
 long speech about it, setting her up as an 
 example to the college, and all that sort of 
 thine. She walked out of the room in the 
 middle of it though, so I suppose for once 
 she was ashamed of herself. Well, at the 
 end of the term, you know, we have an 
 Examination, and hundreds of people come 
 to hear it. Old Grim hunts up all the 
 clergymen she can find — they give it an air, 
 you know — make it important, and all that 
 sort of thing. One came from Australia last 
 time, or the Ojibbeway Islands, or somewhere 
 in that direction — an awful long way, at all 
 events ; and they come and examine us in
 
 MARY BROWNE. 59 
 
 history, and geography, and lots of things. 
 I suppose they know who to give the most 
 difficult questions to, because those who are 
 clever at anything have their names put on 
 paper and given to these men ; and, of 
 course, Marion's was put down first for 
 mathematics — and no wonder, for I know 
 none of the others see any sense in it (ex- 
 cept one girl, who's always crying because 
 she wants to understand it and can't), and 
 Marion only pretends to, because she wants 
 to be thought grand and equal to those old 
 fogies. Some of the girls, I fancy, were 
 jealous, and tried to tease her ; but she took 
 no more notice of them than if they'd been 
 flies. / wasn't jealous. It's not in my 
 nature. I never expect to be first in any- 
 thing ; so couldn't be disappointed. Well, 
 when we were taking our seats for the 
 Examination, I saw old Esner talking very 
 excitedly to some of the clergymen, who 
 were blinking their old eyes, and pricking up 
 their old ears to listen ; and I knew it was
 
 60 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 about Marion, for they kept turning and 
 staring at her, as if they wished to be certain 
 of recognising her on any future occasion. 
 At last the Examination began, and after the 
 history and arithmetic — / didn't get asked 
 any questions in either, I . can tell you — we 
 came to lines and Euclid. The man who 
 examined us was hideous, and had the 
 biggest head I ever saw — I suppose his 
 learning swelled it out. Well, you'll never 
 believe what I'm going to tell you. What 
 do you think it is ? ' 
 ' I've no idea.' 
 
 ' Well, after a few little questions that 
 even I could have answered, only I was not 
 honoured by being asked them, he turns to 
 Marion, and asks her one that took him 
 about half an hour to get through— he made 
 it up, I suppose — it was all about isosceles 
 triangles (Peggy knows what they are, I 
 don't), rhomboids, and things of that kind. 
 Now, you'll never guess what she did. When 
 he'd finished (he was pretty well out of
 
 MARY BROWNF. 6 I 
 
 breath, I can tell you) she took no more 
 notice of him than if he'd been a Jack-in-the 
 box. There she stood staring at the wall 
 behind him, like an idiot, as if she hadn't 
 heard a syllable he'd said. Grim gets up at 
 this. " Miss Launceston, are you ill ? " 
 " No, I thank you, Miss Grimshaw, I feel 
 perfectly well." " Did you hear the question 
 that Dr. Stick-in-the-mud " (I forget his real 
 name, but that does just as well, you know) 
 — " Did you hear the question that Dr. Stick- 
 in-the-mud asked you ? " "Yes, Miss Grim- 
 shaw." " Then why don't you answer, Miss 
 Launceston ? " She looks at old Grim, and 
 then looks away again, but never says a 
 word. " Perhaps," says the old fellow, " the 
 young lady did not hear the question dis- 
 tinctly " (" Mercy ! " I thought, " he's never 
 going through it again ! ") "Shall I repeat it, 
 Miss Launceston ? " (he'd got her name as 
 pat as possible ) " shall I repeat it ? " " Not 
 on any account," says her ladyship ; " I heard 
 every word of it." I really pitied the poor
 
 62 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 old creature, he looked so blank and stupid, 
 not knowing what to do ; and everybody 
 seemed so astonished ; Grim s face was a 
 caution, I promise you. At last, I suppose, 
 he thought it best to pass the question on, 
 which he did, I'm thankful to say, without 
 repeating it ; but of course no one knew any- 
 thing about it. He began at Marion a 
 second time soon after, something shorter 
 than the other, but she did the same thing 
 again ; and this time, not feeling so surprised, 
 we all burst out laughing ; so he left her 
 alone after that, and so did all the other 
 men, not one of them asking her a single 
 question. And I was thoroughly glad of it, 
 for if anything could shame her, I thought, 
 that would. I was as glad as I could be. 
 I could have kissed them for it ; I could 
 have kissed and hugged them for it.' 
 
 Here my companion stopped, gasping. 
 
 ' And what did she say ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Who ? Marion ? Say ! Why, what could 
 she say ? She didn't say anything. She
 
 MARY BROWNE. 63 
 
 only kept on staring at the wall like a 
 dummy. She never moved a muscle, or 
 showed the least sense of shame. I think 
 she's too hardened to feel ashamed. One of 
 the girls said she saw her half-laughing once, 
 but I don't believe that. When it was all 
 over, and we'd begun gathering round to 
 question her, old Grim sends for her to a 
 private interview. She could not even wait 
 till after prayers at night, which is her time 
 for savage interviews, because it breaks 
 through her own rule of not seeing any of 
 us after prayers, and so gets her up to a 
 proper pitch of savageness. She certainly 
 was laughing when she came back again, 
 what at I don't know, for she was as disa- 
 greeable as usual, and would not answer a 
 single question from anyone— no matter what 
 we said — and so the matter ended.' 
 
 ' But why did she act so ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ' 
 
 ' Why wouldn't she answer the man ? ' 
 
 * How am / to know ? I haven't the
 
 64 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 most remote idea. You'd better ask her, 
 and see if she'll answer you. I don't suppose 
 she'd any reason for it at all. She's always 
 doing something ridiculous, she's just like 
 an idiot. If I had my way I should — Hush ! 
 here she comes.' 
 
 She came walking in, in the same listless 
 style she had adopted on walking out, and 
 with the same expression on her face. 
 
 1 Fanny,' she said, without deigning to 
 look at the person she was addressing, ' it's 
 your turn now. You're to go directly.' 
 
 My talkative companion quickly disap- 
 peared, and the subject of our previous con- 
 versation, without noticing me for a moment, 
 walked across the room to a bookshelf, and 
 began selecting some books. I had expected 
 she would be schoolgirl enough to speak to 
 me, but, finding my mistake, I determined 
 to address her. As she turned to leave the 
 room I spoke. 
 
 1 Have you any idea,' I said, 'what Miss 
 Grimshaw wants me for ? '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 65 
 
 She moved round quickly, and looked at 
 me. 
 
 1 You came to-day, did you not ? ' 
 
 1 No, late last evening.' 
 
 1 It's the same thine.' 
 
 She watched me closely for a moment, 
 and then spoke in a tone so opposite from 
 the calm indifference her voice had hitherto 
 expressed, that I scarcely recognised the 
 voice itself. 
 
 ' You seem frightened and unhappy, dear. 
 What's the matter ? ' 
 
 A rush of tears blinded my eyes, but I 
 forced them back. The quick, eager sym- 
 pathy of her voice and manner brought to 
 my mind with such power the sudden loving 
 memory of a dead voice and a dead past, 
 that that voice and that past seemed born 
 again. 
 
 ' I am not frightened,' I said, ' but I can't 
 help wondering what she wants me for.' 
 
 A natural dislike to exposing my feelings 
 before a stranger, and a fear that if I gave 
 
 vol. 1. F
 
 <36 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 way to my tearful impulse I should not easily 
 recover my self-control, rendered my voice 
 calm and my manner unconcerned. As I 
 spoke, the old look of listlessness and indif- 
 ference came back to her face, and its new 
 beauty of tenderness and sympathy died 
 out. 
 
 ' Are you a governess-pupil ? ' she asked 
 coldly. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Well/ she said, a ludicrous expression 
 of amusement coming over her mouth, ' Miss 
 Grimshaw is going to ask you whether you 
 have any religious impressions ; whether 
 you've been confirmed ; whether you don't 
 think yourself fortunate in coming to such 
 a temple of learning as Victoria College ; 
 whether you do not see clearly the prospect 
 of leading a most interesting and pleasant 
 life within its walls, &c, &c, &c. She'll 
 then tell you what she " expects from you," 
 as she calls it. Be prepared to let nothing 
 she may say on this subject surprise you, and
 
 MARY BROWNE. 6 J 
 
 then — well, then, perhaps, it is possible you 
 may not be surprised, but that is a question 
 of temperament. / should say from your 
 looks that, whatever your preparation may 
 be, you will be very much surprised. She'll 
 ornament her statement of what she requires 
 at your hands with short texts of Scripture, 
 little bits of hymns, little sighs, little quota- 
 tions from Hannah Moore and others of 
 her school, and then dismiss you with a 
 blessing, and very likely in a flood of tears.' 
 She laughed gaily as she finished, and was 
 about to speak again, when Fanny Harrop 
 re-appeared, looking defiant. 
 
 ' You're to go at once,' she said, nodding* 
 her head in my direction. * The Dragon's 
 savage with hunger, and wants to get you 
 out of the way, and get at her supper. I 
 should advise you to run, if you don't want 
 to be eaten yourself.' 
 
 F 2
 
 68 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I was comparatively calm the moment before, 
 but as I rose to go I could feel my heart 
 beating rapidly. With no fear of being de- 
 voured as warned, but with the feeling that 
 urges us to hurry towards any fate which is 
 as inevitable as distasteful, I almost rushed 
 down the stairs, and, without pausing to 
 hesitate, entered Miss Grimshaw's presence. 
 She was seated at a large table in the centre 
 of the room. She was perfectly erect, with 
 one hand resting on the table, the other in 
 her lap. She seemed to me more unequal 
 and uneven than ever, and I could not resist 
 an absurd impression that came over me that 
 she had seen me in some way through the 
 door as I came downstairs, so immediately 
 were her eyes fixed on me as I opened it.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 69 
 
 * Is ft usual to you, Miss Browne, to pre- 
 sent yourself before your superiors without 
 previously announcing your intention of doing 
 so ? I cannot acknowledge your entrance 
 until it has been effected in the orthodox 
 way.' 
 
 I could not help thinking that it had been 
 already acknowledged, but, for a wonder, 
 understanding the meaning of the rather 
 mysterious speech I had been favoured with, 
 I retired to the other side of the door, and 
 knocked faintly. 
 ' Come in. 1 
 
 I obeyed. The eyes were still the same, 
 the attitude and manner as repellant. 
 
 ' I have sent for you, Miss Browne, to 
 have a short conversation with you respecting 
 your future duties, and the manner in which 
 I wish them to be performed. Come nearer 
 to me, if you please.' 
 I did so. 
 
 ' You must attend closely to what I am 
 about to say, as my manner of speaking is
 
 70 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 concise, and I object to repeating that which 
 I have once said. You have been on full 
 duty to-day, I hear. That is as it should be. 
 There is nothing like beginning properly at 
 once, especially as your being here on diffe- 
 rent terms from most of the ,other pupils-^-in 
 fact on sufferance, if not absolutely on charity 
 — leads me to look for thorough work from 
 you ; in addition to a most rigid obedience on 
 your part to all my wishes, both expressed 
 and implied. I need hardly, however, have 
 mentioned this to you, as having had a 
 Christian education, you are of course fully 
 aware that " Obedience is the first duty of 
 man, and rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, 
 and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry." ! 
 (I have quoted this as she spoke it, as though 
 it were a multiplied text of Scripture.) ' Do 
 you hear, Miss Browne ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I faltered. 
 
 ' Well, I now wish to tell you that in spite 
 of the circumstance upon which I have just 
 remarked, namely, your being received here
 
 MARY BROWNE. 7 I 
 
 on the merely nominal terms on which you 
 are received, I do not wish to treat you in 
 any way different from the young ladies, your 
 companions. I always make a point of con- 
 sulting the feelings of all the dependents in 
 my establishment. Have you ever been 
 confirmed, Miss Browne ?' 
 
 1 Not yet, Miss Grimshaw.' 
 
 * Not yet ! And turned fifteen, I am in* 
 formed ! What could your father have been 
 thinking of?' 
 
 1 Papa,' I broke out passionately, unable 
 to restrain my anger. ' Papa was ill many 
 months before he died. He was good and 
 kind. He always ' 
 
 1 I must trouble you not to interrupt me, 
 Miss Browne. I am not accustomed to it ; 
 and do not understand it at all.' 
 
 Her voice was so decided in spite of the 
 low tone in which she spoke, that as she 
 began to speak I stopped almost involuntarily. 
 
 4 You have been in the habit of going to 
 church ?
 
 72 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said. 
 
 8 Oh ! that's something. Time and disci- 
 pline will do much to break up the fallow 
 ground. With respect to your duties. They 
 will always be the same as those you have 
 performed to-day, with very slight, if any, 
 alteration. There is one thing, however, 
 which will fall to your lot, which has not, as 
 yet, been notified to you, and that is the 
 charge of the bedroom in which you sleep, 
 Miss Smith, its present, or rather late gover- 
 ness, proving inefficient. You will have to 
 give the Daily Report you heard that young 
 lady give this morning. You will have to 
 enforce absolute silence among the occupants 
 of that bedroom, which Miss Smith, I regret 
 to state, was totally unable to do. There are 
 other details, connected with this office, of 
 which you will be informed to-morrow by 
 Miss Thomson. These, and all other duties, 
 must be performed in a Christian spirit, and 
 with a manifest desire to please God and 
 myself. Do you hear, Miss Browne ?'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 7$ 
 
 'Yes,' I answered. 
 
 1 Very good. Now, feeling certain that I 
 have given you every needful direction as to 
 your future path, I will proceed, without 
 further delay, to speak seriously to you about 
 those most extraordinary circumstances which 
 came to my knowledge last night. I need 
 not say that they impressed me most un- 
 favourably with respect to you. Such pro- 
 ceedings have certainly never before been 
 heard of in connection with this establish- 
 ment. Am I correct, Miss Browne, in sup- 
 posing that you were so intensely ill-bred as 
 to endeavour to put your head out of the 
 window of a cab for the purpose of stopping 
 the driver ? Is that so ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I stammered. 
 
 1 And I believe you informed me that the 
 window being closed, you struck your head 
 against the glass and injured yourself ? ' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 1 Answer me directly. Did you do so ?' 
 
 'Yes.'
 
 74 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' And if I recollect rightly, you also stated 
 that you have lost the small amount of money 
 that your mother, out of her straitened in- 
 come, entrusted to you ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered, almost suffocated. 
 
 * I can scarcely believe it even now/ she 
 went on. * My nerves were so disturbed by 
 the sight of your hair and face, that I've not 
 felt well ever since. Pass me those smelling- 
 salts from that table.' 
 
 I did as she requested. She remained 
 quietly inhaling them for a few moments, and 
 then continued. 
 
 ' I presume you have not mentioned your 
 most unpleasant errors to anyone ? ' 
 
 ' Not to anyone,' I answered. ' My face 
 was but slightly hurt — it left off bleeding very 
 soon. I kept my veil down in the school- 
 
 room- 
 
 ' Study, if you please.' 
 
 ' I kept my veil down in the study, and 
 no one noticed my face in the bedroom — at 
 least by words.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 75 
 
 4 Very good. I paid the cab-fare, and 
 liquidated the expense of the broken window 
 — on account — and die subject need never 
 again be mentioned by you. That is all I 
 have to say. You can go.' 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw,' I stammered, with a 
 sudden resolution, ' may I ' 
 
 I was going to say, ' write to my mother.' 
 Why such a request should have come to my 
 lips and been nearly spoken, I know not ; for 
 one moments consideration would have 
 taught me how utterly hopeless it must be. 
 All the pent-up feelings of the day condensed 
 themselves into one moment of agony, and I 
 burst into a violent fit of crying. 
 
 ' Dear me, Miss Browne ! What is the 
 matter ? ' 
 
 I still sobbed, without replying. 
 
 'What is the matter, Miss Browne? 
 W T hat can be the matter with you ? ' 
 
 I could not answer. There was, by this 
 time, so much anger in my emotion, that I 
 would not have answered if I could.
 
 76 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 * I must trouble you to leave the room. 
 You disturb me with this weakness. It 
 shows a very bad and unchristian spirit to 
 display such ill-temper and discontent. I 
 must trouble you to leave the room at 
 once. Pray go immediately. Good-night to 
 you/ 
 
 I still made no reply, but bowed and left 
 her presence ; the cold, pitiless eyes yet 
 watching me as I went. Once fairly escaped, 
 I stood on the stairs a few moments to calm 
 myself a little, fearing the curiosity and pos- 
 sible ridicule of my companions, should they 
 observe the traces of tears on my face. As I 
 stood waiting, I first became aware of my 
 acquaintance with a fact, which must in reality 
 have come to my knowledge some minutes 
 previously. This fact was that during the 
 whole of my interview with Miss Grimshaw, 
 there had been seated by the fire, with his 
 profile towards me, a man of gentlemanly 
 exterior, probably about thirty-five years of 
 age. And not only my knowledge of this
 
 MARY BROWNE. J J 
 
 fact of his being- there became apparent to 
 me, but also I seemed to see him as I must 
 previously have really seen him, sitting with 
 one elbow resting on his knee and his cheek 
 t on his hand, looking in the fire with a gaze 
 so intent and a manner so absent, that it 
 appeared to me absolutely impossible that he 
 could have been paying attention to, or even 
 have been aware of the conversation taking 
 place between the other occupants of the 
 apartment. As I thought upon this fact, and 
 wondered at the strangeness of it, a door 
 near me was closed violently, and, alarmed 
 lest I should be detected waiting, I hastilv 
 ascended the stairs. 
 
 As I approached the dormitories, I heard 
 the sound of laughter and loud voices. I 
 passed through to my particular bedroom, 
 and saw at once upon entering that the gas 
 was up to its full height. Several of my new 
 friends were parading the apartment dressed 
 in sheets, to the no small amusement of most 
 of their companions. One had been cutting
 
 78 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 a cake into large portions with a penknife, 
 usine a chest of drawers for a table, but had 
 stopped in her occupation to join the burst of 
 merriment. A tiny child, at the further end 
 of the room, was kneeling, with her hands » 
 half-folded, entreating the others ' to be quiet 
 a little w T hile she said her prayers.' No one 
 took the slightest notice of her. As I entered 
 there was a dead pause for a moment. Then 
 a tall girl, evidently the ringleader, turned to 
 me, and spoke. 
 
 1 Miss Browne,' she said, ' I hear you are 
 the new governess for this room. Polly 
 Smith's gone back to No. 4 because we were 
 too much for her. There's been a regular 
 revolution among the bedroom governesses. 
 This is your initiatory night — as one might 
 call it. You'll have to enter in a book 
 every time we've talked, and Grim looks 
 through it, like the washing, every month, 
 and fines us for each occasion on which we've 
 found the use of our tongues. Perhaps you 
 know this already, though, without my telling
 
 MARY BROWNE. 79 
 
 you. Now, we're in for it to-night, as you see ; 
 and we may just as well be hung for a sheep 
 as a lamb, as the saying is. Therefore, I say, 
 no going back. How say you, comrades?' 
 she added, turning to her friends, and speak- 
 ing in a loud voice. 
 
 The ' comrades ' received the proposition 
 with cheers, and the prohibited amusements 
 were resumed without further delay. 
 
 Too tired to endeavour to exert my newly- 
 born authority, even had I possessed the 
 slightest idea how to set about it, which I 
 did not, I sat down on the side of my bed 
 listlessly waiting till the tempest, should be 
 over. With a sudden thought, I glanced 
 across the room. There she was, sitting on 
 her bed like myself, as on the previous night, 
 reading intently. Her face wore the same 
 expression as it had worn then. She was 
 so absorbed in her book, that I am convinced 
 she was as perfectly insensible to what was 
 going on in the room as if she had been a 
 thousand miles away. With an irresistible
 
 80 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 impulse I went up to her and placed my hand 
 on her shoulder. 
 
 1 Don't you think you'd better leave off 
 reading ? The gas will be out in a minute.' 
 
 She took no notice ; and I then adopted 
 the plan which I had seen succeed the night 
 before. I hid from her the page she was 
 reading. She started and looked up angrily. 
 
 ' Why do you do that ? What do you 
 want ? ' 
 
 As she watched me, the dark expression 
 of her face changed so rapidly to one of sym- 
 pathy and softness that I was filled with 
 wonder. 
 
 1 You've been crying,' she said ; ' you're 
 crying now. What's the matter ? Can I do 
 anything for you ? Here, sit down by me.' 
 
 She threw the book from her with a sort 
 of disdain, and drew me close to her side. 
 
 ' What has she been saying to you ? 
 What has she said ? — Tell me.' 
 
 I could not speak, but clung to her closely, 
 crying violently.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 8 1 
 
 She stroked my hair, and held my hand, 
 and tried in every gentle woman's way to 
 soothe and calm me. But still I cried — with 
 a passion and bitterness that almost alarmed 
 myself. Suddenly the gas went out, causing 
 an instantaneous revulsion in the hearts of 
 the revellers. The noise ceased by degrees. 
 One by one the voices were hushed, and in 
 an incredibly short time, nothing was heard 
 but the light breathing of the sleepers. But 
 still I cried, clinging to my companion, my 
 tearful cheek pressed close to hers. We sat 
 a long time, till at length my sobs ceased, 
 and thoroughly wearied, my head drooped on 
 the shoulder of my new friend. Then she 
 spoke softly. 
 
 ' You'd better go to bed, dear, now.' 
 
 'I've tired you so,' I said. 
 
 1 Oh, no. But go now, or you'll not be 
 able to get up in time in the morning. Good- 
 night.' 
 
 She bent her head, and kissed me. As I 
 returned her caress I began to speak. What 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 82 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 I said I know not — probably some hurried 
 acknowledgment of her pity and tenderness. 
 She interrupted me hastily. 
 
 ' Don't talk like that ; good-night again, 
 dear. Do go now.' 
 
 I fancied that she was crying herself. I 
 cannot tell. It may not have been so. But 
 I know that her strange, quick, sudden sym- 
 pathy — the perfect proof of the intense loving- 
 ness of her nature — impressed me so strongly 
 at the moment, that I forgot entirely all I 
 had heard of her pride and waywardness, 
 and could feel nothing for her but gratitude 
 and affection. Just as in after years, her 
 great unselfishness would stand before me 
 full and clear, causing me in my inmost heart 
 — when that heart was not blinded by its 
 passion — to cling to and love her memory 
 through all reports— tinging with its sweet 
 beauty even the strangest and most inexplic- 
 able actions of her life.
 
 MARY BROWNE. &$ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A fortnight passed away, and, as many of 
 my schoolfellows had prophesied to me would 
 be the case, I was ' beginning to get used to 
 it.' The half-past five bell no longer dis- 
 turbed my slumbers, but found me awake, 
 waiting for its sound. It seemed months 
 since I had left home — everything had be- 
 come so strangely familiar to me. I had 
 spoken no more to Marion Launceston since 
 the occasion mentioned in the last chapter. 
 She never appeared to care for the society of 
 any of her companions, and had apparently, 
 since her sudden outburst of sympathy for 
 me, forgotten me entirely. Indeed, the pecu- 
 liar dislike, which I had observed from the 
 first that she possessed to the ordinary chat 
 and habits of school-girls, seemed perfectly 
 
 G 2
 
 84 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 natural to her, and to prevent her seeking 
 their society. In the spare half-hours — 
 though they were few enough — devoted by 
 the other ordinary pupils to recreation, she 
 would disappear entirely. Frequently she 
 was not visible at the tea-table, and as surely 
 as this was the case, so surely did I find her, 
 upon retiring to rest, sitting on her bed read- 
 ing by the faintest possible jet of gas. How 
 she dared to light it I could not think, for it 
 was the duty of each bedroom governess to 
 illuminate the room herself upon entering for 
 the night, all others being strictly forbidden 
 to do so. But I never interfered with her in 
 regard to this, and, had I done so, I have no 
 doubt she would have quietly submitted to 
 the fine incurred, and offended again the fol- 
 lowing night. There was no muster-roll after 
 that which took place just before tea-time, 
 and it was after this ceremony she would 
 manage to escape. I have no doubt now in 
 my own mind that Miss Grimshaw must have 
 missed her at prayers, but for some reason or
 
 MARY BROWNE. 85 
 
 other she never remarked upon her absence. 
 I must not forget to mention that whenever 
 she acted in this manner, she invariably ac- 
 knowledged the fact to Miss Grimshaw after 
 prayers the following morning. That lady 
 always inquired mildly the name of the book 
 which had occupied her attention, requiring 
 and exacting the immediate resignation of the 
 same by the delinquent, or allowing her to 
 retain it, according to her own private opinion 
 of its general tendency. One morning it was 
 ' Dombey and Son.' This was confiscated. 
 Another ' Paley's Evidences/ which was 
 spared. Another ' Plato,' which Miss Grim- 
 shaw appropriated to herself with a most 
 peculiar expression of countenance — a mix- 
 ture of doubt and curiosity which appeared to 
 amuse her victim greatly. I think myself she 
 took it to find out what was in it. I don't 
 think she had ever heard of it before. Pope's 
 ' Homer,' ' Don Quixote,' and l The Letters 
 of Junius' were all among the doomed. My 
 curious friend, on her part, always appeared
 
 86 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 to part with her property quite willingly, 
 though it was possibly very doubtful whether 
 she would ever even see any of it again. The 
 missing book was invariably supplied, on the 
 occasion of her next absence, by some fresh 
 attraction, which probably in its turn would be 
 sacrificed. Where she obtained her treasures 
 I don't know to this day, but she seemed so 
 totally indifferent to their loss that it was of 
 no use trying to pity her. I intuitively felt 
 that such a feeling would be wasted. Miss 
 Grimshaw never mentioned her reason for 
 objecting to the books proscribed, except in 
 the case of ' Dombey and Son,' when she 
 descanted at length upon what she was 
 pleased to call the ' grossness ' of such a pro- 
 duction, and speculated on the probable feel- 
 ings of its author when he came to lie on his 
 death-bed. At the conclusion of these re- 
 marks, Miss Launceston took the liberty of 
 asking Miss Grimshaw whether she had ever 
 perused the work in question ; and, upon that 
 lady candidly answering in the -negative, she
 
 MARY BROWNE. S? 
 
 was informed by her pupil that, such being 
 the case, she was scarcely competent to ex- 
 press any opinion upon it. To which obser- 
 vation Miss Grimshaw, no doubt wisely, 
 declined to reply. 
 
 A fortnight passed, and the day for writing 
 home, the long-looked-for Thursday, came 
 at last. It had been waited for by me with 
 intense longing, for, in accordance with the 
 rules at Victoria College, I had not as yet 
 despatched one epistle to my mother. Her 
 fond, loving one to me had been many days 
 waiting a reply. In my joy at the arrival of 
 this happy day, I almost ceased to feel the 
 dull heaviness and oppression which since the 
 night of my arrival at my new home had 
 remained with me constantly. 
 
 The morning crept slowly away. I could 
 scarcely perform my ordinary duties, excite- 
 ment seemed to take away all power of action. 
 When they were at length completed and 
 dinner over, I found myself seated with dozens 
 of others — to my surprise many of them
 
 88 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 almost as eager as myself — preparing for my 
 happy task of writing home. The room was 
 in the most ridiculous state of confusion. 
 Quires of paper scattered promiscuously on 
 the black leather of the tables, innumerable 
 small desks and writing-cases in all directions. 
 I found a quiet corner, and sat down to enjoy 
 my hour of happiness — the noise and confu- 
 sion around me almost unheard and wholly 
 unnoticed. I have often wondered since how 
 it is possible for people to write letters, laugh- 
 ing and shouting almost the whole of the time, 
 but it is an easy thing for a school-girl to do. 
 Only once before commencing did I turn my 
 attention from the task before me. I raised my 
 eyes and took a general survey. As I did so I 
 caught sight of Marion Launceston, not writ- 
 ing herself, but surrounded by a number of 
 tiny little creatures, for whom she was ruling 
 lines, pencilling capital letters, and otherwise 
 assisting their infant endeavours ; in return 
 for which she received sundry kisses and em- 
 braces, which she usually returned with
 
 MARY BROWNE. 89 
 
 interest. She had certainly the love of the 
 little children, whatever feelings those of a 
 larger growth might entertain for her. My 
 eyes dropped again to the paper, and I began 
 to write. 
 
 1 My dear, dearest Mamma.' 
 
 The blinding tears fell fast as I wrote 
 the words. So many memories of home, 
 and the joyful days, now gone for ever, came 
 over my heart, that it was many minutes 
 before my pen again began to move. Then it 
 went on firmly and continuously. It was the 
 first letter that I had ever written to my 
 mother ; and through it ran an effort not to 
 grieve her with useless regrets and repinings. 
 The bright gleams in my life since our part- 
 ing — poor child ! how few and dim they 
 were ! — were made brighter, and the dark- 
 ness less dark and gloomy, that those kind 
 eyes while reading might not be filled as 
 mine were as I wrote. In the new-born
 
 90 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 tenderness which separation for the first time 
 from a beloved object so often engenders, I 
 said many things in that letter which, had 
 I remained with my mother, would probably 
 never have passed my lips in words. I 
 spoke of my dead father, promising that his 
 memory should ever keep me truthful, obe- 
 dient, a'nd faithful in my love to her, and my 
 desire to make her happiness the chief wish 
 and end of my life. Then came entreaties 
 for forgiveness for all the waywardness of my 
 childhood, and assurances that my conduct 
 should never again cause her uneasiness. 
 And so the letter was finished. 
 
 There seemed to me such a sacredness 
 about this first thorough outpouring of my 
 heart to my mother, that I almost seemed to 
 touch the paper tenderly for the sake of what 
 was written upon it. After directing the 
 envelope and sealing it carefully, I pressed 
 it unseen to my lips, and placed it lingeringly 
 in the letter-box provided at one end of the 
 study for the reception of all epistles destined
 
 MARY BROWNE. 9 I 
 
 for the post-office. By this time the proces- 
 sion was forming for tea, and I joined it with 
 a light heart, and in a happier frame of mind 
 than I had been for many days. When the 
 meal was over, I repaired to my little room 
 as usual to practise my music. I had already 
 begun to look forward to this hour as the 
 happiest that fell to my daily lot. There 
 was repose in it, at least more than I enjoyed 
 during any other portion of the day ; and this 
 night the pleasant thought of the joy my 
 letter would give to its recipient doubled my 
 pleasure. The time had nearly expired when 
 my happiness was rudely interrupted. The 
 door of my room was suddenly opened, and 
 Marion Launceston entered. 
 
 ' Good evening,' she said, with a smile on 
 her earnest face ; ' I have a message for you.' 
 
 ' From Miss Grimshaw ?' I asked, with a 
 cold fear, of what, I could scarcely tell. 
 
 1 Of course from Miss Grimshaw. No 
 one else dares to send messages about ; it 
 would be encroaching on her privileges. I
 
 92 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 was not sent to you, but one of the children 
 who did not know your room, so I took the 
 duty off her shoulders. What is the matter ? ' 
 she added quickly ; ' are you not well ? You 
 look quite pale/ 
 
 A dread of seeing her was strong upon 
 me. I felt the message entailed this, though 
 it had not yet been delivered. 
 
 * I am not ill, thank you. Please tell me 
 what Miss Grimshaw wants/ 
 
 1 That which you are doubtless fearing/ 
 she replied. ' She wishes to see you/ 
 
 * Now — down in the drawing-room ? ' 
 ' Yes/ 
 
 1 Do you know what for ? ' 
 
 'No; not at all. You should go at once. 
 It will be the sooner over. Do you imagine 
 that because your last encounter with her 
 was unpleasant, that this must necessarily be 
 so? , 
 
 I laughed uneasily. 
 
 ' Come, take courage. I can't tell you 
 this time what she's going to say, but I really
 
 MARY BROWNE. 93 
 
 do not think it is likely to be anything dis- 
 agreeable.' 
 
 1 But what can she have to say ? ' 
 1 Oh ! fifty things. Tell you to dress 
 your hair differently — she's very particular 
 about governess-pupils, you know — or ask 
 you how many pocket-handkerchiefs you are 
 possessed of; or if your best boots want 
 soleing and heeling ; or whether you like 
 the bread-and-butter — in other words, stale- 
 crust — puddings the cook favours us with so 
 often. It is something equally important, 
 you may be sure.' 
 
 I understood the kindness which prompted 
 this reply, and going nearer to her, I took her 
 hand and kissed it. 
 
 1 What a strange girl you are ! ' she said. 
 ' Why did you do that ? ' 
 1 You are so good to me.' 
 1 Very indeed ! ' But in spite of the half- 
 bantering tone, she looked tenderly at me. 
 Then hastily kissing my cheek, she told me I 
 had better go at once, as it was just prayer-time.
 
 94 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 Following her advice, I started off imme- 
 diately, and descended to the drawing-room. 
 The precautionary knock was not forgotten 
 this time. 
 
 ' Come in/ said Miss Grimshaw. 
 
 The voice was as distinct and decided as 
 it had been on the occasion of my last visit, 
 if possible, still more harsh and stern. I en- 
 tered. She was seated in the same chair and 
 place as at our last similar interview, but this 
 time was busily occupied, with a pen in her 
 hand. Piles of letters were lying on the table 
 before her. As I advanced she put down 
 the pen. The same peculiar fancy that I had 
 had that former time that she had seen me 
 through the door came over me now, and I 
 felt as nervous and uncomfortable as I had 
 felt then. But whether or not she had seen 
 me through the door, she seemed determined 
 to see me well now. The cold impassible 
 eyes were fixed on me with such a resolute 
 expression, that my own dropped before them 
 painfully, and I trembled.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 95 
 
 1 Miss Browne.' 
 
 4 Yes,' I answered. 
 
 1 Look at me, Miss Browne/ 
 
 I did so. In raising my eyes to her face 
 they fell upon another — that of a well-dressed 
 man, seated near the fire. He was some 
 distance from Miss Grimshaw, as it might be 
 to the north-east of her. He was sitting with 
 one leg over the other, leaning back, with his 
 hands in his pockets. He had the appear- 
 ance of a gentleman, but he was not behaving 
 as one. He was examining my face closely, 
 with a singular look on his own — a mixed 
 expression of interest and amusement, which 
 roused in me a feeling of indignation. I 
 was just at that age when girls like to be 
 treated by men with a faint show of deference. 
 He was regarding me as though I were a 
 child of six or seven years, from whom he 
 expected to get some entertainment during 
 the coming conversation. I was full of anger 
 against him, but was not too absorbed by my 
 own feeling to notice that his face was bright
 
 96 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 and sharp, and had a look like an eagle. My 
 eyes only rested on it a few moments, but I 
 noticed this peculiar look instantaneously. I 
 knew him at once. He was the man I had 
 seen in the room the last time I was in it 
 As I raised my glance in obedience to Miss 
 Grimshaw, she spoke. 
 
 ' I want to talk to you, Miss Browne, 
 about your letter to your mother/ 
 
 I looked at her in wonder, quite be- 
 wildered. I had not the least notion what 
 she was going to say respecting it. ' I don't 
 understand,' I stammered. ' They told me I 
 might write to-day, and I wrote. I put the 
 letter in the box myself. Oh ! I hope it has 
 not got torn up by mistake ! ' 
 
 She waited till I had finished speaking, 
 then went on calmly, utterly ignoring my ex- 
 cited utterances. 
 
 I I suppose you are aware that all letters 
 that leave this house are under my sur- 
 veillance, all being perused by myself before 
 leaving it. In the particular letter to which
 
 MARY BROWNE. 97 
 
 I allude — I mean the one written by yourself 
 this day to your mother — you have thought 
 proper to speak of me in most disrespectful 
 terms — though otherwise it is well worded 
 and indited. I believe the epithet you ap- 
 plied to me, Miss Browne, was that of a " hard- 
 hearted, thin-lipped, sour, old curmudgeon ; " 
 but you considerately add, that I am " prob- 
 ably not without good points had one the 
 leisure to find them out." — I believe the 
 quotation is correct as I repeat it to you, is it 
 not, Mr. Harrop ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly so, madam,' said the gentleman 
 she addressed, who was still watching me 
 with the slightest perceptible smile on his 
 face. ' Perfectly so. They are the very 
 identical syllables.' 
 
 1 Now, Miss Browne,' she continued, ' pass- 
 ing over the insult to myself these words 
 express, it only remains for me to state ' 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and her look 
 changed. She became visibly paler, though 
 she never once moved her eyes from my face. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 What she saw there was perhaps even by 
 her scarcely definable, but probably the mix- 
 ture of conflicting feelings struggling in my 
 heart for utterance produced some quick 
 change in my expression which surprised and 
 alarmed her. I was not there at all. 1 1 was 
 some fearful passion of my childhood, and 
 my father was standing by, as in days long 
 gone, trying to quell it. Even his memory 
 was powerless now. Nothing could stay 
 my angry rage. All my fear was gone. My 
 eye caught the open letter on the table. To 
 rush forward and seize it was the work of 
 an instant. Then speech came, and utterly 
 regardless of consequences, I broke into a 
 passionate torrent of words. 
 
 ' You are a mean, dishonourable woman ! ' 
 I said. ' I can't bear to be near you ! I am 
 degraded by being in the same room with 
 you ! You've done w T hat a thief would do — 
 opened and read another person's letter. 
 Papa used to teach us that it was worse than 
 stealing money to do such a thing. I hate 
 you. I'm not afraid of you — I — I '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 99 
 
 She opened her lips. 
 
 ' Don't speak,' I said. ' Don't speak. I 
 can't bear to hear a word. I oughtn't to be 
 here. I won't stay. You shall never see 
 another letter of mine. My first letter to 
 her. Oh ! my dear, dear mamma ! Every- 
 one shall know of it. I'll go and tell them 
 all!' 
 
 I had already gained the door, and opened 
 it, when a strong hand was laid upon my 
 shoulder. It moved me forcibly back. In 
 my passion I struck at it blindly. The owner 
 of it laughed, with a ring in his laugh of the 
 most intense amusement, and with difficulty 
 drew me into the room and placed me on a 
 chair. 
 
 ' Sit there, till you are calmer and more 
 reasonable,' he said, in a stern tone. ' Do 
 you see how your improper conduct has dis- 
 turbed that lady ? ' 
 
 I mechanically followed his eyes to her 
 face, and in its white vindictive look saw 
 the consequences of my folly. She was hold- 
 h 2
 
 IQO MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ing up her hand as if warding me off like a 
 blow ; but still looking at me. He evidently 
 understood the meaning of the action — for 
 removing his hand from my shoulder and 
 himself from before me — 
 
 'Go at once,' he said. ' Miss Grimshaw 
 wishes you to leave the room immediately.' 
 
 I rose quickly, and the letter which I had 
 hitherto retained fell from my hand. He 
 picked it up and held it towards me. I did 
 not wait to thank him. Snatching it from his 
 hand, I rushed from the room, slamming the 
 door violently behind me ; and scarcely 
 knowing where I went, ran wildly up the 
 stairs, and burst into my bedroom breathless. 
 
 My companions, who were preparing for 
 rest, started at my sudden entrance. In a 
 moment, half their faces were as white as my 
 own. 
 
 1 Oh ! what's the matter ? Come here. 
 Shut the door. Oh ! do speak. Give her 
 some water. Is she ill ? Is the college on 
 fire ? Pray speak ! '
 
 MARY BROWNE. IOl 
 
 'No! It's not that. I'm not ill. The 
 college is not on fire. It's Miss Grimshaw ! " 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw ? What has s/ie done ? 
 
 1 It's that wicked woman downstairs. 
 She's opened my letter to mamma and read 
 it. I can't bear it. It's too much. I — I ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Is that all ? ' broke in a clear, cool 
 voice. l That's nothing. She always does 
 that — at least, it's the rule that she can do it 
 when she chooses. You'll have to bear it. 
 But it certainly is a great shame,' continued 
 the same speaker, after a pause — as if she 
 were trying to lash herself into indignation 
 against a wrong", of which lonof-continued en- 
 durance had softened the bitterness — ' it 
 certainly is a great shame that we can never 
 say what we want to when we write home, 
 because of her old peering eyes seeing it all. 
 I always keep what /want to say till I see the 
 people — but it's horrid sometimes. She's an 
 old monster. I wish somebody had the 
 courage to tell her of her abominable ways. 
 Jezebel's nothing to her.'
 
 102 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 I've done it,' I said. ' I've told her she's 
 a mean dishonourable woman, and it's a dis- 
 grace to anyone to be in the same room with 
 her.' 
 
 A dead silence followed this announce- 
 ment. I cast my eyes round, and saw that 
 Marion Launceston, who, seated as usual on 
 the side of her bed, had the moment before 
 been, also as usual, apparently reading, was 
 now looking intently at me, with a ludicrous 
 expression of dismay on her countenance. I 
 could scarcely understand whether it was 
 real or feigned. Not troubling myself about 
 it, however, I turned from her, and continued 
 my speech more rapidly than before. 
 
 'I told her she was like a thief— -that I hated 
 and detested her — that I couldn't bear to be 
 in the same house with her— that she ' 
 
 They interrupted me with frantic ex- 
 clamations. 
 
 1 Oh ! I'm so glad ! Whatever did she 
 say ? I wonder how you dared ! ' 
 
 ' Dared ! ' I said — ' Dared ! There was
 
 MARY BROWNE. IO3 
 
 no daring in it. If she were the greatest 
 queen on earth, I would have said it. I 
 would have said it a thousand times rather 
 than she should not have heard it, even 
 though I'd been tortured for every time. I 
 can't express how I despise and hate her.' 
 
 1 Well, but do tell us about it,' broke in a 
 voice. 
 
 1 There's scarcely anything to tell but 
 what I've told you.' 
 
 'Well, but tell # us it all from the very 
 beginning.' 
 
 So I went through it in detail, accom- 
 panied by many quick eager remarks from 
 the excited listeners, till, at length, I sank 
 down upon my bed, utterly exhausted with 
 passionate emotion. They then gathered in 
 groups, breaking out occasionally into ex- 
 pressions of admiration of my ' courage,' as 
 they termed it, and speculating audibly as to 
 the probability of my expulsion from the 
 college. But the consequences of my folly 
 seemed as nothing to me then. I buried my
 
 104 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 head in the bed-clothes and tried to calm my- 
 self, for my emotion had tired me out. But 
 my passion was not yet spent. Some ex- 
 pression — I forget now what it was — uttered 
 by one of my excited companions, roused me 
 again. I began another angry tirade on Miss 
 Grimshaw. In the midst of it the door 
 opened, and the subject of my eloquence 
 stood before me. She was so calm, collected, 
 and altogether frozen that I was stricken dumb 
 instantly, and in the silence that followed 
 her entrance I stood trembling with a new 
 terror. 
 
 1 You are all fined on the High Penal 
 List. Miss Browne, follow me.' 
 
 I did so, with as much indifference in my 
 manner as I could possibly assume. She led 
 the way to a very small room, containing the 
 commonest of bedroom furniture. I knew 
 this apartment to be called ' The Black 
 Room,' and to be devoted exclusively to the 
 immolation of those unfortunates who had 
 been guilty of offences for which, in the rules-
 
 MARY BROWNE. IO5 
 
 of the college, there was no authorised legal 
 punishment. I had been told that within the 
 memory of the present oldest pupil no one 
 had been confined there. This honour, how- 
 ever, had been reserved for me. 
 
 'You will occupy this room,' said Miss 
 Grimshaw, 'except when engaged in your 
 scholastic duties, until measures have been 
 taken for your formal expulsion from Victoria 
 College. You are forbidden to converse, or 
 hold any communication, with the young 
 ladies your late associates, except your pupils, 
 to whom you must necessarily speak in con- 
 nection with their studies.' 
 
 She shut the door without another word, 
 and turning the key upon me, left me in the 
 dark, alone with my fierce pride and passion. 
 They kept with me long, as I paced up and 
 down the miserable room, beating and bruis- 
 ing my clenched hands against the bare walls, 
 like a poor bird in a cage. But this state of 
 feeling could not last for ever. When the 
 grey dawn came stealing in like a wandering
 
 106 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 angel, it found nothing but a broken-hearted 
 girl, with disordered dress and dishevelled 
 hair, lying on the bed, occasionally weeping, 
 remorsefully upbraiding herself for the past 
 (though conscious of a certain degree of 
 right). Broken-hearted at the remembrance 
 of tender disregarded words which had come 
 from lips now dead and cold for ever — broken- 
 hearted at the recollection of those written 
 promises — even now clasped closely to her 
 breast — at the very first temptation so com- 
 pletely broken and despised. Bursting, at 
 intervals, into fierce invectives against the 
 object of her resentment, and then hushing 
 and checking her words and thoughts when 
 scarcely half-expressed, as if afraid to say 
 them to the dawning golden light !
 
 MARY BROWNE, IOJ 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was broad clay. I rose, bathed my swollen 
 eyes, and sat thinking. The half-past-five 
 bell rang. It was still sounding when my 
 ear caught, in addition, the noise of a foot- 
 step, followed by the unlocking of my door. 
 Though I knew by this that I was expected 
 to proceed to my duties at six o'clock as usual, 
 I took no notice of the warning, at least as 
 far as any preparation for my work was con- 
 cerned. When the steps of this turnkey died 
 away in the distance, the poor prisoner re- 
 signed herself to her miserable thoughts till 
 the sounds of life — noisy and many — falling 
 upon her ears, warned her that action was 
 imperative. Then she made the best toilette 
 possible, opened the door, and walked forth 
 to her duties.
 
 IOS MARY BROWNE. 
 
 My programme for the day was already 
 arranged. It was simply — silence. This re- 
 solution was not the result of any fear of 
 disobeying Miss Grimshaw, but proceeded 
 from a strong desire to show that amiable 
 person that I had no intention of wilfully 
 opposing her ; and that my conduct of the 
 previous evening had not been the result 
 merely of a spirit of defiance. Not that there 
 was any idea in my mind that she really 
 thought such to be the case. I felt quite 
 certain from my observation of her that 
 she had sufficient perception to understand 
 that my passion had been at once sudden, 
 genuine, and ungovernable, and I was de- 
 sirous of giving her no ground for expressing 
 in the future — for any purpose — a contrary 
 opinion. 
 
 I decided also to concentrate in my look 
 as much contempt for herself as possible, for 
 the recollection of the wrong she had done 
 me was still fresh and clear in my mind. I 
 say ' wrong,' for it not only appeared to me
 
 MARY BROWNE; 1 09 
 
 as such then, but it appears to me the same 
 now. Sitting quietly that morning, hearing 
 my first pupil practise, the resolution to act 
 as I have stated grew stronger, till it was 
 momentarily forgotten in a sudden recollec- 
 tion which shocked and stunned me. 
 
 ' Till measures have been taken for your 
 expulsion from the college.' 
 
 In my excitement this sentence had 
 hitherto entirely slipped my memory, now it 
 came upon me with full force, seeming to 
 sound in my ears for the first time. / was 
 disgraced for life. So it appeared to me in 
 the girlish agony of the moment. My error 
 would break my mother's heart ! It would 
 ruin my name for ever ! Yet, through all my 
 pain, I had such a consciousness that my 
 indignation at Miss Grimshaw's conduct had 
 been, in itself, natural and just, and that my 
 sin had consisted merely in the mistimed ex- 
 pression of that indignation, and in the fact 
 that it had been expressed to her, and with- 
 out the slightest attempt at self-control, that
 
 IIO MARY BROWNE. 
 
 as I reflected my misery lessened, and my 
 pride and fortitude revived. 
 
 Eight o'clock came, and prayers, and — 
 Miss Grimshaw. Whether, or not, she was 
 ashamed of herself was, and still is, a mystery 
 to me ; but one thing is certain, during the 
 whole time of her stay in the study she never 
 once raised her eyes to my face. Mine were 
 fixed on her intently, during the whole of her 
 morning performance. When she had retired, 
 I joined the assembly walking round the 
 room to get into breakfast order. No one 
 spoke to me. This, no doubt, in obedience 
 to directions previously received. My eyes 
 fell on Marion Launceston. Her face wore 
 the same earnest pitying look that I recol- 
 lected seeing on it for a moment the night 
 before, as Miss Grimshaw led me from the 
 room. As she met my glance she smiled 
 kindly and encouragingly, bringing a rush of 
 tears to my eyes. I did not dare to look at 
 her again, for fear my fortitude should give 
 way entirely.
 
 MARY BROWNE. I I I 
 
 The clay passed miserably and drear ily. 
 There was a dreadful presentiment upon me 
 that Miss Grimshaw's offended dignity would 
 require some public expiation on my part, and 
 I had fixed upon my private evening hour as 
 the time when the terrible ordeal would have 
 to be gone through. The exact form of this 
 trial did not present itself to my mind, but I 
 felt certain that, in any case, my expulsion 
 from the college would not take place, with- 
 out the reason for my dismissal being stated 
 in my presence to my assembled schoolfellows. 
 But the hour I had feared arrived, and no 
 summons. I sat in my little music-room 
 trembling, but after the first quarter of an 
 hour felt comparatively safe. In my sleep 
 that night strange dreams disturbed me, 
 rousing me to wakefulness in vague terror, 
 leaving me in the morning unrefreshed and 
 wearied, and with the same restless appre- 
 hension on my mind that I had experienced 
 the previous day, as to what I might be 
 called upon to endure before that little
 
 I I 2 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 room should again afford me a temporary 
 asylum. 
 
 But the morning, noon, and evening 
 passed quietly. The day was gone. Ano- 
 ther passed — another — and another. I began 
 to hope. Perhaps, after all, the whole extent 
 of my sentence was to be solitary confinement 
 for an indefinite period, and silence during 
 Miss Grimshaw's pleasure. Perhaps her 
 words, in spite of the calm, frozen look that 
 had accompanied them, had been spoken in 
 the heat of the moment, and I was already 
 enduring the worst portion of my punishment. 
 When a week had gone by, this timid hope 
 had grown into almost certainty. My pride 
 kept with me still ; my face wearing the same 
 haughty look, in Miss Grimshaw's presence, 
 which I had studiously schooled it to wear 
 since the first night of my incarceration. 
 Perhaps it deepened as my trust that my 
 enemy would not put into execution her 
 threat of expulsion grew in strength and in-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 13 
 
 tensity. But I was partly mistaken in my 
 calculations. 
 
 One evening, nearly a fortnight after the 
 commission of my offence, the dreadful mo- 
 ment came ; the more dreadful from the false 
 hopes which had been so long blinding me. 
 Tea was just over, when, raising my eyes, 
 they encountered the unexpected apparition 
 of Miss Grimshaw advancing up the dining- 
 room. Arrived in the centre of the apart- 
 ment, she stopped and took a general survey 
 of the room and its occupants. By this time 
 she had attracted the attention of everyone 
 present. Having accomplished this object, 
 she paused for a moment, and then spoke as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' Young ladies, repair instantly to the 
 study. No one must be absent. I wish to 
 speak to all of you.' 
 
 I grew faint with the suddenness of it ; 
 never doubting for a moment what was 
 coming. My eyes dropped under the anxious 
 battery of glances. There was no time for 
 
 vol. 1. I
 
 114 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 reflection. I was almost carried from my 
 seat, and moved along with the living rank 
 into the study, where the inmates of each bed- 
 room quickly ranged themselves at their 
 respective tables as if for prayers. I learnt 
 afterwards that this was the custom whenever 
 Miss Grimshaw honoured her pupils with 
 any unusual address on any subject whatever. 
 This lady was in this instance already pre- 
 sent, having passed from the dining-room by 
 her private door. I could not look at her 
 now as I had done the past few days. My 
 pride and resolution had given way, and the 
 old vague terror taken their place. Some one 
 in passing to her table touched me purposely on 
 the shoulder, and I caught from the dark eyes 
 a quick, kind glance of encouragement. It 
 gave me nerve for a moment, but it passed 
 like a flash of light. 
 
 The whistle was sounded. Then the dead 
 silence which always succeeded. My heart 
 was beating audibly. My enemy waited 
 nearly a minute before she began speaking —
 
 MARY BROWNE. I I 5 
 
 not, I really believe, so much to give effect 
 to her words as to increase my apprehension. 
 The moments seemed to me like hours. 
 
 1 Miss Browne — from bedroom No. 6 — 
 advance, and stand in the middle of the 
 room.' 
 
 At the first sound my pride came back, 
 though my terror was as great as ever. I 
 knew she would delight in my suffering, and 
 with a mighty effort I did all I could to con- 
 ceal the slightest sign of it. 
 
 I advanced as commanded, with a firm 
 step, at the same time glancing round in 
 expectation of seeing those hundreds of eyes 
 fixed upon me. With the exception of Miss 
 Grimshaw's I could not perceive that even 
 one was raised. From that moment my fear 
 grew less and my confidence greater. 
 
 'All present look at Miss Browne.' 
 
 Upwards of two hundred heads with their 
 shining eyes were turned hurriedly towards 
 me for a moment, then as hastily turned 
 away again. 
 
 I 2
 
 I 1 6 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 Keep your attention fixed on Miss 
 Browne.' 
 
 'We are all doing so, Miss Grimshaw. 
 It would be impossible to do otherwise.' 
 
 ' Was that Miss Launceston who spoke ? * 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Grimshaw. I said, it would 
 be impossible for us to fail to direct our at- 
 tention as you wish.' 
 
 ' You are fined, Miss Launceston, on the 
 High Penal List, for speaking without per- 
 mission under such circumstances as the pre- 
 sent.' 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Grimshaw.' 
 
 She spoke in a respectful tone, but her 
 voice sounded bright and quick, and as I 
 glanced at her, I saw that her eyes were 
 dark and brilliant with an expression which, 
 at the moment, I could not attempt to fathom. 
 
 ' Keep your attention fixed on Miss 
 Browne.' 
 
 The heads were again moved round, for 
 a moment, this time, sullenly, but, as far as 
 I could see, not a dozen eyes were raised.
 
 MARY DROWN]:. I \J 
 
 Perhaps the general feeling was stronger than 
 Miss Grimshaw expected, or she had some 
 dread of another remark from her determined 
 pupil, for she hesitated to press the point. 
 I felt almost grateful to her, though perfectly 
 aware that it was anything but pity for myself 
 that actuated her conduct. 
 
 ' Listen to me, all of you. You are as- 
 sembled here this evening to be addressed 
 by me, your instructress, in a very solemn 
 manner. You are all aware that the person 
 now standing in the middle of the room, and 
 exposed to your observation, was, some nights 
 previously, guilty of the grossest misconduct 
 towards me, such misconduct as I have never 
 before had the humiliation of witnessing in 
 my establishment. It is not necessary for 
 me to enter into detail. My feelings of just, 
 I may say righteous, indignation forbid my 
 doing so. I will not even mention the nature 
 of the offence against me. Suffice it to say, 
 it was most disgraceful and appalling. I am 
 now about to address Miss Browne in your
 
 Il8 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 presence, in order that you as well as she 
 may hear and fully comprehend the nature of 
 the punishment which I deem it expedient to 
 inflict on her.' 
 
 ' Miss Browne!' 
 
 4 Yes, Miss Grimshaw,' I answered firmly, 
 looking boldly at her, but trembling in every 
 limb. 
 
 ' Listen to me with dread and shame. 
 After mature deliberation, I have decided 
 upon not adhering to my first-formed resolu- 
 tion of expelling you from Victoria College. 
 The reason for this is simply my pity for 
 your mother, and a desire to spare the feel- 
 ings for which her daughter has no respect 
 nor reverence whatever.' 
 
 She knew the cruelty of the untruth she 
 had uttered. I could see it in her face. 
 
 . ' Knowing her poverty,' she continued, 
 * and that she is naturally anxious to be re- 
 lieved of the burden of your maintenance ' 
 
 * She is not so,' I interrupted. 
 
 ' Naturally anxious,' she repeated, ' to be
 
 MARY BROWNE. 119 
 
 delivered from the burden of your main- 
 tenance — and her gratitude to the gentleman 
 who so charitably pays for her the very small 
 stipend I receive for your board and educa- 
 tion ' 
 
 1 It is untrue,' I said. 
 
 ' Your board and education,' she went on 
 — ' I am unwilling to add to her afflicted state 
 by throwing you back upon her slender re- 
 sources. I repeat, I have more respect and 
 pity for her than her own and only daughter 
 has/ 
 
 They were well-aimed blows, and told 
 deeply. Had she known me all my little 
 life, and probed every feeling of my heart, 
 they could not have been better directed, 
 It is strange to me to think now that the 
 poor, wretched, trembling child, at length 
 thoroughly silenced by the contempt with 
 which her interruptions had been passed 
 over, standing helpless before her tormentor 
 — was myself. 
 
 ' But I lose time,' she continued. ' )
 
 120 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 simply wished that all present should know 
 the sole reason why I hesitate to expel you 
 from my establishment.' 
 
 1 It is not your establishment,' broke in a 
 loud, clear voice. ' It's Mr. Harrop's estab- 
 lishment' 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen in the room, 
 it could scarcely have caused greater conster- 
 nation. Miss Grimshaw's face turned white 
 to the very lips, and I really believe that she 
 was for the moment incapable of uttering a 
 sound. When she did speak, it was in the 
 same calm tone as before. There is no 
 doubt she possessed a wonderful power of 
 self-control. 
 
 ' The person who made that remark will 
 be dealt with by me, alone, on some future 
 occasion. I will now return to you, Miss 
 Browne.' 
 
 I am certain that she was aware now that 
 she had been pushing matters too far, and 
 was in fear of a general rebellion. I also 
 know that everyone present but myself
 
 MARY BROWNE. 12 1 
 
 knew for a surety the identity of the speaker 
 of the bold words — a fact I never suspected 
 at the time. 
 
 4 I will return to you, Miss Browne. I 
 wished, I repeat, that all present should know 
 the reason of my leniency towards you, and 
 now this object is accomplished. No doubt 
 the motive which actuates my conduct is duly- 
 appreciated by all to whom I have communi- 
 cated it ; and feeling certain that this is the 
 case, I can undertake to say that none of 
 your fellow-students will object to again re- 
 ceiving you as one of their community, 
 though 1 do not consider you at present 
 fit to be an associate of any of them, nor 
 do I intend you to be so, till there is ground 
 for concluding that you are a reformed cha- 
 racter. Your punishment is this. For two 
 months longer you will continue to lead the 
 life you have led since you so egregiously 
 offended me. Your schoolfellows are not 
 to address you unnecessarily under pain of 
 the severest penalties ; while you, on your
 
 122 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 part, are forbidden to speak to anyone, ex- 
 cept to your pupils with respect to their 
 studies, or to your superiors with respect to 
 your own, under pain of immediate expulsion. 
 During the term of your expiation you will con- 
 tinue to occupy The Black Room as a sleep- 
 ing apartment. I have written to your mother, 
 informing her of your conduct towards me, 
 and the circumstances in which you are 
 placed, and have also informed her that, in 
 part punishment of your sin, you are not to 
 receive letters from, or write to her, during 
 the continuance of the present term. A note 
 has come to hand from her in reply, in which 
 she expresses, though not willingly (for she 
 cannot, in spite of all, forget that you are her 
 child), her consent to this arrangement, and 
 encloses a few lines for you — which have 
 been read by me, and which I do not ob- 
 ject to your receiving — most undeserved in 
 their tenderness for you, but, at the same 
 time, showing her bitter grief and disappoint- 
 ment at your unexpected and disgraceful con-
 
 MARY liROWNE. I 23 
 
 duct. Miss Thomson; turning to the head- 
 teacher, 'may I trouble you to pass this to 
 Miss Browne ? ' 
 
 I saw her walking towards me in a mist 
 — all mist and shadows, and strange forms, 
 and a quick cry from many young, pitying 
 voices, and great darkness — and I fell to the 
 ground, and knew no more.
 
 124 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 I was conscious of a sense of distance. I 
 can call it nothing else. Whether of time or 
 place, I knew not ; it seemed impossible to 
 me to understand anything without unclosing 
 my eyelids, and they felt too heavy to be 
 moved. ' Perhaps,' I said to myself, ' when 
 I once get power to raise them, the meaning 
 of the present will dawn upon me.' But even 
 the exertion of thought stupefied me ; so I 
 lay still, with my eyes still closed, fast re- 
 lapsing into unconsciousness. 
 
 Something moved under my head. With 
 a sudden effort I opened my eyes. I was in 
 bed. There was an old gentleman standing 
 by me, and a kind woman's face peeping over 
 his shoulder. My eyes closed again involun- 
 tarily, with a sudden sense of blinding light.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 125 
 
 ' You must keep her quiet,' said a man's 
 voice in a gentle tone. ; All danger is over 
 now ; but don't let her talk.' Then I heard 
 a step ; it died in the distance, and all was 
 silent. 
 
 1 What is the matter ? ' I exclaimed feebly, 
 trying to rise in the bed, and again opening 
 my eyes. 
 
 1 Hush ! you must not speak. You have 
 been very ill indeed. You're in the Infirmary, 
 you know. You'll have everything you want 
 here, poor child !' 
 
 It was the old nurse belonging 1 to the 
 college. She pressed her lips to my fore- 
 head, told me again to lie still, and took her 
 seat on a chair by the side of my bed. So 
 she tended me carefully. I never relapsed 
 into the state from which I had escaped. I 
 slept half my time away ; and the days 
 passed, and I grew stronger and stronger, 
 and able to enjoy the peaceful rest that God 
 had sent me. 
 
 It was such a quiet calm, that I should
 
 126 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 have been contented for it never to end. 
 The thought of the future made me cling 
 still more closely to the comfort of the 
 moment. The remembrance of the past 
 seemed terrible to me ; but though the 
 bitterness of memory grew more bitter day 
 by day, as I weakly pondered more and 
 more on what could never now be undone, 
 all else that I had suffered, and might have 
 to suffer, seemed light in comparison with 
 my estrangement from my mother. That 
 there had been unfair work I was certain — 
 misrepresentations on Miss Grimshaws part, 
 perhaps even absolute falsehood — and yet I 
 had no remedy ; I must remain helpless, 
 unable to defend myself. But my very un- 
 happiness lengthened the term of my rest, 
 for doubtless the uneasiness of mind I en- 
 dured retarded my recovery. It was evident 
 the old' doctor suspected there was some 
 abnormal cause for the slowness of my con- 
 valescence, for he would occasionally look at 
 me with a grave shake of the head, and once
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 27 
 
 asked me quietly if I were 'fretting about 
 anything*.' 
 
 Scarcely understanding for the moment 
 the drift of the question, I answered in the 
 negative ; and after looking searchingly at 
 me, he went away muttering to himself in a 
 very discontented fashion. 
 
 About a week after my recovery to con- 
 sciousness, Miss Grimshaw commenced a 
 series of periodical visits to my bedside. 
 Our first meeting was awkward and con- 
 strained on both sides, with an evident effort 
 on her part to impress me with the idea that 
 she was utterly unconscious of having been 
 in an)* way the cause of my illness. She 
 appeared to have forgiven me — at all events, 
 as far as her manner was concerned — for the 
 offence which had occasioned her cruelty. 
 She called to see me every other day. Her 
 mode of address to me was invariably more 
 gentle than it had been before my illness 
 began, or, more properly speaking, less hard 
 and stern ; and she always pronounced me
 
 128 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 '■ much better; without ever asking my opinion 
 on the subject. 
 
 1 Get her well as fast as you can, doctor/ 
 she would say (for she never appeared but 
 when the dear old gentleman was visiting 
 me). ' Get her well as fast as you can. I 
 must have her up and about soon.' 
 
 I always felt cold directly she entered the 
 room, and gradually recovered my warmth 
 after her departure. Three or four weeks 
 went by, and now I used to rise after break- 
 fast and sit up the greater part of the day ; 
 but I was still very weak. I would remain 
 at the window for hours together, thinking 
 idly, watching the birds on the lawn, or try- 
 ing to recognise the figures that passed down 
 the conservatory which formed the passage 
 from one wing of the college to the other. 
 (The infirmary, I should have mentioned, 
 stood alone, apart from any other portion of 
 the establishment.) 
 
 After I had once risen from my bed, 
 Miss Grimshaw ceased her visits for a time,
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 29 
 
 and when she again made her appearance, 
 she resumed much of her old tone and man- 
 ner. She opened the door, and marched 
 into the room with such a decided air, and so 
 much as if she had a purpose in view which 
 she had determined to accomplish before 
 leaving it again, that my old dread and fear 
 of her came back with tenfold force. The 
 doctor was, as usual, present when she 
 entered. 
 
 1 Well, Miss Browne,' she said, advancing 
 towards me as I rose to receive her, ' and 
 how are you by this time ? ' 
 
 1 Much better, thank you/ I answered ; 
 1 very much better.' 
 
 She evidently liked this, for she went on 
 in a more genial tone. 
 
 ' I'm glad to hear it, as I wish you to 
 resume your duties as soon as possible. Your 
 place is but ill-supplied. When do you think 
 you can begin ? ' 
 
 ' At once, if you like, Miss Grimshaw.' 
 
 1 I'm glad to hear that also. Dr. Long' 
 
 vol. 1. K
 
 I30 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 — turning to my old friend, who had been 
 listening to the conversation in silence, with 
 his mouth arranged as if for whistling — 
 ' Dr. Long, when do you think Miss Browne 
 can return to her occupations ? « 
 
 The comical old mouth resumed its na- 
 tural position, and he replied very quickly 
 and sharply — 
 
 ' Not for a month, madam — or probably 
 more. Two will be nearer the mark.' 
 
 1 Oh, very well, Dr. Long,' said his irri- 
 tated listener, in a calm tone, but with a 
 dangerous gleam in her cold eyes. ' Of 
 course you know best, only she seems so 
 anxious to be at work again.' 
 
 ■ No, indeed ; I am not at all anxious,' 
 I exclaimed hastily. Then, recollecting my- 
 self, ' But if you wish it, Miss Grimshaw, I 
 can recommence my duties at once — I am 
 quite ' 
 
 1 At once ! ' the old gentleman inter- 
 rupted. ' At once ! Miss Grimshaw — ma- 
 dam—she's delirious aeain ! She must not
 
 MARY BROWNE. 131 
 
 even leave this room for six weeks at the 
 least ! ' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Miss Grimshaw again ; 
 1 1 have nothing more to say, Dr. Long. 
 Good morning to you ; ' and she sailed off 
 without taking any further notice of either of 
 us. 
 
 My dear old friend (I always think of 
 him as such, even then) now favoured me 
 with a most comical look and a few hurried 
 words of kindness, and then left me to my 
 thoughts, which, at the prospect of such a 
 long continuance of my calm, were more 
 pleasant than usual. 
 
 k 2
 
 132 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A fortnight passed away, and no repetition 
 of Miss Grimshaw; but at the end of that 
 time I had another visitor. It was Marion 
 Launceston. She came in so quietly one 
 afternoon, while I was watching the figures 
 in the conservatory, that her entrance was 
 unknown to me till she put her hand on 
 my shoulder. I started with surprise and 
 pleasure. 
 
 ' Well,' she said, taking both my hands in 
 hers, and looking me in the face. ' How are 
 you now ? Poor, pale little thing ! Come, 
 speak to me. What — won't you speak ? ' 
 
 I shook my head with tearful eyes, and, 
 releasing one of my hands, placed the fingers 
 on my lips. 
 
 1 Oh, I see. Well, I won't keep you in
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 33 
 
 suspense even for the pleasure of witnessing 
 your resolution. Miss Grimshaw's given 
 permission, and I've come over to have a 
 confab. Now, what do you say ? ' 
 
 ' I'm so glad,' I said, ■ and so surprised to 
 see you, that I don't know what to say.' 
 
 ' Then don't say anything,' she said, 
 kneeling down in front of my chair, and 
 putting her arms round me. ' Be silent, if 
 you are happier so ; but it makes me sad to 
 see you looking so pale and ill. How aston- 
 ished you were when you saw me — and not 
 speaking too ! Did you really think I had 
 defied the enemy, and appeared here and 
 endeavoured to induce you to talk, with- 
 out her sanction ? You give me credit 
 for a considerable amount of daring, at all 
 events.' 
 
 1 How did you manage to persuade Miss 
 Grimshaw to let you come ? ' 
 
 1 Why, I simply told her I wanted to see 
 you, and she merely said I could run over if 
 I liked. She has her weak moments, you
 
 134 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 know. The thing is to find out when they 
 are likely to come on.' 
 
 ' How long may you stay ? i 
 
 ' All the evening, if you like.' 
 
 ' Of course I like,' I said. 
 
 * I wanted to see you, and talk to you — to 
 find out what you're made of, as people call it.' 
 
 ' Can't you make me out ? ' I asked, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' I don't know. There are some difficult 
 points about you. How you surprised me 
 that night about the letter ! Do you know 
 that before that memorable evening, I 
 thought you one of the most timid, nervous 
 girls I had ever met with.' 
 
 * And you were right. I am very, very 
 timid.' 
 
 ' It looked like it.' 
 
 ' You don't understand/ I said hastily. 
 1 If you will just let me reason with you for a 
 moment ' 
 
 ' Reason — nonsense ! Women can't rea- 
 son, you know.'
 
 MARY BROWNE, 135 
 
 1 Can't they ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not. I should have imagined 
 you knew that by this time. You'll find it 
 out as the years go on, but perhaps will be 
 too proud to acknowledge it.' 
 
 1 I hope not,' I said. ' I like always to 
 be truthful.' 
 
 * It is a difficult thing to be, though. And 
 yet I hate untruth with all my soul, and 
 those who patronise it too. Miss Grimshaw, 
 for instance.' 
 
 1 Do you hate Miss Grimshaw ? And 
 does not she tell the truth ? ' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps it's rather strong to say I 
 hate her ; but she's what the children call " a 
 dreadful story-teller." I really believe she 
 never speaks the truth willingly. She prefers 
 a falsehood. There's a pleasant dash in it 
 that's exciting to her.' 
 
 The thought of the probable contents of 
 her letter to my mother came upon my heart 
 with a bitter pang. 
 
 ' There's only one person of my acquaint-
 
 I36 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ance who can compete with her in the art of 
 lying — excuse my plain-speaking — and that's 
 Mr. Harrop.' 
 
 * Mr. Harrop ? ' I said. ' Who is he ? ' 
 
 1 Don't you know who Mr. Harrop is ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, to be sure ! Now I think of it. 
 I've seen him. He was in the drawing-room 
 the night of my encounter with Miss Grim- 
 shaw. She called him Mr. Harrop.' 
 
 ' Did he hear your little chat with Miss 
 Grimshaw ? ' she asked, in astonishment. 
 
 ' Yes, he was in the room all the time.' 
 
 ' What did he say ? ' 
 
 I went through the scene as it had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she said, when my narrative was 
 completed. 'He is a strange man. You'll 
 know him better some day.' 
 
 ' Do you know much of him ? ' 
 
 ' My father has been acquainted with him 
 for many years. I have not often seen him, 
 but can remember him as long as I can re- 
 member anything.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 137 
 
 4 Do you like him ? ' 
 
 1 Not at all.' 
 
 ' Why not ? Has he ever been unkind to 
 you? 1 
 
 4 No, you silly child ! Of course not. It's 
 not that. I dislike his character. Besides, I 
 should never dislike a man because he had 
 injured or annoyed me personally, though I 
 should do so because of his being capable of 
 wilfully injuring or annoying anyone. Mr. 
 Harrop is not honest and straightforward. 
 There's only one thing I admire in him, and 
 that is, his courage and boldness.' 
 
 ' He has one good point, then ? ' 
 
 1 Dozens of them I've no doubt. But this 
 is what I mean. He and Miss Grimshaw 
 both tell untruths, yet even in the commission 
 of the error you almost admire Mr. Harrop, 
 because he brings this same quality of bold- 
 ness into play, while you despise Miss Grim- 
 shaw absolutely, simply because she has none 
 of it, and performs in a cowardly manner that 
 which cowardice dictates.'
 
 X3& MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ■ 
 
 ' Why, when Miss Grimshaw has a lie to 
 tell — not a common every-day one, you know, 
 they're as plentiful as pins — but a real good 
 long one without a particle of truth about it, 
 she goes at it as if she were afraid of it. She 
 generally prefaces it with a text of Scripture 
 as if to give her a fillip for the undertaking, 
 in the same way as some people will drink 
 wine before attempting anything they fear 
 doing, and usually ends with a lament on 
 the wickedness of the world in general, and 
 some few individuals in particular. Now 
 our friend Mr. Harrop is quite different.' 
 
 ' How so ? ' 
 
 1 Why, when he's got anything of the sort 
 on hand, he goes to work in such a decided 
 way that even if facts within your knowledge 
 distinctly prove the untruth of his words, you 
 seem to have some sort of belief in what he's 
 saying. This has happened to me several 
 times. I really think that he sometimes gets 
 to believe in the truth of his own falsehoods,
 
 MARY BROWNE. 139 
 
 at least while he is uttering them. None but 
 those who know him thoroughly ever doubt 
 his word, you know.' 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 4 Its a fact/ she said. ' He's never dis- 
 concerted by anything. I assure you that if 
 you, as a stranger to him, were to bring for- 
 ward the most incontestable proofs of the 
 untruth of anything he stated, he would still 
 persist in asserting its truth, and with such 
 pertinacity, and such apparent unconscious- 
 ness of the possibility of your doubting his 
 veracity (whatever your personal opinion 
 might be as to his want of knowledge of the 
 subject on which he was speaking), that you'd 
 probably end — for the time, you know — in 
 believing what he said, doubting the evidence 
 of facts, your own sense and judgment, and 
 everything else but what he chose to say. 
 Now, I can't help admiring him for his courage 
 and determination, and despising Miss Grim- 
 shaw for her indecision and cowardice. If 
 ever I make up my mind for a thorough
 
 I40 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 course of untruth, I'll set to work as he does 
 or not do it at all. He's real, you know, 
 even. in his lies. Miss Grimshaw is only a 
 sham.' 
 
 ' I don't think as you do,' I said. ' I don't 
 admire courage either moral or physical, when 
 exerted in a wrong cause.' 
 
 ' Yes, you do. You admire the courage, 
 but regret that it should be exerted in a cause 
 unworthy of it. That's it, is it not ? f 
 
 ' Yes ; that's what I mean.' 
 
 'Well, now we'll leave these worthy 
 people, and talk of something else. I never 
 like to keep long to one subject. How do 
 you like college life ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 ' And the noble army of students ? What 
 do you think of them ? ' 
 
 1 I know so little of them yet.' 
 
 * Well, you lose nothing. They are em- 
 phatically a collection of school-girls, most of 
 them fair specimens of the class. I'm a 
 school-girl too,' she added, laughing. ' I
 
 MARY BROWNE. I4I 
 
 don't wish to make myself out superior to my 
 neighbours, but there are so many unschool- 
 girl-like feelings about me that I don't feel as 
 if I were one. I seem to have lived so much 
 longer than anyone here.' 
 1 But you have not.' 
 
 1 In years — no. But people are not often 
 — or rather are not always — the same age as 
 their years. Don't laugh,' she said, laughing 
 herself though, ' I'll soon make you see what 
 I mean. Have you ever read Bailey's 
 "Festus"?' 
 
 1 I have never even heard of it.' 
 
 'Well, it is a poem. It is a lifetime of 
 deep thought put into English words. It 
 seemed, on my first reading it, to mature so 
 many of my own almost unformed ideas, that 
 I could not for some time divest myself of an 
 impression that I'd read it somewhere before. 
 Have you ever had that feeling when you 
 have been reading a book ? ' 
 
 1 I don't think I have.' 
 
 1 Now these lines in it,' she went on, 'ex-
 
 142 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 press what I mean .by saying that I seem to 
 have lived longer than anyone here — 
 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. 
 He lives most who thinks most.' 
 
 She repeated the words with a kind of 
 reverence. 
 
 ' Do you understand now what I mean ? ' 
 
 1 Yes, perfectly.' 
 
 ' Well, I think I've thought more than 
 most girls of my age — more than any of the 
 eirls here, at all events — so that I feel older 
 than any of them.' 
 
 ' You read a great deal, do you not ? ' I 
 asked, after a pause. 
 
 ' No, not much. Not so much as I should 
 wish. I know nothing, absolutely nothing. 
 My ignorance makes me hate myself.' 
 
 * Why, everyone thinks you so clever ! ' 
 
 * It's everyone's want of knowledge, then, 
 that makes everyone think so, not my at- 
 tainments. All things are heightened or 
 depressed by comparison. In comparison 
 with the acquirements of my companions
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 43 
 
 here, I may know much ; in comparison with 
 those who really have knowledge, I am in the 
 deepest ignorance. I know nothing at all.' 
 
 She looked so beautiful, and thoughtful, 
 and earnest, that I watched her in silence, not 
 knowing what to say. Catching the sound of 
 a piano in the distance, I asked her if she 
 liked music. 
 
 1 Yes ; but not all kinds. I like Beet- 
 hoven, and Mendelssohn, and Mozart. Their 
 works seem to me like great poems full of 
 passionate yearnings for the good and beauti- 
 ful — full of grand utterances of noble thoughts 
 and feelings. I don't believe,' she went on, 
 excitedly, ' that any mere language-poem can 
 be more replete with true poetry than good 
 music. It is not everyone who has the 
 power to understand it, you know. Most 
 people are caught by the tune of music and 
 the verse of poetry. To them, beyond the 
 tune and verse is — nothing. To me, beyond 
 the tune and verse is — all.' 
 
 1 I did not know you played.'
 
 144 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 I never play here. I don't learn, you 
 know. I had some lessons in harmony from 
 Walter MacFarren when I first came, and 
 then I went on by myself. It is a beautiful 
 study ; satisfying-, and perfectly beautiful. It 
 seems to me like the poetry of mathematics. 
 Don't let us speak any more of these things,' 
 she added, suddenly and quickly. ' Let us 
 talk of something else.' 
 
 I But why ? I like to hear you talk about 
 them.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' she said, ' speak of something 
 else ; something calm and quiet. How long 
 are you going to favour Miss Grimshaw with 
 your presence ? Do you know ? ' 
 
 ' About three years, I believe. And you ? ' 
 
 I I don't know at all,' she answered 
 hastily. ' It depends entirely upon myself. 
 I have no mother, you know. She died 
 when I was six months old. I like to be 
 here. At least, I would just at present 
 rather be here than anywhere else. But 
 never mind this. Tell me about yourself.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 45 
 
 1 What about myself ? ' 
 
 ' Anything. Everything. Why you 
 came here. All your life till the time you 
 came. All you can think of.' 
 
 I began at once, narrating the principal 
 events of my childhood, and many things 
 forgotten now, for ever. 
 
 I shall never forget the sympathy she 
 displayed for me during the recital of my 
 girlish troubles and griefs. I shall never 
 forget the kind grasp of her hand, growing 
 firmer as my tale went on. 
 
 When I had finished she was silent for a 
 long time, stroking my hair at intervals with 
 a fond caressing movement. We sat quiet 
 till the evening closed in. Then the old 
 nurse entered with the tea, pouring it out for 
 us, and congratulating me gaily on my visitor. 
 We insisted, I remember, upon having the 
 gas put out, and sat by the light of the fire, 
 watching the forms of our school-companions, 
 who were busy at their to-morrow's lessons 
 in the lighted study in the distance ; some 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 I46 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 one — for our special delectation no doubt, 
 Marion said — having neglected her duty of 
 putting down the blinds of that apartment. 
 Then we nestled together by the bright fire, 
 talking of many things, now long forgotten. 
 But her quick, eager looks, the flashing of 
 her great eyes, her passionate exclamations, 
 if by chance the conversation turned on a 
 subject to her of more than common interest, 
 I shall never forget. The remembrance of 
 that night, with the fire growing faint and dim 
 as we sat looking into it, till it quietly went 
 out ; for want of stirring, with her excited 
 voice growing lower with excitement, and 
 her rapid words more rapid, till at length she 
 grew silent with intense feeling, never rises 
 in my mind but it associates itself — why I 
 know not — with the remembrance of another 
 night, years distant from it, with such strange 
 poWer, that I can scarcely separate in my 
 thoughts — though widely different — the 
 several events of each. The time passed so 
 swiftly that when the old nurse entered, and
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 47 
 
 scolded us for letting the fire out, and ac- 
 quainted us with the fact that it was bedtime, 
 it seemed to me as if we had been together 
 but a few moments. 
 
 As my new friend rose to go, my Bible, 
 which had been on the chair by my side, fell 
 to the ground She picked it up and exam- 
 ined it. 
 
 ' I suppose you read this regularly, every 
 night and morning ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, smiling, ' every night and 
 morning since I've been in the infirmary ; 
 that is, since my senses came back to me.' 
 
 She stooped and kissed me. ' What a 
 dear, trusting little thing you are ! ' Then, 
 half-sighing, she went quietly away without 
 another word. 
 
 I sat thinking of her for a long, long time 
 before I went to bed that night. Then, 
 roused from my reverie by my careful nurse, 
 who always helped me to undress, I retired to 
 rest ; not forgetting my prayers, which were 
 
 L 2
 
 I48 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 longer than usual, ending them, as I in- 
 variably did, with a prayer for my mother. 
 
 A prayer for my mother, who — while her 
 child was praying tearfully that she might 
 sleep in peace — was sleeping, quietly and 
 calmly, the sleep that knows no waking !
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 49 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Everyone said how calmly I took it, and 
 ■everyone was right. Outwardly, no sign of 
 the grief and despair that crushed my heart. 
 Not even a relapse of my illness, which, I 
 heard afterwards, Miss Grimshaw considered 
 such a natural thing to expect, that she cited, 
 as an additional proof of my innate hardness 
 of heart, the fact that I did not fall ill again 
 on the spot. 
 
 The blow stunned me, numbing my mind, 
 as it were, for many months after ; but pro- 
 ducing no immediate effect of bitter cries and 
 tears. Hence, en suite of Miss Grimshaw, I 
 was denominated ' unaffectionate ' and ' un- 
 feeling ' by the majority of, if not by nearly 
 all, my schoolfellows, while my poor child- 
 heart was breaking.
 
 I50 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 To enter into details here respecting the 
 death of my mother would be as uninterest- 
 ing to the reader as painful to myself. Suf- 
 fice it to say that she died suddenly, and as 
 suddenly was the fact communicated to me. 
 Her brother-in-law wrote a letter to Miss 
 Grimshaw acquainting her with it, and re- 
 questing her to break the news to me as 
 gently as possible, as business matters denied 
 him the time necessary either for writing to 
 or seeing me. He went on to say, that for 
 the sake of his first wife, who had been my 
 mother's sister, he should continue to defray 
 the expenses of my education till three years 
 should have expired from the date of my 
 entrance into the college ; but at the expira- 
 tion of that term it would be necessary for 
 me to earn my own livelihood, and I must 
 then hope for no further assistance from him* 
 After giving me the first terrible information, 
 Miss Grimshaw presented me with this letter 
 to read. I read it, and returned it to her 
 without word or comment of any kind. The
 
 \ 
 MARY BROWNE. I 5 I 
 
 absence in it of the least expression of sym- 
 pathy with, or pity for, either the dead or the 
 living, filled me with such an awful sense of 
 loneliness that there was no room in my 
 heart, for the moment, for any other feeling. 
 Therefore I was silent; and Miss Grimshaw 
 left me in a state of indignation, openly ex- 
 pressing her conviction to me that I was ' the 
 most hardened girl it had ever been her mis- 
 fortune to meet with/ 
 
 I must not forget to mention that I was 
 not made acquainted with the fact of my 
 mother's death till she had been dead many 
 weeks. At the time it took place I was deli- 
 rious with brain-fever ; and on my recovering 
 my reason, Miss Grimshaw, by Dr. Longs 
 advice, delayed informing me of my loss, for 
 fear that a knowledge of it in my then state 
 of health might retard my recovery. So this 
 knowledge had been kept from me ; and 
 night after night I had prayed for my dead 
 mother — had prayed for her health and hap- 
 piness, and that she might soon know the
 
 152 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 truth about my error and forgive me the 
 past. Oh ! sweet love and forgiveness. Who 
 shall say that she was not near me even as I 
 spoke, causing both to descend upon me ! 
 
 But I could not feel this at the time. As 
 the days went on, the thought that my mother 
 had died believing the untruths which I had 
 now no doubt Miss Grimshaw had told her 
 concerning me — causing her last words to me 
 to be those of grief and reproach — filled me 
 with a pain such as I had never felt before. 
 It was long before the thought that she now 
 knew everything, and blamed me no longer, 
 came to me as a consoler ; but when it did 
 come, it brought with it by degrees such 
 peace and comfort, that at length I felt as 
 calm and free from grief as if she were still 
 on earth to love and guide me. It was not 
 till the first novelty of this feeling had worn 
 off that I began to realise how strong and 
 well I was getting, and that in all probability 
 I had but a short time longer of idleness 
 before me. And such was really the case.
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 53 
 
 About three weeks after that fatal letter had 
 been put into my hand, I received a visit 
 from Miss Thomson, the head-governess. 
 She brought an intimation from Miss Grim- 
 shaw that that lady expected me to resume 
 my duties the following morning. I em- 
 ployed the last evening of my stay in the 
 infirmary in inditing and writing a long letter 
 to my uncle — being the first and last I ever 
 wrote to him — in which I asked particulars 
 of my mother's death, and thanked him for 
 his liberality to me. Whether this letter 
 ever reached him I know not. I know that 
 I placed it in the letter-box with my own 
 hands — unsealed, according to rule — on the 
 next general letter-day. I also know that I 
 never received a reply to it. 
 
 It was a bright and beautiful morning in 
 early spring when I left my sick room, and 
 a fresh sense of life and hope came over me 
 when I felt the sweet air on my face. My 
 companions welcomed me with kind nods 
 and smiles ; but, on my part, there was only
 
 154 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 one I cared to see, and her I had seen only 
 a day or two previously. She had been with 
 me nearly every evening since I had heard 
 of my mother's death ; seldom speaking to 
 me, only holding my hand, and showing in 
 every silent way her sympathy and affection 
 for me. How little then we either of us 
 thought what urgent need for sympathy and 
 love between us the future had in store ! 
 
 As I went into the study she came up to 
 me, and whispered a few words of welcome ; 
 but while she was speaking a bell rang, which, 
 signalling me to my music-room, separated us 
 at once. I got through the day well, and 
 felt little the worse for my work ; the restored 
 privilege of communication with my compa- 
 nions, which had been acceded to me by Miss 
 Grimshaw, through the medium of Miss 
 Thomson, probably assisting to bring about 
 this desirable result. 
 
 Days and weeks passed by, and beyond 
 a general sense of weariness and fatigue, 
 which attacked me about the third day after
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 55 
 
 first resuming my duties, I experienced no 
 ill effects from my recent indisposition and 
 my confined sedentary life. But this same 
 feeling of weariness never afterwards wholly 
 left me during my residence at the college. 
 It seemed with me sometimes even in my 
 sleep. At first I attributed it solely to weak- 
 ness incidental on my protracted illness, but 
 its long continuance induced me at last to 
 put it down to what latterly was, no doubt, its 
 only cause, viz., want of fresh air, sufficient 
 outdoor exercise, and mental rest — three 
 requisites to good health, to which I was 
 almost an absolute stranger during my stay 
 with Miss Grimshaw. With the exception 
 of the few weeks I spent in the infirmary, 
 from the date of my entrance into the college 
 to the day of my leaving it, I led an uninter- 
 rupted life of toil, with little or no ameliora- 
 tion of my burden. Even in the vacations, 
 the extra care of those pupils who remained 
 devolving upon me, I had no leisure. If 
 anything, my duties were harder and more
 
 I56 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 numerous than during term time. The plea- 
 sures of most other girls of my age in my 
 position were unknown to me ; heard of oc- 
 casionally, but never experienced. For me 
 there were no intervals of rest and happiness. 
 It became such a natural thing at last for 
 ' that poor Polly Browne ' to stay the holi- 
 days that my more fortunate companions 
 came to look upon it as an institution ; and 
 I believe had it suddenly happened that 
 some other roof had given me shelter for a 
 time, it would have been resented, at all 
 events by Miss Grimshaw, as an infraction 
 of some unpublished rule. When the end of 
 the term arrived, all the laughing faces would 
 cluster around me, eager voices telling of ex- 
 pected pleasures in joyful homes ; while I, 
 homeless and desolate, heard with inexpres- 
 sible hopelessness of the happiness which 
 would be mine no more. At such times the 
 sweet glimpses of the long-past days seemed 
 so terrible to me that I shrank from them, as 
 though they were in reality the mocking,
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 57 
 
 haunting spectres which they seemed to me 
 to be. At such times some long-forgotten 
 sentence which had fallen from my mother's 
 lips, having reference perhaps to some house- 
 hold care or pleasure, some long-forgotten 
 scene, in which the tiny child I once had been 
 had borne a part, would revive in my memory, 
 would sound in my ears, would be printed on 
 my mind with terrible strength and clearness, 
 never to be hushed or erased for days. At 
 such times I would steal away to my room, 
 and pray earnestly that the hour might soon 
 come when my home might be an eternal one, 
 where no unhappiness could ever come. At 
 such times, when the laughing faces had dis- 
 appeared, I experienced a kind of recklessness 
 of feeling, which rendered me utterly indif- 
 ferent to what might happen, causing me to 
 perform my duties with a sort of listless 
 apathy, which would draw down upon me the 
 fierce indignation of Miss Grimshaw, but to 
 which she would at length give in, as to 
 something it was entirely out of her power
 
 I58 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 to subdue, as truly it was. On the return of 
 my companions my serenity would come back, 
 and continue till they were again about to 
 leave. Whether she had heard of these fits 
 or not I never knew, but at the end of the 
 summer term, during my second year at the 
 college, Marion Launceston one day suddenly 
 announced to me her intention of not leaving 
 for the vacation. 
 
 ' What ! Do you mean to stay here ? ' I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes. Why not ? ! 
 
 ' But w 7 hy in the world should you ? I 
 thought your papa had arranged for you 
 to go to Hastings with the Glenns.' 
 
 ' Did you indeed ? Well, I'm not going, 
 you see. Now, it's of no use talking/ 
 as I was about to speak, ' because it's all 
 settled. I can't very conveniently invite 
 you to spend your holidays in my society out 
 of the college, so I have arranged to pass the 
 time with you in it. Does the idea please 
 you ?'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 59 
 
 ' Oh ! Marion. But I can't bear that you 
 should lose your liberty for my sake.' 
 
 ' Don't talk so absurdly. Lose my liberty 
 indeed ! I go where I like and I stay where 
 I like, and for the present I like to stay here ; 
 so that can't be losing my liberty,' 
 
 ' But what will your papa say ? ' 
 
 1 His pleasure is mine. He never opposes 
 my wishes. I seldom see him, you know, in 
 the holidays. If I went to Hastings he would 
 not be there. The fact is, Mary,' she went 
 on in a grave tone, l papa has a strange mix- 
 ture of feeling for me. He's unhappy when 
 I am with him, because I remind him of my 
 mother — and he's unhappy when I'm not 
 with him, because then he has no one to 
 remind him of her. At least, that is his 
 explanation. Can you understand such a 
 state of feeling ? ' 
 
 1 Partly; I said. 
 
 ' Well, / can't. However, you see, it 
 cannot matter really much to him what I 
 please to do with myself. He is very kind,
 
 l6o MARY BROWNE. 
 
 though,' she added, sighing. ' When he saw 
 I did not wish to go to Hastings, he offered 
 to take me to the Continent with him — he 
 started last night ; but I knew he did not 
 want me much, and you wanted me very 
 much indeed ; so I elected to stay here.' 
 * How sorry lam!' 
 
 ' No, you're not. You're very glad. It's 
 a sad thing to get into the habit of telling 
 untruths. It is an untruth, and I won't be 
 contradicted ! ' 
 
 So she stayed. They were the happiest 
 days I had spent since my father's death. 
 With her usual cleverness, my friend ar- 
 ranged my vacation duties for me in such 
 a methodical manner that they appeared 
 lighter to me ; and those she could ease by 
 sharing with me — which were few indeed — 
 she did. But still the weary tired feeling, 
 to which I had now become thoroughly ac- 
 customed, never left me during my waking 
 hours, even for a moment. 
 
 I learnt more of my dear helpmate in
 
 MARY BROWNE. 101 
 
 those few weeks, than all the past had ever 
 taught me ; the unchecked passion of her 
 wayward nature, changing my admiration at 
 times into a feeling of awe — not unmixed 
 with a vague dread — though of what, I knew 
 not. There was an indefiniteness about her 
 ideas, or rather, perhaps, in her mode, of 
 expressing them, which mystified me so 
 much that I seldom seemed able to com- 
 prehend fully what she really thought or 
 meant. But I know that at the end of the 
 month we spent together, I was more than 
 ever convinced that she was a most extra- 
 ordinary and remarkable girl, and that such 
 must be the opinion of all who knew, or 
 would ever know her, as well as I did. 
 
 However, those happy weeks came at 
 last to an end, and the dull routine of school- 
 life again commenced. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 1 62 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The dull routine of school-life again com- 
 menced — to continue, alas ! for many dreary- 
 months ; months to me of the same old pain 
 and weariness, no pleasure in them, and no 
 hope. 
 
 I have often thought since, as indeed I 
 thought vaguely at the time, what an ex- 
 traordinary system of education was that 
 pursued at Victoria College. I was not alone, 
 either, in my opinion on the subject. Marion 
 Launceston had much the same ideas as 
 myself respecting it, though no doubt her 
 perceptions were clearer and more defined 
 than mine. The first grand rule of this 
 system appeared to be, to cram as much 
 mixed knowledge into the immature human 
 brain as it was capable of holding. The
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 63 
 
 second, that, granting that information of any 
 kind is desirable, it is not of the slightest 
 importance that it should be in any case 
 adapted to the sex, age, or capacity of its 
 receiver. There were other points in it 
 equally peculiar and irrational, but these two 
 were the most prominent. 
 
 1 You are quite right, Mary/ said my 
 friend to me one evening when we were 
 seated in the study, waiting for Miss Grim- 
 shaw's entrance to prayers, which for some 
 reason or other was delayed : ' You are quite 
 right, It is all wrong, all wrong entirely. 
 The poor girls here, as you say, not only 
 get as a rule so overworked, that their senses 
 grow confused and their health indifferent, 
 but in most instances the subjects they study 
 are not adapted to their capacity or class 
 of mind. This is how the mistake ends. A 
 girl with average, or rather mediocre ability, 
 has rather less power of general comprehen- 
 sion when her education is " completed," than 
 
 she would have had at the same age if she 
 M 2
 
 164 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 had never been troubled with such so-called 
 " education " at all ; while, on the other hand, 
 one with more than average capacity fre- 
 quently develops into a sort of man-minded 
 woman ; a being,' she went on laughing, ' not 
 really capable of doing a man's work, but 
 with a desire to do it ; and worse still, with a 
 total inaptitude for, a thorough ignorance of, 
 and too often a strong distaste for, the hum- 
 bler duties of a woman's life. Like me, for 
 instance.' 
 
 'No! Not like you, Marion. You would 
 always be glad to do your duty, whatever it 
 might be.' 
 
 ' My dear/ she said, laughing, ' if my 
 duty were to take the form of mending socks 
 and shirts, making puddings and pies, su- 
 perintending a maid-of-all-work, or cooking 
 a steak and potatoes in a case of emergency, 
 I not only shouldn't be glad to do it, but 
 the probability is I shouldn't attempt to do 
 it; and I'm only one of a class, you know. 
 What can you expect of young ladies who
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 65 
 
 have only studied such simple subjects as 
 natural philosophy, algebra, mathematics, 
 &c. ?' 
 
 4 Oh, Marion ! you are making fun.' 
 
 ' I'm not, indeed.' 
 
 ' But do you think that girls brought up 
 here can never turn out well ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, yes. I suppose they not only can, 
 but actually do, sometimes. But such an 
 exception to the two results I have spoken 
 of, as a girl really developing into a clever 
 womanly -minded woman, is rare indeed. 
 There is, of course, such a case now and 
 then, but very, very seldom/ 
 
 1 Then you think the college is all wrong, 
 altogether ? ' 
 
 1 That's rather sweeping, Miss Mary ; I 
 don't think I said that. Now listen to the 
 words of wisdom ! Of course no system of 
 education can be adapted to all minds, but 
 least of all, I should say, can this system of 
 Miss Grimshaw's : for it pre-supposes the 
 possession by its recipients of a kind of
 
 1 66 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 sweeping perception, as powerful and acute 
 as comprehensive — a sort of chewing-the-cud 
 ability, if I may so call it — a capacity for sepa- 
 rating the various kinds of knowledge forced 
 in confusion upon the brain, into certain 
 distinct facts to be ruminated upon at leisure, 
 that they may bring forth good fruit in the 
 end. Now, not one girl in five hundred pos- 
 sesses this perception and ability, and, there- 
 fore, for the four hundred and ninety-nine 
 this system rather decreases than helps to 
 strengthen any natural intellectual power.' 
 
 ' Then you wouldn't have all girls taught 
 in the same way ? Or to do the same thing ? 
 Or to attempt the same quantity of study in 
 proportion to ' 
 
 1 Of course not,' she interrupted, ' any more 
 than I would have all animals trained to the 
 same work. It would be ridiculous to harness 
 a dog to a heavy carriage, and try to compel 
 the poor creature to draw it ; it would be ab- 
 surd to endeavour to teach a horse to follow 
 his master up and down stairs, all over a
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 67 
 
 house ; yet either attempt would scarcely be 
 more senseless than the attempt to force a 
 girl of one class of intellect into performing 
 the tasks fitted only for a girl of another class 
 of intellect.' 
 
 ' Yes. But I don't exactly see how it is 
 all to be remedied.' 
 
 'Well, one great reform in the matter 
 would be effected by beginning things at the 
 beginning, if I may so express it. Now, we 
 will take a young girl coming here to be edu- 
 cated. Say she is twelve years of age, can 
 read tolerably, write a little, and has other- 
 wise an imperfect knowledge of the rudiments 
 of the general subjects of study. You know 
 what is at once done with this unhappy child. 
 With no reference whatever to the amount 
 or class of knowledge she has already ac- 
 quired, or is supposed to have acquired, she 
 is put into a certain form, consisting of child- 
 ren of about her own age, all of various abi- 
 lity and in different stages of education. She is 
 probably plunged at once — say, for example,
 
 1 68 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 into the civil wars of Charles the First ; the 
 wars of the first Roman triumvirate ; the 
 wars of the Roses ; the wars of the Athenians 
 and Spartans ; the wars of the Philistines 
 and Israelites ; the minute geography of 
 Singapore ; the mysteries of syntax and 
 prosody ; natural philosophy ; the use of the 
 globes. All these subjects, to say nothing 
 of a dozen others, she is crammed with, con- 
 stantly, first a dose of one, and then of 
 another. And this, you must remember, 
 when, in many instances, she has never, be- 
 fore joining the class, even heard the names 
 of the people who are fighting, scarcely 
 knows the general divisions of the world, or 
 the parts of speech, or that a heavy weight 
 can be lifted in any other way than by taking 
 it up in the hands. Can you wonder that, in 
 a few months' time, she becomes what most 
 of the girls here are, dull and unintelligent, 
 with no clear ideas or reliable information on 
 any one subject ? ' 
 
 1 But what would you do with them, then?'
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 69 
 
 ' Why, this is what I'd do. Whatever 
 they had in hand to study, I'd make them, 
 as I said before, begin at the beginning ; 
 or, if they really knew a little thoroughly 
 of the subject, they should begin at the point 
 where their thorough knowledge ceased. I 
 should then go on gradually, connecting each 
 lesson and event with the last to which 
 attention had been directed ; thus making 
 the acquisition of knowledge a source of 
 interest, not trouble, to them. I should also 
 teach them but one subject at a time : I 
 mean, one morning, for example, entirely 
 history, the next geography, and so on, 
 instead of making them repeat from memory 
 a variety of short lessons on various subjects ; 
 and what I taught them I would teach them, 
 as much as possible, verbally, and so tho- 
 roughly — however slowly they might learn 
 — that when the class was over the facts in- 
 culcated should be as much facts to their 
 minds, and in their memories, as facts in 
 themselves. By pursuing this course, I
 
 I70 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 should see my pupils gradually getting clear- 
 headed instead of growing dull and obtuse ; 
 and not only would this be the case, but 
 they themselves, in a very short period, 
 would be able by a slight effort to gain ten 
 times the amount of knowledge in a given 
 time that a muddle-headed girl could. In 
 fact such a system as this — of course I mean 
 if worked out in all its details, and properly 
 pursued — would answer a great moral pur- 
 pose, by training a girl's mind into a distinct 
 perception of things in general, and into 
 a habit of reasoning, to which the impul- 
 siveness of her nature is ever an enemy.' 
 ' How did you learn all this, Marion ? ' 
 ' I didn't learn it, dear. How could I 
 learn it ? Anyone could see it who took 
 the trouble to think. But people don't take 
 the trouble to think. Children must be 
 educated, and parents go about the matter 
 with their eyes shut. With the idea, per- 
 haps, that something has been deficient in 
 their own education, and that that something
 
 MARY BROWNE. lj\ 
 
 will be remedied in that of their children, 
 because, as they vaguely remark, " Educa- 
 tion is not what it was ; " or with a laudable 
 desire that their daughters in the matter of 
 education shall have the best article that 
 money can buy ; they send them to what 
 are called high-class schools, more or less 
 expensive (the most expensive being in 
 almost every instance considered the most 
 desirable), merely to have their brains con- 
 fused, and their perception dulled. It never 
 enters the minds of such people even to 
 endeavour to find out whether their children 
 are receiving those benefits which they are 
 paying heavy sums of money in order that 
 they shall receive. They take it all on 
 trust. They would not think of patronising 
 a tradesman without feeling satisfied as to 
 the genuineness and first-class quality of his 
 goods, yet in this most important matter of 
 education they place a blind and senseless 
 faith in a person of another class, without 
 considering for one moment what the con-
 
 172 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 sequences must be should such confidence 
 prove to be misplaced, as in so very many 
 instances it is.' 
 
 ' Even I, Marion, know that a great 
 many people teach who are not qualified to 
 do so/ 
 
 1 My dear, teaching is a great art. The 
 power of effectually imparting knowledge to 
 others is an accomplishment that can no 
 more be acquired indiscriminately by every- 
 body than can a first-class execution as a 
 pianist, artist, &c. And yet any girl thinks 
 she can perform the duties of a governess 
 if she possesses the ability to read her own 
 language, and spell and write it passably. 
 Young women nowadays set up schools, 
 and undertake the duties of teachers who 
 are, in reality, in as great need of education 
 themselves as the unfortunate children en- 
 trusted to their care. I think that there 
 ought not only to be institutions especially 
 dedicated to the examination of women 
 desirous of engaging in tuition, but also
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 73 
 
 that no woman should be permitted to teach 
 at all without a registered certificate of her 
 competency. Indeed I think that people 
 who are fitting themselves for the task of 
 teaching ought to be taught how to teach. 
 This, however, is perhaps slightly Utopian. 
 Don't you see that if girls were not per- 
 mitted to teach without possessing these cer- 
 tificates, great good would be effected in 
 more than one way ? In the first place, the 
 number of governesses by profession in 
 England would be about one-twentieth of 
 what it now is ; and, in consequence, they 
 would be as a class better paid and treated 
 more in accordance with their true position 
 than is at present the case. And, secondly, 
 hundreds of poor girls who now for the sake 
 of the superior social standing it affords elect 
 to gain their livelihood by tuition, receiving 
 in many instances, when engaged in families 
 or schools, less than the wages of a superior 
 servant (though most probably much more 
 than they are really worth as instructresses),
 
 174 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 would thankfully accept employment more 
 suited to their ability and acquirements, and 
 would ultimately reap the benefit of such a 
 course in an improved income, greater liberty 
 of action, and comparative freedom from 
 anxiety. I suppose Parliament is too grand 
 and busy to trouble about this kind of thing, 
 but certainly something ought to be done to 
 remedy the present state of affairs — at least 
 so it seems to my girl's apprehension. You 
 see, Mary, it strikes at the very root of 
 things. If all middle-class girls were pro- 
 perly and thoroughly educated, the next 
 generation of middle-class women would be 
 very different from the present frivolous one ; 
 and, in most instances, these women, in their 
 turn, would see that their children had the 
 same advantages which they had themselves 
 enjoyed. Look, besides, what an incalcu- 
 lable benefit it is to boys to have an intelli- 
 gent, thorough-minded, clear-headed mother ! 
 I really do think/ continued my friend, 
 laughing, ' that if I had the management of
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 75 
 
 it all, the third generation from this would, 
 mainly through the difference between its 
 mothers and its great-grandmothers, be a race 
 of giants, like the men of old — I don't mean 
 physical giants, you know, but mental.' 
 
 1 Time will do wonders, Marion. Who 
 knows what reforms may take place in 
 everything during the next fifty years ? ' 
 
 1 Yes,' she said ; ' time works wonders, as 
 you say. In this, as in so many other things, 
 Mary, we must be content to wait.' 
 
 ' I wish such good days for poor gover- 
 nesses would come in my time/ I said, ' such 
 days as you have been imagining, Marion. 
 I have nothing to look forward to. I am 
 one of the common ones. I know a little 
 bit here and there, and shall, I dare say, at 
 my luckiest when I leave here, get 30/. a 
 year and my board and lodging for the rest 
 of my life.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she said gaily, ' but I have a prince 
 in store for you. You will not always be a 
 governess. He'll come when you are least
 
 I76 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 expecting him, and clothe your life with 
 beauty, and turn the dark spots into brightest 
 gold.' 
 
 Oh my dear, dear friend ! The tender- 
 ness and the sweetness of your face, can I 
 ever forget ! 
 
 ' Not for me, Marion,' I said, smiling back 
 to her — ' not for me. This happiness will 
 be for you. I shall come and stay with you, 
 and be the old maiden aunt whom everyone 
 laughs at and everyone loves, and I shall 
 die in your arms' (oh, false, strange words, 
 whose error seemed then to me like distant 
 truth) — when my hair is white, and you too 
 are old, but still beautiful,' I added, looking 
 at her fondly. ' You must always be beau- 
 tiful — in that you can never change.' 
 
 ' Never's a long day,' she said gaily. ' But 
 do I really look so well, Mary ? I don't 
 mean " beautiful," you know, that is nonsense, 
 but well and strong ? ' 
 
 ' You look the picture of health — and 
 happiness too, I was going to say.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 77 
 
 ' Well, I am happy. I manage to amuse 
 myself here in some way. And I always 
 feel well, whatever I look. You see I don't 
 overwork myself, as so many here are com- 
 pelled to do.' 
 
 ■ But you seem always reading and 
 studying.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I don't do more than is good 
 for me — that's the point. I take care of that. 
 A great part of the evil of Miss Grimshaw's 
 system consists in the "quantity" of her 
 education, if I may so call it. She crams 
 her pupils with more than they can digest. 
 They could not manage it even if the quality 
 was as superior as it is inferior. Do you 
 see how tired and languid most of the girls 
 here look ? You look so yourself, poor 
 child ; you always look so, though in your 
 case it is not the result of too much study, 
 but of too much teaching. Before the day 
 is over you all seem half dead, and when 
 you rise in the morning you're not much 
 better. All the life and spirit is crushed out 
 vol. 1. N
 
 I78 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 of you. This is nothing but the result of 
 unceasing mental effort, which, of itself, will 
 injure permanently the strongest constitution. 
 Don't you remember what Mr. Thompson 
 said last Wednesday in his lecture on 
 ■« Health "?' 
 
 * I do, now you speak of it.' 
 
 ' Well, you may be sure he was right. I 
 remember a girl who was here before you 
 came — Alice Brownsmith. She went home 
 ill, and died in a few days. Naturally deli- 
 cate, the amount of study she had to under- 
 take daily produced some affection of the 
 brain. She died, Mary — poor girl — and so 
 young to die ! She was just fifteen. I re- 
 member her quite well. She was always in 
 trouble with her lessons and classes, and came 
 to me often to help her ; but, in spite of all 
 that I could do for her, she seldom succeeded 
 in completing her tasks. I've seen her night 
 after night sitting crying over her books, with 
 her face buried in her hands. Some of the 
 girls would make fun of her, and some would
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 79 
 
 pity her ; but as she was not the only one 
 who " watered her lessons," as the girls call 
 it, no one took much notice of her troubles 
 till she had to be sent home ill.' 
 
 'What did Miss Grimshaw say to that?' 
 
 1 Nothing before us, you may be sure ; 
 but that the governesses and the girls had 
 plenty to say on the quiet, I need not tell 
 you. How we found out she was dead I 
 don't know, but we got hold of it somehow, 
 and then the opinion of the college was ex- 
 pressed pretty freely. Everyone said she 
 had been simply " worked to death." ' 
 
 ' How shocking ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 1 You may well say so. It would have 
 done Miss Grimshaw good to have heard all 
 that was said in detail. But she only got the 
 echoes of it, you see, and they did not make 
 much impression on her.' 
 
 ' I suppose not. It would take a great 
 deal to make an impression on her heart.' 
 
 ' You are quite right. But to give her 
 her due, I have no doubt that she was much 
 
 N 2
 
 l8o MARY BROWNE. 
 
 troubled about this affair. You see, it's the 
 system that's wrong. She pursues it because 
 it's a money-getting one, and also because it 
 entails little trouble. Very likely, before that 
 poor girl's death, she never imagined that 
 over-cramming could do harm. This is how 
 it is, you see. This is a large establish- 
 ment, and the conductress of it considers it 
 necessary to have a certain code of rules on 
 the subject of education. These rules are 
 applied indiscriminately to all its student 
 inmates. They must be kept. One is : — 
 " Each class has its work, which must be per- 
 formed." Now, the consequence of the en- 
 forcing of this especial rule was poor Alice 
 Brownsmith's death. Had Miss Grimshaw 
 foreseen this consequence, she would doubt- 
 less have relaxed the rule ; but, unfortunately, 
 she did not foresee it.' 
 
 ' But there's the same rule now, Marion/ 
 
 'Yes. After this unhappy affair it was 
 
 modified, but now it is as stringent as ever 
 
 again ; and I don't suppose that anything but
 
 MARY BROWNE. l8l 
 
 another death, or something else equally 
 lamentable happening in consequence of its 
 enforcement, would induce Miss Grimshaw to 
 relax it again, however slightly.' 
 
 ' It's very dreadful,' I said. 
 
 She was silent for a few moments, then 
 her eyes falling on a little girl seated near us, 
 she turned to me suddenly. 
 
 1 Do you see that child, Mary ? — the little 
 one with the light hair ? ' 
 
 ' The one with the book ? — yes. I've 
 been watching her, on and off, for some time.' 
 
 ' Well, Miss Grimshaw cites her as a 
 specimen of the success of her plan of educa- 
 tion. Do you know her at all ? ' 
 
 ' No. She is not among my pupils. I 
 have often noticed, but never spoken to her.' 
 
 1 Amy, come here.' 
 
 She had to speak three times before the 
 little head was raised. Then the grave, 
 thoughtful face, so old-looking and unchild- 
 like that, in my first close observation of it, it 
 startled and distressed me, was turned towards
 
 1 82 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 us for a moment, then back again to the 
 book with a deprecating gesture. 
 
 Marion rose and went to her. 
 
 ' Put away your book, Amy, and come 
 and talk to me a little. You mustn't have 
 books, you know, when it's after prayer-time. 
 It's against rules.' 
 
 ' Yes, but I don't know it perfectly.' 
 
 ' Never mind. Put it away, dear, when 
 I tell you.' 
 
 The child obeyed now (but with a tiny 
 sigh), fondling the hand which had taken 
 hers, and looking up into the beautiful face 
 with a loving trustful expression on her own. 
 As Marion led her towards me I noticed the 
 little creature's large grey eyes had a pain- 
 fully intense and intelligent look. 
 
 ' Amy,' said my friend, placing the child 
 on her knee, and clasping her arms caressingly 
 round the slight figure, ' haven't you a little 
 time to spare for* me, Amy ? What were you 
 so busy about ? ' 
 
 ■ I wasn't very busy,' she answered; 'only
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 83 
 
 I can't learn those pages and pages for the 
 French class. It's so hard, and my head 
 aches so, and I'm such a little thing.' She 
 looked at me earnestly as she spoke. 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, ' you're a very little thing. 
 How old are you, dear ? ' 
 
 ' I'm just turned nine.' 
 
 'As old as that,' I said. 'You don't 
 look so.' 
 
 She smiled faintly. ' No, but I'm turned 
 nine — just turned, am I not, Marion ? ' 
 
 The quaint familiarity with which she 
 addressed one so much older than herself 
 made me laugh. 
 
 1 Why do you laugh ? ' she exclaimed 
 quickly, glancing at me with a sharp, eager 
 look, not giving time for her other question 
 to be answered. Then in the same breath she 
 tried to slip away from the kind arms which, 
 for all her struggling, only held her closer. 
 
 1 Do let me go and finish learning my 
 class, dear. Miss Grimshaw won't be in yet. 
 Oh ! my head aches so ! '
 
 184 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' No ; you're not going,' said Marion. 
 Then putting her hand hastily on the child's 
 forehead, ' Why, it's burning, Amy ! ' 
 
 'Yes, I'm so tired; but do let me go, 
 you dear darling,' said the quaint little voice. 
 
 ' No,' I say. ' I want you to talk to this 
 young lady here.' 
 
 ! I don't want to talk to her,' she replied, 
 looking at me doubtingly ; ' she was laughing 
 at me just now.' 
 
 'I didn't mean to laugh, Amy,' I said, 
 4 and am very sorry that I did so. Won't 
 you forgive me ? ' 
 
 I Oh yes. I don't mind.' This with a 
 little sigh and another quick glance towards 
 me. 
 
 * What makes you so tired, dear ? ! I 
 asked. 
 
 I I don't know,' she replied hesitatingly. 
 * I've so many lessons to do. Perhaps it's 
 that.' 
 
 ' Do you like learning lessons, Amy ? ' 
 « Yes — No — sometimes I do. You see
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 85 
 
 papa says he wants me to be clever — and I 
 want to be clever too — but sometimes when 
 I'm very tired, as tired as I am to-night, and 
 my head aches so, I only wish one thing, 
 and that is,' she went on, with her little lip 
 trembling, ' and that is that I could be with 
 mamma.' 
 
 ' And where is that, Amy ? ' 
 
 She gave a sudden cry, threw her arms 
 round Marion's neck, and burst into pas- 
 sionate tears. I noticed now, for the first 
 time, the deep mourning dress she wore. I 
 glanced at Marion. There was such a cu- 
 rious expression on her face that without 
 speaking to her, I turned again to the child 
 with a choking sensation in my throat. 
 
 ' Amy, dear, don't cry like this,' I said. 
 ' Hush, darling! Dry your eyes and speak 
 to me.' 
 
 ' It's only for a little while,' she said ; ' it's 
 only for a little while ; I shall leave off in a 
 minute. I shouldn't mind, only I'm so tired 
 — so very dreadfully tired.'
 
 1 86 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 We sat still without speaking, till the 
 quick sobs grew less and less, and at last 
 ceased altogether. Then my friend quietly 
 raised the poor little face, and kissed it once, 
 earnestly. The child returned her caress, 
 and kissing me too, without raising her eyes, 
 slipped away from us, and in a moment was 
 again seated at her book, studying as if her 
 life depended upon the effort, instead of, as 
 was possibly the case, on the discontinuance 
 of such efforts. Marion turned to me. 
 
 ' That, by way of illustration/ she said 
 quietly. ' Now, we'll talk of something else/ 
 
 I often think now, how long those days 
 seemed to me in passing — how short when 
 passed. At the end of the second year of 
 my stay at the college, an event of great im- 
 portance to me happened. Marion Launceston 
 left. The blow — for it was a blow to me — 
 came suddenly and unexpectedly. Her 
 father returned to England expressly for the 
 purpose of taking her abroad with him, acting
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 87 
 
 upon an idea he had conceived that it was 
 necessary for her to ' see the world,' as he 
 termed it. He wished her to accompany 
 him on a long foreign tour. His letter on 
 the subject arrived one autumn morning, and 
 the next afternoon he called and took his 
 daughter away with him. I had scarcely 
 time to say to her one word of parting — 
 though Miss Grimshaw relaxed rules on the 
 occasion so far as to allow half-an-hour's re- 
 cess for the purpose of enabling us all to 
 wish her good-bye. As I bade her a hurried 
 farewell, I put into her hands a small bible 
 which my poor mother had given me on my 
 sixth birthday. I felt that I must give her 
 something that I valued, and I gave her this 
 willingly, though it caused me intense pain to 
 part with it. She took it without remark of 
 any kind. 
 
 Often since then have I seen , her in my 
 dreams as she stood in the study that after- 
 noon, the warm autumn sun shining on her 
 face, the tearful eyes gazing at her, and the
 
 1 88 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 little children clinging to her dress, unwilling 
 to believe that she was really going to leave 
 them, their 'dear, kind Marion,' they said, 
 their 'dear, loving, school-mamma.' 
 
 ' This is the purest kind of love, Mary, 
 is it not ? ' she said, smiling as she kissed the 
 upturned faces—' the love of little children.' 
 
 So have I often seen her in my dreams ! 
 Never, O dear sister — with any stain upon 
 thy sweet womanhood, always with that pure 
 love encircling thee, the love of little children, 
 next in purity and holiness to the love of the 
 angels ! 
 
 She was gone ! and all lamented for her 
 as for a friend they would never see again. 
 For myself, I simply felt as though death had 
 once more struck at all that was dear to me, 
 making my future life a contest that must be 
 fought alone !
 
 MARY BROWNE. 189 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 After Marion's departure, nothing happened 
 to break the dull monotony of my life at the 
 college. Week after week, month after month, 
 I continued in the same dreary round of duty, 
 growing each day more careless of my fate 
 as the end drew near. I knew that at the 
 expiration of the three years, during which 
 my uncle had promised to defray my educa- 
 tional expenses, I should probably have to 
 find another home, but how or where to seek 
 for it I knew not. The thought occasionally 
 would cross my mind that I ought to be 
 doing something, that I ought to be endea- 
 vouring to secure for myself some asylum for 
 the future, but still the days went on, and I 
 did nothing. The last term of the three 
 years was already far advanced, before I
 
 190 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 seemed, as it were, to wake up thoroughly, 
 and realise the necessity for early action. 
 But how was I to commence operations ? I 
 actually had not an idea. There was no 
 time now for me to obtain advice from Marion 
 Launceston, for my last letters, addressed to 
 her at some post-office in Italy, had evidently 
 failed to reach her hands ; as but a fortnight 
 previously an epistle from her had been re- 
 ceived by me, bearing no fresh address to 
 which I might write (evidently there had been 
 some mistake in the former one), in which 
 she complained of my not having answered 
 her last two letters. In several previous 
 epistles she had questioned me as to my 
 future prospects and intentions, offering to 
 assist me in any way possible, urging me to 
 decide upon some course of action without 
 delay, as by so doing I should have more 
 time for endeavouring to carry my plans into 
 effect. I had taken no notice of her remarks, 
 neither realising nor caring to realise the 
 sound common sense they contained. Won-
 
 MARY BROWNE. I9I 
 
 dering, probably, at first, at my silence on the 
 subject, and at length, doubtless, attributing 
 it to the morbid apathy of which in reality it 
 was only too truly the result, she had at last 
 offered me, in her own and her fathers name, 
 a home with herself till I should meet with 
 some engagement. This I had refused at 
 once — and decidedly. My pride revolted at 
 it ; the acceptance would have seemed to me 
 like the acceptance given to charity by dis- 
 honourable poverty ; and, in the tone of my 
 reply, I had doubtless betrayed the, in many 
 respects, unworthy feelings which influenced 
 my refusal. I judge this from the absence in 
 my friend's future letters of any immediate 
 reference to the subject upon which she had 
 so strongly dwelt in former ones. She 
 merely, in the epistle I received from her 
 after declining her invitation, accepted my 
 refusal kindly, and made no farther remark. 
 This had occurred some three months back, 
 and now, roused at length from my dullness 
 and indifference, I yearned not only for the
 
 192 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 advice, but also the help which I could no 
 longer command ; though, probably, had I 
 known for certain where a letter would have 
 reached my friend at once, the same false 
 pride which had previously actuated me would 
 again have stepped in, and prevented me 
 from begging that which, a short time before, 
 it had prompted me so ungraciously to refuse. 
 Now, in my ignorance and inexperience, I 
 reaped the bitter fruits of my error, and 
 though far from thoroughly repenting it, still 
 felt for a moment its hollowness and evil. 
 
 But I had no leisure for weeping over 
 the mistaken past, even had I wished for 
 that luxury. Something must be done, and 
 quickly too. Should I speak to Miss Grim- 
 shaw ? My heart failed me at the thought 
 of being the first of the two to introduce 
 the dreaded subject, and yet it was evident 
 that she did not intend to be so, or why had 
 she so long delayed the carrying her inten- 
 tions into effect ? As I reflected, it became 
 clear to me from my knowledge of her cha-
 
 MARY BROWNE. I 93 
 
 racter, that the longer I put oft speaking to 
 her, the less chance would there be of ar- 
 ranging the future amicably. It would not 
 be wise of me, in any case, to quarrel with 
 her ; so I screwed up my courage and re- 
 solved to 'ventilate' the subject at once. 
 When I had succeeded in making this bold 
 resolution, it wanted but three weeks to the 
 end of the term. 
 
 Once thoroughly decided, I started with 
 as little delay as possible. One evening 
 (after prayers), it being one of Miss Grim- 
 shaw's ' reception-nights/ as we called them 
 — that is, those on which she sent for, one by 
 one, the unfortunates with whom she found 
 it necessary to ' speak, ' I braced up my 
 nerves, and requested one of these said unfor- 
 tunates (who was too much terrified at her 
 own coming struggle to wonder much at my 
 hardihood and audacity in seeking to obtain 
 that, the prospect of which filled her indi- 
 vidually with so much horror), to beg an 
 audience for me. 
 
 vol. i. o
 
 194 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 'Very well,' said my impromptu confi- 
 dante, ' I'll ask her. She'll think you simply 
 mad, as / do. But I'll ask her. I only wish 
 I could persuade her to accept your presence 
 instead of mine ; that's all.' 
 
 In spite of my own uneasiness I could not 
 help laughing at the poor girl's earnestness. 
 
 ' Ah ! you don't know what it is,' i she 
 continued ; ' there's scarcely a reception-night 
 but what I'm one of the party. I shouldn't 
 mind so much if she would tell you what 
 you'd done in a Christian manner, but she 
 doesn't. She gets you down there, and 
 glares at you like a fiend, till your very flesh 
 seems as if it would crawl off your bones. 
 As for you, you've forgotten what it is by 
 this time I should think. You've never been 
 down since the noise about opening your 
 letter, have you ?' 
 
 1 No, never.' 
 
 'You got it all at once, I suppose, and 
 a nice time you had of it, quite enough to 
 last you a couple of years or so. I wouldn't
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 95 
 
 have gone through it for something. I dare 
 say, as I said before, you hardly remember 
 now what an " interview " is like, so want 
 to try again. Well, I'll ask her. There 
 comes Emily Green. I'm next. Off I go, 
 and good luck to me ! ' 
 
 She disappeared at once, and in a short 
 time returned, looking very hot and uncom- 
 fortable. She did not wait to tell me her 
 own experience, but simply informed me I 
 was to go down to Miss Grimshaw imme- 
 diately. ' " Miss Browne is to come down 
 without delay." These were her very words,' 
 said my friend ; ' she's as inquisitive as any- 
 body ; she's dying to hear what you've got 
 to say. / know her/ 
 
 ' She won't have to wait long,' I ex- 
 claimed, as with the courage of desperation 
 I hastily left the study and made my way 
 to the drawing-room. I entered that cham- 
 ber of horrors with much the same dread and 
 terror as on the last occasion ; though my 
 
 feelings were slightly modified by age and 
 
 o 2
 
 I96 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 experience, probably also by the knowledge 
 that the enemy was not in reality so powerful 
 as my more youthful imagination had pic- 
 tured her. As I advanced into the room, 
 I saw she was seated at the same table, and 
 in precisely the same position as on the last 
 occasion of my entrance into it — only the 
 table was not now covered with letters as 
 it had been then. I also remarked with 
 some degree of discomfiture, as if he were 
 an enemy in ambush, or a cannon in reserve, 
 that Mr. Harrop was also seated in his old 
 place, with his eyes fixed on me, as though 
 noting my growth and taking stock of my 
 general appearance. I felt very uncomfort- 
 able, but without waiting to consider, which 
 would probably have entailed the loss of all 
 self-command, I advanced boldly to the table 
 and spoke first. 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw/ I said, dashing into my 
 speech at once ; ' I am sorry to trouble you, 
 but I wished to speak to you for a few 
 moments. It is respecting my future move-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 1 97 
 
 ments. I mean when I shall have left the 
 college.' Here I stopped dead. My elo- 
 quence was exhausted. • 
 
 1 Well, Miss Browne,' she answered in a 
 dry, hard tone, ' I am here, anxious and wait- 
 ing ; ' she accented the last word — ' anxious 
 and waiting to hear what you have to say.' 
 
 I gathered courage, and went on as con- 
 nectedly as I could. 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw,' I said, ' my time with 
 you will expire at the end of this term, 
 and I am desirous, by some means or other, 
 to place myself in an independent position. 
 I have come to ask you, as you are the only 
 person to whom I can apply, what steps I 
 had better take to forward my wishes.' 
 
 I paused ; but as she made no answer, 
 only still looked at me with the cold, stern 
 expression to which I was accustomed, though 
 with her lips a trifle more compressed than 
 usual, I went on. 
 
 ' I think I could take an engagement as 
 nursery governess, or thorough governess to
 
 I98 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 young children, or junior teacher in a school. 
 I am willing to do anything in my power to 
 secure to myself independence and a home. 
 I shall be truly glad, Miss Grimshaw, if you 
 will advise me as to the means it will be best 
 for me to adopt in order to accomplish my 
 desire/ 
 
 Still no immediate answer. Then, after 
 keeping her eyes fixed on me steadily for a 
 few moments longer in perfect silence, she 
 turned round suddenly, facing Mr. Harrop, 
 with a gesture of passion which startled me. 
 
 That gentleman was evidently more ac- 
 customed to her varying moods than myself, 
 for he did not appear to be at all surprised 
 at her conduct. In fact, he did not seem to 
 notice her movement, though I felt certain 
 he saw it, till she actually spoke. Then he 
 turned his eyes towards her for a moment 
 (he had never previously ceased to watch me 
 since my entrance into the room), and then 
 looked straight before him, tapping the carpet 
 with his foot.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 199 
 
 'Mr. Harrop,' she said, 'you hear what 
 this young person has said. This is but 
 another instance of the ingratitude I meet 
 with continually.' 
 
 He bowed his head slowly, still looking 
 straight before him (not at her for an instant), 
 as though in acknowledgment of the truth of 
 her words ; but his eyebrows were raised, 
 and his mouth set with such an inexplicable 
 expression, that I wondered at him almost 
 more than I did at Miss Grimshaw. Be- 
 tween the two of them, I was too much sur- 
 prised to speak myself, and after a pause of 
 some moments' duration my instructress went 
 on without interruption. 
 
 ■ For the last three years,' she said, still 
 addressing herself to Mr. Harrop, ' I have 
 acted towards this most ungrateful girl the 
 part of a mother. She came to me in ill- 
 health — ignorant and uncouth. She has been 
 restored to strength at my expense, fed at 
 my table, educated under my superintend- 
 ence ; her mind has been formed, and her
 
 200 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 general tone, if I may so call it, elevated by 
 continual contact with her superiors ; and 
 now, having obtained all she imagines she 
 can obtain from continued residence here, 
 she is willing — nay, even anxious — to break 
 every tie ' 
 
 ! Miss Grimshaw,' I interrupted, striking 
 at the root of the matter at once — only re- 
 alising for the moment that she spoke of me 
 as though I had been dependent on her 
 charity — ' Miss Grimshaw,' I said, ' I have 
 received no advantage under your roof for 
 which you have not had an equivalent.' 
 
 \ Miserable money ! ' she said ; ' miserable 
 money ! Will that compensate me for the 
 ingratitude I meet with everywhere ? I 
 nourish serpents in my bosom to sting me. 
 Those to whom I devote the best energies of 
 my life, fly from me the first opportunity, as 
 though the tender love I had bestowed upon 
 them had turned to gall and poison.' 
 
 ' Miss Grimshaw,' I said, now for the first 
 time fully realising her meaning ; * I did not
 
 MARY BROWNE. 201 
 
 know that you wished me to stay here. I 
 assure you most earnestly that I had no idea 
 you wished me to stay.' 
 
 Her plan was beginning to work, as no 
 doubt it had done in many former in- 
 stances. 
 
 1 1 have no desire to leave the college,' I 
 went on, for in spite of her singular way of 
 expressing it, her emotion had seemed to me 
 so genuine that I really began to feel as 
 guilty as she had painted me. ' I have no 
 wish to leave you. I am willing to remain 
 here. With regard to the remark I made, I 
 — I — did not so much mean the money paid 
 to you, as — as — the services rendered to you 
 by me. Surely the two combined form an 
 equivalent for any advantages I have re- 
 ceived in your establishment. I should be 
 glad ' 
 
 1 She has no desire to leave me,' she 
 broke in. ' She is willing to stay here. You 
 hear her, Mr. Harrop. And in the face of 
 this she has come to ask me the best means
 
 202 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 to adopt to enable her to earn her living 
 elsewhere.' 
 
 She never addressed herself to me, per- 
 sonally. It had a most irritating effect upon 
 me, making me feel as if she considered me 
 too ungrateful to be spoken to. 
 
 ' I will stay here, Miss Grimshaw,' I said. 
 ' It is my wish to stay here. When I pro- 
 posed leaving you, it was because I naturally 
 thought it was your intention that I should 
 do so. I am willing to do as you direct me 
 at any time.' 
 
 I felt now as if I had wiped out some of 
 the ingratitude which actually, for the mo- 
 ment, I thought I had showed. 
 
 ' That is sufficient, child/ she interrupted, 
 as I was about to speak again, still looking 
 away from me ; and still warding me off with 
 her raised hand, as she had done all along. 
 1 That is sufficient. I forgive you, and trust 
 I may, in time, forget your offence. Stay at 
 the college, and make it your home. I can 
 bear no more. Go at once/
 
 MARY BROWNE. 203 
 
 I obeyed, leaving the room with my mind 
 in an indescribable tumult and confusion, and 
 with a dim consciousness that I had acted 
 unwisely ; and that when I thought things 
 over, I should see my own weakness, and 
 despise myself for it. 
 
 When I was safely in bed that night, I 
 did think things over, and my reflections 
 were not pleasant. How to account for Miss 
 Grimshaw s apparently changed feelings to- 
 wards me I knew not. Was there really 
 some genuine affection for me and her other 
 charges hidden beneath the harshness of her 
 demeanour ? Or was this display which I 
 had witnessed, with such want of reticence on 
 my own side, only, as I began to suspect, a 
 part of some scheme she had formed to keep 
 me in the college for some purpose of her 
 own ? 
 
 As I continued to reflect, the extreme 
 probability of the correctness of this latter 
 speculation broke upon my mind with ter- 
 rible force. I rose in the morning restless
 
 204 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 and unhappy, but determined to obtain on 
 the subject, at the first opportunity, the ad- 
 vice of some wiser head than my own. 
 
 It happened on the evening of this day, 
 that while waiting for prayers some of my 
 companions who were * leaving for good,' as 
 they called it, at the end of the term, entered 
 into conversation respecting the change there 
 would be in their lives when they should 
 finally have escaped from their present state 
 of durance. It was not long before my indi- 
 vidual self attracted their notice, and my 
 future intentions were enquired into. 
 
 ' Your time's up too, Polly Browne, isn't 
 it?' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said, hesitatingly. ' My time's 
 no doubt " up," as you call it' 
 
 ' And where are you going to ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know that I'm going anywhere,' 
 I answered. ' Miss Grimshaw wishes me to 
 stay here.' 
 
 * But you're surely not going to do that ? ■ 
 broke in a fresh voice.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 205 
 
 1 Well, I think I am ; at least I told her 
 I would.' 
 
 Some glanced at each other and laughed. 
 Some looked grave ; but no one spoke. 
 
 1 Why shouldn't I stay ? ' I asked, my 
 uncomfortable misgivings increasing tenfold. 
 ' I don't see why I shouldn't stay if I 
 like.' 
 
 1 Oh ! there's no reason why you shouldn't 
 do as you like. No one wants you to go 
 if you prefer remaining, I dare say, Mrs. 
 Uppercrust. It's immaterial to me at all 
 events ; for Fin off, and thank o-oodness for 
 
 it.' 
 
 The voice was that of Fanny Harrop. 
 I had held little communication with this 
 young lady since that well-remembered night, 
 now nearly three years distant, when she 
 had favoured me with her graphic sketch 
 of Marion Launceston's character. I was 
 surprised now at her addressing me, but 
 answered her as sharply as she had spoken. 
 
 ' Well/ I said, ' it's nicer for me that
 
 206 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 people should not want me to go if I prefer 
 remaining, than it would be if they did not 
 want me to remain when I had to go.' 
 
 There was a general laugh at this retort, 
 for my antagonist was no favourite with her 
 schoolfellows, and it seemed probable that 
 few would grieve when she left. 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by 
 the entrance of Miss Grimshaw for prayers ; 
 but I determined to take the first opportunity 
 of endeavouring to find out why my infor- 
 mation had been received by my companions 
 in such a doubtful manner. 
 
 I selected for my confidante one of my 
 music pupils, older than myself, a quiet, 
 gentle girl, who had been at the college 
 some years. Towards the end of her lesson 
 the next morning, I asked her if she thought 
 I had acted unwisely in telling Miss Grim- 
 shaw I would stay at the college ? ' 
 
 1 Have you told her so ? ' she replied. 
 
 'Yes. Didn't you hear what the girls 
 were saying last night ? You must have
 
 MARY BROWNE. 207 
 
 heard ; you were close by, and were laughing 
 at Fanny Harrop. 
 
 1 Oh, yes, to be sure,' she said, slowly ; ' I 
 had forgotten it for the moment.' 
 
 I Well, what do you think ? Do you 
 think it was silly of me to say I would 
 stop ? ■ 
 
 * I don't know,' she answered. ' Perhaps 
 you had no alternative.' 
 
 This was putting it in such a new light, 
 that I felt my heart sink lower than ever. 
 
 I I as good as engaged to stay,' I said. ' I 
 don't know that I really wanted to, but she 
 urged me so strongly not to go. She ap- 
 peared to think me so ungrateful, and so ' 
 
 'How silly you are!' interrupted my 
 companion, in a tone of the utmost indigna- 
 tion, ' as if you didn't know better than to 
 think it all real. A nice use you've made 
 of your three years ! ' 
 
 This was the first and the last time I 
 ever saw this young lady display any strong 
 evidence of excitement.
 
 208 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' But she seemed so hurt/ I said. ' She 
 seemed as if she thought it so unnatural of 
 me even to be willing to go.' 
 
 1 Of course she did,' said my companion, 
 who had by this time recovered her calm- 
 ness ; ' that's what she always does. But 
 don't you really, after all your experience of 
 her, know that she's most dangerous when 
 she's affectionate ? When I see her drawing 
 in her claws I always know she's preparing 
 for a spring. When she talked to you in 
 that style, didn't you have any suspicion that 
 she'd some object in view ? ' 
 
 1 But what is her object ? ' I asked, 
 evading the question in my anxiety to get 
 thoroughly to the bottom of it all. ' It 
 can't be much to her interest to keep me 
 here.' 
 
 « N ot — to — her — interest — to — keep — you 
 — here ? Well, some people learn by expe- 
 rience, and some people don't. I think 
 you're one of the people that don't. Now, 
 just listen to me for a moment. You know
 
 MARY BROWNE. 20g 
 
 Miss and Miss and Miss ,' 
 
 naming three governesses in the college. 
 
 1 Yes, of course I do.' 
 
 1 Well, those poor girls have all been 
 victimised in the same way as she means to 
 victimise you. Like you, they had no friends 
 and no means of changing their position ; and, 
 in the first place, by appealing to their feelings 
 (as she has done with you, you know) ; and, 
 in the second, by rendering it a most difficult, 
 if not nearly impossible, task for them to se- 
 cure better appointments, she has contrived to 
 keep them all here working hard for her, at 
 first with no salary, and latterly with barely 
 sufficient to find them in decent clothes. 
 And she'll never give them any more, and 
 they'll never get away. It's a cheap method 
 of getting governesses, my dear ; and she 
 means to get you for one on the same terms, 
 if she doesn't consider she's got you already. 
 You ought to be flattered at it too,' continued 
 my informant with a comical look, ' for she 
 wouldn't want you unless she knew you to 
 
 vol. I. p
 
 2IO MARY BROWNE. 
 
 be thorough. No wooden heads for Lady- 
 Grim. You give good music lessons, you 
 know, and understand what you are doing 
 generally (though not out of school, I fear), 
 and she values you at your right price. If 
 you were as silly as — as — well, we'll say as 
 Fanny Harrop, you'd find yourself without 
 fail on the street side of the college doors, 
 next Thursday fortnight, at 2 p.m. sharp. 
 You may be quite sure of that.' 
 
 So came the confirmation of my worst 
 and most undefined fears. I felt so wretched 
 that I had not the heart, for the moment, to 
 utter a word. 
 
 'She has not made any regular agreement 
 with you, of course ? ' continued my com- 
 panion, after a pause. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! Not a word of anything of 
 that sort.' 
 
 * No, and she never will — at least till you 
 make her. Unless you resist it, here you'll 
 be ten years hence, with ten pounds a year 
 in your pocket to find you in clothes and
 
 MARY BROWNE. 211 
 
 everything else but board and lodging. 
 Take my advice, dear,' said my friend, taking 
 my hand in hers as she spoke, ' if you can 
 possibly manage it, get out of this at the end 
 of the term. Have you no one to help you ? 
 Have you no relations at all ? ' 
 
 1 I have an uncle,' I said, hesitatingly. 
 
 'Well, that's something. They're even 
 better than fathers sometimes. He's sure to 
 do something for you. Couldn't you go and 
 stay with him till you get something ? Oh ! 
 I forgot, you never go away ; he's not in 
 England, I suppose ? But surely if you 
 wrote to him he'd help you.' 
 
 1 He is in England,' I said. ' It was he 
 who put me to school here. But he has not 
 taken any notice of me since my mother 
 died. He said distinctly then that I must 
 look to him for nothing after my time here 
 should be expired. Of course he knows that 
 it is now nearly so ; but he has not written 
 to me, and I would rather suffer anything 
 than write to him and beg.' 
 
 P 2
 
 212 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 'How do you know he has not written 
 to Miss Grimshaw about you?' 
 
 1 Do you think she wouldn't tell me ? ' 
 
 * Do I think she would ? Why, my dear, 
 if he has done so, which your own sense 
 must tell you is at all events possible, she 
 has doubtless replied that your welfare shall 
 be her especial care, and that when she has 
 arranged your future suitably, she will let 
 him know/ 
 
 All this seemed so dreadfully probable 
 that I felt more miserable than ever. 
 
 1 If I were you,' continued my com- 
 panion, ' I would write to my uncle, and 
 tell him all. There is such a thing as get- 
 ting a sly letter posted, you know, though 
 it's a very, very difficult thing to do. I 
 know something about it, and will help you, 
 if you like.' 
 
 1 No,' I interrupted. ' You are very kind, 
 but I won't do it. I wouldn't stoop to write 
 to him for the world. He may have com- 
 municated with Miss Grimshaw, as you say —
 
 MARY BROWNE. 213 
 
 very possibly he has ; but I can never for- 
 get how badly and cruelly he behaved to 
 me when my mother died, and I mean, 
 whatever happens, always to be strictly in- 
 dependent of him.' 
 
 'Is he your mother's brother ? ' 
 
 'Oh, no. His first wife was her sister, 
 that is all.' 
 
 • Then you've not really any claim on 
 him. Have you ? ' 
 
 ' Claim ? ' I said. ' What claim do I 
 want ? If I had any, I would not take ad- 
 vantage of it' 
 
 My companion looked at me as if she 
 could not quite understand my state of 
 mind. 
 
 ' Poor girl,' she said ; 'I'm sure I wish 
 you well out of it ; but you're very proud, 
 are you not ? ' 
 
 ' I am not proud,' I answered, ' but I 
 cannot bear the thought of troubling with 
 my affairs anyone who would rather have 
 nothing to do with them. I am quite certain
 
 214 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 that my uncle does not wish to have any 
 connection with them that he can possibly 
 avoid; consequently, even the thought of 
 making any application to him could never 
 be otherwise than unpleasant to me.' 
 
 ' I see, dear.' This very doubtfully. 
 < But there's the bell ! I must go. Don't 
 let anyone in the place know what we've 
 been talking about, or I might get into 
 dreadful trouble. We're surrounded by spies, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I'm wise enough for that, at all 
 events,' I answered. ' I wouldn't mention 
 it for the world. Thank you very much 
 for your advice and kindness.' 
 
 She was gone, and I was left to my own 
 bitter reflections, and the society of a minute 
 child, who had entered as she went.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Stay at the college I would not. I made 
 up my mind boldly to that at once. The 
 next thing to decide upon was how to make 
 Miss Grimshaw aware of the alteration in 
 my intentions. Risk the result of another 
 conversation with her I dared not ; I felt 
 that if I did so, she would in the end over- 
 reach me in some way or other. After 
 some consideration, I decided to address 
 her by letter, which, indeed, in the absence 
 of another interview, seemed my only feas- 
 ible alternative. ' By adopting this method,' 
 I said to myself, ' I can say what I mean in 
 a ladylike way, without fear of interruption, 
 and she will be compelled to answer me — as 
 I speak — to the point.' I had, even at this
 
 2l6 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 stage of events, still a great opinion of my 
 own wisdom. 
 
 The first opportunity I obtained, I wrote 
 to Miss Grimshaw as follows : — 
 
 ' Dear Miss Grimshaw, 
 
 I have been reflecting deeply on the 
 subject of our conversation the other evening, 
 and fear I decided hastily, and in the excite- 
 ment of the moment as to my future course. 
 In fact, no agreement was entered into be- 
 tween us as to the remuneration I was to 
 receive for my services to you, in the event 
 of my remaining at the College in the ca- 
 pacity of governess. Dependent as I am 
 for a livelihood entirely upon my own ex- 
 ertions, it will, whatever my position, be 
 necessary for me in the future to receive an 
 emolument suitable to the nature and extent 
 of the duties I perform. Should the con- 
 ferring such an emolument be contrary to 
 your intentions, perhaps you will kindly let me 
 know at your earliest convenience, as, what-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 21 J 
 
 ever difficulties might be in my path, I 
 should then be compelled to seek another 
 home, where I might hope, not only to sup- 
 ply present necessities, but also to provide 
 for future contingencies. Trusting, in any 
 case, to the favour of an explicit reply, 
 I am, dear Miss Grimshaw, 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Mary Browne/ 
 
 This letter, completed after careful study, 
 and not without strong forebodings of evil, 
 which weighed on my mind heavily, in spite 
 of all the reason I could bring to bear 
 against them, was written during the time 
 which we were, once a fortnight, permitted 
 to devote to letter-writing. Fortunately for 
 me, the very day after that upon which I 
 had decided upon the course I would take, 
 happened to be ' scribbling day,' as the girls 
 called it. Hence the fulfilment of my reso- 
 lution followed quickly upon its formation. 
 The document completed, the next thing on
 
 21 8 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 hand was its transmission to Miss Grimshaw. 
 I would not trust it to the letter-box. She 
 might affect to, or, indeed, might really over- 
 look it. I decided upon another course. I 
 waited till I heard one of the servants going 
 down the stairs, and then, hastily leaving 
 the study, I gave the note into her hands, 
 begging her to take it to Miss Grimshaw at 
 once. This she readily undertook to do, 
 though with a look of surprise at the un- 
 usual request. 
 
 I waited two anxious days, but no an- 
 swer. I saw Miss Grimshaw several times, 
 and once she addressed me individually re- 
 lative to some of my duties, but in her 
 general behaviour towards me she betrayed 
 no knowledge of the note, which I had fully 
 ascertained she had duly received. Another 
 day passed, and another, and another. Still 
 no reply. Utterly at a loss how to act, I 
 determined again to make a confidante of the 
 quiet girl whose remarks had induced. me to 
 place myself in the position which had led
 
 MARY BROWNE. 2IO. 
 
 to my present perplexity. I took the first 
 opportunity of telling her the course I had 
 taken and its results, or rather want of re- 
 sults, begging her advice as to my next step. 
 She was much surprised at my recital. 
 
 ' How brave you are ! I wouldn't have 
 dared to do it.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you would, if you'd had as much 
 at stake as I have. Do you think I intend 
 to submit quietly to being shut up here all 
 my life, like a nun ? ' 
 
 ' It appears not. But she'll never answer 
 your letter.' 
 
 1 And why not, pray ? ' 
 
 Such was my inconsistency that though 
 my own heart had been telling me all along, 
 that without further action on my part, Miss 
 Grimshaw's silence would last for ever, I felt 
 inclined to resent the utterance of a similar 
 opinion by another person. 'And why not?' 
 I said. 
 
 ' Why not ? Because she won't' 
 
 1 Because she won't,' I repeated, contemp-
 
 2 20 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 tuously. 'That's no reason, " because she 
 won't." What I want to know is — why she 
 won't ? ' 
 
 ' Well, I don't know why she won't,' said 
 my companion, growing perplexed, as though 
 she had a complicated problem to deal with 
 — ' I don't know why she won't, unless it is 
 because she won't. I know no other reason 
 for it/ 
 
 ■ But how do you know she won't ? ' I 
 asked, impatiently. 
 
 'Why, because she wont! This in a 
 most decided tone. ' I've told you so half-a- 
 dozen times.' 
 
 Feeling convinced from my experience of 
 my own sex in general, and school-girls in 
 particular, that I should get no farther satis- 
 faction on this branch of the subject, I sat 
 still thinking. 
 
 ' Now what do you think yourself? ' said 
 my friend, after a long pause. ' Do you think 
 you'll get an answer ? Be truthful now. Do 
 you really think it likely you'll get it ? '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 221 
 
 ' Well, I can't say that I do.' 
 
 1 Then why are you vexed with me for 
 thinking the same ?' This with a deprecating 
 air that made me laugh in spite of my 
 troubles. 
 
 'I'm not vexed with you,' I said, 'only 
 I'm so worried, and you'll give no reason for 
 thinking Miss Grimshaw will not answer. 
 
 1 What reason havej^, then, for thinking 
 it?' 
 
 4 Well, I fancy that had she intended an- 
 swering me in any way, she would have done 
 it before this.' 
 
 1 Well, perhaps that reason would do for 
 me now. It's a very good one. But I 
 could have told you, at the first, before you 
 sent your letter, that you'd never hear any 
 more of it.' 
 
 1 But how could you have told ? ' 
 
 1 Oh, because I could, and because you 
 wouldn't. I could have told you you wouldn't, 
 and you see I should have been right.'
 
 22 2 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' I suppose you judge from your know- 
 ledge of Miss Grimshaw's character ?' 
 
 ' I don't know. I know nothing about 
 judging and reasoning. I only know that 
 when I think things will turn out in a certain 
 way. they generally do. I don't know why 
 they do, unless it's because they do. How- 
 ever, this is not business. What we have to 
 think about is, what you are to do next.' 
 
 ' Yes,' I said ; ' that's really the question. 
 What am I to do next ? ' 
 
 1 Now, if I were you,' said my companion, 
 after a little consideration, ' I should de- 
 cidedly begin to keep my eyes open.' 
 
 There was such a general vagueness in 
 this advice, that I acted upon it immediately. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mean in that way,' she said, 
 laughing. ' I'm speaking metaphorically. I 
 mean, you must begin to look about you.' 
 
 ' But how am I to look about ? ' 
 
 * Well, before I looked about, I should go 
 to Miss Grimshaw and tell her I meant to 
 look about.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 223 
 
 * Go to Miss Grimshaw ! ' I exclaimed, 
 aghast at the idea. 
 
 ' Yes, of course.' 
 ' But why ? ' 
 
 * Why, to let her know that you intend to 
 look about.' 
 
 * And what's the good of that ?' 
 
 1 Why, so that she can't turn round on 
 you to the people to whom you may wish 
 to go, and say that you never told her you 
 meant to look about.' 
 
 ' Oh, I see ! You think, then, that it will 
 be best for me to have a thorough under- 
 standing with her. But must it be verbally ? ' 
 
 ' Most decidedly. And for more than 
 one reason. The most important is that by 
 so doing you can learn thoroughly her in- 
 tentions towards you, should you, after all, 
 think it advisable to stay here for a time.' 
 
 ' Then I'll go to her — but I don't know 
 how I shall screw up my courage to do it.' 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense. She can't eat you, at 
 all events. If I were you, I'd rather go
 
 2 24 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 through a little more for something, than 
 get nothing for all you've already done.' 
 
 ' That's true,' I said. ' I'll do it' 
 
 ' Very well. But do it at once, mind. 
 If you put it off, you won't do it at. all.' 
 
 1 I'll do it to-night, then, and let you 
 know the result in the morning.' 
 
 1 That's right. I begin to have some 
 hope now of your ultimate escape. Now I 
 think I'd better go on with my music' 
 
 She did so ; and I went on with my 
 thoughts and plans ; the result of the latter 
 being that at half-past eight o'clock that 
 evening I found myself in the drawing-room, 
 once more in the presence of Miss Grim- 
 shaw. I had feared sending a message to 
 her, expecting, if I did so, she would simply 
 refuse me an interview altogether, or at the 
 best postpone it indefinitely, either of which 
 events would have been awkward for me, as 
 time, in my present dilemma, was valuable. 
 I had therefore boldly resolved to enter the 
 drawing-room without any more formal intro-
 
 MARY BROWNE. 225 
 
 duction than a knock at the door. With a 
 beatine heart I had carried this resolution 
 into effect. 
 
 Her look of surprise on my presenting 
 myself in reply to her ' Come in,' changed in- 
 stantaneously to one of anger, flushing her 
 face crimson. 
 
 ' Miss Browne,' she said, in a cold, satiri- 
 rical tone, as I went across the room towards 
 her, apologising for my intrusion, ' may I ask 
 to what I am indebted for the honour of this 
 visit ? ' 
 
 1 I must beg you to pardon my abrupt 
 behaviour, Miss Grimshaw. The only ex- 
 cuse I can offer is that it is very necessary 
 for me to speak to you personally and with- 
 out delay. I wish to ask you to be kind 
 enough to give me a verbal reply to the note 
 you received from me a week ago.' 
 
 All my fear had vanished, and I spoke 
 out boldly. Whether the audacity of my 
 request overpowered her, or she had not 
 recovered the first audacity of my uncx- 
 
 vol. 1. Q
 
 2 26 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 pected entrance, I know not ; but, certainly, 
 for once in her life, she was at a loss for words.. 
 ' Miss Browne,' she said at last, ' it is not 
 my custom to vouchsafe replies to notes sent 
 me by my pupils, or, in fact, by any inmate 
 of this establishment. It is not my custom 
 even to peruse such notes. There are faci- 
 lities of communication with me, which 
 render the inauguration of what may be 
 termed a local post between the study and 
 the drawing-room, not only needless, but ludi- 
 crous. I certainly, however, did receive a 
 note the other day from some one of my 
 pupils, by the peculiar method of transmis- 
 sion referred to, but of the individuality of the 
 delinquent I was, till this moment, ignorant. 
 Knowing now that that delinquent was your- 
 self, I beg to tell you that your effusion 
 shared the fate of its predecessors — for I 
 must confess that you are not the first in 
 your community who has forgotten herself 
 so far as to insult me with an attempt at 
 an epistolary correspondence. It shared the
 
 MARY BROWNE. 227 
 
 fate of its predecessors, Miss Browne. It 
 was committed, unopened, to the flames. 
 Now, I must beg you to leave me.' 
 
 She bowed her head, to end the inter- 
 view, motioning towards the door with her 
 hand ; but, for once, I was not be turned 
 from my purpose. 
 
 ' Miss Grimshaw,' I said, ' if you did not 
 read my note, it is necessary for me to tell 
 you its contents, for I am most anxious for 
 a reply.' 
 
 1 I cannot speak to you to-night, Miss 
 Browne.' 
 
 ' There will be no need for you to speak, 
 Miss Grimshaw,' I went on, in sheer des- 
 peration. ' I have only to tell you that, after 
 deep consideration, I have decided Upon not 
 remaining at the college after the present 
 term.' 
 
 I had not intended, when I entered the 
 room, to conclude matters so summarily ; I 
 had meant to take soundings, as it were, 
 of the general state of things, and continue 
 
 Q2
 
 228 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 in my present home or not, according as 
 Miss Grimshaw should elect to deal with 
 me. But when an answer to my letter was 
 denied me, I lost my head utterly, and 
 gave way to my anger, regardless of con- 
 sequences. 
 
 1 1 have quite decided, Miss Grimshaw,' 
 I repeated, emphatically, ' upon not remain- 
 ing at the college after the present term.' 
 
 Her eyes and the door of the room 
 opened simultaneously at this juncture — the 
 former, to express the most unmitigated 
 astonishment — (I am sure it was feigned) — 
 the latter, to admit Mr. Harrop. 
 
 I turned round and met his eyes fixed 
 on me. Instantaneously, as he stood before 
 me for a moment, I thought I saw an in- 
 explicable change in him — a change in his 
 general appearance — a change in his expres- 
 sion — a change in every way ; and yet, on my 
 second observation of him, no change at all. 
 What could it mean ? I stood looking at him 
 as if I were dazed. He was the same, and yet
 
 MARY BROWNE. 2 29 
 
 not the same. My third impression was, 
 that though when I had last seen him seated 
 in his chair by the fire, he had seemed to 
 me to be in no way altered from what he had 
 been in the years gone by, yet now there 
 was something about him — yes — there was 
 a change. But where was this change ? In 
 any case, on my second observation of it, 
 it was not as perceptible as it had been 
 when it had first impressed me on his en- 
 trance into the room. I couldn't tell what 
 it was. Yes ; I could. I could tell now. 
 It was this. His eyes, his hair, his light 
 moustache and whiskers, his straight nose, 
 his white even teeth, and firm grave mouth, 
 were all as they had been. But this was 
 the alteration. The sharp, eager look, which 
 had once reminded me of an eagle, had 
 vanished from his face, giving place to still 
 an intelligent, but certainly a more noble 
 expression ; and he was younger than, and 
 not quite so tall as, from my past childish 
 notice of him, I had imagined him to be.
 
 23O MARY BROWNE. 
 
 All this observation passed through my 
 mind during the less than half-minute I 
 stood watching him. Then, waking up to a 
 sense of the singularity of my conduct, I 
 turned my eyes hastily away from him, and 
 again fixed my attention on Miss Grimshaw. 
 I saw at once that that lady's expression of 
 astonishment had not yet subsided. Her 
 face was set and motionless ; her gaze fixed 
 steadily on me, as though she were totally 
 unaware of the addition to our society. 
 
 Mr. Harrop, after surveying us for a few 
 moments longer, walked listlessly across the 
 room to his old chair by the fire-place, and 
 sat down. Silence for yet a few seconds. 
 Then he took the initiative, and spoke. 
 
 ' Miss Grimshaw/ he said, * is this a 
 Quakers' meeting ? ' 
 
 She turned round and faced him, as she 
 had faced him at our last interview. ' Mr. 
 Harrop,' she said, ' Miss Browne has come 
 down to me this evening without obtaining, or 
 even asking for, my consent to her doing so.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 23 I 
 
 I thought I detected a half-smile on his 
 countenance as he heard my first offence. 
 
 'Well, Miss Grimshaw,' he replied, 'such 
 a proceeding is certainly almost excusable, 
 if the business in hand does not admit of 
 delay ; but in any case, why not proceed 
 to it at once ? ' 
 
 ' She is come,' she continued, without 
 appearing to notice his remarks, ' to tell me 
 that she intends breaking the terms of the 
 agreement into which she entered with me 
 the other evening, and quitting the college 
 at the end of the present term. She has 
 no ! 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw,' I interrupted, ' you are 
 quite mistaken. There was no agreement 
 made between us. You were, or affected 
 to be, much hurt at what you were pleased 
 to denominate my " ingratitude " in wishing 
 to leave you. Believing, at the time, in 
 the genuineness of this expression of feel- 
 ing on your part, and anxious to prove to 
 you that I am not, at least, of an unthank-
 
 232 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ful nature, I consented to remain here ; but 
 any agreement as to the terms on which 
 I was to remain was not even hinted at/ 
 
 She was about to speak, but I would 
 not give her the chance. I went on ra- 
 pidly. 
 
 'It is to this point I wish to bring you, 
 and it is this point you appear to me stu- 
 diously to avoid — viz., whether it is your 
 desire to render my stay here possible, by 
 making such terms with me as in justice 
 to myself I can accept. If such is the 
 case, I shall retract my words, and be most 
 happy to remain. But, if not, as I before 
 stated to you, it becomes necessary for me 
 to leave you ; but in doing so, I shall 
 break no agreement, for no agreement has 
 been made. It seems to me that ' 
 
 Frightened at my own daring, and ex- 
 hausted with the effort of speaking so vehe- 
 mently, I stopped here, unable to proceed. 
 
 ' It seems to me/ said Mr. Harrop, taking 
 up my words, rising as he spoke, and placing
 
 MARY BROWNE. 233 
 
 himself in the middle of the hearth-rug- with 
 his back to the fire, and his arms behind him — 
 ' it seems to me that there is some mistake 
 here.' 
 
 ' You will excuse me,' I broke in, turning 
 to him, for by this time my flagging courage 
 and power of speech had returned — ' you will 
 excuse me, but the subject on which I have 
 been addressing Miss Grimshaw concerns her 
 and myself alone ; consequently any inter- 
 ference on your part is at once uncalled for 
 and misplaced.' 
 
 He was a very strongly-built, powerful 
 man, and as I looked up at him in delivering 
 this speech, I felt as if I were a mouse under 
 the shadow of a mountain. My antagonist, 
 on his part, seemed about as much appalled 
 at my words as the aforesaid production of 
 nature might be at a threat of the minute 
 animal in question to undermine its founda- 
 tion. He merely threw a quiet glance down 
 upon me and smiled calmly, as though I were 
 a child. This look and smile made his reply
 
 234 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 appear to me satirical, though probably he 
 did not mean to be so. 
 
 ' I am sorry/ he said, with a slight incli- 
 nation of the head, ' even to seem to be rude 
 in the eyes of any young lady, more especially 
 one who has such clear ideas, and also pos- 
 sesses the power of expressing them so 
 graphically as Miss Browne.' 
 
 I made no reply, feeling by this time 
 ashamed of my hastiness and boldness. 
 
 1 With respect to the charge of " inter- 
 ference," ' he went on, after a pause, with a 
 humorous twinkle in his eyes, ' I shall prob- 
 ably be entirely exonerated from it, when I 
 inform Miss Browne that the business in 
 which she accuses me of " interfering," in 
 point of fact concerns me equally with herself 
 and Miss Grimshaw, seeing that I am, in 
 truth, the owner of the establishment in which 
 we are now assembled/ 
 
 ' It's not your college. It's Mr. Harrop's 
 college.' The words came back to me in a 
 moment. Since the night I had heard them
 
 MARY BROWNE. 235 
 
 uttered, they had slipped from my mind till 
 now. Now, they sounded in my ears again, 
 teaching me the explanation of this gentleman's 
 frequent presence in the drawing-room, and 
 of many things of which, previously, I had 
 completely failed in fathoming the meaning. 
 Thoroughly ashamed of myself now, I be- 
 gan hurriedly to express to him my contri- 
 tion for the rudeness of which I had been 
 guilty. 
 
 ' It is not necessary to apologise,' he in- 
 terrupted, with a slight gesture of his hand. 
 ~' You will be better occupied in fighting it out 
 — ahem ! — in completing your arrangements 
 with Miss Grimshaw.' 
 
 ' There are no arrangements to complete,' 
 said that lady, sharply. ' Miss Browne has 
 expressed her wish to leave me, and has 
 shown her contempt for truth so unmistak- 
 ably, that I cannot permit her to remain 
 under this roof for a moment longer than she 
 has the right to remain.' 
 
 1 In what way, Miss Grimshaw,' I asked
 
 236 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 as calmly as I could speak — which I fear was 
 not very calmly — 'in what way have I shown 
 my contempt for truth ? ' 
 
 She made no reply, only motioning me to 
 the door, in the now to me familiar way, with 
 her hands and eyes. 
 
 ' It is you who show contempt for truth 
 when you say falsely that I show it,' I went 
 on passionately. ' You are annoyed and pro- 
 voked that you cannot succeed in keeping 
 me here to work for nothing, and you say 
 this out of revenge.' 
 
 The same dark, vindictive look came into 
 her face which I had seen there on that night, 
 long back, when I had spoken as hastily and 
 unadvisedly as now. 
 
 1 I shall have left this place for ever, I 
 trust, in a few days' time, Miss Grimshaw, 
 and I defy you to say that I have ever, in 
 the slightest degree, imitated the example you 
 have invariably set me of hypocrisy and 
 deceit.' 
 
 ' Will you leave the room, Miss Browne,'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 237 
 
 she said slowly when I paused, ' or must / 
 do so ? ' 
 
 4 I have yet one word to say to you before 
 either of us leave it, Miss Grimshaw,' I re- 
 plied. ' I say it now, as it may be my best 
 and perhaps my only opportunity of saying 
 it. It is this : If ever the time should come 
 — as I trust it will — when you feel you need 
 forgiveness from Heaven for — for — for — we 
 will say your general course of conduct, let no 
 thought of me make the bitterness of that 
 moment more bitter. I forgive you freely.' 
 
 1 Ahem ! ' This from Mr. Harrop. 
 
 I really believe, as I uttered it, that I 
 thought this peroration sublime. But I must 
 do myself the justice to say that, in spite 
 of my self-conceit, it came from my heart, 
 and that I did not feel the least resentment 
 towards my opponent. Had I had less 
 cause for it, I should probably have felt it. 
 
 Miss Grimshaw's opinion of my elo- 
 quence was only discernible in her face, which 
 had grown more rigid and pallid as I pro-
 
 238 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ceeded. Waiting for no more distinct ma- 
 nifestation of it, I said ' Good evening ' to 
 her in as polite a tone as I could assume, 
 and, with a slight bow to Mr. Harrop, who 
 was watching me now with a more serious 
 expression on his face than I had ever seen 
 there before, I quitted the room, fated never 
 to see one of its occupants again.
 
 MARY HROWNE. 239 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I reported progress next day to my new 
 friend Ellen Murray, and she agreed with 
 me that matters had a very black aspect 
 indeed. 
 
 1 I don't know what to advise,' she said. 
 4 There's not time before the end of the 
 term for you to get anything ; and even if 
 there were, how could you set about it ? ' 
 
 1 I must do something,' I said, half sul- 
 lenly. 
 
 * But what ? I have been thinking since 
 I saw you that even if I got your letters 
 posted for you, Grim would read and burn 
 the replies. No one could get them for you, 
 that is, if they came here, for she keeps the 
 key of the letter-box, my dear. Certainly 
 you could have them addressed to a post-
 
 24O MARY BROWNE. 
 
 office, and fetched on the sly; but if you 
 heard of anything she'd be safe to leave no 
 stone unturned to find out how you heard 
 of it, which information it would no doubt 
 be easy to obtain from the person wishing 
 to employ you, and then, where are you ? 
 She would have a pretty addition to the 
 ingratitude and insolence she now credits 
 you with, wouldn't she ? 
 
 I Then there's no alternative,' I said. ' I 
 must go out of the college, houseless and 
 homeless/ 
 
 4 Oh, don't talk like that. Something 
 can surely be done. Where's your friend, 
 Miss Launceston ? Why haven't you written 
 to her ? She'd do anything for you.' 
 
 I I know it,' I said, bitterly. ' She wrote 
 to me some time ago, and offered to help 
 me in the fullest sense of the term, but I 
 refused ; and now my letters must have 
 missed her in some way, or something else 
 has happened, for I've had no reply to the 
 last two I've written. I don't know where
 
 MARY BROWNE. 241 
 
 she is, and even if I did, I couldn't ask her 
 to assist me, after telling her I wouldn't ac- 
 cept her assistance.' 
 
 My new friend sat silent, looking troubled. 
 It was evident to my experience that she had 
 no further advice to offer me. 
 
 4 Never mind,' I went on ; ' I have a few 
 little treasures I can sell when I leave here, 
 and so secure a home till something turns 
 up ; I don't see what good it will do to 
 worry myself. It's no use thinking about 
 anything till I'm safely out of the college, 
 that's certain.' 
 
 c It makes me so unhappy that I don't 
 seem able to help you,' said the friendly girl. 
 ' 1 can't think how it will all end.' 
 
 ' Oh ! It will end in some way or other, 
 I suppose,' I answered carelessly. ' It must 
 end in some way or other, and it's silly to 
 anticipate troubles.' Then, with a sudden 
 thought, ■ By the way, do you know Mr. 
 Harrop ?' 
 
 1 Know him ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Yes ; who is he ? ' 
 
 ' Do you mean Mr. Harrop who owns 
 the college ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! that's it,' I said. ' Is he really the 
 owner of it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. It belongs in reality to him, 
 though Miss Grimshaw conducts and ma- 
 nages it, and I believe, now, has a share in 
 it. Didn't you know it was his ? Why, 
 where have your wits been all these years 
 not to have heard that ? ' 
 
 * I didn't know it till he told me the 
 other night.' 
 
 1 Did he tell you himself 1' she asked in 
 surprise. 
 
 ' Yes ; he came into the drawing-room 
 while I was there.' 
 
 I related the facts of my late interview 
 with which he was connected; having pur- 
 posely omitted them previously, in order to 
 shorten my story to my young friend. 
 
 ' It's very odd,' she said. ' I've never 
 heard of his speaking to any of the girls
 
 MARY BROWNE. 243 
 
 before. Some of them have seen him on 
 11 reception-nights," but they all say he's 
 usually reading the paper, and he certainly 
 never takes any notice of or speaks to them.' 
 
 ' Do you like him ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know him. I never saw him in 
 my life. He's only here for two or three 
 weeks about twice a year, I believe. They 
 say Grim makes an awful fuss with him 
 when he is here, and shows him off as her 
 tame cat among the grandees of the neigh- 
 bourhood — that is, when she can get him to 
 follow her. He always takes her to the 
 opera, or anything that's going on, when he's 
 here, but I don't fancy he likes her, for all 
 that.' 
 
 I Why doesn't he like her ? ' 
 
 I I don't say he doesn't. It's only what 
 I gather from the chit-chat of the college.' 
 
 ' I never seem to hear any of the " chit- 
 chat " as you call it.' 
 
 * And a good thing too. It's much more 
 wholesome to mind one's own business than
 
 244 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 trouble about other people's. There's our 
 enemy, dear. I must go. We shall meet 
 again to-morrow, and I hope you will then 
 be able to see your way more clearly than 
 now.' 
 
 So saying my friend disappeared. 
 
 I never saw her face again. The next 
 morning she slipped on the stairs and 
 sprained her ankle severely. After she had 
 remained a few days in the infirmary, I heard 
 that at the request of her parents Miss Grim- 
 shaw had allowed her to return home before 
 the vacation commenced. I took no further 
 advice from any of my companions. I simply 
 adhered to the resolution I had formed of 
 deferring all attempts to secure an appoint- 
 ment till after I had escaped from the college. 
 
 The days went by, and the last one of the 
 term drew near. I continued firm. At times 
 a sudden and awful sense of loneliness and 
 desolation would, as it were, crush me for a 
 moment ; the next my courage would return, 
 and I would feel even braver than before it
 
 MARY BROWNE. 245 
 
 left me. For several reasons, not worth de- 
 tailing here, I thought it best to keep my 
 intention of leaving Miss Grimshaw a secret 
 from my schoolfellows, and, as Ellen Murray 
 had promised me to observe absolute silence 
 on the subject, I was not troubled with en- 
 quiries. All but herself evidently concluded, 
 from my previous statement when questioned, 
 that I had delivered myself over to the 
 enemy to remain in her clutches for the term 
 of my natural life. 
 
 It was with a feeling of delight that I 
 rose from my bed on the last morning of my 
 school days. The first had found me a mere 
 child, ignorant of all the experience the world 
 can give, except the bitter experience of 
 suffering. The last found me almost in the 
 same state, ignorant of nearly all the expe- 
 rience of life except this same bitter expe- 
 rience of suffering. It may be that this 
 suffering helped to harden me, and render 
 the succeeding trials of life comparatively 
 easy to bear, for I can truly say that many
 
 246 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 things I was afterwards called upon to 
 endure (which would have hurt severely most 
 other girls in the same position as myself) 
 seemed to me like blows falling upon a dulled 
 surface — dulled almost to insensibility. 
 
 I remember that it appeared that last 
 morning to my inexperience and ignorance, 
 as though the plan I had laid out for my 
 future was not only possible but easy to 
 effect. It is to me at the present moment 
 astonishing that at the age I then was — for 
 I had entered my nineteenth year — I had so 
 few truthful impressions of the world ! With 
 regard to my immediate future I had no 
 fears. I looked on it as hopefully as a 
 child might have done, who is not capable 
 of forming a rational opinion on any sub- 
 ject. 
 
 I had a ring of some value, a pair of ear- 
 rings, and a gold chain. These had been, 
 at different times, gifts from my dead parents. 
 I purposed selling them. What amount of 
 money I imagined I should receive in return
 
 MARY BROWNE. 247 
 
 I know not ; but I certainly concluded that 
 it would be sufficient to keep me independent 
 for some considerable time, before the expi- 
 ration of which I thought I should be certain 
 to obtain some engagement, which would 
 enable me to lay by the residue of my riches, 
 to be again resorted to in case of need. 
 With immediate wants thus, in fancy, pro- 
 vided for, I never contemplated the possi- 
 bility of other difficulties in my path. Any 
 thought of the need for protection, which a 
 friendless girl ever has in the open world 
 alone, did not once enter my mind. I was 
 too strong in the strength of my ignorance 
 to fear undefined evils, and I looked upon a 
 future fraught with danger as though it were 
 bright with the brightest rainbow colours. 
 Though not originally of a fearless nature, 
 I now faced my destiny bravely, dreaming 
 of no chance of failure or defeat. In imagi- 
 nation I already saw myself safely housed in 
 a pleasant home, where everyone loved and 
 respected me, and I myself led a peaceful
 
 248 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 and contented life, with no fear of unhappi- 
 ness nor change. 
 
 Certainly if the ceaseless round of study- 
 pursued at Victoria College had its evils, 
 still to counterbalance them it had one good 
 effect. The very fact of constant occupa- 
 tion, together with the silence imposed upon 
 almost all occasions when study was not 
 absolutely on hand, prevented in a great 
 measure that immorality of thought and 
 conversation, which, like a pestilence walk- 
 ing in darkness, pervades with few exceptions 
 all large boarding-schools. It is not an 
 unusual occurrence in these communities for 
 a dozen or more girls, in some leisure hour, 
 to converse secretly upon and discuss sub- 
 jects, the very mention of which in open 
 conversation would dye their cheeks with 
 blushes. What Mr. Thackeray has said 
 upon this subject in relation to boys is 
 equally true if applied to girls. He speaks 
 to the effect that mothers looking upon their 
 young sons just returned to them for the
 
 MARY BROWNE. 249 
 
 holidays as innocent children, little think of 
 the innocence-destroying knowledge they 
 have been acquiring during their absence 
 from home. So may they, nowadays, look- 
 ing upon their fair young daughters just fresh 
 from school, be as painfully deceived ! 
 
 However, this evil could not have existed 
 to any very great extent at Victoria College. 
 And I judge this also from the fact that I, 
 who had been there so long, could form such 
 a plan for the future as I did form, without 
 fearing, or even indeed being actually cogni- 
 sant of, one class of dangers that might beset 
 my path. 
 
 To return to my actual life. In spite of 
 my precautions, the natural talent of woman 
 for obtaining information as to her neighbours 
 affairs had at length prevailed. By some 
 means or other, it became known to all the 
 girls in the college on that last morning, 
 though I believe not before, that I was about 
 to quit it for good. Miss Grimshaw was, of 
 course, aware of my intentions, but the day
 
 25O MARY BROWNE. 
 
 passed on with no remark to me on her 
 part. 
 
 It was usual for the 'regular pupils/ 
 as they were called, to leave for the vacation 
 as early in the morning as possible, the 
 governess-pupils and governesses remaining 
 to assist till all their superiors were departed. 
 Knowing this, I went quietly on with my 
 duties, helping the children to dress, &c, with 
 no interruption till dinner-time. When the 
 last little one was fairly off and the eating 
 and drinking over, I followed the example of 
 my companions, who were too busy to take 
 much notice of me, and went to my room. 
 Then I set to work in earnest, and put 
 quickly together all my worldly possessions. 
 They were few indeed. My wardrobe had 
 been replenished in nothing but boots, shoes, 
 gloves, and such small necessaries during the 
 whole of my stay at the college. My box 
 was large enough to hold three times as 
 much as I had to put into it. When my 
 packing was completed, I sat thinking, almost
 
 MARY BROWNE. 25 I 
 
 afraid to begin to act, as I had thoroughly 
 decided upon acting. The tea-bell rang. 
 I took no notice, still pondering painfully 
 for perhaps nearly another hour. No one 
 came near me. In the bustle and confusion 
 I was, no doubt, for the time forgotten and 
 unheeded by all. At last I rose, looked at 
 my pale face in the glass, slipped on my hat 
 and cloak, and tried to nerve myself to do 
 whatever I judged best. 
 
 How should I begin ? Should I go out 
 of the house without seeking Miss Grimshaw ? 
 Under ordinary circumstances none of the 
 governess-pupils ever went to her individu- 
 ally to say good-bye, it being her custom, on 
 the last day of the term, to bid adieu collec- 
 tively after dinner to all of them who were 
 leaving finally or for the vacation. ' Good- 
 day, young ladies ; I hope we may meet 
 again,' was the usual formula. This cere- 
 mony having been observed that very day, 
 I was certainly at liberty, if I pleased, to 
 consider myself dismissed with a blessing ;
 
 252 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 but how if, after my departure, my enemy 
 should affect the most entire ignorance of my 
 previous intentions ? That she was quite 
 capable of adopting this course, should it 
 answer her purpose to do so, I was fully 
 aware. * Therefore,' I said to myself with a 
 sudden effort, ' I will summon my courage, 
 and ask to see her.' 
 
 As I stood pondering as to the best 
 method of getting a message transmitted to 
 her without attracting general attention, I 
 heard a footstep near the door of the room. 
 I opened it quickly, and seeing, as I had 
 expected, a servant, called to her to stop. 
 Strangely enough, it was the very girl who, 
 nearly three years previously, had obtained 
 me my first interview with Miss Grimshaw, 
 and I now resolved to make her the medium 
 of my last. I first requested her to take my 
 box down to the hall-door, and then to ask 
 her mistress if I could speak to her for a 
 moment. 
 
 She agreed willingly, removing with my
 
 MARY BROWNE. 253 
 
 assistance my worldly possessions, as I di- 
 rected (to my great joy meeting no one on 
 the way), and then departing on her more 
 important mission, while I rapidly returned 
 to my old quarters, where I waited as pa- 
 tiently as possible for the advent of my 
 messenger. 
 
 ' Miss Grimshaw says she will see you to- 
 morrow, Miss ; she has no time this evening.' 
 Then, noticing my perplexed look, ' Between 
 me and you, Miss, I think she's going out for 
 the evening. She's dressed as if she was, 
 and Mr. Harrop's going too, I fancy.' 
 
 1 Oh ! ' I exclaimed ; ' do go to her again 
 as quickly as possible, and tell her I am just 
 leaving, and ask her if she wants to speak to 
 me before I go.' 
 
 She rushed off, and returned in a few 
 moments, but, in my impatience, those few 
 moments seemed to me like an hour. 
 
 1 Miss Grimshaw says, Miss, she has 
 nothing whatever to say to you — nothing 
 whatever.'
 
 254 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 Very well,' I replied. ' Thank you very 
 much.' 
 
 And she left me standing alone, with the 
 tears in my eyes. 
 
 I wondered then at such weakness, but 
 scarcely do so now. I felt so deserted and 
 desolate that even the refusal to see me of a 
 woman I disliked and despised had power to 
 increase the depression that was natural at 
 such a moment. Hastily dashing the tears 
 away, I went quickly downstairs. As I ap- 
 proached the study I heard the voices of 
 some of my late companions talking to and 
 endeavouring to cheer those among their 
 number who, less fortunate than themselves, 
 were doomed to remain at the college during 
 the holidays. Wondering whether I had 
 been missed by them or not, I at first thought 
 I would enter and let them know I was just 
 starting, but the recollection of the cross- 
 questioning I should doubtless have to endure, 
 and the misery of saying a last ' good-bye ' 
 to those who now seemed the only friends I
 
 MARY BROWNE. 255 
 
 had in the world, made me shrink from the 
 ordeal, and I went on my way without even 
 pausing at the door. ' They all know I in- 
 tend going to-day, some time or other,' I said 
 to myself, ' so they will not be so much sur- 
 prised to hear that I'm gone. Some of them, 
 at least, nwht have taken the trouble to seek 
 after me.' In this I was unjust, for had not 
 I, individually, been too much occupied with 
 my own affairs to heed or think of what did 
 not immediately concern myself ? 
 
 When I arrived at the bottom of the stairs 
 my progress was arrested. I encountered the 
 same girl who had brought me Miss Grim- 
 shaw's final message. 
 
 ' Oh Miss ! ' she exclaimed hurriedly, ' I 
 was afraid you might be already started. Mr. 
 Harrop has sent me to tell you, Miss, that be- 
 fore you go, he should like to see you, if you 
 will kindly go to him in the drawing-room.' 
 
 ' What does he want ? ' I asked, sur- 
 prised, and a little alarmed. 
 
 1 1 don't know, at all, Miss. He's a kind
 
 256 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 gentleman, perhaps he only wishes to say 
 " Good-bye." ' 
 
 * Is Miss Grimshaw there too ?' I asked, 
 after thinking a moment. 
 
 ' No, Miss. She's just gone out.' 
 
 1 1 thought you said Mr. Harrop was 
 going with her ? ' 
 
 1 So he was, Miss, I think. At least,' she 
 added, hesitatingly, ' I am sure he said he 
 was, only I suppose he's altered his mind.' 
 
 1 Then he's not going at all ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, Miss. When I answered 
 the bell, he was standing at the window with 
 his hat and gloves on the table. Perhaps 
 he's only waiting to see you first. I got out 
 of the room as soon as I could, for though he 
 spoke kindly, his eyes looked so fierce that I 
 was almost frightened out of my wits.' 
 
 1 Fierce ? ' I said. ' Is he angry ? ' 
 
 ' I fancy, Miss, he's angry with Miss 
 
 Gr . Oh, I think you'd better go down at 
 
 once. It's not my business, Miss. I might 
 lose my place for talking.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 257 
 
 ' You're quite right,' I answered. ' I — 
 I'll go.' There seemed no reason why I 
 should not do so, and yet I hesitated. 
 
 1 Shall I tell him you're gone, Miss ? 
 He'll be none the wiser if you don't let him 
 see you go.' 
 
 ' No,' I exclaimed ; ' I would not let you 
 do that on any account. It's perhaps better 
 for me to speak to him as Miss Grimshaw 
 will not see me. I'll go at once.' 
 
 vol. 1.
 
 258 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I ascended the stairs hastily, taking care to 
 knock at the door before going into the room. 
 
 ' Come in/ 
 
 The speaker advanced as I entered, and 
 invited me to be seated in a kind, ' elderly % ' 
 manner, if I may so call it, that at once took 
 away all my embarrassment. This manner, 
 I noticed, seemed natural to him, though he 
 could not have been more than thirty-three 
 or thirty-four years of age. 
 
 ' Miss Browne,' he said, in a kind, friendly 
 tone, ' I have to apologise for sending for 
 you in such an unceremonious way, but I 
 thought it my — I thought, in fact, that I 
 ought to see you before you left here, and 
 I had no better method of obtaining an inter- 
 view/
 
 MARY BROWNE. 259 
 
 'It is of no consequence ' I stam- 
 mered. 
 
 1 I regret very much,' he went on, ' that 
 you think it necessary to give up your home 
 here so suddenly, and also that you should 
 do so under such unpleasant circumstances. 
 I think it is but right of me to tell you that, 
 in my opinion, you are taking a very rash 
 and imprudent step. I trust that, at all 
 events, you have at least deeply considered 
 what you are about to do.' 
 
 He paused as if expecting a reply. 
 
 1 It may be rash and imprudent/ I an- 
 swered, after some consideration ; ' but I 
 cannot stay here, simply because it would 
 not be to my interest to do so.' 
 
 1 I have not said that it would/ he said, 
 gravely ; ' but have you no alternative be- 
 tween remaining here — for ever, we will say 
 — and casting yourself upon the world in the 
 way you contemplate at present ? You are 
 old enough to know how undesirable it is for 
 
 a young girl to be entirely dependent upon 
 
 s 2
 
 260 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 herself, and under no control but her own. 
 And yet you are a mere child,' he went on, 
 with what seemed to me a sort of good- 
 natured contempt ; ' you are a mere child — 
 you cannot be more than seventeen years 
 of age.' 
 
 ' I am going on for nineteen,' I replied 
 calmly. 
 
 1 Indeed ! ' lifting his eyebrows with a 
 look that said plainly to my imagination, 
 ' You are certainly old enough, then, to know 
 better.' * Now, will you not be persuaded 
 by me to stay here till you see your way 
 clearer before you ? ' 
 
 * Certainly not,' I answered. ' I have 
 quite decided. I do not intend to remain 
 another night in this house.' 
 
 ' It hurts and distresses me,' he said, 
 after a pause, ' to see a young girl like your- 
 self alone and friendless. Knowing, as I do, 
 what a difficult and arduous career is before 
 you, it not only grieves, but shocks me, to 
 see you so obstinately bent on taking your
 
 MARY BROWNE. 26 I 
 
 own path, and so decided in your rejection of 
 all advice and counsel.' 
 
 ' I have not rejected any advice,' I said, 
 with a sudden revulsion of feeling, the effort to 
 keep back my tears almost suffocating me. ' I 
 have had no one to advise me. If I could see 
 any prospect but unhappiness and poverty in 
 remaining here, I should not act as I am 
 acting.' 
 
 1 Then why reject the offer which Miss 
 Grimshaw made to you this morning ? ' 
 
 ' She made me no offer,' I said, in sur- 
 prise ; ' she has not spoken to me all' day.' 
 
 He coloured violently, and fixed his eyes 
 full upon me with a most scrutinising ex- 
 pression. 
 
 1 Do I understand you rightly ? Miss 
 Grimshaw has not spoken to you to-day — 
 nor,' he added hastily, ' sent you any mes- 
 sage ? ' 
 
 ' No. She has not spoken to me since the 
 last time I was in this room, when you were 
 present, nor has she sent me any message.'
 
 262 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 He looked at me still more intently for a 
 moment, then, hastily recovering his usual 
 manner — 
 
 ' There's some mistake,' he said ; ' some 
 mistake.' 
 
 The explanation of this ' mistake,' as he 
 called it, did not come to me for years after, 
 and then only because in referring, in my 
 mind, to this scene in the past, my matured 
 judgment taught me the truth. 
 
 ' Should it be in my power,' he went on, 
 after a pause, ' to arrange with Miss Grim- 
 shaw for you to stay here, on terms more 
 advantageous to yourself than those which I 
 have but lately heard, with the deepest re- 
 gret, she is in the habit of proposing to 
 young ladies situated as you are, would you 
 be willing to remain ? ' 
 
 1 I scarcely know,' I said. ' Anything 
 seems better than leaving in this way ; and 
 yet I am sure that in the end I shall be sorry 
 if I stay.' 
 
 1 But, my child, when you quit this house
 
 MARY BROWNE. 263 
 
 to-night, what will you do ? where will you 
 go ? have you any settled plan to act upon ? 
 have you money ? have you a single friend ? ' 
 
 1 No,' I sobbed, unable any longer to 
 restrain my tears ; ' I have no friends. God 
 will take care of me. I must trust in Him.' 
 
 He made no remark, but, taking some 
 wine from a small table near, hastily filled a 
 glass with it, and placed it before me. 
 
 'Drink that,' he said, 'and then we can 
 talk quietly of what must be done.' 
 
 When I had obeyed him, he turned from 
 me, thinking intently for a few moments. 
 
 ' I don't know,' he said at last, ' what to 
 advise you to do. I do not wish to persuade 
 you to remain here any longer, if such a 
 course would really render you unhappy. 
 You say it would do so ? ' 
 
 ' Pray let me go,' I answered, ' pray let 
 me go. I could never be happy with Miss 
 Grimshaw. I could never feel towards her 
 as I ought to feel towards the lady by whom 
 I am employed.'
 
 264 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Is that your only objection ? ' 
 ' No,' I said, hesitating ; 'there are others/ 
 Here I stopped, foolishly fearful of com- 
 plaining of the hard work which had fallen to 
 my lot, and which, in the prospect of imme- 
 diate emancipation, seemed to me like torture. 
 1 Ah ! some girlish reasons, I suppose, 
 which you do not care to tell me.' 
 
 I suffered him to believe this, rather than 
 let him know the truth. I fancied if I ex- 
 plained matters he might simply think I was 
 inclined to be idle. 
 
 ' Well,' he went on, ' be it so. You are 
 determined to give up your position here, 
 and, that being settled, we have now to 
 make our arrangements for your immediate 
 future. Will you remain here as a visitor, 
 on my invitation, till you succeed in meeting 
 with a suitable engagement ? ' 
 
 ' No,' I said ; ' I cannot do that/ 
 ' Not if Miss Grimshaw seconds it ? ' 
 ' No. She would only do so because you 
 desired her to, and — and '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 265 
 
 1 Because / desired her ? ' he interrupted, 
 with a short laugh. ' No, scarcely that/ 
 
 1 And besides,' I went on, not heeding 
 his remark, ' I sent to her a short time ago 
 to say I was going now, directly, and she 
 would not even see me. Do you suppose 
 that, after that, I will stay in this house on 
 her sufferance ? ' 
 
 ' No, not on her sufferance, but by my 
 invitation.' 
 
 ' You are very kind,' I said, ' and I am 
 very, very grateful ; but I would rather go at 
 once.' 
 
 ' Very well, then, you shall do so. Now, 
 tell me the first step you will take when you 
 leave this house.' 
 
 ' I shall get a cab,' I answered, ' and ask 
 the cabman to drive me to any cheap, re- 
 spectable lodgings he knows of, or can find.' 
 
 I shall never forget the peculiar expres- 
 sion that grew on his face as I spoke, ending, 
 however, in a quiet smile. 
 
 'What a charming opinion you must
 
 266 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 have formed of London cabmen ! However, 
 supposing all goes well, and you get safely 
 housed, how will you pay for the accom- 
 modation ? ' 
 
 ' I have some money,' I said, ' and I 
 have means of getting more.' 
 
 This was true. About a year previously, 
 not liking to be absolutely penniless, I had 
 sold some small trinkets to a schoolfellow 
 for a few shillings. The money I had ob- 
 tained for them was still in my posses- 
 sion, and to provide for my wants when it 
 should be expended, I purposed, as I have 
 already mentioned, selling some other valu- 
 ables, which had been given to me by my 
 parents. 
 
 ' You have money, and means of getting 
 more ! May I enquire, as a friend, without 
 being considered inquisitive, whether you 
 reckon your present riches by sovereigns, or 
 by shillings ? And whether the future pro- 
 vision you speak of may be denominated 
 extensive, or not ? '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 267 
 
 He laughed heartily as he spoke, and I 
 involuntarily followed his example. 
 
 'Come,' he said, 'we must be serious. 
 Are you really independent of assistance of 
 any kind ?' 
 
 1 Yes, really. I have the means of satisfy- 
 ing both present wants and future necessities. 
 It's true, indeed it is.' 
 
 ' I believe you, of course ; but I heard to 
 the contrary, and from a very good authority 
 too ; or one which I have been told I am 
 bound to consider such. I am pleased, though, 
 to hear your present statement ; it redeems 
 you from the charge brought against you by 
 the same authority, of acting in a — childish 
 and thoughtless manner. It appears to me,' — 
 he went on hesitatingly, something of the old 
 satirical expression gathering on his mouth 
 like a cloud, — ' it appears to me that you are 
 a rather reserved young lady, as well as a 
 determined one.' 
 
 I coloured deeply, for the new tone he 
 had adopted pained me, and brought back
 
 268 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 my old feeling for him of dislike and 
 dread. 
 
 1 1 do not know that I am reserved, natu- 
 rally,' I said, ' but reserve is necessary some- 
 times. It is scarcely wise to publish one's 
 affairs indiscriminately to the whole world.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' he replied, laughing again, 
 but not unkindly ; ' you are quite right. How- 
 ever, you've confided them to me, and I'm 
 not only glad they are in the state you say, 
 but will take care, as far as I am concerned, 
 that the information you have favoured me 
 with goes no farther. To proceed to an- 
 other point though, on which I am totally 
 ignorant. Supposing these extensive riches 
 should prove exhaustible ? It might be the 
 case, you know, though I ought not, perhaps, 
 to be so bold as to assert that such a thing is 
 possible. Supposing that in the course of — 
 of months — we will say, they should take to 
 themselves wings and fly away, leaving their 
 present owner unprovided for, what will she 
 do then ? '
 
 MARY BROWNE. 269 
 
 k I trust never to be in such a predicament. 
 I hope soon to have something to do.' 
 
 1 My child,' he said gravely, ' there is so 
 much hope in the world, and so much despair 
 to follow it, that I tremble for you, not know- 
 ing this, not knowing how quickly the one 
 succeeds the other.' 
 
 * It is not always so,' I said. ' It cannot 
 be always so.' 
 
 1 More often than you think. However, 
 I trust that you may never prove the truth of 
 my words. Now, will you promise me to do 
 one thing ? ' 
 
 1 Yes,' I said ; ' if possible I will do it.' 
 
 ' It is very easy to do. It is merely to 
 write here and let me know should you be in 
 need. It will not only be my desire, but a 
 great pleasure to me to assist you.' 
 
 I hesitated. 
 
 1 Come, promise/ he said. ' It's only 
 right that I should not let you off till you 
 have done so. It hurts me to see a young 
 girl like you, little more than a child, strug-
 
 270 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 gling through life without a friend, perhaps, 
 and not unlikely destined, if not assisted, to 
 come to absolute want. I cannot let you go 
 until you have engaged to write and let me 
 know, should you ever need help. You have 
 lived here, an inmate of this house, for three 
 years ; and the circumstances under which 
 you are leaving it appear to me to make the 
 provision for your immediate future to devolve 
 to a certain extent upon me. I take this upon 
 me as a duty. You must permit me to act 
 towards you as a father when the time comes 
 that you feel the need of one.' 
 
 1 I will let you know,' I said, scarcely able 
 to speak for conflicting feelings. 
 
 ' I thank you,' he replied gravely. ' Will 
 you allow me farther to say one word more 
 to you before you go — and not be offended 
 at it ? ' 
 
 1 Yes. Anything you wish.' 
 
 'It is this. In the course of your life, 
 which, I fear, bids fair at present to be toil- 
 some and full of troubles, you will meet with
 
 MARY BROWNE. 271 
 
 many circumstances calculated to ruffle the 
 serenest spirit. Take this one word of advice 
 from me, my child. Never give way again 
 to such an outbreak of temper as I have seen 
 you exhibit in this room. Passion and insen- 
 sate anger will not eradicate, nor even lessen, 
 any pain we suffer. They but increase it, 
 and oftentimes irritate its source. Nothing 
 can stand against Wrong but Right ; and the 
 silent protest of our own just conduct against 
 that of the person who wrongs us has more 
 weight and power to disarm the wrong-doer, 
 and eventually stay the wrong, than the fiercest 
 passion, or the wildest revenge. Remember 
 this ; whatever may be your cause for anger, 
 guard against the undue expression of it, as 
 you would guard against fire, or death.' 
 
 ' I'll try to do as you say. You are so 
 good to me,' I said. 
 
 1 Not at all. I only do that which, in the 
 absence of your natural protector, has fallen 
 to my lot. If what I have said has any good 
 effect in the future, I am more than repaid,
 
 2 72 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 though for what— in truth I know not. Now/ 
 he went on in a lighter tone, ' I am going to 
 fetch a cab for you.' He took his hat and 
 gloves from the table as he spoke. 
 
 1 Pray do not trouble,' I said. ' One of 
 the servants will see to it for me.' 
 
 ' I intend doing it myself, with your per- 
 mission. I have a plan in my head which I 
 must beg you not to attempt to frustrate.' 
 
 He signed to me to precede him down- 
 stairs to the hall, where my boxes were wait- 
 ing my arrival. 
 
 ' Is this your luggage ?' he asked, as his 
 eye rested on them. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And the extent of your worldly posses- 
 sions, I suppose ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I answered again, laughing at the 
 expression of his face. 
 
 1 Well, we must contrive now to get some 
 vehicle to transport the lot of you to another 
 place.' 
 
 He opened the door, and after carefully
 
 MARY BROWNE. 273 
 
 examining the cabmen about, dozens of whom 
 invariably haunted the College gates on the 
 last day of a term, beckoned to one of them, 
 who at once came towards us. 
 
 ' Ah, Smith, I'm glad to find you ; was 
 afraid you might not be near. Had a busy 
 day?' 
 
 ' Pretty well, Sir.' 
 
 In a short time my luggage was safely 
 placed on the top of the conveyance, and 
 myself inside. 
 
 ' Now you are all right, I suppose ? ' 
 
 1 Yes. Thank you. I am so very much 
 obliged to you for all your kindness,' I added. 
 ' I am afraid, too, I have detained you when 
 you were going out.' 
 
 ' Not from any place to which I cared to 
 go, at all events. Besides, to be detained by 
 a young lady is supposed, under any cir- 
 cumstances, to cause us unfortunates pleasure, 
 not regret. You see, I know how to make po- 
 lite speeches. And now, good-bye, my child. 
 Send to me at once if there should ever be 
 
 vol. 1. T
 
 274 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 the slightest necessity for doing so. Let me 
 hear from you the first moment the grim wolf 
 shows his head. Keep your promise.' 
 
 ' I will be sure to do so. Thank you 
 very, very much. Good-bye.' 
 
 He took my hand kindly and raised his 
 hat. ' God bless you,' he said, * and make 
 you happy.' Through my blinding tears I 
 saw him talking to the cabman before he 
 started. At last we were fairly off, my new 
 friend raising his hat again, as he caught a 
 glimpse of me, disappearing.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 I sat silent for a few moments, recovering 
 my calmness, and then began to wonder to 
 what place the man was driving me. In a 
 moment I had pulled the check-string, and 
 his head was at the window. 
 
 1 Will you please take me to some cheap 
 lodgings ? ' I said — ' any you can find ? ' 
 
 1 The gentleman what paid me told me 
 where to drive to, Miss. He said you was 
 to go to Mrs. Gray's. She's got some rooms 
 to let. I told the gentleman so.' 
 
 1 Are you quite sure she has some ? ' 
 
 1 Lots and lots, Miss. She asked me to- 
 day to think of her, if I heard of anyone 
 wanting " commodation." ' 
 
 ' Very well,' I said ; ' we had better go 
 there.' 
 
 T 2
 
 276 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 It seemed to me that before I had time to 
 feel grateful to my benefactor for these fresh 
 acts of kindness, the cab again stopped, and 
 the door was opened. 
 
 ' This is the house, Miss. Shall I knock ? ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' I said, alighting. ' Please to 
 do so/ 
 
 It was a small white neat cottage, with 
 green wooden palings and flowers in the 
 windows. The old lady who answered the 
 door looked as clean as her dwelling. 
 
 1 Have you a bedroom to let ? ' I asked. 
 
 'Yes, Miss, I have several' 
 
 ' Can I see one, please ? ' 
 
 She led the way upstairs, and in a few 
 minutes I was the temporary owner of a 
 pretty sleeping-room, with the privilege of 
 going in and out of the old lady's own little 
 parlour as I pleased. In the meantime the 
 cabman, as if sure that I was suited, had 
 placed my luggage in the passage. 
 
 'I'm right, ain't I, Miss ?' 
 
 ' Yes, thank you.'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 277 
 
 ' I made bold to conclude you'd stop here. 
 The gentleman told me to come here first, 
 where he knew, like me, you'd get took good 
 care of; but if by any chance you couldn't be 
 taken in, I was to drive you somewhere else 
 he knew on, and if they was full, Miss, I was 
 to take you back to the " Dragin," Miss, no 
 matter what you said.' 
 
 1 What do you mean ? ' I asked. 
 
 1 No offence, Miss. The " Dragin " what 
 keeps the College, Miss.' 
 
 1 Do you mean Miss Grimshaw ?' I said. 
 
 'Ah, that's her lovely name, Miss. I've 
 heerd it afore. She's called the " Dragin " 
 'mong us, private, you know. She's one to 
 them poor young gals, I'm sure. I've driv 
 many on 'em to and from the College, in my 
 time, Miss, and I never seed one on 'em yet 
 go in laughing, — and I never till to-day see'd 
 one on 'em come out crying. You do be an 
 extror'nary young lady, Miss. Good evening 
 to you, and thank you. Good night, Mrs. 
 Gray.'
 
 278 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' Good night, Mr. Smith/ And so de- 
 parted my charioteer, my latest acquaintance 
 closing the door after him, 
 
 ' So you've come from the College, Miss ? ' 
 said the old lady, after looking at me for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' Yes. I've only just now left.' 
 
 ' I thought you looked like one of them 
 young ladies when I saw you driving up ; 
 you're so pale and thin like, as they mostly 
 are. Aren't you well ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I think I'm quite well, hut Fm very 
 tired.' 
 
 ' Ah ! You want some tea or supper, I 
 suppose — but I should have judged you was 
 ill, you look so white. Shall I get you some- 
 thing to eat ? You had better have some of 
 mine to-night, you know, just for acquaint- 
 ance' sake ; then you can begin to-morrow 
 to buy your own things.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' I said, ' you are very kind. 
 I should like some tea better than anything.' 
 
 1 Very well, Miss. You just put your hat
 
 MARY BROWNE. 279 
 
 and cape on a chair and lay down to rest on 
 the sofa, and in ten minutes you shall have 
 all you want.' 
 
 She had opened the door of the little 
 parlour, and, as she spoke, I had passed in. 
 It was a pretty cheerful room, and I felt at 
 home in it directly. 
 
 1 1 would rather not lie down,' I said, ' for 
 I am really not an invalid, but I would like 
 to sit here and wait for my tea.' 
 
 She took my out door clothes from me and 
 put them on the sofa, telling me she would 
 take them upstairs for me presently. Then 
 she disappeared to prepare the promised meal. 
 
 Left alone, I had plenty to occupy my 
 mind. My thoughts flew first to Mr. Har- 
 rop, if indeed, I had really ceased to think 
 of him for a moment since he had bidden 
 me ' Good-bye.' As I thought I began to 
 wonder. The strange change in his manner, 
 or rather the remembrance of it, made me 
 wonder. His great kindness made me 
 wonder. In fact, all my remembrance of him
 
 280 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 made me wonder. There was something in 
 my experience of him that mystified me. He 
 seemed, in my recollections of his voice and 
 manner, to be changed, and yet the same — 
 the same, yet changed — as he had appeared 
 physically to me to be, but a short time 
 before. Then the memory of his unexpected 
 and disinterested kindness rested in my heart, 
 and I could think of nothing else. I had 
 looked forward to this evening as one of 
 trouble and difficulty, to be spent in a long 
 search for that which the goodness of a com- 
 parative stranger had provided me with in 
 the course of a few minutes. I was safe, at 
 all events, for the present. This knowledge 
 filled me with gratitude and hope, but did 
 not prevent my thoughts eventually reverting 
 to my want of means for providing for future 
 necessities. I began to calculate how much 
 money I should be likely to get in return for 
 the trinkets I had to part with ; and, not to 
 keep myself in suspense, or rather not to 
 delay the pleasure of having the business
 
 MARY BROWNE. 28 1 
 
 completed, I resolved to go out and try to 
 sell them, before I lay down to sleep. Besides, 
 it was necessary to dispose of them very 
 soon, as my present finances would be ex- 
 hausted in two or three days, even if they 
 lasted so long. Again my thoughts flew to 
 Mr. Harrop, and I suddenly felt ashamed of 
 the untruths which my words to him had im- 
 plied, when he had spoken to me of my 
 pecuniary affairs. My pride had urged me 
 to induce him to believe what was false, and 
 he had fallen into the snare. I remembered 
 the satirical tone of his voice, and the 
 doubting expression of his face, when he had 
 spoken of my being reserved ; and I imagined 
 that I realised, as I had not done at the time, 
 the full meaning of his remark. ' He was 
 surprised,' I said to myself, ' to find I was so 
 deceitful as to conceal from Miss Grimshaw 
 that I had money to go on with, and means 
 of getting more.' Perhaps he thought I had 
 been guilty of an absolute falsehood. Perhaps 
 she had told him that I had informed her I
 
 282 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 was penniless. Any way, the recollection of 
 his remark caused me intense pain. I felt 
 that if he believed me capable of such de- 
 ception, he must despise me. Then came 
 suddenly upon me another recollection — that 
 of an evening, years back, when my lost 
 friend, Marion Launceston had described 
 him to me as being himself untruthful. It 
 seemed to me impossible that this could be 
 so. She must be mistaken ! And yet she 
 had spoken so surely and decidedly. There 
 was nothing to give colour to her statement, 
 in my eyes, except the inexplicable change 
 in his present manner and conduct to me 
 from what they had been in the past. This 
 I could not understand, and the more I 
 pondered on it the more I was puzzled, and 
 the more I wondered. Could it be the result 
 of the qualities she had ascribed to him, and 
 that now he was playing some part to suit 
 his own purpose ? 'No, no, no,' I said aloud, 
 with a sudden repentance of the thought of 
 the moment before. ' It is her mistake. He
 
 MARY BROWNE. 283 
 
 is all candour and goodness, and alas ! he 
 must despise me for my deceit ! ' I was 
 wretched ! Should I ever be able to unde- 
 ceive him ? Very likely, never. Most likely, 
 never. But he had told me to write to him 
 if necessary. The remembrance filled my 
 heart with a sudden joy which sent the blood 
 crimson to my cheeks. 
 
 ' Yet, why should I care ? ' I said, 
 ashamed, with unreasoning vehemence, of 
 my own feelings. ' It is nothing to me what 
 he thinks. I dare say he would have been as 
 kind to me if I had been ever so wicked. I 
 feel grateful to him for all his goodness, but 
 care nothing what he thinks of me — nothing 
 at all ! ' But still I felt unhappy, and longed 
 that I had not heard that tone in his voice, 
 nor seen that look on his face. Poor, blind, 
 miserable girl ! 
 
 The old woman entering with my tea 
 changed the current of my thoughts. When 
 the meal was over I asked her if she knew of 
 any shops near.
 
 284 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 Oh ! yes — plenty, Miss. What sort of 
 shops do you want ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! all kinds/ I said, thinking it best 
 to keep my own secrets. ' If you will direct 
 me to some, I have no doubt I shall find 
 what I require.' 
 
 * There's plenty just round the corner at 
 the end of the street — to the left, as you go 
 out. If you go the other way, you will get 
 into the country.' 
 
 ' I don't want to do that.' 
 
 ' Well, you'll be all right if you turn to the 
 left, Miss. Have you been this way before, 
 in your walks ? ' 
 
 4 No. I went out very little at the Col- 
 lege. I had better go while it's light,' I added, 
 getting up and putting on my hat. ' I shall 
 not be long.' 
 
 Before leaving the house I went upstairs, 
 shut the door of my room, and locked it 
 noiselessly. Then I uncorded my trunk, and 
 took from the top, where I had placed it to 
 be ready to my hand, a small box containing
 
 MARY BROWNE. 285 
 
 the gold chain, ring, and pair of ear-rings, 
 before mentioned, all of which I valued 
 highly — the first the gift of my dead father 
 — the others of my dead mother. I opened 
 it with an unsteady hand, and, almost blinded 
 with tears, looked long and earnestly at its 
 contents. There they lay ! as my mothers 
 hand had placed them, when she packed my 
 things before I went to school. The little 
 box had never once been opened since that 
 day. I could not bear to take them from 
 their resting-place, but my tears fell fast upon 
 them, and I kissed them again and again, as 
 though the dear hands which had placed 
 them there were on them still — hands that 
 would never again clasp mine ! That would 
 never again do any little act of love for me ! 
 That would never again be laid on me as in 
 that last embrace, so little thought of as the 
 last ! Could she see me now ? Would she 
 be grieved that I parted with her gifts ? It 
 could not be. The alternative was absolute 
 want. They must go ! But it was a bitter
 
 286 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 parting ; as bitter as the snapping of a last 
 link between ourselves and some dead past 
 must ever be, for I had no other token of the 
 love of my parents to keep for their sake till 
 death. 
 
 I breathed some sort of prayer through 
 my tears — what, I know not — but it calmed 
 me, and, once more kissing the contents, I 
 closed the box. 
 
 As I did so, another memory came upon 
 me. The box itself brought to my mind 
 my long-absent, long-unheard-of brother. It 
 was the same from which, on the morning he 
 had left his home, he had taken the money 
 he had then asked me for. The events of 
 that day returned vividly to my mind. I 
 had thought of them occasionally in the 
 intervening time, but now they rose before 
 me as though they had second life. I heard 
 his laugh, as he took my treasure and looked 
 at my angry face. I heard his joking remark 
 about his reason for looking at me. I heard 
 the quick change in his voice when he
 
 MARY BROWNE. 287 
 
 begged me to kiss him, as he might not be 
 back 'just yet.' I saw him take his cap 
 from the peg in the hall, while I stood 
 watching him with the same angry expres- 
 sion. I heard the street-door slam behind 
 him, and I saw him go down the street 
 whistling, with his cap on one side, and his 
 hands in his pockets. All the scene over 
 again, vividly, as we acted it then. Where 
 was he now ? Alive, or dead ? God knew. 
 ' There is no hope,' I said, in my heart, ' no 
 hope ! He is drowned or dead with want. 
 Heaven grant/ I cried aloud, with sudden 
 bitterness, ' that it may be so, rather than, in 
 his unnatural selfishness and rebellion, he 
 should have broken and forgotten for ever 
 the tender links that should chain him to the 
 past, the sweet memories of his early years.' 
 
 As I rose from my knees, and closed my 
 trunk, I resolved that this box should be 
 parted with as well as its contents. It 
 should not remain with me, torturing me 
 whenever it met my gaze. It should go. I
 
 288 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 slipped it in my pocket, and hurried down- 
 stairs into the street. The sweet, fresh 
 evening air revived me. I walked on, 
 calmly, with a new feeling of liberty and life, 
 which soon chased away the sad thoughts 
 which had at first filled my heart. 
 
 I directed my steps towards the shops 
 which Mrs. Gray had mentioned to me, but 
 soon, however, discovered there was not a 
 jeweller's among them. I walked on farther 
 in pursuit of what I wanted. After searching 
 fruitlessly for some minutes — disliking to be 
 out so late, for the lamps were already be- 
 ginning to glimmer here and there, and the 
 streets were partially deserted — I asked ^a 
 passer-by for information, which was kindly 
 given, and, after walking some distance far- 
 ther, I found myself standing outside a large 
 shop, that looked, with the gas and its 
 resplendent treasures, one blaze of light. 
 
 I peeped in nervously. There were 
 three men behind the counter : one making 
 entries in a book, another putting away trays
 
 MARY BROWNE. 289 
 
 of jewels, and the third walking up and 
 down, doing nothing. The latter looked 
 more pleasant than either of the others, and 
 to him I at once determined to address 
 myself ; and yet I stood irresolute, unable to 
 enter. Business was evidently over for the 
 day, and there was no time for hesitation. 
 As I stood, first looking at the jewels and 
 then at their guardians, a tall boy produced 
 himself from a side passage, and, after exe- 
 cuting, as a preparatory incantation, a mad 
 dance round me, with a howling accom- 
 paniment, and his eyes starting from their 
 sockets, proceeded to put up the shutters, 
 apparently in haste. This frightened me 
 into action. In a moment I was in the shop, 
 making my way towards the man whom I 
 had selected as my friend. As I advanced, 
 he stopped his walk, and looked at me en- 
 quiringly. 
 
 ' What can I show you, Miss ? ' 
 1 I want to know,' I said, taking the 
 little box from my pocket, and display- 
 vol. 1. u
 
 29O MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ing the contents, 'whether you will buy 
 these ? ' 
 
 Perhaps it was something in my way of 
 speaking, for my voice trembled ; perhaps 
 something in the expression of my face, for I 
 felt my colour rising with a kind of false 
 shame of what I was doing, that caused him 
 to answer me merely by looking first at my 
 dress, and then in my eyes, with a most 
 scrutinising expression in his own. He did 
 not even glance a second time at my trea- 
 sures till I spoke again. 
 
 ' What will you give me for them ? ' I 
 asked, in a bolder tone. ' They are good 
 gold, and valuable stones.' 
 
 He recovered his equanimity in a mo- 
 ment, took the box from me, tilted the con- 
 tents carelessly into his hand, and looked 
 at them as carelessly. A sharp pain shot 
 through me as I thought how cold the hands 
 were which had touched them last. 
 
 Suddenly he started, changed colour, and 
 uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
 
 MARY BROWNE. 29 I 
 
 ■ What's the matter, Mr. Smith ? ' said 
 the man who was writing, without raising his 
 head. 
 
 ' Why, look here, Sir,' said the first 
 speaker, going round in front of the counter, 
 and, in so doing, putting himself between me 
 and the door. ■ Look here, Sir. This — 
 this young lady wants to know if we'll buy 
 this chain.' He passed it, as he spoke, to 
 the man who was writing. 
 
 He left off writing now, and put his pen 
 behind his ear. As his eye caught the chain, 
 he changed colour as the other had done, 
 and, in lieu of speaking, came down the shop 
 towards me. (Mr. Smith, meanwhile, I 
 recollected afterwards, moved nearer the 
 door.) 
 
 * Where did you get this ? ' he asked, 
 shortly, looking at me as if he would read in 
 my face the truth or untruth of my reply. 
 
 1 I have had it a long time,' I said. 
 
 ' That's no answer. Where did you 
 get it ? p 
 
 u 2
 
 292 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 ' My father gave it to me.' 
 
 * Where is he ? ' 
 
 1 He has been dead nearly four years.' 
 
 1 Where do you live ? ' 
 
 I began to feel indignant now, but, fearful 
 of I knew not what, thought it best to 
 answer. 
 
 * I don't know the name of the place,' I 
 said. ' I left Victoria College this afternoon 
 — it's a ladies' school — and the cabman drove 
 me to a house where there was a room to let. 
 I took the room, and have now come out to 
 sell these things, as I have very little money 
 left.' 
 
 * A very probable story,' said Mr. Smith, 
 ' but it requires confirmation.' 
 
 At this juncture the wretched shop-boy 
 came in, and stood looking at me so much as 
 if he had expected it all, and rather enjoyed 
 it than otherwise, that my misery and anxiety 
 were increased tenfold. 
 
 Mr. Smith's companion took no notice of 
 that gentleman's remark, but again looked at
 
 MARY BROWNE. 293 
 
 me, then at the chain, then once more at 
 me. 
 
 1 There's something in your face,' he said, 
 slowly, ' which makes me think you are 
 speaking the truth ; and, another thing is, it's 
 such a lame story to invent — if it is a story — 
 being such an easy thing to run round to the 
 College and test it. I believe also that had 
 you come by the property dishonestly, you 
 would never have been so imprudent as to 
 bring it here, of all places in the world ; and, 
 aorain What's the matter ? ' 
 
 I felt cold and sick. I had only just 
 begun to thoroughly realise what it all meant. 
 
 1 There is nothing the matter.' 
 
 1 You need not be alarmed/ he went on, 
 more gently. ' I see no ground for discre- 
 diting your statement, and certainly will try 
 not to do so for a moment, if you answer me 
 one question, as I trust you will answer it. 
 Where did you live when your father gave 
 you this ? ' 
 
 He held up the chain as he spoke.
 
 294 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 1 At Eastbury, in Wiltshire/ I said. ' It 
 was bought at a jeweller's there of the name 
 of Braddon.' 
 
 ' Quite right,' he said ; ' that's what I 
 hoped you would say. Now, look here.' 
 
 He produced a kind of circular, stating, 
 among other things to be received as facts, 
 that John Braddon's watches, chains, and 
 jewels were superior to any in the world ; 
 and that, in addition to the head fountain of 
 
 business at 13 College Street, C Town, 
 
 he also possessed many smaller fountains, 
 among others, one in North Street, Eastbury. 
 
 ' There's the whole of the explanation to 
 me', he said ; ' and the explanation to you is 
 this.' 
 
 He put into my hand a long printed bill, 
 headed ' Robbery,' which informed me that 
 Mr. John Braddon's premises, at No. 13 
 College Street, had been forcibly entered on 
 the night of the 16th instant, and property 
 carried off to the amount of 450/. A reward 
 of 50/. was offered for the ' apprehension of
 
 MARY BROWNE. 295 
 
 the offender, or any one of the offenders ; ' 
 and I immediately concluded that my friend 
 Mr. Smith, who was still oaiardin^ f-] ie d 00 r 
 with praiseworthy perseverance, had, for 
 some reason or other, imagined, and, to all 
 appearance, was even now under the same 
 delusion, that the 50/. was as good as safe in 
 his pocket. 
 
 1 Now, to be still clearer on the subject,' 
 said Mr. John Braddon, for he I (I after- 
 wards heard rightly) concluded the speaker 
 to be — ' To make matters quite clear to you, 
 I must tell you that this chain you offer for 
 sale is one of our patents — that is, you know, 
 no one but ourselves may make a chain of 
 this pattern, and that a dozen or so were 
 among the property stolen on the 16th. Of 
 course, therefore, on seeing this particular 
 one, there was, for the moment, a slight 
 suspicion, especially as it is a most expensive 
 article (when new, I mean), and we manu- 
 facture but few like it, in comparison with 
 others of inferior workmanship and quality.
 
 296 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 Do you see ? The suspicion was slight, very 
 slight, but still it was natural for it to exist ; 
 though, had I examined your chain thoroughly 
 at first, I should have seen at once what I 
 now see, and that is that there is a slight 
 difference in what we call the " catch " of it 
 and that of those which were stolen from us 
 last week/ 
 
 4 Yes,' I said, my heart beating quickly at 
 the thought of the danger I had escaped, and 
 a fresh feeling of indignation coming over 
 me as I again realised that the man to whom 
 I was speaking had thought it possible, for 
 some moments at least, that I was a thief — 
 * Yes, I quite understand, I don't mind it at 
 all. But will you buy it ? ' 
 
 I spoke eagerly, for I felt that if unsuc- 
 cessful in disposing of it now, I should never, 
 after such an adventure as this, have courage 
 to enter another shop on the same errand. A 
 prison, at least, would be the result next time. 
 
 ' You are very anxious to sell it, are you 
 not?'
 
 MARY BROWNE. 297 
 
 * Yes, very,' I answered, unguardedly. 
 1 1 am in great need of money.' 
 
 4 What will you take for it ? ' 
 
 4 What will you give me ? I do not 
 know its worth at all.' 
 
 4 What do you say to 7/. for it ? ' 
 
 4 That will do,' I exclaimed joyfully, for 
 such an amount seemed a mine of wealth to 
 me ; and besides, I was ignorant that the 
 chain originally cost nearly double that sum. 
 ' That will do. And the earrings, and the 
 ring, and box ? ' 
 
 4 The box is worth nothing, at least, to us, 
 and as for these,' examining the remaining 
 contents as he spoke, ' they are too old- 
 fashioned for us to sell again as they are, so 
 I can only buy them as old gold. Say half-a- 
 sovereign for the lot ' 
 
 4 I won't sell them then ; only the chain.' 
 
 4 Very well, Miss. I should not give so 
 much for that — it's not the custom, you know, 
 to give a high price for second-hand goods — 
 only I knew your father slightly, in fact was
 
 298 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 a patient of his. I'm right in supposing you 
 to be Dr. Browne's daughter ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' I exclaimed, in surprise. 'How 
 did you know me ? ' 
 
 ' When you spoke of Eastbury, I re- 
 membered your face. I often saw you there 
 a few years back.' 
 
 ' I don't remember you at all.' 
 
 ' Very likely, Miss. More people see us 
 than we see.' 
 
 And with this original remark Mr. Brad- 
 don disappeared for a few moments and 
 returned with seven sovereigns, which he 
 dropped, one by one, into my hand, while I 
 listened to the pleasant chink they made. 
 
 ' There, Miss. I remember your father 
 buying the chain quite well. He bought one 
 for your mother at the same time. Have 
 you got that too ? ' 
 
 'No,' I said, ' I have not. Good evening, 
 Mr. Braddon.' I could bear it no longer. 
 
 ' Good evening, Miss — I shall be happy 
 to oblige you at any time/
 
 MARY BROWNE. 299 
 
 He opened the door, and I passed out, 
 his last question ringing in my ears, and sug- 
 gesting a thought which, strange as it may 
 seem, had never before entered my mind. 
 What had become of my mother's personal 
 property ? She must have had some ; and 
 this chain I knew she had, for she had worn 
 it on the day I left her to go to the College. 
 What had become of it ? How singular that 
 I had never thought of this before ! I soon, 
 however, dismissed the subject by coming to 
 a conclusion which I have never had any 
 reason for considering incorrect ; and that 
 was that my uncle was not the generous man 
 that he appeared to so many to be, having 
 appropriated the missing articles in part in- 
 demnification to himself for defraying my 
 educational expenses. 
 
 I hurried along through the lighted streets, 
 afraid to stop a moment, but almost too happy 
 to experience the fear I certainly should have 
 experienced had my mind been less excited ; 
 for I had never before been out at night
 
 300 MARY BROWNE. 
 
 alone. It was a long time before Mrs. Gray's 
 little cottage dawned upon my sight, for 
 the road looked different to me now : the 
 lamps were all lighted, and the shops being 
 shut a great many of my way-marks had dis- 
 appeared. However, it was at length reached 
 safely, and the old lady answered my sum- 
 mons immediately, remarking gravely, 'that 
 it was rather late for young people to be out 
 shopping/ 
 
 'Yes/ I assented, 'but I could not find 
 what I wanted as soon as I expected/ 
 
 Declining all offers of supper and as- 
 sistance in unpacking, I wished my friend 
 'good-night' and hurried upstairs to my 
 room, where the first thing I did was to lock 
 up my new treasures and the remains of my 
 old, thankful for my acquisition of the former, 
 and repaid for the price they had cost me by 
 the continued possession of the latter. My 
 anxieties were for the present over ; I was 
 comparatively rich, and imagination painted 
 the future in her own brilliant colours. Again
 
 MARY BROWNE. 3<DI 
 
 I saw the pleasant home in prospect — the 
 gentle, obedient little pupils — the kind friends 
 who were to respect and love me. All seemed 
 prosperity and sunshine ! And so I went to 
 rest and slept calmly. 
 
 Surely, in every station of life, and at 
 every age, our happy moments, even though 
 few and short, more than counterbalance 
 whatever darkness and despair precede them. 
 
 Better for me, I thought long afterwards, 
 if that eventful day, with its hopes and fears, 
 its dreams and fancies, had been blotted from 
 my life for evermore ! 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
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