L I B RA RY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N I VLRS ITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 6
 
 
 t^^ 
 
 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON.
 
 A ROMANCE OF MODERN 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 H IRoveL 
 
 BY 
 
 CUKTIS YOEKE, 
 
 Author op 
 
 ' HUSH! "THE MYSTERY OF BELGRAVE SQUARE, 
 
 "THE BROWN PORTMANTEAU," "DUDLEY," 
 "THE WILD RUTHVENS," "THAT LITTLE GIRL,'' &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 F. V. WHITE & CO., 
 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1892.
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 ICELLT AND CO., LIMITED, GATE STREET, LINCULN'8 ISS FIELDS, W.O., 
 
 AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
 
 8^3 
 V. a 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. fAGE 
 
 I. — Eclipse ...... 1 
 
 II. — The Seed of Ambition ... 24 
 
 ill. — The U^'FOKESEEN ..... 58 
 
 IV. — Saionaka I . .85 
 
 V. — A Precocious Young Woman . . .122 
 
 VI. — Mammon 149 
 
 VII. — The Grub becomes a Butterfly . .172 
 
 VIIL— " It is Written ! " . . . . 203 
 
 IX. — The Thawing of an Iceberg . . 226 
 
 ti^
 
 A ROMAiNCE OF MODERN LONDON.
 
 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ECLIPSE. 
 
 - *' I have known how sickness bends, 
 
 I have known how sorrow breaks — 
 How quick hopes have sudden ends, 
 How the heart thinks till it aches 
 Of the smile of buried friends." 
 
 — E. B. Browning. 
 
 " Who lives in the stars, Douglas ? " said a 
 child's voice. ''* Do the anc^els ? " 
 
 " Don't know, little one." 
 
 " Why, Douglas, I thought 3^ou knew 
 everything ? " and the tiny speaker raised two 
 surprised, reproachful eyes to her com- 
 panion's face. 
 
 The boy laughed — a short, amused laugh. 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 2 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " You silly little tliin^r " he said. " I know 
 — just nothing at all." 
 
 " Douglas ! " remonstrated the baby voice, 
 " 3'ou do know lots of things." 
 
 Douglas shook his head. 
 
 " No, Bee, not the things I want to know. 
 I mean to, though, some day," he added, with 
 a curious quietness in his pleasant, boyish 
 voice. 
 
 " When you're a mm, Douglas ? " asked 
 the child. 
 
 "Yes, Bee, when I'm a man," the boy 
 answered, leaning back in his chair and 
 clasping his hands behind his head. 
 
 " Will it take years and years until you're 
 a man ? " asked the little one. 
 
 " It'll take a good many 3'ears," he an- 
 swered briefly. 
 
 Bee smoothed out the skirts of a dilapi- 
 dated and most viciously ugly doll which lay 
 on her lap, and observed sagely : 
 
 " A year's a long tims — an awful long 
 time. Last year I was only a very little 
 girl."
 
 ECLIPSE. 3 
 
 " And what are you this year ? " said 
 Douglas, pulling one of her curls with a 
 good-natured smile. 
 
 " I'm six years old," she answered with an 
 important air. "I'm getting quite a little 
 woman. Mammy says so." 
 
 They were sitting at an open window 
 which looked into a narrow dingy street 
 near Westminster Abbey. The window was 
 very high up, and the room to which it 
 belonged was very small. But the window- 
 sill was bright with late summer flowers, and 
 the window-panes were exquisitely clean, 
 which was more than could be said for the 
 general run of window-panes in Garth Street. 
 The room itself had an equally clean and 
 fresh appearance — even a certain air of re- 
 finement. And the same air of refinement 
 characterized the boy and his companion. 
 He was a straight-limbed, well-made lad of 
 fifteen ; his face was kind and strong, with 
 resolute lips, and keen, black-lashed blue 
 eyes, which faced the world from beneath 
 
 level brows too strongly marked for beauty. 
 
 1*
 
 4 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 His child companion was a remarkably pretty 
 little creature, with great grey eyes, and a 
 tangle of curly brown hair — hair that floated 
 about her tiny colourless face, and gave to it 
 an added picturesque beauty. 
 
 Garth Street was unusually quiet and 
 deserted on this particular evening. For one 
 thing it was Sunday, and for another thing a 
 fine small rain was falling, a wetting un- 
 pleasant rain, which made out-of-door 
 locomotion undesirable. But Doui^^las and 
 Bee did not mind the rain. They Hked it. 
 Douglas was letting it patter down at will 
 upon his dark young head as he leaned over 
 a fragrant tuft of mignonette, and every now 
 and then Bee, kneeling upon her chair, 
 stretched out her little neck, and put out her 
 little red tongue as far as it would go, to 
 catch the fast-falling drops, which, she 
 declared, " tasted nice and warm." 
 
 The summer dusk fell softly, silently ; the 
 rain-drops grew lighter and fewer and finally 
 ceased ; a few stars twinkled out in the pale 
 sky between the fast-drifting clouds.
 
 ECLIPSE. 5 
 
 Suddenly the door of the room opened and 
 shut, and a woman's voice, low and clear, 
 sounded through the semi-darkness. 
 
 " Don't sit at the open window, dears," it 
 said ; " the night air is damp and chilly." 
 
 Douglas rose instantly and closed the 
 window. Then he put his strong young arm 
 round the slender figure of the newcomer. 
 He was nearly as tall as she ; and there was a 
 lingering likeness between the two faces, that 
 were yet so essentially different. 
 
 " Are you better, mother darling ? " he said 
 in a voice of almost womanly tenderness. 
 " Is the pain gone ? Sit down in the easy 
 chair and I will light the candles." 
 
 He struck a match and lit a couple of 
 candles in tall, curiously chased brass candle- 
 sticks. Candles — in the plural — were a 
 Sunday treat. On other nights they had 
 only one. 
 
 The candlelight lit up the little room 
 bravely enough. (If one's room is small, it 
 manifestly takes less light to make it cheerful. 
 Applied variously, this is one of the compen-
 
 G A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 sations of existence.) When the blind was 
 drawn down, and the fringed chintz curtain 
 pulled across the window, it looked a very 
 homelike little room. There were one or 
 two good engravings on the walls, a small, 
 but well-filled bookcase in one corner, and, 
 facing the window, a cottage piano of well- 
 polished ebony, with a slender heap of music 
 lying upon it. A mirror framed in dark oak 
 hung over the mantelpiece, and above it a 
 sword and a pair of spurs. A luxuriant, well 
 cared-for hart's-tongue fern occupied the 
 centre of the table. 
 
 Mrs. Conrath, the neighbours were wont to 
 remark among themselves, had seen " better 
 days." But they were not particularly 
 interested in her. For though the pale-faced 
 widow was always gentle and courteous to 
 such of her fellow-lodgers as she came in 
 contact with, she never showed any desire to 
 improve their acquaintance. Xor did she 
 respond to the kindly-meant advances of her 
 landlad}'. She had lived for three years in 
 Garth Street, and she had not made a single
 
 ECLIPSE. 7 
 
 friend — whicli the inhabitants (being of a 
 more clannish nature than is usual in London 
 neighbourhoods) denounced as a sign of 
 unwarrantable uppishness, and therefore left 
 her alone. The boy, they added, was as 
 " stuck-up " and " close " as his mother. 
 Little Bee, however, was too young to be 
 either stuck up or close, and she often — 
 when Douglas and his mother were out, and 
 she was left to her own devices — wandered 
 down to the kitchen, where she sat by the 
 fire and " talked that knowin','' as Mrs. 
 Dobbs, the landlady, said, as to impress that 
 decent woman with the mournfully-announced 
 conviction that " the blessed child was not 
 long for this world — though as healthy and 
 pretty as a pictur'." 
 
 Bee looked a bonnie and winsome wee 
 sprite enough to-night as she nestled up to 
 the tired-looking woman in the armchair, 
 and wound her small soft arms about her 
 neck. 
 
 " Poor, poor mammy," she cooed caress- 
 ingly. " Douglas and me have been so good
 
 8 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 — and we spoke quite, quite low — so as not 
 to wake you up." 
 
 Mrs. Conrath stroked the child's bright hair 
 without speaking. She was still quite young, 
 with a very sweet, but inexpressibly sad face. 
 It was more than sad ; it was utterly hopeless. 
 All the hope, and nearly all the beauty, had 
 been crushed out of it when she buried her 
 soldier husband three years ago. And it had 
 never come back again. Poor soul ! she had 
 had a sore struggle in these three years, and 
 she had worked very hard. She had suc- 
 ceeded in keeping her son at a good London 
 school until a year ago, when he had insisted 
 upon earning something for himself. He was 
 now office-boy to two easy-going young men, 
 who had a couple of handsomely-furnished 
 rooms in Westminster, where they wrote 
 letters, smoked, and chaffed each other from 
 ten till two, and resumed the same arduous 
 programme from four till half-past live. This 
 was on " busy " days. On other days they 
 o'Ot into the office at eleven, and left it at two, 
 to return no more. They paid young Conrath
 
 ECLIPSE. \) 
 
 eight shillings a week, every penny of which 
 munificent sum the lad scrupulously handed 
 over to "the mother." Mrs. Conrath's life 
 was bleak and dreary enough ; but it would 
 have been bleaker and drearier still without 
 Douglas. He was old for his years, and 
 singularly companionable ; and in many ways 
 he reminded her forcibly, sometimes almost 
 painfully, of his dead father. There was 
 something very touching in the boy's manner 
 to his mother. It was a mixture of chivalrous 
 tenderness and unspoken compassion. Only 
 to Douglas did the widow ever speak of the 
 husband who had been her idol ; and many a 
 passionate fit of tearless sobbing had been 
 soothed to rest in Douglas's loving young 
 arms. She, perhaps, did not realize the 
 shadow her constant grief and melancholy 
 shed around her boy's life. One is so apt, you 
 know, to forget the depressing efiect our 
 indulgence in real or fancied troubles may 
 have upon our house-mates. It would have 
 been but a gloomy life for Douglas, much as 
 he loved his mxOther, had it not been for little
 
 10 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Bee's sunshiny presence. The sound of her 
 tiny restless feet, her equally restless tongue, 
 and her innocent loving ways, were irre- 
 sistibly winning and heart-cheering. Gloom 
 was almost impossible where Bee was ; and 
 she was as busy, in her inconsequent, baby 
 way, as the indefatigable insect whose name 
 she bore. She was not really a Conrath at 
 all, though the mother and son could 
 hardly have loved her more dearly if she had 
 been. Her advent in the family was in this 
 wise. 
 
 One snowy winter night four years ago 
 Captain Conrath had found a tiny child, 
 apparently about two years old, curled up in 
 a weeping, half-frozen bundle on the steps of 
 his club, and had been sorely perplexed and 
 dismayed by the forlorn little atom seizing 
 and clinging to his leg with all the tenacity of 
 childish despair. lie was about to relinquish 
 her to the care of the grim-looking policeman 
 who had promptly appeared upon the scene, 
 when something in the child's tear-wet up- 
 turned eyes, some expression in the pathetic
 
 ECLIPSE. 11 
 
 quivering baby lips, gave him an uncomfort- 
 able feeling in his throat, and made him sign 
 to the policeman to pause. Such a tiny, 
 forlorn, desolate little creature it looked — this 
 little waif of the midnight and the snow ! 
 And how its eyes, with their piteous upward 
 look, recalled the eyes of his baby daughter, 
 who lay peacefully under the frost and snow 
 in a distant graveyard ! She had looked up 
 at him like that — with childish eyes full of 
 suffering — the night she died. Charlie 
 Conrath was soft - hearted — foolishly so, his 
 comrades said. Anyway, he couldn't bear to 
 think of this poor mite being carried off to 
 the police station until such time as her 
 friends should discover her whereabouts. 
 So, having failed to elicit anything except 
 sobs from the poor shivering baby, he told 
 the man to hail a hansom, picked up his 
 weeping, snow-soaked protegee, and drove off 
 with her to his home in Kensington Gore — 
 leaving his name and address with the 
 astonished policeman, in case inquiries should 
 be made. But no inquiries ever were made ;
 
 12 A ROMA^X•E OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 and Edith Conratli welcomed the desolate 
 waif with wistful tears, and took it into the 
 place in her heart that death had left deso- 
 late, and called it by her dead baby's name. 
 A year later tender - hearted, easy-going 
 Charlie Conrath had followed his little 
 daughter, and left his gentle young wife to 
 face the world alone — except for the children. 
 Except for the children ! God only knew 
 what she would have done in these dark days 
 except for " the children." Their innocent 
 caresses, their loving childish attempts to 
 soothe the grief they were too young to 
 understand, saved her perhaps from madness 
 and despair. Though a singularly lovable 
 fellow. Captain Conrath had also been almost 
 incredibly thoughtless and careless of the 
 future. He was hopelessly in debt, it was 
 found, and it had never occurred to him, 
 apparently, to make any provision for his 
 family in the event of his death. So after 
 the sale of most of the furniture in her 
 pretty home, the young widow took rooms 
 in obscure and dingy Garth Street, and went
 
 ECLIPSE. 13 
 
 back to the life of hard work from which her 
 handsome young soldier-lover had taken her 
 thirteen years before — the monotonous, soul- 
 withering, thankless, ill-paid work of teachmg 
 " other people's children." Yes— it had been 
 a hard struggle ; and something in her sunken 
 eyes and worn cheeks told that it had been 
 rendered harder by ill-health as well as 
 poverty and care. For Edith Conrath was 
 slowly but steadily sinking under the relent- 
 less grasp of a mortal disease. Her days 
 were numbered, she knew. The grave that 
 held her husband and child waited for her. 
 
 To-night she looked almost ghastly in the 
 bright candlelight, for she had had a day of 
 terrible pain, and she felt sorely unfit to begin 
 her week-day duties on the morrow. Bee had 
 perched herself on a stool behind her 
 " mammy's " chair, and was stroking the 
 faded wavy hair with clumsily loving baby 
 fingers. Mrs. Conrath caught one little hand 
 in hers, as it strayed about her neck, and 
 pressed her lips to it. 
 
 " Time you were in bed, my little one,"
 
 li A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 she said, glancing at the clock on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 " No, mammy," coaxingly replied the small 
 maiden. " I'm not sleepy, and I haven't had 
 my bread and milk — nor I haven't read about 
 my little Samuel." 
 
 " Here's your bread and milk," said 
 Douglas, catching her up in his arms and 
 carrying her over to the sideboard, where a 
 cup of milk stood side by side with a slice of 
 bread. " And when you've finished it, get 
 your book, and you shall read to mother and 
 me, like a clever little woman as you are." 
 
 Having disposed of her supper. Bee went 
 with an important air to a certain corner of 
 the little bookcase, and produced a weighty 
 and dilapidated volume, rich in many highly- 
 coloured illustrations, principally of a Scrip- 
 tural nature. She gravely turned over the 
 leaves until she came to the picture she called 
 " her little Samuel," upon which she pro- 
 ceeded to dissertate at her own sweet will. 
 Then, kneeling upon Douglas's knee, with 
 sweetly-solemn face and tightly-shut eyes, she
 
 ECLIPSE, 15 
 
 murmured an extremely conversational, not 
 to say free and easy, little prayer — that 
 nevertheless had something indefinably touch- 
 ing in its lisping petitions — and having bid 
 good-night to Douglas, trotted into the ad- 
 joining room, whither Mrs. Conrath presently 
 followed her. 
 
 Douglas seated himself near one of the 
 candles and began to pore over a somewhat 
 worn copy of " Plutarch's Lives." He was 
 passionately fond of reading, and fortunately 
 for him the late Captain Conrath's library, 
 though small, was better selected than is 
 altogether common in men of his profession. 
 Douglas — like most resolute persevering 
 natures — read very slowly, invariabl}^ uttering 
 each word mentally as he passed it ; and he 
 possessed the accompanying faculty of 
 remembering everything he read, as lightning 
 skippers of literature rarely if ever do. When 
 his mother came back into the room again he 
 closed his book, and took a low seat beside 
 her chair, caressing her hand silently. 
 
 "I think you are getting thinner, little
 
 16 A EOM.VNCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 mother," he said regretfully. " I really do. 
 I wish to (joodness I could earn a bi:zij^er 
 screw, and then you wouldn't have to toil 
 away at that miserable teaching day after 
 day. I seem to be an awful while in growing 
 up," he added with a sigh. 
 
 " My dear boy," his mother answered, 
 smiling f^iintly — " you are growing up very 
 fast, it seems to me. As for mv teachin^]^, 
 why, I hke it. It was all I had to depend on 
 before I met — your father." 
 
 Her voice faltered. She never, even now, 
 could speak of her husband without faltering 
 speech and quivering lip. He had come like 
 a Q'lorv of awakenin<:]f sunshine into her dull, 
 sordid girlhood ; and her faithful woman's 
 heart cried out for him, not less, but more, as 
 the vears went on. It depends very much 
 upon our surroundings whether time is the 
 " great consoler " he is popularly supposed to 
 be. There are griefs, not a few, that grow 
 the bitterer for keeping. 
 
 '' You cannot like it," resumed the boy, 
 almost fiercelv. " And it makes me wretched
 
 ECLIPSE. 17 
 
 — it drives me half-mad to see you going out 
 in all weathers — looking so thin and ill — and 
 I can do nothing to prevent it. In a year or 
 two there will be an end of it, though," he 
 added with a sudden compression of his young 
 lips — " on that I'm determined." 
 
 " Yes, my boy — there will be an end of it 
 — soon," was the quiet answer. 
 
 " What do you mean, mother ? Why do 
 YOU smile in that strani:fe way ? " asked 
 Douglas in a startled voice. 
 
 "Dear — do you not understand?" she 
 answered, passing her tliin hand over his 
 thick dark hair, and looking up at him with 
 wistful eyes. " Do you not know that I am 
 — very ill ? — that I can never — be any 
 better ? " 
 
 ''Mother I'' 
 
 There was an ancruished increduhtv in the 
 boy's voice and eyes as he flung himself on 
 his knees and cauidit his mother's hands in 
 his. She pressed them convulsively. 
 
 " Mother, you are mistaken. It can't be 
 true," he said with a half break in his voice. 
 VOL. 1. 2
 
 18 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " You will — you must get better ! You 
 remember how ill you were last year, 
 and " 
 
 " No, my boy, I shall not get better," she 
 answered steadily. " You must not deceive 
 yourself. I have wanted to speak to you of 
 this — for a loni:^ time : but — I was afraid. I 
 knew, dear, that you would — feel it so." 
 And the sweet voice shook a little. Then she 
 added, " I saw the doctor yesterday, and he 
 says — that it is a question of — weeks." 
 
 The boy's face had grown very white. 
 
 " It can't be true ! '"' he cried breathlessly 
 and passionately. " You are so young, and 
 sweet, and pretty ! Oh, mother I " 
 
 He rose abruptly and went to the window, 
 where he stood for a long time in silence, 
 gazing out unseeingly into the night. No 
 tears dimmed his eyes ; a strong dull aching 
 tugged at his heart. He had hardly been 
 conscious until now how dearlv he loved his 
 mother. And somehow he had never thought 
 of the possibilit}' of her death. He had 
 looked forward to coming vears, when he
 
 ECLIPSE. VJ 
 
 should liave compassed by his earnings a 
 cosy, luxurious home for her — a home where 
 he and she and " the little one " should live 
 blissfully and peacefully — a home which 
 should never know death, nor sorrow, nor 
 €are. And now ? 
 
 A half-sob rose in his throat, but he choked 
 it back. 
 
 " Why are we so poor ? " his heart echoed 
 fiercely. " Poverty and grief have killed her 
 — and I can do nothing ! " 
 
 He shut his hands in a kind of impotent 
 despair. 
 
 Then his mother's voice called him back to 
 her. He knelt beside her chair, and took her 
 gently in his arms. 
 
 " Try to get well, darling," he whispered 
 
 with an unruly catch in his voice. " It won't 
 
 be so very long, please God, before I earn 
 
 enouo'h for you to have ffood doctors and 
 
 jDroper food and change of air, But oh, 
 
 mother, mother " — the passionate young 
 
 voice rang out despairingly — " don't talk of 
 
 dyiiicj I Can nothing be done ? " 
 
 2*
 
 20 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Her eyes answered him. 
 
 He buried his face in her neck and sobbed. 
 
 Her tears fell fast too, as she held him more 
 closely to her, and whispered loving, broken 
 words that could not comfort him. 
 
 In a minute or two he checked his sobs 
 with a violent effort, remembering how his 
 grief would agitate her. For a time there 
 was silence, broken only by the hurried 
 breathing of each. Then she said : 
 
 " Douglas, can 3^ou bear to listen to me for 
 a little, dear ? " 
 
 He pressed her hand without speaking. 
 
 " It is about little Bee," she went on after 
 a short pause. "Douglas, I feel it is laying 
 a heavy burden on your shoulders, for she 
 has no real claim upon you. But — your 
 father was so fond of her — I cannot bear to 
 
 think of the dear little one Oh, mv 
 
 dear, what will become of you both when I 
 am gone ? " 
 
 Her voice broke, and she turned awav her 
 face. 
 
 " Mother, don't worrv about Bee," said the
 
 ECLIPSE. 21 
 
 boy unsteadily. "I will take care of lier. 
 Trust me, dear. I can work for lier and for 
 myself too." 
 
 " No one knows she is not really your 
 sister," went on liis mother. " No one need 
 know. She need not know either — at least, 
 not yet." 
 
 " No, dear, what difference does it make ? 
 I love her just the same as if she were my 
 sister," said the lad in a mechanical, far-away 
 voice ; for he could not think of Bee just then. 
 
 " Another thinof," said Mrs. Conrath fever- 
 ishly, after a minute, " I want you to 
 promise me — to swear to me — that you will 
 never accept a penny of your uncle's, of Evan 
 Conrath's charity. He cut your father dead 
 because he married me ; he refused either to 
 see him or speak to him ; he returned his 
 letters unopened. He wrote me a most cruel 
 and insulting letter when your father died. 
 You shall never be indebted to him — never ! " 
 
 Her thin cheeks were crimson ; her eyes 
 glittered almost fiercely. Douglas felt that 
 she was trembling^ from head to foot.
 
 22 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " You need not fear, mother," he said 
 slowly. " I swear I never will." 
 
 His mother lay back in her chair, utterly 
 exhausted by her brief excitement ; her lips 
 were pale, her eyes closed. 
 
 Douglas felt a sudden vague alarm. 
 
 " Shall I get your medicine, dear ? " he 
 whispered anxiousl3\ 
 
 She made a gesture of assent ; and by and 
 by she sat up, and a faint tinge of colour 
 came back to her lips. 
 
 " I will go to bed, I think," she said 
 wearily. 
 
 Douglas helped her to her room, saw that 
 she had all she wanted — as he did every 
 night — then took her in his arms with a 
 sorrowful still gentleness very unlike his usual 
 boyish hug and good-night kiss. 
 
 " Good-night, my darling," murmured his 
 mother brokenly. *' My good loving boy. 
 You have been more than a son to me, 
 Dou<]^las. God will surelv bless you, and 
 reward 5'ou as you deserve." Then she added 
 wistfully, " Perhaps I have not acted as was
 
 ECLIPSE. 23 
 
 best for you, my son. But I did it for the 
 best. Always believe that, dear. Now, once 
 more, good-night." 
 
 He kissed her hurriedl}^, for he could not 
 trust himself to speak. Then he went up to 
 his own bedroom, which was a small, low- 
 ceiled apartment at the toj) of the house, and 
 flung himself face downward upon his bed, 
 trying to realize the crushing sorrow that had 
 come upon him. 
 
 -^J^if-^
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 
 
 '* Face and figure of a child, — 
 
 Tliough too calm, you think, and tender, 
 For the childhood you would lend her. 
 
 *' Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
 Frank, obedient, waiting still 
 On the turnings of your will. 
 
 *' Moving light, as all young things, 
 As young birds, or early wheat 
 When the wind blows over it." 
 
 — E. B. Browning. 
 
 Mes. Coneath did not set out on her usual 
 daily pilgrimage on the following morning. 
 She could not. When Douglas went into her 
 room accordinc^ to his wont before leavinix, 
 even his inexperienced eyes saw that she was 
 very ill. She would not allow him to send 
 for the doctor ; she would be better in the 
 afternoon, she said. 
 
 Her son got through his duties that day
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 25 
 
 with a heavy heart, and hurried home to 
 Garth Street with all possible speed. It was 
 a dull, cheerless day, and a strange insur- 
 mountable depression weighed upon him. 
 Bee met him at the head of the stairs, her 
 small face scared and white. Behind her 
 stood the landlady, Mrs. Dobbs. 
 
 " Oh, Master Conrath," said the latter, lift_ 
 ing her apron to her eyes. "I was just 
 agoin' to send for 3^ou. Your poor ma was 
 took that bad just after you went out, and we 
 
 sent for the doctor, and " Here she 
 
 stopped and dried her eyes anew. 
 
 " Is she — dead ? " articulated the boy 
 hoarsely, leaning against the wall, and 
 feeling sick and giddy. 
 
 " No, Master Conrath, she is not dead ; but 
 the doctor he do say she can't last the 
 night." And the speaker shook her head 
 mournfully. 
 
 Douglas mechanically put her aside, and 
 went into his mother's room. She was lying 
 quite still ; and- her eyes were closed, her face 
 ghastly pale.
 
 26 A ROMANCE Of MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Mother ! " he uttered despairingly, fling- 
 ing himself on his knees by the bedside. 
 
 She opened her eyes, and laid her hand 
 caressingly on his head. But she seemed too 
 weak for speech. 
 
 Little Bee, with round, awe-struck eyes, 
 climbed upon the bed. Dying ! The word 
 conveyed no meaning to her childish mind. 
 
 After a minute or two, Douglas, with a 
 white, terrible look of misery on his young 
 face, rose and went out. When he returned 
 the doctor was with him. But alas ! there 
 was nothing more that medical skill could do. 
 Another fierce attack of almost unbearable 
 agony, and then the patient fell into a deep 
 sleep. And from that sleep she awoke — not 
 in this world, but another. 
 
 m n^ i^ ^ ^ 
 
 Little Bee wept, as children weep for a 
 crossed will or a broken toy. 
 
 " Oh, mammy — I want mammy," she 
 wailed. 
 
 But her baby-heart was consoled by the 
 kitten from next door, which stole in and
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 27- 
 
 executed sucli wild fantastic gambols that 
 Bee laughed merrily, while yet the tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 But Douglas did not weep. He sat, hall- 
 stunned, by the dead woman's bedside, almost 
 as white and still as she, with set teeth, and 
 convulsively clenched fingers. He fiercely 
 motioned away the fussy little doctor, with 
 his soothing platitudes — " That it must have 
 come sooner or later ; that his dear mother 
 had been in a critical state for a very long 
 time ; that she had been mercifully spared 
 further suffering," etc., etc. 
 
 " I wish you would let me alone," the boy 
 said in a strange, hard voice. " I know all 
 that. I want to be alone." 
 
 And all night he sat there, pressing despair- 
 ing kisses on the cold forehead, murmuring 
 loving words to the deaf ears, feeling all the 
 while that this was some unreal ghastly 
 dream from which he must soon awake, and 
 over which he and his mother would smile 
 together in the morning. He kept murmur- 
 ing this just above his breath, over and over
 
 28 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 again, to assure himself of tlie truth of his sad 
 self-deception. 
 
 Mrs. Dobbs, who came up first thing in the 
 morning — for she was a kind soul — to 
 persuade him to have a cup of tea, declared 
 it gave her " the creeps " to hear him. 
 
 Ah, well, there is no need to dwell upon 
 Ihose sad days. Soon — cruelly soon it 
 seemed to Douglas — they took his mother 
 away and laid her beside her dead husband. 
 Bee, from the high window where the musk 
 and micfuonette bloomed fra^antlv, watched 
 the sad little procession wind its way slowly 
 down the rain-washed street. Then she cried 
 bitterly, and no one, not even the kitten, 
 could pacify her — realizing for the first time 
 that her " mammy " had indeed gone away 
 from her, gone away in some strange fashion 
 that held unknown depths of possible loneh- 
 ness. And Mrs. Dobbs came and took her 
 down to the kitchen, where she remained 
 «adly enough until Douglas came back from 
 the cemetery. 
 
 But when Douglas did come back he went
 
 TilE SEED OF AMBITION". 29 
 
 straii^^lit to the room that had been his 
 mother's (what a sad conjugation "had been " 
 can be !) and shut himself in there for many 
 hours. And in these hours he left his boy- 
 
 ft/ 
 
 hood behind him for ever. As he lay there 
 with his young heart full of a fierce tearing 
 agony, it seemed to him that his life had come 
 to an end. 
 
 The room grew darker, an awful silence 
 throbbed through the air, and seemed to beat 
 in the boy's ears more loudly than any sound. 
 Gradually a pale moon shone in through the 
 uncurtained window, and fell across the bed. 
 The broad silver beam looked weirdly bright, 
 and gave to the surrounding gloom an added 
 desolation. It fell across the pillow just where 
 her dear head had lain so short a time ago. 
 He pressed his lips upon the shining whiteness. 
 
 A muffled knocking; at the door. 
 
 Douglas took no notice. Then the handle 
 rattled noisily, and a pleading pathetic little 
 voice cried sobbino^lv : 
 
 " Let me in, Douglas." 
 
 DouG^las rose, and unlocked the door,
 
 30 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 whereupon Bee entered, a tiny white-robed 
 figure ready for bed. Her brother (she knew 
 him only as her brother) sat down again by 
 the bed, and leaned his head on his hand. 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas," said the quivering 
 baby lips, " I want mammy. Where is she r " 
 
 Eeceiving no answer, she climbed upon his 
 knee and wept ; and he laid his head down 
 silently upon her soft brown curls. 
 
 " Hush ! " he said brokenly at last. 
 *' Mammy has gone away. Bee darling, never 
 to come back again. But you must not cry, 
 for she is very happ}^, and will never have 
 any more pain, nor anything to vex her." 
 
 The little one raised her tear-wet eyes to 
 his. 
 
 " Can't we go too, Douglas ? " she sobbed. 
 " I want to go where mammy is." 
 
 Douoias gathered the tinv creature into his 
 arms, feelinc^ that somethinfy dear and sacred 
 was still left to him. 
 
 " No, no, my wee one," he said, turning 
 very white. " You would not like to leave 
 me all alone, would vou ? "
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 31 
 
 " But you could come too," Avept the cliild. 
 "• Mammy will be lonely without us." 
 
 The other made no answer to that sad plea. 
 Which of us have not wondered in passionate 
 incredulit}^ if it can be possible that our 
 " loved and lost," knowing our bitter grief 
 and loneliness for the loss of them, shall not 
 grow sad for a brief space, even amid the joys 
 of Paradise ? And so Douglas's heavy heart 
 wondered — wondered bitterly. 
 
 The moon shone in brightly, steadily, light- 
 ing up the two sad young faces, and bathing 
 the whole room in clear silver radiance. 
 
 *' Don't cry, Douglas," Bee whispered, her 
 own tears dried in sudden awe at the un- 
 wonted sight of his. "We will say our 
 pra3^ers, and perhaps God will bring her back 
 
 again." 
 
 " No, dear," he made answer, clasping her 
 very close to him ; " God will not bring her 
 back ai^ain." 
 
 "Why?" said the child, with piteous 
 quivering lip. "Is He not so kind as you 
 and mammy thought He was ? "
 
 K>lii 
 
 2 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Oil, Bee, hush, my dear," he broke out 
 with a half cry. 
 
 The little one's words lit up with a sudden 
 flash the darkness of his own rebellious 
 thoughts. What are our first thoughts in the 
 new, strange desolation of some crushing, un- 
 looked-for sorrow ? Not characterized by 
 devoutness or resiiination always — are they ? 
 Under the agony of the surgeon's knife we 
 are apt to lose sight of the kind, unerring 
 wisdom of the surgeon himself. That know- 
 ledi2:e comes afterwards. 
 
 " Perhaps, Douglas, dear," said Bee, with 
 gravely knitted brows, " perhaps God thought 
 mammy would rather be with father than with 
 you and me." 
 
 "Yes, dear — perhaps," he answered almost 
 inaudibl}'. 
 
 Neither spoke for some time after that, and 
 when at last Douglas bent to look down into 
 the child's face he saw that she had fallen 
 asleep. Still holding her tightly within his 
 arm, he let his head fall wearil}- forward upon 
 the bed and lay (juite still, for he was worn
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 33 
 
 out with grief and fasting, and he felt 
 curiously weak and sick. And gradually 
 sleep came to him too. For a little while his 
 sorrow was forgotten. 
 
 « « 4& 4» « 
 
 A few days after Mrs. Conrath's funeral, 
 Douglas's employers — Debenham and Cars- 
 lake, the firm was called, by the way — 
 thought fit to raise his salary considerably. 
 One of them, Debenham, was a singularl}^ 
 almost Quixotically, kind - hearted young 
 fellow, much quieter and more thoughtful 
 than his rollicking companion. He was 
 interested in Douglas, and pleased by the 
 lad's respectful manners, and careful perform- 
 ance of his duties. 
 
 "And you know," he languidly remarked 
 one day to Carslake — " it's deuced hard lines 
 on the poor little beggar, having to support 
 his baby sister as well as himself ; and dash it 
 all, you know, out of eight shillings a week it 
 simply can't be done." 
 
 Therefore the prospect of starvation which 
 had loomed orrimlv before Doudas Conrath 
 
 o ./ c 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 A E03IANCE OF MODEEN LONDON. 
 
 and liis 3'oung charge was, for the time, 
 averted. They moved up yet another stair 
 at Mrs. Dobbs's, and occupied as sitting-room 
 a square Hght attic next to Douglas's tiny 
 bedroom. Bee was promoted to a still more 
 box-like apartment opening off the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 It was hard for the boy to part with his 
 mother's few cherished pieces of furniture ; 
 but he set himself to it stoically, and as a 
 dut}^ One or two things he kept — things of 
 little value, but too sacred for the hands of 
 strangers. The rest had to go. And so he 
 and " the little one " beRan life aiiain, as it 
 were — life with a difference. 
 
 Thus two months passed away. 
 
 The children of the poor — especially the 
 poor who have once been otherwise — are apt 
 to leave their childhood swiftly behind them. 
 Douglas, as I have said, was old for his 3'ears. 
 Bee was rapidly becoming old for hers. Old- 
 fashioned — according to Mrs. Dobbs — she 
 had always been. But it was a quaint, 
 lovable old-fashionedness — a womanlv child-
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 35 
 
 islmess or a cliildisli womanliness — that en- 
 deared her to Douglas's heart more and more. 
 She was growmg fast, and might easily have 
 been taken for a child of eight. Indeed she 
 might have been eight for all Douglas knew ; 
 for of course all surmises as to her exact age 
 were mere guess-work. Her great ambition 
 was to be Douglas's housekeeper, and it was 
 touching to watch her efforts in this line. 
 
 " Am I of use to you, Douglas, my dear ? " 
 she used to whisper every night after their 
 frugal evening meal, as she climbed upon his 
 knee. " Could you not do without me ? " 
 
 And he always answered : 
 
 " No, my little Bee — I could not indeed." 
 
 One of her latest and most prized accom- 
 plishments was that she could pour out 
 Douglas's tea. True, upon one occasion she 
 had let the teapot fall, and broken a tea-cup 
 thereby — not to mention scalding her poor 
 little hand and arm rather badly — which 
 fiasco resulted in Douglas performing this 
 part of his housekeeping himself for the next 
 few nights. But by dint of coaxing and 
 
 o
 
 36 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 piteous entreaties and assurances that she 
 would be very, very careful, she once more 
 perched nightly behind the tea-tray, and 
 beamed there in happy content. Poor little 
 woman, how much in earnest she was, to be 
 sure ! — how impatient to be grown up ! — how 
 anxious to perform all her duties exactly as 
 " Mammy " had done ! She got up surpris- 
 ingly early, and having washed and dressed 
 with laborious care, finally went to Douglas 
 to have her frock fastened. Then she went 
 in search of Mrs. Dobbs, and followed her 
 about persistently, carefully observing all she 
 did, and asking so many questions that Mrs. 
 Dobbs's patience sometimes gave way. If 
 the latter happened to be in a good temper, 
 she allowed Bee to make toast, and carrv it 
 upstairs afterwards. If she were not in a 
 good temper — which happened occasionally — 
 the young folks in the attics ate their bread 
 un toasted. 
 
 When the little housekeeper had given 
 Douglas his tea, and finished her own bread 
 and milk, she trotted downstairs for his boots.
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 37 
 
 Then having stood upon a chair to carefully 
 brush every speck of dust from his clothes, 
 she went hand- in-hand with him downstairs to 
 the door, where she stood kissing her hand 
 until he was quite out of sight. Bee — by 
 special arrangement — had dinner with Mrs. 
 Dobbs. Douglas did not come home at his 
 dinner-hour, for the simple reason that a two- 
 penny pie or a couple of sausage-rolls were 
 all he had margin to afford himself in the way 
 of dinner. But he was always home shortly 
 after six, when Bee — unless it were wet — was 
 already dressed in her hat and jacket, to go 
 for a short walk. Then they came back and 
 had tea ; and afterwards Douglas taught her 
 a little reading and spelling — for she was 
 very anxious to learn to read — to read in 
 books " with no pictures," as she gravely in- 
 formed him. When she had gone to bed in 
 her tiny box-like room, with the door left open 
 that she might see the light of Douglas's 
 candle, the boy wrote steadily until far into 
 the night. This home-work, which had been 
 procured for him by Mr. Debenham, consisted
 
 38 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 in the copying out of various crabbed old 
 
 manuscripts of which the meaning was 
 
 generally obscure and the length apparently 
 
 never-ending. At least so it appeared to the 
 
 young scribe. However, the remuneration, 
 
 though of course very small, formed a very 
 
 welcome addition to his weekly earnings. 
 ***** 
 
 It Avas now nearly Christmas. December 
 snow lay thick in Garth Street. December 
 winds whistled throue^h the well-ventilated 
 attics occupied by the young Conraths. 
 There were no evenincf walks for Bee now : 
 for when Douglas came home it was quite 
 dark and the street lamps were lighted. But 
 there was alwa^^s a tiny iigure seated on the 
 top step of the stairs, a figure that sprang up 
 joyfully as the beloved footstep came swiftly up- 
 wards and the beloved voice sounded through 
 the darkness. The weather was bitterlv cold 
 now, and Douglas had — somewhat diffidently 
 — requested Mrs. Dobbs to have a bright little 
 fire burning all day in his draughty sitting- 
 room. For Bee had had a cold lately, and he
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 3'J 
 
 had gently forbidden her to run up and down 
 the still more draughty stairs. On this 
 fire, Douglas every night and morning 
 boiled the water in a tiny kettle, and made 
 the tea himself, while his little sister looked on 
 gravely, with a view to doing it herself when 
 she should be a " little bigger." How happy 
 and contented the child was on these mornings 
 and evenings ! The days, to be sure, were 
 long and dreary enough, even with the com- 
 panionship of her doll and the kitten. But 
 the evenings — when Douglas and she sat by the 
 fire and told each other stories, or sometimes 
 (rare treat ! ) roasted an apple, or played at 
 wonderful and absorbing^ ofames — which ruth- 
 less bed-time interrupted all too soon — these 
 evenino's seemed to little Bee like Heaven. 
 
 One wild snowy night, a few days before 
 Christmas, Douglas was much later in coming 
 home than usual — indeed it was past seven 
 when he ran up the worn, narrow steps of 
 No. 13, Garth Street, and prepared to 
 knock at the door. But to his surprise the 
 door was open and the snow was drifting in.
 
 40 A KOMANCE OF MODEEN LONDON. 
 
 He closed it, shook the clinging snow from 
 his serge jacket and went upstairs. 
 
 No little voice and figure welcomed him. 
 His slippers, as usual, lay warming in the 
 fender ; but the lire had burnt low — and all 
 was silent. 
 
 " Bee," he called out cheerily. " Wliy — 
 where are you, little woman ? '* 
 
 Xo answer came, however ; and having 
 looked into her room to make sure she was 
 not there, he, supposing her to be with ]\Irs. 
 Dobbs, made up the lire and went to his own 
 room to wash his face and hands and brush 
 his hair before tea. This done, he went back 
 into the sitting-room. It looked strangely 
 desolate, he thought, without the busy little 
 figure. 
 
 When he had boiled the water and made 
 the tea, and there was still no sign of " the 
 little one," he began to feel vaguely uneasy, 
 and ran downstairs to the basement, where he 
 found Mrs. Dobbs, looking crimsonly taciturn 
 — for it had been washing-day. To the boy's 
 inquiries for his little sister, she curtly replied
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 41 
 
 that she had not seen the child since she — 
 Mrs. Dobbs — took up the tea-things nearly 
 two hours ago. 
 
 Douglas felt as if a cold hand had suddenly 
 clutched his heart. Could she have gone 
 out ? Surely not. Then where could she 
 be ? None of the other lodgers had seen her, 
 they replied to the boy's distracted question- 
 ings. She was in none of the rooms, high or 
 low. She had disappeared. 
 
 In an agony of anxiety Douglas seized his 
 cap, and rushed out into the street. 
 
 " Bee !— Bee ! " he called aloud. 
 
 But the snowy wind caught his words and 
 drowned them. He paused under a swirling 
 gas-lamp — uncertain which way to turn, full 
 of miserable, bewildered forebodings. Was 
 everything to be taken from him ? the poor 
 boy thought fiercely and wretchedly. Was he 
 to lose Bee too ? He tore down the street, 
 hardly knowing where he went, or what he 
 was doing. The snow swept across his face, 
 half blinding him ; the wind carried his cap 
 away into the darkness, but he paid no heed.
 
 42 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Suddenly a shrill little cry smote his ears. 
 He stood still to Hsteii. Swift pattering foot- 
 steps sounded on the almost deserted pave- 
 ment, and the next minute a tiny, drenched, 
 forlorn-looking figure flung itself upon him, 
 shrieking sobbingly : 
 
 " Douglas, Douglas ! Oh, Douglas — I've got 
 you — I've got you ! " 
 
 Douglas just stooped and lifted her up in 
 his arms, and hurried silently back to the 
 house. The passionate relief of feeling the 
 dear little arms round his neck, of hearing the 
 sweet baby-voice in his ears, was too great 
 for speech. He felt he simply could not have 
 uttered a word without burstinc^ into tears. 
 
 " Oh, Douglas ! " Bee wept as she hugged 
 him ti^T^hter and closer — " I did think vou 
 were never coming back — and I went out to 
 find you." 
 
 Half an hour later, when the little culprit, 
 w^arm and dry and beaming, and wrapped in 
 a blanket, was enjo}ing her bread and milk 
 wdiile seated on Douglas's knee, he said some- 
 what severelv :
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. . 43 
 
 " Now, remember, Bee, if you ever go out 
 alone at niglit again, I shall be very, very 
 angry, and very likely won't love you. I 
 thought you were lost." 
 
 " Well — I thought you was lost," protested 
 the child, with a piteous quiver of the lips. 
 
 "Boys never get lost," was the calm 
 answer. " And if I had been — do you 
 suppose you could have found me, you silly 
 little thing ? " 
 
 " But I did find you ! " was the triumphant 
 answer. 
 
 " No, you didn't. I came home and found 
 no nice little sister waiting for me — and had 
 to go out again in the snow and cold — all 
 because you were a naughty girl." 
 
 Upon this the truant wept, and promised^ 
 and was forgiven. 
 
 After tea she sat demurely upon a little 
 stool, still wrapped up in the blanket, looking 
 with earnest eyes and puckered forehead, into 
 the fire. Then she said suddenly : 
 
 " Once I was lost another time, Douglas." 
 
 " Oh, no, you weren't, dear," Douglas
 
 44 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 answered absently. He was toiling through 
 a tattered French grammar — and its idioms 
 puzzled him, as they have puzzled older and 
 wiser heads. 
 
 " Yes," went on the child, rising and 
 coming towards him with the blanket trailing 
 on the floor behind her — " once I was lost 
 another time — in the snow. But I can't 
 'member properly." 
 
 She knitted her small brows again, and 
 Douglas, suddenly recalling the incident of 
 his father's finding her, took her on his knee 
 again. He had often wondered as to her 
 birth and her real name, and had secretly 
 made up his mind, long ago, that she was the 
 lost daughter of some nobleman. He had 
 never heard his mother say how the child 
 was dressed on that memorable nioht, nor if 
 she had on any necklace, or sleeve fasteners, 
 or other of the ornaments which he vaguely 
 supposed a lost babe of noble birth might 
 wear. And to-night he resolved to do what, 
 as yet, he had not been able to summon up 
 courage to do — namelv, to look over his dear
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 45 
 
 mother's desk, papers, etc. He might find 
 some clue there. 
 
 " Try to remember, Bee," he said after a 
 long pause, during which she had ruffled up 
 his dark hair in loving fashion, and affec- 
 tionately and carefully smoothed his thick 
 dark eyebrows. 
 
 But Bee had lost the fleeting recollection. 
 
 " Can't 'member," she answered, wetting 
 her tiny forefinger in an absorbed wa}^, and 
 continuing her attentions to his eyebrows. 
 " Too wee to 'member." 
 
 When she had gone to bed, Douglas 
 brought out his mother's desk, unlocked it, 
 and then sat quite still for a long time. The 
 faint sweet joerfume that lingered among the 
 letters and papers there brought his mother's 
 image to his mind so sharply and vividly that 
 he uttered a half- choked cry and hid his face 
 in his hands. When at last with reverent 
 fingers he lifted out the contents, his dark 
 lashes were heavy with tears. First, came a 
 bundle of letters — evidently much read — tied 
 with a Dale maize-coloured ribbon, bearing
 
 4G A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 the words " Charlie's letters." Douglas laid 
 them gently aside. Then came various little 
 note -books, another and larger note -book 
 (which appeared to be a kind of diary) and 
 the certificate of his own birth together with 
 that of his mother's marriage. There were a 
 few loose letters, a bundle of receipts, one or 
 two dry brown flowers wrapped carefully in 
 tissue pa]3er. And there was a piece of dark 
 brown hair. Douglas knew it was his 
 father's. But there were no trinkets of any 
 kind — nothinf]^ that mi^'ht have belom^ed to 
 little Bee. 
 
 At the very bottom of the desk lay a thick 
 creamy envelope with an imposing blood-red 
 crest. It was addressed in a bold joeculiar 
 hand to Mrs. Charles Conrath — and, after a 
 moment's hesitation, Douglas opened it. 
 
 It was dated shortly after Captain Conrath's 
 death, and ran thus : — 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " I have seen in this mornincf's Times 
 the announcement of the death of vour
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 47 
 
 husband — and my only brother — Charles 
 Conrath. As he was always a young fool m 
 money-matters (and in many other ways) I 
 suppose he has left you penniless. You will 
 therefore, I imagine, resume the work from 
 which your marriage with him emancipated 
 j^ou. I write to offer to take my brother's 
 son from your care, when I shall do my best 
 to give him the manners — as he shall have 
 the education — of a gentleman. Pardon me 
 if I make the express and rigid stipulation 
 that all communication between you and him, 
 personally or by letter, must henceforward 
 cease. He will be dead to joii, as you will 
 be dead to him. Should vou refuse to accede 
 
 ft/ 
 
 to these terms I shall wash my hands of the 
 lad and his prospects now and for ever. I 
 shall send for him on Thursday morning. 
 " I remain, 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " Yours truly, 
 
 " Evan Y. Conrath." 
 
 Douglas sat gazing at this cruel epistle as if
 
 48 A KOMANCE OF :,IODERN LON'DON. 
 
 fascinated. He read it again, and yet again. 
 Ilis boyish soul rose in hot revolt at the 
 deliberately insulting words ; his whole being 
 quivered with fierce resentment. Could the 
 writer of that letter be the brother of his 
 tender-hearted, sweet-natured father ? the boy 
 wondered passionately. He sprang to his 
 feet, pushed aside his chair, and paced with 
 quick, uneven steps up and down the little 
 room. Wild projects of compelling fame and 
 fortune whirled through his excited brain. 
 He saw himself wealthy, famous, world- 
 renowned, despising the overtures — nay, 
 refusing the acquaintanceship — of Evan Con- 
 rath and all his tribe. He saw himself 
 looking back upon this night as the turning- 
 point in his life. He saw — ah, me ! he saw 
 the visions we have all seen once ! — visions 
 that for the most part fade and die like the 
 " baseless fabrics " they are. 
 
 How this giddy height of satisfied ambition 
 was to be attained, was to him as yet a dim 
 and hazy cloud of meteoric, half-shaped ideas 
 and projects. But with health and vouth and
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITIOX. 49 
 
 grim determination surel}^ all things would be 
 easy ; he would prove to this arrogant, heart- 
 less kinsman of his that " the manners and 
 education of a gentleman " might be attain- 
 able without his assistance. Evan Conrath 
 should yet be proud of the nephew he had so 
 gratuitously washed his hands of. And so on, 
 and so on. 
 
 Then, all too soon, came the inevitable 
 reaction. How was he — a struggling, poverty- 
 stricken office-boy, with no likelihood of any 
 future situation more lucrative than some 
 miserable clerkship at a hundred, or at most a 
 hundred and fift}^ pounds a year — how was it 
 possible for him to rise above mediocrity ? It 
 was not possible. 
 
 He flun<2[ himself into his chair ag^ain, and 
 sat staring moodily at the fast-blackening 
 lire. How dreary and sordid it looked ! How 
 dreary and sordid the whole room looked in 
 the dim half-light shed by the guttering 
 candle ! Dreariness and sordidness and ob- 
 scurity — poverty - stricken obscurity — that 
 was to be his life, his and Bee's, until they 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 were old — until tliey died. A wave of inex- 
 pressible desolation swept over liim — a leaden 
 weiglit of that intolerable depression with 
 which we have all, or most of us, at some 
 time or other been familiar ; which at the 
 time seems so never-ending, so hopeless, under 
 the influence of which thousands of men, and 
 women too, have committed suicide, not 
 realizing that it is a state of mind partly due 
 to physical causes acting, it may be — or may 
 not — on some mental disturbance, and may 
 lift in a day or an hour, independent of 
 surrounding circumstances. 
 
 " Big Ben's " deep voice boomed out the 
 hour of midnight. That sounded dreary 
 too, the boy thought listlessly — like a knell. 
 In the weird hush that followed he could 
 hear the soft sweep of the snow against the 
 windows, and the subdued wailing murmur 
 of the wind. With a heavy sigh he roused 
 himself, and mechanically replaced the things 
 in his mother's desk, locked it, and put it 
 away. Then he laid his head down on his 
 arms and sobbed bitterl3\ He was not a sen-
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 51 
 
 timental lad, nor easily moved to tears ; but 
 just then he longed, with a wild, impotent 
 lono^ino' that would not be silenced, for the 
 voice, the touch, the loving smile of his dead 
 mother. 
 
 The cold embers in the grate fell with a 
 crash, the wick of the candle grew long and 
 ragged, strange shadows flickered on the 
 walls, and from the doorway of the inner 
 room a small white figure glided out and 
 stood at the boy's elbow. She did not ask 
 why he wept ; she did not speak at all ; she 
 simply climbed upon his knee, put her little 
 arms round his neck, and laid her soft face, 
 warm and rosy from sleep, caressingly 
 against his, murmuring to him the while in 
 an inarticulate, crooning way, to show her 
 sympathy. 
 
 Somehow she comforted him ; the bitter- 
 ness was lightened somewhat ; his heart and 
 hopes rose again. He felt a curious sense of 
 companionship in the clinging clasp of her 
 arms, the light touch of her baby lips, as he 
 
 had felt once before on that sad day when 
 
 4»
 
 52 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 his mother was buried. Ilis heavy sobs 
 ceased, and Bee took out his handkerchief 
 and gently dried his eyes. Then she whis- 
 pered : 
 
 " Bee loves you. Bee will always be good, 
 and be a little housekeeper. Bee will be the 
 very same as mammy." 
 
 She had a funny little way sometimes of 
 speaking of herself in the third person. 
 Douglas liked to hear it. He kissed the 
 curl}' head and murmured gently : 
 
 " Dear httle thins^— dear little child." 
 
 Then, fearful lest she should take cold, he 
 carried her to bed and sat beside her until 
 she fell asleep. His depression had gone ; he 
 felt strong again, and once more capable of 
 defying the world, though in less tempestuous 
 fashion. 
 
 A solitary star shone into the room ; its 
 pure, pale light seemed to beckon him away 
 from despair and failure. Some words of 
 Longfellow's floated through his mind — 
 hackneyed words enough, but they held a 
 strange insistent sic^nificance for him iust
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 53 
 
 then. (And after all it is the hackneyed 
 words that are sweetest and truest — else 
 why are they hackneyed ? Favourite paths 
 are most footworn.) He repeated them softly 
 under his breath : 
 
 " Oh star of strength ! I see thee stand 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 The star of the uneonquered will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene and resolute and still 
 
 And calm and self-possessed." 
 
 He could not remember any more ; but he 
 said these two verses over and over as^ain 
 with a growing sense of self-reliance and hoj)e. 
 When at last he went to bed, he lay awake 
 until far into the morning, and his resolves 
 took shape and form, and became tangible, 
 living things. When towards dawn he fell 
 asleep, he had a strangely vivid dream. 
 
 He thought he stood with little Bee in a 
 dark dreary valley where no sunbeam could 
 penetrate, and where the waves of a black, 
 sullen-looking lake washed their very feet. The
 
 54 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 tide seemed to swell every moment ; a melan- 
 choly wind shivered and moaned over its sur- 
 face. The space where they stood grew smaller 
 and more insecure. There seemed no way 
 of escape. Behind them, the rapidly-advanc- 
 ing flood ; before them, a sheer frowning 
 cliff, whose top seemed almost in the clouds. 
 Its hard, cruel surface held no faintest sem- 
 blance of a path ; not even a bush could be 
 seen as a possible friendly foothold. But 
 far, far up — away in the distance near the 
 sky — was one tiny green spot where the sun 
 shone. Douglas looked round him wildly and 
 despairingly. It seemed to grow darker in 
 the valley ; a cold rain had begun to fall. 
 Bee seemed to be unaware of their danirer. 
 She was sitting with her little old doll clasped 
 to her breast, humming a contented, word- 
 less song. The water covered her tiny feet, 
 but she only laughed delightedly. Soon it 
 covered Douglas's feet too. He stooped and 
 lifted Bee in his arms, and she curled round 
 his neck, whispering foolish, caressing baby 
 talk in his ears. Then all at once he saw
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 65 
 
 that the face of the rock was not so smooth 
 as he had at first imagined. Here and there, 
 immediately above him, little narrow pointed 
 ledges ran out ; further up they seemed less 
 narrow and shelving. But ah! — the space 
 was far between them ; and how was it pos- 
 sible that he could gain even these nearest 
 to him, with Bee in his arms ? 
 
 The w^ater came up to his knees. 
 
 He set his teeth, and bidding the child cling 
 firmly to his neck, swung himself slowly and 
 painfully to the lowest ledge. But he might 
 not rest there. The next ledge was gained, 
 and then the next. He stopped to take 
 breath, flinging his arm round a sharp pro- 
 jecting peak to steady himself. His heart 
 leapt into his mouth then, for Bee's hands 
 suddenly slipped from his neck, and it was 
 only by the quick, convulsive clasp of his left 
 arm that he saved her from falling into the 
 inky waters below. Then he toiled on. An- 
 other ledge was gained ; but the next seemed 
 to afford no hold for his stiff and bleeding 
 fingers. He held the child to his heart, and
 
 56 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 trembling in every limb leaned panting against 
 the face of the cliff. The wind had risen ; its 
 strong blast seemed to choke him. They were 
 far above the lake now, but he dared not look 
 down, his head felt so light and giddy. Sud- 
 denly he became conscious that his arms were 
 empty. Little Bee was gone. Far above him 
 he heard her voice in shrieks of baby glee. 
 With a superhuman effort he caught the 
 slippery ledge and swung himself upward, 
 then caught at a higher ledge still. On, on, 
 with an ease and steadiness that surprised 
 himself even in his dream, until he reached a 
 rough shelving plain, which had been invi- 
 sible from the valley below. Great rocks met 
 him at every turn, but he climbed over them, 
 climbed round them, passed them somehow. 
 Now he found himself on the brink of a wide, 
 yawning, impassable chasm, on the other side 
 of which shone the far-away sunshine. He 
 could still hear Bee's laughter, l)ut only faintly. 
 With a heavy heart, but undiminished pur- 
 pose, he climbed down the ghastly precipice. 
 The descent was long and painful, but he
 
 THE SEED OF AMBITION. 57 
 
 reached the bottom at last, and began the 
 ascent of the other side. Half-way up he 
 slipped and nearly fell, but a strong invisible 
 hand caught his, and led him onwards and 
 upwards, a clear, ringing voice cried out 
 triumphantly : 
 
 " To conquer fame and fortune ! " 
 With the words still beating through his 
 brain he awoke and sprang from his bed. It 
 was morning, and the winter sun was shining 
 into the room. 

 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE UNFOEESEEN. 
 
 *' Two terrors fright my soul by night and day : 
 
 The first is Life, and with her comes the years ; 
 A weary, winding train of maidens they. 
 
 With forward-fronting eyes too sad for tears ; 
 Upon whose kindred faces, blank and grey 
 
 The shadow of a kindred woe appears. 
 Death is the second terror ; who shall say 
 
 What form beneath the shrouding mantle nears ? 
 Which way she turn, my soul finds no relief, 
 
 My smitten soul may not be comforted ; 
 Alternately she swings from grief to grief. 
 
 And poised between them, sways from dread to dread. 
 For there she dreads because she knows ; and here 
 Because she knows not, inly faints with fear." 
 
 Bee was decidedly cross this morning. Her 
 little face, usually so briglit and sunshiny, 
 was clouded ; her voice was fretful and full of 
 tears. She cried outright when her bread and 
 milk burnt her tongue. She cried again when 
 Douglas playfully pulled her curls — cried 
 because she knocked her elbow aijainst the
 
 THE UNFOKESEEN. 69 
 
 table ; cried more than ever because it rained, 
 and Douglas said she must not stand upon the 
 doorstep to see him off. She tearfully in- 
 sisted ; and then Douglas assumed the stern, 
 elder- brotherly tone which he kept only for 
 rare occasions. But Bee rebelled. 
 
 " Will go ! Will go ! " she screamed pas- 
 . sionately. And then — oh, sad to relate ! — 
 she slapped her brother with all her tiny 
 might, and rushing into her little room, threw 
 herself on the bed, and shrieked and shook 
 with rage. 
 
 Douglas vainly tried to pacif}^ her ; but the 
 child took no notice ; and as he was already 
 late, he went off and left her sitting weeping 
 and unrepentant on the floor. 
 
 When he came home at night, he found 
 her waiting as usual at the head of the stairs. 
 As he came up she ilung her small body upon 
 him and cried sobbingly : 
 
 " Oh, Douglas — Bee was very naughty. 
 Can you never love Bee any more ? " 
 
 " Are you good now ? " he said, stooping to 
 kiss her.
 
 60 A EO.MAISCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Yes — quite, quite good " — burrowing her 
 little head under his arm. " But Bee has such 
 a headache." 
 
 " That's with crying so much this morning," 
 he answered. 
 
 But he looked at her anxiously ; for her 
 face was unnaturally flushed, her eyes heav}% 
 and her hands burning hot. 
 
 She would not eat anything at tea time. It 
 hurt her throat, she said. And all the rest of 
 the evening she sat curled up on Douglas's 
 knee, leanino- her hot little head against his 
 shoulder, her usually busy tongue strangely 
 silent. 
 
 " What a quiet little woman it is to-night," 
 he said at last, smoothing her hair tenderly. 
 
 " Want to go to bed," was the querulous 
 answer. " Legs ache." And the ready tears 
 coursed down her cheeks again. 
 
 A sharp fear sprang to life in Douglas's 
 heart. Was the child going to be ill? — 
 perhaps to die. Was everything going to be 
 taken from him ? 
 
 He put her to bed, and watched beside her
 
 THE UNFOKESEEX. 61 
 
 until she went to sleep. He himself slept that 
 night on the sofa in the sitting-room. But he 
 did not undress ; he felt too anxious. All 
 night Bee tossed and turned, and moaned in 
 her sleep, and towards morning became very 
 ill. Mrs. Dobbs, whom Douglas called as soon 
 as he heard her astir, " hoped to goodness " it 
 might not be scarlet fever. 
 
 At the very mention of that dread scourge, 
 the boy's face grew pale. There had been 
 two cases at the lower end of the street, he 
 knew. 
 
 " Do you think it looks like scarlet fever ? " 
 he asked hurriedly. 
 
 "Well, Master Conrath, which I can onl}^ 
 say by my own sister's child, as sweet a little 
 boy as ever could be — which was took in the 
 self-same way, and no notice taken, thinking 
 it just a cold, and dead and stiflf in the inside 
 of five days — which broke 'is mother's 'eart, 
 and never smiled to speak of since. I should 
 hadvise the doctor. Master Conrath — not that 
 they know much when all's said and done, 
 but takes a load off the mind in illness, which
 
 62 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 of course they're paid for." Here Mrs. Dobbs 
 stopped for breath, and laid her hand on her 
 heart with a mournful sigh. 
 
 Douglas hurried off at once, and was for- 
 tunate in finding the doctor at home. 
 
 It was not scarlet fever, the latter said, 
 when he had taken a brief survey of his little 
 patient ; but it was a kind of low lingering 
 fever, which might hang about her for an 
 indefinite time. 
 
 " There have been several cases of it in the 
 neighbourhood," went on Dr. Glossop, purs- 
 ing out his lips as he replaced his watch in 
 his pocket. 
 
 " Is it — is it dangerous ? " asked the boy 
 unsteadily. 
 
 "Well — er — one or two cases have ended 
 fatally," was the answer, after a pause. " But 
 
 I hope, with proper care By the way, 
 
 who is to nurse her ? I don't suppose your 
 landlady will have either the time or the wish 
 — or the capability for that matter. You 
 had better get some respectable woman " 
 
 But Douglas interrupted him.
 
 THE UNFOEESEEN. 63 
 
 " I shall nurse her," he said shortly. " If 
 there is anything I can't do, I daresay Mrs. 
 Dobbs will help me. She is a kind-hearted 
 woman enough, and my little sister is fond of 
 her." 
 
 " But — you have to be out all day, I 
 understand," said the doctor, bending his 
 keen grey eyes on the resolute young face 
 beside him. 
 
 "I shall arrange that," was the quiet 
 answer. 
 
 " Well, well — I shall send round the 
 medicine, and look in again this evening. 
 It is a pity she is in that little box of a room. 
 Is there no other they can let her have ? " 
 
 " Mine is larger," the boy answered. " But 
 it is awfully cold and draughty. At least, for 
 her it would be. But this room is generally 
 pretty comfortable. We might have her bed 
 moved in here." 
 
 "It's more airj^, certainly," assented Dr. 
 Glossop. "Yes, that might do. Let it be 
 done at once." 
 
 Bee was pleased for a time by the change,
 
 64 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LOXLON. 
 
 and tried to smile ; but presently slie began 
 to cry because her throat hurt her so, she said. 
 When they were left alone acrain, Dou^^las 
 took her in his arms with sootliini]^ tender 
 words, and she buried her head in his neck, 
 where after sobbinix wearily for nearly an 
 hour, she felt into an uneasy sleep. '^Mien he 
 had laid her down ao-ain, Douglas sat for 
 some time leanin<]f his head on his hand, in 
 anxious harassed thoucfht. If he remained at 
 home to nurse Bee, what would become of 
 his duties at the office ? It was hardly likely 
 that his employers would keep his situation 
 open for him for any length of time ; eyen if 
 they did, they certainly would not pay his 
 salar}'. And how could he procure the nou- 
 rishing food Bee would require, and meet all 
 the expenses incidental to illness, with nothing 
 comincf in ? 
 
 " God knows it was hard enough before to 
 keep things going," he muttered. " What on 
 earth am I to do ? " 
 
 Presently he rose and went in search of 
 Mrs. Dobbs ; for he wanted her to remain
 
 THE UNFORESEEN. 65 
 
 with Bee for half-an-hour while he went 
 along to Little Queen Street to explain 
 matters to Mr. Debenham (who, by the way, 
 was the senior partner). Mrs. Dobbs con- 
 sented after some little demur ; for, as she 
 expressed it, she was " that busy she didn't 
 know which way to turn." 
 
 Douglas set off at a sharp run, and arrived 
 at his destination considerably out of breath. 
 As it happened Mr. Debenham was not there. 
 Mr. Carslake was there, however ; and, un- 
 fortunately, he was in a very bad temper. 
 He had not been in bed all night, and had 
 lost considerably more money at cards than 
 he could afford. Further, he had partaken 
 freely of very doubtful champagne, and, in 
 consequence, had a splitting headache. So, 
 in the first place, he reprimanded Douglas 
 sharply for his tardy appearance, and in the 
 second place told him not too mildly that if 
 there was any question of his not attending to 
 his duties as usual, he had better give up his 
 situation altogether. 
 
 The hot blood rushed to the boy's face and 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 receded again, leaving it deadly pale. He 
 opened his lips to speak, then closed them 
 again, and turned his eyes half-imploringly, 
 half-defiantly, to Mr. Carslake's. That gentle- 
 man was sitting sideways in an arm-chair, 
 with one leg thrown carelessly over the arm 
 thereof. In one hand he held a cigar, which, 
 apparently, he had not yet had the energ}" to 
 light ; in the other he held an open letter. 
 
 He was a sandy-haired, pale-eyed youth, thin 
 and lanky. He spoke with a lisp, and dressed 
 in the extreme of the prevailing fashion. 
 
 " You mean," Doucrlas said slowlv after a 
 minute, " that vou dismiss me — that I need 
 not come back again ? " 
 
 " That is just exactly what I mean," was the 
 sharp answer. " So be off, and shut the door. 
 There's a most infernal draugfht comino^ in." 
 
 But the lad stood still. 
 
 " I should like to wait to see Mr. Deben- 
 ham," he said, speaking very low and steadily. 
 
 Mr. Carslake rose to his feet with violence. 
 
 " Confound you ! you cheeky vounfj^ 
 beggar ! ^' he exclaimed. " Do you think my
 
 THE UNFORESEEN. 67 
 
 authority is not enougli for your dismissal ? 
 
 Take yourself off at once. Do you hear? 
 
 What are you waiting for ? You had your 
 
 week's wages the day before yesterday. You 
 
 don't expect to be paid for one day's service, 
 
 I should hope." And here followed some 
 
 forcible language, which, as it happened, fell 
 
 upon the empty air, for the boy was gone. 
 
 Mr. Car slake threw himself into his chair 
 
 again, and forgot all about the matter in less 
 
 than two minutes — having a good deal to 
 
 think of that morning. 
 
 Douglas went slowly downstairs, and out 
 
 into the street, where the bright winter sun 
 
 was shining merrily upon the half-melted 
 
 snow which had fallen the night before. A 
 
 dazed sense of unreality possessed him. He 
 
 tried to make himself understand that he had 
 
 lost his situation — that he had no hope of 
 
 another — that if he had he could not leave 
 
 Bee — that he had to face the prospect of 
 
 finding himself utterl}^ penniless in a very few 
 
 days. But as yet the conviction conveyed no 
 
 special meaning to his brain. He only felt a 
 
 5*
 
 68 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 (lull tlirobbin<^ of head and heart — as thouf(li 
 they were only half-awakened to pain. He 
 noticed in a mechanical kind of way many 
 things in the busy streets of which on other 
 days he was altogether unconscious. The ever- 
 shifting, hurrying crowds of horses and car- 
 riages, of drays and omnibuses, of men and 
 women and children, of sad faces and merry 
 ones, all seemed photographed on his brain 
 with a curiously vivid distinctness. He noted 
 the sharp brilliance of the snow-wreathed 
 Houses of Parliament against the pale softness 
 of the December sky. He was intensely aware 
 of the cries of the street vendors, the clang 
 and roll of wheels and horses' feet on the fast 
 freezing roadways. He felt like the spectator 
 of some monotonous yet life-like panorama. 
 But as he neared Garth Street this sense of 
 apathy left him, and gave place to a sharp 
 raging anxiety. What was he to do ? What 
 would become of him and of Bee ? He saw 
 nothing but black despair whichever wav he 
 looked. 
 
 Bee was moaning feverishly when he went
 
 THE UNFORESEEX. CD 
 
 in. Mrs. Dobbs was not with her, and 
 Douglas felt a sudden unreasoning anger as 
 lie heard the child asking, with the piteous 
 insistence of an oft-repeated request, for 
 *'just a little drink of water." Then he 
 remembered that Mrs. Dobbs had all her own 
 manifold duties to attend to — and that 
 nursing is not included in the duties of a 
 landlady. So with the smile he always kept 
 for Bee, he held the tumbler to her lips, and 
 smoothed and turned her hot tumbled pillow. 
 Then he sat beside her, talkino' to her and 
 patiently beginning story after story (only to 
 be told crossly that " that was not a nice 
 one ") until Mrs. Dobbs came up with a basin 
 of soup — which the small invalid refused with 
 many tears. Douglas forgot that he had not 
 had his own dinner, for Bee was restless and 
 fretful, and insisted upon his sitting close 
 beside her that she mio-ht hold his hand. 
 
 And so the da}^ wore on. 
 
 Snow fell heavily in the afternoon, and 
 night came on early. Bee began to wander, 
 crying piteously for " Douglas " — " Douglas "
 
 70 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 — and pushing him away impatiently when he 
 whispered that he was beside her and that he 
 would never leave her. 
 
 It was quite dark ; the candle was lighted 
 and the snowy night shut out, when Dr. 
 Glossop came, looked at I^ee's flushed face 
 and shining eyes, shook his head, and after 
 asking a few questions and leaving a few 
 directions, hurried away again. 
 
 After all, how little we can do — with all 
 our science and all our discoveries — against 
 these insidious relentless foes, disease and 
 death ! Little more than " pour drugs of 
 which we know little, into bodies of which we 
 know less ! " 
 
 As Douo'las sat throui^'h the lonc^ winter 
 niG^ht listenimx to the sobbing wind, and 
 
 DO O " 
 
 counting the hours which Big Ben's deep 
 voice rolled solemnly out over Westminster, 
 it seemed to him that Bee was alreadv 
 doomed, that nothimx could save her. 
 
 There are times when nothing but sorrow 
 seems possible, because of the waves of 
 sorrow that have gone before.
 
 THE UNFOKESEEx^. 71 
 
 The boy's loving, protective nature, hungry 
 and unsatisfied in the loss of his mother, had 
 wrapped itself almost fiercely round the one 
 thing left him — his little sister. He always 
 thought of her as his sister, and no sister 
 could have been dearer. And he was just in 
 the nervous, half-morbid mood to dread that 
 because he could not face life again without 
 her, she would be taken from him. 
 
 The long dreary night, with its ever-press- 
 ing sense of weariness kept at bay by sharp 
 anxiety, stole away and gave place to 
 morning, and morning again wore into night. 
 And so the days went on until a week had 
 passed — a week that insensibly melted into a 
 fortnight. Gradually the fever abated, and 
 Bee began to grow stronger day by day. Dr. 
 Glossop came but seldom now, and when he 
 did his plain, rugged face always wore a 
 cheerful smile. He was a warm-hearted little 
 man, a bachelor, and, if anything, preferred his 
 poor patients to his richer ones. An impres- 
 sion prevailed in the neighbourhood that he 
 was possessed of a comfortable independent
 
 Tl A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 fortune, though, as a matter of fact, he was 
 not particularly well ofT, and gave away a 
 good deal more than he could afford. 
 
 One afternoon, about a fortnight after 
 Christmas — such a sad, wretched Christmas it 
 had been! — Douglas had wrapped Bee in a 
 shawl, and allowed her to sit up for a little 
 time upon his knee. They had had a brief 
 battle over a cup of beef-tea, which the child 
 said was " nasty," and Douglas represented 
 was to make her strons^ and well a^ain, .so 
 that she might once more be his "little 
 housekeeper." 
 
 '•It makes me tired to take it, Douglas 
 dear," she murmured plaintivel3^ 
 
 " Oh no, little one," he said, stroking her 
 head, from which all the bright curls had 
 been cut away ; " ^^ou only think so because 
 you don't want to take it." 
 
 '• Perhaps," assented the child wearil}-, as 
 she swallowed another sjijoonful. " ^Vliy 
 does it make people more tired to do things 
 they don't want to do than things they do ? " 
 she added somewhat ambiguously.
 
 THE U^TOKESEEN. 73 
 
 " I don't know, little one," was the sober 
 answer. 
 
 " Do you feel tliat way too, Douglas ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear, often. Now just one more 
 spoonful, and then I think you must lie down 
 again." 
 
 When he had put her into bed, he mended 
 the fire and instituted a search for the dirty 
 old doll which only came second to himself 
 in Bee's heart. Then he moved the table with 
 his writing^ close to the bedside. For he had 
 got some more copying work within the last 
 few days, and poorly paid though it was, it 
 was all he had to depend upon now, and he 
 worked at it every spare moment. It would 
 be finished to-day, however, and he had no 
 prospect of more in the meantime. 
 
 A bitter sense of injustice was fast warping 
 the boy's nature. He was willing to work 
 hard and constantly — to do without every- 
 thin^f save the barest necessaries ; he had 
 doggedly set his mind to conquer the adverse 
 fate that threatened him. But of what use 
 was it? Everything seemed to be against
 
 74 A R0:MANCE of MODEKX LONDON. 
 
 him. All life seemed set in a minor, wailing 
 key. What he had to look forward to was 
 the prospect of Bee weak and ailing always, 
 and pining for want of the comforts he could 
 not give her — of watching her fade away from 
 him at last, not from disease, but from sheer 
 starvation. He was worn out, too, by these 
 weeks of nursing and anxiety, therefore an 
 easier prey than usual to despondency. 
 
 For the first time he thought seriously of 
 disregarding his promise to his mother and 
 breaking his own pride by applying to his 
 uncle, Evan Conrath. But some strange pre- 
 science warned him that only refusal and 
 insult awaited him in that quarter. 
 
 He thought these feverish thoughts inde- 
 pendently of his writing, which he did, to a 
 certain extent, mechanically. 
 
 As he fniished the last page, he raised his 
 head and met the grave, earnest look of Bee's 
 soft grey eyes, which had been watching him 
 intently and silently for the last half-hour. 
 
 " Douglas, why do you always look so 
 sorry ? " she said in her weak little voice.
 
 THE UNFOKESEEX. 75 
 
 " Is it because I am in bed, or because 
 mammy is away ? " 
 
 Douglas did not answer. He was leaning 
 his elbow on the table, staring into the fire. 
 
 " Am I going away like mammy did ? " Bee 
 went wistfully on after a minute. 
 
 '• My little Bee, I hope not," was the un- 
 steady answer. 
 
 " If I do," pursued the child — " if I have to 
 go away and be in Heaven where mammy is, 
 do you suppose God would let me be a little 
 housekeeper to mammy until you come ? " 
 
 " Don't say things like that, little one," was 
 the indistinct answer. 
 
 " Or perhaps I would have to be a house- 
 keeper to one of the angels," observed Bee 
 thoughtfully. "But I daresay He'll let me 
 stay with you," she added in a consoling little 
 murmur. "You see, you need me more 
 than the angels do, and mammy has got 
 father." 
 
 Douglas drew the close-cropped little head 
 within his arm without speaking. 
 
 There was a lonc^ silence after that. The
 
 70 A ROMANCE OF lUODERX LONDON. 
 
 dusk deepened ; the firelight danced co- 
 quettishly on the walls. 
 
 Suddenly Mrs. Dobbs put her head in at 
 the door. 
 
 " There's a gentleman downstairs wants to 
 see you, Master Conrath," she said somewhat 
 resentfully, for she was far from thin, and the 
 stairs were steep and long. " I told him to 
 come up, but he said as how I was to come 
 and tell you." 
 
 And Mrs. Dobbs (who like most people had 
 her days of gloom and bad temper, of which 
 this was one) shut the door with a bang, and 
 flounced heavily downstairs again. 
 
 Douglas followed her, and found a tall 
 young man standing in the grimy, draughty 
 passage, whom, to his surprise, he recognised 
 as Mr. Debenham. 
 
 " How are you, Conrath ? " said this gentle- 
 man in a pleasant, languid voice. "I came 
 to have a little talk wiih vou. I onlv 2^0 1 
 back to town this morning, and Mr. Carslake 
 told me you had left. Your little sister is ill, 
 I am sorry to hear."
 
 THE UNFORESEEN". ' 77 
 
 "Yes, slie has been very ill, but she is 
 getting better, thank you. I'm afraid," he 
 added hesitatingly, " I can hardly ask you to 
 come upstairs. Her bed has been moved into 
 
 the sitting-room, and it is not " He 
 
 paused, and his face flushed somewhat. 
 
 But Debenham answered courteously : 
 
 " If you and she have no objections, I 
 should like to see your little sister. I have 
 brought a few grapes for her." 
 
 His eyes looked so kindly as he spoke that 
 Douglas hesitated no longer, and preceded his 
 visitor up the long dark stairs until they 
 reached the attics. 
 
 In spite of the scanty furniture and the 
 uncarpeted floor, the room looked clean and 
 home-like. The fire shone pleasantly on the 
 whitewashed walls, on Captain Conrath's 
 sword and spurs, and on Bee's pale baby face, 
 with its aureole of short feathery hair. She 
 smiled when Mr. Debenham spoke to her, 
 and opened her mouth obediently for him to 
 pop a grape into it. He laid the cool 
 tempting-looking bunch on the coverlet, and
 
 78 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 stroked her liair with a strangely tender look 
 in his eyes. Then he sighed a little, and sat 
 down without speaking. lie had a quiet, 
 dark face, with tired, rather sad-looking, grey 
 e3^es, and a kind, well-shaped mouth. He sat 
 quite silent for some time, pulling his mous- 
 tache thouf^^htfully, while Doui^las drew down 
 the blind and lit the candle. Then he roused 
 himself, and said abruptly : 
 
 " Your little sister reminds me very much 
 of a child sister of my own, who died long 
 as^o. How old is she ? " 
 
 " She is nearly seven," Douglas answered 
 after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 " Seven in June," put in Bee's voice. 
 
 Mr. Debenham looked surprised. 
 
 " I should have tliou2[ht her older than 
 that," he said thou n^ht fully. " Mv Httle 
 sister was nearly ten." Then he added in 
 his usual languid tone, " By the way, Con- 
 rath, I have arranged with Mr. Carslake that 
 your place is to be kept open for you. I 
 don't care to have strange lads about the 
 place, and you have got into our ways. In
 
 THE UNFORESEEN. 79 
 
 isliort, I don't want to part with you if I can 
 help it. I have told Forbes to take your 
 duties for the next week or two. And as for 
 your salary, that — er — will be all right, you 
 know. I shall see that you get it weekly as 
 usual." 
 
 The colour rushed to young Conrath's face. 
 He rose to his feet, and uttered a few broken, 
 half-articulate words. Then he sat down 
 again, and just laid his head down on Bee's 
 pillow, his heart too full for speech. But in 
 a few moments he had recovered himself, and 
 his eyes met Mr. Debenham's with a look in 
 them that thanked the other better than any 
 mere words could have done. It was a look 
 of intense, almost passionate gratitude and 
 relief. Presently he said in a very low voice : 
 
 " I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Mr . 
 Debenham. You don't know what it — means 
 to me." 
 
 But Debenham, with a comprehending 
 nod, had turned to speak to little Bee, who 
 was watching him furtively and approvingly 
 from beneath her long lashes.
 
 80 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Was your little sister the very same size 
 as me ? " she asked gravely, when she had 
 answered his kindly questions in her quaint 
 old-fashioned way. 
 
 " Yes, I think so," he made answer. 
 
 " Has she gone to Heaven ? " she con- 
 tinued, fixing her great grey eyes on his. 
 Then as he did not speak, she added, with a 
 quivering lip, " My mammy went to Heaven. 
 She will never come back, Douglas sa3^s, and 
 I want her so dreadfully." And she burst 
 into a lit of passionate crying. 
 
 With a troubled look on his kind face, 
 Debenham rose to go ; but as he held out his 
 hand to Douglas Bee sobbed out : 
 
 " No, no ; don't want you to go away. 
 You have a nice face, and Bee wants to hear 
 about that little sister that's in Heaven." 
 
 The young man good-naturedly enough sat 
 down again, and Bee, having dried her tears 
 upon Douglas's handkerchief, subjected the 
 visitor to a searching examination upon his life 
 and habits in general — past, present and 
 future. He, evidently amused, answered
 
 THE UNFORESEEN. 81 
 
 with edifying gravity, and found himself to 
 his surprise exerting himself to be agreeable 
 in a way which would have surprised con- 
 iiiderably most of his acquaintances, who only 
 knew him as a rather haughty and not at all 
 communicative younoj man. 
 
 When Bee had ascertained, by careful and 
 minute inquiry, that Mr. Debenham had no 
 more little sisters, no brothers, no babies of 
 his own, and no immediate prospect of nor 
 desire for any, that he had once possessed a 
 horse, but never, to his recollection, a kitten, 
 with other equally important information, 
 she announced with a contented little sioii : 
 
 "I like you. You are funny and nice, 
 and your face looks kind when you laugh. I 
 hope you'll have some nice little babies cf 
 your own quite soon." 
 
 Then, without further remark, she coiled 
 herself up and fell fast asleep. 
 
 Debenham remained for some time longer, 
 talking in a low voice to Douglas, and en- 
 couraging him to speak freely of his per- 
 plexities and troubles and aspirations. The lad 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 A ROMANCE OF MODEKX LONDON. 
 
 interested him more than ever. He felt a 
 vaiTue regret that he was not rich enou^^ht to 
 be a small Providence to him by " giving him 
 a start " in some line where his abilities 
 would find scope and appreciation. 
 
 We are prone, you know, to indulge phil- 
 anthropic intentions regarding our fellow- 
 men — when we know our circumstances 
 forbid our carrying them out. Too often, I 
 fear, we fmd that when our circumstances 
 change our ideas are apt to change also. 
 We find that " charity begins at home," that 
 
 " we really do not feel that we are called 
 
 * 
 
 upon," that " there are other claims upon 
 us," etc., etc. In short, that a thousand 
 obstacles stand between us and the good we 
 would but may not do. 
 
 To doEalph Debenham all justice, however, 
 he never lost an opportunity of doing his 
 fellow-creatures a good turn — provided he 
 hadn't to exert himself much personally. But 
 upon this occasion he really had exerted him- 
 self. He could hardly have told what had 
 impelled him to penetrate the hitherto un-
 
 THE UNFOKESEEN. 83 
 
 known region of Garth Street on this bitter 
 winter afternoon (it was an afternoon, too, 
 for which he had several congenial engage- 
 ments) to pay a visit to his senior office boy 
 and his little sick sister. It was an entirely 
 unprecedented thing for him to do. He had 
 wondered at himself lazily as he stood on the 
 bleak doorstep. He had wondered at himself 
 still more as he climbed the dark and un- 
 savoury staircase leading to young Conrath's 
 poorly-furnished attic. But he wondered 
 less as he talked to the lad — talked almost 
 as he might have talked to a younger brother 
 of his own — and found what clear intelligence 
 and power of reasoning the young fellow had, 
 what deeply-rooted ambition and latent in- 
 domitable will. 
 
 " And, by Jove ! " he said to himself, as he 
 walked down Garth Street half-an-hour later 
 in the illusive hope of finding a hansom, 
 " he's a thorough-bred young fellow, as well as 
 a clever one. Conrath — Conrath," he mused ; 
 " the name seems familiar to me somehow." 
 
 He half resolved to raise his protege to a
 
 84 A IlOMA^XE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 more responsible and therefore more lucrative 
 position in the office ; for, as I have said, he 
 was the senior partner, and had more to say 
 on matters connected with the firm than 
 Carslake, who, by the way, rather disliked 
 young Conrath, and snubbed him whenever 
 an opportunity offered. 
 
 After that afternoon, Debenham often 
 " looked in," as he put it, at Garth Street, 
 always bringing some little gift of toys, or 
 fruit, or sweetmeats for Bee, and listening in 
 his lazy, good-natured way to her innocent 
 chatter, which amused him immensely. lie had 
 long talks with Douglas, too, and got to know 
 the boy thoroughly — aye, and to respect him. 
 
 As the days went on, the small invalid 
 gradually gained strength, and looked almost 
 her own bonnie, winsome self again. She 
 eagerly insisted upon taking up her self-im- 
 posed " housekeeping " duties ; and Douglas 
 soon felt safe in leavim? her alone as he used 
 to do. 
 
 Thus life to these two Garth Street waifs 
 looked bright and possible once more.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 SAIONAEA ! 
 
 " The same old baffling questions ! 0, my friend, 
 I cannot answer them. In vain I send 
 My soul into the dark, where never burn 
 The lamps of science, nor the natural light 
 Of Reason's sun and stars ! I cannot learn 
 Their great and solemn meanings, nor discern 
 The awful secrets of the eyes which turn 
 Evermore on us through the day and night 
 With silent challenge, and a dumb demand, 
 Proffering the riddles of the dread unknown, 
 Like the calm sphinxes with their eyes of stone, 
 Questioning the centuries from their veils of sand ! 
 I have no answer for myself or thee, 
 Save that I learned beside my mother's knee, 
 ' All is of God that is, and is to be ; 
 And God is good.' Let this suffice us still, 
 Resting in childlike trust upon His will 
 "Who moves to His great ends unthwarted by the ill ! " 
 
 — Whittier. 
 
 A YEAR had passed, an uneventful year, as far 
 as Bee and Douglas were concerned. He had 
 grown taller and somewhat thinner ; all the
 
 86 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 boyishness had gone from his face, leaving it 
 OTaver and more thouixhtful than such a 
 YOiinfT face ou<^ht to be. There was an almost 
 stern look about the eyes and lips at times 
 which sat there strangely enough. And in 
 his heart the seed of ambition which had 
 sprung to restless life on the night when he 
 read his uncle's letter waxed stronger and 
 lustier every day. 
 
 Bee, too, had grown taller, her features 
 were sharper ; she was, perhaps, hardly so 
 pretty as she had been a year ago, but it was 
 a very sweet little face, and the eyes and the 
 expression were both beautiful. 
 
 It was a lonely life they led, and yet it had 
 its pleasures too — pleasures that to most 
 ]3eople would have seemed trivial and bare 
 enough. Sundays were Bee's red-letter days, 
 alwavs ; for on Sundavs DouQ'las was with her 
 all day, and she could pet him and hang 
 about him to her heart's content. She was a 
 lovimrly demonstrative little creature, and 
 DouG^las, naturally, was her hero and ideal of 
 perfection. His love for her, though deeper.
 
 SAIOXARA ! 87 
 
 was less demonstrative, and took the form of 
 a constant tliougiitful care and uniform ten- 
 derness, with an occasional silent caress, or 
 still rarer kiss. These kisses Bee prized very 
 highly. It was touching to see how the 
 young fellow tried to do his best to let his 
 love fill the place of the mother- love the little 
 one had lost ; how careful he was of her 
 health, how anxious to brighten her lonely 
 childhood, and to compensate her for long 
 solitary hours when he had to be away from 
 her. He managed generally to run home for 
 a minute or two during his dinner-hour, just 
 to see that she was all right, but he felt sadly 
 conscious that she was far too much alone. 
 And yet — what could he do ? 
 
 Her clothing, too, worried him secretly. 
 Eor she was still wearing the clumsily-made 
 black frock Mrs. Dobbs had got for her more 
 than a year ago ; it was not only woefully 
 shabby now, but far above her knees, and 
 Douglas made up his mind that she must 
 have a new one. He had a vague idea also 
 that most of her other clothes wanted renew-
 
 88 A ROMA^'CE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 in^r as well, and he hadn't the sllj^htest idea 
 how to set about it. He shrank from sendin^f 
 the child out with Mrs. Dobbs ; for a long 
 course of troubles and misfortunes had driven 
 that cood woman to seek consolation in the 
 daily — indeed, hourly — consumption of a 
 beverage which she vaguely alluded to as 
 " unsweetened," and as this beverage afTected 
 not only her temper but her judgment and 
 her actions as well, she was not at all times 
 either a pleasant or a reliable companion. 
 Douglas used to lie awake at nights, thinking 
 the matter over, and finally came to the con- 
 clusion that he would seize an early morning 
 hour, when Mrs. Dobbs might perchance be 
 more consecutive in her ideas than was likely 
 later in the day, and make out a list from 
 her dictation as to what the child reallv re- 
 quired, and the probable maximum cost 
 thereof. This — after one or two attempts 
 rendered futile by Mr. Dobbs's launching out 
 into mournful reminiscences of palmier da3's 
 ere " Dobbs " had left his countr}- at that 
 country's expense — was at length accom-
 
 SAIONARA ! 8D 
 
 l)lished, and one fine Saturday afternoon 
 Douglas and his little charge set off in search 
 of a much-advertised outfitting establishment 
 in the " far east." 
 
 They were quite a jovial pair that day. To 
 be sure, Douglas had considerably less money 
 to spend than his generous heart could have 
 wished. But he had long ago learned to 
 " cut his coat according to his cloth," and 
 had even essaved the herculean task of cut- 
 ting without any cloth at all. And, after all, 
 he was only a lad, despite his cares and 
 responsibilities ; the sky was blue ; the sun 
 was shining ; and he was going to spend 
 money on the creature he loved best in all the 
 world. So he felt comparatively joyous and 
 light-hearted. 
 
 As for Bee, she danced along in the sun- 
 shine, holding Douglas's hand tightly and 
 proudly, and talking literally without cessa- 
 tion all the way. It was nothing to her that 
 the little cap that rested upon her sunny hair 
 was rusty and shabby, that her frock was 
 brief to oddity, and that her cloak was well-
 
 90 A ROMANCE OF 3I0DERN LONDON. 
 
 fitted to bear her other garments company. 
 At least, it had been nothing to her until that 
 morning, when Douglas had told her he was 
 going to replace these shabby garments by 
 new ones. Then her baby-eyes had twinkled 
 with anticipation and excitement. The}' were 
 twinkling now. What woman-child from its 
 ver}^ cradle is insensible to the joys of some- 
 thing new to wear ? 
 
 It was a long time since Bee had been out, 
 for the weather had been cold, wet, and 
 boisterous, and she had had a slio'ht cold. 
 Thus everything she saw to-day delighted 
 her. 
 
 She insisted on Douglas lifting her up to 
 watch the steamers and coal barges plying to 
 and fro under Westminster Bridge. The sun 
 shone on the water, and transformed the rip- 
 pling, dirty wavelets into dull broken gold. 
 Bee stretched out her arms to the dancing 
 brightness lovingly. She almost wept to see 
 the limp body of a drowned cat swept down 
 the river's broad bosom. She screamed with 
 ectastic laughter at one or two adventurous
 
 SAIOXARA ! 91 
 
 youths who liad chosen Father Thames 
 as the field of a watery race. She held her 
 breath with excitement to watch the funnels of 
 the steamers bend, as though by -some in- 
 visible spirit agency, as they passed under the 
 arches. At last Douglas, with some difficulty, 
 persuaded her to leave this thrilling scene, 
 and she trotted on again, along the Embank- 
 ment, past Blackfriars Eailway Station, 
 through the busy, roaring vortex of Ludgate 
 Hill, and thence into the labyrinth of London 
 east of St. Paul's. 
 
 Their final destination was reached at last, 
 and then the great business of the day began. 
 It was an amusing, and yet perhaps a some- 
 what pathetic sight, to see the perplexed 
 earnestness with which Douglas made his 
 purchases, trying to reconcile what his taste 
 approved with what his purse could afford. 
 He felt very much at sea, and longed forlornly 
 for some feminine assistance. But there was 
 no shadow of care in the unsubdued glee 
 with which little Bee gazed at her small 
 person in the tall mirrors, as various " ready-
 
 92 A ROMAKCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 made " frocks were tried on — then cloaks, 
 and finally, hats. It went to the boy's heart 
 that he could not buy one of the various rich 
 and elegant little costumes which lay or hung 
 about everywhere ; but he turned away from 
 the " what might be " to the " what was," and 
 stoically chose an inexpensive, but neatly- 
 made brown frock and cloak, and a soft little 
 brown tweed cap to match. 
 
 " Can't I put them all on now, Douglas ? " 
 Bee whispered excitedly. " Oh, Douglas, do 
 let me put them on now." 
 
 " No, Bee, not just now. Come along, 
 darling ; we have othe^ things to get, you 
 know." 
 
 With a sigh the little one acquiesced, and 
 Douglas proceeded to examine the list he 
 held. It puzzled him not a little, and he 
 knitted his brows in dire perplexity. 
 
 The saleswoman of the department where 
 they then were (a cheery-faced little woman 
 with grey curly hair) seemed to divine his 
 difficulty, and said pleasantl}^ : 
 
 " Is there anything else, sir, do you think ?
 
 SAIONARA ! 93 
 
 If you should want any underclothing for the 
 little miss, I could perhaps select for you, if 
 you will tell me what prices I may go to." 
 
 With an expression of relief, and a few 
 courteous words of thanks, he handed her the 
 paper, and after some time all the purchases 
 were made, even to a stout little pair of shoes. 
 
 To Bee's disappointment, Douglas ordered 
 the parcel to be sent home, and they sallied 
 forth into the busy streets again. By this 
 time it was half-past five, and Douglas, seeing 
 the little one's wistful thouc^h silent glance at 
 the window of an aerated bread shop, led her 
 in, and committed the final extravagance of 
 ordering tea and cakes for two, thereby delight- 
 ing Bee's small soul. They had a little marble 
 table all to themselves, from which she could 
 hardly be persuaded to tear herself away. 
 
 When they came out it was almost dark, 
 and the lamps were lighted. Douglas hailed 
 a passing omnibus, which took them to 
 Charinf? Cross ; and from thence thev walked 
 down Whitehall, and so home. 
 
 " Douglas, don't you wish you could go in
 
 94 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 an omnibus every day ? " Bee said gleefully, 
 as she pranced along Garth Street at her 
 brother's side. " I never was in one before. 
 When you are quite a man and I am quite 
 tall with long dresses — then shall we go in an 
 omnibus every day ? " 
 
 Douglas laughed a little. 
 
 " Perhaps we shall be rich enough to drive 
 in a hansom by that time, Bee." 
 
 " One of those nice little carriages where 
 the man sits up at the back, and holds the 
 reins over the top ? " queried the child ex- 
 citedly. " Oh ! Douglas — shall we ? Does 
 Mr. Debenham drive in one ? " 
 
 " Yes— often." 
 
 " Douglas, why does he never come now ? " 
 
 " I don't know. Busy, perhaps." 
 
 " lie hasn't come for ever such a long 
 time," went on Bee, as she climbed the door- 
 step of No. 13 — " not since long, long before 
 Christmas. And the last time he didn't 
 laugh — not once. And his face was quite 
 sorry and tired, like yours used to be when I 
 was ill in bed."
 
 SAIONARA 1 95 
 
 As a matter of fact there were good enough 
 reasons for Mr. Debenham's face looking 
 " sorry and tired." The firm of Debenham 
 and Carslake, never a very prosperous con- 
 cern, had of late been less so than ever, and 
 the occasions were not few when both 
 partners found themselves unpleasantly short 
 of both ready money and credit. Debenham 
 had other causes of worry besides, and the 
 combined strain affected even his equable 
 temperament to a degree which rendered him 
 moody and irritable, and very unlike himself 
 generally. 
 
 Douglas — who, by the way, had had his 
 salary raised twice during the past year, and 
 was now sole clerk of the establishment — had 
 suspected of late that things were not going 
 well with his employers, and the suspicion 
 had, naturally, disquieted him not a little. 
 Bee's words just now had set him thinking 
 again, and he answered her absently and at 
 random as they toiled up the long stairs to 
 their rooms. The fire was out, and all was 
 darkness. But when Douglas had struck a
 
 OG A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 match and lit a candle, Bee uttered a shrill 
 little chirp of joy ; for there on the table lay 
 a large brown paper parcel. 
 
 Whereupon followed — for Bee, at least — 
 a most interestin2f half-hour in examinini? all 
 her new " thinc^s," while Dou^flas leaned 
 across the table and watched her with grave 
 amused eyes, in which there was yet a sus- 
 picion of sadness. When the inspection was 
 over, and the hat, cloak and boots had been 
 once more tried on, the child climbed upon 
 Dou<]flas's knee and nestled her head airainst 
 his neck. 
 
 " Thank you so much for all these lovely 
 things," she whispered. " I love you so 
 much, Douglas. I will always be good, and 
 never nauc^htv." 
 
 In a sudden and rare impulse of tenderness 
 he cau2[ht her to him and kissed the lovinij 
 upturned eyes. 
 
 " My darling wee thing," he said fondly, 
 " you are always good. I only wish I could 
 buy you far prettier things. And so I will, 
 some day. Just you wait and see." Then he
 
 SAIONARA ! 97 
 
 added after a second or two, " Suppose we 
 got rich, and went away from here, where 
 should you hke to hve. Bee ? " 
 
 "Are we going away from here ? " she 
 asked, raising wondering eyes to his, and 
 answering one question with another, after 
 the fashion of childhood. 
 
 " Xo, not yet. But we shall some day, 
 when I make all that money I told you about 
 the other night. Should you lilie to live far 
 away in the country, where there are lovely 
 flowers and trees — and have a horse to ride, 
 and lots of pretty frocks, and all the books 
 you could possibly wish for ? You would like 
 that — wouldn't you ? " 
 
 Bee did not answer for a minute ; then she 
 said, shaking her head slowly : 
 
 " No, I wouldn't like that so well as to live 
 on the bridge where we were to-day. Oh, 
 Douglas, I should like to live there." 
 
 Douglas laughed heartily. 
 
 " You little goose ! Nobody lives on 
 bridges." 
 
 " Well, we could be the very first people 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 wlio had ever lived on one," she said thought- 
 fully. " But of course you know I should 
 live wherever you did." And she hugged him 
 in her usual rapturous fashion. 
 
 When she had gone to bed, with her new 
 clothes placed in a conspicuous position on a 
 chair, so that she should see them first thing 
 on wakini( in the mornin<]f, Dou<]^las drew a 
 chair to the table and brouc^ht out his 
 writing. But to-night he had no copying of 
 crabbed manuscripts to do. He was not 
 copying anything at all, but writing on both 
 sides of variously-sized pieces of paper, and 
 evidently composing as he went along. For 
 he had an idea that he had it in him to 
 become an author. Not an altocfether un- 
 common idea, to be sure, with young souls 
 just beginning the world, who imagine they 
 see life and death and sin and error from a 
 totally new point of view, and burn to com- 
 municate their old -new impressions and 
 reflections to the reading public. Young 
 Com-ath, however, was not fired by a desire 
 to reform the world, but bv a desire to
 
 SAIONARA ! 99 
 
 reform his own fortunes. Literature was to 
 be to him not an idol, but a slave — a means 
 to an end. He did not consider himself a 
 genius — for, young as he was, he was not a 
 fool — but he had resolved to work his way 
 up, however slowly, and to take his place, 
 not on the pinnacle which harbours genius, 
 but in the no less honourable ranks of 
 recognized talent. Nor did he intend to 
 make his pen his sole hope of livelihood. It 
 was only to be a side-wind. 
 
 As yet his efforts had not been successful. 
 The literary attempts of a lad of sixteen are 
 not usually characterized by either power or 
 brilliancy, or careful composition, or faultless 
 grammar ; and Douglas's productions erred 
 in all these particulars. To do him justice, 
 he had the sense to see they fell short some- 
 where, and most of them were torn up almost 
 as soon as they were finished. Only one had 
 eventually, after tender care and pruning, 
 found its way to the editor of some popular 
 magazine, who had promptly returned it 
 
 without comment of any kind. 
 
 7*
 
 10) A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 But the strong, almost fierce " / will 1 " 
 in the lad kept his heart from failing. Given 
 health and an indomitable will, and circum- 
 stances rarely fail to yield to never-ceasing 
 hard work, hand-in -hand with a set purpose. 
 
 " To conquer fame and fortune I " 
 
 The words of his dream were always 
 present with this heavily-handicapped young 
 mariner on life's stormy sea. They seemed to 
 ring in his ears night and day ; they nerved 
 his heart for that hardest of all tasks, to icait 
 — not idl}^ but in doing the work that lay 
 nearest, and doing it as well as he " knew 
 how." 
 
 To-nio'ht he read over his closelv-written 
 sheets with a contemptuous smile, then tore 
 them ruthlessly into fragments and flung 
 them into the fireplace. After sitting for 
 some time with his head resting dejectedly on 
 his hands, he took down one of a pile of 
 tattered school-books and applied himself to 
 
 hard studv until far on in the morninc^. 
 ^ « * ♦ « 
 
 It was now May — May in her loveliest,
 
 SAIO.N'ARA! 101 
 
 sweetest guise, warm and sunny and flower- 
 scented. Mayfair and Belgravia were well 
 launched upon their yearly hard treadmill of 
 never-ending gaiety, and the golden-hued 
 butterfly existence of fashion's votaries 
 looked fair as appies of Sodom to those who 
 could not see — or had not reached — the dust 
 and ashes within. 
 
 In the small attic-floor in Garth Street with 
 which we have become familiar, however, 
 there lay once more a heavy shadow. For 
 Debenham and Carslake had become bank- 
 rupt, and the offices in Little Queen Street 
 were closed. Thus Douoias Conrath was on 
 the look-out for another situation. This last, 
 as some of my readers may — or may not — 
 have had occasion to know, is apt to become 
 a soul-sickening occupation enough, and one 
 of which a very little goes a very long way. 
 Its weariness had been lightened, for Douglas, 
 however, by a small but unexj^ected piece of 
 good luck. He had had a short story 
 accepted by one of the shilling magazines ; 
 and though he had received comparatively
 
 102 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 little remuneration for it, the very fact of its 
 having been accepted brightened the mental 
 horizon of the young author wonderfully. 
 And it wanted brightening sadly, for what lay 
 between looked black enough. But Bee was 
 another point of brightness. She was grow- 
 ing more " old-fashioned " and companionable 
 every day. Douglas often found himself 
 talking to her almost as though she were 
 grown up ; and she really was a singularly 
 wise little woman for her years. She could 
 read now, quite well ; and read aloud to 
 Douglas for half-an-hour every evening, 
 stru.qo'linfT over the bi^ words and discussing; 
 the story — or whatever it might be — after- 
 wards, in a way that convulsed her listener 
 with lauo'hter. 
 
 They were far from unhappy at this time, 
 though the dread wolf of starvation prowled 
 so terribly near their door. They had but 
 little to eat, and that little of the plainest ; 
 but they had youth and health and hope — 
 and thev loved each other. 
 
 On Sundays they sometimes went to hear
 
 SAIONAKA : 1C3 
 
 service in Westminster Abbey, where the 
 music made Bee think of Heaven, where 
 " mammy " was. Douglas himself did not 
 believe much in church-going, but he had a 
 vac^ue idea that he ouoiit to attend to the 
 morals of the " little one " as well as her 
 education. Often on week days he would 
 take her to one of the free libraries — for 
 alas ! he had plenty of time now — where she 
 used to sit as still as a mouse, looking at some 
 picture-book while he pursued some deep 
 branch of study. But as a rule she found 
 these days slow, and much preferred being 
 taken for a long walk, a pleasure in which 
 Douo^as indulo'ed her whenever he could, for 
 the child looked pale and was growing fast. 
 Bee's favourite expedition was to Temple 
 Gardens, where they used to spend hours at a 
 time when the weather was fine, and when 
 Douglas had no prospective situations to see 
 after. He used to take whatever book he 
 was studying at the time, with his pencil and 
 note-book, and sit on one of the seats under 
 the trees, while Bee ran up and down the
 
 104 A KOMANCE OF iMODKRN LONDOX. 
 
 walks and round the flower-beds, coming 
 back every few minutes to lay her little head 
 on his knee and tell him she was " so happy,'^ 
 and ask if she was "his baby." And the 
 birds sang, and the sun shone, and the busy 
 life of London roared round them, present 
 yet invisible. Drowsy, sunny Temple 
 Gardens ! Who could ima^^^ine, amono' your 
 trees and flowers and peaceful twitter of 
 birds, how near you lie to the heart of the 
 never-resting cit}^, with its sin and care and 
 sorrow ! 
 
 One June afternoon, while Bee was career- 
 ing along the walk nearest the river in pur- 
 suit of a smoky town butterfly, which fondly 
 imagined itself to be a white one, an old lady 
 and gentleman who were coming from the 
 opposite direction stopped and spoke to her. 
 
 " What's your name, my dear ? " said the 
 old lady, who looked nervous and somewhat 
 excited. 
 
 " My name is Bee, and then Conrath," the 
 child replied with dignity. 
 
 For though Bee was only a poor little girl
 
 AIO^'ARA ! 105 
 
 wlio lived in an attic, she was not accustomed 
 to be spoken to by strangers, and she did not 
 like it. 
 
 " And where do you live ? " said the old 
 gentleman in a hard, rasping voice. 
 
 " In Garth Street," was the composed 
 answer. " But Dous^las doesn't like me to 
 speak to people I don't know." 
 
 And so saying Miss Bee walked away, and 
 seated herself close to Douglas, from which 
 vantage-ground she surveyed her late inter- 
 locutors with round disapproving eyes. They 
 passed twice, talking earnestly, and glancing 
 occasionally at Bee and her companion. 
 Then they were joined by a tall spare man in 
 blue spectacles, with whom they finally 
 walked away. 
 
 Bee related the conversation verbatim to 
 Douglas, who, being absorbed in " Plato's 
 Dialogues," only answered absently : 
 
 "Don't bother, there's a good little 
 
 woman." 
 
 Soon after this Douglas closed his book and 
 said it was time to go home. They walked
 
 106 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 along the Embankment liand-in-liand in the 
 level light of the setting sun, the light 
 summer wind blowing velvety against their 
 faces, and ruffling Bee's short feathery curls. 
 « « « ' « * 
 
 It was a dull sultry afternoon some weeks 
 later. Douglas was walking restlessly about 
 the room, stopping every now and then at the 
 open window to look out into the dusty 
 street. 
 
 He had not succeeded in c^ettin^' anv 
 employment of any kind. He owed Mrs. 
 Dobbs two weeks' rent, and he had onl}- a 
 couple of shillings in the world. Something 
 very like despair was beginning to creep 
 round his heart. What if circumstances 
 should prove too strong for him after all ? he 
 thought drearily. He was no coward. It 
 Avas for Bee his heart failed him. Povertv 
 and want he could combat for himself ; but 
 
 for Bee — little Bee He looked at her 
 
 sadly. No sign of care about her. Her 
 frock was turned up and pinned round her 
 waist, a la Mrs. Dobbs, and with a verv
 
 SAIONARA 1 107 
 
 business-like face and air she was dusting all 
 Douglas's books, an occupation which she 
 pursued intermittently at all hours of the 
 day. She was humming gently to herself, 
 and the tip of her little red tongue was 
 plainly visible, as it always was when she was 
 busy or absorbed. When she had finished 
 she put away her duster and climbed upon a 
 chair by the window to water the plants, 
 which looked sickly and drooping in the 
 thundery heat. 
 
 " Douglas," she called out presently in 
 great excitement, " do come and look. The 
 most beautiful carriage at our door, with 
 two brown horses and two coachmen." 
 
 As she spoke a thundering knock echoed 
 from the door below, and when a consider- 
 able time had elapsed the door of the room 
 was thrown open by Mrs. Dobbs, and an old 
 lady and gentleman walked in — the very 
 same old lady and gentleman who had spoken 
 to Bee in Temple Gardens. The lady was 
 very stout, and very handsomely dressed. 
 Her companion was also stout, and had
 
 108 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 rather a fierce appearance. The latter at 
 once addressed himself to Douglas, whose 
 dark blue eyes held a look of surprised 
 inquiry, not unmingled with resentment, for 
 some swift intuition informed him of the 
 object of their visit. 
 
 " Good morning, my good lad, good morn- 
 ing," said the old gentleman in a loud 
 pompous voice. " My name is Chandler — 
 Joseph Chandler. We saw you and the little 
 girl there a few weeks ago in Temple 
 Gardens. Mrs. Chandler " — this with a wave 
 of his hand towards the old lady, who had 
 seated herself in a chair, and was panting 
 loudly, and very much after the fashion of 
 Mrs. Dobbs — "Mrs. Chandler, I sav, was 
 struck by the likeness the child bears to our 
 daughter, who — um — who died some years 
 ago. The woman downstairs tells me you are 
 the little girl's brother. I want to know if 
 that is the case." 
 
 There was something inexpressibly inso- 
 lent and overbearing about Mr. Chandler's 
 manner, and Douglas was conscious of a wild
 
 SAIONARA ! 109 
 
 and almost uncontrollable desire to say some- 
 thing equally aggressive in return. But he 
 did not. He only requested his visitor 
 to be seated. Then he sat down himself; 
 for a curiously sick feeling had taken posses- 
 sion of him. Could it be true — could 
 it be possible that his gentle, refined 
 little Bee could belong to these people ? 
 — that this vulgar old man could be 
 her grandfather ? — this cook-like old woman 
 her grandmother ? If so, it was a sad 
 shattering of all his fondly-imagined dreams 
 regarding her birth. 
 
 He suddenly became aware that Mr. 
 Chandler was speaking. His voice was 
 harsher now, and more pronounced in accent 
 than before. H's appeared and disappeared 
 with wild inconsequence. Mrs. Chandler was 
 making breathless overtures to Bee, who had 
 retreated within the shelter of Douglas's arm. 
 
 " We saw the child, as I said, in Temple 
 Gardens, some weeks ago," Mr. Chandler was 
 saying, his eyes meanwhile roving contemptu- 
 ously round the barely-furnished room, " and
 
 110 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Mrs. C. — Mrs. Chandler, I should say — con- 
 sidered her the living image of what our 
 daughter Sarah was at that age. As the child 
 ofave us her name and the name of this street, 
 we have managed to trace her, and a fine 
 troublesome job it has been. If it turns out 
 that she is our grand-daughter, of course we 
 shall relieve you of the care of her. So, my 
 lad, be prepared to answer any questions I 
 may put to you." 
 
 Douglas's face grew a shade paler, but he 
 did not speak. Mr. Chandler cleared his 
 throat, flourished one hand, on which an 
 enormous diamond glittered, and went on : 
 
 " Our daughter Sarah ran away from a 
 good Christian 'ome to be married to a snufT- 
 the-moon young scamp who had nothing but 
 his handsome face to recommend him. Mrs. 
 C. and me were in a poor way then, and lived 
 out at Peckham. Well, a year or two, or 
 may be three, passed, and we heard nothing 
 of Sarah, until one afternoon we got a line 
 from St. George's Hospital, saying as how a 
 young wom^an was dying there and had sent
 
 SAIONARA 1 111 
 
 for US. When we got there, we found it was 
 our daughter Sarah, and she died soon after. 
 She was a widow, she said, and she was in a 
 great way about her httle child ; she kep' 
 crying out that it was lost, that it had run 
 out into the street while she was in some 
 shop, and that it would be killed — and things 
 like that. But we took it for ravings, for we 
 never knew she had had a child ; and besides 
 at that time I didn't see my way to burdening 
 myself with other folks' children. But when 
 I made my pile, which I did all in a leap, as 
 one might say, not to mention a thumping 
 legacy from a relative in Australia, my old 
 woman — Mrs. Chandler, I should say — took a 
 notion to adopt a little one ; and we had 
 almost fixed on a child from the Foundling, 
 when we saw this little girl in Temple 
 Gardens. Mrs. C. would have it that it must 
 be Sarah's child — the likeness was so strong 
 — and nothing would serve her but that we 
 should ferret her out. So what I want to 
 know is, if she really is your sister or no. 
 Even if she is, as my old woman — Mrs.
 
 112 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Chandler, I sliould say — lias taken the fancy 
 into her head, and as you seem to have 
 enough to do, from what your landlady says, 
 to keep yourself, perhaps we may come to 
 some arrangement alDOut taking the little miss 
 for our own. Of course, I should be liberal, 
 you know. Thank God ! I can afford to 
 indulge my wife's notions, whatever the cost 
 may be." Here the speaker paused, and used 
 his pocket-handkerchief with fierce violence. 
 
 A wave of colour rushed over the lad's 
 face, then receded, leaving it white as 
 death. 
 
 " You are suo-rrestino- that I should sell my 
 little sister to you ? " he said in a strange 
 hard voice. 
 
 " No, no, Douglas ; don't sell me ! " cried 
 Bee in a sudden a^ony of tears. 
 
 " Hush ! " he said almost sternly. But as 
 he spoke he pressed her to him so tiglitl}' that 
 he almost hurt her. Then he looked straight 
 at his visitor, his eyes flashing, his lips 
 tremblino^ somewhat. 
 
 " I am poor," he went on, speaking slowly
 
 SAIONAKA! 113 
 
 and seemingly with difficulty — "very poor. 
 But — I am not quite so poor — as that." 
 
 " She is your sister, then ? " demanded Mr. 
 Chandler. 
 
 The lad was silent. 
 
 "JSTow, no shuffling, sir," blustered the old 
 gentleman ; " yes, or no. Is she your sister 
 or is she not ? " 
 
 " Bee," said Douglas, commanding his voice 
 with an effort, " go into my room, and remain 
 there until I call you." 
 
 The child went at once, winking very fast 
 to keep back her tears. When the door had 
 closed after her, Douglas said coldly, 
 
 " Now, Mr. Chandler, I am ready to answer 
 any questions you may wish to put to me." 
 
 At the end of a somewhat hectoring ex- 
 amination, the boy's sore heart was fain to 
 acknowledge that it did indeed seem possible 
 that these people had a claim upon his little 
 girl. 
 
 " I cannot part with her," he said hoarsely. 
 " I — cannot give her up." 
 
 " My good lad, if we can prove our claim, 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 A EOMANCE OF MODEKX LONDON. 
 
 you won't be asked whether you can part 
 with her or not," answered Mr. Chandler 
 roughly. " However, I've prepared you, 
 and " 
 
 Here Mrs. Chandler, w^ho had hitherto 
 taken no part in the conversation, broke in : 
 
 " And I'm sure it would be a blessed 
 change for the poor child, for she would have 
 every comfort, and decent clothes to her 
 back, not to speak of " 
 
 "There, there, Eliza, that'll do," inter- 
 rupted her husband sharply. " If the child 
 is our grand-daughter, this young fellow will 
 have to let her go, and no more about it, so 
 don't talk." Then, turning to Douglas, " And 
 even if she isn't, you must be a young fool to 
 hesitate. You acknowledge she's no relation 
 of 3'ours, and I suppose you have the sense to 
 know you can't go on living together when 
 you're a young man and she's a young 
 woman ? However, I shall consult my 
 lawyer, and have the thing thoroughly sifted. 
 Of course, if we prove our claim, we'll 
 arrange that you may see your little friend
 
 SAIOXARA ! 115 
 
 occasionally, and I sliall repay you for any 
 expense you may have been put to. Not 
 that it can be much ; but I like to be just, 
 and " 
 
 " That will do ! " interrupted Douglas in a 
 queer voice. "I shall be glad if — you will 
 go now. Good afternoon." 
 
 " Good-day to you," returned Mr. Chandler, 
 turning red with anger ; " and I'd advise you 
 to keep a civil tongue in your head, young 
 man, or perhaps you'll wish you had." 
 
 But Douglas hardly heard him. 
 
 When he closed the door after them, he 
 
 sat down by the table and leaned his head 
 
 on his hands. A storm of conflicting^ feel- 
 
 ings raged in his heart. To lose Bee ! — it 
 
 would take all the light out of his life. And 
 
 yet — ought he not to rejoice that a way of 
 
 escape should be opened for her, poor little 
 
 woman, out of the wear}^ road of want and 
 
 privation which must be his for so long, 
 
 perhaps for always ? He could have almost 
 
 borne to part with her if these people had 
 
 been gentle, courteous, well-born, like his 
 
 8*
 
 116 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 own father and mother. Would Bee grow to 
 be like her newly-found relatives ? (For 
 he had a chill conviction that they were her 
 relatives.) Should he see her changing year 
 by year, until she was no longer the dainty 
 loving creature he knew — the same, yet not 
 the same ? He could not bear to think of it. 
 He rose hastily, opened the door of his 
 room, and said sadly enough : 
 
 " You can come out now. Bee." 
 
 She took his hand and went with him back 
 into the sitting-room. On her cheeks and 
 lashes lay tears too heavy for childhood. He 
 sat down and took her on his knee, stifling a 
 half sob as he felt the dear baby arms twine 
 round his neck. 
 
 " Douglas," she sobbed j)iteously, " you 
 won't sell me ? You won't send me away, 
 icill vou ? " 
 
 " Hush ! Bee, darling," he made answer. 
 " You — you don't understand." 
 
 "I do — I do," wept the little creature. 
 " I know that wicked old man wants to take 
 me away. But you won't let him, will you ?
 
 SAIONAEA ! 117 
 
 I'm your baby — not his. You couldnH do 
 without me." 
 
 " Dear little Bee, listen to me," he said, 
 trying to speak steadily. 
 
 Then he tried to explain as well as he could 
 to her childish mind that she was not really 
 his little Bee at all — that they were brother 
 and sister only in love, not in realit}^ 
 
 " And you know, my darling," he went on, 
 *' if as this man — this Mr. Chandler — says, you 
 are his grand-daughter, I must let you go — I 
 cannot help it. But we shall know very 
 soon. And if — if I must give you up, I know 
 3^ou will never forget me, dear. And we 
 shall see each other sometimes, I hope ; and 
 — we shall always love each other." 
 
 But Bee wept sorely and would not be 
 comforted. She was Douglas's "little girl" 
 — his baby, and she could not understand 
 why she should belong to any one else. And 
 Douglas's heart was very heavy ; for the 
 certainty was fast deepening that these terribly 
 vulgar old people had indeed the right to take 
 his darling from him, and that, once separated,
 
 118 A EOMA^XE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 their lives would flow very, very far apart — 
 perhaps lose sight of each other for ever. 
 
 Tea was a sad enough meal that night. 
 Bee's tears fell fast into the tea-cups. And 
 Douglas was very silent. He was thinking 
 sorrowfully of many days and evenings, of 
 months and years, when the dear child-face 
 opposite him would be only a memory ; when 
 the room would be strangely still and silent ; 
 when his heart would be empty. Then his 
 face burned as he thought of old Chandler's 
 coarse insinuation as to the years to come. 
 Whose business was it, he thouo'ht, with the 
 fierce self-lawgiving of bo^diood, if they should 
 choose to live together until they were old ? 
 What brother and sister could be more to 
 each other than they ? 
 
 After tea they sat by the window silently, 
 
 their arms clasped about each other, the fair 
 
 head leaning heavily against the dark one. 
 
 The narrow street grew darker, noisier. Stars 
 
 came out in the dusky sky. And little Bee 
 
 sobbed herself to sleep. 
 
 * * # * *
 
 SAIONARA ! 119 
 
 Some days passed, and it was proved 
 beyond doubt that Bee was not Bee Conrath 
 at all, but the child of the Chandlers' only 
 daughter, and that she was thenceforth 
 to be known as Katharine Adeane. 
 
 And then — ah ! then there came a dreadful 
 day when a little sobbing, trembling figure, 
 with dishevelled hair and eyes red and swollen 
 with weeping, clung despairingly to the one 
 friend she knew in the whole world — face to 
 face with her first real sorrow. While in 
 the street below Mr. Chandler's horses 
 champed their bits and pawed the ground 
 in lordly impatience. Mrs. Chandler was 
 in the carriage ; she had not come up. 
 The stairs, she said, would be the death of 
 her. 
 
 Douglas's face was very white, and his 
 voice w^as very low and tremulous, though 
 infinitely tender, as he bent over his lost baby, 
 murmuring^ : 
 
 " My little Bee, you will be brave. You 
 promised you would. Don't cry, darling, or 
 — or you will make me cry too."
 
 120 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 His voice failed just here, and he clasped 
 the child convulsively in his arms. 
 
 "Good-bye, my darling. May God take 
 care of you and bless you always," he said 
 with a quick dry sob. 
 
 She clung to him tightly, bravely trying 
 " not to cry." 
 
 That was their parting. 
 
 For a minute silence throbbed through the 
 little room. Then he carried her downstairs 
 and put her into the carriage without a single 
 word. He did not even greet LIrs. Chandler, 
 save by a slight bend of the head. 
 
 He stood back — still silently — while the 
 footman closed the door, and shut Bee out 
 from the old life for ever. With a clatter of 
 hoofs the horses dashed oJQT down the street, 
 amid the shrill shouts of a small crowd of street 
 Arabs who had assembled on the pavement. 
 
 But Douglas saw nothing but a pale, wist- 
 ful little face, and eyes that tried to be tear- 
 less in obedience to his desire. A few more 
 heart-beats, and Bee was whirled away out of 
 his sio'ht.
 
 SAIONARA 1 121 
 
 He stood quite still for a minute or two, 
 his teeth pressed hard upon his under-lip. 
 Then he walked rapidly down the street — 
 walked on and on and on, until his limbs 
 ached and his head felt giddy. But he did 
 not turn homew^ard. He could not go back 
 to that silent room. Not yet. 

 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 A PKECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 
 
 *' Let not the children weep ; the dew is so heavy on the 
 young flowers." 
 
 — Jean Paul Richtee. 
 
 " God sets some souls in shade, alone ; 
 They have no daylight of their own ; 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 God knows. Content thee with thy night, 
 Thy greater Heaven hath grander light. 
 To-day is close. The hours are small. 
 Thou sit'st afar, and hast them all." 
 
 Mrs. Chandler was seated in her gorgeously- 
 furnished drawing-room in Portland Place. 
 I use the word " gorgeous " advisedly. The 
 room was not pretty, nor homelike, nor taste- 
 ful, nor artistic — it was simply gorgeous. 
 The trail of the upholsterer lay over it all. 
 Mrs. Chandler herself — dressed in o-rass-s^reen 
 velvet, picked out with black — had some- 
 thing of the same air of uneasy grandeur — a
 
 A PKECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 123 
 
 grandeur to wliicli slie plainly was not born. 
 She liad a perpetual air of sitting for her 
 portrait — poor woman. For when she 
 succeeded in assuming the attitude and smile 
 which she believed were the attitude and smile 
 of a woman " in society " she felt afraid to 
 move, lest the effect should be spoiled. Not 
 that she cared to shine in society, but Mr. 
 Chandler desired that she should, and now, as 
 in the old Peckham days, Mr. Chandler's word 
 was law. Mrs. Chandler, however, in spite of 
 all her efforts, never looked in the least like a 
 lady of fashion. But she had a nice, honest, 
 wholesome face with little brown eyes that 
 disappeared altogether when she laughed, and 
 a quantity of thick grey hair. She had a tall, 
 well-proportioned figure too — at least it had 
 once been well-j^roportioned. But now the 
 boundary lines of waist and neck had vanished, 
 and were as though they had never been. It 
 was irresistibly conveyed to the casual ob- 
 server that if her face had been the least bit 
 larger, her skin would not have covered it. 
 As it was the skin was so painfully stretched
 
 124 A ROMANCE Of MODERN LONDON. 
 
 and glazy as to make on-lookers tremble when 
 she smiled. 
 
 A lady was seated opposite her, a lady also 
 tall, but thin to leanness. Her eyes and hair 
 were of an indefinite ash colour, and her 
 features were of a singular delicacy and 
 refinement. Her dress, though plain, was in 
 exquisite taste ; her every movement full of 
 grace. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Chandler," she was saying 
 in a languid, mellow voice, " it is really very 
 interesting. I did not know until quite lately 
 that 3^ou and Mr. Chandler had any family. 
 How sad that jour only child should have 
 married so unfortunately. And how strange 
 your meeting the little girl in that chance 
 way. Eeally, it iy quite a romantic story. 
 Nearly eight years old, you say ? She will be 
 a charming companion for my little Fay. 
 Can I not see her ? " 
 
 " Well, really. Lady Dinwoodie, I'm almost 
 ashamed to have her brought down. She's 
 the most determined little furv. And sullen, 
 to that extent you would not believe it. It's
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 125 
 
 my belief she would rather be back in that 
 low street, with that upsetting young lad, than 
 here with all the luxuries of — of wealth," con- 
 cluded the old lady somewhat vaguely. 
 
 " Ah, poor child, it is all strange to her," 
 answered Lady Dinwoodie with a softened 
 look in her eyes as she glanced at her own 
 little daughter, who was seated demurely upon 
 a low chair near her. 
 
 " And cries in her bed at nights for 
 ' Douglas — Douglas,' " went on the old lady 
 in an aggrieved tone, " until it's heart-break- 
 inc^ to hear her." 
 
 " This Douglas was her adopted brother, 
 I think you said ?" asked the other lady. 
 
 " Yes. And I will sav he seemed fond 
 of the child. A nice lad enough, I should 
 say, though 'aughty for his station in my 
 opinion. And I'm sure all the clothes he 
 had on couldn't have cost more than a few 
 shillings." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the other drily, and with a 
 faint inflection of contempt in her even tones. 
 
 Lady Dinwoodie despised the Chandlers.
 
 126 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 But then, what of that ? We are not bound 
 to reverence all our acquaintances. It is not 
 altogether unprecedented for an impecunious 
 lady of title to be hand and glove with the 
 underbred wife of an equally underbred 
 millionaire. I suppose Lady Dinwoodie had 
 her reasons for cultivating? the Chandlers. 
 There are reasons for most friendships in 
 modern London, and they are not necessarily 
 either noble or disinterested reasons. And 
 Lady Dinwoodie usually had very good and 
 sufficient reasons for all she did — or said, for 
 that matter. She was not really a much more 
 elevated character than this bio^ vulcrar woman 
 whom she despised. And she was not nearly 
 so warm-hearted, which of course was very 
 sensible of her ; for warm-heartedness is quite 
 a second-rate sort of quality, as we all know. 
 Her little daughter Fay possessed, perhaps, 
 the one soft spot in her ladyship's heart — and 
 even Fay only touched that spot occasionally. 
 I fancy Fay Dinwoodie must have resembled 
 her father (who had died shortlv after her 
 birth). She certainly did not resemble her
 
 A PEECOCIOUS YOUiVG WOMAN. 127 
 
 mottier, being small and pert-looking, and not 
 strikingly refined either in manners or appear- 
 ance. She had fair hair, and dark eyes and 
 eyebrows, which piquant combination gave 
 her an elfish look, not altogether unattractive. 
 
 *' I want to see the little girl," she an- 
 nounced abruptly, and with a certain 
 aggrieved air. 
 
 She hated paying afternoon calls, and she 
 thought afternoon calls in the Chandlers' ugl}^ 
 drawing-room a special penance. 
 
 " I want to see the little girl," she repeated 
 more loudly, as no notice was taken of her. 
 
 " And so you shall, my dear," said Mrs. 
 Chandler, with her fat good-natured smile ; 
 " and I'm sure I hope you will be friendly, 
 living so near and that." 
 
 She rang the bell as she spoke, and told the 
 man who appeared in answer to tell Miss 
 Adeane's nurse to send her downstairs. After 
 some little delay, " Miss Adeane " was forcibly 
 led into the room, a forlorn-looking little 
 figure enough, in spite of her smart frock and 
 shoes with silver buckles.
 
 123 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Come, Katharine, my dear," said her 
 grandmother in a wheedhng voice — (Mrs. 
 Chandler much admired the name of Katha- 
 rine, and she pronounced it with a marked 
 emphasis upon the last syllable) — " come 
 away and speak to this lady and to this pretty 
 little miss." 
 
 Bee simply glared — there was no other 
 word for it — but she did not speak. 
 
 " Come, come, now," went on the old lady, 
 with a growing touch of asperity in her tone, 
 " Come and say ' How do you do,' prettily. 
 Oh, fie ! to scowl like that." 
 
 " I don't want to speak to anybody," was 
 the uncompromising reply in a choked voice. 
 " I want to go home." 
 
 " Oh dear, dear," said Lady Dinwoodie in 
 her soft languid voice, " this is really very sad." 
 
 Little Fay had risen, and was regarding the 
 new comer curiously. 
 
 " What are you crying for ? " she said 
 gravely. 
 
 " I'm not crying," flashed out the other. 
 
 " Yes, you are," persisted Fay. " Your
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUXa ^YO.AIAN. 129 
 
 eyes are red, and tears are coming out of 
 them, SO 37'ou must be crying. What a baby 
 you must be." 
 
 " Take little Miss Dinwoodie to the nursery 
 and show her your doll, Katharine, my dear," 
 said Mrs. Chandler. " You'll soon be great 
 friends, I can see." 
 
 But " Katharine " stood still, silent and 
 miserable, upon which Fay, in obedience to a 
 look from her mother, promptly took the 
 other little one by the hand and led her 
 away. 
 
 Bee made no resistance, and presently both 
 children stood in the airy, comfortable day- 
 nursery which had been prepared for the 
 small waif of Garth Street. An elderly woman 
 sat sewinsf in an inner room. This was 
 Collins — Bee's nurse and chosen foe. 
 
 " You don't really play with dolls, I hope ? " 
 asked Fay, fixing her bright dark eyes upon 
 her companion after an exhaustive survey of 
 the apartment. 
 
 For answer Bee pointed to a heap of silk and 
 lace, surmounted by a golden crop of " real" 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 ISO A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 hair, which lay upon the floor in a corner. It 
 was a lovely waxen baby, or rather it had 
 been. Now, alas! its face was ruthlessly 
 beaten in, its eyes had disappeared, leaving in 
 their place two dreadful hollows. 
 
 " I hate it ! " said the murdered baby's 
 mamma passionately. " I broke it, and I'm 
 glad. I want to go home. I want to be with 
 Douglas again." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad you don't play with dolls, 
 you know," observed Fa}-, with her most 
 grown-up air. " I shouldn't have thought 
 much of you if you had. I should think 
 you're the same age as me, and 1 wouldn't be 
 seen playing with dolls, I can tell you. Only 
 babies play with dolls. And I'm nine years 
 old. Let's talk about tlnngs," she added 
 abruptly. " Do you go to many parties ? " 
 
 "Parties! What's that?" asked the un- 
 repentant doll-breaker, somewhat sullenly. 
 
 Fay regarded her with open scorn. 
 
 " You don't know what parties are ! " she 
 exclaimed with wide, amazed e3'es. " Why — 
 where have you lived, my dear ? " (This with
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNa WOMAN. 131 
 
 an exact reproduction of her mother's voice 
 and manner.) " Why, jDarties are lovely^'' she 
 went on patronizingly. " You have on a pretty 
 frock, you know — some girls have a new one 
 each time, but mother can't afford that. And 
 you dance and wave a fan about and look 
 silly, and pretend to be tired, like grown-up 
 ladies do. And then some boy takes you 
 down to supper, and you eat as much as ever 
 you can and pull crackers. Then you dance 
 again, and then you come away. And when 
 you drive home it is quite dark and late, and 
 all the lamps are lighted." 
 
 Both children were seated upon the broad 
 low window-seat by this time. Bee had been 
 listening with but a faint appearance of 
 interest. 
 
 " It doesn't sound very nice," she said 
 indifferently. " I'd rather go for a walk with 
 Douglas, or else roast apples with him." 
 And the grey eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Who is Douglas ? " inquired Miss Fay in 
 
 a dubious tone. 
 
 " He is my brother, and I do love him so. 
 
 9*
 
 1.32 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 And he will be so lonely without me, and will 
 have no little housekeeper." 
 
 " Why doesn't he live here, then, if he is 
 your brother ? " asked Fay, knitting her 
 strongly-marked brows. 
 
 " Because he says he isn't my brother now, 
 and they," with a rebellious jerk backwards 
 of her head, " say he isn't either, and that 
 they are my grandpapa and grand- 
 mamma." 
 
 " Well, so they are," observed practical 
 Fay. " I heard mother say so. Is Douglas a 
 nice boy ? " she went on. " Is he at Eton ? — 
 or has he a tutor ? My cousin Cyril — he is 
 Sir Cyril Northburgh, you know, because 
 Uncle Philip is dead — has left Eton, and been 
 travelling all over strange countries with his 
 tutor. He and Aunt Emily live in our 
 square. Very likely I shall marry him when 
 I grow up. I heard mother and Aunt Emily 
 talking about it yesterday. Has your 
 Dou2^1as a tutor ? " 
 
 " I don't know," Bee answered, wonderinix 
 vairuely what a " tutor " mii^ht be.
 
 A PEECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 133 
 
 Fay sat silent for a few minutes, then she 
 said suddenly : 
 
 " Look here, Katharine " 
 
 " My name isn't Katharine," flashed out the 
 other. "It's Bee." 
 
 " Bee ? What a queer name ? Haven't 
 you any other? My name's Fay, but my 
 real name is Felicia. But I was going to say, 
 wouldn't it be fun if you and me were to go 
 to see your Douglas some day. He would 
 get a surprise, wouldn't he ? " She lowered 
 her voice as she spoke and glanced towards 
 the inner room. " Of course we needn't tell 
 anybody, you know," she said, " or they 
 would be sure to stop us." 
 
 Little Bee had sprung to her feet with 
 sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes — we will go," she cried 
 excitedly. 
 
 "Hush! — you little silly," broke in Fay 
 — who, indeed, was quite a woman of the 
 world compared to unsophisticated Bee — 
 " don't you say a word about it. Where 
 does Douglas live ? "
 
 134 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " In Gartli Street," sighed Bee. 
 
 "Garth Street? Where's that? Is it in 
 Belgravia, or Mayfair, or Kensington, or 
 where ? " 
 
 " Don't know," dejectedly. 
 
 "Oh well, we'll find it. You just do 
 all your grandmother tells you, and don't 
 behave like a baby. And then, don't you 
 see, she'll let you do pretty much as you 
 like." 
 
 " But I don't love her, and I don't want to 
 do what she tells me," muttered Bee, to 
 whom love and obedience were one. 
 
 " Love her ? " repeated Fay — " no, of 
 course you don't love her. But you'll find it 
 better to do what she tells you." This with 
 a wise little nod of her flaxen head. " Why, 
 I don't love Aunt Emily — but I have to do 
 what she tells me." 
 
 Bee was silent, and Fay continued : 
 
 " On fine da3^s Ann and I always walk in 
 the Park or in Kensington Gardens. Ann is 
 my maid, you know. At least she is my 
 nurse, but I always call her my maid. If
 
 A PEECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 135 
 
 you like you can come too. We could walk 
 round this way and call for you." 
 
 " Could we o'o to see Douo^las ? " asked the 
 other wistfully. 
 
 " Not with Ann," was the decided answer. 
 '' But don't 3^ou be afraid. Fil take you — 
 whenever we get a chance. It will be just 
 the greatest piece of fun. But," impressively, 
 " be sure you don't speak of it." 
 
 Anything in the shape of an adventure was 
 dear to the heart of this precocious young 
 lady of nine years old. It was not so very 
 long ago since she had driven her mother 
 almost frantic by disappearing for a whole 
 morning in search of Buckingham Palace, 
 being fired with the ambitious desire of inter- 
 viewing her sovereign personally and 
 privately. Upon that occasion she had lost 
 her way, and been ignominiously brought 
 home by a policeman. There was a curious 
 difference between her precocity and Bee's 
 old-fashionedness. The latter was so 
 essentially childlike ; the other so weirdly 
 unchildlike, and shrewd, and full of worldly
 
 ICG A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 wisdom. But tliey became great friends, and 
 
 their friendship was never broken in all the 
 
 years that came after. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Bee gradually became reconciled to her 
 new life. True, she still wept nightly as she 
 lay in her little bed in the dark ; and she still 
 compared the grandeur of Portland Place 
 most unfavourably with Garth Street. But 
 she was docile and obedient, and very seldom 
 indulged in any of her former fits of sullenness 
 or passion. Iler grandfather she rarely saw, 
 nor could she ever be induced to speak to him. 
 Her grandmother she tolerated passively ; 
 answering when she spoke to her, and be- 
 having " prettily " wh.en the old lady took her 
 to drive in the Park, or to pay afternoon calls. 
 
 One day Bee was thrown into the seventh 
 heaven of delight by receiving a letter from 
 Douglas. It was a ver}^ nice letter, and was 
 printed, not written, so that its recipient 
 could read it quite easily. It was addressed, 
 '' Miss Katharine Adeane," but it began, " My 
 dearest Bee." The child wore it inside her
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 137 
 
 frock, and read it until it was almost worn 
 away witli being unfolded so often. She 
 showed it with great pride to Fay, and that 
 young person perused it with interest, and 
 carefully spelled out the address — 13, Garth 
 Street, Westminster." 
 
 " Hurrah ! " she exclaimed softly, clapping 
 her tin}^ hands — they were in the nursery at 
 Portland Place, ready to go for a walk with 
 Ann — " Hurrah ! We'll go to-day, Bee, if 
 we get the chance. We will — we will." 
 
 The colour came quickly to Bee's face ; her 
 eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Oh, Pay — I love you ! " she exclaimed 
 impetuously, flinging her arms round the 
 other's neck. 
 
 But Fay disengaged herself quickly. She 
 did not care for demonstrations of affection — 
 considered them babyish, in fact. And yet 
 in her way the little minx was fond of Bee — 
 though she wouldn't for worlds have told 
 her so. 
 
 Nothing could have been more demure 
 than Miss Fay's general demeanour as she
 
 138 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 trotted by Ann's side along tlie wind-swept 
 pavements on this particular September 
 afternoon. But every now and then she 
 pinched Bee's arm, and allowed a little smile 
 to dimple over her face in a way indicative of 
 suppressed glee. As for Bee, she was quite 
 happy. She was going to see Douglas — 
 perhaps to stay with him always, and be his 
 little housekeeper once more, in which case 
 Fay would of course come to see them every 
 day. Sweet, inconsequent shortsightedness of 
 childhood ! — in which all things are possible 
 that are desirable, where geese are all swans, 
 and every ant-hill is a mountain, where a 
 year is a lifetime, and Heaven a sure and 
 certain goal ! 
 
 The children walked and played about in 
 Kensington Gardens until nearly dusk, then 
 went slowly homeward along the Bays water 
 Eoad. Shortly after they had passed the 
 Marble Arch, Ann entered a draper's shop on 
 some mission of her own. Fay and Bee 
 roamed about in their usual fashion, ex- 
 amining everything within reach, and chatting
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 139 
 
 volubly. For a few minutes Ann forgot all 
 about them, being engaged in matching a 
 particular shade of ribbon. In these few 
 minutes Fay grasped Bee's hand and whis- 
 pered exultantly : 
 
 " Now ! — now — quick ! " 
 
 In another second they were out of the 
 shop, and skimming like two young swallows 
 down a side street, from which they swung 
 round to the right into Seymour Street, 
 where Fay stopped, panting and breathless, 
 her eyes dancing with excitement and mis- 
 chief. The next moment, to her companion's 
 speechless awe and delight, she had hailed a 
 passing hansom, and pushing Bee in, scram- 
 bled hastily after her, and shut the doors 
 with quite an imposing bang. 
 
 " Drive to 13, Garth Street, Westminster," 
 said Fay imperiously, addressing the driver's 
 eye, which gazed down at them through the 
 little trap-door in the roof. 
 
 " All right, miss," said a gruff chuckling 
 voice. 
 
 And they drove off just as the distracted
 
 140 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Ann came rushing round the corner in search 
 of them. But of course she never thought of 
 looking into the hansom. 
 
 ***** 
 
 It was dreary enough in Garth Street after 
 " the httle one " was gone. So dreary that 
 Douglas almost dreaded coming home from 
 his long pilgrimages in fruitless search for 
 work. The room seemed so terribly still. 
 The stillness and the silence hurt him some- 
 how. There had been no want of stir and 
 life when Bee had been the presiding spirit of 
 the place. Even now Douglas seemed to 
 hear the ripple of her childish laughter, the 
 sound of her restless feet, the murmuring of 
 her tender little voice in his ear. The dust 
 lay thick on his books ; the plants in the 
 window drooped and faded — now that the 
 little housekeeper was gone. 
 
 Times had been hard with him after Bee 
 left, so hard that he was thankful she was 
 not there to share them. He economized in 
 every possible way. He gave up his bed- 
 room, and slept in the cupboard-like apart- 
 
 I
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 141 
 
 ment wliicli had been Bee's, and wliicli went 
 with the httle sitting-room. He reduced his 
 food to almost infinitesimal fractions. Never- 
 theless, he owed Mrs. Dobbs for several 
 weeks' rent, and that worthy w^oman began 
 to look injured and sullen, and to make 
 audible remarks (addressed to no one in 
 particular) in her young lodger's hearing, 
 anent " poor widows being put upon,*' etc. 
 
 About the beginning of September, how- 
 ever, Douglas, having replied to an advertise- 
 ment for some one to copy deeds at home at 
 so much per folio, was fortunate enough to 
 be selected from a shoal of other applicants ; 
 and as he worked well and swiftly, he 
 gradually succeeded in obtaining quite as 
 much employment of this kind as he could 
 conscientiously overtake. It was wretchedly 
 paid employment, of course ; but it kept him 
 from starving, and enabled him to pay his 
 arrears of rent. But it didn't do much more. 
 
 One afternoon he was writing busil}^, as 
 usual — his table drawn close up to the 
 window to catch the last rays of the fasi-
 
 142 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 waning autumn light. One could see that 
 the world had not been using him over well. 
 His clothes were worn and shabby, and 
 looked more than a size too small for him. 
 For young bones and muscles will stretch 
 out, in spite of poor and insufficient food — 
 and Douglas was growing fast. His face was 
 pale and thin, and heavy shadows lay under 
 his eyes. But the light in the eyes them- 
 selves burned steadfastly still ; the lines of 
 the mouth were more resolute than ever. 
 Poverty and privation and loneliness had not 
 conquered the struggling, panting, never- 
 resting soul — not a boy's soul now, but a 
 man's. 
 
 All at once he laid down his pen and 
 listened. Swift eager feet were climbing the 
 stairs — children's feet, surely ? They came 
 nearer — nearer. They were on the landing. 
 
 Douglas rose hastily from his chair ; but 
 before he could reach the door it was flung 
 open, and a tiny figure — such a smart figure 
 in moss-green velvet, with beaver trimmings ! 
 — precipitated itself into his arms.
 
 A PKECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 143 
 
 " Bee ! Why, Bee — ray dear little girl, 
 where did you come from ? " he exclaimed in 
 mingled surprise and delight. 
 
 But Bee did not answer. She was rubbing 
 her head against his shabby jacket, just as 
 she used to do, and clinging to him with 
 spasmodic kisses and little shrieks of joy. 
 The smart hat lay unheeded on the floor. 
 
 " I've come back ! I've come back ! I've 
 come to stay!'' she announced joyfully, when 
 a minute or so had passed, during which 
 Douglas felt a strange lump in his throat, and 
 an unwonted mist over his eyes. 
 
 " To stay ? " he repeated, smoothing back 
 the bright tangled locks. " No, dear, not to 
 stay, I'm afraid. Who brought you ? " 
 
 " I brought her," put in a sharp little voice 
 from the door. " And I think. Bee — I reall}^ 
 think — that you might have been polite 
 enough to introduce me." 
 
 " Oh this is Fay," said Bee, slipping out of 
 Douglas's arms and seizing her little friend by 
 the hand, " She lives quite near to me, and 
 she wanted to see you too."
 
 lU A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Douglas sliook hands witli her ; then he 
 fiaid gravely : 
 
 " Did you come alone ? Does Mrs. 
 Chandler know you have come ? " 
 
 Both young ladies wriggled uneasily. 
 Finally Bee, who recognized the stern look 
 that was deepening in Douglas's e3'es, whim- 
 pered apologetically : 
 
 " She wouldn't have let us come if she had 
 known." 
 
 While Fay looked at him witheringly. 
 
 The young fellow's face softened. He shut 
 the door and sat down at the table. 
 
 " Come and tell me all about it/' he 
 said, drawing both children towards him, and 
 speaking very gently. 
 
 In a comparatively short time — considering 
 that Bee and Fay either both talked at once 
 or interrupted and contradicted each other 
 systematically and persistently — he had been 
 " told all about it," and having been told, felt 
 considerably dismayed. 
 
 " But do 3-0U mean to say that no one 
 has any idea where you are ? " he said in
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 145 
 
 rather a sliocked voice wlien tlie recital was 
 ended. 
 
 " No, of course not," returned Fay 
 promptly. " There would have been no fun 
 if people had known. And I must say," she 
 added severely — " I didn't think you lived in 
 a place like this. Bee told me it was a lovely 
 room. And — why do you wear clothes like 
 these 1 " placing a disgusted little gloved fore- 
 finger upon his shabby sleeve. "I thought 
 you would look like my cousin Cyril. But 
 you don't — not a bit. And yet your face is 
 nice. I shan't mind kissing you when I say 
 good-bye." 
 
 " I'm not going to say good-bye," observed 
 Bee stoutly ; " I'm going to stay for ever and 
 ever." 
 
 She began to pull off her gloves as she 
 spoke, but Douglas stopped her. 
 
 " No, Bee, darling," he said, " you must let 
 
 me take you home. See, it is nearly dark, 
 
 and Mrs. Chandler will be very much alarmed 
 
 about you. Is the cab still there ? " 
 
 But the visitors, who had clearly meditated 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 a protracted stay, liad dismissed their Jehu, 
 Fay having graciously presented him with 
 half-a-crown, which had been " burning a 
 hole " in her pocket for the last few days, 
 and had appeared a fitting sacrifice to the 
 occasion. 
 
 Many were the tears and wailings before 
 Bee could be persuaded to leave her old home 
 again. The faithful little heart saw no 
 poverty of luxuries, or even necessaries. 
 Shabby clothes were nothing to her, as long 
 as they held her Douglas, her hero. Where 
 he was there would she wish to be. At last 
 she sobbingly promised " to be good," 
 and was prevailed upon to put on her 
 hat and gloves, preparatory to going back 
 to Portland Place — she would not call it 
 *' home." 
 
 Fav, who had been looking' disparaixinLilv 
 round the room, rose with alacrity. 
 
 " Do you always live here ? " she inquired, 
 as the}^ went slowly down the dark narrow 
 stair, Dou2^1as carrvincf Bee, as of old. 
 
 " Yes," he answered shortly, for he felt a
 
 A PRECOCIOUS YOUNG WOMAN. 147 
 
 curious repulsion towards this precocious, elf- 
 like child. 
 
 " Do YOU lil:e livincf here? " she continued, 
 when they were in the lamp-lit street. 
 
 " Little girls shouldn't ask so many ques- 
 tions," was the curt answer. 
 
 " I thiiik you are a very rude boy," Miss 
 Fay rejoined with dignity. " I'm glad Bee 
 doesn't live with you now." 
 
 " You had better give me your hand," he 
 answered coolly, as they came to a crossing, 
 *' unless you want to be run over. Come." 
 
 " Why, don't you take a cab ? " she mur- 
 mured, obeying him, however, by putting her 
 hand in his. 
 
 " Because I can't afford it," was the 
 brief reply. " We are going to take an 
 omnibus." 
 
 Half-an-hour later the trio mounted the 
 
 steps of the Chandlers' mansion in Portland 
 
 Place. Bee was cross and tired and sleepy. 
 
 Pay — bright and wideawake — was secretly 
 
 resentinf]^ the severe lecture " that Ijov " had 
 
 taken upon liimself to deliver to her as they 
 
 10*
 
 1-18 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 walked up from Eegent Circus, anent her 
 leading lier young companion into disobedi- 
 ence and insubordination. 
 
 But Fay was a naughty little girl at this 
 period of her existence, and was therefore 
 jubilantly unrepentant. 
 
 '^^fkMk/^"'
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MAMMON. 
 
 " One-fourth of life is intelligible, the other three- 
 fourths is unintelligible darkness ; and our earliest duty is 
 to cultivate the habit of not looking round the corner." 
 
 — Rutherford. 
 
 ■" Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the 
 show 
 Of mankind as they live in these fashions I hardly shall 
 
 know — 
 Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage 
 
 that gains, 
 And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 The Chandlers happened to be giving a large 
 dinner-party on the night of the children's 
 escapade. Of course Lady Dinwoodie was to 
 be present — she was a " standing dish " at the 
 Chandler entertainments—and on this occa- 
 sion an invitation had also been sent to her 
 nephew, Sir Cyril Northburgh, a youth of 
 some nineteen years and much worldly 
 experience. Indeed he was almost as
 
 150 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 worldly-wise in liis way as liis nine-year-old 
 Cousin ^a5^ 
 
 When Ann returned to Bryanstone Square 
 alone, about lialf-j)ast seven — for she had 
 rushed about distractedly in search of the 
 truants for nearly two hours — Lady Din- 
 woodie was under the hands of her confiden- 
 tial maid, Darley. But when she heard Ann's 
 news, she sprang to her feet with a sharp cry. 
 And then followed a very bad quarter of an 
 hour for poor Ann, at the end of which Lady 
 Dinwoodie fell into a fit of shuddering 
 weeping (thereby undoing a good deal of 
 careful work on Darley's part), sobbing out 
 that her darling child was lost, or kidnapped, 
 or perhaps dead, and that she herself was a 
 worldly, frivolous woman, and that this was a 
 judgment upon her, etc., etc. 
 
 " Go round and ask Sir Cvril to come to 
 me at once," she concluded hysterically at last 
 to the miserable Ann. 
 
 Lady Dinwoodie had got into the way of 
 consulting her nonchalant nephew on various 
 matters. lie had a f^iir amount of common
 
 MAMMON. 151 
 
 sense, liad Cyril. As his mother, Lady North- 
 burgh, had none at all, this was rather a good 
 thing. 
 
 This wise youth promptly obeyed his aunt's 
 summons, and was at once ushered up to her 
 dressing-room. Cyril Northburgh was rather 
 good to look at ; he was tall, fair, and well- 
 shaped, but the effect of his handsome face 
 and figure was in some degree counteracted 
 by an air of mingled weariness and ineffable 
 condescension, which was apt to arouse 
 feelings of irritation in the casual observer. 
 He lounged into the room and propped him- 
 self up against the mantelshelf. 
 
 " Er — what's the matter, aunt ? " he in- 
 quired languidly, after a minute's silent 
 survey of his weeping relative. Having been 
 put in possession of the facts, he observed, 
 fixing his eyeglass more firmly into his left 
 eye, "You say the little Chandler girl was 
 with her ? Then why not send along and see 
 if she's there." 
 
 " Ann has been there, and she isn't," 
 sobbed his aunt somewhat enigmatically.
 
 152 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Don't cry, aunt. What's the use ? " re- 
 monstrated the young man. " Look here, I'll 
 undertake to find her for you — sometime 
 between this and to-morrow morning. What 
 a little imp she is ! We can send excuses for 
 the Chandlers' feed. And now that I think 
 of it, I'll go there first and see if they have 
 heard anything. I presume they are as 
 anxious about their granddaughter as you are 
 about Fay." 
 
 He sauntered off, and chanced to arrive at 
 the Chandlers' door just a couple of seconds 
 later than Douglas Conrath and his two young 
 charges. 
 
 Fay pounced upon him at once. 
 
 " Well, Cyril," she said, with a rather over- 
 done air of nonchalance. " Has mother been 
 wondering where I was ? " 
 
 " Well, yes, she has, rather," was the calm 
 answer. " May I ask, my dear young friend, 
 where you have been ? " 
 
 " Oh bother," said his cousin unceremoni- 
 ously. " I'll tell you after. Allow me to 
 introduce Douglas, Bee's used-to-be-brother,"
 
 MAMMON. 153 
 
 she added, with dignity. "Douglas, this is 
 my cousin, Cyril." 
 
 Both youths bowed slightly. If anything 
 young Conrath's bow was the haughtier. 
 
 "Er — delighted, I'm sure," drawled Cyril 
 superciliously. 
 
 At this moment the door flew open, 
 revealing a footman very gorgeous in the 
 matter of powder and legs, who suffered a 
 faint wave of surprise to ripple across his 
 well-trained features at the oddly assorted 
 group which streamed into the brightly- 
 lighted hall. Just then Mrs. Chandler, 
 resplendent in royal-blue velvet and diamonds, 
 appeared between the heavy crimson curtains 
 which draped the door of the morning-room, 
 where, as a matter of fact, the master and 
 mistress of the house sj)ent most of their time 
 when alone, feeling more at home there than 
 in the larger apartments. On seeing Bee, 
 who stood rubbing her eyes dejectedly, the 
 old lady hurried forward as quickly as her 
 size would permit, exclaiming excitedly : 
 
 "Katharine — you naughty, naughty child.
 
 154 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 wherever have you been ? Your grandpa is 
 in a way, I can tell you." 
 
 Then, observing Sir Cyril, she greeted him 
 w^ith the agitated confusion she always dis- 
 played towards any possessor of any title. 
 She persisted in regarding him as the restorer 
 of her grand-daughter, and, after one brief 
 handshake, utterly ignored poor Douglas. 
 And the latter, with something like a sneer on 
 his strong young face, bade a curt farewell to 
 Bee — regardless of her piteous wailing — and 
 swum? himself out into the darkness. 
 
 A slight rain had begun to fall — but 
 Douglas did not notice it. The old bitter 
 sense of injustice was strong upon him. The 
 old wound of his separation from Bee was, 
 as it were, suddenly torn open. He had felt 
 keenl}^, as he stood there in the luxuriously- 
 furnished hall, the sharp contrast his shabby 
 garments presented to the faultless evening- 
 dress — partially concealed by an equally 
 faultless overcoat — of the young aristocrat 
 who had glanced over him so superciliously 
 through his glittering eyeglass. lie had
 
 MAMMON. 155 
 
 noted and resented Mrs. Chandler's preoccu- 
 pied greeting. For lie was proud — far too 
 proud for his position and prospects, I 
 daresay ; but then, in that he was not 
 singular. After a little while his thoughts 
 softened, as he thought of Bee. Dear little 
 woman ! At any rate they were kind to her. 
 She looked plump and rosy and happy, and 
 she had not forgotten him — God bless her I 
 And busy with these conflicting thoughts, he 
 walked rapidly homewards through the 
 swiftly-falling rain. 
 
 Meanwhile Fay had flatly refused to go 
 home, announcing her intention, indeed, of 
 remaining all night at Portland Place, and 
 sleeping with Bee. Nor could any commands 
 nor persuasions from her cousin move her 
 determination. In the end it was arranged so, 
 Cyril shrugging his shoulders resignedly over 
 the inevitable. His small cousin always rather 
 overwhelmed him. Fay was one of tliose 
 people who always get their own way in this 
 world, simply because they make themselves 
 so fearfully disagreeable if they don't get it.
 
 15C A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Word having been sent to Bryanstone 
 S<|uare that the little truant was safe, LIrs. 
 Chandler accompanied Cyril to the drawing- 
 room, and awaited her other guests. Mr. 
 Chandler was strutting about the room (he 
 was a short man, with iron-grey hair brushed 
 up into a fierce cockatoo-like curl on the top 
 of his head), conning over the list of who was 
 to take who down to dinner. He was always 
 in mortal terror of pairing the wrong people. 
 His manner was more pompous than ever to- 
 night, for his dinner-party was to include, 
 besides other titled and untitled notabilities, 
 a distinguished ambassador, a newly-married 
 earl and his countess, and, oh joy! a certain 
 bachelor duke. 
 
 The aroma of a title was sweet to old 
 Chandler's nostrils. He loved to roll the 
 mellifluous syllables over his tongue, and he 
 did so unsparingly — totally regardless of 
 good taste and etiquette. The thought of the 
 duke made him condescend a little to-night 
 in greeting young Sir Cyril, who for his part 
 was secretly and silently amused thereby, and
 
 MAMMON. 157 
 
 took refuge in his most weary and most 
 supercilious manner. 
 
 The other guests arrived in due course, and 
 as their host afiably shook hands with each in 
 turn, he improved the occasion by informing 
 them of " His Grace's " momentarily ex- 
 pected arrival. As the greater proportion 
 of them, had met the gentleman in ques- 
 tion on more than one occcasion (with- 
 out being much impressed thereby) they 
 viewed the prospect with tranquillity. The 
 dinner hour came and passed, however, with- 
 out the noble guest making his appearance ; 
 and at last the crestfallen and disappointed 
 host was reluctantly obliged to conclude 
 that he was not cominc^ at all. Where- 
 upon they all went in to dinner (hopelessly 
 mixed up as to precedence), and feasted 
 solemnly upon the many delicacies, in and 
 out of season, which were provided for 
 them. 
 
 The meal over, and a brief penance in the 
 drawing-room also over, Cyril Northburgli 
 took his departure as soon as he decently
 
 158 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 could. As he left the drawing-room one of 
 the servants approached and said : 
 
 "Beg pardon, Sir Cyril, but Miss Din- 
 woodie would like to see you before you 
 
 
 "Ah, where is she?" was the languid 
 answer. 
 
 " She is with Miss Adeane in the nursery, 
 Sir Cyril." 
 
 Cyril sisfhed, and followed the man 
 upstairs. 
 
 In the nurser}^ he found his little cousin 
 and Bee arrayed in much befrilled flannel 
 dressinfif-o'owns, seated beside a blazino- fire. 
 A small table, laden with cakes and sweets 
 and fruits, stood on the hearthruo'. 
 
 " We're haying a party all to ourselves, 
 Cyril," announced Fay, as the young man 
 entered, " and we thou^'ht you miixht like to 
 come. Sit down." Then she added, turning 
 witli an hiefllible air of command to the old 
 nurse, " You can iro, Collins. We shall not 
 want you in the meantime." 
 
 " But — er — I say, you know, I can't stay
 
 MAMMON. 159 
 
 to-niglit," returned lier cousin, sitting down, 
 however, as lie spoke. " I've no end of 
 places to go to." 
 
 " Cyril, how selfish of you " — reproachfully 
 — " when you know you have never sj)oken 
 to Bee, and " 
 
 But at this point Bee was discovered to be 
 silently weeping, nor would she answer any 
 inquiries as to the cause of her grief. She 
 looked so forlorn and miserable as she sat 
 there, with lare^e tears wanderino- down her 
 cheeks, that even Cyril's tough heart was 
 touched, and he set himself to amuse her so 
 successfully that ere long her tears dried 
 themselves in laughter. He was surprised 
 to find " the little Chandler girl " such a 
 well-bred child. As a matter of fact, she was 
 .several deofrees more refined in looks and 
 manners than his cousin Fav. 
 
 " Shouldn't wonder if she grows up pretty," 
 he reflected absently, as he cracked an ap- 
 palling quantity of walnuts for the young 
 ladies' consumption, and listened to a minute 
 recital of the afternoon's adventure.
 
 ICO A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 When the little tongues ceased for a moment 
 or two, he observed seriously : 
 
 " Well, look here, you know, it's not a nice 
 sort of thing for little girls to do, running 
 about London alone, and going to see fellows 
 
 in their lodgings " 
 
 " Oh, don't preach, Cyril," interrupted Fay 
 rudely. " We're not going to do it again, and 
 so what's the use of making such a fuss ? " 
 
 But gentle little Bee put her hand into his 
 and said shyly : 
 
 " It was naughty. Douglas said so too. 
 We will never do it asain." 
 
 Her little face looked so sweet and earnest, 
 with the tears hardly dry upon the cheeks 
 and lashes, that Cyril, rather to his own sur- 
 prise, stooped and kissed her. 
 
 And this was the beginning of a strong 
 feeliniT of interest in the " little Chandler 
 girl," which was to materially affect his peace 
 
 of mind in the future. 
 
 * # « « * 
 
 The next four years passed swiftly. Bee 
 grew tall and slim, and almost as self-possessed
 
 MAMMON. 161 
 
 as Fay herself. Slie became initiated into the 
 dehghts of " parties," and enjoyed them very 
 much indeed. A governess came for an hour or 
 two daily to Portland Place, and superintended 
 mild lessons, which taxed neither the brains 
 nor the patience of the young pupil. 
 
 Bee had now become the proud possessor 
 of a pony, and rode every morning in the 
 park with Fay Dinwoodie, attended by a 
 correctly-got up and severe -looking groom. 
 On rare occasions Cyril Northburgh accom- 
 panied them instead of the groom, and this 
 always gratified both children beyond words, 
 though their escort did not scruple to find 
 continual fault with their seat in the saddle, 
 and their manipulation of reins, whip, and 
 habit. Cyril himself looked remarkably 
 well on horseback, and few horses could 
 dispute his power of wrist and will. At 
 other times he was, as Fay scornfully told 
 him, " too fearfully lazy for anything." 
 
 Bee and Douglas only met at long, long 
 
 intervals ; and for this the latter was entirely 
 
 to blame. Many and pathetic were the 
 VOL. r. 11
 
 162 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 curiously-written, and more curiously-worded 
 little letters that found their way to Garth 
 Street — imploring him to come to see her — to 
 tell her if he had quite forgotten her — and 
 assuring him that she was '^ always his most 
 loving child, Bee." 
 
 But a stubborn desire for self-martyrdom 
 debarred Douglas from accepting more than 
 one out of every half-dozen of these invitations, 
 though they were always fortified by permis- 
 sion from " grandmamma." Besides — he used 
 to think bitterly — what had he in common 
 with his " little one " now ? Less than nothing. 
 
 Then, again, he had not much time for 
 visiting. For the last three years he had 
 held the post of secretary to an eccentric old 
 bachelor named Eedman, who wrote for 
 several of the monthly reviews, and whose 
 acquaintance young Conrath had made acci- 
 dentally one foggy November afternoon three 
 winters a2fo, when the old man and the vounc^ 
 one were waiting to interview a certain 
 popular editor. Douglas had a well-worn roll 
 of manuscript in his hand, which had already
 
 MAMMON. 163 
 
 performed a pretty fair journey round pub- 
 lishers' offices. After some desultory conver- 
 sation on various topics, tlie old gentleman 
 asked to be allowed to look at the manuscript 
 the lad held, and having done so, gruffly 
 complimented the young author upon the 
 legibility of his handwriting. 
 
 " I like you, young fellow," he observed 
 more gruffly still. " I like your face, and I 
 like 3^our voice ; and, by George ! you write a 
 good hand. Do you write quickly? And 
 are you in any employment ? I have a reason 
 for asking." 
 
 Douglas answered briefly that he was a 
 swift writer, and that he was not in any 
 employment. 
 
 "Humph!" rejoined his interlocutor, re- 
 garding him critically from under his shaggy 
 grey eyebrows. " Let me have your name 
 and address, will you ? " 
 
 Several days later young Conrath received 
 
 a curt note signed " Simon Eedman," offering 
 
 him the post of non-resident secretary to that 
 
 gentleman at a salary of £100 a year. 
 
 11*
 
 164 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 It was congenial work, and Mr. Eedman, 
 if somewhat exacting, was always just, and in 
 many ways kind and indulgent. 
 
 Douglas still wooed literature, but fitfully. 
 In these three years he had had several short 
 stories accepted — and paid for (the terms are 
 not alwaj^s synonymous, you know). He was 
 now, in his spare moments, writing a one- 
 volume novel, and built many secret hopes 
 and possibilities upon the chance of its 
 success. In it, as in his short stories, he con- 
 cealed his identity under the name of " Michael 
 Armstrong." 
 
 He still lived in his old lodoincrs in Garth 
 Street, but he was no longer shabby and 
 starved-looking. As a matter of fact he was 
 rather a fine-looking young fellow, well set- 
 up, clean-limbed, and possessing a pair of eyes 
 which, as Mrs. Dobbs had been heard to 
 remark to a neif^^hbour, " were enouah to wile 
 the bird from off the bush." The rest of his 
 features, however, bore the old fault of his 
 boyhood — they were too hard and resolute 
 for beauty.
 
 MAMMON. 165 
 
 " Take these little wrinkles off your fore- 
 head, Douglas," Bee had said to him coaxingly 
 on one of his rare visits to Portland Place. 
 " They make you look so cross and old." 
 
 But though he had smiled and kissed her, 
 the " little wrinkles " remained, and as time 
 went on deepened and became permanent. 
 
 One winter night, when the dying year was 
 old and frail, he received by the last post one 
 of Bee's impulsive and wildly-written notes. 
 It was even more spidery as to writing and 
 incoherent as to matter than usual ; but its 
 gist was that the writer and Fay Dinwoodie 
 were going to a boarding-school at Chelten- 
 ham immediately after Christmas, and would 
 " dear, dear Douglas," come to Portland Place 
 on the following afternoon, and they would 
 have tea all alone, and a nice long talk. 
 
 Douglas sat thinking for a long time after 
 
 he received this letter. Was it possible that 
 
 the child was grown up enough to go to 
 
 school ? It seemed only yesterday that he 
 remembered her such a tiny helpless baby. 
 
 And yet — she must be twelve years old.
 
 166 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Somehow the thought of her going away to 
 this fashionable school appeared to raise an 
 inseparable barrier between them. It came 
 to him more vividly than ever, the difference 
 there was likely to be in their lives and hopes 
 and aims in the future. He saw that as time 
 went on he must give up his little child friend. 
 And this meant more to him than most people 
 w^ould have had any idea of. For his was a 
 more than usually loyal and faithful nature, 
 and clung tenaciously to old interests and 
 affections. As for Bee, he reflected, she would 
 soon forget — or learn to do without — the 
 brotherly love that had been hers so long. 
 His friendship could do her no good — at least 
 not yet. It was better, far better, that they 
 should drift apart. But he would go to bid 
 her good-bye. 
 
 So he went, and he and Bee had the nursery 
 — now dignified by the name of the school- 
 room — all to themselves. 
 
 Bee looked very sweet and dainty in her 
 pretty velvet frock — her red-gold hair, many 
 shades darker than in her babyhood, waving
 
 MAMMON. 167 
 
 featlierwise about her shoulders. As she sat 
 opposite him, pouring out the tea in her 
 gravely important little way, Douglas tried in 
 vain to imagine the old days come back again 
 when she had been his " little housekeeper," 
 and presided nightly over his tea-table. She 
 never alluded to that antiquated joke now. 
 Perhaps she had forgotten it. She was a dear 
 little girl — and a loving one. But — she was 
 not the child Bee any more, and somehow 
 Douglas missed " the little one " whom he 
 found it increasingly difficult to identify with 
 this rapidly growing-up maiden with such a 
 wealth of smart frocks, such an apparent 
 knowledge of fashionable ways and people, 
 and a trick of domineering over and patron- 
 izing^ Douoias himself at times, which lono' a^fo 
 she would have thought nothing less than 
 impious. 
 
 " Why don't you have your hair cut, 
 Douglas ? " she said in the pretty imperious 
 way she had acquired of late, " and why don't 
 you part it in the middle ? You would look 
 ever so much nicer, you know."
 
 168 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 They were sitting before the fire, Douglas 
 having decHned further refreshment in the 
 shape of tea and cakes. At her words he 
 leaned back in his chair and looked at her 
 steadil}^ a curious little smile parting his firm 
 young lips. 
 
 " You find a great many faults in me now, 
 my little sister," he said slowly. 
 
 " Oh no," she answered, laying her head 
 coaxingly against his knee. '• But Fay says 
 you would be ever so much nicer-looking than 
 Cyril if you would only " 
 
 " Don't quote Fay to me, if you please," 
 interrupted Douglas coldly. " It is not of the 
 least consequence to me what she thinks of 
 my appearance. I am sorry you are to be 
 school companions. She is making ^^ou as 
 precocious and unchildlike as she is herself. 
 You are not my little Bee any more. You 
 are not a child any more. I could fancy 
 sometimes that the old days at Garth Street 
 were all a dream, and that my little house- 
 keeper and sister, who loved me so, was a 
 dream also. You did not think so much of
 
 MAMMON. 169 
 
 smart clothes and looks then. Bee. I suppose 
 by the time you come back from this grand 
 school you will cut my acquaintance alto- 
 gether. And perhaps it will be as well. I 
 have nothing in common with your new 
 friends." 
 
 Whereupon Bee, forgetful of her twelve 
 years and the repose of manner which Fay 
 considered fitting at that mature age, flung 
 her arms round his neck, and sobbed out that 
 he was her own dear brother always, and 
 that he was cruel to say such things just now 
 when she was going away so soon, and that 
 she would never forget him — never. 
 
 But Douglas did not receive her penitence 
 as he used to do. He only removed her arms 
 gently, and stood up, saying it was time for 
 him to go. 
 
 " Why no. Bee dear, of course I am not 
 angry," he said, as she clung to him re- 
 pentantly and tearfully, and begged him to 
 forgive her, and stay with her a little longer. 
 " I shouldn't have spoken to you so harshly, 
 dear, I know. But you see I am an old-
 
 170 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 fashioned, plain-spoken fellow, and not up to 
 fashionable ways." 
 
 He smiled as he spoke ; but his smile was 
 strained and difficult, and Bee, child as she 
 was, knew that she had said a thing which 
 might be forgiven — but would not soon be 
 forgotten. 
 
 And she was right — Douglas was bitterly 
 hurt. He was far from being a hero, poor 
 lad, and he had a queer temj^er — a temper 
 which not even his mother had been able at 
 all times to calculate upon. Perhaps the 
 lonely life he led had not tended to soften 
 the hard knots in his nature — these hard 
 knots which we so often find in strong 
 characters, seemino^ to run alons^side the 
 severer virtues, and marrin^f and effacini]^ all 
 the sweetness thereof. It takes man}- and 
 various forms of suffering to soften such 
 natures as these — if they are ever to be 
 softened. And as yet Douglas had only 
 sujQTered in one groove, so to speak. But it 
 was a groove that hardens all but the very 
 highest type of human character — which his
 
 MAMMON. 171'^ 
 
 was far from being — the groove of grinding 
 poverty, tlie never-ceasing, heart - sickening 
 question of ways and means, the constant 
 presence of the grisly spectre that threatens 
 to separate body and soul. It is a spectre 
 that usually drives away all gentler angels, 
 and calls up other and more grisly spectres 
 still to bear it company. 
 
 The softer virtues were fast disappearing in 
 the heart of this young fellow of twenty- one. 
 It was a question whether his heart would 
 ever melt sufficiently to welcome them back 
 again. Nevertheless, by one of these curious 
 contradictions which nature is fond of pre- 
 senting to us, he was as sensitive in some 
 ways as a girl, in spite of aU his pride and 
 hard reserve. 
 
 And Bee's words had cut him to a degree 
 out of aU proportion to their meaning. 
 
 He said no more, however, but bade her 
 good-bye in the grave, tender fashion he kept 
 for her alone, chiding her lightly for her tears. 
 
 So they parted : and it so happened that 
 for six long years they did not meet again.
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 " World ! so few the years we live 
 "Would that the life which thou dost give 
 Were life indeed ! " 
 
 — Longfellow. 
 
 " I knew from every tone of his voice, every chance 
 expression of his honest eyes, that he was one of those 
 characters in which we may be sure that for each feeling 
 they express lies a countless wealth of the same, unex- 
 pressed, below ; a character the keystone of which was 
 that whereon is built all liking and all love — dependable- 
 ness. He was one whom you may be long in knowing, 
 but whom the more you know the more you trust, aud 
 once trusting you trust for ever." 
 
 — Author of " John Halifax" 
 
 Ox a bright spring afternoon, a small-faced 
 slender girl of eighteen was lying back in a 
 low chair in the conservatory which opened 
 out of a Philistinish drawinM'Oom not alto- 
 getlier strange to us. A tall patrician-looking 
 young man, who surve}'ed life through a 
 single eye-glass and over a heavy fair mous-
 
 THE GRUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 173 
 
 tache, was leaning against one of the slender 
 iron pillars, looking down at his companion 
 with a faint smile upon his well-cut lips. 
 She was looking up saucily from under her 
 long lashes, and her eyes, though not her lips, 
 were smiling. Was it our old friend Bee who 
 had thus rushed up into young ladyhood, 
 leaving not only her childish days but her 
 school days behind her ? If so, she was 
 wonderfully changed, wonderfully improved, 
 and yet — there were moments when she 
 looked almost a child again. 
 
 Her companion was Sir Cyril Northburgh, 
 looking much the same as he had done six 
 years ago, except that his calm, colourless 
 face was a shade calmer and more colourless, 
 his cold eyes a trifle colder, and that he wore 
 the moustache before alluded to. 
 
 " And so," he was saying in his slow tired 
 voice — " you are really a finished young lady. 
 Do you know it makes me feel fearfully old ? 
 It seems an incredibly short time ago since 
 you wore frocks of no length to speak of, and 
 danced with joy, or cried with rage upon the
 
 174 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 slightest provocation. I remember you 
 slapped me once," he added reflectively. 
 
 Bee laughed — such a clear, ringing, child's 
 laugh ! 
 
 " Did I ? " she said. " What a little vixen 
 I must have been." 
 
 "I remember, too," he went on, pulling 
 his moustache lazily — " how you used to wor- 
 ship that very estimable young man, who, I 
 understand, adopted you at an early stage of 
 your existence, and how " 
 
 But the girl interrupted him. 
 
 "Don't speak in that slighting way of 
 Douglas, if you please," she said, her small 
 face flushing angrily. " He is one of my 
 dearest friends, and always will be. He 
 was kind to me when I had no one else to 
 be kind to me. And he is worth a hundred 
 of " 
 
 " Of such as I ! " put in her companion 
 placidly. " Yes, I know. I never was an 
 estimable young man, even in my palmiest 
 days. I'm afraid you are a vixen still. Bee, 
 — in spite of Cheltenham and Dresden. But
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 175 
 
 is it permitted that I call you Bee ? — or must 
 I say Miss Adeane for tlie future ? '* 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind," was the indifferent 
 answer — " so long as you don't call me 
 Katharine," she added somewhat petulantly. 
 
 " Katharine — why not Katharine ? " he said 
 in his tranquil voice. " It is a pretty name, 
 and we have Shakespeare's authority for con- 
 sidering it a suitable one for young ladies of 
 — er — uncertain temper. 
 
 But Bee was not listening to him. 
 
 *' Do you know," she said, leaning for- 
 w^ard in her chair, and speaking with a 
 dreamy faraway look in her eyes — " I have 
 not seen Douglas Conrath for nearly six 
 years." 
 
 Sir Cyril altered his position slightl}^ 
 
 "May I suggest that that is Mr. Conrath's 
 own loss ? " he said after a pause. 
 
 "Each time I have been home I have 
 written to him," continued the girl mourn- 
 fully ; " but he has not answered my last two 
 or three letters, and he has never come to see 
 me — not once ! "
 
 176 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Young cub ! " muttered her companion 
 under his breath. 
 
 " It seems so strange," Bee went on ; "be- 
 cause you know in heart we really are 
 brother and sister, and always shall be." 
 
 Sir Cyril was silent. 
 
 " My mother tells me that you and Fay are 
 to be presented at the next Drawing-room," 
 he said, after a minute, with a palpable in- 
 tention of chansfincf the conversation. 
 
 " Yes," said the girl slowly — " I suppose 
 so. Fay is looking forward to it very 
 much." 
 
 " And are not you ? " he said with languid 
 interest. 
 
 " I don't know. Somehow I don't think I 
 am. But I suppose it is necessary " — this 
 with a small sigh. Grandfather says so." 
 
 " And he is an authority, of course," ob- 
 served Cyril gravely. 
 
 " Have you seen Fay to-day ? — and did she 
 say she was coming here P " asked the girl 
 presently. 
 
 " I saw her this morning, and she said she
 
 THE GRUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 177 
 
 was coming this afternoon. I should think 
 she will be here shortly. By the way, have 
 you any engagement for to-morrow morn- 
 
 " Yes," she answered promptly ; " I am 
 going to the National Gallery." 
 
 " To the National Gallery ? Good Heavens I 
 What for ? " 
 
 " Because I have never been there. Have 
 
 you ? " 
 
 "Most certainly not. Why should I? I 
 should as soon think of visiting the Tower, or 
 Madame Tussaud's." 
 
 '* And have you never been to either of 
 these places ? " — this with a rising inflection 
 of unqualified amazement. 
 
 "Never. Am I a country cousin that I 
 should so degrade myself? " 
 
 At this moment a thin piquant face peeped 
 in at the door of the conservatory. 
 
 " Oh, there you are," said a high rapid 
 voice. " And you, Cyril ? My dear Bee, do 
 send him away. I have such heaps of things 
 to talk to you about, and to tell you." 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " What ? — since yesterday ? " asked Sir 
 Cyril satirically. 
 
 " Pooh — yesterday ! That is as good as 
 weeks ago in London, my dear cousin. Bee 
 — can you believe that it is little over a 
 month since we left that melancholy German 
 town ? Why, it seems like a year ! But 
 listen. Mother has persuaded Mrs. Chandler 
 to let your gown be exactly the same as 
 mine for the Drawing-room. Your grand- 
 mother had quite set her heart upon your 
 appearing in blue satin trimmed with red 
 roses ; but thank Heaven — and mother's 
 eloquence — that is mercifully averted." 
 
 " And what are your gowns to be ? " in- 
 quired Cyril with a faint smile. 
 
 " White satin with gold embroidery,'* an- 
 swered his cousin. " Won't they be lovely ? 
 Why, we shall look just like " 
 
 " Angels," put in Cyril, strangling a yawn. 
 " Twin-angels. Awfully fetching." 
 
 "Oh, Cyril — do go away. You are so 
 silly." 
 
 "Thanks. I am <]^oini:r. I came to ask
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTEEFLY. 179 
 
 Bee — yes, she has given me permission to 
 call her Bee, as of old — if she will ride with 
 me to-morrow morning. Will you, Bee ? 
 The Gallery can wait. Fay is coming too." 
 
 "Am I?" said that young lady, raising 
 her eyebrows. " Well, after all, perhaps I 
 may. My new habit came home yesterday." 
 
 " Ye Gods ! " murmured Cyril — " what 
 fetishes you girls do make of your dress- 
 makers, and tailors, and milliners ! If an 
 angel came down to take you to Heaven, I 
 believe you wouldn't go until you had got 
 some new clothes, and learned the latest 
 shape in wings." 
 
 "Don't be profane, Cyril. It's such hor- 
 ribly bad form now," said Fay sharply. 
 
 " You newly-fledged chicken ! " he said, 
 surveying her with lazy amusement — " who 
 told you what was good and what was bad 
 form? Don't you know that the word 
 * form ' itself is out of print now in our social 
 shibboleth ? " 
 
 As he spoke he walked over to where Bee, 
 
 who had risen, was bending over a heavily- 
 
 12*
 
 180 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 scented flowering shrub. She answered his 
 " Good-bye " rather shortly — or he thought 
 so. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " he said in a low 
 voice. " Have I offended you ? " 
 
 " No," she answered, raising her clear eyes 
 to his. " But I don't like to hear you speak 
 — as you did just now." 
 
 He was silent for a moment or two ; 
 then he said slowly : 
 
 " Will you give me one of these flowers ? " 
 
 She did not answer, and he added : 
 
 " I shall not offend again." 
 
 He took the flower, touched her hand 
 lightly, and went out, closing the door some- 
 what sharply behind him. 
 
 " Well, really, I think Cyril might have 
 said good-afternoon to me," said Fay, with a 
 good-humoured laugh. " I believe you have 
 bewitched him. Bee." 
 
 She pulled off her hat and gloves as she 
 spoke, and threw herself into a green wire 
 chair. 
 
 Fay Dinwoodie, at nineteen, was less
 
 THE GKUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 181 
 
 pronounced in many ways than in her child- 
 hood. She was prettier, too, though far 
 from being a beauty. Some women called 
 her interesting-looking, others peculiar-look- 
 ing. Men, especially young men, pronounced 
 her " not bad-looking, and awful fun to talk 
 to, don't you know." To-day she was look- 
 ing rather plain and sallow ; her flaxen hair 
 was less becomingly arranged than usual, and 
 the brown eyes, under their strongly-marked 
 brows, lacked lustre and vivacity. Fay's 
 strong point was her figure, which was slim 
 as to waist, and generous as to bust, " clipper- 
 built " as to neck and limbs. Her hands, too, 
 were small and white and slender, and she 
 knew it, and made play with them accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 Bee was by no means a beauty either ; but 
 by virtue of her tawny hair, with its pretty 
 rebellious wave, her clear, childlike eyes, and 
 her marvellously pure, ivory-coloured com- 
 plexion, she was very attractive to look 
 upon. 
 
 The two girls chatted and laughed, and
 
 182 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 drew fascinating pictures of tlieir probable 
 gaieties — at least Fay did — until late in the 
 afternoon. But Bee was less talkative than 
 usual. She was -haunted by a little story she 
 had been reading in Temple Bar, signed 
 "Michael Armstrong." It was strange, she 
 thought — so many tricks and turns of ex- 
 pression reminded her of Douglas. Dear old 
 Douglas ! how long, how very long a time it 
 was since she had seen him ! 
 
 " Granny," she said that evening at dinner, 
 when the dessert was upon the table, and the 
 servants had left the room, " I should like to 
 ask Douglas Conrath to come and see me one 
 day soon. You know it is years since we saw 
 each other, and I shouldn't like him to think 
 that — that I had forgotten him." 
 
 Her grandfather looked up from his 
 walnuts with a quick frown. 
 
 "God bless my soul, Katharine, what 
 sentimental nonsense is this ? " he said loudly 
 and aggressivel3^ " A very good thing if the 
 fellow does think you have forgotten him. 
 You must make up your mind to forget him,
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 183 
 
 young lady. After all I've done for you, and 
 all the money I've spent upon you, do you 
 suppose I'll allow you to degrade yourself and 
 me by asking shabby, cheeky young cads to 
 my house, and — and " — lashing himself up 
 into fury — " having my servants opening my 
 doors to aU the riff-raff of London ? " 
 
 Bee rose to her feet, her eyes flashing, her 
 lips trembling. The old passionate temper 
 vas only scotched, not killed ; and she looked 
 ike a little fury as she said, in a voice in- 
 irticulate with anger : 
 
 " How dare you speak so of Douglas, 
 grandfather ? How dare you ? Should I be 
 iny the better girl, do you think, if I were 
 ungrateful enough to forget all his kindness 
 10 me in the old days ? Do you know that I 
 shall always think of him as my brother — 
 always? and always love him better than 
 anybody else in the world ? " 
 
 Almost choking with rage, Mr. Chandler 
 rose to his feet, upsetting his port over the 
 table-cloth as he did so. 
 
 "What — what!'' he shouted. "Do you
 
 184 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 mean to tell me that you are in love with the 
 fellow ? — that you would marry him ? " 
 
 The girl recoiled as if he had struck her. 
 For a moment or two she stood gazing at 
 him with wide, half-incredulous eyes. A 
 burning flush covered her face, then receded, 
 leaving it very white. 
 
 " Grandfather ! " she said in a low, shocked 
 voice — " oh, grandfather ! No — no — no I 
 You forget that he is my brother." 
 
 " Oh, brothers be damned ! " he exclaimed 
 furiously. " I'll warrant he has other view3 
 than figuring as a brother to one of the richer 
 heiresses in England. He " 
 
 "Stop, grandfather," she said, turning i 
 white determined little face towards him. 
 " One other word, and I will leave vou: 
 house to-night, and never come back as long 
 as I live. I " 
 
 Here Mrs. Chandler, who had hitherto sal 
 in nervous silence, broke in excitedly : 
 
 "Chandler, for pity's sake let the child 
 alone. Don't 3^ou see you're taking the verj; 
 way to make her stand up for the lad, and
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTEEFLY. 185 
 
 tliink far more of him than she would do if 
 you were quiet and sensible about it. And 
 in the name of patience don't shout so. 
 You'll have all the servants at the keyhole 
 next." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Eliza," he returned 
 fiercely. " Am I master in my own house, or 
 am I not ? " 
 
 Nevertheless he cooled down somewhat, for 
 he had said more than he meant to say ; and 
 besides it suddenly occurred to him that his 
 wife was right — he was taking the best way 
 to make the girl think more of this incon- 
 venient 3^oung fellow than there was any 
 occasion for. 
 
 " Sit down, girl," he said gruffly, throwing 
 himself into his chair again. " Sit down and 
 don't make a fool of yourself. And let us 
 have no more high-falutin' threats of leaving 
 my house. If you do go — you don't come 
 back again, mind you! Ungrateful little 
 minx! Come here and give me a kiss. 
 Where would you be, I'd like to know, if I 
 hadn't lifted you out of the dirt — as one
 
 186 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 might say — and made you as fme as the best 
 of them ? Eh ? eh ? Come here and kiss 
 me, d'ye hear ? " 
 
 Bee kissed him reluctantly, and then went 
 slowly out of the room. She was conscious 
 that she had indulged in heroics of a some- 
 what theatrical nature, and felt rather 
 ashamed of her tragical outl)urst. 
 
 " And after all, why should I care what he 
 says, the vulgar old creature ! " she thought 
 passionately. " Marry Douglas ! — dear old 
 Douglas ! The idea ! " 
 
 And, angry though she was, an irrepres- 
 sible laugh broke from her soft red lips, show- 
 inof that as far as Dou^^las was concerned she 
 was perfectly heart-whole. 
 
 A few days later, she and Fay chanced to 
 be in the Grosvenor Galler}^ Bee was very 
 fond of roaming through the galleries, for she 
 was a genuine art-lover. Fay's interest in 
 picture-galleries, on the other hand, depended 
 entirely upon whom she might meet there — 
 of the sterner sex, of course ; for, with the 
 exception of Bee, Miss Dinwoodie Avas not
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTEEFLY. 187 
 
 given to wasting her sweetness upon her own. 
 She openly acknowledged that she "hated 
 pictures," and pronounced most of our most 
 cherished art-productions " rubbish," shower- 
 ing unsparing ridicule upon the monstrosities 
 in the way of anatomy and vegetation before 
 which we are wont to fall into hypocritical 
 raptures. Bee left these alone, and revelled 
 among the works of less renowned artists, 
 who only aim at reproducing nature as it 
 appears to the uninitiated. 
 
 "Look, Bee," said Fay suddenly — "isn't 
 that your friend Douglas Conrath ? And yet 
 — is it ? Yes, it is. How much improved he 
 is ! Why, he looks almost handsome." 
 
 Bee looked, and saw a young man, with a 
 quiet, clever face and dark blue eyes, stand- 
 ing at some little distance from them. Yes, it 
 was Douglas. His face was not much 
 changed, save for the dark brown moustache 
 which-almost hid his mouth. Bee would have 
 known him anywhere. 
 
 He did not see her apparently. He was 
 standing before one of the principal pictures
 
 188 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 of the year, jotting down notes at intervals 
 in a small memorandum-book. 
 
 " Well, isn't it ? " said Fay impatiently. 
 
 " Yes — it is Douglas." 
 
 "And are you not going to speak to 
 him ? " 
 
 " Yes — if he comes this way." 
 
 Just then the young man turned, and walked 
 slowly down the room to where the girls were 
 standing. He saw them, and a flash of 
 recognition passed over his face. He half- 
 stopped ; then lifted his hat] gravely, and 
 passed on. 
 
 But Fay hurried after him,! and laid her 
 hand upon his arm. 
 
 " Why, Mr. Conrath — howpleased I am to 
 see you," she said with her sweetest smile. 
 "Were you really going to pass^your old 
 friends without speaking ? " 
 
 He stopped then, of course, and took the 
 little grey-gloved hand she held out to him. 
 Then he smiled — the slow rare smile that Bee 
 remembered so well. 
 
 " I really hardly knew you," he said.
 
 THE GKUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 189 
 
 " You must remember I have not seen you 
 for very many years." 
 
 As he spoke he turned to Bee, and for the 
 fraction of a second her fingers rested in his. 
 
 " Our memories are better than yours, you 
 see," she said with a saucy smile. " We knew 
 you at once." 
 
 " I did not say I did not know you," he 
 answered quietly ; " I was speaking of Miss 
 Dinwoodie." 
 
 Was it the recollection of her grandfather's 
 ill-advised words that made Bee feel nervous 
 and embarrassed in the presence of her old 
 friend ? Perhaps. 
 
 " Are you still living in that dreadful place 
 at Westminster ? " asked Fay, her observant 
 brown eyes taking in every detail of the 
 young man's costume and general turn-out. 
 
 " No ; I left Garth Street two years ago." 
 
 " Then," said Bee quickly, " you did not 
 get my last three letters ? " 
 
 " I have not had any letters from you for 
 more than a year," he said in somewhat curt 
 tones.
 
 190 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Where are you living now ? " put in Fay 
 in lier quick decided voice. 
 
 "In Guilford Street, Bloomsbury,'* he 
 answered. " I daresay you will think that only 
 a degree less ' dreadful ' than Garth Street." 
 
 "And what have you been doing, 
 Douglas ? " said Bee, who had recovered her 
 self-possession by this time and dismissed her 
 grandfather's insinuations as unworthy of 
 consideration. "You are looking thin and 
 tired. Have you been working very hard ? " 
 
 " No," he answered lightly, " I have not 
 been working hard at all. And I'm afraid 
 my doings, such as they are, would not be at 
 all interesting to either you or Miss Din- 
 woodie." 
 
 " I remember you used to write, long ago — 
 for the magazines, I mean. Do you ever write 
 anything now ? " said Bee, feeling somehow 
 that Douglas and she had drifted very far 
 away from each other. 
 
 " A little," he replied evasively. 
 
 " I never see any of your articles," 
 observed Fay in a disapproving voice. " I
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTEKFLY. 191 
 
 hope you are not one of these dreadfully 
 clever young men," she added earnestly. " I 
 shall be so disappointed if you are. You 
 don't looh a bit like an author." 
 
 " How ought authors to look, then, Miss 
 Dinwoodie ? " he asked, with the merest sus- 
 picion of a smile. 
 
 " Oh, well — as if they'd no brains to spare 
 for ordinary conversation, and as if clothes, 
 and manners, and personal niceness generally, 
 were less than nothing to them. I mean 
 male authors of course. I've never met any 
 female ones." 
 
 " But, Fay," said Bee laughing, " I didn't 
 know you had met any authors at all. When 
 did you ? " 
 
 " The night before last, when mother and I 
 dined at Aunt Emily's. There were two of 
 them. That man Waterbury Craven, who 
 wrote ' Will he be Silent ? ' and another, I 
 think his name was Larkspur, or something 
 like that. He writes blank verse, I believe. 
 I'm sure he couldn't write anything hut blank 
 verse — the very blankest. He had a face like
 
 102 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 a fish, and the other was as like one of tlie 
 vultures in the Zoo as he could be ; and they 
 both looked as if their hair had never been 
 cut since they were born. But of course 
 there may be authors with common sense and 
 an ordinarily decent appearance, and some- 
 thing to say for themselves. I don't know. 
 Mr. Conrath," she added suddenly, " will you 
 come and see us ? Mother is always at home 
 on first Fridays. I'll tell her to send you a 
 card if you will give me your address. Now 
 don't say you never go anywhere. I know 
 you're going to make an exception in our 
 favour. Promise to come, and then I know 
 you will. Bee used to say you always kept 
 your promises." 
 
 " Yes, do, Douglas," said Bee. " I shall be 
 there, and we can talk, you know. I have so 
 many things to say to you." 
 
 However, Douglas did not promise. He 
 gave his address to Fay — upon her reminding 
 him that he had not done so — and, saying he 
 had an engagement for which he was already 
 late, he went away.
 
 THE GKUB BECOMES A BUTTEKELY. 193 
 
 " I like your Douglas, do you know," said 
 Fay reflectively, as they walked up Bond 
 Street a quarter of an hour or so later. " He 
 is rather distinguished-looking, and he has 
 such beautiful eyes." 
 
 "He always had dear, kind, true eyes," 
 Bee said in a doubtful sort of voice, " but I 
 don't know about their being beautiful. 
 They are just Douglas's eyes to me, you 
 know," she added — " not like any one else's." 
 
 " Well, at any rate, he is a nice fellow — a 
 very nice fellow, and I shall see that mother 
 sends him a card," returned Fay decidedly. 
 " He looks like a man — a real man. All the 
 men I've met since I came home look for all 
 the world like so many well-dressed gentle- 
 manly oysters." 
 
 " What, your cousin Cyril too ? " said Bee 
 in a mischievous voice. " You used to con- 
 sider him rather a demi-god, surely ? " 
 
 " Oh, Cyril is all very well — but he is a 
 
 kind of oyster too. I daresay he may 
 
 develop a pearl or two in time. He hasn't 
 
 yet. The world has treated him too well." 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 After all Douglas did put in an appearance 
 at the Dinwoodies' on the following Friday, 
 having received a card intimating that Lady 
 Dinwoodie would be " at home " from four to 
 seven on that day. 
 
 The rooms were pretty well filled when he 
 got there, and it was some time before he 
 caught sight of Fay, who, in a bewildering 
 and " fetching " gown of some pale blue stuff, 
 was sustaining a sharp running fire of 
 repartee with a group of irreproachably ex- 
 pressionless young men. When she saw 
 Douglas, she came forward at once with a 
 pleased smile. 
 
 " So good of you to come," she said 
 cordially. "I was afraid you wouldn't. 
 Come and let me introduce you to my 
 mother." 
 
 Lady Dinwoodie received him with 
 moderate civility. Her manner, indeed, was 
 apt to be chilly to those from whose acquain- 
 tance no benefit, social or otherwise, was to 
 be gained. Douglas, for his part, had never 
 felt less inclined to make himself acireeable.
 
 THE GRUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 195 
 
 When he had exchanged a couple of stiff 
 remarks with his hostess, he stood silent, 
 erect, and with a somewhat bitter smile on 
 his lips, while she sailed away to greet fresh 
 arrivals. Fay was conversing gaily with a 
 fat old duchess, who really looked not unlike 
 Mrs. Chandler. Everybody was talking and 
 laughing, interchanging greetings with those 
 they knew, or being introduced to those they 
 did not know. Douglas felt he had been a 
 fool to come ; he knew nobod}^, and nobody 
 wanted to know him. Bee was evidently 
 not there. 
 
 Just then he saw her. She was standing in 
 one of the windows with Sir Cyril North- 
 burgh. The latter was looking rather less 
 bored than usual, and was evidently listening 
 with interest to w^hat his companion was 
 saying. She was looking very pretty. As 
 Douglas looked at the slender igirhsh figure, 
 at the sweet innocent face that niingled the 
 freshness of childhood with a new quaint 
 dignity, he fell into a reverie — a reverie 
 which showed him such a different Bee — a
 
 196 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Bee in shabby frocks and doubtful shoes — a 
 Bee whose world was bounded by the little 
 attic-room in Garth Street, who 
 
 " How are you, Douglas ? " said the voice 
 of Bee herself. " So you came after all. I 
 am so glad. I think you have met Sir Cyril 
 Northburgh," she added. 
 
 Both men bowed slightly. Neither, it 
 appeared, had any recollection of having 
 met before. 
 
 Presently Sir Cyril moved away, and Bee 
 said hurriedly : 
 
 "Come into the other room, Douglas. 
 There are fewer people there, and we can 
 talk. I know Granny is looking for me. We 
 are going to some man's studio to see his 
 pictures. Let us sit down here. It seems so 
 very, very long since I talked to you. Do 
 you know I thought you quite stiff to me at 
 the Grosvenor the other day ? And I'm 
 sure if Fay hadn't stopped you, you wouldn't 
 have spoken to us. I suppose you never 
 even thought of coming to see me, though 
 I wrote to tell you I had come home."
 
 THE GRUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 197 
 
 " You forget," lie said slowly. " I did not 
 get your letters — latterly." 
 
 " Ah, well, never mind now. Tell me all 
 you are doing. Have you — are you in 
 any " 
 
 " Any situation ? " he said in a quiet voice. 
 " Yes. I am secretary to an old gentleman 
 of the name of Eedman, and my salary has 
 been lately raised to £150 a year. Do you 
 think, Bee, that your grandfather will care to 
 acknowledge the acquaintance of such an 
 insignificant young man? Don't you think 
 we had better agree to — drop out of each 
 other's lives in the meantime ? " His voice 
 was gentle enough, but it held a slightly 
 ironical inflection which Bee was quick to 
 notice. 
 
 Why, Douglas " she said reproachfully. 
 
 " But of course you don't mean that. As for 
 grandfather, one can always tell the kind of 
 young men he will care to acknowledge the 
 acquaintance of " — this with an impatient toss 
 of her compact little head. "Eich young 
 men — titled young men — successful young
 
 198 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 men — any kind of young men whose friend- 
 ship will add to the glorification of Joseph 
 Chandler. Do you know/' she added with 
 infinite scorn, " that he calls himself Chand- 
 leur now, with the accent on the last syllable ? 
 Oh, he is insufferable ! If it is a crime to 
 hate one's grandfather, I am a most hardened 
 and unrepentant criminal. If you knew, 
 Douglas, how I used to dread coming home 
 for the holidays, just because of grandfather. 
 Granny isn't so bad — poor granny ! — for 
 though she is vulgar, she doesn't pretend to 
 be anything else ; but grandfather ! — he is 
 impossible! And then his conversation — 
 always about how he became rich, or about 
 what he calls 'swells' — and their entertain- 
 ments. As for takini]^ the slightest interest in 
 anything either political or literary or 
 scientific, why, he would never think of it. 
 There is not a book in the house, except the 
 calf-bound volumes that furnish the library, 
 and which have never been opened. Of 
 course I have my own books. I don't know 
 what I should do without them. Grandfather
 
 THE GEUB BECOMES A BUTTEKFLY. 199 
 
 thinks women shouldn't read anything but 
 the Bible and Blair's sermons, and little silly 
 tales fit for children. I believe he thinks 
 Euskin is a novelist, and Carlyle a successful 
 writer of burlesques, and has a vague idea 
 that George Eliot was a comic actor," she 
 added with a naughty laugh. 
 
 " Nevertheless he has been kind to you. 
 Bee," said Douglas. " Are you not a little 
 hard upon him ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I am," she admitted. " And 
 after all I am not a fixture at Portland Place. 
 I suppose I shall be married one of these 
 days. I sometimes think I shall marry the 
 first unobjectionable suitor who presents him- 
 self. No man could be worse to live with 
 than grandfather." 
 
 " Good God ! child — don't say such 
 horrible things," said the young man hastily. 
 " You don't know what you're talking about. 
 Of course I have no right to advise you, 
 or to take exception to anything you may 
 say; but if you knew what sacrilege it 
 seems "
 
 200 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 He stopped, and bit his lip with a sudden 
 frown. 
 
 " Why, Douglas, I was only joking," she 
 said laughing. " And why should you not 
 lecture me if you want to ? You were not 
 always so ceremonious. Ah, dear me, I some- 
 times wish I were back again in dear old 
 Garth Street. I remember it so well — so 
 well." 
 
 He looked down at her with a half-smile. 
 
 " Ah, Bee, you have grown out of Garth 
 Street, my dear." 
 
 They talked for quite a long time after that 
 — so long, indeed, that Bee forgot all about 
 her grandmother, who finally came to look 
 for her in rather a bad temper. 
 
 " For the horses have been standing there 
 for the last couple of hours, Katharine ; and 
 you know nothing makes your grandfather so 
 wild. What did you say ? Mr. Conrath ? 
 Oh, how are you, Mr. Conrath ? I shouldn't 
 have known you, I'm sure. Good afternoon. 
 Do come away, child." 
 
 Douixlas remained standinir where thev had
 
 THE GRUB BECOMES A BUTTERFLY. 201 
 
 left him. Someone was singing. It was an 
 old, old song, with a quaint, curiously 
 monotonous refrain, and the singer — who did 
 not disdain to let the words be intelligible to 
 her hearers — rendered it most exquisitely. It 
 carried the young man back — back to his 
 early boyhood ; for it was a song he had 
 often heard his mother sing. For a moment 
 or two he seemed to see the surging, gaily- 
 dressed crowd though a heavy mist ; then the 
 mist cleared away, and Fay Dinwoodie stood 
 beside him. 
 
 " How sad you look ! " she said softly. 
 
 " Do I ? " he answered in a strange voice. 
 "I daresay I do. I was thinking of some- 
 thing sad." 
 
 "How different you are from most men," 
 she said slowly, after a minute. " You don't 
 know how refreshing it is, for one thing, to 
 see men talk without a smile." 
 
 He was smiling now, however. 
 
 " Has your knowledge of my unhappy sex 
 been gained during the last few weeks ? " he 
 asked.
 
 202 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Why, no, of course not. You forget 
 that, except this last year when we were in 
 Dresden, we have always come home at 
 Midsummer and Christmas and Easter. And 
 there were always men coming about, you 
 know — at least, they called themselves men." 
 
 Just then Sir C}T:il approached them, and 
 Douglas, who was not fond of being patron- 
 ized, took his departure. 
 
 ••t^^^^H' ■^3B'4»^^^
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 "it is wkitten!" 
 
 ', ** Life is not as the idle ore. 
 
 But ever dug from central gloom ; 
 
 And heated hot with burning fears, 
 
 And dipped in baths of hissing tears, 
 
 And battered with the shocks of doom 
 
 To shape and use." 
 
 ***** 
 
 " You've grown acquainted with your heart, 
 
 And searched what stirred it so. 
 
 Alas ; you found it love ! " 
 
 — Fletcher. 
 
 To be twenty-seven years old, and to be only 
 in receipt of something a little over £150 a 
 year, with no immediate prospect of increas- 
 ing that not very considerable income, is apt 
 to cause depression under almost any cir- 
 cumstances. If one chances at the same 
 time to be possessed by the restless demon 
 of ambition, the depression may become ab- 
 normal.
 
 204 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Young Conrath used to feel rather down- 
 hearted in those days. True, his work was 
 light, though constant ; Mr. Eedman was 
 kind, and even friendly, and it was quite 
 possible he might in time increase or even 
 double his secretary's salary. But Douglas 
 was not the man to plod through life upon 
 two or three hundred a year. His mind was 
 progressive ; his career must be progressive 
 too. So he fretted and worried, and ate his 
 heart out, as men do when they see their best 
 years flitting by swiftly and relentlessly, hand- 
 in-hand with their destiny. 
 
 He could hardly be said to have made much 
 progress in his literary career. To be sure 
 a stray article or short story had occasionally 
 been accepted by one or other of the 
 magazines, chiefly through Mr. Eedman's 
 influence. He had succeeded, too, in getting 
 a certain obscure firm of pubHshers to bring 
 out his one -volume novel (after it had 
 travelled — during the space of three years — 
 nearly all over London, and been re-written 
 at least three times). He was persuaded to
 
 "IT IS WEITTEN!" 205 
 
 pay a small sum towards the expenses thereof, 
 with very fair promises as to the sharing of 
 profits. It appeared, however, that there 
 were no profits, for the book did not " sell," 
 was taken httle notice of by the reviewers, 
 and soon departed into that limbo which 
 mercifully swallows up superfluous literature. 
 The firm and its representatives presumably 
 followed it, for one fine afternoon Douglas 
 found the offices shut up, and a notice tacked 
 upon the door to the efiect that they were 
 " to let." The firm appeared shortly after- 
 wards in the bankruptcy list, and subsequently 
 melted away to be heard of no more. 
 Whereupon our disgusted and indignant 
 author fell to work upon another book, in 
 which he so systematically " slated " the 
 pubhshing profession in general that it was 
 no wonder the MS. found its way home (like 
 Bo Peep's sheep) with marvellous promptitude 
 and regularity. After this he eschewed 
 authorship for some time. 
 
 One night, shortly after Lady Dinwoodie's 
 " At Home," Douglas was dining with Mr.
 
 206 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Redman. The old gentleman often asked 
 him to dine and spend the evening with him, 
 for in his queer, rough fashion he liked his 
 young secretary and enjoyed his conversation. 
 He was a remarkably well-read man himself, 
 and had long since given Douglas the run of 
 his valuable library, a privilege which the 
 latter was not slow to take advantage of. 
 The young man learned much, too, from his 
 employer's conversation and experience. 
 Simon Redman had travelled pretty nearly 
 all over the two hemispheres, and as he had 
 travelled more intelligently than the average 
 globe - trotter, his impressions were worth 
 hearing and recording. To-night he was a 
 less entertaining companion than usual. He 
 spoke but little, and seemed preoccupied and 
 ill at ease. 
 
 After dinner they adjourned, as usual, to 
 the smokino^-room, where claret and cigars 
 awaited them. The old gentleman poured 
 out two glasses of claret, handed Douglas a 
 cigar and lit one for himself, then said 
 abruptly :
 
 "IT IS WRITTEN!" 207 
 
 " I'm going to raise your salary, Conrath. 
 Not that I think you are underpaid, mind 
 you ! But I choose to raise it. After this 
 you shall have two hundred." 
 
 " You are very good, sir," said Douglas 
 quietly, as he struck a match. " I am very 
 much obliged to you." 
 
 " Well, well," muttered the other, " that'll 
 do. You needn't thank me." 
 
 A short silence followed, then Mr. Eedman 
 said slowly : 
 
 " Have you ever met my nephew. Maxwell 
 Fenwicke ? " 
 
 " No — never." 
 
 " He's coming here to-night," continued the 
 old gentleman. " He's been away for seven 
 years, travelling about, the Lord knows 
 where, and spending money — my money ! " 
 This with a bang upon the table that made 
 the glasses ring. " I suppose the money is 
 done now — I stopped his allowance last 
 January — and he's come home for more. I 
 know his ways. But he w^ill find his mistake 
 — he will find his mistake."
 
 208 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Is he a young man ? " inquired Douglas 
 somewhat abruptly — " a lad, I mean ? " 
 
 "A lad? How old are you?" was the 
 fierce answer. 
 
 " I am twenty- seven.'* 
 
 " Well, Maxwell Fenwicke is thirty-three, 
 or perhaps another year added to that. A 
 rolling-stone — a spendthrift — a thorn in my 
 flesh — and yet — damn it all! — I like the 
 fellow ! " 
 
 Here the door opened, and " Mr. Fen- 
 wicke " was announced. A young-looking 
 man came into the room, who, if he was 
 thirty - three, certainly carried his years 
 remarkably well. He was slenderly built 
 and very dark, with an aquiline type of face, 
 unadorned by moustache, beard, or whiskers. 
 The eyes were very deeply set, and held a 
 latent twinkle. Altoc^ether it was rather a 
 nice face, if a little wanting in determination 
 as regarded the mouth and chin. 
 
 "Well, uncle," he said, in an irresistibly 
 jovial voice, "how are you? This is a 
 meeting now — after all these years ! "
 
 « IT IS WRITTEN ! " 209 
 
 " How are you, sir ? " returned his uncle 
 with dignity. " Allow me to introduce my 
 secretary, Mr. Douglas Conrath — a very 
 painstaking, sensible, and, as far as I know, 
 virtuous young fellow." 
 
 Both the younger men smiled involuntarily 
 at this unique introduction, and with a simul- 
 taneous impulse shook hands cordially. 
 
 "Glad to meet you — glad to meet you," 
 said the new-comer in his hearty voice. " I 
 hope — I hope my respected uncle has 
 maligned you. Ha ! ha ! " And he laughed 
 gaily, and helped himself to a cigar. He 
 looked perfectly certain of his welcome, and 
 almost provokingly unconscious of the heavy 
 frown upon his uncle's face. And by degrees 
 the frown lifted, and gave way to a curious 
 rugged smile, like the uncertain gleam of a 
 struggling sun on grim mountains after a 
 storm. 
 
 "I've a piece of news for you. Uncle 
 Simon," said Fenwicke, when an hour had 
 passed pleasantly enough. ' What do you 
 think it is ? " 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Don't ' know," gruffly. " Going to be 
 married, I suppose, and bring into the world 
 half-a-dozen or so of scatterbrained spend- 
 thrifts like yourself — for me to keep. But I 
 won't do it, mind you ! — I won't do it, sir ! 
 So be warned in time." 
 
 His nephew's face grew suddenly grave 
 He filled his glass again and lit a fresh cigar 
 before he answered. 
 
 " 'No, no," he said in a low emphatic voice. 
 " I know I'm a fool, but I'm not such a fool 
 as to put my head into that noose. No," he 
 added, after a minute, " my news is that an 
 old lady, who, it appears, is — or was — my 
 godmother, has died, and left me a smaU 
 estate in the most un-get-atable place in 
 Cornwall." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Mr. Eedman, with an air of 
 interest. " Wliat kind of place is it ? Dues 
 any ready money go with it ? " 
 
 " No, not a sixpence," was the laughing 
 answer. " I went down to see it yesterday, 
 and found a wild, uncultivated tract of about 
 a hundred acres, with a tumble-down house —
 
 "IT IS WRITTEN !" 211 
 
 almost a ruin — and that's all," lie concluded 
 good-humouredly. 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted his uncle. " Then I 
 don't see that you're much better off than you 
 were before." 
 
 "Well, no, neither do I," cheerfully, 
 " unless I could sell it. But it's not exactly 
 the kind of place any one but a lunatic would 
 think of buying, and that's the truth. It has 
 a queer crackjaw name, by the way — Poldor- 
 nalupe. My benefactress's name was — let me 
 see — Emerson, I think. Yes — Emerson. So 
 you see I have blossomed out into a real live 
 landed proprietor, turned over a new leaf, and 
 intend posing as a reformed character.'' 
 
 " Ah ! " was the uncompromising answer. 
 
 " I've another piece of news, though," went 
 on Fenwicke, his eyes twinkling merrily. 
 
 " Well ! " in a dry voice. 
 
 " Well — I've made a little fortune in mines 
 out there." 
 
 "Out where?" 
 
 "Mexico," laconically. "Bought shares. 
 Sold them at a big profit. Made enough to 
 
 14 
 
 *
 
 212 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 keep me from starving for a good bit, you 
 know." 
 
 "Indeed, I'm glad to hear it. But steer 
 clear of mines, my lad ; they're risky things 
 — infernally risky. If you've made money, 
 stick to it. I've been bitten with mining 
 
 fever myself, and There, I'm tired " — 
 
 the speaker broke off suddenly. " Good- 
 night to you both. Where are you staying, 
 Max ? " 
 
 " I've taken rooms in Charles Street — con- 
 venient, you know. Good-night, uncle ; I'll 
 look you up in a day or two." 
 
 Douglas rose to say good-night also, and he 
 and Fenwicke went out together. 
 
 " Look here," said the latter genially as 
 they stood in the street in the fair spring 
 moonlight, " it's not late ; come up to my 
 rooms and have a pipe. Unless you've any 
 other engagement," he added. 
 
 As Douglas had no other engagement, and 
 as he had taken rather a likini]^ to this odd 
 young man, he went ; and they sat talking 
 and smoking' until far into the small hours.
 
 "IT IS WKITTEN!" 213 
 
 It was a new and pleasant experience for 
 Douglas ; for, with the exception of old Simon 
 Eedman, he had no friends, and since the 
 days when he and Ealph Debenham had 
 talked in the little room at Garth Street he 
 had never felt impelled to talk of himself, or 
 his thoughts and aspirations. To-night he 
 surprised himself by talking to Fenwicke as if 
 he had known him all his life. Fenwicke 
 was a capital listener, and in spite of his 
 off-hand, careless manner, he had a way of 
 drawing out confidences from those around 
 him. 
 
 Thus they talked, not knowing that it was 
 written in the book of fate that henceforth 
 their lives were to be closely woven together, 
 and were to affect each other in a way neither 
 could dream of — then. 
 
 Things happen so. We get up and go out 
 to our daily occupations some fine morning, 
 little thinking that we have come to a curve 
 or a sharp corner in our destiny — that fate, 
 in some very ordinary shape perhaps, is 
 waiting for us silently, to make or mar all our
 
 214 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 future comings and goings. A chance 
 meeting ; a letter ; a visit ; a seemingly un- 
 important decision for or against — and hey ! 
 presto ! the whole course of our life is 
 changed for good or evil! 
 
 '' Alas ! how easily things go wrong — 
 A sigh too deep or a kiss too long — 
 And then a mist and a blinding rain, 
 And life is never the same again." 
 
 Yes, but things "go right" just as easily 
 and as suddenly. To-day — within the next 
 few hours, perhaps — the burden we have 
 borne so long may be about to roll from our 
 tired shoulders, leaving us to walk erect and 
 free once more. Look up and hope, doubting 
 heart ! It is always too soon — just too soon — 
 to despair. 
 
 That very morning Douglas had left his 
 lod^ino's in a fearful fit of the blues. As he 
 let himself in to-night he felt almost light- 
 hearted. Two cheering things had happened 
 to him. Ilis salary had been raised, for one 
 thing ; and he had found a friend. 
 
 •V ^P ^P "^ ^p
 
 *'IT IS WRITTEN 1 215 
 
 It was about six months later — long after 
 Bee had made her curtsey to her Sovereign, 
 and been launched into countless London 
 gaieties. Douglas caught glimpses of her now 
 and then, driving in her grandfather's hand- 
 somely-appointed carriage, or read her name 
 in the lists of the guests at fashionable enter- 
 tainments ; but he had only spoken to her 
 twice — once in Bond Street, and once in 
 Kensington Gardens. He never went to 
 Portland Place. 
 
 It was a chilly autumn evening, then — 
 and Douglas and Fenwicke were once more 
 enjoying a pipe and a chat in the latter's 
 rooms. They had become great chums by 
 this time, and spent much of their time 
 together. 
 
 Fenwicke was lying back in an easy chair 
 before the fire, talking, for him, very 
 earnestly. 
 
 " I am as certain," he was saying, " as 
 certain that my idea is correct as a man can 
 be certain of anything. I tell you, Conrath, 
 I know the indications — and I'll swear that
 
 216 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 under that barren - looking land there is 
 almost fabulous wealth. But what's the 
 good ? " he added, rising from his chair and 
 walking restlessly about the room with his 
 hands plunged deeply into his pockets. " I 
 can't get any one else to beheve it ; and I 
 can't afford to work it myself. If I had only 
 a matter of four hundred or so, I might make 
 a beginning. But as it is — I'm helpless." 
 ■ " I suppose it would be no use applying to 
 your uncle ? " said Douglas, after a pause. 
 
 The other shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said decidedly. "Besides, I 
 fancy he has dropped a lot himself lately. I 
 don't know in what, but he hinted as much 
 to me." 
 
 " Yes, I know," was the brief answer. 
 
 " I don't want to borrow the money 
 either " — went on Fenwicke, " even if I knew 
 any one who would lend it to me — which I 
 don't. And as for getting any. one to go in 
 with a scheme to find mineral anywhere nearer 
 than Australia, or Mexico, or Spain — why, you 
 might as well try to organize a scheme for a
 
 " IT IS WEITTEN ! " 217 
 
 submarine route to — to Paradise. Every- 
 body seems to think that any mineral to be 
 found in Cornwall has been found long ago. 
 And, indeed, I used to think so myself." 
 
 Douglas was smoking thoughtfully. 
 
 " I wish to Heaven I had the money," he 
 said with a quick, impatient sigh. "We 
 might go into the thing together." 
 
 "I daresay, old fellow," rejoined the other, 
 slapping him affectionately on the shoulder. 
 " But if I didn't know you were as hard up 
 as — as I am myself, I should never have men- 
 tioned the matter to you. And as a matter 
 of fact I am most deucedly hard up. Jove ! 
 it's marvellous how money melts away ! Six 
 months ago I could have taken my oath I'd 
 never be on the rocks again. And now — 
 upon my soul I'm at my wits' end to know 
 how to raise the wind. I'm afraid I shall 
 have to forswear my anti-matrimonial inten- 
 tions and look out for an heiress — only I don't 
 happen to know any heiresses." And he 
 laughed somewhat ruefully. 
 
 Now, why did his words and his tone jar
 
 21B A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 upon his companion ? And why did a quick 
 thought of Bee flash through Douglas's mind, 
 coupled with some careless words he had 
 heard her utter only a few months ago ? He 
 puffed at his pipe in silence, however ; and 
 presently Fenwicke was in full swing once 
 more upon the inexhaustible subject of his 
 Cornish property. 
 
 Douglas sat staring into the fire. He was 
 revolving a project in his own mind. Suppose 
 he were to write a successful novel — at last ? 
 Suppose he received from £400 to 500 for it ? 
 Why not ? It was not impossible. Suppose 
 he became a partner in this scheme, and 
 that not only fame but fortune awaited him ? 
 His pulses beat quickly, feverishly. All at 
 once a possible plot for his novel rushed 
 across his brain. Whole scenes flashed into 
 vivid life and reality ; whole pages of dialogue 
 rose up before him ; the cosy fireht room 
 seemed to recede into indefinite space ; and 
 Fenwicke's voice sounded far away and indis- 
 tinct, like a half-heard voice in a dream. For 
 the time the author's soul was in an enchanted
 
 "IT IS WRITTEN!" 219 
 
 world — a world where he was a providence 
 and a creator to all the creatures of his 
 imagination, making them move and think 
 and act according to his will. 
 
 He was aroused by the sudden cessation of 
 Fenwicke's voice, and the somewhat noisy 
 opening of the door. 
 
 It was a servant, bearing a telegram for 
 Fenwicke. The latter opened it, and a 
 moment later uttered a dismayed exclama- 
 tion 
 
 " By Jove ! I say, Conrath," he said 
 agitatedly — " my poor uncle — he is dying 1 
 He wants to see me. There is no time to 
 lose. Will you come with me ? Good God ! 
 
 dying I I didn't know he was ill. I 
 
 didn't know he had come up from Sunning- 
 dale. Did you ? " 
 
 He was halfway downstairs by this time, 
 and Douglas was mechanically following him. 
 In less than three minutes both men had 
 flung themselves into a hansom, and were 
 whirling rapidly towards Lancaster Gate. 
 
 Mr. Eedman was alive, the man who
 
 220 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 opened the door informed them with 
 decorous gravity ; but the doctors said he 
 could not live more than a few hours at most. 
 It was acute internal inflammation, he added, 
 the result of a sudden chill. Mr. Redman 
 had come home last night complaining of 
 feeling ill, and had gone to bed immediately. 
 
 Fenwicke went upstairs at once. His uncle 
 seemed pleased to see him, and pressed his 
 hand feebly. 
 
 " Glad you were in time, my boy," he said 
 with a quivering smile. Then he added 
 brokenl}^, " I always meant to — to do some- 
 thing for you. Max — when my time came. 
 But — I didn't think it would be so — so soon, 
 and so sudden — and I've lost — a good deal of 
 money lately. When everything's settled 
 there won't be — much left. And — I have 
 claims on me that — that few know of. You'll 
 have — a hundred a year. Not the principal, 
 Max — not the principal " — this with a grim 
 twinkle in his fast-fading eyes. " It would go 
 — all in a sweep. And see that — young 
 Conrath has — a year's salary. That's all, I
 
 * "IT IS WRITTEN 1" 221 
 
 think. Shake hands, Max. I've been gruff 
 at times — but you're a nice lad — a nice lad — 
 if you had more ballast. Perhaps — it'll come, 
 though." 
 
 He never spoke after that ; and half-an- 
 hour later turned his face to the wall, and 
 died. 
 
 His nephew went down to the dining-room, 
 where Douglas stood leaning his elbow on the 
 the mantelshelf, gazing down into the dying 
 fire. He looked up quickly as Fenwicke 
 entered. Neither spoke for a few minutes. 
 Then Fenwicke said huskily ; 
 
 " He's gone. He — didn't suffer much. He 
 was a decent, good-hearted old fellow — God 
 rest his soul." 
 
 Then there was another silence. 
 
 <V "T^ ^f ^* •!* 
 
 When the two friends had parted, nearly 
 an hour later, Douglas walked slowly along 
 Oxford Street, until he came to Eegent 
 Circus. Then by some unconscious impulse, 
 he turned to the left, and walked northward. 
 
 He felt shocked and bewildered at the
 
 222 A K0:MANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 terribly sudden death of liis eccentric old 
 friend — and sincerely grieved as well. For 
 he had been a kind, good friend to him in 
 many ways — a friend he was not likely to 
 replace. And he was now cast adrift once 
 more. 
 
 Well ! — you may say — surely it ought to be 
 easy enough for a man of twenty-seven, with 
 average address and abilities, to find another 
 post of the same kind as the one he had just 
 lost? Yes, I suppose it ought to be easy 
 enough. But like most other possibilities 
 containing? the word " ouf?ht," the chances in 
 this particular possibility have a way of 
 becoming? bafflin^:^ and illusive when called 
 upon for active service. 
 
 To do Douglas justice, however, his 
 thoughts to-night were more of the actual 
 loss of his friend than of its consequences. 
 He could hardly realize that the gruff yet 
 kindly voice was for ever silent, the busy 
 active brain at rest. It was so fearfully 
 sudden, so unlooked for. The old o-entleman 
 had gone down into the country for a day or
 
 "IT IS WEITTEN!" 223 
 
 two and had not been expected home until 
 this evening. He had written to Douglas in 
 good spirits and apparently good health only 
 a couple of days ago. Ah, well ! he had gone 
 home, indeed ! 
 
 Perhaps it was not strange that in his 
 musings Douglas should turn his steps 
 towards Portland Place. He often passed by 
 that way, making long detours to do so. A 
 carriage stood at the Chandlers' door, the 
 horses champing their bits monotonously. It 
 was a still, clear night, and the hour of eleven 
 shivered up from Westminster. When he was 
 within a dozen paces or so from the carriage, 
 Douglas stood still for a few moments, 
 under the pretext of lighting a cigar. As he 
 struck his second match, a girl, radiant in 
 shimmering satin, half-concealed by the fur- 
 trimmed wrap she wore, came lightly down 
 the steps. A young man came immediately 
 behind her, with a stout old lady upon his 
 arm. The light of the street lamp fell full 
 upon their faces — the girl's, so fresh and fair 
 and gay — the man's, colourless and aristo-
 
 224 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 cratic and impassive — the old woman's, fat 
 and unconcerned. In getting into the 
 carriage the girl's foot slipped, and she would 
 have fallen, had not the young man, with a 
 swift movement, put his arm about her. He 
 bent over her, for a second or two, with a few 
 murmured anxious words. 
 
 A swift, raging, hitherto unknown passion 
 of jealousy tore through the heart of the un- 
 seen watcher — a passion so overwhelming in 
 its intensit}^, and so full of fierce, intolerable 
 agony, that he turned sick and giddy, and 
 leaned blindly against the railings for 
 support. 
 
 He heard the carriage drive past him — he 
 even heard Bee's low laugh float out upon the 
 night in answer to some brief words from Sir 
 Cyril. They did not see him, of course, as he 
 stood there in his bewildered newlv-awakened 
 pain. They were not even thinking of him. 
 Wliy should they ? 
 
 A few moments later he found himself 
 walking with a quick steady step in the 
 direction of Ee^ent's Park. His face, when
 
 "IT IS WRITTEN 1" 225 
 
 tlie lamp-light now and then fell upon it, was 
 very pale, and his eyes held a wild, half-in- 
 credulous misery that was strange to them. 
 
 He had " grown acquainted with his heart " 
 indeed, and the knowledge was bitter. 
 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG. 
 
 " She had 
 A heart — how shall I say ? — too soon made glad, 
 Too easily impressed ; she liked whatever 
 She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
 
 Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, 
 
 Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed without 
 Much the same smile ? " 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 It was generally understood that Sir Cyril 
 Northburgh was paying marked attention to 
 Miss Adeane. And, as a matter of fact, the 
 young man in question was as far gone as a 
 man of his cool temperament could well be. 
 
 By the way, I am not at all sure that these 
 apparently cool and unemotional individuals 
 are by any means so cool and unemotional as 
 they look. I have known some of them, upon 
 occasion, disclose possibilities of fire and 
 passion absolutely appalling. This, however, 
 as I have said, by the wa3^ If Sir Cyril had
 
 THE THAAVING OF AN ICEBERG. 227 
 
 any such proclivities, lie kept them well in 
 hand, and presented a particularly successful 
 sang-froid on all occasions, even when a little 
 of the other thing might have been expected 
 or condoned. 
 
 Bee and Fay made fun of his calm, self- 
 satished ways, to be sure, as girls will ; but 
 they liked him : Fay, as a cousin who was 
 alwavs at hand to be ordered about, confided 
 in, and made use of generally ; Bee, as a good- 
 natured and reliable friend. But it had 
 certainly never occurred to the latter to 
 marry him. For one thing, he had not asked 
 her to marry him ; and she was not the girl 
 to construe a man's intentions matrimonially 
 until they had been put into plain words. 
 She would have missed him a good deal if he 
 had dropped out of her life just then, and, in 
 a way, she was dimly conscious of this. For 
 his part, he doubtless knew the wisdom of 
 making himself indispensable to her, without 
 — as yet — sounding the depths of her maiden 
 heart. 
 
 Mr. Chandler — or, as I suppose we must 
 
 15*
 
 228 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 now call him, Mr. Chandleur — approved of 
 the young baronet's intentions. That is to 
 say he approved of them in the meantime. 
 If any wealthier or higher-born suitor turned 
 up — why, Joseph Chandleur was not such a 
 laggard in fashionable ways as to hesitate 
 about whistling the gallant Cyril " down the 
 wind " without the slightest compunction. 
 
 Lady Northburgh, however, was not alto- 
 gether sure that she approved of her son's 
 attentions to Miss Adeane. She disliked the 
 " Chandleurs," and could not be induced 
 either to visit or be visited by them. But, as 
 her sister somewhat severely impressed upon 
 her, " the boy " might do worse — far worse. 
 
 " My dear Emily," she said one day when 
 the sisters were returning from a round, of 
 calls (Lady Dinwoodie found her sister's 
 carriage very convenient upon occasion, and 
 did not scruple to make extensive use of it) — 
 " my dear Emil}-, I think the boy has shown 
 ver}^ good taste, and an uncommon amount of 
 good sense as well. Why the girl's fortune 
 will be enormous, if all I hear is true — simply
 
 THE THAWING- OF AN ICEBERG. 229 
 
 enormous. And she is well-bred, and not 
 bad-looking — if not exactly a beauty. Eeally 
 when one contemplates the shocking mesalli- 
 ances that some of our young men seem to 
 take a pleasure in making now-a-days, you 
 ought to sing hymns of praise — / think. 
 As far as I can see, the aristocracy of the 
 future will be the offspring of a parcel of 
 barmaids, ballet-dancers and cooks — or 
 w^orse.'* 
 
 "I do so wish he and Fay had cared for 
 each other," murmured Sir Cyril's mother 
 plaintively. 
 
 '" Well, yes — I don't mind acknowledging 
 that I was disappointed there too," was the 
 frank answer. " I am very fond of Cyril, 
 and I have no absurd fancies about cousins 
 not marrying. But Cyril doesn't care at 
 all for Fay in that way — any more than she 
 does for him. So it can't be helped. I 
 wish I saw her safely married. She is 
 young enough, of course ; but I feel horribly 
 certain that she will take a fancy to some 
 quite impossible young man, and marry him
 
 233 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. I 
 
 ill spite of all I can do. She is so self-willed ' 
 
 and headstrong." 
 
 " After all," said Lady Northburgh hope- 
 fully, " Cyril may change his mind." 
 
 " Emily I " was the exasperated answer — 
 " upon my word you deserve to wake up some 
 fine morning to find your son has married 
 your cook. You do indeed." 
 
 Her sister smiled, and smoothed her well- 
 fitting gloves pensively. 
 
 " I am not afraid of that," she murmured. 
 " My cook is fifty if she is a da}', and she is 
 the ugliest woman I ever saw in mv life." 
 
 Lady Dinwoodie sighed impatiently. There 
 w^as no doing anything with Emily. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Cyril himself, meanwhile, was partaking of 
 afternoon tea (a beverage he detested) in the 
 Chandleurs' drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Chandleur was in great form to-day, 
 for on the previous evening he had exchanged 
 a brace of sentences wdtli his future Sovereign, 
 and was therefore blatantly conscious that he 
 had not lived in vain. He was standing with
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERa. 231 
 
 his legs very far apart, and his head held 
 very far back, as he recounted to a compara- 
 tively new acquaintance the oft-told story of 
 the accumulation of his millions. In his 
 excitement he forgot to alternately foster 
 and suppress his H's, and relapsed into 
 all his old cockneyisms. An expression of 
 bland contempt stole over his listener's 
 countenance, but he did not see it. But 
 Bee saw it, and she also saw the faint quiver 
 of a smile under Cyril Northburgh's blond 
 moustache. The smile irritated her. Her 
 grandfather's solecisms in pronunciation, in 
 etiquette, and various other matters did not 
 amuse her at all ; they only roused in her a 
 painful sense of humiliation. 
 
 Cyril's smile was brief; for he was quick 
 to see the frown that crossed his lady's 
 expressive little face. He moved to a seat 
 close to the tea-equipage, and said in his 
 most conciliatory tones : 
 
 " May I have some tea ? " 
 
 " Some more ? " was the somewhat cross 
 answer. " Why, Cyril, you have had three
 
 232 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 cups. And surely it was only yesterday you 
 told me that you hated tea ? " 
 
 " Did I ? " he replied with unabashed 
 serenity. "Very likely. But since then 
 my medical adviser has prescribed tea — tea 
 in large quantities.'^ 
 
 *' Well, there isn't any more," observed 
 Bee, who had been looking into the teapot. 
 " And I'm not going to ring to have more 
 made, because I saw you make the most 
 dreadful face as you were finishing your last 
 cup. And as for your medical adviser! — I 
 don't believe you ever had anything the 
 matter with you in your life," she added 
 scornfully. 
 
 He laughed in his usual lazy fashion. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I have," he said, pulling the 
 ears of Mrs. Chandleur's pug, who was 
 investigating his boots with interest. " I had 
 measles when I was a lad — and very badly 
 too ; and I had typhoid fever not so very 
 many years ago. And just now," he added 
 in a whimsical way he had when he felt a 
 good deal — "just now I've got another kind
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBEEa. A 233 
 
 of fever — the sort of fever a fellow has if — 
 his heart's affected." 
 
 " Poor thing ! '* she said mockingly. " Is 
 it very bad ? " 
 
 " Very," was the grave answer. . " Keeps 
 me from sleeping at nights, don't, you know, 
 and takes away my appetite for everything — 
 except tea." 
 
 Bee was looking at him with a curious 
 expression, half-wistful, half-contemptuous, in 
 her clear grey eyes. 
 
 " Cyril," she said slowly, " don't you think 
 it is a great pity that you — who really could 
 be sensible and interesting if you liked — 
 should always talk in that chaffing, meaning- 
 less way — as if you had no ideas, and no 
 brains, and no heart at all ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders slightly. 
 
 " How do you know I have any of these 
 commodities ? " he said nonchalantly. 
 
 Nevertheless, there was a shade more 
 colour in his handsome face than usual ; and 
 his eyes lost their sleepy look . and became 
 half-amused, half-resentful.
 
 234 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 " Well — certainly neither your conversa- 
 tion nor your appearance would suggest as 
 much," was the sharp and not very pohte 
 answer. 
 
 " Oh, thanks very much," he said with a 
 satirical bow. Then he added in an exaspe- 
 ratingly calm and dispassionate kind of way, 
 " Don't you think that was rather rude ? " 
 
 Bee flushed painfully ; but she looked 
 mutinous and unrepentant, and busied 
 herself in crumbling a biscuit into her empty 
 teacup. 
 
 After a minute or so Cyril said, leaning 
 slightl}^ forward, and absolutely forgetting to 
 caress his moustache in his earnestness : 
 
 "Is it always fair, Bee, do you think, to 
 judge altogether from outward impressions ? 
 — or in any case to judge so hardly? Did 
 it never strike you that in some cases a 
 man may afTect to feel little or nothing, 
 because, as a matter of fact, he is afraid of 
 showing — that he feels too much ? " 
 
 " No," she made answer, with all the 
 severity of youth. " I don't see why people
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBEEG. 235 
 
 should pretend to feel more or less than they 
 do feel. Why should they ? Why not be 
 honest and true ? I despise pretence and 
 affectation." 
 
 " Do you despise me too ? " said Cyril in a 
 curious voice. 
 
 Just then Bee's attention was claimed by a 
 young military Adonis of imposing propor- 
 tions, whose income, which was small, was 
 in exact inverse ratio to his expenditure, 
 which was large — and who, therefore, looked 
 with favourable eyes upon old Chandleur's 
 presumptive heiress. Cyril breathed a silent 
 imprecation concerning this gallant youth's 
 future, and crossed the room to speak to the 
 newest society beaut}-, Mrs. Osgood Graves. 
 But, as a quaint and witty playwright has 
 put it, " the goods were all in the shop- 
 window." The beauty had been born without 
 brains. She soon palled upon Sir Cyril, who 
 rather affected brains, in moderation — and in 
 conjunction with beauty of course. No man 
 will stand brains alone in a woman. That is 
 his own prerogative.
 
 236 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Cyril did not see Bee again until a few 
 evenings later. It was at a crowded dance 
 at Mrs. Osgood Graves', and Cyril, having 
 patiently elbowed liis way up that lady's 
 staircase, and greeted, perforce, all the 
 acquaintances he particularly desired to 
 avoid, found himself borne onwards up the 
 long, brilliantly-lighted rooms until he at 
 last caught sight of Miss Adeane, who 
 vouchsafed him the smallest and chilliest of 
 bows. She was talking with much animation 
 to a rather sad-looking man of perhaps forty, 
 or upwards, whose . grey hair contrasted 
 curiously with his dark eyes and eyebrows 
 and brown moustache. 
 
 " Who the devil is the fellow ? " thought 
 Cyril in the enraged depths of his heart. 
 " By Jove ! one would think she had known 
 him from childhood. I would give fifty 
 pounds to know what she is saying to him." 
 
 As a matter of fact, this was what Bee was 
 saying : - . 
 
 " Do you know that we are old friends, Mr. 
 Debenham ? "
 
 . THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG.. 237 
 
 " Are we ? " he made answer in a puzzled 
 voice. " Surely not. 1 hardly think I should 
 have forgotten you." 
 
 " Think," she said gravely — " think far, far 
 back — ten, eleven years ago ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " I can't forgive myself ; but I'm afraid my 
 memory must be treacherous," he said. 
 " Besides — eleven years ago ! Why " 
 
 " Don't you remember," she went on in a 
 slow, contemplative way, " being very kind, 
 once upon a time, to a little girl wdio lived in 
 a small street in Westminster, called Garth 
 Street? Don't you remember a boy called 
 Douglas Conrath, who ? " 
 
 "Ah ! " he interrupted her, wuth a sudden 
 light of puzzled comprehension in his grey 
 
 eyes. " But wdiy, it is not possible that 
 
 you are his sister ? — that you are little Bee ? 
 Oh, no — of course it is out of the question." 
 
 " Yes — I am little Bee," she said in a low 
 voice, which seemed to her hearer to hold a 
 ring of regret. " At least — I was — once." 
 
 " And — your brother — Douglas ? " he
 
 238 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 asked, still looking surprised and somewhat 
 bewildered. "I met him the other day, and 
 
 he did not " He stopped, and then went 
 
 on : " Is he here to-night ? " 
 
 She made a little negative gesture ; then 
 said sadly : 
 
 " He is not my brother — now." 
 
 " I don't quite understand," he said, in his 
 slow, gentle voice. 
 
 " Then listen, and I will tell you," she 
 said. 
 
 He listened attentively while she told him 
 how she had been taken away from her 
 adopted brother, how she was no longer Bee 
 Conrath, but Bee Adeane, and how she and 
 Douglas met but seldom. 
 
 " You say you saw him — lately ? " she said 
 with a wistful upward look. 
 
 " Yes, I saw him some days ago, but only 
 for a few moments," he answered. 
 
 " All ! " — quickly. " And did he seem 
 well ?— happy ? " 
 
 Debenham paused for a minute ; then he 
 said :
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBEEG. 239 
 
 " No ; I did not think he seemed either 
 well or — happy." 
 
 The girl's eyes fell, and when she raised 
 them again they were misty with tears. 
 
 "I hardly ever see him," she said in a 
 tremulous voice. " He seems to avoid me — 
 or not to care to see me — now." 
 
 "I think 3'ou misjudge him," her com- 
 panion made answer gravely. " I am afraid 
 the world has not been using him well of late, 
 and — misfortunes make a man something of a 
 hermit, you know." 
 
 " Why ? " she asked. "If I were unfor- 
 tunate, I think I should be more inclined than 
 ever to turn to the companionship of my 
 friends." 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with a strange little smile, 
 " but that is one of the curses of misfortune — 
 one doubts the possibility of having any 
 friends at all. Adversity, for the most part, 
 falls like a blight upon all love and friendship, 
 misconstrues every action, magnifies ever}^ 
 slight, and kills all sense of charity and good- 
 will. I know," he added with an almost
 
 ' 240 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 intense earnestness, " because I have experi- 
 enced adversity myself — more than one kind 
 of adversity. And very hard lines I found it 
 — and very badly I bore it. It is over now — 
 thank God ! — but I don't think I could ever 
 forget its bitterness." 
 
 He sighed as he spoke, and pushed his hair 
 back from his forehead with a gesture of 
 weariness. 
 
 After a minute Bee said in a low voice : 
 
 " Did Douglas tell you if — if he were un- 
 happy, or if he had been unfortunate in any 
 way ? " 
 
 " There are some things that do not need 
 telling,'' he answered evasively. " Besides, I 
 only spoke a few words with him." 
 
 " Did he — did he speak of me ? " 
 
 " No. At least, I asked him if you were 
 well, and he said you were. That was all." 
 
 All this time Cyril Northburgh was stead- 
 fastly regarding Bee and her companion from 
 a distant doorway. Outwardly, he was calmly 
 indifferent to all around him, as usual. In- 
 wardly, he was consumed with rage and
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBEHa. 241 
 
 jealousy. At last he sauntered across the 
 room, and took up an assured position at 
 Bee's side. She was just presenting Deben- 
 ham with a flower from the bunch on her 
 bodice. 
 
 " For the sake of old times," Cyril heard 
 her murmur. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Adeane ? Have you 
 a dance to spare for me ? " he said in the 
 peculiarly distinct and clear tones he always 
 adopted when in a passion — which, to do him 
 justice, was not often. 
 
 " I'm afraid you are too late," she replied 
 with an adorable smile. " I see granny 
 making wild signs to me across the room. 
 We are going on, you know — to Lady Bil- 
 berry's crush. I suppose we shall see you 
 there ? " 
 
 " I thought of going for an hour," he said 
 stiffly. "May I take you to Mrs. Chan- 
 dleur?" he added, if possible, more stiffly 
 stiU. 
 
 "No, thank you. Mr. Debenham was just 
 going to take me to her when you came up. 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 A KOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 Au revoir^" this with a gay Httle wave of her 
 fan. " I shall see you shortly, I suppose." 
 
 Cyril replied by an icy bow. He too had 
 quite intended " going on " to Lady Bilberry's 
 crush, but with a determination much to be 
 admired, he resolved to forego that pleasure, 
 and spent the rest of the night at the Junior 
 Carlton, in a most unholy temper. You see, 
 he had made up his mind to propose to Bee 
 that night ; nay, I may go further, and say 
 that he had made up his mind to become 
 engaged to her that night. And the little 
 minx's calm ignoring of his prospective rights 
 (for of course, he argued, she must be aware 
 of his intentions !), and her maddening 
 familiarity with the unknown " fellow '* 
 piqued him inexpressibly. 
 
 'F 1^ Tfr ^^ ^^ 
 
 And Douglas ? Well, Douglas had written 
 another novel, and three publishers had 
 refused it — in those relentlessly courteous 
 terms that sear the souls of would-be authors. 
 Wherefore our author consigned the work of 
 many feverish weeks to the flames, and opened
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG. 243 
 
 his gates to Giant Despair. For his money 
 was becoming unpleasantly scarce, and he 
 had not yet found a successor to kind, eccen- 
 tric old Simon Eedman. 
 
 So the months ran on, and it was now 
 October. One cold, wet night, when he was 
 feeling particularly wretched, and physically 
 ill besides, he found himself, he hardly knew 
 how, writing swiftly and mechanically. The 
 crowding thoughts flowed from his pen with 
 hardly any effort of will. His characters 
 moved, and spoke, and acted, like living 
 responsible creatures. He wrote, for the 
 first time, from his -heart — for himself — with 
 no thought of the Argus-eyed British public, 
 no thought of any audience at all. He wrote 
 without conscious conception, w^ithout pauses 
 for contemplation of the pros and cons which 
 usually worried him. He wrote steadily, and 
 with few interruptions, for three days and 
 nights. It seemed as if a fever possessed him. 
 Sleep was impossible to him, food a nauseous 
 necessity. 
 
 On the morning of the fourth day he wrote 
 
 16*
 
 244 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 the last few words, threw down his pen, and 
 rested his head on his hand. Oh, God ! — 
 how his temples throbbed and burned ! — how 
 his pulses leapt and quivered! He felt 
 utterly exhausted — worn out in mind and 
 body. Presently he rose, and rolled up the 
 manuscript in feverish haste. A reckless 
 determination took possession of him to send 
 it off as it stood — without any of the con- 
 scientious corrections and revisals which as a 
 rule he considered imperative. 
 
 " Let it sink or swim," he muttered 
 savagely, "I do not care. It is nothing to 
 me." 
 
 Ah ! but he did care : and it was a OTeat 
 deal to him ; and the days that followed were 
 weary, weary waiting. His heart used to 
 beat up to his throat like any nervous girl's 
 as he listened for the postman's knock day by 
 day and night by night, and at each fresh 
 disappointment it sank in impotent misery 
 and resentment. 
 
 And it came to pass at last, between 
 anxiety, and actual want, and keeping at bay
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERa. 2i5 
 
 his hopeless love for Bee, that he fell ill, and 
 became a prey to a nervous wasting fever, 
 which brought him pretty near death's 
 door. 
 
 Max Fenwicke nursed him through the 
 worst of it, and one day when his patient 
 was very far through, took upon himself to 
 despatch a little note to Miss Adeane. For 
 Douglas in his feverish wanderings had partly 
 betrayed his secret, and Max was rather an 
 adept at the old, old sum of putting two and 
 two together. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold, foggy night. 
 Egyptian darkness prevailed outside, and 
 even indoors the fog seemed to steal in and 
 permeate all things. Douglas's room, half 
 bedroom, half sitting-room, was at no time a 
 cheerful apartment. To-night — by the light 
 of the one flaring candle — it looked inex- 
 pressibly dreary. The fire had burned low, 
 for Fenwicke, tired out with many nights of 
 watching, had fallen asleep ; dust lay thick 
 over everything, and a general air of inde- 
 scribable confusion prevailed in the room.
 
 246 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 The doctor had this morning pronounced 
 his patient out of danger, and assured him 
 cheerily that he would certainly "pull 
 through " now. The patient himself felt that 
 his " pulling through " was a matter of 
 indifference to himself, and possibly to every 
 one else. He turned over with a lieavv 
 groan, and raised himself j^ainfully on his 
 elbow. Yes — the room looked very dreary, 
 and he felt weak and ill to wretchedness. 
 Besides, he was able to think consecutively 
 now, and knew what this illness would 
 cost him. He knew he must have been ill 
 for at least nearly a fortnight ; and, as far as 
 he could recollect, he had been able to count 
 his shillinn^s on one hand on the last dav he 
 remembered anytliin2^. Then he thou2:ht of 
 his book. How had it fared ? Had it been 
 returned, like its predecessor ? or had it been 
 accepted ? Or, what was more than likely, 
 was the old weary waiting going on still ? 
 Then he thought of Bee, and fell back upon his 
 pillows with along shivering sigh. Max stirred 
 and sat u]-), rubbing his eyes vigorously.
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG. 247 
 
 " Awake, old fellow ? " he said in his 
 cheery voice. " Feeling better, eh ? " 
 
 The other shook his head. Then after a 
 minute he said faintly : 
 
 " Max — have any letters come — for me ? " 
 
 " Only one," was the prompt answer. 
 " Here it is — square envelope, crest, and all 
 the rest of it." 
 
 "Ah!" Douglas said in a tone of bitter 
 disappointment. " You can open it." 
 
 It was only a card of invitation for a 
 dance at Lady Dinwoodie's, and Max fitted it 
 carefully into its envelope again, affecting 
 not to see the other's quivering lips and 
 tightly-clenched fingers. A little later he 
 said : 
 
 " Look here, old fellow, I'm going out to 
 get a paper. Is there anything you could 
 fancy? Oysters — ^jelly — fruit — or anything 
 of that kind ? " 
 
 But Douglas turned away with a gesture 
 of repulsion ; and presently Max took up his 
 hat and went out. 
 
 The sick man lay quite still for a time, one
 
 248 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 thin hand pressed closely over his eyes as 
 though to shut out the light — listening 
 wearily to the monotonous ticking of the 
 rickety clock upon the mantelpiece. The 
 little insect we call the " death-watch " was 
 also ticking fiercely from behind an old 
 picture in one corner. To Douglas's sick 
 fancy they seemed running a steady race. 
 But the death-watch was always ahead. He 
 felt horribly weak — as if he were gradually 
 sinking away into nothingness ; then a sick, 
 deathlike faintness came over him and 
 wrapped him in unconsciousness. 
 
 The opening of the door did not rouse him, 
 and it closed again without his having opened 
 his eyes. Then, all at once, his senses 
 awoke. 
 
 Some one was bending over him; a faint 
 odour of violets enfolded him ; a soft 
 tremulous voice whispered his name. He 
 uncovered his eyes and looked up with a 
 start. A dim idea that he had died came 
 over him, and that in another world the love 
 had come to lum that could never come in
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG. 249 
 
 this. He tried to smile — to murmur some 
 words of greeting ; then all was darkness. 
 
 When he came to himself again his dream 
 had not vanished. Bee was there still. 
 
 He half-raised himself on one arm. 
 
 " Bee ! " he whispered. " Is it Bee ? I am 
 not dreaming, then, or dead ? But, my 
 dearest," with a troubled contraction of his 
 brows, " how did you come here ? I don't — 
 understand. It is not a place for you — - 
 and " 
 
 " Hush ! " she interrupted him, laying her 
 cool little fingers over his lips. " Why did 
 you not let me know sooner that you were 
 ill ? It was unkind of you." 
 
 Her words floated through his brain 
 without conveying much meaning to him. 
 He was feeling strangely faint and giddy, and 
 presently he turned his head towards the 
 fireplace, where a man's figure was leaning 
 against the mantelpiece — the face in deep 
 shadow. 
 
 " Is that you, Fenwicke ? " he said feebly. 
 " You might give me — a little — water."
 
 250 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 But it was not Fenwicke who answered. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " said a 
 rather chilly voice — Cyril Northburgh's voice, 
 in fact. 
 
 The speaker came slowly forward, with an 
 expression of disapprobation and reluctance 
 about his whole personality which he could 
 not for the life of him have helped. 
 
 Conrath looked weakly bewildered. 
 
 "You — Sir Cyril?" he said, looking from 
 him to Bee uncertainly. Then a sudden 
 comprehension cut through his heart and held 
 him dumb. 
 
 " I am sorry to see you looking so ill," 
 observed Sir Cyril (without, however, looking 
 in the least sorry). "I must apologise for 
 intruding upon you in this way ; but Miss 
 Adeane had heard of your illness, and — er — 
 was anxious — er — to come." 
 
 " It was very good of her," murmured poor 
 Douglas, with a sickening certainty that Sir 
 Cyril's presence there could only mean one 
 thing. 
 
 " Let me give you a little water," went on
 
 THE THAAVING OF AN ICEBERG. 251 
 
 Cyril in his cool, even tones. " Stay — I will 
 raise your head a little." As he spoke he 
 deftly passed his arm under the other's head, 
 and held a glass of water to his lips. He 
 could hardly have done less, to be sure ; but 
 Bee's eyes more than thanked him. 
 
 Something in her old friend's haggard, 
 worn face, and a certain wistful look in his 
 sunken eyes as Cyril gently laid him down 
 again, touched some latent cord in her tender 
 little heart, and the next moment she had 
 burst into passionate weeping. 
 
 Douglas flushed painfully, and Cyril bit his 
 well-cut lips with annoyance. But Bee cried 
 on most heartily for a minute or two ; then, 
 just as Cyril was saying in a low suppressed 
 voice, " Bee, for Heaven's sake try to com- 
 pose yourself," she stopped almost as suddenly 
 as she had begun. 
 
 But to Douglas her tears were sweet. Her 
 lover had not entirely ousted her childhood's 
 friend, then ? She was the old, impulsive, 
 loving Bee still ! 
 
 "I couldn't help it," she said, with a
 
 252 A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 piteous little smile, as she dried her eyes. 
 " You look so ill, Douglas, my dear, and so — 
 so lonely," and she squeezed one of his hands 
 tenderly. 
 
 Sir Cyril glanced at his watch, and then 
 said coldly : 
 
 " Are you ready to go now. Bee ? I am 
 sure when Mr. Conrath knows that you are 
 
 here against your grandfather's wishes " 
 
 He paused and settled his collar irritably. 
 
 " Sir Cyril is right. Bee," said Douglas in 
 a very quiet voice. "You ought not to 
 have come. Go now. Do not keep him 
 waiting." 
 
 " Oh, Cyril doesn't mind," she answered 
 carelessly. " Why, he brought me. When I 
 heard two days ago that you were so very ill 
 — (no, I shall not tell you how I heard) — I 
 was so terribly grieved and miserable that I 
 wanted to rush off with granny at once to 
 nurse you. But grandfather found out that 
 we were coming, and of course there was the 
 usual scene. To-night is the only time he has 
 been out of the house since. (He Jiad to go
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERa. 253 
 
 to some dinner somewhere.) So I coaxed 
 Cyril to bring me — granny wouldn't — and 
 here I am. I wish I could stay and take care 
 of you. But I suppose " — glancing from one 
 to the other of the two young men — "it 
 wouldn't do ? " 
 
 Douglas smiled — a half- sad, half -tender 
 smile. 
 
 " No, dear, it wouldn't do," he said with a 
 touch of gentle reproof in his tone. 
 
 Sir Cyril gazed straight before him without 
 speaking. Eeally, he was thinking in an 
 exasperated sort of way, there was something 
 positively uncanny about Bee's reckless dis- 
 regard of les convenances at times. 
 
 " The sooner matters are settled between 
 us the better," he breathed silently to his 
 moustache. For, as it happened. Bee had 
 given him no opportunity of " settling 
 matters " as yet. 
 
 Bee knew quite well that he was angry ; 
 but she did not care in the very least. She 
 straightened up the room a little with a few 
 of those indefinable, subtle touches which
 
 254 A EOMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. 
 
 belong to women only, and made Cyril put 
 some coal on the dying fire. Then, having 
 received Douglas's assurances that Max 
 Fenwicke was the best nurse in the world, 
 and that he might be expected in at any 
 moment now — when she had made him 
 promise solemnly to let her know how he 
 went on, and given him countless other 
 injunctions, she went away — her sweet 
 presence dying out of the dingy room like 
 summer sunshine in a sudden storm, and 
 leavinc^ it dark and desolate. 
 
 Sir Cyril preserved an offended silence all 
 the way to Portland Place. As for Bee, she 
 was not thinking of him, and never even 
 noticed his silence. But just as the hansom 
 stopped at old Chandleur's door, she turned 
 to her sulky companion and said — oh, ever 
 so sweetly ! — 
 
 "Cyril, you are the best and kindest fellow 
 in the world, and I shan't forget your good- 
 ness to-night. Thank you most awfully.'* 
 And giving his hand an impulsive little 
 squeeze, she sprang out without waiting for
 
 THE THAWING OF AN ICEBERG. 255 
 
 his assistance, ran into the house, and dis- 
 appeared up the broad staircase. 
 
 Sir Cyril's usually well-regulated heart beat 
 quickly. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 PRINTiiD BV 
 KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C. 
 
 AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.