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 AN OPEN FOE
 
 AN OPEN FOE 
 
 ^ ^ommct 
 
 BY 
 
 ADELINE SEEGEANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'BEYOND RECALL 
 
 • Who with repentance is not satisfied, 
 Is not of heaven nor of earth.' 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES 
 VOLUME L 
 
 LONDON 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON ST. 
 
 iiubltsfjers in (BxHimx^ to fin fHajestg tfjc ©nem 
 1884 
 
 A /I rights reserved.
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinlnu-gh.
 
 ^k3 
 v.\ 
 
 THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED 
 
 S^o tfje ilEemarg of 
 
 ONE OF MY KINDEST AND TRUEST FRIENDS, 
 
 Mrs. BARXES of WOOLWICH, 
 
 TO WHOM I OWE A DEBT OF LOVE AND GRATITUDE 
 WHICH I NOW CAN NEVER PAY.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/openfoeromance01serg
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I.— A TANGLED WEB. 
 
 CHAPTEE 1. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Husband and Wife 1 
 
 CHAPTEE 11. 
 Deserted 19 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 The Wife 38 
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 The Child 55
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PABT II.— VEBA. 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 On the Elmstone Downs . . . . .7-1 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 A New Purpose . . . . . .89 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 Davy's Pupil 105 
 
 CHAPTEE YIIL 
 AEebel 126 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Xew Fpjends AND Old 145 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 An Exile 165 
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 Lucy 183 
 
 ^^^ xJtr^
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 PART L—A TANGLED WEB. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 It was nine o'clock in the morning. The May 
 sunshine fell in a perfect Hood of radiance upon 
 the eastern side of a small white house, situated 
 upon a wide and breezy down which overlooked 
 the sea. No other building was visible, although 
 the town of Elmstone was barely two miles 
 distant. The house — it was little more than a 
 cottage — was sheltered from the winds, and to 
 some extent concealed from the eye of a casual 
 observer by a ridge of rising ground behind 
 and a clump of fir-trees before it. There was 
 a cheerful -looking little garden and pleasant 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 shrubbery ; and the walls of the house were 
 nearly hidden by creeping plants, green -leaved 
 only as yet and not in blossom. The house 
 nestled so snuoiy in this retired nook that one 
 might well have fancied it to be the resting- 
 place of some recluse who had grown weary of 
 the world. 
 
 But no sign of weariness of the world would 
 have been found in the occupants of that little 
 white house on the fine May morning of which 
 we "^Tite. On the contrary, both master and 
 mistress were eager to quit this rural retreat and 
 see a little more of the restless world from which 
 their dwelling-place seemed so far away. They 
 sat — master and mistress — at each end of the 
 l3reakfast-table : the master, with a newspaper on 
 his knees and a letter in his hand ; the mistress 
 toying with a fragment of toast upon her plate. 
 Their little boy, a child of three years old, was 
 playing with a favourite setter upon the hearth- 
 rug. A fire burned in the grate, for the morn- 
 ing, though one of brilliant sunshine, was un- 
 deniably chilly. The child basked in the blaze 
 and talked to the dog. His voice was the only 
 one that had been heard for some minutes in the
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 room, for the father and mother had been silent 
 for the last quarter of an hour, and sat with 
 averted eyes and faces on which the traces of 
 care and vexation were sadly manifest. 
 
 It was the young man who at last looked u}) 
 and broke the silence. 
 
 "Come, Lucy," he said, "don't be angry. 
 You need not mind what people think. This 
 state of things will not last long." 
 
 ''But I do mind what people think!" she 
 broke out passionately. " Do you suppose when 
 I married you that I expected to keep our 
 marriage a secret for full four years % I have 
 risked everything for you ; and you care for me 
 so little that you will do nothing at all for me." 
 
 She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and 
 began to sob. Something in the very violence 
 of her emotion seemed to grate upon her 
 husband's ear. A keen observer might have 
 said, indeed, that the momentary frown upon 
 his forehead was caused by a certain lack of 
 refinement and self-control, which made itself 
 evident in the raised tones of her voice and the 
 excitement of her manner. But Gaston Eavens- 
 croft's frown very speedily faded, and was sue-
 
 A^^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 ceeded by a gentler look. He could never be 
 long angry with her. In fact it was difficult for 
 any one to be long angry with Lucy Eavens- 
 croft, for she was a young woman with a striking 
 and rather pathetic style of beauty, which gener- 
 ally softened the hearts of those who were most 
 ill disposed towards her. And her husband was 
 no more insensible to the charm of her loveliness 
 than to the appeal made to his pity by her tears. 
 At the same time he was inclined to say to him- 
 self that she was unjust when she accused him 
 of risking nothing for her sake. He thought 
 that he had risked a good deal. For the world 
 called him a proud man ; and yet he had married 
 his mother's waiting -maid, and then carefully 
 concealed the marriage. 
 
 His dark handsome face, with its boldly- 
 marked features, heavy moustache, and stern 
 black brows, from beneath which a pair of fine 
 dark eyes looked somewhat scornfully and 
 stormily out upon the world, wore no well- 
 pleased expression as Lucy poured forth her 
 complaints. He said nothing at first, but moved 
 the papers before him restlessly with his right 
 hand as she proceeded.
 
 HUSBAND AXD WIFE. 
 
 " It will kill me, Gaston ! This secrecy, these 
 years of waiting ! What do you hope to get by 
 it ? Why should we not let everybody know, 
 and face the storm that would follow ? Are you 
 afraid of what your mother and your brother 
 will say ? Are you afraid of what the world 
 will say ? Oh ! why did you marry me at all if 
 you are so ashamed of me ?" A fresh burst of 
 tears completed her appeal. 
 
 ]\Ir. Eavenscroft threw himself back in his 
 chair with a movement of impatience, but his 
 face expressed perplexity rather than displeasure. 
 
 " Be reasonable, Lucy," he said. " This ar- 
 rangement will not last much longer ; and you 
 know that it was made with your own consent." 
 
 '* Yes, years ago," said Lucy passionately ; 
 " years ago, when I was a mere child, and did 
 not understand the view that all the world would 
 take of my position. You took me abroad, and 
 I heard nothing — saw nothing — but what you 
 chose me to see and hear. It was only when 
 baby came that I began to understand ; and as 
 soon as we set foot in England, I knew — I " 
 
 " Shall I take you back to Italy 1" said her 
 husband in a low voice.
 
 AAT OPEN FOE. 
 
 " No ; why should I go to Italy ? I want to 
 have my own place at home ; I want the people 
 at Netherby to know that I am your wife. What 
 must they all think of me now? My foster- 
 mother, and poor Davy, who was like a brother 
 to me — I must have broken their hearts long 
 ago. Oh, Gaston, be good to me ; show me that 
 you love me !" 
 
 '' It seems," said Gaston, with a flash of his 
 eyes, " that you prefer the good opinion of Mrs. 
 Kowe and her son, the fiddler, to your husband's 
 welfare. Have I not told you a hundred times 
 that I must wait until I am indejDendent of my 
 people at home before I can tell them about our 
 marriage ? You never troubled me concerning it 
 until our return to England six months ago. I 
 wish to heaven that we had stayed in Italy !" 
 
 "Ah, yes !" cried Lucy, with resentful indig- 
 nation — "that you might not have to think 
 about your wife's rights and your wife's position. 
 They did not matter — in Italy ; she never 
 claimed them there." 
 
 " And who has been suggesting to you that 
 you should claim them here ?" asked Mr. Eavens- 
 croft sternly. " You had not these notions before
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 our return, as you confess. Who lias been talk- 
 ing to you, Lucy ? " 
 
 Her face crimsoned, but her eyes did not fall 
 beneath the keen gaze with which he confronted 
 her. 
 
 ''Nobody has been talking to me," she said. 
 
 '•' I don't believe you/' he answered with 
 sharp directness. Then he tossed away his 
 papers, rose, and approached her. '' Come," he 
 said, putting his hands on her shoulders and 
 compelling her to turn towards him, "tell me 
 who it is. Some meddling fool, no doubt; let 
 me hear." 
 
 " No one has been talking to me," she re- 
 peated. 
 
 •'* Somebody has been writing to you then, eh ? 
 I am right this time, it seems, from the flame in 
 your cheeks. %yhat a wretched quibble ! " he 
 added, with a distinct note of anger in his voice, 
 as he released her and walked to the fireplace, 
 where he rested his elbow on the mantelpiece 
 and looked down upon his boy. '•' Why must a 
 woman always have a mystery, I wonder ?" 
 
 " My mystery is nothing to the one you are 
 making," she said defiant! v. '* I w^ould not con-
 
 AiY OPEN FOE. 
 
 ceal the fact of my marriage for a day if I had 
 my own way." 
 
 " No, you w^ould prefer to ruin me." 
 
 She tried to look haughtily offended, but her 
 lip quivered. Gaston however did not glance 
 tow^ards her. He held out his hand to the little 
 boy who was now clinging to his knee, and 
 babbling baby nonsense to him in an undertone. 
 Lucy suddenly rose and pressed her hands to 
 her ears. 
 
 '' What a noise the child makes ! " she said 
 irritably. *' If you are not going to listen to me 
 anv lono'cr, Gaston " 
 
 " Pardon me : I am not only going to listen 
 to you, but to say something which will require 
 your closest attention," said her husband in a 
 tone of dry courtesy. " If you will kindly wait 
 for one moment I will take Bertie to his nurse. 
 He is rather too old now to listen to the wrang- 
 ling of his parents." 
 
 He stooped down and took the child into his 
 arms. The boy shouted with delight : his little 
 hands were thrust into his father's short black 
 locks, and his little feet drummed gaily on his 
 father's broad chest as he was carried from the
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 room. But his joy was changed to wailing when 
 he found that he w^as consigned to his nurse's 
 care after an unusually short ride. With both 
 little arms he clung to his father's neck ; it was 
 with some difficulty, and after repeated and 
 tender embraces, that Gaston disengaged himself 
 " I'll come back soon ; be a man, Bertie ; don't 
 cry," he said. " I must go and talk to mamma." 
 
 His manner with the child was wonderfully 
 soft and caressing: he had no imperious ways 
 with Bertie, though he mio^ht be lavish of them 
 in his intercourse Tsith other people. Lucy 
 Eavenscroft, sitting alone where he had left her, 
 said to herself with a touch of added bitterness : 
 
 " There is no question about his love for the 
 child. The only doubt is whether he has any 
 love for me. If he had, he could bear to sacri- 
 fice a little money for my sake." 
 
 When Gaston Eavenscroft returned he saw 
 from her face and attitude that she was in no 
 compliant mood. His own brow grew dark as 
 he took up a position on the hearthrug and 
 addressed her. 
 
 '* The sooner we come to an understanding 
 the better, Lucy. We have been married some
 
 10 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 time, and I don't see why you should have so 
 completely changed your tone during the last 
 few months with respect to your position. For 
 four years you have been my wife. If I have 
 not chosen to write to my mother and my 
 brother about you, or to take you to Netherby, 
 I have acted only out of consideration for you. 
 If I tell them, don't you know what will happen? 
 My mother has unlimited control over her own 
 fortune : I am entirely dependent upon her ; 
 and she would never give me another penny if 
 she knew of our marriage. I am sorry if this 
 sounds brutal ; but it is the truth." 
 
 " In fact," said his wife, without looking at 
 him, ''we are living on an income obtained on 
 false pretences. I should prefer honest poverty 
 if I were you." 
 
 A red flush mounted to Gaston's forehead ; 
 he had some difficulty in answering calmly. 
 
 '' I wish that I had told my mother from the 
 beginning," he said. " But you know the cir- 
 cumstances as well as I do. I am taking from 
 her hands only what my father left me by the 
 will which he never signed. It would be mere 
 cruel caprice if she deprived me of it — and yet
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 11 
 
 she has the legal power to do so, and would 
 doubtless use it if she had a fair excuse." He 
 spoke very bitterly. " I think it is hard enough 
 that I should have to accept it in this way with- 
 out your upbraiding me for the concealment of 
 our marriage, Lucy." 
 
 " If I were a man," said she with some sullen- 
 ness, '' I would have made a career for myself and 
 dispensed with my mother's help by this time. 
 I would have made myself free to tell the world 
 that I had a son, even if I did not wish to acknow- 
 ledge the boy's mother." 
 
 " And pray, what more could I do than 1 have 
 done ? " said Gaston, a dangerous gleam appear- 
 ing in his eyes. " As long as I lived abroad I 
 scarcely touched my mother's money ; I spent 
 my own, and hoped that I should get some ap- 
 pointment which would keep me. But now I 
 have nothing to do, and I have spent my own 
 paltry two thousand — how can we live without 
 my mother's money ? As soon as I can — that is, 
 as soon as I get some work — I will make a clean 
 breast of it and give up all the Netherby connec- 
 tion, Lucy ; but till then, for your own sake, I 
 mean to say nothing."
 
 12 AK OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Then I shall tell the truth. I Avill not be a 
 mark for slander and ignominy any longer." 
 
 " If you were slandered I should be the first 
 to protect you ; but you are not slandered," said 
 Gaston coolly. " Just look at the facts of the 
 case. My mother and I seldom corresponded when 
 1 was abroad : in that obscure little place where 
 we lived we saw nobody who would think it 
 worth while to inform her of your existence. 
 And here — in an equally obscure place — our very 
 name is unknown. My letters are forwarded to 
 me under cover from London. How can slander 
 be busy about you ? The thing is impossible. 
 Nobody knows that I am here : nobody guesses 
 that you are here with me. Just keep quiet, and 
 when the proj)er time comes I will take care that 
 you receive the treatment due to you as my 
 mfe." 
 
 ''You say that nobody knows that you are 
 here," said Lucy quickly. ''Do you call Cap- 
 tain Harcourt nobody ? " 
 
 "Is it Captain Harcourt that I have to thank 
 for the change in your manner towards me ? " 
 Gaston asked in the iciest of tones. 
 
 "No." But Lucy blushed and hesitated.
 
 HUSBAND AXD WIFE, 13 
 
 '•'He seemed so surprised — when he came 
 first/' she added in a low voice. " I did not 
 like it." 
 
 '' He shall not come here again," 
 
 " Oh yes, he shall — he must. You cannot for- 
 bid him the house." 
 
 " I both can and will." 
 
 "You do everything you can to make me 
 miserable ! " said Mrs. Ravenscroft, suddenly 
 burying her face in her hands and bursting into 
 tears. " I wish that I was back in old Hester 
 Eowe's cottage or at work on your mother's 
 dresses : I was far happier then than I am now." 
 
 Gaston looked at her with a frown of despair- 
 ing bewilderment. A woman would have seen 
 at a glance that Lucy was far from strong, and 
 that her present state of mind and body was one 
 that required careful management. But Gaston 
 Ravenscroft had no clue to the reason for her 
 bursts of temper and hysterical passion : she was 
 sensitively reticent on the subject of her bodily 
 ailments, and left him to conclude that she was 
 losing the gentleness and good humour which had 
 always characterised her in earlier days. He even 
 fancied that she was weeping over the banish-
 
 14 AA^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 ment of Captain Harcourt — a friend of his own 
 who had recently appeared in the neighbourhood 
 and accidentally discovered Gaston's place of re- 
 sidence, and an angry frown disfigured his face 
 at this supposition. 
 
 " What is it that you do want 1 " he said 
 rather bitterly. '' My mother's recognition ? 
 What good would it do you ? It is no use cry- 
 ing, Lucy ; I can't do anything at present. I 
 should bring a crowd of duns down on my head 
 if they knew that I had married, and all hope of 
 help from Netherby would be gone. Wait till I 
 get an appointment. I have one promised. It is 
 only a question of weeks now." 
 
 " I have waited long enough. I will wait no 
 longer." 
 
 " Indeed ! And pray what will you do ? " 
 
 '* I will write to your mother myself I will 
 write to the Kowes." 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind." 
 
 " I will." She raised her head and looked 
 him defiantly in the face. '^ I will either have 
 the marriage declared, or I will leave you 
 altogether." 
 
 Gaston shrugged his shoulders. " I wish you
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 15 
 
 would not talk like a fool, Lucy," he said, in a 
 tone which showed that this threat was not now 
 made for the first time. " I'll do what I can ; 
 but you must have patience." 
 
 " No," she answered him ; "I am tired of 
 having patience. I sometimes think that you 
 mean to keep me in the background all your life. 
 Why do you treat me in this way \ I have not 
 made a mistake, have I ? I am your wife, Gaston % 
 AMiy can you not say so to the w^orld ? " 
 
 " Good heavens I " said Gaston, movino^ im- 
 patiently to the door ; "' am I continually to 
 rehearse the reasons for my conduct, Lucy \ 
 You know them as well as I do. You seem to 
 have exceedingly little trust in me when you 
 speak in this way. Now understand, once and 
 for all, that I will hear no more of this nonsense. 
 Of course if you choose to ruin me for life you 
 can do so ; but in that case " 
 
 " Well, in that case ? " she said, rising as 
 he laid his hand upon the door - handle, and 
 advancing a step or two towards him with 
 crimsoning cheeks and flashing eyes: "suppos- 
 ing that I do tell the truth and ruin you — as 
 vou call it — what then ? "
 
 16 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 He paused for a moment. She had. roused 
 his temper, never a very placable one, and there 
 was a dangerous look upon his face — the look of 
 a man whose impulses were uncontrolled, and 
 whose will had seldom been resisted. 
 
 *•' In that case," he said sternly, "the less you 
 ventured into my presence afterwards the better. 
 I would never speak to you again." 
 
 Then he went out, shutting the door sharply 
 ])ehind him. He was hot, angry, excited : it 
 took him full three-quarters of an hour's smoking 
 and walking over the downs to bring him back 
 to a ofentler frame of mind. But at last he 
 acknowledged to himself that, although Lucy 
 had been provoking, she had had right upon her 
 side, and he was sorry for his harsh words to 
 her. If she disobeyed him a thousand times he 
 knew that he should forgive her after all. His 
 declaration that he would never speak to her 
 again if she told her story was a mere expression 
 of anger which she must take for what it was 
 worth. She understood him and she loved him. 
 He would go back to the house and make it up 
 with her. But he could not risk the future for 
 the sake of a woman's whim, he told himself.
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 17 
 
 He was sorry now that he had not made his 
 marriage known from the beginning ; he had 
 never meant the concealment to last so long, 
 but since the secret had been kept until now, he 
 must not precipitate matters by divulging it 
 too suddenly. 
 
 He knew afterwards that to have made a 
 secret at all of his marriage had been a great — 
 in some respects a fatal — error. Deceit had 
 been very easy in the first instance, but it was 
 not so easy to rid himself of its consequences. 
 He paid dearly in after years for his mistake. 
 
 He had turned homewards, but was yet 
 distant from his house, when a boy from the 
 railway -station met him and delivered a tele- 
 gram which had just arrived. He found that it 
 was from an old colleo'e friend who besoug;ht 
 him to come at once to London, as he had 
 secured for him an interview with an ofiicial 
 personage which might be of great service to 
 him. The inter^^ew, however, was fixed for 
 that afternoon, and he must start at once if he 
 wished to avail himself of the opportunity. 
 
 ]\Ir. Eavenscroft consulted a time-table card, 
 and found that he had only a quarter of an hour 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 AJ^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 in which to catch the train. An explanation 
 with Lucy was impossible. He conld but send 
 her a message and make the best of his way to 
 town. He wrote a few words on the blank leaf 
 of a note-book, and gave it to the boy with a 
 shilling, telling him to deliver that paper at once 
 to the lady at the cottage. The boy promised 
 to take the note ; and Gaston set off for the 
 railway-station with an easy mind. 
 
 He caught the London train. But the boy 
 to whom his written message had been confided 
 happened to meet a friend, in whose company 
 the shilling was rapidly expended upon apples 
 and ginger-beer ; and at the close of the re]3ast 
 the folded scrap of paper was mysteriously 
 missing. Master Bob Stokes had managed to 
 lose it on the way ; and Lucy Eavenscroft never 
 received her husband's letter.
 
 CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 DESERTED. 
 
 When Mr. Eavenscroft had left the house, his 
 wife drew a letter from her pocket and began to 
 pore over it with curious intentness. His guess 
 had been in the main correct: somebody had been 
 writing to her and putting into her mind sus- 
 picions that would never have entered it of their 
 owTi accord. But she could not have told him 
 the name of her correspondent, for she did not 
 know it. The letter was an anonymous one, and 
 it was one of a series which she had received at 
 intervals since her return to England. They 
 had always been delivered to her by hand when 
 Gaston was out; and the messenger had generally 
 been either a child or a labouring man, who pro- 
 fessed to know nothing of the person from whom 
 the letters came.
 
 20 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 The circumstances of Gaston's marriage may 
 here be briefly told. He was the second son of a 
 large landholder in Lincolnshire, who died when 
 his two boys were mere children. Their mother 
 had speedily married again, — this time a certain 
 Baron Waldstein, with whom she lived for many 
 years at Vienna, — and the boys were left at 
 school, spending their holidays with a cousin of 
 their mother, a Mr. Hervey, whose residence 
 was close to their own. In course of time Philip 
 Ravenscroft, the elder of the brothers, grew up, 
 took the management of afi*airs into his own 
 hands, and married. Gaston, who had been left 
 with next to no fortune more from accident than 
 design, lived a somewhat idle life in London when 
 his school -days were over, in the hope of a 
 vaguely-promised appointment which never came, 
 and seldom visited Eavenscroft Hall, his brother's 
 house at Netherby. His mother, however, being 
 again widowed and partially disabled by a slight 
 paralytic seizure, returned to her old home in 
 Lincolnshire, and Gaston felt it his duty to 
 present himself sometimes to her notice. He 
 never got on well with her ; she seemed to 
 reserve all her afl'eetion for her elder son, Philip;
 
 DESERTED. 21 
 
 but he tried hard to be patient and respectful, 
 even when she tried his tem23er, as she often did, 
 by contemptuous gibes at his awkwardness, his 
 roughness, his want of savoir faire. In return 
 she made him an allowance, without which he 
 would have found it singularly hard to meet his 
 expenses. For Gaston Kavenscroft was a man 
 who contrived to get through a great deal of 
 money without much to show for it at the end. 
 
 During one of his visits to Netherby he 
 formed a slight acquaintance with a very pretty 
 village girl named Lucy Moore. She had been 
 brought up by a woman of half- gipsy origin, 
 named Hester Eowe ; but her parents — simple, 
 honest people — had lived and died as small 
 tradesfolk in Netherby. Gaston had known 
 Hester Eowe and her lame son Davy, who 
 played the violin and mended shoes, and pretty 
 Lucy Moore herself for years ; but he was specially 
 attracted to the girl in her bloom of seventeen, 
 and was half vexed, half pleased, when he found 
 that she had accepted the situation of lady's maid 
 to his mother. He saw her daily : he fell in love 
 with her and she with him; and in the end she 
 went away with him, and they were married at
 
 22 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 an obscure little church in London when she was 
 barely eighteen and he was twenty-one. 
 
 It was essential to Gaston's plans that nobody- 
 should know of his marriage. Everybody believed 
 that Lucy had been led by him to leave her home, 
 and for a time there was a buzz of excitement 
 and sus23icion in the village ; but Gaston stayed 
 away until the rumours subsided, and refused 
 to answer any questions respecting Lucy's fate. 
 When his relations cjuestioned him on the subject 
 he even gave them clearly to understand that his 
 business was not theirs, and that he would tell 
 them nothing either about Lucy or about him- 
 self. 
 
 His mother was not difficult to silence. He 
 knew that he could not blind her ; her shrewd 
 and cynical eyes saw through all his evasions ; 
 but she did not pester him mth questions. As 
 he had reason to think in later years, what the 
 Baroness Waldstein wished to know she would 
 learn for herself by fair means or by foul, with 
 his permission or without it. It was possible 
 that she knew the whole story from beginning to 
 end, even when Gaston flattered himself that he 
 was most sedulouslv hiding it from her. But
 
 DESERTED. 23 
 
 if she knew it, she knew also how to hokl her 
 peace. 
 
 He took his wife away with him to Italy soon 
 after the marriage. He never meant to keep it 
 a secret for very long ; he believed himself sure of 
 an appointment which should lift him above the 
 necessity of consulting the wishes of his family : 
 but months and years went on, and the oppor- 
 tunity of declaring his marriage never came. In 
 Italy he almost forgot that such a declaration 
 was a duty; but as soon as they returned to 
 England Lucy began, for the first time, to mani- 
 fest an eager desire to assume her position in 
 public as his wife, and to see her boy acknow- 
 ledged as Gaston Eavenscroft's lawful son. And 
 this desire had been first created and then 
 stimulated by the succession of anom^nous 
 letters which had come into her hands ; letters 
 which suggested horrible suspicions of Gaston's 
 good faith, and caused her to display towards 
 him at times an amount of bitterness and jealous 
 feeling of which she herself was afterwards 
 ashamed. 
 
 She longed above all things to let it be known 
 at Netherby that she was Gaston's wife. There
 
 24 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 were her own people, as she still fondly called 
 them, Hester Eowe and Davy the cripple, for 
 whom she entertained a warm and yearning 
 affection. She had been allowed to enter into 
 no correspondence with them since the day of 
 her departure from the village, and she longed 
 to set their minds at rest concerning her fate. 
 There were the Baroness whom she had served, 
 and Philip Kavenscroft her son ; both of these 
 had treated her with a cold distrust and haughti- 
 ness of manner, which it still made her cheeks 
 burn to remember. Philip Eavenscroft's wife, 
 Felicia, had been gentle and kind enough ; but 
 of her Lucy was perhaps more afraid than of the 
 Baroness. She felt also that she should like to 
 justify herself and Gaston in Mr. Hervey's eyes. 
 He was a man of cold smooth ways and tones, 
 a man whom Gaston deeply disliked; and yet 
 Lucy knew, by instinct, that her husband felt 
 lowered in his own eyes by his inability to ex- 
 plain away the suspicions which Eichard Hervey 
 — his cousin and former guardian — had con- 
 ceived of him. 
 
 But it was only since her arrival in England 
 that Lucy had had such thoughts as these. In
 
 DESERTED. 25 
 
 Italy she liad been as happy and contented as a 
 child. But those peaceful days of her early 
 married life were past ; she had changed from a 
 trustful girl into an exacting and imperious 
 woman. It was her love for her boy rather 
 than mere womanly pride that worked this 
 chano-e; but the chang;e was a great one and 
 was destined to lead to sad results. 
 
 As she sat alone after Gaston's departure, she 
 drew forth once more the last letter that she 
 had received from her unkno^Ti correspondent, 
 and pondered over it with aching heart and 
 burning eyes. 
 
 *' You have not then prevailed V — so ran the 
 words. " You have not persuaded Gaston 
 Eavenscroft to acknowledge you as his wife ? 
 No, and you never will. He keeps you in the 
 background, because he is ashamed of your birth 
 and your want of education ; and if you do not 
 stand up for your own rights nobody else will. 
 If he were to die, what proofs have you to show 
 his family that he ever made you his wife 
 at all?" 
 
 Lucy meditated much over these last words. 
 She scarcely realised the value of a marriage
 
 26 AA^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 certificate or of the register kept in the parish 
 where her marriage had taken place ; but she 
 had a vague notion that her ''lines," as she 
 called them, were in Gaston's possession, — not in 
 her own, — and that if she could find them, they 
 would give her greater confidence in her position. 
 She rose tremblingly from her seat and began to 
 wonder whether Gaston carried them upon his 
 person or whether they were in his desk, of 
 which the keys had been that morning carelessly 
 flung upon the dressing-table. She resolved to 
 ascertain this fact for herself. 
 
 Her suspicions of Gaston were entirely un- 
 founded. He had acted with utter recklessness 
 in the first instance, as he always did when he 
 set his heart upon any object ; and his first reck- 
 less act had, in his opinion, needed concealment. 
 It was this concealment that troubled and per- 
 plexed him now as much as it fretted Lucy, but 
 in a difi'erent way. He knew that there would 
 never be any difficulty in proving the legality of 
 the marriage whether he were alive or dead : he 
 had made every provision for the establishment 
 of his wife's position when she or he should find 
 it necessary to put forward her claim ; but he
 
 DESERTED. 27 
 
 never thought of saying so to her. He could 
 not have believed that Lucy would suspect him 
 of a dishonourable motive for his silence. He 
 thought that she had perfect trust in him — and 
 he was mistaken. 
 
 The papers that Lucy sought were easily 
 found. They were placed in a secret drawer, 
 which he himself had shown her how to open. 
 She took them out — precious papers they were 
 to her — the certificate of her marriage, of the 
 boy's birth and baptism, and with them a lock 
 of Bertie's hair when he was yet a baby, and a 
 withered rose which she herself had given to her 
 husband years ago. These relics failed to soften 
 her as they ought to have done. She put back 
 the rose and the lock of hair with hurried, 
 trembling fingers, but she kept the papers in 
 her own possession. Then she went downstairs 
 again, feeling less anxious than before, but more 
 than ever resolved to insist upon her rights. 
 
 She waited indoors for Gaston. She expected 
 him to come to her subdued and penitent and 
 wretched, as was his wont after a quarrel. But 
 time passed on, and Gaston did not return. At 
 noon she began to feel uneasy. When the
 
 28 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 luncheon hour arrived and he was still absent, 
 she felt not only uneasy but afraid. She had 
 never known him to be so angry before as to 
 stay away from her for three hours at a time. 
 
 Gaston, as we know, was already well on his 
 way to London. The telegraph boy, having 
 finished his game and spent his shilling, was 
 bethinking himself of the paper which he had 
 been charged to deliver at the little house in the 
 hollow, and was becoming somewhat alarmed at 
 the discovery that the paper was altogether 
 missing. And Mrs. Eavenscroft was working 
 herself up into a tempest of rage and grief and 
 suspicion, which would neither let her eat nor 
 sit still nor behave like any rational creature 
 at all. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon she departed 
 from her usual custom so far as to w\ilk to 
 Elmstone, a distance of two miles, in order to 
 see for herself whether he might not be strolling 
 about the streets or sitting in the public reading- 
 room. But he was, of course, nowhere to be 
 seen. Then, as the afternoon drew to a close, 
 she wended her weary way to the railway- station 
 and made cautious inquiries of the clerk and
 
 DESERTED. 29 
 
 porters. Had they tliat day seen the gentleman 
 who lived at the Laurels ? What was he like \ 
 Oh, a very tall gentleman, with a black mous- 
 tache ; very good-looking. His name? Mr. 
 Croft. Yes, they had seen Mr. Croft (for this 
 was the name under which Gaston was known in 
 the neighbourhood); he had taken the uji train 
 to town at 11.15. He would be at Victoria 
 station by one o'clock. 
 
 Lucy's limbs almost gave way beneath her as 
 she heard these w^ords. She was obliged to go 
 into the waiting; -room and drink some water 
 before she could turn her face homewards. 
 Gaston's sudden departure was entirely inex- 
 plicable to her, save on the ground of deep 
 displeasure T\ith her proceedings. If she had 
 had his note she would easily have understood 
 the whole matter ; but, as neither note nor 
 message reached her, she had no clue to any 
 reason for his disappearance. She cried bitterly 
 as she made her way across the wind-swept 
 downs ; and when she arrived at the house she 
 was so much exhausted, so wan and worn by 
 fatigue and tears and hunger (for she had tasted 
 nothing since the morning, and had walked for
 
 30 A.V OPEN FOE. 
 
 some hours), that she was already the mere ghost 
 of her ordinary self. 
 
 About eight o'clock in the evening a ring at 
 the front door made her start up nervously. It 
 could not be Gaston; he would never ring to 
 announce his coming ; but it might be a letter or 
 a message that would explain everything. She 
 dared not rush to the door ; she stood erect in 
 the middle of the room, her hands clasped, her 
 face white, her eyes strained and gleaming — a 
 sad yet lovely picture of expectation and distress 
 at which the entering visitor stood amazed, — for 
 it was nobody at all but Captain Harcourt, the 
 young man who had claimed Gaston Eavens- 
 croft's acquaintance, and had been to some extent 
 taken into his confidence. 
 
 As he paused near the door, Lucy made a sud- 
 den movement which brought her close to the sofa, 
 on which little Bertie was reposing in the serene 
 soft sleep of childhood. The mother had felt that 
 she could not bear to be alone ; she had brought 
 her boy downstairs from his crib and tucked him 
 up warmly and safely in a corner of the old- 
 fashioned broad flat couch. She stood with her 
 hand upon the cushions that formed his pillow
 
 DESERTED. 31 
 
 and looked — not at Harcourt, but beyond him, 
 as though she expected to see him followed by 
 another. But Captain Harcourt was alone. 
 
 '^ Why — why have you come?" were the words 
 that rose to Lucy's lips. " You have bad news, 
 bad news of Gaston ? '' 
 
 The young man's face expressed genuine as- 
 tonishment and dismay. 
 
 '•' Bad news ! " he stammered. '• Bad news, 
 Mrs. Eavenscroft ! I have no news at all." 
 
 '•' Not of Gaston ? Have you not seen 
 him ? Have you heard nothing of him at 
 all?" 
 
 •'•'Yes," said Harcourt with an embarrassed 
 laugh ; " I have certainly seen something of him, 
 but he seemed well enough as far as I could judge. 
 He " 
 
 "Where did you see him?" she interposed, 
 with an eager light in her eyes. 
 
 '•' Well, I have just come up from Queens- 
 borough myself," said the young fellow, speaking 
 confusedly, for he had a vague sense that every- 
 thing was going wrong in the Eavenscroft house- 
 hold, and began to feel very sorry that he had 
 ventured to call on pretty Mrs. Eavenscroft that
 
 32 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 evening. *' Just come from Queensborough, and 
 knowing that you would be alone, I " 
 
 *^ And liow did you know that I should be 
 alone '?" said Lucy, growing whiter than she had 
 even been before. 
 
 " Knew ! Oh, why, Mrs. Eavenscroft, I did 
 not think that your husband could fly back from 
 the Continent on the wings of the wind ! I saw 
 him on board, you know," said the young man, 
 was^o-ino; his honest foolish head at the anxious 
 wife, with a smile that looked to her like one of 
 mockery, though it was in reality only one of 
 sheer awkwardness and confusion, *' on board the 
 Flushing boat " 
 
 "The Flushing boat!" It seemed to Lucy 
 that the room was growing dark, that Captain 
 Harcourt's voice was strangely distant, and 
 that the floor was shaking beneath her feet ; 
 but she only looked towards the bearer of 
 ill tidings with a ghastly sort of smile, and 
 vaguely repeated his last words. '* The Flush- 
 ing boat?" she said. "Yes — the Flushing 
 boat!" 
 
 " He said you knew that he would be away — 
 that you were not expecting him to return,"
 
 DESERTED. 33 
 
 Captain Harcourt proceeded uncertainly. "He 
 said yon knew all about it " 
 
 " Oh yes," said Lucy from between her gasp- 
 ing lips. " Of course I knew — I " 
 
 She did not finish the sentence. She gave a 
 little cry and fell doTVTi upon the floor beside 
 Bertie's couch, and lay there, a tumbled heap of 
 white clothes, and a face as white as they. For 
 the moment Captain Harcourt thought that she 
 was dead. 
 
 An unexpected thing had happened to Gaston 
 Eavenscroft. His interview with the great 
 ofiicial personage had terminated very satisfac- 
 torily, and when he came away from Downing 
 Street he began to please himself with the reflec- 
 tion that he should soon be completely independ- 
 ent of help from his relations, and that he could 
 therefore make known his marriao'e with Lucv. 
 He turned into his club in order to see whether 
 any letters were waiting for him, and there he 
 found not only letters but a telegram. He tore 
 it open, and read the message with surprise, 
 succeeded by alarm and sorrow. It was from his 
 sister-in-law, Felicia Eavenscroft. She tele- 
 graphed from Wiesbaden, whither she wdth her 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 husband had gone for a few weeks' holiday. 
 Philip Kavenscroft had been thrown from his 
 horse and injured so seriously that his life could 
 hardly be prolonged over the morrow. Gaston 
 was entreated to come at once to Wiesbaden if he 
 wished to see Philip again alive. 
 
 There was just time, he found, to make 
 hasty preparations for a journey, and to catch 
 the train to Queensborough, whence a boat left 
 for Flushing that afternoon. He did not tele- 
 graph to Lucy, thinking that she knew already 
 of his visit to London, and that she would not 
 expect him for a couple of days. There was no 
 need to startle her by a telegram. He would 
 write a note to her whilst on board, and post it 
 as soon as he reached Flushing. He did not 
 know what other agencies were at work, nor how 
 his absence would be interpreted by the foolish, 
 jealous little heart of the woman whom he had left 
 behind. As it happened, he did not post his 
 letter until he reached Wiesbaden ; but this 
 additional delay mattered very little. The mis- 
 chief was done. 
 
 Philip Kavenscroft and his brother had never 
 been on intimate terms. Their natures wxre too
 
 DESERTED. 35 
 
 dissimilar to amalgamate. Philip was a man of 
 cold and cautious temperament — a dabbler in 
 art, a profound believer in the conventional 
 canons of society. He looked upon Gaston's 
 fiery and emotional nature with a feeling akin 
 to contempt, certainly with grave disapproval. 
 Nevertheless, Gaston, who had far more affection 
 for Philip than Philip had for him, was sincerely 
 distressed, and even overwhelmed by grief at 
 his elder brother's death, and at the desolation 
 brought upon the poor young widow with her 
 one little daughter. The bitterness of the be- 
 reavement was not in the slio^htest decree 
 alleviated to him by the fact that, as Philip 
 left no son, he was now the head of the house, and 
 master of the greater portion of the Eavenscroft 
 property. But for his wife and child he could 
 heartily have wished himself no gainer by his 
 brother's death ; but for them he would almost 
 have ofiered to hand over the estate to Mrs. 
 Philip Eavenscroft and little Olivia. It did 
 give him a thrill of relief (for which he angrily 
 l)lamed himself) to know that he need no longer 
 keep secret the history of his marriage. The 
 secrecy and deceit which had embittered his life
 
 36 AiV OPEN FOE. 
 
 for the last four years might now come to an 
 end. 
 
 He wrote two or three lines to Lucy, and was 
 surprised to receive no answer from her ; but he 
 was too much absorbed by the care of his sister- 
 in-law and the arrangements for Philip's funeral 
 to think very much about his wife's silence. 
 She was no great letter -writer at the best of 
 times : he would explain everything to her when 
 he returned to Elmstone. 
 
 Some days elapsed before that return took 
 place. Felicia could not be left alone : she was 
 already ill with grief and fatigue. Gaston 
 travelled with her to Netherby, and saw his 
 mother for a few minutes only before he went 
 back to London and thence to Elmstone. 
 
 He reached Elmstone at dusk. As he ap- 
 proached his own house he noticed that it pre- 
 sented a curiously desolate appearance; the 
 rooms were unlighted, and the gate was locked. 
 The solitary maid -servant came out to admit 
 him, and looked inquisitively into his face. 
 
 " Your mistress is in ?" Gaston said quickly. 
 
 ''Oh no, sir. She has not got back yet, sir, 
 you know."
 
 DESERTED. 37 
 
 " Not got back ? What do you mean ? " said 
 Gaston, with a sudden thrill of dismay. '' Where 
 has she gone*?" 
 
 '' I don't know, sir. She has not been here 
 for a fortnight." 
 
 •'•'A fortnight!" 
 
 '•' She left here with Master Bertie, sir, on the 
 day after you went away. I don't know where 
 she has gone. I thought that she went to you." 
 
 Gaston stood amazed. " Did she leave no 
 letter or message V^ he asked, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 " No, sir," said the maid, demurely observant 
 of his agitation. " She left no letter or message 
 for any one. She went to the railway -station 
 \^ithout any luggage except a little bag, — and 
 Captain Harcourt went ■s\dth her." 
 
 Gaston went to seek Captain Harcourt. But 
 he had vanished from the town, and left not a 
 trace behind.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 In Gaston's first frenzy of anger and astonish- 
 ment a terrible suspicion presented itself to his 
 mind. He thought that Lucy had run away 
 from him in company with a lover, and that this 
 lover was Edmund Harcourt. It need hardly 
 be said that this conjecture was founded upon 
 nothing in Lucy's previous conduct or character. 
 And Lucy's love for her husband had never been 
 greater than it was upon the day when she left 
 her home at Elmstone. 
 
 Captain Harcourt's information that Gaston 
 had left England, together with the absence of 
 any message or letter to that effect, made poor 
 Lucy believe one of two things : either that 
 Gaston was so much displeased ^dth her that he 
 had resolved to punish her by going abroad for
 
 THE WIFE. 39 
 
 a holiday without informing her of his intention 
 — an explanation much too simple to be readily 
 accepted by Lucy's fevered mind ; or (and for 
 this idea the anonymous letters were to blame) 
 that he had grown tired of her and meant never 
 to return. On recovering from the swoon into 
 which she had fallen upon hearing Captain Har- 
 court's words, she awoke to a sense of maddening 
 uncertainty. And, to make matters worse, on 
 the morning after Gaston's departure there came 
 for her, no letter from Gaston, but another of 
 those stinging unsigned communications which, 
 if she had been a sensible woman, she would 
 have thrown into the fire unread. But she was 
 not a sensible woman ; and she read the letter 
 with a feeling of pain and humiliation that 
 seemed to scorch her. 
 
 " Did you ever ask whether you had been 
 married properly at all \ This letter is from one 
 who wishes you well and is sorry to see you so 
 deceived. When Gaston Kavenscroft is away 
 from you he boasts of the trick he ]3layed you in 
 London. Mark my words ; you are not his 
 wife, and that is why he hides you from the 
 world. If he had really married you he would
 
 40 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 uot be so slow to acknowledge the fact. And, 
 unless you yourself do not feel sure about the 
 legality of the marriage, why do you not make it 
 known '? If you have any rights, claim them at 
 
 once." 
 
 " I idll claim them,"' said Lucy, turning very 
 white as she read the words. " I have been 
 foolish and weak. If those papers mean any- 
 thing, I am Gaston's wife ; and I will say so — 
 to his mother — to the Eowes — to every one. 
 We will have no more secrecy — for Bertie's 
 sake ! " 
 
 Forthwith she made her preparations. She 
 would go to Netherby, and she w^ould see the 
 Baroness herself She would tell her, and she 
 would tell her kind old friends the Eowes, and 
 Mr. Hervey at the Manor, and everybody else 
 whom it might concern, that she was Gaston's 
 wife. Thus, if it were not true, she would force 
 the truth from Gaston's lips. Thus she would 
 take her revenge upon him for his cruel conduct 
 in going away and leaving her without a word. 
 
 Captain Harcourt called to inquire after her 
 health when she was on the point of leaving the 
 house. He walked to the station with her,
 
 THE WIFE. 41 
 
 good-hiimouredly carrying Bertie, and taking the 
 railway ticket for her to London. It was then 
 only, seeing how ill and worn she looked, that 
 he invented an excuse for going up to London 
 by the same train, simply that he might be at 
 hand to assist his friend's wife if she should want 
 him. He did not travel in the same carriage 
 with her ; and Lucy w^as hardly conscious of 
 his intention until the train had started. At the 
 terminus he reappeared, ready to secure a cab 
 for her or do anything that she might need 
 doing. She was only eager for his departure ; 
 she did not w^ant anybody " to spy upon her," as 
 she expressed it to herself; and she w^as relieved 
 when she found herself and her boy in the cab, 
 with Captain Harcourt's honest, puzzled face 
 turned mutely tow^ards her from the pavement, 
 as she drove aw^ay to King's Cross Station. 
 
 When she reached the station and put her 
 liand into her pocket for her purse, she made the 
 startling discovery that she had lost it — probably 
 left it behind in the railway carriage. She had, 
 however, sufficient loose silver with her to pay 
 the cabman ; then she betook herself to the 
 ladies' waiting-room and counted the coins that
 
 42 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 remained. She found that she had enough 
 money to pay for a third-class ticket to a station 
 some five miles distant from Netherby. She 
 knew the station well ; she had often walked 
 from it to her own home in the days of her girl- 
 hood. She could walk that distance easily, she 
 considered, forgetting that what had seemed 
 easy in those days might be more difficult to her 
 now that she was a woman in delicate health, 
 with a child of three years old clinging to her 
 hand. Should she go forward, or should she go 
 back to Elmstone and await Gaston's return? 
 Ah, perhaps Gaston never would return ! She 
 would go on, at any cost, to Netherby. 
 
 But before she was far upon her way she re- 
 gretted her decision. She had not been well for 
 some weeks ; fatigue, anxiety, and exhaustion 
 now began to make themselves felt. From time 
 to time she grew sick and faint ; she began to 
 wonder how she should reach the end of the 
 journey, how she should walk those five long- 
 miles that lay between the station and the village 
 of Netherby. In Netherby itself she did not 
 think that she should want for friends or for 
 assistance.
 
 THE WIFE. 43 
 
 She was deadly pale when she left the carri- 
 aofe at the station to which she had taken her 
 ticket; her limbs trembled and her eyes were 
 dim. Bertie was crying wearily ; she spent her 
 last coin in some biscuits and a glass of milk for 
 him, drank some water herself and set out upon 
 her way. 
 
 For a time she felt stronger, and walked 
 rapidly. She left the high road for the grassy 
 lanes and meadows w^hich formed a ''' short cut '" 
 to Netherby ; she had ascertained at the station 
 that the way was unaltered still, and she knew 
 that she remembered every step of it. She 
 hastened therefore, for the afternoon was grow- 
 ing late and the clouds were gathering over- 
 head. She began to wish that she had left Bertie 
 behind. A storm would not hurt her : it might 
 frighten him and make him ill. The first few 
 drops of rain that fell aroused in her a sensation 
 of defeat and dismay which proved how greatly 
 she had lost heart since she set out that 
 morning. 
 
 She tried to hasten her footsteps. But she 
 was growing sadly exhausted : the feverish 
 strength which had at first animated her had
 
 44 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 given way, and she was conscious of bodily pain 
 and weakness. She sat down under a tree for a 
 little time, but soon rose and stumbled on for a 
 few paces, then seated herself again on the wet 
 grass, regardless of the pouring rain and of Bertie's 
 wailing cries. She began to understand how 
 much she had risked in this wild endeavour to 
 vindicate her rights. But now^ it was too late 
 to retrace her steps ; she must go on with the 
 work that she had begun — on to the very end. 
 
 Her progress was necessarily slow. She 
 walked a few steps only at a time and at long 
 intervals. It was wonderful that she did not 
 miss her way altogether or lie down by the way- 
 side and lapse into insensibility. There were 
 no buildings upon the road which she had chosen ; 
 and if there had been, it is doubtful whether she 
 would have found sufficient energy to ask for 
 help. How she managed to stagger on for nearly 
 five weary miles amidst the gathering darkness, 
 with a child crying at her side and the rain 
 beating in her face, could never be told. Cer- 
 tainly she achieved the greater part of her peril- 
 ous journey, for at ten o'clock that night she 
 was found lying in a lane near Netherby Church,
 
 THE WIFE. 45 
 
 not far from Mrs. Rowe's cottage, with Bertie at 
 her side. She had left the railway -station at 
 five o'clock in the afternoon. 
 
 The person who found her was a broad- 
 shouldered, undersized man, with a limp in his 
 walk. He was making his way along the lane 
 to Mrs. Rowe's lonely cottage, with a violin-case 
 slung upon his back and a thick stick in his 
 hand. He had a rough, ugly, thick-featured face, 
 a shock of dark hair, and a pair of dark deep-set 
 eyes, through Avhich looked out into the world as 
 true and loving and generous a soul as ever God 
 had made. This man had cherished a silent love 
 for Lucy from the days of her childhood ; and she 
 had tricked and abandoned him as soon as Gaston 
 Ravenscroft had become her lover. It was the 
 fiddler of whom Gaston had spoken contemptu- 
 ously to his wife — David Rowe, whose mother had 
 given her a home when she was left an orphan. 
 
 This man bent over her, thinking at first that 
 she was some beggar woman who had fallen in 
 the lane. Her clothes were so drenched with 
 rain and stained with mud that, indeed, she 
 looked no better than a tramp from the nearest 
 workhouse. Bertie roused himself from a semi-
 
 46 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 slumber, and began his despairing wail once 
 more. And then David Rowe saw the supposed 
 beggar woman's face and knew that it was the 
 face of the woman whom he had loved. 
 
 He uttered a wild, inarticulate cry, knelt 
 down beside her and began to chafe her cold 
 fingers and call her by her name. She moved a 
 little and moaned feebly, but did not open her 
 eyes. It was evident that she was quite un- 
 conscious, 
 
 David Eowe stopped rubbing her hands at last, 
 and looked into her w^hite drawn face. The rain- 
 drops fell upon it as he looked ; the wind whistled 
 in the branches of the elm-trees overhead. The 
 child, standing beside him, and clutching the 
 fiddler s arm as if in fear lest he should leave him 
 alone with his mother in the darkness and the 
 cold, burst forth once more into piteous sobs and 
 tears. 
 
 The man rose, shaking off the child's hand as 
 if he could not bear that touch. Then he man- 
 aged — not without difficulty, although he was of 
 great muscular strength — to lift the insensible 
 woman from the ground and carry her in his 
 arms for the few yards that intervened between
 
 THE WIFE. 47 
 
 her resting-place and Hester Rowe's cottage. The 
 little boy ran sobbing at his lieels ; David Rowe 
 took no notice of him as he strode along tlie 
 muddy lane, with the frail and precious burden 
 in his arms. 
 
 He struck a blow with his foot against the cot- 
 tage door. It was opened immediately by a gray- 
 haired woman, with a stern, handsome, old face, 
 singularly unlike his own. She held a candle in 
 her hand, and raised it so as to throw its light full 
 upon his face as she spoke to him. 
 
 " You ! " she said. " I had given you up for 
 to-night. You are late. What have you got 
 there ? " 
 
 " Lucy," he answered briefly. " Let us in." 
 
 The candle flickered. The woman's hand 
 trembled, but she resolutely barred the way. 
 
 " Take her back to the place where you found 
 her, and let her lie," she said, in harsh and bitter 
 tones. " I gave her up years ago — when she 
 gave us up ; there is no home for her here." 
 
 " Wherever my home is, hers shall be," said 
 her son sternly. " Turn her away and you turn 
 me away too." 
 
 " Is that her child ? " said Mrs. Rowe, catch-
 
 48 A.V OPEN FOE. 
 
 ing sight of the little boy. ''I expected as 
 much. Let them go to the workhouse, both of 
 them." 
 
 " Do you wish to see her die in my arms ? " 
 said David Eowe. " She's ill, she's poor, she's 
 in trouble ; let her in, or her blood will lie on 
 your head. Mother, you used not to be so hard on 
 those that had seen trouble. Let me bring her 
 in, or, by the Lord, you shall never see my face 
 again 1 " 
 
 His voice rose as he spoke, and Lucy writhed 
 and moaned in his arms as though she under- 
 stood. The old woman was silent for a moment, 
 then drew back from the door. 
 
 " You must have your way," she said, with a 
 kind of cold dignity. " Lucy Moore broke your 
 heart and ruined your life, as well as her own, 
 perhaps ; but now that she is homeless and friend- 
 less, as it seems, you must needs shelter her under 
 your roof, and share your last bit and sup with 
 her. Do as you please ; I will not say you nay." 
 
 Davy entered, and laid his burden gently 
 upon a bed that stood at one side of the dimly- 
 lighted room. The child followed him. Mrs. 
 Kowe shut the cottage door, and stirred up the
 
 THE WIFE. 49 
 
 embers of the fire. And thus did Lucy return 
 to the home that had been hers in days of 
 yore. 
 
 Mrs. Rowe did not long hesitate to help David 
 in his efforts for Lucy's restoration. She tried to 
 warm her hands and bring her back to conscious- 
 ness ; she warmed milk and food for the little 
 l)oy, and put him to bed ; but she did everything 
 with a grimness and a severity of aspect which 
 said little for any kindliness of feeling towards 
 the wanderers. When all her remedies had failed, 
 she said to her son, with the same dr}Tiess of 
 manner — 
 
 " You must go for the doctor. I can't do any- 
 thing more for her. She is very ill." 
 
 Davy started up and went out of the house 
 without a word of reply. 
 
 He returned after a time ^ith the doctor. By 
 this time the unconscious woman had been carried 
 into an inner room. Davy remained alone in 
 bitter anxiety and fear, which was by no means 
 dissipated when he heard the doctor's report. 
 Lucy was certainly very ill — dangerously ill, in 
 fact ; it was doubtful whether she could ever 
 recover the strain that she had put upon herself 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 during the last few hours. There was little 
 hope. 
 
 For three days Hester Rowe watched by Lucy's 
 bedside. She kept David out of the room for 
 the most part, much against his will ; but at 
 times he stole in for a few^ minutes and listened 
 with feelings of mingled rage and grief to the 
 incoherent words in which Lucy betrayed the 
 desolation of her owtl soul. Poor Lucy! her 
 words were gathered up and commented upon in 
 silence by two listeners who gave to them the 
 darkest interpretation that they could bear. 
 When she cried upon Gaston and besought him 
 not to leave her, not to be angry with her, not 
 to hide her from her friends, what could they do 
 but believe the worst of Gaston and the worst of 
 her ? She spoke of the letters that had told her 
 of "Gaston's falseness;" she talked vaguely of 
 his leaving her '' for ever ;" in short, she conveyed 
 to their minds the impression that she had been 
 abandoned and betrayed, and that she had wan- 
 dered back to Netherby in despair to take refuge 
 with her adopted mother and brother in the little 
 cottage by the churchyard gate. 
 
 " It will be better for her to die than to live,"
 
 THE WIFE. 51 
 
 Hester said once to her son in reply to his in- 
 quiries, and Davy assented with a groan. 
 
 Several times in her delirium it was noticed 
 that Lucy spoke of certain papers which she 
 wished to show ; and she would not be satisfied 
 until a little packet of paper, which the doctor 
 folded so as to satisfy her, was placed in her 
 hands. With this packet she seemed content. 
 Her own papers — the papers w^hich she had taken 
 from Gaston's desk — meanwhile lay in the long 
 grass beneath the trees, in the place where she 
 had been found, undiscovered and undisturbed. 
 They had been placed in a leathern case, and 
 were therefore to some degree protected from the 
 effects of exposure to the weather ; but unless 
 they were speedily reclaimed there was every 
 chance of their complete destruction. 
 
 The doctor's opinion was correct. On the 
 third day after her arrival at Netherby, Lucy 
 Ravenscroft lay cold and white and still upon 
 the truckle-bed to which she had been carried ; 
 and beside her, cold and white and still as she, 
 lay the infant who had breathed but for a few 
 minutes before it closed its eyes in the sleep of 
 death, into which its mother als(| fell. Lucy was 
 
 U, Of iLL LIB.
 
 52 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 dead. Gaston Kavenscroft, unconscious of his 
 bereavement, was far away in a foreign land ; 
 little Bertram, stunned and frightened into 
 silence by strange and hard surroundings, was 
 left alone with two persons who had, per- 
 haps not unreasonably under the circumstances, 
 a j)ositive aversion to his presence, and a 
 desire to rid themselves of him as soon as 
 possible. 
 
 David Rowe, a man of gentle and kindly 
 nature, tried hard to be tender in thought and 
 speech to the little lad ; but, in spite of himself, 
 he could hardly bear the sight of Lucy's child. 
 He had loved her for many years, and the thought 
 of her disgrace filled him with a greater woe than 
 the knowledge of her death. But Hester Rowe 
 was made of sterner stuff. She had loved Lucy 
 too, in a cold self-contained way, although Lucy 
 had been none of her own kith and kin, and she 
 was indisrnant in her heart because Lucv had 
 scorned her son David and brought herself to 
 shame which the old woman could not pardon. 
 Hester herself was of gipsy origin ; but she had 
 married a Scotchman of strict views, and al- 
 though she never adopted his religious principles,
 
 THE WIFE. 53 
 
 they had had an effect upon her. She was a 
 rigid believer in purity of life, and she had no 
 sympathy with Lucy in her apparent fall. The 
 child was an outcast, a disgrace ; and Hester 
 Kowe was by no means inclined to cherish it for 
 Lucy's sake, as a woman of a softer nature might 
 have been. Still less was she disposed to call 
 upon Gaston Ravenscroft to maintain his son. 
 " The less the child has to do with that bad man 
 the better," she said, grimly eying the sleeping 
 boy one evening, and speaking to David in cold 
 dry tones. " I will let him know that Lucy is 
 dead. If he wishes to make inquiry about the 
 boy, he can do so." 
 
 " Do you mean to keep the child here ?" said 
 David, looking up. 
 
 " I'll think about that after the funeral." 
 " I must go back to Stanger's to-morrow 
 evening," said the fiddler, with a depressed air. 
 Stanger was the name of a travelling theatrical 
 manager in whose troupe David was enrolled. 
 '* I can't stay any longer ; but if you want money 
 for the child, let me know from time to time, and 
 rU send it you. Netherby won't see me again 
 for many a long day."
 
 54 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 " I shall not want any money," said Mrs. 
 Kowe. 
 
 There was a look of dark purpose upon her 
 face, which made her son restless and uneasy ; 
 but he did not ask what his mother meant to do 
 with the little waif and stray.
 
 CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 THE CHILD. 
 
 Lucy Eavensceoft and her baby were buried in 
 Netherby cliurchyard a week after her flight 
 from Elmstone. David Eowe went back to his 
 duties on the evening after the funeral. Little 
 Bertram was left upon Hester's hands, and she 
 found him a heavy burden. But she speedily 
 took means to rid herself of it. 
 
 She heard of the bereavement that had fallen 
 upon the Eavenscrofts. She heard that Gaston 
 Eavenscroft would now become the head of the 
 house : she knew that he would be rich and 
 powerful; and she deliberated with herself for 
 a time as to whether she would not appeal to 
 him to take the child into his care. But Lucy's 
 words on her dying bed seemed to show that 
 Gaston had cast off both her and her child, and
 
 56 AJiT OPEN FOE. 
 
 Mrs. Eowe thought it unlikely in that case that 
 he would acknowledge his paternity. She was 
 not eager to do anything either for the child's 
 o[ood or for Gaston Eavenscroft's satisfaction; 
 but she resolved that he should know at least 
 what Lucy's fate had been. With this intent, 
 she wrote a short letter to him, which ran as 
 follows : — 
 
 " SiE — Lucy Moore and her infant died at 
 my house on the 20th of May, and were buried 
 in Netherby churchyard. The little boy remains 
 with me ; but if he is not soon claimed by his 
 friends, I shall send him to Mickleham Work- 
 house. I have no desire to bring up another 
 child, as I brought up Lucy Moore, to repay 
 kindness with ingratitude. — Hester Eowe." 
 
 She sent this epistle up to Eavenscroft Hall, 
 and waited for a reply. A week passed before 
 any notice was taken of it. As a matter of fact 
 she did not expect it to be answered until Mr. 
 Eavenscroft returned to Netherby ; and it was 
 a full fortnight before he brought Mrs. Philip 
 Eavenscroft back to her home. Then, as we 
 know, he stayed for a few hours only and set off 
 once more for Elmstone, where he hoped to find
 
 THE CHILD. 57 
 
 his wife and receive an explanation of her long- 
 silence. It was, however, before the clay of his 
 flying visit to Netherby that Hester Rowe 
 received an answer to her letter. But that 
 answer did not come from Gaston Eavenscroft. 
 
 She was sitting, stonily quiet, as was her 
 wont, before the fire in her cottage, about four 
 o'clock in the afternoon, when the sound of 
 wheels broke upon her meditations. A dog-cart 
 had been driven down the lane, and was standing 
 before her door. Mrs. Rowe cast a quick glance 
 at little Bertie, who was amusing himself some- 
 what dismally in a corner with a broken toy, 
 and rose to greet her visitor. She expected to 
 see Mr. Ravenscroft : she was somewhat dis- 
 appointed to find herself confronted only by Mr. 
 Hervey of Netherby Manor. 
 
 But she remembered that Mr. Hervey was a 
 cousin of the Ravenscroft family, and an intimate 
 friend of the old lady, at -the Hall. Probably he 
 had brought her a message from Mr. Ravens- 
 croft. He was a magistrate, a poor-law guardian, 
 a man of importance in the place : no doubt he 
 had come to see whether matters could not be 
 quietly and satisfactorily arranged.
 
 58 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 He was a man of sixty years of age, white- 
 haired, bland, gentle and courteous of tongue, 
 yet with a certain coldness of expression which 
 made him feared even by those whom he wished 
 to conciliate. Many stories of his harshness 
 towards his tenants and dependants were rife in 
 the neighbourhood. Chief among them was an 
 account of his behaviour to his only daughter, 
 who had married against his will. She had run 
 away from home with a German music -master, 
 and Mr. Hervey had refused to see her or to 
 speak to her again. Eumour said that the 
 German music -master was dead, that she had 
 fallen into poverty, that she and her child were 
 starving ; finally, that she had died of sorrow, 
 and that the child had been adopted by its 
 father's relations ; but no one knew how much 
 there was of truth in any of these assertions. 
 Poor Mabel Hervey had never been seen in 
 Netherby since the day when she and her 
 husband tremblingly presented themselves before 
 the master of Netherby Manor, in order to ask 
 liis forgiveness for their stolen marriage, and had 
 been coldly but politely requested to leave the 
 house. Mr. Hervey now lived alone, and de-
 
 THE CHILD. 59 
 
 voted himself in a dilettante sort of way to litera- 
 ture and art ; but neither man nor woman could 
 say that he had ever shown one trace of resfret 
 for the conduct of his daughter, nor one sign of 
 sorrow for the loneliness of his home. 
 
 He entered the cottage abruptly, shot a keen 
 glance at the boy, as Mrs. Rowe herself had done, 
 and accosted the old woman with an ironical and 
 decidedly unpleasant smile. 
 
 " I suppose you thought that you were not 
 going to receive any answer to your letter," he 
 began. '^ It is better that it should be answered 
 by word of mouth than in writing, however. I 
 have come in Mr. Ravenscroft's place, to answer it." 
 
 "Mr. Ravenscroft showed you my letter?'* 
 said Hester, in her usual indifferent manner. 
 
 '•' I saw it — yes, I saw your letter," Mr. Hervey 
 answered, seating himself and looking round the 
 cottage with carelessness equal to her own. ''' That 
 is the boy^ I suppose ? Handsome little fellow, 
 Mrs. Rowe. I wonder that you do not wish to 
 keep him and bring him up. A grandson like 
 that child would do you credit." 
 
 " You forget, sir, that Lucy Moore was not my 
 daughter."
 
 60 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 *' Ah yes, one does forget that, Mrs. Eowe. 
 Naturally you have not much interest in a child 
 whose very existence might be considered a dis- 
 grace." 
 
 " There are others who have got to consider 
 that," said Mrs. Kowe coldly. '' He has plenty 
 of relations in the village — on his father's side — 
 if they choose to acknowledge him." 
 
 '^You seem very sure of that," said Mr. 
 Hervey. "And pray, who told you the name 
 of this boy's father or of his relations ? " 
 
 He looked at her very keenly as he spoke, 
 and Hester Eowe seemed troubled. 
 
 " It was pretty plain," she said after a mo- 
 ment's pause, " to any one who listened to Lucy 
 on her deathbed." 
 
 •'•' Ah ! And what did Lucy say to you ? " 
 
 " She did not say anything to me exactly. 
 She was light-headed from the moment she 
 spoke first within my doors to the moment of 
 her death. But folks tell the truth when they 
 are light-headed more readily sometimes than 
 when they've got their senses." 
 
 " Very likely," said Mr. Hervey in a peculiarly 
 suave manner. " But they also confound fact
 
 THE CHILD. 01 
 
 and fiction sometimes in a very singular way. 
 She never recovered consciousness, did she ? 
 And she left no writing behind her — no papers?" 
 
 ^'No/' 
 
 " Then I should like to know upon what 
 grounds you think that this child has any claim 
 upon Mr. Eavenscroft ! " said the magistrate 
 with some severity. "If the ravings of an 
 abandoned girl in her last delirium are all your 
 proof, I think that you had much better hold your 
 tongue, Mrs. Rowe, or you will find yourself in 
 trouble." 
 
 **rve no wish to meddle or make in the 
 matter," returned Hester monotonously. " I only 
 go by what Lucy Moore said on her dying bed. 
 She talked of nothing but ^ Gaston,' * Gaston ' all 
 the time ; and how he had left her and broken 
 her heart and all the rest of it. It's natural 
 enough that I should think that he was the man 
 as ought to provide for the child." 
 
 "He won't do that." 
 
 " Is that what you've come to say, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, my good woman, it's that." 
 
 " Then the child must go to the workhouse," 
 said Hester Rowe.
 
 62 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 *' Yes," rejoined Mr. Hervey dryly, '*he must 
 go to the workhouse, certainly." 
 
 There was a little silence. Mr. Hervey turned 
 towards the boy, who, unconscious that his whole 
 future life was shaped for him in that moment, 
 had dragged his toy- cart into the centre of the 
 floor and sat triumphant in a patch of sun- 
 light which turned the brown of his curls to 
 gold. He caught Mr. Hervey 's eye, and laughed 
 with babyish glee as the old man beckoned to 
 him with his long-fingered finely-shaped white 
 hand. 
 
 *' Come to me," Mr. Hervey said. '' Will you 
 come { 
 
 The boy rose and trotted fearlessly towards 
 him. 
 
 " What is your name, little man ? " 
 
 ''Bertie." 
 
 " And your other name ? What else beside 
 Bertie ? " 
 
 The child shook his head. *' Mammy knows," 
 he said regretfully, "but she wouldn't tell me. 
 And now^ she's gone away." 
 
 " Will you come with me ? " 
 
 '* No," said Bertie stoutly.
 
 THE CHILD. 63 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 "Me wait here till mammy come back again." 
 
 " But if I take you to see her \ " 
 
 Mr. Hervey paused, half regretting the un- 
 truth ; for the child dropped the cart, which 
 hitherto he had been holding tightly in his hand, 
 and placed his fingers on Mr. Hervey 's knee. 
 '' Yes,'"' he said decidedly. '' Me go T\ith you to 
 find mammy — now. And papa — and Eover — 
 and everybody." 
 
 Mr. Hervey's hand closed, as it were involun- 
 tarily, over the soft little fingers on his knee. He 
 looked at Mrs. Kowe with an odd smile. 
 
 " If you will not keep him, Mrs. Eowe," he 
 said, " he might as well come away with me at 
 once. I am going to Mickleham. I can see him 
 to the workhouse on my way. I assure you that 
 Mr. Kavenscroft will do nothing for him, and as 
 you refuse to burden yourself with his support 
 (in which refusal you are, no doubt, perfectly 
 right), he must be placed in the charge of the 
 parish authorities. I am one of the parish autho- 
 rities myself," he continued, with the same pecu- 
 liar smile, which often recurred to Hester Eowe's 
 mind and puzzled her in days to come, " and I
 
 G4 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 shall be liappy to take charge of him for thti 
 present." 
 
 Mrs. Eowe made no objection to the proposal. 
 Bertie's little cap was found for him : he had no 
 other possession except his one broken toy ; and 
 he was lifted to the back seat beside the groom. 
 Mrs. Eowe bade him no farewell. He put up 
 his mouth for a kiss, but she turned away from 
 him. Some grain of conscience told her that 
 she was acting towards a worse than orphaned 
 child WT.th cruel harshness, for faults that were 
 not its own. Mr. Hervey waited only to say a 
 word of warning in her ear. 
 
 "Mind, Mrs. Eowe, if you mention Mr. 
 Eavenscroft's name in connection with this child, 
 you'll get into trouble. You know nothing, and 
 your suspicions are libellous." 
 
 '* Libellous or not, sir," said Mrs. Eowe coolly, 
 " they are true." 
 
 Mr. Hervey shrugged his shoulders and de- 
 parted. He took the reins from his groom, and 
 drove towards Mickleham. But after driving 
 for a mile or two upon the road, he turned back 
 and made his way to his own house. He was 
 a man who generally indulged his whims and
 
 THE CHILD. 65 
 
 fancies ; and a certain fancy liad taken posses- 
 sion of liim now. Little Bertram did not see 
 the inside of Mickleliam Workhouse that after- 
 noon. 
 
 Of course Gaston had never received LIrs. 
 Eowe's letter. It had fallen into the hands of 
 Madame Waldstein before his return from Wies- 
 baden ; and she, learning from what quarter it 
 had come, took to herself the right of opening it 
 and of consulting Mr. Hervey as to the answer 
 that should be returned to Hester Eowe. " Gaston 
 would find it very awkward/' she said, *'as he 
 will probably now reside in this neighbourhood, if 
 the Kowes made this statement public. Go and 
 see, Eichard, whether you cannot silence them 
 and get the unlucky child sent to a workhouse 
 or an orphanage or something. I hioiv that 
 Gaston only wants to have the tribe off his 
 hands. They have all been begging of him for 
 the last four or five years. I am glad that the 
 girl is dead at last." 
 
 *' Gaston has behaved very unhandsomely to 
 her," said Eichard Hervey in a tone of disgust. 
 
 " Abominably," said Madame Waldstein. She 
 was a handsome woman still in spite of her 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 ■ AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 sixty -three years and her half- crippled state : 
 she sat up erect as she spoke, with a wonderful 
 brightness in her quick dark eyes. She had 
 been greatly overcome by the news of Philip's 
 death, but she was so far herself by this time as 
 to be able to make arrangements for the future 
 of her second son. " I want him to marry," 
 she remarked. " He can make a fresh beo;innino; 
 now that Lucy ]\Ioore is out of the way." 
 
 " This letter is not your first intimation then 
 of his connection with her ? " 
 
 '•' Certainly not," said the old lady briskly. 
 '' I have known the w^hole story more or less 
 ever since she left Netherby with Gaston. But, 
 as he did not trouble me about it, I never said a 
 word to him. It w^as no business of mine, and 
 if I had opposed it, he might have put a sea] 
 upon his folly by marrying her out of sheer 
 obstinacy. Now they are separated for ever, 
 and nobody can imagine that I contrived their 
 separation or even counted upon it." 
 
 "You did contrive it then, Leonora?" 
 
 Madame Waldstein laughed. ''Do not ask 
 too many questions," she said significantly. 
 " The matter is ended now. And, for heaven's
 
 THE CHILD. 67 
 
 sake, do not mention it to Gaston. I will s^^eak 
 to him." 
 
 Mr. Hervey's curiosity was aroused by this 
 interview. He had no great liking for his 
 cousin, Madame Waldstein, and would not have 
 been sorry to do her an ill turn ; but he agreed 
 with her in thinking it right that Gaston should 
 be separated from the Kowes, and that the child 
 should not be brought up in a place where every 
 one would comment upon his history and his 
 parentage. Madame Waldstein went on to make 
 a proposition that a cheap school should be found 
 where the boy might be boarded for a time and 
 tauo^ht a trade : she herself would furnish the 
 money for that purpose and make the Eowes a 
 handsome present for their future silence. But 
 when Mr. Hervey visited the cottage he found 
 that no bribes were necessary. Hester Kowe 
 was neither disposed to keep the child nor to 
 talk about him in the village. She was only 
 anxious to get rid of him ; and Mr. Hervey was 
 accordingly enabled to drive off in triumph, 
 with the avowed intention of placing the boy in 
 Mickleham Workhouse. 
 
 Madame Waldstein had her own ends to serve
 
 68 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 in what she was doing, and she served them 
 well. She said that she knew the whole story 
 of Gaston and Lucy Moore ; if so, she concealed 
 part of her knowledge very skilfully. Never by 
 look or word did she let any one suspect (or 
 show that she suspected) that Lucy had been 
 Gaston's wife. It would not have suited her 
 plans at all that little Bertram Eavenscroft 
 should be brought home and acknowledged as 
 Gaston's son and heir. 
 
 As soon as Felicia was safely housed at 
 Eavenscroft Hall, Gaston's fruitless expedition 
 to Elmstone took place — an expedition upon 
 which he set off so precipitately that his mother 
 had not time to intercept him and to make the 
 communication to him which she was anxious 
 that he should receive as soon as possible. 
 Gaston, however, returned to Netherby with 
 great speed : he thought it likely that Lucy had 
 gone to her friends, the Eowes. He was very 
 angry with her for acting so foolishly, but he 
 was also prepared to forgive her, and to tell her 
 that her troubles now were over — that all the 
 world should know that she had been his wife 
 for the last four years and more. But when he
 
 THE CHILD. 69 
 
 reached tlie Eowes' cottage, he found it deserted. 
 It should be mentioned that Hester was in the 
 habit of going away sometimes for long tramps 
 over the lanes and fields — tramps which often 
 extended through a period of days and weeks : 
 it was one of the ways in which her gipsy origin 
 showed itself; and she had quitted Netherby 
 for that purpose soon after Mr. Hervey took 
 Bertie away ^ith him. The cottage door was 
 locked, the windows were closely shuttered ; not 
 a sign of life was to be seen. Clearly Lucy 
 could not be there. 
 
 Gaston, dismayed and aggrieved, scarcely 
 knew what his next steps ought to be. After 
 some anxious thouo-ht he determined to o-q to 
 
 o o 
 
 Mr. Hervey, lay the facts of the case before him, 
 and ask him for his advice. He was resolved that 
 as soon as Lucy was found, all secrecy should be 
 at once and for ever at an end. His first step in 
 this direction should be an acknowledgment of the 
 truth to his cousin, Kichard Hervey, for whom 
 Gaston had a sort of res]3ect if not much aflfection. 
 But disappointment followed upon disa^Dpoint- 
 ment. Mr. Hervey had suddenly shut up his 
 house and gone abroad. Gaston asked in some
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 surprise whither he had gone, and was told that 
 Mr. Hervey intended to spend the coming winter 
 in the south of France. The young man turned 
 away, and retraced his steps to his own home, 
 intending to see his mother and explain the 
 matter to her. If he could not find Lucy at 
 once, he must spend all his time and energy in 
 the search for her until he was successful. 
 Madame AValdstein should know the state of 
 affairs at once. 
 
 He presented himself in his mother's room 
 with a troubled and downcast air which told her 
 his errand before he spoke. The last few days 
 of sorrow and anxiety were beginning to tell 
 upon him : his eyes were haggard and his hands 
 shook. Madame Waldstein looked at him search- 
 ingly, and raised her forefinger. 
 
 " Wait ! " she said sharply. "' I have some- 
 thing to tell you before you begin to speak. I 
 know what you are here for ; you wish to tell 
 me about Lucy Moore." 
 
 Gaston stared at her in dumb bewilderment. 
 " How do you know ? " he stammered after a 
 pause. 
 
 " I always know anything that I choose to
 
 THE CHILD. 71 
 
 know. She left Elmstone on the day after the 
 one on which you started for AViesbaden, and 
 she came to Netherbv. She was ill and over- 
 fatigued, I suppose : she reached Hester Eowe"s 
 cottao^e in a faintins; state " 
 
 Gaston rose to his feet. ^' Where is she ? " 
 he said, his eyes blazing with excitement. ^'' You 
 know where she is — let me go to her " 
 
 " My poor Gaston/' said his mother quietly, 
 *' control yourself. You haye bad news to hear. 
 Sit down and take it quietly." 
 
 " Is she ill ? " he questioned. " Dangerously 
 ill \ For God's sake, mother, speak. Don't you 
 know how I loye her ? " 
 
 Madame Waldstein looked at him curiously. 
 His yoice was broken with emotion; his face 
 was gray. She began to fear the effect of her 
 communication ; but she could not retract her 
 words. She must go on. 
 
 " She was ill," she said with a reluctance 
 which looked like sympathy. " For three days 
 she was very ill. Then she succumbed — it had 
 been too much for her strength. On the third 
 day — she died — of feyer." 
 
 Gaston reeled as if from a sudden blow.
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 ''And the child?" he said hoarsely. "The 
 child is here — with you ? " 
 
 "The child V^ said his mother, avoiding his 
 gaze as she made the statement which she knew 
 so well he would misunderstand : " her child 
 was buried with her. He died the day after 
 the mother " 
 
 She said no more. Gaston had fallen and 
 lay like a dead man at her feet. The blow had 
 been too heavy a one for him to bear — wife and 
 child taken from him at a stroke. It was perhaps a 
 merciful thing that a severe illness rendered him 
 unconscious of his loss for many days and weeks. 
 But the slow return to health and strength was 
 a terrible time for Gaston Kavenscroft. 
 
 His mother was astonished to find him con- 
 tented with so little explanation. During his 
 convalescence he asked only a few cjuestions 
 concerning the way in which these matters had 
 come to her ears, and on this point she found 
 it easy to satisfy him. She brought the clergy- 
 man who had read the funeral service over 
 Lucy's grave and the doctor who had attended 
 her, cautioning both beforehand to say nothing 
 about the child, "as poor Gaston could not bear
 
 THE CHILD. 73 
 
 to hear liim mentioned/' in order to answer any 
 questions that lie might wish to ask ; but he 
 asked none. He was so silent and depressed 
 that his friends feared for his sanity, and it was 
 with great unwillingness that they heard him at 
 last announce his intention of leaving Netherby 
 for London. He did not say what he meant to 
 do in London ; but Madame Waldstein hazarded 
 a shrewd guess when she said, with a significant 
 nod of her handsome old head — 
 
 " London ! He will not stay long in London ! 
 He is bound for Elmstone to see his fool's para- 
 dise again. And I hope that he may come back 
 to us safe and sound ! " 
 
 Thus the first act of Gaston Kavenscroft's life 
 was played, and he was sorely inclined to wish 
 that it had been the last.
 
 PART I L— VERA. 
 
 CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DOAVNS. 
 
 Madame Waldstein was right. Gaston had 
 gone once more to Elmstone. 
 
 It was now the month of August. The sun 
 blazed hotly in a cloudless heaven. The sea was 
 blue as the sky itself, and the wind-swept downs 
 were rich with golden gorse and purple heather, 
 over which the great brown bees went humming 
 and the butterflies hovered on the wing. The 
 grass was scanty and yellow; it had been withered 
 by a month of drought. The ground was cracked 
 and burnt ; the birds were silent ; there was no- 
 where any life, any motion, any sound. Far 
 away on the one hand lay the shining sea, its 
 blue unflecked by even a single cloudlike sail.
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DO WNS. 
 
 The summer silence seemed more dreary — at 
 least to one or two persons on tlie Elmstone 
 downs tliat day — than a tempest of wintry rain 
 and wind could have done. 
 
 Gaston Eavenseroft was not so much alone as 
 he imagined himself to be when he flung himself 
 dowTL that day upon the scorched bare earth and 
 thought of all that he had lost. Life had grown 
 unendurable : in the madness of his grief he 
 fancied himself justified in putting an end to it. 
 He had the remedy for his woes at hand : why 
 should it not be used ? But between him and 
 that desperate remedy a barrier was about to be 
 interposed — a barrier of which he did not as yet 
 suspect the existence. His safeguard was near 
 him, though he knew it not, in the shape of a 
 little child. 
 
 This child — a little girl of nine or ten years 
 of age — had been wandering over the downs for 
 two or three hours, and had finally seated her- 
 self in the shadow of a lichen-covered boulder in 
 order to cry over her own troubles, which were 
 as real and perhaps as great to her as those of 
 Gaston Eavenseroft were to him. She was a 
 pale, neglect ed-looking little creature, with wild,
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 strange gray eyes, which looked odd beneath her 
 long black eyelashes and dark brows, and a 
 wealth of very fair hair. Her frock was torn 
 and shabby, and she crouched down beneath the 
 sheltering stone in an attitude of fear or pain, 
 sobbing loudly and passionately from time to 
 time and again holding her breath as if afraid to 
 make another sound. 
 
 It was long before the stillness of her refuge 
 quieted the weeping child. The chirping of a 
 grasshopper at last attracted her attention : she 
 forgot her grief a little in watching the move- 
 ments of his quaint green body and slender legs. 
 When he had leaped out of her sight she looked 
 round, with tears still glazing her fevered cheeks, 
 and became suddenly aware of her own loneli- 
 ness. It frightened her a little. She rose and 
 moved out of the shadow of the boulder into the 
 glare of the sun and stared nervously about her : 
 there was nothing in the guise of a human 
 creature but herself to be seen between earth 
 and sky. 
 
 She walked on dreamily ; her footsteps made 
 no sound upon the heather. She scarcely even 
 frightened the rabbits until she was close upon
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DOWNS. 
 
 them. In spite of her troubles, her languor, her 
 sense of loneliness, she laughed to see the way 
 in which they kicked up their heels and scurried 
 off as she drew near — their white scuts betray- 
 ing them before they whisked into the darkness 
 of their burrows. She stood to watch a furry 
 mother with a group of little ones around her. 
 A sound of running water reached her ears : 
 there was a fissure in the limestone rock beneath 
 her, and at the bottom of it a streamlet tinkled 
 musically. She looked and watched ; perhaps 
 she moved, for the rabbit family disappeared at 
 lightning speed ; or perhaps it was something 
 else that moved, not far away. The child turned 
 her head with a spasm of visible fear. But all 
 that she saw was a man lying face downwards 
 upon the shrivelled grass. 
 
 She thought of flying; then changed her 
 mind. The man did not move : he was probably 
 asleep. Even if he were awake, she reflected, 
 he was not likely to do her any harm. She was 
 not afraid of strangers : they were often kinder 
 to her than the people with whom she dwelt. 
 She would not disturb him by a sound, although 
 he lay straight across her path — a narrow sheep-
 
 78 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 track which she was following out of very idle- 
 ness ; — she would make a circuit and pursue her 
 way. But first, moved by what instinct she 
 knew not, she surveyed the stranger's motionless 
 figure with profound interest. 
 
 It w^as no man with whom she was acquainted. 
 It was not Mr. Stanger, her step -father, whose 
 black coat — grown shiny at the shoulders — 
 always reminded her irresistibly of a blackbeetle ; 
 nor was it "old Davy," as she called him, al- 
 though he was not really old, but only bent with 
 the weight of sorrow and of toil — the musician 
 of Mr. Stanger's troupe, lame and undersized, 
 and clad in garments that were rusty with age 
 and soiled and frayed to the last degree of 
 shabbiness. This man was neither small nor 
 badly dressed nor apparently old ; his frame was 
 strongly made ; his hat was thrown aside and 
 displayed a head covered with short black locks 
 — not a gray hair amongst them. 
 
 Was he asleep indeed ? the child asked her- 
 self ; and one glance at his attitude sufficed as a 
 reply to the question. His face was hidden on 
 his left arm ; the other was flung wide, and the 
 right hand clutched the earth convulsively. The
 
 av THE ELMSTONE DOWNS. 79 
 
 thin white fino-ers were clenched : the nails were 
 digging into the baked earth. From time to 
 time a shudder passed through all his limbs : 
 once he even uttered a faint groan or gasp — but 
 only once. His agony w\as not to be lightened 
 by words or sighs : he was about to choose a 
 speedier method of relief. 
 
 The child stood transfixed by this spectacle of 
 sorrow such as she had never known, — wondering 
 whether he suffered bodily pain, wdiether she ought 
 to speak to him, or go to the nearest cottage for 
 help. Suddenly his attitude changed. The 
 grasp of the hand relaxed : he drew his arm 
 slowly towards him. The nails were livid with 
 the force which he had used. Then he was still. 
 He seemed to be searching his pockets — was it 
 for food, medicine, brandy ? the child wondered 
 to herself. She watched and waited with pru- 
 dence and self-command beyond her years. 
 
 He raised himself a little on his elbow and 
 glanced around. She thought that he had seen 
 her, but she dared not move. The event proved 
 her wrong. Gaston Eavenscroft's weary, blood- 
 shot eyes failed to distinguish her little brown 
 fiofure from the dried earth and the stones. He
 
 80 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 thought himself quite alone — with nothing near 
 him but those terrible blank s]Daces of sky and 
 sea and barren land. 
 
 What was it that his fingers held ? A little 
 thing, not larger than a toy, somethmg made of 
 rosewood and polished metal that glittered 
 brightly in the sunshine. He raised his hand. 
 Rashly and wickedly enough he had made up 
 his mind that the earth would be well quit of 
 Gaston Eavenscroft. 
 
 But before he had pulled the trigger, the child 
 had leapt forward with a sharp, frightened cry. 
 She understood the gesture well enough — under- 
 stood it as scarcely one child of her age in a 
 hundred would have done. For she belonged to 
 a company of players : a strolling troupe devoted 
 to melodrama on the boards of provincial the- 
 atres ; and her experience of sensational plays 
 and players interpreted to her that little move- 
 ment of the hand. She cried out loudly and 
 passionately and bade him stop. 
 
 Gaston Eavenscroft lowered his hand and 
 started violently. Then he raised himself into a 
 sitting posture, and looked at the unfamiliar 
 little figure with haggard eyes. She stood before
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DOWNS. 81 
 
 him trembling with excitement, and holding out 
 her hands. 
 
 *^0h, don't!" she said. "Don't go on. 
 Don't you know how wicked it is ? Please 
 don't do that." 
 
 He looked at her with a sort of dull wonder- 
 ment and then dropped his face upon his hands. 
 The beads of perspiration stood upon his fore- 
 head. A minute ago and she had trembled. It 
 was his turn to tremble now. He shook like an 
 aspen leaf, and began to breathe heavily. 
 
 The child, with her old-fashioned, thin little 
 face still quivering, drew near and touched him 
 on the shoulder. " Are you ill ? " she said 
 anxiously. " Can I do anything for you ? " 
 
 '' No, nothing. Go away." 
 
 She retreated for a few steps, but she did not go. 
 Her eyes were fixed upon the revolver, which was 
 now lying upon the ground. It seemed to have 
 a fascination for her : she could not lift her eyes 
 from it. 
 
 In a short time Gaston made an effort for 
 composure. He let one hand fall to his side, 
 but kept the other over his pale face as he 
 said : 
 
 VOL. I. ^^>
 
 82 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 '' Why do you not go % Do you want money? 
 Take it." He threw a piece of silver at her 
 feet. 
 
 *' I don't want your money," she answered 
 sullenly. " I only want to be sure that — that 
 you won't try to hurt yourself." 
 
 *^ What if I did?" muttered Gaston to himself 
 with a short laugh. Then he lifted his head and 
 looked at her. ''Who are you?" he said. 
 " What are you doing here ? You startled me ; 
 you might have caused an accident." 
 
 '' But it would not have been an accident," 
 she said, looking back at him in a grave and un- 
 child-like manner. "You were doing it on 
 purpose. I have seen people act in that way at 
 the theatre. But you were in earnest." 
 
 " In earnest ?" he echoed bitterly. " Well — 
 I don't know — perhaps I was " 
 
 He had forgotten her presence. His dark 
 miserable face was turned towards the sea. The 
 child's opportunity had come. She made a 
 desperate effort over her fears, — for she had a 
 secret dread of all firearms, — picked up the 
 revolver, which he seemed to have forgotten, and 
 suddenly dropped it down the fissure in the cliff*,
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DOWNS. 83 
 
 where she had listened to the running water not 
 long before. She heard it strike the limestone 
 rock in its descent. Then she burst into an 
 agony of tears. 
 
 Gaston made an angry movement towards 
 her, but stopped short as soon as she began to 
 sob. His eyes had already begun to look less 
 wild and strained ; as he observed the little 
 figure for a moment or two in silence his face 
 assumed a more natural hue and expression. 
 When he spoke again it was with curious calm- 
 ness. 
 
 ^'What made you do that? How do you 
 suppose I shall get it back again ?" 
 
 •'•'You won't get it back!" cried the small 
 girl, stamping on the ground with a mixture of 
 passion and triumph, which absolutely silenced 
 him. " You will never see it again. That crack 
 is so deep that nobody can climb down it, and 
 there is water at the bottom. Why should you 
 want to get it back ? Did you never think how^ 
 dreadful it would be to lie here all alone, and 
 nobody to find you for days and days?" 
 
 "You are a very odd child!" said Gaston 
 slowly. Then he rose and walked up and down
 
 84 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 for a few paces, with liis eyes bent ujDon the 
 ground. In a short time he came back to her 
 and spoke. 
 
 '' Do you understand," he said, " that you are 
 not to chatter to anybody about what you have 
 seen and heard to-day ?" 
 
 She raised her eyes to his and stood silent. 
 
 " You are not to say that you saw me here : 
 you are not to mention the revolver — do you 
 hear ? If you do, I shall find means to punish 
 you ; understand that. If you will hold your 
 tongue, I will make it worth your while ; I will 
 give you a present — anything you like. I won't 
 have my afiairs gossiped about." 
 
 Still she did not answer. He frowned and 
 looked annoyed. 
 
 "How much do you want?" he said. "A 
 sovereign ? Here, take it. Don't you under- 
 stand me ?" 
 
 " I understand quite well," the child answered 
 in a low^ voice. " But there's no need for you to 
 give me anything. I won't take it. I shall not 
 say a word about you." 
 
 " Not even at your own home, remember." 
 
 "I have no home."
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DOWNS. 85 
 
 *' No home ? What do you mean ? Where 
 are vou goinoj?" said Gaston, in a tone of ex- 
 treme irritation. 
 
 " I don't know. I don't care. I have run 
 away." 
 
 He looked at her intently. Little by little 
 his brow cleared ; in a few minutes he laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 "Better and better. We are in like case — 
 waifs and strays, trying to escape from the 
 burdens Fate lays upon us. What are you 
 running away from ? Is it my duty to take you 
 back to your friends, I wonder V 
 
 " If you do," the child cried passionately, "I'll 
 tell everybody everything about you." 
 
 He laughed contemptuously. "Tell what 
 you like. I have changed my mind about it. 
 AMiat is your name ?" 
 
 " Vera Marlitt," she answered with some re- 
 luctance. Gaston's face suddenly changed. 
 
 "What name ?" he said. 
 
 She repeated it, and he looked at her with a 
 long keen gaze of inquiry. 
 
 "' Come here," he said presently in a gentler 
 tone. "Don't be afraid of me; I won't take
 
 86 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 you back against your will ; but I should like to 
 hear a little more about you. Let us sit down 
 somewhere ; it is very hot, and I am tired." 
 
 He led the w^ay to one of the great boulders 
 which were to be found at intervals about the 
 downs, and stretched himself upon the turf with 
 his back to the stone. The little girl followed 
 him slowly ; child as she was, she was surprised 
 to see him draw out a cigar-case. " If I am not 
 to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet, I may as 
 well refresh myself with a cigar," he said with 
 would-be carelessness. ^' Do you object. Made- 
 moiselle ?" 
 
 " You may smoke if you like. My name is 
 Vera,'' she replied with dignity. '* Nobody calls 
 me Mademoiselle." 
 
 *'But I shall call you Mademoiselle if I 
 choose. It is a privilege reserved for me alone. 
 AVhat have I here '?" and he suddenly pulled out 
 of his pocket a little tin case. " Oh, sandwiches ! 
 What an anti-climax ! Franklyn must have put 
 them up ; they are of no use to me." 
 
 Thus speaking, he flung the case to some little 
 distance; then turned again to Vera. ''AVhat, 
 crying once more ! ^Yhat is the matter now ?"
 
 ON THE ELMSTONE DO WNS. 
 
 " I'm very sorry/' said the child, submissively 
 trying to restrain her tears. *' It's only that I 
 am tired and — hungry." 
 
 She had enough pride to make this confession 
 a difficult one. But the throwing away of the 
 sandwich-box had upset all her self-control. 
 
 He gave her a curious look ; one in which 
 surprise mingled with a sort of pity. Then he 
 rose, marched to the spot where the tin case 
 had alighted, picked it up and deposited it in 
 her lap. 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, child," he said, more 
 gently than he had spoken yet. " I was thought- 
 less. But a good deal ought to be forgiven to a 
 man in my circumstances. By the by, I suppose 
 that some people would say that you had saved 
 my life ; I owe you thanks for taking the trouble, 
 though I own I think it was thrown away. Eat 
 the sandwiches, my dear; I assure you that 
 Franklyn prepares them excellently." 
 
 He leaned against the stone, with the cigar in 
 his mouth, and closed his eyes. The nonchal- 
 ance of his attitude amazed the child ; she was 
 not old enough to read the signs of pain and 
 trouble in the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the
 
 88 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 pale mouth, the bent brow, and twitching fingers. 
 She could not tell that she saw before her a man 
 who was feeling the exhaustion consequent on a 
 prolonged mental strain, or one whose nerves 
 had been thoroughly shaken by grief and illness. 
 She meditated silently upon the carelessness of 
 his demeanour, as she ate the sandwiches which 
 he had given to her. It w^as not until she had 
 consumed the last mouthful that he roused 
 himself and looked at her with a faint curious 
 smile.
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 A NEW PUEPOSE. 
 
 " Well," said Gaston, turning his face towards 
 the child, as she finished the last mouthful, " I 
 want to hear something more of you. Surely a 
 waif and stray like myself can look after a waif 
 and stray like you. Don't you think so ? " 
 
 The wearily ironical tone perplexed the child. 
 Seeing this, he flung away his cigar, glanced at 
 her again, and said seriously : 
 
 " Tell me your name once more." 
 
 " Vera Marlitt. They call me Vera de 
 Lusignan at the theatre." 
 
 " Why do they call you so ?" said Gaston, 
 whose eyes began to glow with curious bright- 
 ness as he listened to her. 
 
 "Because I was born in France at a place 
 called Lusignan, and my mother said it would
 
 90 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 make a good stage-name for me when I began to 
 sing. I think Mr. Stanger told her to say so." 
 
 " And who is Mr. Stanger ?'* 
 
 " The manager. I hate him." 
 
 " Is he a relation of yours ?" 
 
 " No. I haven't any relations." 
 
 "But your mother and father " Gaston 
 
 began, with increasing interest. 
 
 "They are dead." 
 
 ''Dead? ah, yes. But your father — what 
 was his name ?" 
 
 " His name was_ Ernst Marlitt. He was a 
 German — a musician," said the little girl, with 
 serious eyes. " He died in France when I was 
 a very little girl ; and mamma and I were left 
 alone. Mamma was an Englishwoman. When 
 my father died she had to work very hard, and 
 she w^as so ill that she said she would come back 
 to England, and see whether anybody would help 
 us there. I don't think anybody helped us. We 
 met the Stangers ; and Mr. Stanger got mamma 
 to play the piano during his entertainments and 
 to act sometimes, and by and by she married him." 
 
 " Child, do you know your mother's name 
 before she married your father ?"
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 91 
 
 "Yes," said little Vera. •' It was Hervey." 
 
 " I thought so," Gaston murmured to himself. 
 " This is an odd coincidence indeed. Go on. 
 Vera. Why did she marry Stanger ?" 
 
 " She said she did it for my sake," said Vera, 
 drawing a deep breath. " I don't know why. 
 Perhaps she was afraid to say no. And then 
 Mr. Stano'er brought me out as the Infant Pro- 
 digy. But mamma died a few months after- 
 wards, and I was left to Mr. Stanger." 
 
 " Who takes care of vou ? Has he married 
 
 agam f 
 
 ^^No. I don't want any one to take care of 
 me. There are the Lliss St angers, his grown-up 
 daughters ; they manage everything." 
 
 " Are they kind to you ?" 
 
 '^No." 
 
 "No? Why not?" 
 
 Vera spoke sullenly and decisively. " They 
 hate me. They hated my mother. They call 
 me the little Dutch doll. They pinch me and 
 box my ears when nobody sees them. But I 
 should not mind them so much if — if " 
 
 " If what ? This is quite a case of Cinderella 
 and her cruel sisters ! Well, if what ? "
 
 92 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " If Mr. Stanger did not beat me !" slie 
 answered, with an irrepressible sob, and over- 
 flow of tears. 
 
 He did not speak for a moment, and tben he 
 muttered a word or two below his breath. 
 
 "What brutes!" Vera heard him say. As 
 she continued to sob, he put out his hand and 
 gently stroked her bare ruffled head. There was 
 almost a wistful tenderness in his tone when he 
 spoke again. 
 
 " Poor little thins: ! Poor little neo:lected 
 Cinderella ! " Then after another pause : 
 
 " Was that why you ran away ?" 
 
 For answer the child pulled up the loose 
 sleeve of her shabby brown frock, and showed 
 some livid marks upon her arm. '' He did that 
 this morning, and more than that, because I did 
 not sing well enough to please him. I was 
 hoarse and couldn't get up to the high notes. 
 And I didn't know the steps of a new dance very 
 well. He said it was all sham and obstinacy, 
 and that he would flog it out of me once for all. 
 But he broke the little cane that he generally 
 uses, you know, and he went out to fetch his 
 riding- whip, — he said he would make me dance
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 93 
 
 to another tune, — and while he was gone, Davy 
 the fiddler helped me to get out of the window, 
 and I ran away. You won't take me back to him, 
 will you ? He would kill me, I know he would." 
 
 Graston was bitino; his lono; dark moustache 
 savagely ; his eyes glowed with a new fire. But 
 his answer was very gently spoken. 
 
 '^ I will see that you come to no harm, little 
 Vera. I shall not let this business go on at any 
 rate. I have a right to interfere." 
 
 He fell to meditating. She did not under- 
 stand him, but she dried her tears, feeling a 
 childlike trust in his ability and willingness to 
 save her from all present and future annoyances. 
 Presently he spoke : 
 
 *^Vera, would you like to go to school?" 
 
 " I don't know," she said doubtfully. " Emily 
 Stanger says that everybody will always laugh 
 at me. I should not like a whole school to lauo[h 
 at me." 
 
 ' ' AVhy should they laugh ? " 
 
 Little Vera's face grew crimson. " I am j)Oor. 
 for one thing — and ugly — and stupid," she 
 stammered. 
 
 " I shouldn't have thought you stujjid. As
 
 94 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 for poverty, nobody but fools would laugh at 
 you for that." 
 
 Vera said nothing, but she twisted a corner 
 of her apron and regarded him wistfully. She 
 did not dare to ask the question that was in her 
 mind, Was she indeed so very ugly ? That she 
 was hideously plain had been instilled into her 
 mind with jibes and sneers from her earliest days 
 in Mr. Stanger's household. Had not Emily 
 Stanger that very morning boxed her ears for 
 no other reason than that she was, as Miss 
 Stanger said, "such a mean-looking little toad !" 
 And indeed she was small and slight, even to 
 leanness ; her skin was colourless ; her hair, 
 which under a mother's care might have proved 
 a redeeming feature, was lustreless and tangled. 
 Only when she sang in a more important part 
 than usual was any notice taken of her dress ; 
 and then she was encouraged in a love for finery 
 rather than for neatness. 
 
 Vera's companion looked at her oddly, then 
 laughed in his sarcastic way. "Daughter of Eve," 
 he said, " I know what you are thinking of. I'll 
 leave other people to talk to you about your 
 looks, Httle one."
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 95 
 
 Vera bit her lip ; the colour rushed to her 
 cheeks and the tears to her eyes. She turned 
 away to hide her face, but in vain. Gaston's 
 keen gaze followed her ; his face wore an amused 
 expression, tempered with pity, which she could 
 not at all understand. For the moment she was 
 unmixed ly miserable. 
 
 '' You little fool ! " said Gaston, not unkindly, 
 at last. His voice had quite recovered the musical 
 ring which was its peculiar characteristic. " I 
 should not have thought you so full of vanity ! 
 So you want compliments to your pretty eyes 
 already, do you ? Silly child ! you will hear 
 plenty of them in half a dozen years or so ! " 
 
 " Do you really mean it ? " said Vera, wiping 
 away her tears. " But I don't believe it ; you 
 are kinder than other people — that is all. I don't 
 mind what they say — much." 
 
 '^ Don't you ? And you won't mind going 
 back to them, I suppose ? " 
 
 '*Back to Mr. Stanger? Oh, won't you — 
 won't you — take me away with you f " 
 
 " That might be difficult, little one." 
 
 ''I itwi'^ go back to Mr. Stanger," was the 
 child's response.
 
 96 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 He frowned a little, eyed lier with that keen 
 gaze which seemed to penetrate the inmost re- 
 cesses of her heart, and then bestirred himself to 
 speak seriously. 
 
 "You have been badly treated," he said, "and 
 I should like to help you to get away from these 
 people ; but I can do nothing if you are going to 
 behave like a foolish child. You seem to have 
 sense and spirit beyond your age : use them and 
 listen to me. If that man thinks he has lost 
 you, he will advertise and search the country — 
 because you must be a valuable possession to 
 him — and you might be given back to him and 
 treated worse than before without hope of redress. 
 If you walk quietly back with me, I will arrange 
 matters with him." There was a world of haughty 
 meaning in the emphasis that he laid upon the 
 pronoun. "/ shall not stand by and let him 
 abuse you. But you will have to confront him, 
 perhaps, and stick to your story — I think you are 
 brave enough for that % You do not seem to 
 want for courage. If you will do this I will help 
 you." 
 
 Vera looked up with a glow of confidence and 
 pride. "I'll do anything for you," she said, childishly
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 
 
 enough. But her emotion of reverence and ad- 
 miration for her new friend and benefactor was 
 anything but childish. 
 
 " That is well," he said gravely ; and with 
 these words she was content. 
 
 Meanwhile a slight change had come over the 
 scene around them. A rising breeze had driven 
 some light fleecy clouds between the earth and 
 the sun, which mitigated the fierceness of the 
 heat : the shadows were less strongly marked : 
 the birds chirped and flew low as if they thought 
 the evening hours approached. Gaston looked at 
 his watch and suddenly rose to his feet. 
 
 " It is not so hot now," he said. '' How far 
 are we from the town V 
 
 '^I do not know." 
 
 ''Two miles only," he went on reflectively. 
 " I suppose that you can walk two miles. Vera ? " 
 
 "Yes." .::: 
 
 He looked round him silently. For a few 
 moments he totally forgot the child's presence : 
 a sad and dreamy expression stole into his eyes. 
 At last he sighed deeply, passed his hand over 
 his forehead, then turned to Vera. 
 
 " So we must go and take up our burdens once 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 more, must we, little one ? " he said, witli an in- 
 describable sweetness of intonation in wbich, 
 child as she was, she could distinguish a note of 
 profound melancholy. " I had a wild dream of 
 escaping from mine— like yourself, you see — and 
 in counselling you to be brave, I have brought 
 myself to reason. I must put off the day of 
 escape a little longer — if only for your sake, Vera. 
 Shall we go back together ? " 
 
 He held out his hand. She placed her hot 
 little fingers wdthin his strong but gentle clasp, 
 and they turned their faces to the town. 
 
 Scarcely a word was spoken during that two 
 miles' walk. It was well for Vera that she was 
 accustomed to much active exercise, — she escaped 
 from the Stangers for a country ramble as often 
 as she was able, — for her companion w^alked fast 
 and took little notice of her. Only when they 
 neared the town did he slacken his pace at all. 
 
 "You must come with me to the ^Falcon,' 
 Vera," he said curtly. " I wdll see Stanger alone." 
 
 And, holding her still by the hand, he turned 
 towards the inn where he had been staying since 
 the previous evening. Here he summoned a ser- 
 vant who had come with him from Netherby and
 
 A NEW PURPOSE, 99 
 
 consigned Vera to his care. He had business in 
 the town, he said, and Franklyn must see that 
 the young lady was made comfortable and happy 
 whilst he w^as away. 
 
 Vera was accordingly given into the hands of 
 a friendly chambermaid, who washed her face and 
 brushed her hair, and then she was provided with 
 a good dinner, of which she certainly stood in 
 need. When this was over she curled herself uj) 
 in a corner of the sofa, and there, overpowered by 
 fatigue and soothed by the quietness of the place, 
 fell fast asleep and did not wake until late in the 
 afternoon. Even then she was aroused only by 
 the sound of voices close beside her ; and, starting 
 up, she found herself confronted by the faces of 
 the two men, each of whom wished to establish a 
 right to her guardianship. Mr. Eavenscroft had 
 returned in company mth Mr. Jonas Stanger. 
 
 Mr. Stanger's manner was exceedingly obse- 
 quious, but his face wore a viciously disappointed 
 look. ]\lr. Eavenscroft's haughty features showed 
 an admixture of anger and contempt. 
 
 '^ I brought her up as my own child," Mr. 
 Stanger was observing in an oily whine. " I 
 treated her as a father. And is this the return she
 
 100 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 makes me ? Alas ! child of my lost, my sainted 
 Mabel! why do you malign me thus?" This 
 last ejaculation was accompanied with a well- 
 managed sob and flourish of his handkerchief. 
 
 " Are you awake, Vera ? " said Mr. Kavens- 
 croft. " Come here to me. Show me your arm 
 again. There is the lie to your professions of 
 affection, Mr. Stanger. Don't you think you 
 had better hold your tongue ? " 
 
 "Did she dare to insinuate that I ill-treated 
 her ? " said the manager, casting a venomous 
 o;lance at her bruised arm and shrinkino- fiorure. 
 " It was an accident — a fall." 
 
 " I have heard your story already," said Yera's 
 friend contemptuously. " You know exactly how 
 much confidence I place in it. Yera, listen to 
 me. This man agrees to set you free — to hand 
 you over to me, in fact — on certain conditions, 
 which I need not specify ; but," he added, draw- 
 ing her out of Mr. Stanger's hearing and speaking 
 low, " he will not consent, on any terms, to your 
 not singing at the theatre to-night. I can 
 guarantee his not ill-treating you during that 
 time ; it would be against his own interest to do 
 so, the cur. I have unfortunately no right to
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 101 
 
 interfere exactly ; the person who has a right is 
 now away from England, and he knows that ; 
 therefore he refuses to yield more than absolute 
 fear requires him to do. However, I'll explain 
 all that to you another time. AVill you do what 
 he wishes, child ? In another day you will be 
 free." 
 
 "He looks as if he would kill me!" Vera 
 murmured doubtfully. 
 
 ''He dare not lay a finger on . you, child. 
 Don't be afraid. You can stay here till the 
 evening ; I will have you taken to the theatre 
 and brought safely home at night." 
 
 *• And you will come to the theatre too ? I 
 will sing if you are there, but I shall be afraid of 
 him if you are away." 
 
 A look of repugnance came over Gaston's 
 face. He had been to that theatre once before — 
 with Lucy. But in view of the child's evident 
 terror he could not refuse to accompany her. 
 
 *'Then I will go," she said readily enough, 
 '* and I will sing my best, my very best, because 
 you will be there." 
 
 He turned back to Mr. Stanger and gave him 
 the reply that the manager was awaiting.
 
 102 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " She will sing for you once more ; you know- 
 on what conditions. There need be no rehearsal, 
 I suppose ? I will send some one with her to- 
 night, and I shall be in the theatre myself to 
 take her away after the performance. Remember 
 that she is my property now, not yours." 
 
 ''I am sure, sir," said Mr. Stanger with 
 servile humility, " if I had known that she had 
 friends so able and willing to serve her I " 
 
 *' You would have treated her with civility? 
 I have no doubt of it," said the young man dryly. 
 And Mr. Stanger took his leave in some con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Vera was still too much of a child to wonder 
 at Mr. Ravenscroft's kindness to her. If she had 
 been nothing but the waif and stray which she 
 appeared it is probable that he would merely 
 have made her a present and perhaps remon- 
 strated with the manager concerning his treat- 
 ment of her, but he would never once have 
 thought of rescuing her from an unhappy life or 
 of taking any responsibility upon himself con- 
 cernins: her. But the utterance of her name had 
 at once arrested his attention. Marlitt ? It 
 was a man of the name of Marlitt who had per-
 
 A NEW PURPOSE. 103 
 
 suaded Mabel Hervey to run away with him. 
 Gaston well remembered the enthusiastic musi- 
 cian, with his long hair and visionary eyes, in 
 the days when he lived at Mickleham and came 
 to Netherby Manor to instruct Miss Hervey in 
 violin -playing, in harmony, and counterpoint. 
 Mabel Hervey had a passion for the violin, and 
 was not wanting in genuine musical talent. The 
 lessons ended, however, in her running away 
 with Ernst Marlitt and marrying him. Gaston 
 was present when the announcement of the 
 marriage was made to Mr. Hervey, and well 
 remembered the old man's burst of anger and 
 grief. Since that time little news of Mabel had 
 come to Netherby, but Gaston had certainly 
 heard of the birth of a child (a little girl with a 
 Kussian name — he had forgotten whether it was 
 Olga, Vera, or Nadia, but he knew that it was 
 Kussian), also of Ernst Marlitt's death and 
 Mabel's subsequent marriage with a theatrical 
 manager, whose name he did not know. 
 
 Thus placed on the track, he followed it up 
 with ease. Mr. St anger placed in his hands all 
 the papers belonging to Mabel which had come 
 into his possession, and agreed to deliver Vera
 
 104 .AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 over to him in return for tlie payment of a sum 
 of money. Gaston did not as yet know what 
 he should do with the child. He would write of 
 course to Eichard Hervey to tell him of his little 
 granddaughter's position, and no doubt, he 
 thought, Hervey would decide what should 
 become of her. If he refused to give her a home 
 Gaston thought it probable that his mother and 
 sister-in-law would find a place for Vera at 
 Eavenscroft Hall. She would be a nice play- 
 mate for little Olivia, and the second cousins 
 could share the same advantages. 
 
 Had he been in a more genial mood he would 
 have told Vera of his relationship to her. But 
 he wanted energy to do it. Felicia would make 
 the communication better than he. And perhaps 
 it would be as well to wait until it was seen how 
 Mr. Hervey took the news, and what he meant 
 to do for his granddaughter.
 
 CHAPTEE YIL 
 
 DAVY S PUPIL. 
 
 At nine o'clock that evening Vera was seated in 
 a little room behind the scenes of the Elmstone 
 theatre, dressed in a very short and flimsy 
 costume, her face plastered with paint and 
 powder, her hair crowned with gaudy artificial 
 flowers. Mr. Eavenscroft had taken care that 
 she should be well guarded. Mrs. Kemp her- 
 self, the landlady of the '' Falcon," had been per- 
 suaded to accompany Vera '' behind the scenes " 
 — an ofiice of which she did not altogether 
 approve, as she considered it rather beneath her 
 dignity. But it had been represented to her by 
 Mr. Eavenscroft's confidential servant, whom he 
 had brought from Netherby, that without some 
 protector the little girl would probably be 
 " pinched, nipped, and bobbed " between the acts,
 
 106 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 and kidnapped by Mr. Stanger afterwards ; and 
 this picture had produced the desired result of 
 bringing Mrs. Kemp to the theatre in Vera's 
 company. 
 
 Upright and severe in her respectable bonnet 
 and shawl, Mrs. Kemp sat in the dressing-room, 
 her comely face expressive of some interest, but 
 of more dislike, of her surroundings. Two or 
 three girls ran in and out ; a demon in black 
 and red stood at the door smoking a cigar. 
 Miss Julia Stanger was touching up her eye- 
 brows before the glass and withering Vera by 
 her sarcasms. Vera had not had a flattering 
 reception. Miss Emily Stanger had gone into 
 hysterics upon her appearance, and expressed a 
 wish to tear " the German toad's eyes out ; " 
 Julia had been prevented from boxing the child's 
 ears only by a rough admonition from her 
 father ; the rest of the company had had hints 
 or orders not to treat her with friendliness. But, 
 now that Mr. Stanger was out of the way, Julia's 
 tongue ran on unchecked by Mrs. Kemp's austere 
 presence. 
 
 ** I wonder you can look any of us in the face, 
 miss !" said the fair Julia indignantly. " Telling
 
 DA FY'S PUPIL. 107 
 
 lies about my pa in the way you have done ! 
 You'll say Emily and me were unkind to you 
 next, which we weren't, you little viper !" 
 
 " Yes, you were," said Vera, who was in no 
 patient mood. 
 
 " If giving you the best to eat and to drink, 
 and taking you about with us to the first hotels, 
 and treating you like a lady instead of the 
 beggar's brat that you are — if tliais unkindness, 
 then we were unkind; and I should like to 
 know what next!" said Julia fluently. "And 
 now you turn on us, you little wretch ! I 
 wouldn't have such a bad disposition, oh, not 
 for worlds ! would you. Miss Spratt ?" 
 
 "Oh, not for worlds!" said Miss Spratt, a 
 thin girl with a pursed-up mouth and watery 
 blue eyes, whom Vera hated almost as much as 
 she hated the two Miss Stangers. 
 
 "Don't you go for to answer them, dear," 
 said Mrs. Kemp in an undertone. " They ain't 
 worth it, the impudent hussies ! " 
 
 It was fortunate for her that this speech was 
 unheard by the two girls, or there would have 
 been a disturbance. It produced no calming 
 effect upon Vera's own mind. She was intoxi-
 
 108 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 cated by the prospect of freedom, and not dis- 
 posed to leave Miss Stanger's abuse unanswered. 
 
 '' You have always been unkind to me," she 
 said. " You often kept me without food when 
 I was hungry ; you often pinched and pushed 
 me when I was on the stage, so that I might 
 forget my part and be punished ; you often 
 made your father l^eat me. I have not told Mr. 
 Ravenscroft all about you yet, but I shall — I 
 shall tell him what a bad, wicked, cruel girl 
 you are ; and when you are acting in different 
 towns, he wdll tell people about you, and they 
 will come and hiss." 
 
 It was a childish speech, but Julia had been 
 known to fly into a fury for less. On this 
 occasion, however, she made an obvious efibrt 
 to govern herself. 
 
 " You little story-teller !" she said contemptu- 
 ously. "What do I care for your Ravenscroft? 
 He's none so grand, if the truth were told, nor 
 so saintly either. As for you, everybody knows 
 where you came from ; your mother was a 
 beggar or worse, and your father a rogue and 
 a vagabond — that's about the truth of it." 
 
 " My father was a gentleman," said Vera,
 
 DAVY'S PUPIL, 109 
 
 rising to her feet, and looking at lier with eyes 
 before which she quailed in spite of herself ; 
 " and my mother was a lady, and your father 
 killed her with being so cruel both to her and to 
 me. You think you can torment me as you like, 
 because there is nobody to take care of me. Did 
 you never hear that God curses the people who 
 are cruel to the poor and fatherless, JuHa 
 Stanger ? You will have to ask Him to forgive 
 you for your behaviour to me before ever you 
 hope to go to heaven." 
 
 Yera's speech was certainly indefensible. It 
 was the outcome of the state of excitement in 
 which she had spent the day. Besides, she had 
 had a theatrical training. She was partly quoting 
 from a play that she had once seen acted ; never- 
 theless, she was terribly in earnest, and her 
 earnestness told upon the hearers. Mrs. Kemp 
 made a clicking sound of disa^^probation ; Miss 
 Spratt uttered a scream, and ran out of the 
 room ; Julia turned pale beneath her rouge. 
 But in an instant Miss Stano-er recovered her- 
 self. The blood rushed to her bold handsome 
 face ; she struck the child furiously on the head 
 with the back of a hair-brush, and would cer-
 
 no AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 tainly have repeated tlie blow but for the 
 vigorous interposition of Mrs. Kemp. At that 
 very moment came Vera's call; she left Mrs. 
 Kemp to settle the matter with Julia as best she 
 could, and made her appearance on the stage. 
 
 She had little acting to do, but she had two 
 songs — one a comic '' patter" song, and one of a 
 more pathetic character. Vera was never ner- 
 vous when singing, and she gave forth her comic 
 utterances and performed the accompanying 
 dance with more spirit than usual after the en- 
 counter with Julia. She was applauded to the 
 echo ; but it was not until the close of the second 
 repetition of the last verse — a very slangy one, the 
 meaning of which she scarcely understood — that 
 she caught sight of Mr. Eavenscroft, looking as if 
 he did anything but enjoy the performance. He 
 was sitting far back in one of the boxes : his 
 arms crossed, a dark frown upon his brow. 
 Vera was disappointed. She had hoped to please 
 him by her singing, and she went off with tears 
 in her eyes. 
 
 The interval between the two songs was not 
 great, and she had to change her dress in the 
 meantime. Her exultation had been followed
 
 DAVY'S PUPIL. Ill 
 
 by sudden shame and depression : an intense 
 realisation of her own loneliness came upon her 
 as she stole back, in picturesque rags and poverty, 
 to the darkened stage, and sang as if she were 
 telling her own story to the w^orld. How came 
 the Stangers to give the child so suitable a part ? 
 Even to Yera's own ears her voice rang out with 
 a passionate thrill of real emotion as she sang. 
 The last verse ran as follows : — 
 
 " My heart it is sore, and the cold wind is driving, 
 
 In the grave with my mother I would that I lay ; 
 To be done with the hunger, the toil, and the striving. 
 
 The comfortless night and the desolate day. 
 Oh, mother in heaven, look down from the glory. 
 
 And take me at last as of old to your breast. 
 Let me sob in your ears all my pitiful story, 
 
 And then -vyith the angels, and you, be at rest." 
 
 A woman sobbed in the very midst of the 
 verse. The audience sat as if spell-bound until 
 the end, and then electrified the child by such 
 bursts of applause as she had never before 
 received. 
 
 Vera hardly deserved their plaudits. She 
 had but seized upon the words and made them 
 her own — she had been indeed the forlorn, ne- 
 glected child whose mother was in heaven ! —
 
 112 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 but her hearers believed the impersonation to be 
 simply dramatic, and gave her credit for talent 
 and training which she did not possess. 
 
 She could not see Mr. Kavenscroft's face. 
 
 He came behind the scenes in a short time, 
 and found Vera in Mrs. Kemp's lap, crying her 
 heart out upon her comfortable bosom. 
 
 ^* What have they done to her ? What is 
 the matter ? " he thundered. 
 
 " I don't know, sir, I'm sure ; unless it is the 
 way that that brazen-faced girl struck her just 
 before she sang her first song — I gave her a 
 piece of my mind, the saucy jade ! — " 
 
 " Struck her ? " said Gaston. It was well 
 for Julia that she was out of his reach at that 
 moment. His voice, though low, was menacing 
 and stern. "Where is that man?" he said. 
 *' He has broken his bargain." 
 
 '' No, no ! " cried Vera, starting up. " It did 
 not hurt me — I was not crying for that ! — please 
 don't " 
 
 " What are you crying for, then ? " he said 
 gently. " Don't be afraid to tell me, Vera ; if 
 that girl has hurt you, she ought to be punished. 
 No ? Well, what is the matter ? "
 
 DAVY'S PUPIL. 113 
 
 " It was only the song, she murmured shame- 
 facedly. "It was so like me — I was really the 
 little girl mthout any mother — and without any 
 friends, until — until you found me." 
 
 And Vera suddenly caught his hand between 
 her own and kissed it, greatly to Mrs. Kemp's 
 astonishment. 
 
 He looked at the child gravely, with a faint 
 lifting of his eyebrows ; then drew her closer to 
 him mth a gentle, caressing gesture. 
 
 '' Poor child ! That life is over for you now, 
 Vera. Forget it as soon as you can. And now 
 come home with me. You have no farewells to 
 make, I suppose V 
 
 " If you would not mind," she faltered, " I 
 should like so much to say good-bye to Davy \ " 
 
 " Who is Davy ? '' 
 
 " He plays the violin ; he is in the band. 
 He is lame, and I love him because he was always 
 so kind to me." 
 
 "You shall see him to-morrow at the inn. 
 Have you anything here belonging to you ? Get 
 your things together and come." 
 
 Vera obeyed him hastily. She saw nothing 
 more of Julia. They met Emily Stanger in one 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 J A' OPEN FOE. 
 
 of the corridors : she tossed her head and drew 
 away her skirts as they approached her. Mr. 
 Stanger, in eager conversation with another man 
 stood near the door. 
 
 Gaston caught a sentence or two as he passed 
 
 by. 
 
 " Such talent too ! Never saw so much in a 
 child of that age — but couldn't aiford to refuse, 
 you know Ah ! " 
 
 He started at seeing Mr. Ravenscroft, and 
 bowed with an uneasy crafty smile. Mr. 
 Eavenscroft's hand closed on Yera's a little more 
 tightly than before, but he gave the stage- 
 manager neither look nor word. Mrs. Kemp 
 and Franklyn followed bearing Yera's very few 
 and poor belongings. And so she passed from 
 the t}Tanny of Jonas Stanger to the guardianship 
 of Gaston Eavenscroft. 
 
 When he reached the "Falcon," Mr. Eavenscroft 
 gave some orders which seemed to differ from 
 those previously bestowed. He had arranged at 
 first that Yera should sup with Mrs. Kemp ; he 
 now directed that she should take her evening 
 meal with him. 
 
 He touched no food himself ; but he plied her
 
 DAW'S PUPIL. 115 
 
 with good things until she could eat no more. 
 Then, while the servants took away the dishes, 
 he leaned back in a low armchair, and sank into 
 a melancholy reverie. Vera sat on a high seat 
 at some distance, and watched him furtively ; she 
 liked to dwell upon each distinctive trait — the 
 short-cropped hair and close moustache of raven 
 blackness, the bent brows, the strong handsome 
 features, the fine dark eyes. Vera thought her 
 hero a middle-aged man, old enough to be her 
 father. She Avas quite surprised to learn in after 
 days that he had then been only five and twenty. 
 
 He lifted his eyes at last and caught her 
 glance. Immediately he roused himself and 
 stretched out his hand to her. 
 
 •'•'Come and sit by me, Vera," he said. She 
 dras^ored a footstool to his chair and sat down 
 beside him. He stroked her hair as he had done 
 that morning upon the downs. " Child," he said, 
 '•' I wonder what I am to do with you." 
 
 Vera's face fell. She had thought that he had 
 some plan ready. He noticed her change of 
 expression. 
 
 "" What a sensitive plant it is ! Don't be 
 frightened, child. Matters will be arranged for
 
 116 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 you ; never fear. But you disconcerted all my 
 plans this evening." 
 
 " How r' asked Vera. 
 
 He lauglied. ^' I will tell you — in ten years' 
 time, if I know you then, Vera. Who taught 
 you to sing ? " 
 
 ^' Davy," she answered promj)tly. 
 
 " Davy is a wonderful man," he said, with an 
 enigmatic expression on his face. " Are you fond 
 of singing ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. But there is one thing I should 
 like better." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 '' I want to play the violin. My father played 
 it. I have his violin. And my mother played 
 it too." 
 
 ''Ah, that accounts for the violin case that 
 puzzled me. You should have made Davy teach 
 you to play." 
 
 " He did— a little." 
 
 " Indeed ? Let me hear you play, Vera." 
 
 Vera went for her violin, which she handled 
 with care and reverence. She was nervous about 
 her playing, if not about her singing, because she 
 was not so sure of the effect that she would pro-
 
 DAVY'S PUPIL. 117 
 
 duce; but she did her best. She played some 
 simple airs that Davy had taught her, then a 
 German volkslied of which her mother had been 
 fond. When she had finished she noted the same 
 inscrutable look of surprise upon Mr. Ravenscroft's 
 face that she had seen before. But he said 
 nothing. 
 
 "Don't you like it?" she said at last, very 
 ^vistfuUy. " I know I play badly." 
 
 He smiled a little, then spoke with the air of 
 one who wishes to counsel wisely. 
 
 *•' You have, no doubt, a talent for music, 
 Vera," he said. ''You must cultivate it, of 
 course. But do not let your mind run upon a 
 public life. Your nature is not fitted for it. 
 You would sufi'er a martyrdom on the stage, poor 
 child ! Love music for its own sake, not for the 
 sake of fame or money." 
 
 Vera could not understand him, and said so 
 frankly. 
 
 " You will understand me in time," he said. 
 "Put away your violin, child, and talk to me. 
 Is it possible that I met you for the first time 
 this morning only ? It seems years ago." 
 
 " I shall never forget it," she answered. " No-
 
 118 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 body has been so good to me before — so kind, so 
 good!" 
 
 " That has not been my character heretofore/' 
 he said dryly. And then he fell into a long 
 silence which Vera did not try to break. 
 
 " I shall take you home with me to-morrow, 
 Vera," he said after a time. " You will meet my 
 mother and my sister-in-law. I suppose you 
 understand" — and there was an ironical ring in 
 his voice which Vera did not like — "thatj'ou 
 must not treat them with as much frankness as 
 you bestowed upon Miss Stanger." 
 
 " They will not speak to me as Miss Stanger 
 did." 
 
 "I won't answer for the way in which my 
 mother speaks to you," said Gaston in an enig- 
 matic tone. '* In any case, remember that she 
 is much older than you, and behave to her with 
 respect." Vera thought the warning unneces- 
 sary, and held her peace. '' Now go to bed, my 
 child. I left word at the theatre that your friend 
 Davy was to call here in the morning. What is 
 his name beside Davy, by the by V 
 
 " Davy Rowe." 
 Davy — David Rowe !" said Gaston, with a 
 
 ie:\
 
 DAVY'S PUPIL. 119 
 
 sudden change of tone. Vera turned to look at 
 liim, but lie averted his face, and sat mth his 
 cheek upon his hand. " What brings him 
 here ?" he murmured to himself dreamily. 
 
 Vera waited for a few minutes, but finding 
 that he took no notice of her, she stole quietly 
 away and went to bed. 
 
 Gaston sat long in deep abstraction. At last 
 he roused himself, and began to wTite a letter to 
 Richard Hervey. It was midnight before he had 
 completed the task that he had set himself, but 
 when it was done he felt more satisfaction than 
 had visited his breast for many a day. 
 
 " I was a coward to think of ending my 
 troubles in that way," he murmured to himself. 
 ' ' The child saved me. I will do what I can for her. " 
 
 It was on the next day that Vera received her 
 farewell visit from her friend the fiddler, David 
 J^owe, whom Gaston had known under such dif- 
 ferent auspices. He came about ten o'clock in 
 the morning. Mr. Eavenscroft had already gone 
 out, leaving word that the musician was to be 
 admitted ; and Vera met him in a little back 
 parlour of the Falcon Inn and rapturously threw
 
 120 AjV open foe. 
 
 her arms round his ueck. David Rowe had never 
 suspected that the lady who played a humble 
 part in Mr. St anger's company was the widowed 
 daughter of Mr. Hervey of Netherby Manor, but 
 he had been attracted to her through her little 
 daughter Vera, whose caresses had won his heart 
 when she was hardly old enough to walk alone. 
 Vera's mother had very possibly recognised David 
 Rowe from the very first : he was less changed 
 than she had been by years of sorrow, poverty, 
 and exile ; but if she recognised him she never 
 told him of the fact. She was always particu- 
 larly gentle and considerate in her dealings with 
 him ; and she allowed Vera to have more inter- 
 course with the lame fiddler than with any other 
 member of the troupe. It was Davy, therefore, 
 who had developed Vera's musical talent, and 
 nourished her imagination on a never -failing 
 store of wild legends and ghost stories. It seemed : 
 to him sometimes as if in Vera he had found his \ 
 Lucy once again, as she had been in the days of her ' 
 childhood in the cottage at Netherby. As for Vera, { 
 she was sincerely, if somewhat patronisingly, ! 
 attached to him ; and welcomed his visit with ! 
 delight, which afforded Davy much satisfaction. j
 
 DAVY'S FUFIL. 121 
 
 " Stanger's mad with us all this morning, 
 missy," he said confidentially. He says it'll 
 ruin him for you to leave the company." 
 
 '• He won't turn you off for coming to see me, 
 wiU he, Davy ?" 
 
 '•' It's not much odds if he does. I can get a 
 living anywheres." 
 
 '•' I shall never forget you, Davy, you 
 know." 
 
 '' Out of sight, out of mind, missy." 
 
 "Not with me, Davy dear. You have been 
 so kind to me. Mamma used to say you were a 
 kind man. If ever I am rich, I shall find you 
 out and give you as much money as ever you 
 want." 
 
 Davy shook his head but said nothing. 
 
 •' Don't you think I shall ever be rich ?" Vera 
 asked. '' I shall work hard and try : I want some 
 money for you and other people." 
 
 " Try if you like, but try the right way, dearie. 
 It's ill gained what the devil gives." 
 
 "But you don't think that the gentleman 
 means to do me any harm, do you, Davy?" said 
 Vera, gathering from this remark, after some 
 reflection, that Davy thought her in danger.
 
 122 AA^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 She had not yet accustomed herself to speaking 
 of Mr. Kavenscroft by his name. 
 
 '' I can't tell," said Davy meditatively. " It 
 is a queer start altogether. AVhy should he take 
 you away from Stanger's when he knows nothing- 
 whatever about you. It's as queer as Dick's hat- 
 band, which went nine times round and w^ouldn't 
 tie at the last." 
 
 " Oh, I've heard of Dick before," cried Vera, 
 almost pettishly. ^' Who was Dick ? Why did 
 he want a hat-band ? I wish you wouldn't talk 
 of him if you can't say anything more sensible 
 than that." 
 
 "Ay, ay; it's always the way. New friends, 
 new manners. It's time I was off." 
 
 '' No, Davy, no," entreated Vera, clinging to 
 him. " I did not mean to be cross. Be kind to 
 me, Davy ; I shall not see 3^ou again for a long 
 time perhaps." 
 
 '' That's true," he said ; ^* truer than you think 
 for, missy. It's all come to an end now. You've 
 been a slave to one man, and now you'll be a 
 slave to another, and the Lord knows whether 
 you'll ever be free to do as you please for the 
 rest of your life."
 
 DAW'S PUPIL. 123 
 
 '' WHiat do you mean, Davy ? I'm not a slave 
 at all." 
 
 '' You've been bought and sold like one, at 
 any rate," said Dav}^ mth bitterness. " Would 
 Stanger part with you for nothing? No, it's 
 money that has done it : two hundred pounds 
 or more at the least, as I've heard tell to make 
 you this strange gentleman's apprentice instead 
 of Jonas Stanger's. He's bought you, and he's 
 your master, and that's the long and the short 
 of it." 
 
 "I am glad of it then," said the child pas- 
 sionately. *' I like to do what he tells me. 
 I always shall. He is good to me, and I love 
 him." 
 
 ''Love or not, he's your master," returned 
 Davy in an obstinate tone. " I shall scarce hear 
 much more of you, missy. I haven't set eyes on 
 this gentleman yet, nor heard his name. I dare 
 say he's a fine gentleman, by all reports ? " This 
 was said questioningly. 
 
 " Yes, he is a very fine gentleman indeed ! " 
 Vera asseverated. " He is very rich — very hand- 
 some — very good ; and his name is Mr. Gaston 
 Eavenscroft." ■ . .
 
 124 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Davy started from his seat with dilated eyes 
 and outstretched hands. 
 
 '^ What^s that you say ? " he stammered. 
 '' What — what's his name ? Eavenscroft — 
 Gaston Eavenscroft of Netherby? The Lord 
 have mercy upon you, child ! Is it into the 
 hands of that wicked man that you have fallen ? " 
 
 '* He is not a wicked man, Davy ! How can 
 you say so ? " 
 
 '' Because I know — because I know," said the 
 musician with an appearance of great agitation. 
 " I can't tell you why — it's a story that you would 
 not understand ; but I know that he's not a man 
 to be trusted. Oh, my dear, what would your 
 mother say to me, as asked me to look after you 
 when she was on her dying bed % " 
 
 " I don't believe that Mr. Eavenscroft is any- 
 thing but good and kind," said Vera, whose eyes 
 were filling with indignant tears. " You are 
 very naughty and disagreeable to tell me so, 
 Davy, and I think it's very wrong of you. 
 Where are you going ? " 
 
 " My dearie," said the fiddler, shaking his 
 head mournfully, " I can't do anything for you 
 but warn you. That I will do, and then I'll go.
 
 DA FY'S PUPIL. 
 
 125 
 
 Kemember that Mr. Kavenscroft is not to be 
 trusted : remember that I say so. He's a bad 
 man and will bring you harm, and do you a 
 mischief if he can. So take care ! " 
 
 And with these ominous words David Rowe 
 took leave of Vera. 
 
 iv'^\iiivA\Ujii/, uvj^ 

 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A REBEL. 
 
 Ravenscroft returned to Netherby without 
 meeting David Rowe, whose presence at Ehn- 
 stone made the young man doubly anxious to 
 leave that place. He took Vera with him. His 
 plans were not matured with respect to her — in 
 fact, he had scarcely formed any definite ones, 
 for he fully expected that this task would at once 
 be taken off his hands by Mr. Hervey, Madame 
 Waldstein, and Felicia. It did not cross his mind 
 at all that any one of the three might raise an 
 objection to her presence at Netherby. 
 
 Vera herself — shy, excited, and almost over- 
 whelmed with the sense of liberty and idleness — 
 did not venture to ask any questions respecting 
 her future. She had already made an idol of 
 her new^ friend, and thought that all that he
 
 A REBEL. 127 
 
 -aid and did was right. Gaston bestowed little 
 apparent notice upon her, but he was carelessly 
 kind and indulgent ; and it was plain that the 
 new interest which she had brought into his life 
 was of service to him. He was less dispirited 
 and languid than he had been since the begin- 
 ning of his illness. 
 
 '* Stay here, Vera," he said to her, when they 
 had reached Eavenscroft Hall. He opened the 
 door of a small sitting-room and pointed to a 
 chair. "'I ^ill come back presently or send for 
 you. They do not know yet of your arrival ; I 
 must go and prepare their minds/' 
 
 He left her with a reassuring nod and smile. 
 Some time elapsed before she heard more of him, 
 but she did not wait long alone. A little girl, 
 with a doll in her arms almost as big as herself, 
 pushed open the door and announced her name 
 to be •' Olivia.*' With Olivia Eavenscroft — her 
 second cousin, although she did not know it — 
 Vera speedily made friends. 
 
 Little Olivia was four years old and Vera was 
 not far wrong; when she mentallv decided that she 
 had never seen a lovelier child. The complexion 
 of peach -like bloom, the tendrils of silky dark
 
 128 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 hair clustering round tlie white forehead and 
 laughing eyes, the delicate features and rosy 
 mouth — nay, even the dainty white frock with 
 its black bows and the look of exquisite care 
 visible in every detail of her attire — all these 
 things impressed Vera with their perfect com- 
 pleteness and a sense of her own poverty and 
 insignificance. She was far more shy than Olivia, 
 but in a few minutes the two children became 
 quite at ease with each other, and chatted and 
 played together as if they had been intimate all 
 their lives. 
 
 Their games were, how^ever, presently inter- 
 rupted. For some time the sound of voices had 
 issued stormily from the next room. Then came 
 the rattle of rings as a curtain was drawn aside, 
 and then a door was hastily flung open. Little 
 Olivia rose from the floor, with a solemn look in 
 her great dark eyes, as she said to Vera wisely : 
 
 '* That is grandmamma." 
 
 Folding-doors stretched across on one side of 
 the room, and these wxre the doors that opened 
 to admit Madame Waldstein and her son. The 
 Baroness entered leaning on Gaston's arm ; 
 Felicia came behind them with a white shawl
 
 A REBEL. 129 
 
 thrown over lier arm. Madame Waldstein was 
 queen of tlie houseliold, and it was plain that 
 every member of it must be prepared to pay her 
 assiduous attention. She was a very handsome 
 old lady, and she did not at all disdain the use 
 of art to heighten her charms, although these 
 were wonderfully little impaired by time. Her 
 face was like a piece of delicate old china, her 
 white hair was dressed in a multitude of little 
 curls high above her forehead, her dark eyes 
 flashed vivaciously beneath eyebrow^s which 
 nature would scarcely have left so dark and well 
 defined. It was very easy to see from whom 
 Olivia Eavenscroft inherited her most character- 
 istic traits. 
 
 She was dressed in mourning for her elder 
 son ; but she had resumed her usual ornaments — 
 diamonds — of which she was extravagantly fond. 
 The lace on her head was kept in its place upon 
 the frizzled curls by magnificent diamond pins ; 
 there were diamonds in her ears, at her throat, 
 and upon her wrinkled white fingers. When she 
 came suddenly into the sunshiny room in which 
 the children were playing, it seemed to Vera as 
 if some wonderful fairy god-mother of legendary 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 lore stood before lier all radiant with points of 
 changing light : ready to change persons who 
 displeased her into singing birds and coloured 
 fish, or to transport herself, at a moment's notice, 
 a thousand miles away. When she came to 
 know Madame Waldstein a little better, she was 
 glad to reflect that she had at least no super- 
 natural powers ; for this old lady seldom used her 
 abilities for any very benevolent purpose. Felicia, 
 walking behind her mother-in-law, was tall and 
 slender, with an oval face of Madonna-like sweet- 
 ness, and tender melancholy eyes ; but she was 
 eclipsed by the Baroness, although she had youth 
 upon her side. 
 
 "Is this the child then?" said Madame 
 Waldstein, continuing her conversation with 
 Gaston as she advanced into the room. '•' A^Hiat 
 an odd little creature ! — Hervey won't have any- 
 thing to do with her, Gaston ; you need not 
 imaoine it." 
 
 o 
 
 "I expect that he will." 
 
 " Not he. He was too angry at the whole 
 business to relent now. I daresay he will furnish 
 money enough for " 
 
 " Pray remember what I told you," Gaston
 
 A REBEL. 131 
 
 interru]3ted with small ceremony. " I have said 
 nothing to her as yet — she does not know " 
 
 He caught Vera's eyes and stopped short in 
 some confusion. She was listening intently and 
 trying to comprehend. 
 
 "Let her go into the garden/' said the 
 Baroness sharply. " She has eyes like the wolf 
 in the story-book. What an absurdity the whole 
 matter is! What a game at cross - purposes !" 
 ^nd she laughed satirically. 
 
 " I don't understand you," remarked Gaston. 
 
 " No ; I daresay not," said his mother, allow- 
 ing him to lead her to a large arm-chair. " You 
 
 3eldom do, my dear Gaston, and in this case 
 
 Do send the children away, Felicia ; we do not 
 want them here." 
 
 The little girls were accordingly banished, and 
 their elders discussed the child's circumstances 
 and prospects with freedom. Gaston was some- 
 what surprised to find that Felicia did not hail 
 the notion of Vera's remaining at the Hall as a 
 companion for Olivia with any. great delight. It 
 was tacitly agreed, however, that she should stay 
 for a time, so that Mrs. Ravenscroft might see 
 what kind of child she was ; but that Vera
 
 132 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 should not be told of her relationship to Mr. 
 Hervey until Mr. Hervey himself had answered 
 Gaston's letter. 
 
 Meantime the children had tea in a dainty 
 nursery under the supervision of a cheerful-look- 
 ing nurse, who brushed Yera's hair and tied a 
 pinafore round her neck exactly as she did to 
 her own little charge. Mrs. Eavenscroft came 
 in once to caress her little girl and speak softly 
 to the visitor. The house was quiet, yet full of 
 pleasantness. Vera did not respond to the 
 advances made to her ; she was in a shy mood, 
 almost a fierce one ; she wished herself back upon 
 the stage, where she could be, like little Olivia, 
 a fairy princess. Then she was angry that Mr. 
 Eavenscroft had not been near her all the after- 
 noon. Was he forgetting her altogether ? Vera 
 was no heroine ; only an untrained, wayward 
 child ; and she was hurt and angry by his treat- 
 ment of her. It was in no gracious mood that 
 she went downstairs with pretty little Olivia to 
 dessert. The nurse had decked her out with a 
 muslin pinafore and a sash ; but she would rather 
 have worn her old brown frock without dis- 
 guise.
 
 A REBEL. 133 
 
 The Baroness sat in a throne-like chair at one 
 side of the round table ; her son fronted her, and 
 Mrs. Eavenscroft was between them. The air 
 was cool and the light fading ; sweet scents and 
 sounds came through the open window. The 
 table itself was a pretty sight, with its ornaments 
 of flowers, silver, china and crystal, the piles of 
 crimson and purple fruit, the translucent wines 
 reflecting sunset tints upon the snowy table-cloth. 
 ]\ir. Eavenscroft called Vera to sit by him, and 
 gave her some strawberries. He did not look 
 either pleased or happy, and for some time sat 
 perfectly silent. 
 
 Olivia had seated herself by her mother, and 
 chattered gleefully without seeming to expect an 
 answer. It startled every one when the Baroness 
 suddenly tapped the table with her fan and up- 
 lifted her cracked vivacious treble. 
 
 " You say that child can sing, Gaston. Let 
 her sing to me ; I used to be a judge of voices. 
 Let me hear her." 
 
 "You can scarcely judge of the voice of a 
 child w^ho is not ten years old," said her son 
 dryly. 
 
 '' T can make allowances," said Madame Wald-
 
 134 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 stein, nodding at him. " And I can judge whether 
 she has talent or not. Now, child, sing." 
 
 Vera bent her head over her plate and fingered 
 her strawberries. 
 
 ''Does she not hear?" said the Baroness, 
 sharply. '* Or is she obstinate ?" 
 
 " She is shy," said Mr. E-avenscroft, without 
 looking at the child. " Sing something. Vera. 
 Anything you know." 
 
 The tone was quietly imperious. Suddenly 
 Davy's ill-judged words had recurred to Vera's 
 mind. Mr. Eavenscroft was her master, but she 
 would not be his slave. She would not sino;. 
 
 ''Don't press her, Gaston," said Mrs. Eavens- 
 croft softly. " She does not like it." 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Madame Waldstein, in a 
 tone of malicious enjoyment. " I want to hear 
 her, Gaston. Have you no authority over the 
 child whom you say you have 'rescued'? Are 
 my wishes to be set at naught by that baby ?" 
 
 Mr. Eavenscroft's face grew dark. Even 
 Vera could see that his mother had offended 
 him. He did not look round at her, however ; 
 he only said, more curtly than ever : 
 
 "Sing, Vera."
 
 A REBEL. 135 
 
 She did not dare to disobey. But it was left 
 to lier to choose what she should sing ; and, out 
 of pure freakishness, she selected the song that 
 she knew Mi. Eavenscroft had not liked when he 
 heard it at the theatre. There was no harm in 
 it, but there was a good deal of slang ; more, 
 indeed, than she herself could understand. She 
 sang it with the verve and spirit which Mr. 
 Stanger s company had found acceptable. The 
 Baroness laughed to herself; Mrs. Eavenscroft 
 looked at the little girl with a sort of incredulity 
 mingled with positive alarm; her brother-in- 
 law's brow gathered blackness. At the end of 
 one verse he bade Vera stop. '' That is enough," 
 he said. 
 
 ^' Quite enough, I think," said Mrs. Eavens- 
 croft, putting her arm round the wondering 
 Olivia, and pushing back her chair from the 
 table. " Is that the kind of song you like to 
 hear, Gaston V 
 
 " There's no harm in the song, my dear," said 
 Madame Waldstein briskly. "A trifle slangy 
 and vulgar ; that is all. A low music-hall ditty, 
 I should think. Go on, child. I like my dishes 
 highly spiced. I can put up with a touch of
 
 136 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 coarseness in the seasoning. I love onions and 
 peppermint." 
 
 " My tastes differ from yours, mother," said 
 Mrs. Eavenscroft, with dignity. " If you will 
 excuse me I will take Olivia up to the nursery. 
 It is time for her to go to bed." 
 
 "And for Vera too," said Mr. Eavenscroft 
 indifferently. 
 
 Mrs. Eavenscroft stopped, looked at the 
 Baroness for a moment with an odd expression 
 of appeal, then left the room holding her little 
 girl by the hand. At a sign from Mr. Eavens- 
 croft, Vera followed her. She felt that in some 
 way she had made a mistake, and was miserable 
 at the thought ; and yet she scarcely understood 
 what was wrong. 
 
 She went with lagging steps into the day- 
 nursery, whither Olivia and her mother had 
 preceded her. Mrs. Eavenscroft at once entered 
 the adjoining bedroom, and shut the door of 
 communication between the two rooms. The 
 nurse was absent ; for some little time Vera re- 
 mained alone. Mrs. Eavenscroft went down- 
 stairs again, and the child looked out of the 
 window, cooled her flushed cheeks in the even-
 
 A REBEL. 137 
 
 ing breeze, and wondered where she was to sleep 
 and what Mr. Eavenscroft would ultimately do 
 with her. 
 
 It was all but dark when Mrs. Ravenscroft 
 reappeared. She was moving more quickly than 
 usual ; and her voice had an agitated sound 
 which she vainly tried to disguise by a forced 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 •'Your hat and cloak are here, are they not? 
 ^Ir. Eavenscroft will be ready in five minutes, 
 and you are to go with him." 
 
 "To go away ? " said Vera, moving from the 
 window and comino^ close to her. " Must I 0:0 ? 
 I thought I might stay here, perhaps — just for a 
 little time — with your little girl." 
 
 Felicia's face w^as flushed. She answered with 
 a touch of stiffness, '^ My little girl has her owti 
 companions. You are going to school very 
 shortly." And then something overcame the 
 attempt to be cold and hard. "Oh, you poor 
 little thing ! " she said, sitting down and drawing 
 the child to her lap. " It is not your fault. You 
 have no mother." And then she kissed her, and 
 Vera felt the tears wet upon her cheeks. 
 
 This was all utterly incomprehensible to Vera,
 
 138 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 but she leaned her face against Mrs. Eavenscroft's 
 shoulder, and felt comforted by the pressure of 
 her soft maternal arms. '^ I should like to stay 
 with you," she said, almost in a whisper. Felicia 
 gave the child another caress, but answered no- 
 thing. 
 
 While Vera was putting on her hat and 
 cloak, however, Mrs. Kavenscroft talked to her 
 gently — told her to be a good girl and learn her 
 lessons, and not sing silly songs — such as she 
 had heard in the theatre — for they would get her 
 into trouble with older and wiser people. Mr. 
 Eavenscroft took a great interest in her (she said 
 nothing about the relationship), and would prob- 
 ably send her to school and afterwards find her 
 a situation as a governess, perhaps, if she be- 
 haved nicely and learned the things that it was 
 good for girls to know ; and she would always 
 help Vera, if it was in her power to do so. Then, 
 seeing possibly how forlorn and bewildered poor 
 little Vera felt, she kissed her again, and put into 
 her hands a string of coral beads which she had 
 admired on Olivia's neck that afternoon,, and told 
 her to keep them in remembrance of the little 
 girl.
 
 A REBEL. 139 
 
 As Vera left the nursery, Felicia stole softly 
 into the other room, and bent over a little white 
 bed in which her own child was Ipng. Vera 
 could not see this without remembering the visits 
 that her mother used to pay her in the darkness 
 when she was in bed. She turned aw^ay with a 
 sudden constriction of her throat, a clenching of 
 her hands, a resolute forcing back of the tears in 
 her hot eyes. For although she was dismissed 
 with tears and kisses and a gift, she felt instinc- 
 tively that she was dismissed in disgrace ; she 
 was no fit companion for Oli^da Eavenscroft. 
 
 A servant conducted her to the front door. 
 Here stood Mr. Eavenscroft, eyeing a powerful 
 black horse that had just been brought to the 
 steps. Vera took her place timidly beside him. 
 At first he did not see her ; then he started and 
 said, '' Oh, here you are, child ! " and mounted 
 his horse. '' Help her up, Norris," he said to the 
 man. And before she well knew what she was 
 doing, she had been half-lifted, half-swung up, 
 and found herself before him upon the horse's 
 back. 
 
 He put his arm round her, and she felt her- 
 self safe enough ; but there was something in the
 
 140 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 novelty of the situation that kept her quiet. They 
 had gone for some distance before he spoke. 
 
 " Are you comfortable ? " he said at last. 
 
 '* Yes, sir, thank you." 
 
 Vera's tone was a very humble one. He 
 glanced down at her and saw the tears on her 
 eyelashes. 
 
 '' What did Mrs. Eavenscroft say to you ? " 
 he asked abruptly. 
 
 " She told me to be a good girl and — and — 
 not to sing," Vera answered tremulously. " She 
 was very kind." 
 
 " Oh, was she ? " Then, breaking out into a 
 short laugh : " What possessed you. Vera, to go 
 and sing a song of that sort ? Of course it pre- 
 judiced them against you. The odd thing is 
 that I have watched you for two or three days, 
 and could have sworn that you were as well- 
 behaved and gentle and refined as Felicia's own 
 child herself! And you broke out to-night 
 like " he did not finish the sentence. 
 
 Vera could not speak, so he continued grimly : 
 " Well, we have ruined your chances in that 
 house at least. I thought I could have induced 
 them to take you in, adopt you, pet you, make
 
 A REBEL. 141 
 
 you Olivia's playmate. But you set Olivia's 
 mother against you, my dear, and I offended the 
 Baroness ; and between us we made a mess of 
 the whole affair. So nothing remains but that 
 I should take you over to the inn at Mickleham, 
 and keep you there for a day or two till I find 
 another home for you ; and if you are asked to 
 sing henceforward, I should advise you to choose 
 the pathetic, not the comic, line of ]3erform- 
 ances. Women in the country have no sense of 
 humour." 
 
 He might have proceeded in this vein for 
 some time but for an involuntary little sob that 
 escaped the child. He stopped abruptly. 
 
 ** There ! " he said after a pause, during which 
 she had much ado to repress the sobs which 
 were shaking her from head to foot, "there, 
 child, don't cry ! "What they say or think 
 signifies nothing either to you or to me. What 
 a queer little mortal you are ! All fire and fury 
 one moment, and then dissolved in tears ! Do 
 you think I have never quarrelled with those 
 good people before ? Come, dry your tears, and 
 tell me why you would not sing at first when I 
 asked you to-night ? '"
 
 142 ^iV OPEN FOE. 
 
 Vera got out an answer with difficulty. *' Old 
 Davy said I w^as your — your slave ; and you 
 were my master. I remembered it when you 
 told me to sing ; and it made me angry." 
 
 He maintained silence for some moments, but 
 when she glanced timidly up at his face, he was 
 smiling. 
 
 "Davy is a fool," he said finally. "I have 
 no ambition to be a slave-owner, Vera. I don't 
 mean to pose as your master, tutor, father, or 
 anything else authoritative. But you are rather 
 young to begin this work of rebellion at such a 
 rapid rate. First, Stanger; now, myself " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried little Vera, " I would do any- 
 thing for you ; indeed, I would ! " 
 
 •' Except sing ? Now there's nothing to cry 
 about ; indeed, if you cry any more I shall put 
 you down in the road and leave you to your 
 own devices — probably find you next morning 
 drowned in a pool of your own tears. There, 
 forget your grief for a time, if you can, poor 
 little bird. I will take care of you." 
 
 He spoke with tenderness which he had never 
 shown to her before, and Vera nestled more 
 closely to him as they rode onwards in the
 
 A REBEL. 143 
 
 moonlight. He did not speak again. He was 
 much vexed by the turn which things had taken. 
 Felicia had refused to have the little waif and 
 stray in the house with her child for more than 
 a night or two, and the Baroness had upheld her 
 in that decision. The upshot had been a tre- 
 mendous quarrel, followed by Gaston s resolution 
 to carry Vera away at once and take charge of 
 her until ]\Ir. Hervey's letter should be received. 
 Accordingly, he took her to the chief hotel in 
 Mickleham and remained there for the next two 
 or three days. She gave him little trouble. 
 The events of the preceding days had produced 
 a curious effect upon her : she became positively 
 ill, and lay in bed for some days in a motionless, 
 half-unconscious state — the result of over exer- 
 tion and excitement — during which he could do 
 nothing but relinquish her to the care of a nurse. 
 Before she was well the expected letter came to 
 Gaston from Mr. Hervey. It was not a satis- 
 factory one. Mr. Hervey wished to know 
 nothing and see nothing of his granddaughter ; 
 but he was willing to pay her expenses at a good 
 school if one could be found for her. He was 
 prepared to be liberal, but he was not affectionate.
 
 144 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 In a wonderfully short time the school was 
 found. Thither Vera was despatched with a 
 handsome outfit, of which Felicia (a little re- 
 morseful for her behaviour to the orphaned 
 child) took charge. Nothing was said to Vera 
 about her family or her mother's history : it was 
 thought wise to reserve this communication 
 until she should be older and better able to 
 understand it. In the meantime she was allowed 
 to think of Mr. Eavenscroft as her guardian and 
 generous benefactor. 
 
 Gaston thought little about her. He had 
 made up his mind to leave England for a time ; 
 and before she had been a week at school he 
 started for the East. Many years elapsed before 
 he set foot on Englivsh soil again.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NEW FEIENDS AND OLD. 
 
 Gaston Ravenscroft had vanislied from the 
 scene, and was little missed, except by the child 
 whom he had rescued from an unhappy and un- 
 satisfactory life. She indeed mourned for his 
 absence, and made a hero of him in her thoughts ; 
 but by no one else was he much regretted. Little 
 was heard of him for the next few years. 
 
 Meanwhile Vera Marlitt remained at the school 
 where he had placed her. She soon forgot her 
 experiences of the stage or became ashamed of 
 them, but her love for music grew with her 
 groTvi:h until it became a passion. Seeing this, 
 her schoolmistress (who from time to time corre- 
 sponded with Mrs. Philip Ravenscroft with respect 
 to Vera) recommended that she should have 
 special instruction in that subject. It seemed 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 that no expense was to be spared in Vera's 
 education. She was to learn everything, and to 
 have her powers cultivated to the utmost. At 
 fifteen she went to a great German Conservatoire ; 
 thence to Italy, chiefly for the purpose of culti- 
 vating her voice, which was a remarkably good 
 one. After a time she returned to England, and 
 established herself in London with her old school- 
 mistress, Mrs. Cradock, who had given up teach- 
 ing. The introductions and testimonials that 
 she brought with her to England soon made her 
 known in musical circles. She sang at concerts, 
 in drawing-rooms, she gave lessons, she worked 
 steadily and hard ; and in time she found that 
 she was achieving a tolerable measure of success. 
 And then she carried out a purpose which had 
 long been uppermost in her mind — the purpose 
 of severing herself from all dependence upon 
 Gaston Eavenscroft. 
 
 This action of hers was less ungracious than 
 it may seem. Gaston, feeling annoyed at his 
 inability to tell her the whole story of her grand- 
 father's cold liberality as regarded money matters, 
 had repulsed with some harshness her attempts 
 to express her gratitude to /wm. She had written
 
 NEW FRIENDS AXD OLD. 147 
 
 once; pouring out the affection and thankfulness 
 which she felt, from a full heart ; and the only 
 reply which she had received had been a curt 
 message through her schoolmistress to the effect 
 that he needed no thanks, and did not wish her 
 to write to him again upon the subject. Vera 
 ^\Tote once more — when she had fixed upon her 
 profession ; but to this letter she obtained no sort 
 of reply. And again, when she felt that she had 
 secured her OAvn j)osition and might well consider 
 herself independent of his help, she wrote a few 
 lines to inform him of her success, and to ask him 
 to discontinue his remittances to her. She knew 
 that she was guilty of a somewhat rash act in 
 trying to loose herself from the hand which had 
 certainly been stretched out to help her for many 
 years ; but Vera was proud, and despised gifts 
 that were thrown to her without affection, as one 
 might throw a bone to a hungry dog. Therefore 
 she wrote to ]\Ir. Eavenscroft on this wise : — 
 
 " You have forbidden me to thank you for all 
 that you have done," she said, " but you must 
 at least allow me to explain why I have returned 
 to your bankers the sum so generously placed at 
 my disposal at the beginning of the year. I
 
 148 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 need accept your gifts no longer. I have the 
 means of earning my own living, and need be a 
 burden upon no one. I have more engagements 
 than I have time to fulfil, and am not likely to 
 be in want of help at j)resent. I must for the 
 last time ask you to let me thank you from the 
 bottom of my heart for all that you have done 
 for me, and to believe that I remain always, 
 gratefully and sincerely yours — Vera Marlttt." 
 When she had sent this letter to Beyrout, 
 from which place all letters to Gaston were to be 
 forwarded, she felt more contented than she had 
 done for many a long day. She was young and 
 strong and able to work for herself : the sense of 
 independence was very precious to her. She had 
 Mrs. Cradock for a companion in pleasant lodg- 
 ings in Kensington, and she was gradually making 
 friends for herself in many circles beside purely 
 musical ones. She had a great number of ac- 
 quaintances by whom she was liked and esteemed, 
 and there was little doubt but that her reputation 
 as a concert singer would become greater year 
 by year as time went on. At two and twenty 
 she had been fortunate indeed to achieve as much 
 success as had already fallen to her lot.
 
 JV£:iF FRIENDS AND OLD. 149 
 
 It was a fine afternoon in April, and she was 
 coming away from a rehearsal, in company with 
 Mrs. Cradock, when an unexpected hindrance 
 occurred. Mrs. Cradock suddenly laid her hand 
 on Vera's arm, and spoke rather nervously : 
 
 "" Do you know the young man who is looking 
 at you so intently, Vera ?" 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 •' How pertinaciously he stares ! He is quite 
 rude. Get into the cab, Vera, dear. Oh, he is 
 coming this way. What can he want ? is he 
 beQ-rino;?" 
 
 Mrs. Cradock had already taken her seat in 
 the cab, and Vera was about to follow her, when 
 the young man of whom they had spoken drew 
 near, hat in hand, with an evident desire to 
 speak. 
 
 Vera glanced at him in surprise. He addressed 
 her by the name which she still used in public, 
 the name by which she had been known in Mr. 
 Stanger's company. ^' I think," he said, '^ that I 
 have the honour of speaking to Mademoiselle de 
 Lusignan ? " 
 
 Vera bowed assent. 
 
 " May I convey to mademoiselle a message
 
 150 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 from an old friend of hers who is also a friend of 
 mine ? 
 
 " An old friend of mine ! " Of whom did the 
 stranger sjDeak? Vera wondered whether she 
 had met this young man or his friends abroad ; 
 certainly she did not remember his face. She 
 was sure that he was not an Englishman, 
 although he seemed to speak English perfectly ; 
 but there was some trick of manner or gesture 
 that stamped him in her mind as a foreigner. 
 His voice was strikingly musical ; his demeanour 
 quiet, polished, refined. But although he had 
 the characteristics of a gentleman in voice and 
 bearing, it was noticeable that his clothes were 
 exceedingly old and shabby. He was poor, he 
 was not an Englishman — two facts that were 
 decidedly against him in Mrs. Cradock's opinion, 
 and as strongly in his favour in that of Vera. 
 
 Whilst Vera still hesitated for a reply, Mi\s. 
 Cradock spoke, and, misunderstanding the situa- 
 tion completely, she spoke sharply : 
 
 " Go away, my good man ; the lady has 
 nothing for you. Take your hand off the door. 
 Drive on, cabman." 
 
 " Wait, cabman — hush, dear — it is not what
 
 NE W FRIENDS AND OLD. 1 5 1 
 
 you think," Vera said, feeling her face grow hot 
 at this mistake. " I beg your pardon ; you said 
 that you had a messao-e for me ? " 
 
 "Yes," he said, "from David Rowe." 
 
 " David Kowe?" 
 
 " You knew him, he tells me, by the name of 
 old Davy the fiddler." 
 
 " Dear old Davy ! yes, yes ! " cried Vera. 
 " "Where is he ? I have wanted so much to find 
 him again ! Is he in London ? " 
 
 "He is in London, but he is very ill. He 
 saw^ your name advertised, I believe " — the 
 stranger spoke very deferentially — " and felt 
 sure that you must be the Mademoiselle Vera de 
 Lusignan whom he knew as a child. He sends 
 you this little token ; " and Vera saw the half of 
 a coin which she and Davy had broken before 
 they parted, " and begs me to ask you whether 
 you would have the infinite kindness to honour 
 him with a visit, as he cannot come to you." 
 
 "Certainly: of course I will. I will go at 
 once. Where does he live % " 
 
 The stransjer named a street which Vera did 
 not know, but at which Mrs. Cradock looked 
 horrified.
 
 152 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " My dear Vera, in the lowest neiglibourliood ! 
 You cannot possibly go ! " 
 
 '^ I assure you," said the young man eagerly, 
 '' that there is no danger. The street is perfectly 
 safe and quiet, although poor. I shall be happy 
 to accompany you. I — I — " he hesitated for a 
 moment, and then added firmly, " I live there 
 myself." 
 
 Mrs. Cradock surveyed him keenly. She 
 was astonished. The stranger returned her gaze 
 very frankly, but with a faint smile not devoid 
 of irony. 
 
 Vera also examined his face more closely than 
 she had done before. He was still uncovered, 
 and the sunshine fell upon a very handsome fair 
 head and an attractive countenance, full of the 
 glow of manliness, full also of a curious calm 
 and sweetness which inspired confidence. The 
 features were fine but a little worn ; his mouth 
 was perhaps the finest and the sweetest feature 
 of all, although the drooping fair moustache left 
 its expression sometimes enigmatical. His eyes 
 were gray or blue — one could not be certain 
 which ; pleasant, thoughtful eyes, now lighted 
 by quiet humour, which was as free from bitter-
 
 NEW FRIENDS AND OLD, 153 
 
 ness as from guile. There was indeed something 
 so genial and so trustworthy about this man's 
 face that Vera liked him on the spot. And 
 in her heart of hearts so did Mrs. Cradock, 
 although she thought it her duty to raise 
 objections. 
 
 " I will go," Vera said quickly. " You mil 
 come with me, Aunt Dorothy, will you not ? 
 And you, sir, may we give you a seat? You 
 can then kindly direct the cabman where to go, 
 if he should be in any difficulty." 
 
 He thanked her, but seemed inclined to take 
 his seat on the box beside the driver, saying that 
 by so doing he could insure their reaching their 
 destination by the shortest route. This the two 
 ladies would not allow. Before he entered the 
 cab, however, he presented Mrs. Cradock with a 
 card on which his name was written in pencil : 
 '' Maurice Guy on." 
 
 As they drove rapidly eastward. Vera asked 
 him several questions about her old friend. He 
 said that Davy had been ill for some time, and 
 that his present ailment was a sort of low fever. 
 This, however, was in itself slight, and the real 
 danger lay in the breaking up of his consti-
 
 154 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 tution, long undermined by hard work and 
 exposure. 
 
 Davy's lodging was in a squalid-looking house 
 in a street near the Strand. The visitors entered 
 a bare, scantily -furnished room at the top of the 
 house ; poor enough, but scrupulously neat and 
 clean. Upon an uncomfortable - looking pallet 
 lay Davy, his emaciated face turned eagerly 
 towards the opening door, his wasted fingers 
 clutching the neck of the cherished violin that 
 still lay at his side. He held out his hands to 
 Vera as she came in. She rushed forward to 
 kneel at his bedside and kiss his grizzled face 
 as she had done when last she saw him at 
 Elmstone. 
 
 " Dear Davy,'' she said, '' you remember Vera, 
 do you not ? I would have come before if I had 
 known where you were. Oh, why did you not 
 let me hear ? Don't you remember what we 
 used to say ? how we used to plan that when 1 
 was a singer I would find you out and take you 
 home, and make you happy and comfortable all 
 the days of your life ? The time has come, 
 Davy. I am able to do it now. You will come 
 home with me, will you not ? "
 
 NEW FRIENDS AND OLD. 155 
 
 He was holding; her hands in his, and smilino- 
 from time to time with a wonderfully radiant 
 face. He nodded once or twice, and moved her 
 hands gently up and do^Ti, then turned his 
 beaming eyes upon Mr. Guyon who stood with 
 Mrs. Cradock at the foot of the bed. 
 
 '' I told you so," he said triumphantly ; " 1 
 told you she'd come ! She wouldn't forget her 
 old Davy — not if she lived a thousand years ! 
 You were wrong and I was right. My sweet 
 little lady, so you've come at last, and found 
 your voice and your fortune as I said you 
 would!" 
 
 '•Yes, Davy," Vera said. "But who told 
 you that I would not come ? Did you not know 
 that I would have done anything to find you ? 
 I tried, dear Da\y, but I did not succeed. Yo%i 
 never thought that I had forgotten you ? " 
 
 "No, my pretty, no. He didn't know you 
 as I did. It was he that thought you would not 
 come." He nodded towards Maurice Guyon. 
 who was watching the scene silently and atten- 
 tively, and at whom Vera flashed a glance of 
 impulsive indignation. 
 
 But as she could not call a stranger to
 
 156 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 account for his words, slie laid her lips on Davy's 
 hand in mute protest : he understood her and 
 smiled. 
 
 '' I can only ask your pardon, mademoiselle," 
 said Mr. Guy on respectfully. "I see indeed 
 that I was much mistaken." 
 
 ''They said you were proud, dearie," Davy 
 murmured. ''Proud and cold. But I knew 
 what they meant. It was always your way to 
 be silent : you were never the one to scream and 
 cry even when Stanger beat you, were you ? 
 Cold and proud you might be to those you did 
 not love : never cold and never proud to your 
 old Davy who taught you how to sing ! " 
 
 " Never, Davy, never." 
 
 "My dear," Mrs. Cradock nervously inter- 
 posed, "do you not think that your presence 
 excites this poor man too much ? Perhaps you 
 had better come away now. We will send for a 
 doctor and a nurse if you think well. No doubt 
 he requires proper care and attention." 
 
 "Yes, mij care and attention," Vera said. 
 "We will send for everything he needs, but I 
 am not yet ready to go away, dear auntie, 
 although you can go if you like."
 
 NEW FRIENDS AND OLD. 157 
 
 " Who is she ? " said Davy strangely. '' Your 
 aunt — your o^s^tl relation ? " 
 
 "No," Vera answered. " Only loy adoption." 
 And she saw his face fall at her response. 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Cradock, almost in tears, was 
 reduced to appealing to Mr. Guyon. '' / do not 
 want to go," she said, ^^ but I wish Mademoiselle 
 de Lusignan would come away. Her health is 
 so precious ! And she is not strong. If she 
 were to catch an illness I should never forgive 
 myself." 
 
 Mr. Guyon smiled reassuringly. '' The doctor 
 assures me, Madame, that there is nothing in- 
 fectious in our friend's disorder. Otherwise, I 
 would not have brought Mademoiselle de Lusig- 
 nan hither. Allow me to offer you a chair. If 
 mademoiselle will tell me at what hour she would 
 like her carriage summoned I will arrange that 
 it shall be at the door." 
 
 He spoke as if Mademoiselle de Lusignan had 
 been a princess and her homely four-wheeler a 
 state chariot. Vera was half amused and half 
 displeased : she suspected him of irony, but saw 
 no trace of it in his frank and kindly eyes. She 
 turned to Mrs. Cradock.
 
 1 o 8 .^.y OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Let the cab take you home, Aunt Dorothy," 
 she said. " Let me stay here and nurse DaY}\ 
 I can get a room close by. I will sleep here and 
 take care of him till we find a nurse or take 
 him out to Kensington." 
 
 But even Davy opposed this plan. 
 
 '' No, my dear, it ain't for the likes of you," 
 he said. ''A nurse ? — -why, I've got a real good 
 one. Mr. Maurice, there, sits up with me at 
 nights, gives me my medicine, brings me the 
 news and makes me laugh; and what could a 
 nurse do more % Don't you go to needless 
 expense for an old man like me. Stay here for 
 half an hour or so, and come and see me to- 
 morrow if you like : that's all I want." 
 
 •' You could not stay here, mademoiselle," 
 Mr. Guyon assured her. ^'The place is not fit." 
 
 ''If it is fit for Davy," Vera answered vehe- 
 mently, " it is fit for me." 
 
 " My dear Vera !" Mrs. Cradock expostulated. 
 " I am sure that Mr. Guyon is quite right." 
 
 "Shall I say 'in an hour,' mademoiselle?" 
 said Mr. Guyon. And Vera yielded, not being 
 well able to do otherwise. 
 
 " I shall be at hand if you should want me,
 
 ^^EJV FRIENDS AND OLD. 159 
 
 Madame," he said with a bow. But Davy's thin 
 voice interposed. 
 
 *' Come back when you have ordered the cab, 
 won't you, sir ? I want you here. He has been 
 a true friend to me, dearie, and I like to see him 
 by me. Besides, it's his room, not mine." 
 
 Mrs. Cradock added her entreaty. " Oh yes, 
 pray come back. We would not turn you out 
 of your 0T\Ti room on any account ; and indeed, 
 I feel safer w^hen you are here." 
 
 Mr. Guy on bowed, glanced at Vera, and then 
 replied that he would return in a few minutes. 
 
 Vera could not refrain, when he was out of 
 the room, from putting a question which had 
 been troubling her mind for some time. 
 
 ''Who is this m\ Guy on, Davy?'^ 
 
 " I don't know, my pretty," said the fiddler, 
 shaking his head. '' He's a foreign chap, and 
 he's in trouble, and he's poor. That's all I 
 know. But he won't always be poor : I've read 
 so much in his hand ; for I can tell fortunes, you 
 know, missy. Anyhow he's a good man and a 
 gentleman. And now about yourself, dearie. 
 Tell old Davy what's happened to you during 
 the last twelve years."
 
 160 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Vera gave him a short sketch of her history, 
 to which he listened with great satisfaction. 
 Mr. Guyon returned before it was ended, but 
 did not appear to attend to it. He went to the 
 open window and leaned out. 
 
 " And so you sing at concerts now, do you, 
 my pretty?" 
 
 " Yes, Davy." 
 
 "And they throw you flowers and jewels, do 
 they?" 
 
 " Flowers sometimes." 
 
 "And you ride in your own carriage ?" 
 
 "Why, no, Davy. lam not rich enough for that." 
 
 "But you will be one day. And to think 
 that I taught you once ! You'll have forgotten 
 all the songs you learned from me, won't you ?" 
 
 " No, Davy, I remember them very well." 
 
 " Sing me one before you go, missy ! " 
 
 "Which one, Davy?" 
 
 " Any : I don't care which." 
 
 It was hard to sing at that moment, but Vera 
 would have done anything to please him. She 
 chose the song of the motherless child which Mr. 
 Kavenscroft had heard in the little theatre at 
 Elmstone.
 
 ^V^^F FRIENDS AND OLD. 161 
 
 Although she subdued her voice as much as 
 possible, it seemed to fill the little room. For 
 one moment, towards the close, she allowed it to 
 swell out to its full power, then to sink to the 
 lowest whisper with the most finished cadence of 
 which it was capable. Vera had sung to crowded 
 audiences with less care and earnestness than 
 she bestowed upon the song that she sang to 
 Davy. 
 
 Her pains were rewarded. Davy lay rapt in 
 mute delight ; Mrs. Cradock wiped the tears from 
 her eyes ; Maurice Guyon stood erect in an atti- 
 tude of profound attention. His face was some- 
 what moved, but Vera was glad to find that he 
 did not thank her when she had finished ; she 
 had not sung for him. 
 
 " I taught you that, did I V said Davy, 
 dreamily. " Wonderful ! wonderful ! — it is like 
 the singing of angels. I should like to hear you 
 at the great concerts too, dearie." 
 
 *' So you shall, Davy. When you are better 
 you shall have tickets as often as you please. I 
 will sing my best for you." 
 
 He shook his head sadly. 
 
 '•' I ^dsh I could, my dear ; but it's too late 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 now. And you sang that song when Mr. Ravens- 
 croft heard you, did you not ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Where is Mr. Eavenscroft now ?" 
 
 ''I don't know. Somewhere in the East.'" 
 
 " When did you last see him, missy ?" 
 
 ** Twelve years ago, Davy." 
 
 The old man drew a long breath, and turned 
 his hollow eyes full upon the girl. " But he 
 writes to you ? He is coming to see you soon, 
 now that you are a woman grown — you are great 
 friends ?" 
 
 Vera's face grew hot. " No, Davy," she an- 
 swered gently; ''Mr. Eavenscroft and I are not 
 friends. He was generous to me, but not — not — 
 kind. I owe him much ; but I hope and pray 
 that we may never meet again." 
 
 The passion of wounded feeling that lay with- 
 in her dormant awoke, and roused itself to fuller 
 life even while she spoke. But Davy's face grew 
 bright. 
 
 " All the better," he said. '' He wouldn't have 
 done you any good, my pretty. Let him be 
 buried in the desert and drowned in the deep 
 seas a thousand times over before ever he bring-s
 
 NEW FRIENDS AND OLD. 163 
 
 any harm to you, my little lady. He is not for 
 you." 
 
 ^^ He would not harm me. He meant to be 
 kind," Vera answered sadly. 
 
 " Kind ! With the kindness of the creeper 
 that sucks out the life from the plant that 
 cherishes it ! If that is kindness, then Mr. 
 Ravenscroft is kind." 
 
 Vera was silent ; and in the silence her eyes 
 began, almost for the first time, to scrutinize the 
 apartment in which she sat. Signs of poverty 
 were apparent ; but there was at least one indi- 
 cation of the presence of some one beside the 
 fiddler, and of a man not altogether used to 
 poverty. Upon the wall hung the miniature of 
 a very fair and beautiful woman in a gold frame 
 studded with brilliants. It was battered enough, 
 and many of the stones had dropped out ; but 
 the setting had once been of the most exquisite 
 and delicate kind. It was not the sort of thing 
 that had ever belonged to Davy. 
 
 When Mr. Guyon had gone to summon Vera's 
 cab, she could not resist asking a question about 
 the miniature. 
 
 " It's not mine, dearie ; it's Mr. Guyon's."
 
 164 
 
 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 '* But he does not live here ?" Vera queried in 
 surprise. 
 
 ''He's done so for the last six weeks, my 
 pretty. He's been a kind friend to old Davy, 
 has Maurice Guy on," the musician answered 
 simply.
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 AX EXILE. 
 
 Vera saw that her poor old friend was sadly ex- 
 hausting his small stock of strength in this con- 
 versation, and she resolved to protract it no 
 longer. She took her leave, promising to come 
 again as soon as possible ; but before she went 
 she consulted Mr. Guyon concerning Davy's ill- 
 ness and requirements. It appeared that Mr. 
 Guyon had hitherto been nursing him ; but he 
 acknowledged, with something like a sigh, that 
 he was not able to do for a sick man all that 
 should be done. He himself was obliged to be 
 out very often, especially in the evenings, and a 
 nurse's services were much required. 
 
 "I would gladly sit up with him day and 
 night," said the young man, with what seemed 
 to be real and deep emotion : '* but my busi-
 
 166 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 ness calls me away at times, and then I can do 
 nothing. You do not know, mademoiselle, what 
 a friend and consoler I have found in Davy and 
 his violin. If you knew, you would not wonder 
 that I long to do for him all that needs to be 
 done ; or how bitterly I regret that it lies no 
 longer in my power to do so." 
 
 Vera could not help wondering how poor old 
 Davy had been so great a friend to him ; but he 
 said nothing more. 
 
 She went away to order fruit and flowers, and 
 anything that she thought could add to Davy's 
 pleasure. She found out the doctor who attended 
 him, and heard his opinion of the case — it was 
 not likely to be a lengthy one, he said; she 
 found, also, at his recommendation, a good trust- 
 worthy nurse, and despatched her at once to her 
 old friend's lodging ; then she turned homeward, 
 still with a heavy heart ; for she loved Davy as 
 she had loved him when she was a child, and he 
 would not be with her long. 
 
 When Vera visited Davy's room again she 
 found the nurse installed. The character of the 
 place was changed already : a woman's presence 
 made it less bare and squalid. Mr. Guyon was
 
 AN£XILE. 167 
 
 away, so she sat down beside the old man's bed 
 and talked to him for some little time. 
 
 By and by her curiosity found its vent. 
 
 " Where did you make Mr. Guyon's acquaint- 
 ance, Davy dear?" 
 
 •' At a club, missy ?" 
 
 '•At a club?" 
 
 '* A working man's club. He goes about a 
 good deal among them sort of places, foreign as 
 well as English. A sort of socialist, you know, in 
 his talk; and he talks very well too. And always 
 a kind word for a man, and would share his last 
 crust cheerful-like with a beggar in the street." 
 
 "So you made his acquaintance? " Vera 
 
 paused, hardly knowing how to frame the ques- 
 tion that she wished to put. 
 
 " He made mine, dearie. He took a fancy to 
 my playing, and he used to ask me to play the 
 same tunes to him time after time, and listen to 
 them with the tears in his eyes too. And he 
 can play too — wild tunes that you'd think the 
 devil himself had got into, and then again, notes 
 that make you think of all the sadness in the 
 world, and all the love and joy — ay, he's a fine 
 player "
 
 168 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Does he ever play in public ?" 
 
 '^ No, dearie : he laughed and shook his head 
 when I asked him that, and said that he couldn't 
 play well enough, and he preferred to be a poor 
 man and a vagabond. That's just it," said Davy 
 dreamily, ''he 'prefers to live like me — it's a 
 re'glar gentleman's whim, isn't it ? They do 
 have odd fancies now and again, these gentle- 
 folks." 
 
 Vera was silent for a time. " He said that 
 you had been kind to him : how was that, 
 Davy?" 
 
 " You didn't think old Davy could have been 
 kind to anybody, did you dearie ? " 
 
 " Indeed I did, Davy." 
 
 " Well, I did what he asked me — that was 
 all." A shadow seemed to fall over the rugged 
 face with its hollow eyes and large weird features 
 as he spoke. " I told him he wasn't fit for the 
 work ; but he said he wanted to try all kinds of 
 work that he might know how the workers felt. 
 A gentleman's fad, my dear, that was all. He 
 has lived here ever since I fell ill. That was a 
 gentleman's fancy too : he used to have better 
 rooms than mine."
 
 AN EXILE. 169 
 
 ^' What work does he do?" Vera asked 
 curiously. 
 
 "He'll tell you— he'll tell you," Davy an- 
 swered a little peevishly. " Sing to me before 
 you go : I want to hear you. I can't talk any 
 longer." 
 
 She sang for a little time to him ; but she was 
 soon obliged to go ; as she had already stayed 
 longer than she had meant to do. As soon 
 as she left Davy's house she looked round for a 
 cab. But in this narrow and miserable street no 
 cab was to be seen, and she walked onward, 
 expecting every moment to reach a more fre- 
 quented thoroughfare. 
 
 Vera was not gifted with the faculty of easily 
 finding her way in a new place. Through some 
 inaccuracy of memory she missed the right turn- 
 ing, and soon found herself involved in a network 
 of tiny streets and alleys of the less reputable 
 kind, peopled moreover with men and women of 
 no pleasant appearance. A cab crawling leisurely 
 down a more respectable street in the distance 
 excited her hopes ; but it was out of sight before 
 she could attract the cabman's attention. She 
 was late for rehearsal already : evidently she
 
 170 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 should have to miss it altogether unless she could 
 find her way. Moreover on putting her hand 
 into her pocket to make sure that her purse 
 was safe, she found that it had mysteriously 
 disapppeared. 
 
 It was no very formidable position to be in, 
 for Vera knew that she could not be very far 
 from a respectable neighbourhood, and that her 
 purse had contained nothing but a few shillings 
 and some stamps ; but the annoyance of the 
 moment was great, and was imprinted very 
 legibly upon her flushed and discomfited coun- 
 tenance, when she beheld before her the welcome 
 face and figure of a man whose name at least she 
 knew. It was Mr. Maurice Guyon, walking 
 leisurely and easily, as if he were familiar with 
 the place. He lifted his hat, giving it a sweep 
 with his arm which almost made her smile — a 
 flourish so thoroughly un-English that it carried 
 her mind back at once to the days of her school- 
 life in Germany ; and then he would have passed 
 without a word, had Vera not uttered his name 
 in an accent of appeal. 
 
 ^*Can I do anything for you, mademoiselle?" 
 he said, turning eagerly.
 
 JiV EXILE. 171 
 
 '' I am very sorry to trouble you," she an- 
 swered, ^' but I have been foolish enough to lose 
 my way — and my purse as well. Will you 
 kindly tell me which is the direction I ought to 
 take ? I am going — at least I wish to go — 
 towards Piccadilly." . 
 
 ''Will you allow^ me to guide you?" he asked. 
 " We are now not very far from the Strand, but 
 you are wandering in an opposite direction from 
 the way that you ought to take ; and — excuse me 
 — I do not think that this neighbourhood is very 
 safe for a lady walking alone." 
 
 Vera assured him that she would be glad 
 of his guidance, and they went on their way 
 together. They soon fell into talk about Davy, 
 and Vera said that Davy had told her of his 
 love for the violin. 
 
 ''Davy has genius," he said. "It is a pity 
 that he has had so few chances in life : he might 
 have made a name." 
 
 " You are a musician too, he tells me." 
 
 " I ought not to be called so," he said, shaking 
 his head. "I play a little, and I am a great lover 
 of music. Certainly, at present I am — well, I 
 may, by stretch of imagination, call myself a
 
 172 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 musician, mademoiselle ; and it was in gaining 
 me the position that I now occupy that Davy did 
 me such service/' 
 
 " Davy ! " Vera exclaimed in astonishment. 
 
 " Davy, and no one else," said her companion 
 with a slightly amused air. " In truth, made- 
 moiselle, I was reduced to great straits when Davy 
 met me at the club. I had begun to think of 
 begging of my friends for a livelihood. But 
 you know that Davy was connected with a 
 theatre. A friend of his took an interest in me 
 — kind of him, was it not ? — and obtained for 
 me a situation at the same house as a violinist in 
 the band. Oh yes, I think I may call myself a 
 musician ! I owe that to Davy, who helped me 
 out of his own slender store when I had not a 
 kopeck in my pockets." 
 
 Hitherto he had spoken lightly, even play- 
 fully ; but at the last words his tone changed to 
 one of deep and grateful feeling. '' Davy is one 
 of the truest friends I have," he said heartily. 
 
 ''But surely" — Vera paused in some little 
 embarrassment — " surely such a position as that 
 is — quite — beneath your powers ? " 
 
 He turned his bright fair face to her with a
 
 .^.V EXILE. 173 
 
 look of undisguised pleasure and amusement. 
 " Oh no, mademoiselle/' lie said simply, '' I could 
 do nothing more : I am really no musician. So 
 long as I can earn sufficient for my daily needs 
 I am quite satisfied. This occupation leaves my 
 days tolerably free ; and I am of a curious turn ; 
 I want to learn a little about the life of the 
 English artisan, and I learn a good deal about 
 him here. But I am glad that you know now 
 what I am and what I do ; it was for Davy's 
 sake alone, mademoiselle, that I presumed in the 
 first instance to address you. I know very well 
 that my position at the Parthenon would not 
 have warranted such an intrusion." 
 
 " It was no intrusion : under the circumstances 
 it was a duty," Vera said quickly. 
 
 He grlanced at her suddenlv, then looked down. 
 There had been a curious dewy softness in those 
 kindly eyes. '* I thank you for sa3dng so, 
 mademoiselle," he answered. 
 
 The streets had become less narrow during 
 the progress of their conversation. Vera lifted up 
 her eyes and saw a wide space before her and the 
 shining river Thames beyond. ''The Embank- 
 ment 1 " she exclaimed in some surprise.
 
 174 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " It is the nearest way," said her companion. 
 " But were you going to Piccadilly this afternoon, 
 mademoiselle ? Is it not a little late for your 
 eno^ao-ement there ? " 
 
 '' I suppose it is," said Vera, ruefully consult- 
 ing her watch. ^' Too late — I shall have to 
 manage better another time. I will go to 
 Kensington." 
 
 "Yes, mademoiselle. And — we shall meet 
 a cab presently, no doubt. Shall we walk upon 
 that other side and enjoy a little of the fresh- 
 ness and the sunshine ? " 
 
 Vera consented. They sauntered leisurely 
 along the broad pavement. The fitful April sun- 
 shine cast flying gleams upon the flying water : 
 a slight haze hung over the banks and bridges 
 and distant towers of Westminster. A girl came 
 up with violets for sale, but Vera was forced to 
 shake her head : she had no money with her. 
 Mr. Guyon noticed that her eyes lingered on the 
 blue and white bunches ; he turned and bought 
 a couple. 
 
 " One I am going to take to Davy," he said, 
 as if to pref^ice his request. *' May I off'er the 
 other one to you, mademoiselle ? "
 
 AN EXILE. 175 
 
 Vera took the sweet, stiff little green-leaved 
 buncli with a word of thanks, and raised it to 
 her face. '' It is very sweet. I love violets." 
 
 '^ They are my favourite flowers," said he, 
 raising the other bunch as she had done. " But 
 what a pity to tie them up so tightly with thick 
 string, and to cut all the leaves after one pattern, 
 too. Mademoiselle, it seems to me, I assure you, 
 almost a sin to disfigure leaves and flowers after 
 this fashion ! Why do they not sell your sweet 
 English violets as they come straight from the 
 woods and fields ? — loose, wet, fragrant, and 
 natural ! " 
 
 '^ AVe are in London," she answered, smiling. 
 
 *' Is there nothing sweet and natural in 
 London? I cannot believe that. I must try 
 your flower-market — your Covent Garden, is it 
 not ? — perhaps I shall there be more fortun- 
 ate. Do you like Eussian violets too, made- 
 moiselle ^ " 
 
 " Not quite so well as English ones, I am 
 afraid. I suppose that you like them better \ " 
 
 *' Why should you think so, mademoiselle, if 
 I may ask before replying ? " 
 
 '' I may be wTong," said Vera in some little
 
 176 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 confusion, " but I liad made up my mind that 
 you were yourself a Russian " 
 
 "And therefore that I must like Russian 
 violets ? I think, like you, that I like English 
 ones best. And to satisfy my curiosity again, 
 mademoiselle — I told you that I was of a curious 
 disposition — may I ask why you have decided 
 on my nationality ? " 
 
 "You spoke just now of kopecks: that was 
 all." 
 
 " Ah, did I ? " Her companion turned away 
 his face and seemed to hesitate for a moment; 
 but resumed presently with all his usual 
 lightness of tone: "You were quite right. I 
 am a Russian, and in exile. I will go further 
 and acknowledge that Guyon is only a Christian 
 name and not a family one. You have penetrated 
 further into my secret, mademoiselle, than Davy 
 has done during all these months ! " His voice 
 showed some amusement — a fact w^hich rather 
 displeased Mademoiselle de Lusignan. 
 
 " I had no intention of penetrating any secret, 
 Mr. Guyon. But 1 am interested in Russians 
 and anything belonging to Russia, because of 
 an old association that I have. I was called
 
 AN EXILE. 177 
 
 after a Eussian lady — whose name I do not 
 know." 
 
 Mr. Guyon looked round quickly. '' Indeed ? 
 I noticed that you bore one of our favourite 
 names. My mother's name was Vera," he added 
 in a lower voice. 
 
 ^' I am sure that I have excited your curiosity 
 now/' she said, smiling. 
 
 '^ I confess it," he answered, with a slight 
 bend of his head. "You must forgive me, 
 mademoiselle ; I was wondering who might be 
 the countryivoman of my own whose name you 
 bear, and whether I could help you to find her 
 out, supposing that you wished to find her. But, 
 no doubt " 
 
 "I will tell you the whole story," she said, 
 as he hesitated for a moment, " and you will see 
 how it happened. My mother and father were 
 in a French town — the town of Lusignan, from 
 which I have taken my stage-name — when I was 
 born. My father was a violinist ; he had fallen 
 into ill health and poverty, and my mother was 
 nearly in despair, when a great Eussian lady 
 who had heard him play found out their distress, 
 and came several times to help them. She held 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 me in her arms during those visits, my mother 
 told me, and said that I was like a little child 
 whom she had lost, whose name was Vera ; and 
 she begged as a favour that I might be called 
 Vera, and that she might be my godmother. 
 She was of a Polish family, I believe, so she was 
 of the Koman, not the Greek, Church. My father 
 was a Koman Catholic also, and I was baptized in 
 that Church, although I have lived as a Pro- 
 testant ever since. But my parents died when 
 I was so young that I forgot my sponsor's name ; 
 and she went back to Eussia, no doubt, and soon 
 forgot me." 
 
 Maurice Guyon did not speak. It seemed to 
 Vera that his face was troubled by some new and 
 strange emotion. It was with a very gentle 
 manner that he turned to her at last, and said 
 softly : 
 
 " Think rather, mademoiselle, that she re- 
 membered you to the last day of her life. 
 Doubtless she would never forget that tie." 
 
 " I like to think that she is living," Vera 
 replied, " and that some day I may meet 
 her and thank her for her kindness to my 
 mother."
 
 AN EXILE. 179 
 
 Mr. Guyon's eyes dwelt on the girl with kindly 
 interest. 
 
 '' She would be surprised, no doubt," he said 
 — and did Vera fancy only that he sighed 1 — " to 
 find the baby whom she had held in her arms 
 grown into a woman of genius — a queen of song." 
 
 " Am I that indeed ? " she questioned slowly. 
 '' I think not yet." 
 
 '' May I speak the truth, mademoiselle % " 
 
 '' If you will be so good." 
 
 ''Well, then, let me say that your singing 
 in Davy's room yesterday proved to me that of 
 which I had been a little doubtful. You have 
 genius, mademoiselle ; genius and soul, and art 
 beside. But you do not always sing in that way 
 at your concerts, do you ? Am I unbearably 
 impertinent, or do you think me right ? " 
 
 '' You are right." 
 
 "I should think that it is the first time a 
 bandsman ever presumed to criticise a well-known 
 lady -singer in her own hearing," he said, half 
 playfully, half seriously. " But courage ! I have 
 seized my opportunity ; and the singer has too 
 large a brain and heart to be ofi'ended by what I 
 say. I think this then, mademoiselle : you have
 
 180 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 a great career before you ; you are young, and 
 you have time and power to perfect yourself, so 
 that you will take your proper place with the 
 greatest singers of our time. You will have few 
 rivals, fewer equals ; the world will be at your 
 feet. Diva ! I salute you ! " He raised his hat 
 as he spoke, with a sparkle in his eyes, a slight 
 smile upon his lips. '' And when all this comes 
 to pass, mademoiselle," he added, with a light 
 grace of manner which gave his words just the 
 right shade of meaning, just the emphasis which 
 kept them from growing either too serious or too 
 trivial, " I pray you remember the poor, starving 
 Kussian violin-player, who had ears and eyes for 
 what was loveliest and best just ^^^ minutes 
 before the rest of the world perceived it." 
 
 He replaced his hat on his head with a smile 
 which was so frank and winning that Vera would 
 have felt herself churlish indeed to object either 
 to the criticism or to the compliment which ac- 
 companied it. 
 
 "I hope I may justify your expectations," she 
 said. " Whether I do or not, however, I shall 
 always have two great consolations : one, that I 
 am trying faithfully to interpret the music of the
 
 AN EXILE. 181 
 
 gi'eat masters ; and another, that I have always 
 an outlet for what is strongest and wildest in 
 me. When I am in trouble, I think I should go 
 mad if I did not sing." 
 
 " You are happy, mademoiselle, to have that 
 outlet." 
 
 Some graver shade upon his brow arrested 
 Vera's answering words. Light-hearted as his 
 manner seemed to be, there was something in the 
 glance of his eyes, in a momentary expression of 
 his face, that showed a depth of earnestness, even 
 of sadness, behind the apparent gaiety. Indeed, 
 when he was grave, his face fell naturally into 
 something approaching melancholy of expression ; 
 the slightly-hollowed cheek, the finely-cut mouth 
 and chin had a purity of outline that made him 
 at times look almost stern. They walked on in 
 silence, Vera's thoughts busy with his possible 
 history ; his, buried in the past. 
 
 The silence recalled Vera to a prosaic side of 
 life. By the time that she reached home she felt 
 sure that Mrs. Cradock would be awaiting her 
 arrival in order to ring for their evening meal — 
 high-tea at half-past five, before going to a 
 concert-room, where she had an engagement that
 
 182 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 night. It behoved her to hasten back to Ken- 
 sington. 
 
 " I see a cab standing empty," she said to Mr. 
 Cluyon. " I think that I must take it and go 
 home. I am very much obliged to you for 
 bringing me so far." 
 
 "Pardon me, the obligation is all upon my 
 side. Is there anything more that I can do ? " 
 
 ''Thank you, nothing." 
 
 He bowed after hel]3ing her into the cab, and 
 would have retreated, but she held out her hand. 
 He looked decidedly pleased as he took it in his 
 own ; he even flushed up a little and seemed 
 embarrassed. It struck Vera that he had been 
 foolish enough to think that as he was, as he had 
 said, "a starving violin-player" only, she would 
 omit this customary mark of civility. He gave 
 her a different explanation of his behaviour after- 
 wards. Certainly, no such petty notion ever 
 crossed his mind.
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 Yera's next visit to Davy took place on the fol- 
 lowing morning, and this time slie did not come 
 alone, but attended by Mrs. Cradock's maid. Just 
 as tlie cab drove up to the door j\Ir. Guyon also 
 arrived at it on foot. His face lighted up as he saw 
 Vera; he lifted his hat and looked at her with a sort 
 of eagerness and hurry that seemed like pleasure. 
 
 *' Mademoiselle," he said, almost at once, " do 
 you see that I have been successful ? There are 
 sweet and fragrant and natural flowers to be had 
 even in your city of gloom and smoke." 
 
 He carried in his hand a flat rush basket lined 
 with wet moss and leaves, on which there lay, 
 loose, long -stalked, and glistening with rain or 
 dew, as if they had just been picked, a fragrant 
 heap of sweet white violets.
 
 184 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 *'How lovely ! how Davy will enjoy them!" 
 said Vera, lifting her dark gray eyes earnestly to 
 Mr. Guyon's face. 
 
 "Pardon me, mademoiselle," he said, as he 
 showed her some other flowers in his hand, 
 "these daffodils are Davy's favourites, and 
 they are all for him ; but the violets — if I 
 may offer so small a gift — were for you, to 
 show you what London can produce," he added, 
 smiling. 
 
 "You are very kind, Mr. Guyon. They are 
 sweet indeed." 
 
 '* I will keep them for you until you go. They 
 will be in your way just now." 
 
 "Thank you. But wait a moment." Vera 
 separated two or three of the fragrant white blos- 
 soms from the others and fastened them into her 
 brooch as she stood. " I shall have them all the 
 morning now." 
 
 " That will help you not to forget them." 
 
 " You must think me very ungrateful," she 
 said as she passed him to go upstairs. 
 
 "You could not be so, mademoiselle," he 
 answered gravely. And something in his tone 
 sent the colour to Vera's cheeks ; so that she
 
 LUCY. 185 
 
 entered Dav}^'s room with a face that caused him 
 to tell her that she looked ''like a rose in 
 June." 
 
 " Which ain't your usual way, my pretty," he 
 said, stroking her cheeks with his browTi fore- 
 finger ; " for you're more like a white lily in 
 general, or a white violet like them you've got 
 there. Did Mr. Guyon give you those, dearie % " 
 he asked, almost in a whisper. 
 
 ''Yes, Davy." 
 
 " I thought so," said the old man, in a tone of 
 inexpressible satisfaction. "He was off before 
 dayhght, mth a young fellow that he's taken 
 a fancy to — a tramp, I should call him — to a place 
 miles out of London, where wild flowers grow. 
 ' Where are you going \ ' I said to him. ' Don't 
 be afraid, old man,' he answered me, ' I'll be back 
 before noon ; I'm going to get some white violets 
 for a lady who is more like a white violet herself 
 — so modest and white and sweet she is — than 
 any woman I ever knew — except the mother that 
 bare me.' And he said nothing more ; but I knew 
 what he meant, and I said to myself that you 
 should know it too." 
 
 " A violet that blooms only to wither beneath
 
 186 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 the gas lamj^s/' Vera said softly, laying a burning 
 face against his wrinkled hand. 
 
 " Always sweet, withered or not withered," he 
 answered her ; and no word of praise or compli- 
 ment ever touched her more. 
 
 He lay still for a long time, and when he spoke 
 again, she found out that he had grown percept- 
 ibly worse since she last saw him. He was rest- 
 less and uneasy, and much disposed to talk. The 
 nurse did not think, however, that the excitement 
 of Yera's visit was bad for him, and she listened, 
 therefore, without trying to silence him, while he 
 spoke disconnectedly of her earlier years, of the 
 Stangers and of her mother; also of some one 
 whom she did not know, whose name was Lucy. 
 
 But after he had mentioned Lucy a change 
 came over his face. The light leaped into his 
 eyes, his lips trembled. He felt hurriedly under 
 his pillow, and produced thence a little packet of 
 discoloured papers, tied around with string. 
 
 " I had a dream last night," he said, holding 
 the paper between his hands and nervously finger- 
 ing the string. " I dreamt of Mr. Kavenscroft 
 
 and you. I dreamt that he was coming back 
 
 You hope he ivill ? "
 
 LUCY. \%\ 
 
 He put the question suddenly, in a terrible 
 voice of anger and alarm. Vera started, but 
 answered steadily enough. 
 
 *' No, I hope not." 
 
 '* I know you better. You want him to come 
 and see you as you are now." 
 
 " Why should you speak to me of him, Davy ? " 
 she said, trying to quiet him as his voice grew 
 fierce and his eyes wild. ^' I have almost for- 
 gotten him : forget him too." 
 
 " I must speak to you of him, missy. I have 
 left you unwarned too long. It was your mother 
 who came to me in my dreams last night and told 
 me that she had trusted you to me and I had 
 failed her. ' There is no one but you to tell her,' 
 she said. ' No one but you. Make haste — make 
 haste.' " 
 
 "Dear Davy, that was but a dream. Mr. 
 Eavenscroft will never cross my path again. He 
 helped me when I was a child ; but everything is 
 different now." 
 
 "Yes, now you are a woman and worth know- 
 ing ; then you were a child. Besides, your mother 
 told me to warn you," said Davy, with the strange 
 commingling of prudence and of vagrant fancy
 
 188 AjV open foe. 
 
 which was often to be noticed in his speech. " I 
 am to put you on your guard against him : I am 
 to warn you, do you hear ? " 
 
 Vera sighed assent. It was less easy to oppose 
 him than to keep silence. He raised his finger 
 and shook it imperiously in the direction of the 
 nurse and Vera's maid, both of whom were in the 
 room. " Tell them to go away," he said. " I 
 don't want them : I want nobody but you." 
 
 Vera asked the two women if they could go 
 into another room for a short time. She would 
 call them if they were required. The nurse had 
 a small apartment at her disposal : thither she 
 led Janet, whilst Vera returned to Davy's bed- 
 side. 
 
 He lay back upon the pillows muttering to 
 himself, with wandering eyes and pallid face ; 
 his fingers were busy with the string of his 
 packet. Vera ofi'ered to untie it for him, but he 
 only shook his head and fumbled at the knot. 
 When it was undone, he fixed his wild eyes on 
 her and addressed her solemnly. 
 
 " I wrote this paper, dearie," he said, ''only a 
 few months ago, although it is about matters that 
 happened years before. My eyes are too dim,
 
 LUCY. 189 
 
 my voice is too weak, to read it to you now. Do 
 you read it aloud to me that I may see whether it 
 needs to be altered in any way. Sit where I can 
 best see you, with your face to the light, and 
 read slow ; for I'm no scholar and can't follow if 
 you read it fast." 
 
 He handed her two or three sheets of paper, 
 written all over in a cramped but legible hand. 
 Vera sat down, with her face to the light, as he 
 had requested her to do, and began to read. 
 
 " This is the true narrative and testimony of 
 me, David Kowe, written in the month of October 
 1877." So ran the opening sentence : further 
 down the page the narrative itself began. 
 
 '^ I was born in the parish of Mickleham in 
 Lincolnshire, though neither of my parents was 
 Lincolnshire born. My father came of a High- 
 land stock and my mother of a Eomany tribe. 
 It was from her that I got my knowledge of the 
 stars and the way to read men's hands. She was 
 skilful in herbs and roots, moreover, and used to 
 be called ' The Wise Woman of Netherby/ My 
 father died when I was young, and left me 
 nothing but his fiddle and his love for music. 
 Mother worked in the fields until I was old
 
 190 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 eDOugli to go out and work for her. Then I 
 took to the shoemaking ; and fiddled sometimes 
 for pence at statute fairs and weddings and the 
 like, and told folks' fortunes for a change " 
 
 " If it's not written so correct as it should be, 
 missy," interposed the writer, " take a pencil and 
 put it straight. Fm no scholar." 
 
 Vera nodded and resumed her reading. 
 
 " But my lameness prevented me seeing much 
 of the villagers, and they were afraid of us both 
 for our fierce, wild ways, and because, they said, 
 we knew more than we ought to do. But when 
 I was close on twentv or thereabouts, mother one 
 day brought home a baby girl whose parents had 
 died of fever in the village, a tiny scared-looking 
 little thing, as desolate as we were ourselves. We 
 could not bear to send her to the workhouse — 
 she had such pretty ways with her — and she 
 never was frightened either of mother or of me 
 — I'm sure of that. She grew up fair as the day 
 and bright as the morning; and it was a sore 
 thing for me when she said that she was old 
 enough to earn her own living and would go and 
 be maid to a fine widow-lady who was living half 
 her time in Netherby and half in London. Her
 
 LUCY. 191 
 
 name, which I take to be a foreign one, was 
 Madame Waldstein " 
 
 Here Vera came to a sudden stop and raised 
 her eyes. "Yes," said Davy, with a fiery look 
 from under his dark brows, '' you know the name. 
 His mother." 
 
 She dropped her eyes and went on with the 
 reading. 
 
 ** Madame Waldstein, who had been mar- 
 ried before to a Mr. Kavenscroft, and was the 
 mother of the squire of Netherby and his brother. 
 I often saw these gentlemen : they were both 
 fine, personable men. Philip and Gaston w^ere 
 their names. Philip, the elder, was a proud man 
 and mean in his ways about money, but very 
 careful that nobody should say ill of him. So he 
 and his mother kept Mr. Gaston supplied with 
 money, for Gaston had not a penny but what they 
 gave him, and folks said he was kept very tight. 
 Gaston was as proud as his brother, but open- 
 handed and fiery, and he did not like the way he 
 was treated, although he could not well complain 
 for fear he should get less instead of more. I 
 write all this down because it has to do, as I be- 
 lieve, with what came next.
 
 192 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 ''These young men's mother had married a 
 foreign nobleman after old Mr. Eavenscroft's 
 death ; and when the Baron died she came back 
 to England and lived at Eavenscroft Hall with 
 her elder son. Mr. Philip had been married for 
 a year or two when Lucy went to wait on Madame, 
 I remember ; and he had no children at first, so 
 that people began to say that Gaston might come 
 in for the estates after all. But he had a daughter 
 afterwards. 
 
 " I was so fond of Lucy that I couldn't bear 
 to see her going out to service. If I had been 
 like other folks I should have asked her to marry 
 me. But she would, perhaps, only have laughed 
 at me, poor soul ; so I said nothing. She went 
 to the Baroness', and was very happy. Fine 
 tales she told us of my lady, and of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Philip, and of Mr. Gaston, who was 
 always hanging about the house. But she 
 soon stopped her tales. There were things 
 that she would not tell. More than one was 
 making love to her : and not of her own 
 station. I heard of many — Captain Aylmer 
 for one, and Mr. Gaston for another. Lucy 
 was a beautiful girl, with hair like gold, and
 
 LUCY. 193 
 
 eyes as blue as the forget-me-nots that grew in 
 the wet meadows. 
 
 " Lucy was there for a year and a half. Then 
 suddenly she disappeared : nobody knew why. 
 I saw Madame myself about her — an old lady 
 dressed up in silks and jewels, who sat and 
 smiled and smiled at me, and said that she 
 knew nothing about the matter. She had had 
 an illness, the old Baroness, and was weak and 
 crippled, and she made that an excuse for doing 
 nothing to help me in my search. She had 
 an evil look in her eyes, too, which made me 
 suspect her. Mark my words, whoever it is that 
 reads this paper, she knew well enough what had 
 become of Lucy. I would stake my life upon it 
 that she knew ! 
 
 " The Eavenscrofts were all away from home 
 at the time when Lucy disappeared. If they had 
 had a hand in it they concealed their work well. 
 I found no trace of Lucy anywhere. 
 
 " It was then that I began to travel about 
 with my violin — trying to find Lucy. In two 
 or three years I allowed myself to join Jonas 
 Stanger s company. I had given up the hope 
 then of finding her, 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 "The lady that Stanger afterwards married 
 used to play the piano for him at that time. 
 She had a little girl, a strange frightened little 
 thing, with a look about her of Lucy when first 
 she came to my mother's house. Her hair was 
 not so yellow, but it was soft as floss-silk — like 
 Lucy's, and her skin had the milky whiteness of 
 Lucy's too. That child was Lucy in her child- 
 hood over again to me." 
 
 " You must excuse the liberty, missy," said 
 Davy apologetically. But Vera was touched by 
 the comparison. She bent forward and laid her 
 hand on Davy's as she read, while Davy turned 
 his face away and plucked nervously at the bed- 
 clothes. 
 
 What Vera read need not be rehearsed. 
 Davy had written down an account of the way 
 in which he had found Lucy in the lane at 
 Netherby, and of her subsequent death. He 
 went on to speak of the little child, and of his 
 own and his mother's aversion to it. And then 
 he continued the story thus. 
 
 " My mother sent the child away," he had 
 written. " It was a sweet pretty boy, with dark 
 eyes like Lucv's own ; and when T had gone back
 
 LUCY. 195 
 
 to Stanger's, after Lucy's funeral, I could not 
 help but think of him and call myself a brute for 
 letting Lucy's boy go to the workhouse. Yet I 
 did nothino' — nothino' for weeks and months. It 
 was only when the little girl that I had loved 
 was taken away from me by Ravenscroft himself 
 — it was always Ravenscroft as came between me 
 and my happiness — it was only then that I made 
 ujD my mind to go back to Netherby, to take 
 Lucy's child out of the workhouse, and to behave 
 to it as though it was my own. In this way I 
 thought that I could make up for the cruelty 
 that I had shown. 
 
 •' I spoke to mother first. *' As you please,' 
 says she. ' Don't bring the child to me ; that's 
 all. Mr. Hervey took it to the workhouse, and 
 for aught I know it's in the workhouse still.' 
 
 '•' I went to the workhouse. But I did not 
 find Lucy's child. I looked at every boy in the 
 place, and I asked questions of every one that I 
 thought likely to know anything about him — 
 Timothy Worlaby, in especial, as was the porter 
 of the place and remembered every child for 
 forty years back — but I couldn't find any trace 
 of him. There had been no bov called Bertie or
 
 196 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Moore, or any such name at all in Mickleham 
 Workhouse. 
 
 " Mr. Hervey was in France at that time, and 
 I could not ask him what he had done with 
 the child. It's certain that he took the boy 
 away from mother's cottage. Some months later 
 I did manage to see him and I asked him about 
 the boy. ' Oh, you're too late,' he said. ' The 
 boy's relations took him away before his name 
 was entered on the books.' * Then he did go to 
 Mickleham Workhouse?' I asked. 'I suppose 
 so,' he said. But I don't believe him. I don't 
 believe he ever took little Bertie to the work- 
 house. And I believe that he knows where the 
 child is now and what became of him. 
 
 '^ I wish to leave to Lucy's child all the money 
 that I possess. I live poorly, but I am not so 
 poor as I seem. I have toiled and striven and 
 saved for Lucy's boy. My savings are invested ; 
 the paper along with this one will show where. 
 But I must find friends who will take charge of 
 the money for Lucy's little son. To them I will 
 commend him, and they shall have my savings 
 in trust for him. 
 
 " I desire also to record the name of the man
 
 LUCY. 197 
 
 who blighted my Lucy's life, broke her heart, 
 and then deserted her. That man was Gaston 
 Kavenscroft." 
 
 Here Davy's manuscript came abruptly to a 
 close. Vera laid it down and looked at Davy 
 with wistful anxious eyes. What more did he 
 want ? She had not long to wait. 
 
 ''My dearie," he said at last, very tenderly, 
 " my beauty, that would charm the heart out of 
 a man with your sweet voice and your speaking 
 eyes, will you remember what you have read ? 
 Don't let that man crush the life out of your 
 body and your soul. Eemember my warning, 
 for God's sake." 
 
 •' I will remember," -^era said. But, in spite 
 of the evidence afforded by Davy's narrative, she 
 could scarcely believe that Gaston Eavenscroft 
 was the bad man that Davy represented him to 
 be. She thought of the scene upon the Elm stone 
 Downs, of the revolver that she herself had 
 thrown down the fissure in the limestone rock. 
 Did the story that she had heard afford an ex- 
 planation of Gaston's agony ? 
 
 She waited silently for Davy's next words.
 
 198 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 But they were not addressed to her. He had 
 fallen back upon his pillow ; the energy had died 
 out of his face and voice ; his eyelids flickered 
 and sank low. 
 
 " I've done it," he muttered to himself. ^' I've 
 warned her, Lucy. I shall not be afraid to see 
 your face again. Nor Vera's mother neither. 
 I've done my best." 
 
 His voice was hollow and feeble when he 
 spoke again. 
 
 " I had a lawj^er here a day or two agone," 
 he said. " He drew me up a will. Do you 
 know what I've done, my darling ? I've left my 
 money to you and Mr. Guyon in trust for Lucy's 
 child. You'll find the boy, won't you ? and give 
 him the money from the man that loved his 
 mother \ Promise me that you'll do that." 
 
 "Yes, Davy. If Mr. Guy on consents I will.'" 
 
 " He knows ; he'll consent. Call him in," 
 said Davy breathlessly. " He's outside. I feel 
 him near." 
 
 Vera went somewhat doubtfully to the door, 
 and, to her surprise, found that Maurice Guyon 
 was at that moment ascending^ the narrow 
 stair. Davy's intuition had been correct. She
 
 LUCY. 199 
 
 beckoned the young man silently into the sick- 
 room. 
 
 Maurice Guyon went to the musician's bed- 
 side and took one of the brown and wrinkled 
 hands between his otvtl. " What is it \ " he said 
 softly. ''What can I do ? " 
 
 '* She has promised to do all I ^ish," Davy 
 answered. " You know what. Promise me, 
 too ; promise that you ^vill find out Lucy's son, 
 and I shall die happy." 
 
 Maurice Guyon stooped down and addressed 
 his friend with singular gentleness. '' Dear old 
 man," he said, '' you know so little of me ! May 
 I not, after all, be unworthy of your trust ? You 
 do not know me well enough for this." 
 
 Dav}' caught at the young, strong hand which 
 rested so caressingly upon his own, turned it 
 over, and with his tremblinsr finorers traced the 
 course of certain lines upon the palm. ''Yes," 
 he said, looking into Maurice's eyes with infinite 
 placidity and trust, " I know : I know." 
 
 There was no more question of refusal. " I 
 accept the trust," said the young man, with a 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 " I accept it too," said Vera clearly. They
 
 200 AJV OPEN FOE. 
 
 exclianged a glance, and then tlieir ,eyes fell 
 somewhat confusedly. But Davy lay back upon 
 his pillows with a look of infinite content. 
 
 From time to time, after this interview, Vera 
 visited the old man, finding him at each visit 
 weaker than when she saw him last. It became 
 sadly evident that the end was very near. 
 
 ''Davy," Vera whispered once when she 
 heard him muttering, as he did constantly, the 
 names of Lucy and Bertie and Gaston Eavens- 
 croft, — '' Davy, I am sure that Lucy forgives him 
 now. Will not you also forgive him, as we all 
 pray to be forgiven \ " 
 
 " No,'' he muttered in a sullen and hopeless 
 way ; " I can't forgive him — and I won't. He 
 ruined her — and me too — and Til not — I can't 
 — forgive him." 
 
 At last — it was on a Sunday afternoon — she 
 found him unconscious. The grayness of death 
 was already on his face. She sat beside him, 
 with Maurice Guyon not far away, and waited 
 silently and sadly for the hour of death. 
 
 They were both startled by and by to see a 
 flicker of light in his dim eyes, to hear a murmur 
 from those dying lips.
 
 LUCY. 201 
 
 Vera bent down to listen. Painfully and 
 slowly came the words ; not all of them were 
 intelligible. 
 
 ••' Lucy " — the well-loved name came first — 
 ■■' in the night — I dreamt she came — told me to 
 
 forgive " A confused murmur followed, 
 
 then again more distinct utterances. " I am 
 trying — I want to see her again. Pray for me ; 
 pray aloud." 
 
 This was no time for refusal. How could 
 Vera have refused him ? On her knees beside 
 the bed she repeated the Lord's Prayer, pausing 
 a little at one petition — '' Forgive us our tres- 
 passes as we forgive those " 
 
 '' Ay," said the dying man, '' that's it. For- 
 give us, as we forgive — as I forgive Kavens- 
 croft " 
 
 Then a great light came into his ashen face. 
 He lifted up his hands and called " Lucy " in a 
 tone of glad surprise. " Lucy," he said, " have 
 you come back ? " 
 
 Then, with his hands still lifted and his eyes 
 turned to the bare, white-washed wall as if they 
 saw beyond it and away, the old man died.
 
 202 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Maurice Guyon laid his hand upon Yeras 
 hand and held it as he spoke. 
 
 " Come away, Vera ; we can do nothing for 
 him now." 
 
 And when she had kissed the dear dead face 
 he led her from the room and took her home. 
 She could never think of him as other than a 
 friend when she recalled the sympathy and kind- 
 ness that he had shown her in the hour of her 
 grief. 
 
 It happened that Vera was obliged to sing at 
 a great concert on the evening of Davy's funeral, 
 at which she, together with Maurice, had been 
 present. She had expected to find herself 
 almost voiceless ; but when the evening came a 
 feverish excitement took possession of her, 
 glowed in her cheeks, brightened her eyes, and 
 gave strange power and sweetness to her voice. 
 She sang as she had perhaps never sung before, 
 and took the critical audience by storm. 
 
 Maurice Guyon had in some manner managed 
 to gain admittance to the rooms set apart for the 
 performers. Vera spoke to him once in the 
 interval between the two parts of the concert. 
 
 "Am I singing well now?" she asked him.
 
 LUCY. 203 
 
 " As well, do you tidnk, as I sang once to Mm ? "' 
 She was thinking still of Davy. 
 
 " Better, mademoiselle," he answered her. 
 *' You are achieving a triumph.*' 
 
 It was in the very midst of this triumph, 
 whilst she was led forward to bow to an applaud- 
 ing crowd, that Vera suddenly caught sight of 
 the face of one of her hearers and saw in it the 
 face that had haunted her dreams for more than 
 half her lifetime — the face of the man to whom 
 she owed jDerhaps the whole success of her career 
 — the pale, proud, brooding face of Gaston 
 Kavenscroft.
 
 PART III.— MAURICE. 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE LUSIGNAN. 
 
 Gaston Eavenscroft was in Asia Minor when 
 Yera's letter was forwarded to him. He had 
 been travelling in unfrequented places for many 
 months, and had just arrived at the house of an 
 old friend, who had long held the post of Consul 
 in a small Oriental city. Vera's epistle there- 
 fore fell into his hands at a moment when he 
 had no special project of travel or adventure in 
 view, and he was able to give undivided atten- 
 tion to her communication. 
 
 It was a letter which vexed him exceedingly. 
 He had almost foro^otten the leno^th of time that 
 had elapsed since he left her at school in Eng- 
 land, and was astonished, when he counted the
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 205 
 
 years, to find that Vera must now be a young 
 woman of two or three and twenty. He had 
 vaguely meant to do something definite for her 
 before this time ; and he became very angry 
 when he read Vera s assertion of her own inde- 
 pendence. He was particularly displeased to 
 hear that she had taken upon herself to return 
 to England, and make engagements without 
 waiting to hear from him : he certainly thought 
 that she owed him so much consideration and 
 respect. After fuming over the letter for a time, 
 and talking about it to his friend, Charles 
 Herbert, who furnished him with a pile of news- 
 papers in which he found Vera's name many 
 times repeated, and accompanied by terms of 
 warmest praise, he made up his mind suddenly 
 that he would return to England, and try once 
 more to persuade Mr. Hervey to receive his 
 granddaughter at Netherby. He had not much 
 hope of success ; but he was resolved that, if he 
 failed in persuading Mr. Hervey, he would tell 
 Vera the story of her mother's marriage, and let 
 her make what use of the facts she chose. 
 
 When this decision was made he found that 
 the prospect of treading English soil once more
 
 206 AN . OPEN FOE. 
 
 was not disagreeable to him. He had recovered 
 from the effects of his early sorrows ; they were 
 indeed not forgotten, and they had left their 
 traces on his mind and on his character, but 
 they had naturally dwindled in importance since 
 the day when he very nearly put an end to his 
 existence upon Elmstone Downs. He had greatly 
 changed since then. 
 
 His friend Herbert travelled with him to 
 England. They went to London together, and 
 here one of the first objects that met Gaston's 
 eyes was an announcement that the celebrated 
 artiste, Mademoiselle de Lusignan, would sing 
 two songs at a concert in St. James' Hall that 
 evening. 
 
 " It cannot be little Vera ! " he said laughingly 
 to Herbert. But he bought tickets for himself 
 and his friend, and went at eight o'clock to St. 
 James' Hall. 
 
 Vera had been very present to his mind 
 during the past few weeks — an insignificant- 
 looking little maiden, with fine eyes, and a voice 
 like a nightingale's — a wild, untamed, delicate 
 little thing of impulse, for whom he had imagined 
 that the life of a public singer would be unen-
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 207 
 
 durable. Yet, with the strong T\ill and the 
 power of self-controh which she had at times 
 exhibited, he acknowledged to himself that if 
 she had in truth submitted to the hard toil and 
 training involved by success in her profession, 
 she might possibly have developed into a rare 
 and striking creature. He awaited Mademoiselle 
 de Lusignan's first appearance therefore with 
 great interest and curiosity ; but when she came 
 he drew his eyebrows together with a look of 
 perplexity and astonishment which Herbert, who 
 was sitting beside him, noticed at once. 
 
 '' It is not your protegee, then '? " he said. 
 
 *' Upon my word I can't tell. I must wait 
 and see." 
 
 He saw before him a fair and gracious woman, 
 tall, slender, but exquisitely proportioned, with 
 a mingled grace and dignity of mien which was 
 singtilarly attractive. Of this peculiar grace 
 there could be no doubt ; but Eavenscroft was 
 not equally sure as to her beauty. The features 
 of her face were delicate, but not strictly regular ; 
 her complexion seemed to be fair — but how could 
 he judge of her complexion ? Had rouge and 
 enamel nothing: to do with that dazzlino- red and
 
 208 AA^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 white ? Was that mass of golden hair her own ? 
 Did those marvellous eyes owe their brilliancy 
 to artistic tinting of eyelashes and eyelids, and 
 was the arched distinctness of the dark eyebrows 
 due to nature or to a hair-pencil ? 
 
 She had one of those voices which are heard 
 a few times in a lifetime only — a voice which 
 would make her name of European reputation. 
 Some faults in its management there might be 
 still ; but it was wonderfully sweet, searching, 
 and sympathetic. This young artiste had a great 
 career open to her, — so much was plain to Eavens- 
 croft from the very first, — and she sang as one 
 inspired, not merely as she had been taught, but 
 with a touch of that divine fire which we call 
 genius. Never was the success that befell her 
 that evening more thoroughly deserved. But it 
 was not until the very close of the performance 
 that Gaston Kavenscroft could decide whether 
 she was '' his Vera " or a stranger. 
 
 It was at the last moment, while he was still 
 studying her with bafiled wondering eyes, that 
 her eyes rested upon him in turn. She started ; 
 he fancied that she turned pale, and that her 
 lips for a moment lost their smile; then, still
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 209 
 
 looking him full in the face, she deliberately 
 bowed — yes, to him and himself only. After 
 that first moment she showed no outward trace 
 of confusion or embarrassment ; yet she had 
 recognised him, and Eavenscroft seemed more 
 moved by the fact than she. He turned to 
 Herbert with visible excitement of manner. '* It 
 is my Vera,'' he said, " and she knew me. Did 
 you see her, Herbert ? She knew me again — 
 poor little soul ! " and he laughed rather un- 
 steadily as he spoke. 
 
 ''Yes, she knew you," said Herbert, becoming 
 gravely observant of his friend. " You are prob- 
 ably less changed than she would be. What 
 are you doing now ? " 
 
 For LIr. Eavenscroft, with a half smile and 
 a determined air, was writing upon one of his 
 own visiting-cards. " I'll have her address, at 
 any rate," he said. " So she thought to cast me 
 off entirely, did she ? I fancy I can make her 
 feel my guardianship still." 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " 
 
 Eavenscroft showed the writing. '*Will 
 Mademoiselle de Lusignan allow an old acquain- 
 tance to have the honour of calling upon 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 JJV OPEN FOE. 
 
 her ? — G.E." He rose while Herbert was read- 
 ing it. 
 
 " Satire is a dangerous weapon with a woman 
 of that kind," said Herbert, simply returning 
 him the card. 
 
 " Why should she take it as satire ? Wait a 
 minute : I must find some means of conveying 
 this to her." 
 
 The means were found, though not very 
 easily ; and then Ravenscroft insisted upon 
 waiting some minutes near the door to see 
 whether any present notice would be taken of 
 his communication. They seemed to be waiting 
 in vain, however, and were just turning away 
 when Ravenscroft heard himself addressed by 
 name. 
 
 " Mr. Ravenscroft, I think ? " 
 
 Gaston turned eagerly. A young man with 
 a note in his hand stood before him, bowed, and 
 spoke. 
 
 "Mademoiselle de Lusignan desired me, if 
 possible, to find you and to give you this note. 
 If there is any answer I can take it to her if 
 you will allow me to do so." 
 
 Gaston opened the note in silence. Herbert
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 2 1 1 
 
 meanwhile observed the messenger with some 
 keenness : a handsome man, apparently about six 
 or seven-and- twenty, with fine features and a long 
 fair moustache : not in evening dress — in fact 
 decidedly out at elbows, but with the manners 
 and bearing of a gentleman. Such, at least, 
 would have been Herbert's verdict. 
 
 These were the words read by Gaston Kavens- 
 croft : 
 
 " Vera de Lusignan thanks jMr. Ravenscroft 
 for his kind remembrance of her. She will be 
 happy to see Mr. Ravenscroft at any time be- 
 tween twelve and five which may suit him best, 
 upon any day this week. Perhaps Mr. Ravens- 
 croft will kindly let her hear when she may 
 expect him." 
 
 An address was given below. 
 
 *' Is Mademoiselle de Lusignan still here ?" 
 
 ''She is, sir." 
 
 " I might give her my answer by word of 
 mouth then ? " 
 
 ^' Pardon : Mademoiselle de Lusignan will see 
 nobody to-night." 
 
 " May I know to whom I am speaking ? " 
 said Ravenscroft with ironical^courtesy.
 
 212 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 The young man's face changed. It coloured 
 a little and his eyes flashed. But he controlled 
 himself, and answered with coolness and gravity : 
 
 "For the present I am Mademoiselle de 
 LusioTian's messeno-er." 
 
 *^ I will not trouble you," said Eavenscroft 
 dryly. 
 
 Mademoiselle de Lusignan's messenger lifted 
 his eyebrows a little, gave the speaker a search- 
 ing glance out of a pair of very keen blue eyes, 
 then bent his head in token of comprehension 
 and retired. Gaston watched him out of sight, 
 before turning upon his heel, with a haughty 
 exclamation to Herbert : 
 
 *' Who is that fellow, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " An admirer, probably." 
 
 " Insolent pujDpy ! " 
 
 *' I have seen him before," said Herbert 
 reflectively, ^' or somebody very like him. I 
 wonder where." 
 
 Eavenscroft went to his hotel and thence 
 wrote a note to the address given, fixing his visit 
 for the following afternoon. He sallied forth at 
 the appointed time with an odd feeling that he 
 was about to meet the child whom he had be-
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 2 1 3 
 
 friended tAvelve years before, and not the beauti- 
 ful vision seen u23on the performers' platform in 
 a public hall. But in truth he met neither. 
 
 The house iu which Vera and Mrs. Cradock 
 had taken rooms stood back from the road, and 
 was fronted by a pretty little garden, bright with 
 roses and geraniums. As Eavenscroft went up 
 the path from the little iron gate, the front door 
 opened to let out an earlier visitor. For a moment 
 Gaston was more startled than he would have 
 liked to confess : the visitor was the young man 
 who had given him Vera's note on the previous 
 evening. He was intimate, then, with Mademoi- 
 selle de Lusignan ? The eyes of the two men 
 met with a certain expression of hostility, but 
 they passed each other without any other sign 
 of recognition. It was with no well -pleased 
 look upon his face that Gaston Eavenscroft 
 knocked at Vera's door. 
 
 The clock was striking four as the neat maid 
 admitted him to a pretty little sitting room, till 
 then unoccupied, and left him there alone. 
 Eavenscroft looked round him. The sound of a 
 monotonous voice reading aloud had struck upon 
 his ear. On his right hand the entrance to
 
 214 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 another room was screened by a portiere ; but 
 the portiere had been slightly disturbed and 
 afforded him a glimpse of an interior which 
 instantly riveted his attention. 
 
 He saw a pleasant room, softly shaded from 
 the sun and bright with flowers. A gray-haired, 
 sensible-faced, elderly lady in black silk sat in 
 an arm-chair reading aloud. On a chaise longue 
 lay Vera de Lusignan at full length, with her 
 arms crossed behind her head. 
 
 Was it done for effect ? Gaston wondered 
 cynically. The attitude was one of repose, 
 almost of indolence, and yet of wonderful grace. 
 She looked singularly slight and young in this 
 position ; and her soft white dress was of almost 
 childish simplicity. Her only ornament was a 
 bunch of violets which she had fastened into the 
 bosom of her dress. 
 
 " I should have known her if I had seen her 
 thus at first," said Gaston to himself as he stood 
 unseen, and looked. 
 
 The flush that her face had worn whilst she 
 was singing had gone, but she was lovely with 
 the loveliness of extreme refinement and delicacy. 
 Her complexion was very fair, and her skin had
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. -2 1 5 
 
 a peculiar whiteness — not the dead whiteness of 
 ill health, but a pearly transparency and freedom 
 from spot or blemish, which was very striking. 
 The fair hair was drawn back from her forehead, 
 but the shorter hairs refused to lie smooth, and 
 clustered above her low broad forehead in a perfect 
 halo of tiny natural curls. Her eyebrows were 
 so dark and well defined as to afford a strongr 
 contrast to the fair hair and complexion ; the 
 long eyelashes were also dark, and the beautifully 
 shaped eyes were of a pure gray that looked 
 almost black in shadow. Though intellect and 
 will predominated over feeling in her face, with 
 its strongly developed brow and chin, yet at 
 first sight, to unobservant eyes, the extreme 
 fairness of her skin srave an effect of fraoilitv, 
 and the infantine sweetness of eye and lip an 
 impression of great pliability of disposition. 
 
 Eavenscroft heard his name announced by 
 the maid and hastily turned his face away from 
 the opening. In another instant the sound of 
 sweeping garments was heard, the rings of the 
 curtain rattled as it was drawn aside, and Vera 
 herself stood before him. She shook hands with 
 him simply, and did not say much ; her manner
 
 216 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 struck him as gentle, cold, and even a trifle inani- 
 mate. He might have supposed her tame and 
 spiritless if he had not heard her sing the night 
 before. 
 
 She conducted him into the next room, where 
 the gray -haired lady was still sitting. ''You 
 may perhaps remember Mrs. Cradock?" she said. 
 " You had some correspondence with her at one 
 time. She has been a very kind friend to me." 
 
 Eavenscroft found it less embarrassing to ex- 
 change a few sentences with Mrs. Cradock than 
 to pursue a conversation with Vera, who mean- 
 while rang the bell for tea, and then stood silent 
 for some minutes, apparently engaged in col- 
 lecting the loose sheets of music upon an open 
 piano. To Gaston's eyes she was perfectly calm. 
 Mrs. Cradock, who knew her better, saw from 
 the faint rose-tinting of her cheeks and the slight 
 restlessness of her movements that she was un- 
 usually agitated. Presently Eavenscroft rose 
 and offered her a chair. This brought her to a 
 seat between him and Mrs. Cradock, where he 
 could see her face and address an occasional 
 remark to her. He wanted to make her talk ; 
 but she was so still, so frozen, either by pride or
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 2 1 7 
 
 sh3mess, that she became more of an enigma to 
 him than ever. Afternoon tea proved a diver- 
 sion. Vera seemed more at ease behind the tray, 
 and Eavenscroft watched her with a sort of sur- 
 prise as her slim white fingers moved quickly 
 amongst the pretty shallow cups and saucers. 
 He began to see that she was embarrassed, but 
 that embarrassment failed to make her awkward 
 — only silent. 
 
 Mrs. Cradock felt her presence to be an 
 oppression, and slipped away as soon as she had 
 sipped her tea, in spite of Vera's piteous glance. 
 Mr. Eavenscroft was glad to see her go ; but he 
 wondered a little how to introduce the subject 
 of Vera's prospects in talking to her alone. This 
 fair, still girl was difficult to treat as the baby he 
 had thought her. And she seemed inclined to 
 give him no opening for conversation on any but 
 the most indiflerent topics. 
 
 But he was wrong. After a few careless 
 remarks, and one or two long pauses, Vera 
 turned to him with a sudden change of attitude 
 and countenance. She clasped her slender hands 
 together upon her lap and crimsoned to her 
 temples as she spoke.
 
 218 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Mr. Eavenscroft, I hope you did not think 
 me ungrateful when I ventured to act for my- 
 self. You were very far away, and my friends 
 said that I ought not to wait." 
 
 The answer that she expected did not iname- 
 diately follow. She looked up at him pleadingly, 
 and made some silent subtle comments on his 
 face and the changes that she saw therein. Freed 
 from the hairy growth which he had cultivated 
 in Asia Minor, with the exception of a dark 
 moustache, browned by many an Eastern sun, 
 far sterner and harder in expression than it had 
 been twelve years before, his face struck Vera at 
 that moment with a sudden sense of surprise at 
 its massiveness and power. It was still a hand- 
 some face, with fine bold lines, but there was a 
 certain grimness about the strong contour of brow 
 and chin, a latent fire in the glance of those deep- 
 set brilliant eyes, an ominous knitting of the 
 dark eyebrows, which promised neither patience, 
 humility, nor good -humour, and were far more 
 imposing than amiable. Vera looked at him, 
 thought that her defence had sounded weak, yet 
 felt more courageous now that the subject had 
 been broached than she had done before.
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 2 1 9 
 
 The reply, when it came, was abrupt and 
 unorracious enouo-h. "And what if I do think 
 you ungrateful ? It does not signify to you now ; 
 you are successful, and that is all you want." 
 
 " Not all." 
 
 "What else do you require ?" — sarcastically. 
 
 " I should be glad to have the esteem and — 
 and — affection" — the word trembled upon her 
 lips for a second or two before she uttered it— 
 " of my friends." 
 
 Gaston looked at her ^ith an ironical smile. 
 
 " Verily you ask much, Mademoiselle de Lu- 
 signan ! And who may your ' friends ' be ? You 
 had not too many when I saw you last. What 
 friends have you had who counselled you not to 
 wait?" 
 
 Her face turned pale and her eyes looked 
 grieved and puzzled, but she answered with a 
 patient simplicity which was not Tsithout its 
 pathos. 
 
 " God has been very good to me. He has 
 given me a great many friends. I owe them a 
 great deal — more than 'ever I can repay," she 
 added, with a melting of her gravity into a 
 bright, sweet look which directed the application
 
 220 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 of her words to himself. '' But, ah ! I forgot ; 
 you do not like to hear of repa57inent or of 
 thanks." 
 
 Gaston bit his lip, and felt the shock of some- 
 thing very like unpleasant surprise at the tone 
 of her first sentence. "Devote!" he said to 
 himself, " I should not have thought it. Where 
 did I hear that story of some great singer who 
 never went on the stage without praying that 
 she might do her part well ? Vera seems to be 
 moving on the same lines." 
 
 " I like gratitude," he said aloud, coldly. 
 
 '' And you think I have not been grateful ? " 
 — again with the sensitive flushing from brow to 
 chin. 
 
 " I did not mean to say that. But of course 
 the fact remains," said Eavenscroft dryly, '^ that 
 you have preferred the advice of other friends to 
 mine ; and although I never wanted to force mine 
 upon you, I think it would have been better for 
 you if you had consulted me before taking so 
 important a step in life as leaving the school 
 where you had been placed, in order to teach 
 and to sing in public. You did not do me that 
 honour, and I do not wish to claim a right to it.
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 22 1 
 
 You informed me of your decision only : it was 
 very kind of you to do so, I am sure, but, under 
 the circumstances, unnecessary. I could hardly 
 have expected you to await my opinion." 
 
 " Could I have had your opinion in less than 
 six or eight months ? " 
 
 *' Would six or eight months have been so 
 serious a loss to you at your age ? Six months 
 more study, — I had the Conservatoire at Milan in 
 my mind if your voice were worth it, as it is, 
 though your style is not faultless yet, Mademoi- 
 selle de Lusignan, — and then you could have come 
 out under better auspices than those which you 
 have secured for yourself." 
 
 Vera writhed under the lash of his keen 
 tongue, but ventured to oppose his dictum. " I 
 had good introductions. It was considered that 
 these concerts at St. James' Hall would give me 
 an excellent chance. I was engaged for the 
 season," she said. 
 
 '' Of course. Oh, doubtless the end justified 
 the means. You are very successful ; and as 1, 
 being an unsuccessful man, worship success, I 
 congratulate you on the measure of it that you 
 have gained."
 
 222 A.V OPEN FOE. 
 
 But Vera's cup was full. He had taunted her 
 until she could bear no more. She answered 
 him as vehemently as ever she had answered 
 Jonas Stanger and her daughters in the days of 
 her passionate childhood ; and he was not dis- 
 pleased to have provoked the outburst. 
 
 "It is not true ; it is not true," she said. 
 " I care nothing for the success except for its 
 making me free and independent — is it that which 
 you dislike ? You forget how you repulsed me 
 when I once ventured to thank you in a letter 
 for your kindness, and how you refused to give 
 me any advice at all when at Kosenthal I asked 
 what profession you T\dshed me to adopt ! ' De- 
 cide for yourself : I do not wish you to consult 
 me,' you said then. Was that answer of yours 
 no reason for my acting as I did ? Was I not 
 justified ? " 
 
 He had risen from his seat and stood with 
 his shoulder against the mantelpiece, with his 
 eyes studiously averted from her face, but he 
 was silent. She continued passionately : 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I was not ungrateful ! 
 But I was half afraid to write to you at all, when 
 you had so sternly forbidden me to do so ! How
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 223 
 
 could I know that you cared about my prospects ? 
 I thought that you would be glad to have me 
 oflF your hands : you gave me every reason to 
 think so." 
 
 ••' No, Vera." 
 
 '•' But I was obliged to think so : you made 
 me think so," said the girl, standing before him, 
 so that in spite of himself he was obliged to see 
 the quivering lips and indignant eyes, and to 
 hear the quick breaths that tore up the sentences 
 almost with sobs. " I would have given any- 
 thing — done anything — for you when I was a 
 child : you might have taken the whole manage- 
 ment of my life if you had chosen. But you 
 refused to do anything but give me money. Oh, 
 it was good, it was kind, of you to do that, but 
 is money everything ? You told me that you 
 would have nothing to do with me. From that 
 moment I could not — I could not feel as if your 
 gifts were anything but burdens. Ah, yes, I 
 was ungrateful : I see it now. But you made it 
 hard ! " 
 
 ''Yes," said Kavenscroft in an odd tone, '' I 
 did. I thought I was right." 
 
 "But now?"
 
 224 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 "■ Now," he said, looking at her face with a 
 mixture of shame and hardihood which she did 
 not understand, " now I wish I had left myself 
 the right to reproach you/' 
 
 "You acknowledge that you have not?" she 
 asked, in utter astonishment at this sudden change 
 of tone. 
 
 " I acknowledge it. I was unjust." 
 
 " x\nd you see," she said tremblingly, " that I 
 would gladly have consulted you if I had known 
 that I might ? — that it was your own doing ? " 
 
 A pause ensued before he said " Yes." 
 
 She drew a long breath. "I am glad," she 
 said, sitting down and covering her face. " I 
 could not bear that you should think me so un- 
 grateful ! " And for some minutes her tears 
 flowed silently but fast. 
 
 There was a long silence. Kavenscroft moved 
 up and down the room, glanced perplexedly at 
 the fair bowed head, and finally came and stood 
 before her. 
 
 " I don't think you are much tamer than you 
 used to be. Vera," he said lightly. " You fire up 
 precisely as you did when I saw you last. But 
 you were more forgiving then, child — I beg your
 
 WITH MADEMOISELLE DE L USIGNAN. 225 
 
 pardon : I suppose I ouglit to say Mademoiselle 
 de Lusignan, like all tlie rest of the world." 
 
 This drew her head up. She looked at him 
 with a great radiance in her beautiful eyes. " Do 
 you mean to be only like all the rest of the world 
 to me ? " she said ; "or what you were in my 
 childhood — my best and kindest friend ? " 
 
 A new and sudden consciousness of her 
 womanly charm, of the sweetness of her eyes, 
 the grace of her manner, made Gaston Eavens- 
 croft falter in his answer. 
 
 '' Your friend, Vera," he said at last in a soft- 
 ened tone. " Now and always your true and 
 faithful friend — if neither the kindest nor the 
 best." 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MAURICE S PLAN. 
 
 Vera had no occasion to tell Mr. Ravenscroft 
 that Maurice Guyon had never visited her before 
 that afternoon when the two men met almost 
 at her door. There had been no appointment 
 between them ; it had simply occurred to Maurice 
 that he would take to her the violin that Davy 
 had wished her to possess, and that, if she 
 wanted to consult him respecting Davy's legacy 
 to the missing child, she would then have the 
 opportunity of doing so. 
 
 He was shown at once into the little sitting- 
 room, whither Vera came to meet him. She 
 seemed at once to understand his errand. 
 
 '* Davy's violin ?" she said quickly. 
 
 " It was a trust committed to me, mademoi- 
 selle," Maurice Guyon answered. "Davy wished
 
 MAURICE'S PLAN. 227 
 
 you to have the instrument on which, as a child, 
 he said you had often longed to play." 
 
 Vera said " Thank you " in a low tone ; then 
 moved to the table and opened the case that 
 stood upon it. On seeing the violin, she laid 
 her hand upon it gently and let it linger there, 
 as if she would have caressed it for the sake of 
 its former owner. There seemed to Maurice 
 something very tender and beautiful in this 
 action, something very lovely in the silence 
 with which she looked upon this memorial of 
 the dead. For he had seen enough of Vera to 
 be aware that her silence covered deep reserves 
 of feeling, and that her pale cheek and lowered 
 eyes indicated more emotion than another 
 woman's burst of tears. He honoured her for 
 her self-control, and waited until she herself 
 should break the silence. 
 
 ''I have written to his mother," at last she 
 said, without lifting her eyes. 
 
 "Ah ?" He looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 "' She sent a few lines in reply. She T\dshes 
 for no help ; she did not seem to grieve for her 
 son's death. He had been long dead, she said, 
 to her. How strange it is," said Vera, taking
 
 228 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 her hand off the violin, and moving away from 
 the table a few steps, " that persons can be dead 
 to each other in this life ! It is very sad." 
 
 A flash of fiery meaning seemed to shoot 
 across the young man's face, and then to leave 
 it colder and darker than it had been before. 
 *' Sad it is, no doubt, mademoiselle," he said 
 softly ; " but strange ? It is too frequent to be 
 strange." 
 
 Vera stopped short in her gentle movement 
 across the room ; he could not but notice the 
 sudden stillness of her slim straight figure and 
 the avertincr of her orraceful head. His words 
 had touched her now, as hers had touched him 
 before. 
 
 " I suppose you are right. I know that there 
 are persons to whom I, for instance, have died, 
 although I formed part of their lives once. But 
 people do not let this happen knowingly ; they 
 do not often cast a person away from them and 
 say, * You are henceforward dead to me.' They 
 merely let old friends slip, and then some day 
 we wake up to find we are nothing any longer 
 to those who have been all the world to us." 
 
 She spoke almost with indignation, and yet
 
 MAURICE'S PLAN. 22« 
 
 there was a speculative melanclioly in her tone 
 which made her hearer doubt whether she were 
 quoting from her own experience or not. He 
 smiled ^ith quiet, covert irony. 
 
 " You would not cast off an old friend wit- 
 tingly ; I am sure of that, of course, after seeing 
 what I have seen ; but others — other women — 
 act differently. An old friend ? — an old glove : it 
 can be taken off or put on at pleasure, or thrown 
 away. A breath of adversity, suspicion, disgrace, 
 blights a friendship as an east wind blights a 
 rosebud." 
 
 She turned round and let her clear dark gray 
 eyes dwell upon him reflectively, ^ith a certain 
 amount of pity and inquiry reflected in their 
 translucent depths, before she said — 
 
 '' We have all different kinds of experience. 
 I have known examjDles of strong friendship 
 and great faithfulness ; perhaps you have met 
 with examples on the other side, and judge 
 every one by them." 
 
 He laughed carelessly, but his face flushed a 
 Kttle as he answered. 
 
 "You think me easily influenced, Mademoi- 
 selle. I would not presume to contradict you,
 
 2T50 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 but, with your permission, I will tell you the 
 story of a friend of mine — a story which will 
 not occupy much time in telling, but which will 
 serve to illustrate my point." 
 
 " Pray tell it me," said Vera. " Will you not 
 sit down ? I am afraid that I have kept you 
 standing all this time ; it is because I am so 
 restless to-day ; I feel as if I must walk up and 
 down the room. But I will sit still now." 
 
 '' Do not let me tire you," said Maurice 
 gently. " Shall I go away now and tell you 
 my little story another time ? After all, it is 
 not worth telling." 
 
 " I want to hear it," she said, seating her- 
 self and turning her face to him. "Please 
 go on." 
 
 He was silent for a few moments, as if col- 
 lecting his thoughts. Then he turned away 
 from her a little, and spoke slowly, with his 
 eyes bent on the floor. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I had a friend once — in St. 
 Petersburg — a man who longed, like myself, for 
 freedom of thought and action in Eussia such as 
 you have here in England. He did not conspire 
 against the Czar's life, but he did symj^athise
 
 MAURICE'S PLAN. 231 
 
 with the men who were spending time, and 
 energy, and money, and brains upon the one 
 object of their lives — the propaganda of what 
 they thought to be the truth. He himself 
 helped them in this object, and, when some of 
 his friends were in danger, he hid them in his 
 house. He was betrayed to the police, — by 
 whom he never knew, — his house was searched, 
 the susjyects found and arrested. The police 
 were brutal and violent ; my friend struck one 
 of them to the ground, and seriously, though 
 accidentally, injured him. For these offences, 
 he was first condemned to death, and then to 
 perpetual exile in the mines of Siberia." 
 
 " How terribly unjust ! Could nothing be 
 done to save him ?" 
 
 Maurice shook his head. 
 
 " He was betrothed, mademoiselle, to a lady 
 — young, rich, beautiful ; he loved her, and he 
 thought that she loved him. When he was con- 
 demned, his one thought was this : ' She will 
 be faithful to me throughout. She will be my 
 wife, and come with me even to Siberia.' For 
 such things have happened before : other women 
 have followed the men they loved into exile ; was
 
 232 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 she, whom he believed to be the pearl of woman- 
 hood, to be less true than they ?" 
 
 " No, oh no ! " said Vera, as if he had ap- 
 pealed to her for an answer to the question. The 
 story had carried her completely with it ; her 
 eyes were shining, her lips parted, with interest 
 and expectation. " Oh no, there could be no 
 doubt. Of course she went with him." 
 
 The young man turned a nervous twitch of 
 his mouth into a smile. 
 
 "You are mistaken, mademoiselle. She 
 would not even see him again. She sent him 
 no farewell. Before six months had passed she 
 had married a kinsman of his own — the man 
 upon w^hom his estates had been conferred by 
 Imperial command." 
 
 "All women would not have been so false," said 
 Vera indignantly. " You do not think so ? You 
 have not lost faith in them, because one woman 
 was faithless — to your friend T' She said the last 
 words with some emphasis, and gave him one keen 
 glance as she did so. But he did not look up. 
 
 " No, mademoiselle, I have not lost faith in 
 all. I thought I had, but I find I was 
 mistaken."
 
 MAURICE'S PLAN. 233 
 
 " And your friend ?" said Vera hastily. " He 
 went to Siberia ?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle, yes." 
 
 *' But he was pardoned afterwards ? It was 
 such a small offence ! It was a virtue — not a 
 crime !" 
 
 ''He was not pardoned." 
 
 " But he escaped ?" 
 
 " Do men escajDC from Siberia ?" said the 
 young man slowly, as if weighing all his words. 
 
 "Why, yes, sometimes." 
 
 " That is true. Bakunin, the Nihilist, escaped 
 about the year 1860. He got on board an 
 American ship at Novo-Nikolaievsk, and went 
 first to Japan and then to North America." 
 
 " And your friend " 
 
 " Another time, mademoiselle — pardon me — 
 I will tell you all about my friend another time." 
 
 His voice was husky, and it seemed to Vera 
 as if his eyes had grown wet with tears. He 
 screened them with his hand for a few moments — 
 silently, but with nothing of an Englishman's 
 proud reserve. He showed his emotion openly 
 and simply, knowing that it was not a thing of 
 which to be ashamed. Vera held her peace ;
 
 234 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 she was sure already that the story which he 
 had told her was his ow^n. 
 
 Vera was silent out of sympathy, but not 
 because she would have feared, even after his 
 prohibition, to question him. She had begun 
 dreamily to wonder whether it were possible that 
 she and Maurice had been friends or kindred 
 in another state of existence. There are persons 
 who seem to us, even at a first meeting, like old 
 acquaintances, whom accident alone has hitherto 
 kept away. So with Maurice and Vera. They 
 had never been strangers from the moment when 
 they first stood together at Davy's dying bed. 
 
 " Thank you, mademoiselle," he said at last ; 
 though Vera did not know^ ^^J ^^ should thank 
 her, and indeed he scarcely knew himself '^ Let 
 me now fulfil the rest of my commission. I 
 have some papers to place in your hands. I fear 
 that I am detaining you too long." 
 
 "Not at all, Mr. Guyon. Ah, Davys 
 papers You read them ? " 
 
 She asked the question with some timidity. 
 
 " I read them, mademoiselle." 
 
 "And what," said Vera slowdy, " what do you 
 think that we had better do '?"
 
 MAURICE'S PLAN. 235 
 
 The papers were laid upon the table at her 
 side. She took them up, and turned them 
 slowly in her hands as she spoke. Maurice 
 watched her rather anxiously. 
 
 *' Have you anything to propose, made- 
 moiselle ?" he asked her. 
 
 She raised her candid eyes and fixed them 
 upon his face. " Mr. Guy on," she said, " I will 
 tell you exactly what I feel. Mr. Kavenscroft 
 is coming to see me this afternoon. When he 
 speaks to me I shall half expect to hear him 
 say : ' What is it that you have heard of me ? 
 What secret of mine do you hold that I do not 
 know ? ' And I shall feel that I am mean and 
 dishonourable in knowing what I do. What I 
 propose is that we should hand the papers over 
 to Mr. Eavenscroft and say to him : ' These con- 
 cern you. Take them and find for yourself the 
 son that you thought you had lost.' I wish to 
 teU him all." 
 
 " Then you^' said Maurice with emphasis, 
 ''you have more faith in Gaston Eavenscroft 
 than Davy had ?" 
 
 " Far more," she answered steadily. 
 
 "You think that Mr. Eavenscroft would re-
 
 236 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 joice to hear of Davy's suppositions ? For we 
 have not the slightest evidence to go upon. If 
 we had, it would be a very different matter. 
 What have we to tell him ? " 
 
 Vera was silent. 
 
 " Give me a few days' grace, at least, made- 
 moiselle," said Maurice in his winning voice. 
 " I should like to go dow^n to Netherby and see 
 Davy's mother, and try to trace the child who 
 was sent to the workhouse. If I am unsuccess- 
 ful there, I will come back ; then w^e can try 
 your plan. It is Cjuite possible that Mr. Eavens- 
 croft knows something of the matter already." 
 
 Vera did not agree with Maurice's judg- 
 ment. Still she yielded the point ; there was 
 a certain pleasure in yielding a point to Maurice 
 Guyon. 
 
 " I will do just as you think best, Mr. Guyon. 
 If you fail — if you hear nothing — then perhaps 
 we can devise another plan. It is very good of 
 you to take this trouble." 
 
 " Did you not think that I would take trouble 
 for my friends, mademoiselle ?" 
 
 " I am sure that you would — for Davy." 
 
 '^ Yes — for Davy ; and — may I not say it ? —
 
 MA URICE'S PLAN. 237 
 
 for you as well. I may think that I am working 
 for you too, may I not ?" 
 
 She hesitated. " If it pleases you to think 
 
 so " she said at last. She left the sentence 
 
 incomplete, but it was plain that she had granted 
 the request. 
 
 " Will you think me presumptuous for suggest- 
 ing one thing % " she said, after a short pause, 
 which to her was instinct with happy meaning. 
 " Your enoragement at the Parthenon " 
 
 ''\ will leave it." 
 
 " But — can you ? Ought you ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said the young man, with a 
 bright look of determination on his face, " I can 
 do for another what I did not care to do for 
 myself. You will call me perverse if I tell you 
 that I have worked for myself rather because I 
 chose than because I need. If I spoke a word, 
 if I lifted a finger, I could get sufficient for all 
 my wants. So you need not think that I am 
 resigning much when I resign my few shillings a 
 week at the Parthenon." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Vera, *' you are resigning 
 something more — some plan of your own — some 
 freedom or independence "
 
 238 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Say rather some foolish pride, mademoiselle," 
 he answered gravely. ^' It is not much that I 
 shall gain, to be sure — a pittance only ; but it is 
 there for me if I put out my hand. I have been 
 intending to claim it for some time." 
 
 '' Don't make any sacrifice, Mr. Guyon," said 
 Vera, the quick colour rising in her fair cheeks. 
 " You are acting for others, not for yourself. 
 You ought to have no expense in the matter. 
 1- 
 
 ■)1 
 
 And there she stopped short, for Maurice 
 Guyon's face and gesture entreated silence. 
 
 " May I not do something for Davy too ? Do 
 you want to keep to yourself all the pleasure of 
 giving, mademoiselle V he said in a tone of 
 gentle remonstrance. " I assure you," he added 
 more earnestly, "' I am doing nothing but what 
 it is right for me to do. I have hitherto ne- 
 glected to put myself into communication with 
 certain friends of mine, because I fancied that 
 they did not trust me as I had expected them to 
 do. It may have been a foolish fancy ; at any 
 rate, I will go to them at once. They were very 
 kind to me as a boy ; I think they will be kind 
 still."
 
 MA URICE'S PLAN, 239 
 
 " But must you ask them for any anything ? 
 Could you not ask me as easily % It is for 
 Davy's sake ! " 
 
 " Dear mademoiselle," said Maurice, almost 
 tenderly, " I shall ask them only for my own. I 
 shall need nothing more." 
 
 "I understand. I beg your pardon for my 
 mistake." 
 
 '^ There is no need ; I did not explain myself 
 sufficiently. I will go at once," said Maurice 
 with some eagerness, " and then I shall be ready 
 to start for Netherby as soon as I am free from 
 the Parthenon business. Mademoiselle, I thank 
 you for your great kindness." 
 
 But although he announced his intention so 
 energetically, he seemed to find it hard to tear 
 himself away. The papers were slowly gathered 
 up, with a word or two between each ; reluctantly 
 at last he took his leave, after a lingering pres- 
 sure of the slender fingers that were silently held 
 out to meet his own, and a w^ord of farewell 
 which was in itself a pledge of swift return. 
 
 He left the house, and found himself face to 
 face with Gaston Eavenscroft at Vera's door.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 VERAS FRIENDS. 
 
 If Gaston Ravenscroft had thought seriously over 
 his first conversation with Vera, and the words 
 and acts immediately preceding it, he might have 
 found occasion to accuse himself of great incon- 
 sistency. But he was not a man who reflected 
 much on his own actions. He was always said to 
 be a man of strong will. Perhaps it was only an 
 obstinate one. It certainly was apt at times to 
 veer from one point to another with suddenness 
 proportioned to the violence of his disposition. 
 Never of a very tractable nature, he had now for 
 many years accustomed himself to look upon his 
 own wishes and emotions as the sole limits to his 
 will and the only laws that he acknowledged. 
 This tendency, moreover, had been increased by 
 an adventurous life of exploration, such as suited
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 241 
 
 liis tastes and habits better, he used to say, than 
 the humdrum existence of an English squire. 
 Above all a man of whims, crotchets, and eccen- 
 tricities, he had seldom shown himself more 
 whimsical than in his dealings with Vera Marlitt. 
 As a child, he had petted her ; as a young girl, 
 he had liberally provided for her welfare, but 
 refused to enter into any personal relation with 
 her, expressly declining to take advantage of the 
 authority that he might have claimed ; yet when 
 his amour-propre had been wounded by her 
 independent stand, he had at once hurried back 
 to England in order to assert the binding nature 
 of a tie which he had taken the utmost trouble 
 to sever ! So far all was bad : he was acting with 
 the impulsive selfishness of a man who had done 
 a kind action for the sake of his own pleasure 
 rather than the benefit of the recipient ; and yet 
 there was a better motive at work within him 
 than he chose to show. His very desire to pro- 
 vide for Yera's future made him dislike her acting 
 independently of him : the fear that she might 
 have cast away her chances and injured her own 
 prospects brought him to England on her account. 
 He had forgotten that she was a woman grown, 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 and lie was of course guilty of culpable negligence 
 in fororettinor it, but it was not unaccountable 
 neofliofence in a man who had renounced his own 
 home ties, and believed himself bound by no 
 duties. He had long ceased to care for anything 
 but how best to seize and enjoy the fleeting 
 moment ; he had no aims and no ambitions. It 
 was perfectly characteristic of him that at a 
 moment of intense wretchedness he should have 
 tried to put an end to his own life. He thought 
 it the most natural thing in the world for a man 
 to take the only means in his power of ridding 
 himself of torture as soon as it became excessive. 
 His want of patience, and in some cases of forti- 
 tude, had been a marked feature with him from 
 boyhood. Physically he could dare and endure 
 anything ; it was in the moral region that he 
 failed. 
 
 Yet Gaston Eavenscroft had qualities that 
 merited esteem. He was generous ; he was 
 tender-hearted to the weak and poor ; he had a 
 great scorn for the meaner vices of humanity, for 
 anything that savoured of truckling, cowardice, 
 niggardliness, or deceit. His own faults inclined 
 to the opposite extreme — to lavishness, rashness,
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 243 
 
 outspoken arrogance, and pride. He was a man 
 of rare gifts, who had chosen to fling them wan- 
 tonly away because he disdained the importance 
 that they would give him in the eyes of the 
 vulgar crowd. 
 
 Vera de Lusignan, in meditating upon this 
 strangely undisciplined nature, surmised that it 
 had received some terrible shock before it was 
 fully developed, either for good or evil ; that there 
 had been some tremendous convulsion, as of the 
 rending of rocks and letting loose of the elements 
 in a mighty volcanic eruption ; and that he 
 would bear the traces of this struggle to his dying 
 day. She called to mind the influences of his 
 earlier years ; she remembered the cynicism and 
 worldliness of his mother; and she came to a 
 dangerous conclusion — for a woman in what 
 concerns a man — that circumstances had been 
 greatly against him, and that, though not wholly 
 free from blame, he was more sinned against 
 than sinning ! 
 
 Another inconsistency made itself manifest in 
 that first interview with Vera. He had meant 
 to show himself ready to be her friend, and yet 
 he could not refrain from upbraiding her (un-
 
 244 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 justly as he knew) for ingratitude. He would 
 not have spoken in this manner, he told himself 
 afterwards, if she had not angered him by her 
 cold demeanour and by the appearance of that 
 handsome stranger at her door. (How she was 
 responsible for his appearance Gaston did not 
 inquire of himself, and was not likely to ascer- 
 tain.) Certainly he had allowed his vexation to 
 get the better of his reason. And then she had 
 fought him gallantly, — he admired her for her 
 resistance, — and had forced him to admit that he 
 had been unjust. He had yielded unwillingh' 
 and in dudgeon at the time ; but he had known 
 that she was right. 
 
 He came away from the house with a certain 
 excitement and exhilaration of feeling that j)roved 
 him to be younger at heart than he would have 
 cared to acknowledge ; and all through the even- 
 ing he was conscious of a glow of interest and 
 animation to which he had long been a stranger. 
 "The little witch!" he said to himself, as he 
 remembered the sweet eyes and silver -keyed 
 utterance, which were two of Vera's greatest 
 charms ; " who would have thought that she had 
 ever been beaten by that brute Stanger. or had
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS, 245 
 
 sung in a provincial melodrama ?" Of com^se he 
 could not understand that these very incidents of 
 her early life had helped to make her what she was. 
 " I suppose it is her mixed blood that gives her 
 that curious fascination of manner ; she ought to 
 be a trifle more stolid, however, with her undeni- 
 ably Teutonic fair hair and complexion. But 
 there is a suggestion of Southern blood in the 
 tinting of her eyes and brows. Doubtless other 
 people feel the fascination ! And I never asked 
 her a single business question after all ! Is it 
 possible that she did not ivant me to ask questions 
 
 and kept me from remembering them by 
 
 Pooh ! she was natural enough ! thoroughly un- 
 conscious of herself." 
 
 In which opinion Gaston Eavenscroft was 
 mistaken. Vera was neither '^ natural^' nor 
 •'' unconscious " in his sense of the word. Her 
 profession, as well as the reticences of her early 
 life, had forced upon her an unusual amount of 
 self-control, and, except in moments of strong 
 excitement, she kept perpetual watch and ward 
 over her words and actions. This self-control was 
 caused by the natural recoil of a proud nature upon 
 itself : the shame and distress that followed any
 
 246 • AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 self-betrayal taught her to retreat into a shell of 
 reserve and apparent coldness at the faintest 
 token of dislike or indifference. The life of a 
 singer had its peculiar pains as well as pleasures 
 for her : she could throw herself heart and soul 
 into her public performances, but she suffered 
 agonies of painful reaction when they were over. 
 To avoid any display of this sensitiveness she 
 had taken refuge, as sensitive people often do, 
 in an exterior of impassive quietude. Only, 
 while with many people this impassiveness, this 
 quietude, is cold and disagreeable, with Vera it 
 assumed a peculiarly gentle and winning form, 
 and was more like humility than pride. 
 
 Kavenscroft found his way to her house on 
 the following afternoon, giving as excuse for his 
 reappearance the fact that he had not " talked 
 business " with her during the first interview. 
 He found her somewhat changed in manner. 
 They had parted on the friendliest terms ; but 
 now she seemed to wish to set up a barrier. 
 There was almost a look of trouble in her eyes ; 
 she gave him the wistful glance of a child who 
 longs, but is half afraid, to ask a question, and at 
 times she replied almost at random to his obser-
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 24' 
 
 vations. He wondered slightly what was amiss, 
 but concluded that some woman's whim that did 
 not signify was at work within her, and that she 
 would "come roimd " in time. So he simply 
 disregarded her coldness and abstraction, and, 
 after a formal request that he might ask a few 
 questions about the present state of her afiairs, 
 he proceeded to put her through a keen cate- 
 chism respecting her business arrangements, and 
 her prospects for the future. 
 
 He could not find fault with the way in which 
 she had been treated. It would have been rather 
 a satisfaction to him to be able to demonstrate 
 that he could have managed her affairs better 
 than she and her friends had already managed 
 them ; but this satisfaction was denied him. He 
 took upon himself unhesitatingly the part of 
 censor, adviser, and guide ; and although Vera 
 might be surprised, and even a little amused by 
 this tone, not knowing that he had a reason for 
 it in his relationship to her, she was willing to 
 allow him to retain it. She was even thankful 
 to find a strong, staunch friend at her side. 
 
 Mrs. Cradock did not think it necessary to 
 chaperon her young companion during Mr.
 
 248 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Ravenscroft's visits ; she looked upon him as 
 Vera's guardian still, and was pleased to think 
 that the girl had so efficient an adviser. Hence 
 it came about that at four o'clock that afternoon, 
 Vera and Mr. Eavenscroft found themselves 
 alone in the pretty little drawing-room, with a 
 good many papers between them and a sense of 
 having discussed, if not transacted, a great deal 
 of business. 
 
 ''I hope you will acknowledge that even if I 
 am not wise, my friends have been wise for me," 
 Vera had said when the last paper had been 
 inspected and silently returned to her. 
 
 " Ah, these same friends ! " said Mr. Eavens- 
 croft. '' Who may they have been. Vera ? You 
 told me that you had made a good many : most 
 of them in Germany, I suppose ? " 
 
 •'Yes, chiefly. I had Mrs. Cradock in 
 England, but of course I made far more 
 acquaintances at Eosenthal than I had done at 
 Mrs. Cradock's school." 
 
 " Who were they ? " 
 
 Vera considered. "There was the old 
 organist, Kriegsthurm," she said, "and Dr. 
 Mliller, and Herr Krach, and Professor Weiss
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 249 
 
 — oh, almost all the professors were kind to 
 me. Then Lnise von Auersperg was my great 
 school friend : her mother asked me once to 
 spend a week at her house ; I was very happy 
 there." 
 
 '' A large family, I suppose." 
 
 '' Yes, five sons and three daughters." 
 
 " Grown up ? " 
 
 " Luise was the fourth ; she was just my 
 age." 
 
 Eavenscroft mused a little, seemed discon- 
 tented, and presently asked, " Do you correspond 
 with them ? " 
 
 "With Luise? yes." 
 
 "And with none of her seven sisters and 
 brothers ? " 
 
 There was some eagerness in his tone. Vera 
 answered " No," with a look of such surprise that 
 he felt ashamed of his question. 
 
 " And your professors ? Not interesting men, 
 I imagine : snuffy old musicians with unkempt 
 hair and long pipes, raving of their beloved art 
 and nothing else — eh ? " 
 
 " Indeed," said Vera with spirit, " you are 
 quite mistaken, Mr. Eavenscroft. They are
 
 250 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 very pleasant cultivated men, and advanced age 
 was not a necessary qualification for a professor- 
 ship. See — here is the photograph of Herr 
 Krach ; what do you think of it ? " 
 
 She moved a stand of photographs towards 
 him and pointed to one of a decidedly handsome 
 young man with dreamy dark eyes and long 
 hair. 
 
 " Is he a professor ? " 
 
 '* Yes : a violinist. A great friend of mine." 
 " Were all your professors after this fashion?" 
 " No," said Vera, smiling with genuine amuse- 
 ment, ''they were not so good-looking." 
 " But they all made much of you ? " 
 '' They were very kind," said Vera serenely. 
 Gaston threw himself back in his chair and 
 looked savagely ill-humoured. Mademoiselle 
 Vera gave him one considerate glance through 
 her long eyelashes, and then confined her at- 
 tention to the rings upon her fingers. 
 
 "You have left them behind now, at any 
 rate," said Eavenscroft at last, with some com- 
 placency. " Well, you were probably right in 
 coming away : you had been there long enough. 
 That part of your life is done with."
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 251 
 
 '* Oh no ; I liave not done with it. I am 
 going back to Germany in a year or two to visit 
 my friends." 
 
 " In a year or two ! — You will have formed 
 plenty of other ties before then. I daresay you 
 have met with friends in England already ? " 
 
 ^^ Yes, a few. Of course I have been obliged 
 to make a good many acquaintances ; but, I am 
 almost afraid that I like Germans better than 
 English people." 
 
 " Is the young man who brought me your 
 note the other night a German ? " said Eavens- 
 croft, with what seemed to Vera striking irrele- 
 vance. 
 
 " No, he is not," she said slowly. Then the 
 colour rose up into her fair face as she saw that 
 Eavenscroft was scanning it with unusual at- 
 tention. " He is a Eussian." 
 
 " Indeed. Is lie a friend of yours \ " 
 
 In spite of herself Vera's cheeks retained their 
 crimson hue, and her eyes began to look afraid. 
 She answered very quietly, however. ^' Yes ; I 
 think he is." 
 
 It seemed as if Gaston Eavenscroft had not 
 been altogether prepared for this reply. He
 
 252 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 continued his scrutiny of her blushing face for 
 several minutes, with darkened brow and com- 
 pressed lips ; then he changed his position and 
 asked another question — this time in a much 
 lower voice. 
 
 " What position in life does your ' friend ' 
 fill?" 
 
 " He is a musician/' said Vera. 
 
 " You met him — professionally, I suppose ? " 
 
 She thought of the first interview in the 
 street, and hesitated. " Yes," she said rather 
 reluctantly ; '' I met him — first — on business." 
 
 " And not on business afterwards ?" 
 
 "Exactly." She was recovering her self- 
 possession. 
 
 Gaston opened his lips to say something 
 hasty, then controlled himself and spoke in a 
 gentle, conciliatory tone. 
 
 "My dear Vera, you are pleased to answer 
 me as if there were some mystery concerning 
 this young fellow. If there is any " 
 
 " Oh, there is none," she answered proudly. 
 " I had never spoken to him until he asked me 
 to go with him to see poor Davy. You re- 
 member poor Davy, my old friend? He was
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 253 
 
 ill, and sent me a message ; that was how 1 
 began to know Mr. Guyon." 
 
 " Guyon ? Is that his name ? " Then Eavens- 
 croft reflected awhile. " Does he play at concerts 
 with you \ " 
 
 '^No." 
 
 " Where does he play then ? I don't re- 
 member to have heard his name." 
 
 "He plays in the orchestra — at the Parthe- 
 non." 
 
 "Oh ho!" — Another long pause. "Can he 
 do no more than that ? He cannot be much of 
 a performer, I suppose. Why does he not adopt 
 some more lucrative profession ? " 
 
 Vera was too angry to reply. 
 
 "A good-looking fellow too," said Mr. Eavens- 
 croft magnanimously. " Something of a military 
 turn about him ; make a nice jeune premier on 
 the stage, a capital ' walking gentleman.' AVhy 
 do you not give him a helping hand, Vera ? " 
 
 " He would not have accepted my help," said 
 Vera in rather an ill-assured tone, " if I had 
 offered it to him." 
 
 " What, you thought of offering it, then ? '* 
 said Eavenscroft with a sudden start and glance
 
 254 AN OPEN FOE, 
 
 towards her, while Vera remained dumb with 
 astonishment at his quickness. He rose up and 
 took a little turn about the room, as if not 
 knowing what to say next. Finally he came 
 and stood before her. 
 
 " I met this young man yesterday afternoon 
 coming out of this house. He had been calling 
 upon you, I suppose ? " 
 
 " On business." 
 
 " Exactly. I have no wish to advance any 
 claim of my own over you, Vera, but I do wish 
 — I should like to think — that you would let me 
 do your business for you." 
 
 " Musical business ? " said Vera with a faint 
 lifting of her delicate dark eyebrows. 
 
 '' Did he come on musical business ?" Eavens- 
 croft asked dryly. 
 
 She looked up at him with her calm serious 
 eyes, and said " No." But immediately after- 
 wards a rush of colour dyed her forehead, cheeks, 
 and throat to a burning crimson. She hung her 
 head to conceal it, but the blush was only too 
 evident to Gaston's keen eyes, and gave him a 
 quick sharp pang. He was too much taken 
 aback to be angry, and remained — rather un-
 
 VESA'S FRIENDS. 255 
 
 kindly, Vera thought — looking down upon her, 
 knitting his eyebrows and pulling his moustache 
 after his wont, and wondering why on earth 
 women were such fools, and why Mrs. Cradock 
 did not take better care of her charge. It was 
 to her that he resolved to speak : he felt that 
 there would be a want of delicacy in openly 
 warning Vera that her conduct was liable to 
 misconstruction. 
 
 But he had not reckoned upon Vera's acute- 
 ness or upon her courage. She suddenly looked 
 up at him with her clearest, most open expression, 
 and went straight to the heart of the subject. 
 
 " I know exactly what you think," she said. 
 " You think that I am not acting as — as you 
 would like your niece. Miss Eavenscroft, to act. 
 You think I am, to say the least, ill-bred and 
 unconventional. So I am. But you forget that 
 I am merely a public singer — not a lady in your 
 sense of the word. Oh, please don't interrupt 
 me, for I know what I am saying. If a singer 
 has not aU the social privileges of a member of 
 your class, she has at least some immunities." 
 
 " She has no immunity from scandal," mut- 
 tered Gaston almost below his breath.
 
 256 AiV OPEN FOE. 
 
 " She is a public character ; she sees many 
 people, talks to many people, whom she would 
 never meet if she lived, as your niece lives, in a 
 quiet country place, shielded from harm and 
 responsibility in every way " 
 
 " What do you know of my niece ? '" 
 
 " I saw her — twelve years ago." Vera was 
 silent for a moment ; he thought the tears rose 
 to her eyes ; but she went on steadily. '"'A singer 
 is not bound by the rules that bind lier youth 
 and her inexperience. Do you think I have no 
 visitors, Mr. Eavenscroft ? Do you think I lead 
 a nun's life ? I have acquaintances of all kinds 
 — chiefly among men : I meet them often and 
 know them well " 
 
 " Good heavens, Vera, and you told me you 
 had so few friends ! " 
 
 "Few friends, Mr. Eavenscroft, many ac- 
 quaintances. Not many are allowed to enter 
 this house : the few that come are here by 
 special invitation." 
 
 " And you invited this fellow — this Guy on V 
 
 " I am coming to that. Mr. Guy on has been 
 asked to visit me if he hears anything con- 
 cerning a matter in which he and I both are
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 257 
 
 interested. My old friend, David Kowe, left us a 
 certain trust, which we are anxious to carry out." 
 
 *' A very unbecoming proceeding," said Eavens- 
 croft coldly. '' Of course a man of that kind 
 knew no better than to place you in a position 
 in which you would constantly be associated 
 ^^th this young fellow ; but you might have 
 refused to act. Come, Vera, give me the power 
 to act in your place : tell me what the fiddler 
 wanted doing and I will see this Mr. Guyon 
 about it. You need not then have more to do 
 \sith him at your house." 
 
 Vera turned away. " I have told you al- 
 ready," she said, " that he is my friend." 
 
 " If you have no one else to say it to you," 
 Gaston replied, '' I must take the privilege of 
 an old acquaintance and tell you that the world 
 will never believe in a mere friendship) between 
 a young man and a singer. The world will say 
 that at least he is your — admirer." He had 
 thought of a stronger term, but substituted this 
 mild one in its stead. 
 
 '' I hate the world !" said Vera impetuously. 
 '' What right has the world to interpose its 
 odious suspicions — what right have you " — sud- 
 
 VOL T. 17
 
 258 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 denly facing round upon him — " to suggest its 
 suspicions to my mind ? You think you have a 
 right to wound me, but you have none to insult 
 me." 
 
 '' Don't excite yourself, my dear Vera," said 
 Kavenscroft, coolly regarding her. "You must 
 not lay yourself open to remark if you dislike it 
 so much. Tell me your business with this man 
 and I will see that he does not trouble you for 
 the future." 
 
 She looked at him with a sort of terror. 
 " You ! " she said. " You are the last person — at 
 least — I beg your pardon — this business can be 
 transacted by no one but myself and Mr. Guy on." 
 
 She left the room abruptly as she spoke, and 
 Gaston Eavenscroft thought that he had reason 
 for grave dissatisfaction at this state of affairs. 
 
 His anger was not lessened by a remark that 
 Herbert made to him that evening as they met 
 at a club, where each of them had been renewing 
 old acquaintanceships. " By the by," he said, 
 " I have remembered where I saw that young 
 man who brought you Mademoiselle Vera's letter 
 the other night. You know I told you that 1 
 had seen him before. I never forget a face."
 
 VERA'S FRIENDS. 269 
 
 " Where/' said Ravenscroft sharply. 
 
 "In a van with other prisoners bound for 
 Siberia." 
 
 " Are you sure of it ? " 
 
 " Certain. He was fainting with illness and 
 fatigue w^hen I saw him, but it was the same 
 face." 
 
 " Political offenders, I suppose. Just the 
 thing to touch a woman's heart — patriotism and 
 all that kind of humbug." 
 
 " Unfortunately," said Herbert dryly, and 
 with a certain reserve of manner, "these were 
 not political offenders. I inquired at the time, 
 out of sheer curiosity. Nothing so respectable." 
 
 " What had Ixe done ?" said Gaston. 
 
 " He ? I am not sure that I know. I rather 
 think," said Herbert reflectively, "that Made- 
 moiselle Vera's friend was pointed out to me as 
 the worst criminal of the party. So it might 
 be well to put her on her guard." 
 
 " She is not very likely to listen to me," said 
 Ravenscroft in a bitter tone. 
 
 " I have it," said Herbert suddenly. " I re- 
 member now. He had been exiled for conspiracy 
 and murder. Yes : that's the man."
 
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 CHAPTEE XY. 
 
 AT NETHERBY. 
 
 Ravenscroft left London on the day following 
 his second interview with Vera, and betook himself 
 to Lincolnshire in order to pay a short visit to 
 his mother, whom he had not seen for several 
 years. 
 
 The separation had not been grievous either 
 to mother or son, although the Baroness was 
 sometimes heard to murmur that it was difficult 
 to know what to say when people asked after 
 Mr. Gaston Eavenscroft. But she was not ill 
 pleased to have the management of her son's 
 estate, and there was an amount of material gain 
 to be derived from his absence, which she did 
 not by any means despise. Her only desire for 
 his return was founded upon the fact that a visit 
 from him was an attention which she thought that
 
 A r NETHERB V. 261 
 
 he ought to show. Kavenscroft himself was by 
 no means so devoted to his mother as to make 
 a long separation from her at all painful. 
 
 He arrived at Netherby late in the afternoon. 
 The day had been warm and bright ; he sent on 
 his luggage by the carriage that had been ordered 
 to meet him, and resolved to walk to his mother's 
 house. His path lay across some broad green 
 meadows, then through a shady lane which would 
 bring him close to the village ; then, as he well 
 knew, to the churchyard, which was used as a 
 public thoroughfare and opened upon a planta- 
 tion leading into Madame Waldstein's garden. 
 Had he a motive for choosing this pathway on 
 the day that brought him home after so many 
 years of absence ? 
 
 He noted the different changes which years 
 had made in the buildings and the scenery 
 through which he passed ; but his thoughts were 
 for the most part elsewhere — not with the friends 
 whom he was going to see, not with the dead 
 who lay beneath the churchyard soil, but with 
 a fair - faced girl whose voice and eyes were 
 perilously sweet, and whose greatest charm to 
 Gaston Eavenscroft lay in the fact that he felt
 
 262 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 her to be as yet an enigma — a riddle that he 
 knew not how to read. 
 
 He had crossed the fields and reached the 
 stile which led to the shady lane. And here for 
 a moment he paused as if he saw something that 
 astonished and rather amused him. And yet 
 there was nothing to be seen — except two young 
 and handsome figures who were standing under 
 the shade of an elm -tree, apparently in a very 
 affectionate attitude. The girl's face was turned 
 towards Mr. Eavenscroft, who recognised it at 
 once as that of his niece Olivia. A very hand- 
 some face it was, with its well - cut features, 
 bright complexion of the brunette order, and 
 raven-black hair and eyes. He had seen more 
 than one photograph of her, but he might have 
 known her even without that aid, from the ex- 
 traordinary likeness that she bore to a portrait 
 of his mother in her youth. Even the slight 
 elegant figure was the exact reproduction of 
 Madame Waldstein's in that portrait ; the slope 
 of the fine shoulders, the haughty carriage of the 
 defiant little head, would alone have served to 
 convince Gaston of her relationship to his mother 
 and therefore to himself.
 
 AT NETHERB Y. 263 
 
 But who was the young man who was kneel- 
 ing on one knee before her with his head bent 
 over the hand that he held in his own ? Gaston 
 Eavenscroft was immediately conscious of a 
 desire to attack the kneeling figure with his cane — 
 an unreasonable desire which had to be carefully 
 subdued before he could resolve to leap the stile 
 and advance to disconcert the two young people. 
 
 For a moment he thought of passing them 
 without apparent recognition, but in his present 
 mood of idle and scornful indifference he could 
 not resist the temptation of bringing into Olivia's 
 pretty cheeks the scarlet flame of maiden modesty 
 and making the unknown young man look 
 ashamed of his indiscretion. So forward he went, 
 with rather a cynical smile upon his lips. 
 
 To his surprise, however, neither of them 
 moved a step. Miss Olivia still stood with her 
 hand extended and her eyes cast down ; the 
 young man bent his head over it with persevering 
 assiduity. Mr. Eavenscroft was confounded, but 
 more curious than ever. 
 
 " Thank you," he heard the girl's clear tones 
 say as he approached ; "I think it's out now. 
 Those thorns are most provoking."
 
 264 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " This was a very sharp fellow," said her com- 
 panion, rising from his knee. '* It has made 
 your hand bleed, Olivia ! " 
 
 But Olivia had turned from him impatiently, 
 met Gaston's inquiring eyes, and sprung forward 
 with a quick exclamation. 
 
 *' It's Uncle Gaston ; I am sure it is ! " 
 
 " I am equally sure that you are Olivia," said 
 Mr. Eavenscroft, feeling relieved that the ex- 
 traction of a thorn alone had been the delicate 
 operation which required so reverential an atti- 
 tude. 
 
 " Grandmamma was right," said the girl, who 
 spoke in a rapid decisive way which her uncle 
 was not sure that he liked, as she lifted her 
 delicate face to be kissed. " She said 3^ou would 
 come this way." 
 
 '^Why?" 
 
 *' I do not know ; grandmamma is like a witch 
 sometimes, and tells us things that we should 
 never have thought of for ourselves. She told 
 me to go by the churchyard and the lane, and I 
 should meet you ; and behold, her words are 
 true!" 
 
 Eavenscroft's brow darkened, but he made no
 
 AT NETHERBY. 265 
 
 rejoinder, only turned a little towards the young 
 man and seemed to wait for an introduction, 
 which Olivia was not slow to give. 
 
 '^ This is a very old friend of mamma's, uncle," 
 she said demurely. Gaston could not but smile 
 at hearing this formal designation of the lad, — he 
 did not seem to be more than nineteen, — and the 
 young fellow^ himself reddened slightly as he 
 heard it. He had a pleasant face, with a very 
 winning expression, a complexion that changed 
 colour like a girl's, lazy broT^Ti eyes, and dark 
 brown hair. His forehead was good, his mouth 
 sweet, but a little undecided ; on close obser- 
 vation it could be seen that he had one or two 
 tricks of manner, which a public school would 
 have corrected — one, a habit of holding his head 
 slightly on one side, and half shutting his eyes 
 when he w^as considering a subject; another, a 
 soft slow dainty way of speaking w^hich caused 
 him at times to be called aflfected. He was tall 
 and slenderly built, but, although in the lanky 
 stage, he moved with an ease and grace and 
 spoke with a readiness which showed him to be 
 more accustomed to the ways of the world than 
 was at first quite apparent. In spite of the clear
 
 266 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 red of those uncomfortable blushes (quite as 
 pretty in their way as any of Olivia's, and a 
 greater embellishment to his dark face than he 
 could have imagined), his manners were marked 
 by an unembarrassed courtesy which was singu- 
 larly little like the mauvaise honte of an English 
 boy at eighteen, and proceeded, perhaps, from 
 the fact that he had spent much of his life abroad. 
 Mr. Eavenscroft felt an involuntary attraction 
 to him, which, strange to say, was succeeded by 
 an entirely different feeling as Olivia continued 
 her introductory speech. 
 
 " Mamma asked him to come and take care of 
 me," she said. " I daresay you know his name, 
 uncle. Mr. Lancelot Aylmer." 
 
 Kavenscroft's face suddenly changed. It 
 assumed its coldest and sternest expression 
 as he slightly returned Mr. Lancelot Aylmer's 
 courteous salutation. The chilliness of his 
 demeanour struck both young people with 
 surprise. Olivia drew up her head with some 
 offence. Lancelot reddened — this time with 
 visible annoyance, and said in his quiet dulcet 
 tones, 
 
 ''I will go home by the fields, if you will
 
 A T NETHERB Y. 267 
 
 excuse me, Olivia. I have to call somewliere in 
 the village for Mr. Hervey." 
 
 " Oh, very well. We shall see you this even- 
 ing." 
 
 "No, I think not, thanks. Good afternoon." 
 
 He lifted his hat and turned back. It seemed 
 to Kavenscroft that she looked disappointed, but 
 as she walked onwards with him she did not 
 give any outward expression to this feeling in 
 words. She only said, 
 
 " If Cousin Richard wants him, of course he 
 must 2:0. He is bound hand and foot to Cousin 
 Richard. You remember them very well, do 
 you not. Uncle Gaston ? " 
 
 " I remember Richard Hervey, of course." 
 
 " And Lance too." 
 
 " I have heard of him from my mother." 
 
 " Ah, of course he had scarcely come here 
 when you were at home last,'^ said Olivia, reflec- 
 tively. " He is Cousin Richard s ward, you 
 know. I always thought that guardians were 
 obliged to educate their wards properly." 
 
 '' Does Richard Hervey not educate this lad 
 properly % " said Gaston with a certain grimness 
 of tone.
 
 268 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Mamma and I do not think so," said Olivia, 
 decidedly. " Lance wanted to decide on his 
 profession a year or two ago ; the army was what 
 he would have preferred, but Cousin Eichard 
 would not allow him to go in for the examinations. 
 Lance says sometimes that he will go and enlist 
 as a private." 
 
 '' A very suitable rank and profession." 
 
 Olivia detected the satire, but did not guess 
 against whom it was levelled ; she laughed, there- 
 fore, merrily, and continued : 
 
 " He thought Cousin Eichard meant him to go 
 to Oxford, perhaps, but he cannot tell ; Cousin 
 Eichard says nothing decisive. Don't you think 
 it is odd, Uncle Gaston ? " 
 
 '* I should advise you to leave your Cousin 
 Eichard Hervey and his affairs alone, Olivia. 
 Depend upon it, if he has adopted this lad, or is 
 bringing him up, he will doubtless do what best 
 befits his future station in life." 
 
 Olivia arched her eyebrows and telegraphed 
 signals of astonishment to the hedgerows. 
 
 . " I thought that University training was suit- 
 able to any gentleman," she said in an under- 
 tone.
 
 A T NETHERB Y. 269 
 
 "Possibly/' 
 
 " Then it is suitable for Lance ? " She 
 flashed an eager glance at him and seemed to 
 expect a reply ; but he gave her none of a kind 
 that satisfied her. He began questioning her 
 concerning the building of some houses in the 
 neighbourhood, and would not allow her to return 
 to the subject of Mr. Hervey's treatment of his 
 ward. 
 
 Once or twice, however, she nearly stopped 
 in the middle of her gay chatter about the news 
 of the place, for she saw that his eyes were ab- 
 sently fixed on the gray church tower, and that 
 his thoughts were evidently far away. But if 
 she paused he immediately inserted a question 
 so very much to the point that she, baffled and 
 disconcerted, was obliged to go on with the trivial 
 recital. 
 
 They reached the house after a time, and 
 Gaston underwent the salutations of his friends 
 with resignation rather than with joyfulness. In 
 fact, there was now and then to be perceived in 
 his manner a touch of scornful impatience, espe- 
 cially when Madame Waldstein expressed any 
 pleasure at the meeting. At these moments
 
 270 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Gaston's gesture and glance Avould give the im- 
 pression that his thoughts ran in some such 
 fashion as this : " Why do you say you are glad 
 to see me ? Would you not rather by far that I 
 had left my bones to bleach on the steppes or in 
 the desert than come here to claim the right that 
 you have grudged me ever since Philip died?" 
 And then the reflection would follow : "Was it 
 worth while to come back ? AVould it not be 
 well to settle the bulk of the estate on Philip's 
 daughter and go back to the East ? " But he 
 never entertained the proposition seriously for 
 a moment. There was one word which seemed 
 to him sufficient as protest, reason, and refutation 
 alike, and that one word was — Vera. If no one 
 else needed him, he was sure that Vera did. 
 
 The old Baroness looked frail, and was almost 
 unable to move from her couch, or the chair to 
 which she was carried in the afternoons ; but she 
 was as magnificently dressed, her eye was as keen, 
 and her tongue as sharp, as ever. Having made 
 a decent show of pleasure at her son's return she 
 deemed it expedient to begin a course of search- 
 ing questions respecting his reasons for it, but 
 obtained very few satisfactory answers.
 
 AT NETHERBY. 271 
 
 " You are reserved," she said to him at last, 
 putting up her eye-glasses and glancing him over 
 with the sort of delicate scorn which he had 
 been accustomed to receive from her since the 
 days of his infancy ; " you say no more than you 
 can help, apparently." 
 
 '*Did I ever say more than I could help?" 
 said her son indifferently, as he pinched the ears 
 of a little Skye terrier that had climbed into his 
 lap. He was lying back in an easy chair, long- 
 limbed, muscular, and bronzed ; he seemed almost 
 out of place in Madame Waldstein's small and 
 dainty chamber. The Baroness looked at him 
 fixedly, noting every distinctive point, good or bad, 
 about him — the strong frame, the dark, proud head, 
 the dauntless eyes and stormy brow, the haughty 
 lip and the rapidly changing expression of his 
 features, in which fire and gloom seemed alter- 
 nately to predominate, and then said quietly, 
 '* You have grown rather like your father." 
 " Is that intended for a compliment ?" 
 " That is an uncivil return for it, if it were. 
 Hoyever, you never piqued yourself on your 
 civility to me ; you expended it in other direc- 
 tions, I believe."
 
 272 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " Not entirely, I hope," said Gaston, restoring 
 to her a handkerchief which she had dropped, 
 with a little bow and ironical smile ; " I keep 
 some for home consumption." 
 
 Then he relapsed into careless silence, and 
 looked out upon the lawn, where Mrs. Eavens- 
 croft and her daughter were walking together. 
 Olivia had slipped her hand through her mother's 
 arm ; Felicia's graceful head was bent a little, as 
 if to listen to the girl's confidences. The day 
 was closing, and a soft stillness had fallen over 
 all the scene. The Baroness averted her eyes 
 from Gaston's face, and looked at the couple in 
 the garden. 
 
 " Well, what do you think of Philip's daugh- 
 ter ?" she said suddenly and sharply. " She is a 
 pretty child, is she not % " 
 
 " I cannot compliment her more than by say- 
 ing that she is very like the portrait of yourself, 
 taken just after your marriage, Madame," said 
 Gaston. 
 
 " Prettier," said the Baroness ; " but not so 
 attractive." 
 
 " That would be impossible — doubtless." 
 
 "My dear Gaston, satire is a formidable
 
 A T NETHERB K 273 
 
 weapon when well used ; but it is not very power- 
 ful in your hands. I suppose you did not need 
 it among the Asiatics ?" 
 
 " No/' said her son, with imperturbable com- 
 posure ; "a revolver would have gone further." 
 
 " And accordingly it has grown a little rusty. 
 I will tell you, if you will do me the favour to 
 listen, what Olivia wants : it is polish and ex- 
 perience. She is as clever as she can be ; but 
 her mother has done her best to mew her up in 
 this country village and blunt the child's wits as 
 much as possible." 
 
 " I thought she seemed bright enough. She 
 has a great opinion of the blessings of educa- 
 tion." 
 
 " Education ! Oh yes," said Madame Wald- 
 stein scornfully ; " she is a little blue-stocking in 
 her way. You know Felicia was always some- 
 thing of the /emme savante ; she was brought up 
 on all the sciences; and poor dear Philip en- 
 couraged her and thought that she would prove 
 a second De Stael or Eecamier. I could have 
 told him better. Felicia never had a grain of 
 savoir /aire ; she could not have been a great 
 lady to save her life." 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 AiV OPEN FOE. 
 
 "Felicia seems to me exceedingly graceful 
 and dignified." 
 
 "Possibly; but you have been out of the 
 world for ten years, Gaston. Felicia is old- 
 fashioned and has old-fashioned notions, which I 
 am very much afraid that Olivia has imbibed. 
 She is a girl that ought to make a good marriage 
 — I might say a great one. She is a beauty, and 
 she has social gifts : she must have a career." 
 
 " Certainly, let her have one by all means." 
 
 " I am glad you see it in that light," said 
 Madame Waldstein, with a bird-like turn of her 
 small head, and a covert smile ; '' for the matter 
 is in your hands." 
 
 "Mine?" 
 
 " I suppose you know that you are the head 
 of the family?" said the Baroness, beginning to 
 wave her fan up and do^n before her face. " Or 
 perhaps your residence abroad has led you to 
 forget a fact of which we are — painfully — 
 aware." 
 
 For the first time Gaston winced a little, and 
 his mother was aware that he did so. It was in 
 his curtest manner that he replied : 
 
 " It would be more to the point if you told me
 
 A T NETHERB V. 276 
 
 what, as head of the family, you expected me 
 to do/' 
 
 •' Eeally, Gaston, you are too much of a lout," 
 said the Baroness, with a laugh of the finest 
 scorn. "It is positively repellent to my feelings 
 to discuss any matter with you/' 
 
 " Because I refuse to beat about the bush ? 
 Because I prefer frankness and openness to de- 
 ceit ?" 
 
 " There is no deceit in the matter. You are 
 violent, Gaston," said his mother composedly. 
 '•' Eemember that you are in a civilised country." 
 
 The man's eyes glowed like coals of fire, but 
 he spoke in determinedly low tones. " I may be 
 violent," he said; ''but I will not be false. I 
 come from the tribe of Ishmael, where I found a 
 companionship that suited me; for surely, like 
 Ishmael himself, I had found that my hand 
 was against every man's, and every man's hand 
 against me. But whose fault was that ?" 
 
 " Your own," said Madame Waldstein, striking 
 a table beside her a smart blow with the closed 
 sticks of her fan — " your own, and no one's be- 
 side." And she struck the table again, as if she 
 wished the table had been her son.
 
 276 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 '' I think not," said he firmly. " It was early 
 in my life when I found out the difference that 
 you made between my brother and me — a differ- 
 ence that embittered the years of my boyhood. 
 Then, when I came to later life, who was it that 
 alienated my brother from me but yourself ? Who 
 was it that drove me to take a step which was as 
 premature as it was rash, and which was as nearly 
 my ruin as it could have been ? You may not 
 have done all this knowingly, but you did it ; 
 and I defy you to wonder at my long absence 
 from home, or my coldness and violence, as you 
 term it, on my return." 
 
 Madame Waldstein's eyes glittered like hard 
 bright stones during this address. '' All that I 
 did was entirely for the best," she said haughtily. 
 '' You have not recited all the benefits that I con- 
 ferred upon you, however. I suppose your later re- 
 marks refer to your connection with my maid, Lucy 
 Moore. It was owing to my proposition of in- 
 forming your brother of that very disreputable 
 love affair that you took her away from my ser- 
 vice, and went with her to Elmstone." 
 
 Gaston started and changed colour. " To 
 Elmstone ? " he said. '' I did not know "'
 
 AT NETHERB Y. 277 
 
 '* That I knew where you went ? I knew all 
 about you," said Madame Waldstein with com- 
 placency. " But I did not betray you to Philip, 
 because I thought that you had sufficiently ruined 
 your prospects without losing the allowance that 
 he was kind enough to make you. I let the 
 matter go on quietly." 
 
 Her son, resting his chin on his hands, glanced 
 at her as if doubtful of her motives for this con- 
 sideration. 
 
 " I knew that the aflfair would transpire sooner 
 or later, and so I let it alone. But it went on 
 longer than I anticipated. I grew impatient. 
 It went on for four years, I believe. Part of the 
 time w^as spent at Elmstone and part abroad." 
 
 She glanced at him furtively with a little 
 smile, then looked away. 
 
 " Well ? " said Gaston, with a mixture of im- 
 patience and anxiety. " Anything more ? Poor 
 Phil's death put an end to the secrecy — and I had 
 had secrecy enough to last me all my life, God 
 knows ! — and then, after all, there was nothing 
 to be told — nothing to be done. She died." 
 
 " Yes, she died," said the old lady, with that 
 significant little smile which gave to her face
 
 278 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 something sinister and unpleasant, in spite of her 
 delicate bloom, her snow-white hair, her hand- 
 some features and sparkling eyes. *' She died — 
 but she left you first." 
 
 The colour forsook her son's face. A look of 
 fear and pain came into it. " Mother," he said 
 huskily, " you do not mean — you cannot say that 
 you — you — know more of the reasons for her 
 departure than I do ? " 
 
 " What should I know ? " said the Baroness, 
 with a mocking laugh. " Suppose I wanted to 
 tease you — you are easily teased, you know, my 
 dear Gaston — I might say that I had managed 
 the whole business, that / had tracked you, 
 watched you, deceived you, separated you — de- 
 ceiving her as much as ever you thought she had 
 deceived you " 
 
 '^ If that were true," said Gaston, with a face 
 of ashes, in which his eyes seemed to be the only 
 live points, "if that were true, I never would 
 forgive you." 
 
 His mother took a rapid survey of his face, 
 then laughed aloud. " You are a fool, Gaston," 
 she said contemptuously. " You were made to 
 be deceived."
 
 AT NETHERB K 279 
 
 '' Tell me whether it is true or not," he said, 
 starting to his full height and towering over her 
 with so threatening a brow that she shrank a 
 little in spite of herself 
 
 ''Not true, of course," she said hastily. ''I 
 know nothing about her." But as he turned 
 away she could not forbear sending after him a 
 Parthian shot. '' Even if it were true, I should 
 be loath to tell you so," she said with a sort of 
 scornful pity. '^ Not for my own sake — oh no ! 
 but for the suflfering that I see I should inflict." 
 
 " What suffering can you inflict \ " he asked 
 harshly, although his set stern face gave the lie 
 to his words. ''It is twelve years since I lost 
 her. I am hardened now." 
 
 "Ah yes," said Madame Waldstein dr}^ly. 
 " So I thought when I sent Olivia to meet you 
 by way of Netherby Churchyard." 
 
 This was more than Kavenscroft could endure. 
 He stood bolt upright for a moment, with his 
 hand clenching itself at his side and the veins 
 swelling upon his broad forehead, then turned 
 and left the room without a word. The Baroness 
 followed him with her eyes and laughed to her- 
 self significantly.
 
 280 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " It would be easy still to make him believe 
 that she was false," she murmured to herself. 
 "Is it worth while to do it ? Hardly, perhaps. 
 But he is such a fool — so easily tricked — that one 
 is tempted to see how far matters could be 
 carried ! However, one must not try too many 
 things at once. It seems never to occur to him 
 to doubt our story about the boy's death ; but I 
 wish Kichard Hervey would be more careful in 
 avoiding suspicion. Who would have thought to 
 see him so absurdly devoted to that lad as he has 
 been for the last five years ? If Gaston were not 
 blind he would certainly guess the truth ! "
 
 
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 CHAPTEE XYI. 
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN's VIEWS. 
 
 Both Madame Waldstein and Gaston had said 
 more than they had intended, and also left un- 
 said a great deal that they had meant to say. 
 Gaston had been irritated to a point that, a few 
 years earlier, would have impelled him to leave 
 his mother's house as he had done upon that day 
 of Vera Marlitt's unlucky visit; but he had gained 
 in stubbornness, if not in self-control, since that 
 time, and would not allow himself to yield to 
 the promptings of his own ill-humour. He con- 
 tented himself with avoiding another private 
 colloquy with his mother, and succeeded for a 
 day and a half ; at the end of which time she 
 sent him a peremptory message that she wished 
 to speak to him in her own room. It was Olivia 
 who brought the message, and she came in armed
 
 282 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 with a racquet, which had a most business-like 
 appearance. Gaston had been out nearly all 
 the previous day, and had scarcely seen her that 
 morning. 
 
 "Where have you been all day?" he asked, 
 as he rose, looking rather reluctant, Olivia 
 thought, to leave the little library which had 
 been turned for him into a smoking-room. 
 
 " I ? Oh, I am always busy in a morning," 
 she said, as if surprised at the question. " This 
 morning I was reading German with mamma 
 from nine till ten, then I practised and painted 
 until lunch." 
 
 "Not out all day?" 
 
 " I have a tennis-match to play this afternoon, 
 so I rested all the morning. Look, Uncle Gas- 
 ton, I won this racquet last year. Do you see 
 my name on the silver plate ? I was the cham- 
 pion player of the neighbourhood ! " 
 
 " Shall you win the prize this year too ? " 
 
 *' Oh, no. Lance is sure to win it. He has 
 been practising this season. In fact he might 
 have won it last year if he had chosen, for he can 
 play splendidly when he likes ; but he was too 
 lazy. He is waking up this year."
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS. 283 
 
 Gaston was silent, and watched the young 
 beauty as she flitted about the room, altering 
 the position of a chair here, a book there, and 
 seeming to put things in order almost without 
 knowing it. Her lissom figure was well dis- 
 played in a tennis costume of white flannel, 
 embroidered T^ith wild roses in coloured silks 
 round the neck and wrists and skirt. Presently 
 she turned round and lauo-hed. 
 
 ''Uncle Gaston, I don't wish to hurry you, 
 but grandmamma is not accustomed to be kept 
 waiting, and she was ready to see you when 1 
 left her. Ah, there's the pony-carriage. I wish 
 you were coming with us, uncle. We are going 
 to bring my dearest friend home with me — lima 
 Zaranoff ; she is going to stay a few days with 
 us." 
 
 "Zaranofl*? I know the name. Who is 
 she ? " 
 
 ''She was the daughter of one of grand- 
 mamma's friends in Vienna. She married a 
 Eussian count; and she has lived a great deal 
 in Paris. She is so beautiful. Uncle Gaston ! " 
 
 *' And the Eussian count, where is he ? " 
 
 " Oh, he died soon after the marriage. But
 
 284 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 do go to grandmamma ; she will say that I have 
 never delivered her message if you don't make 
 haste." 
 
 Eavenscroft went accordingly to his mother's 
 room. He found Madame Waldstein lying upon 
 an invalid couch, with a fretful, w^earied look upon 
 her face, which, as yet, had not undergone the 
 '^ making - up " essential to her appearance in 
 public, and was therefore startlingly sallow and 
 wrinkled. She had many costly lace -trimmed 
 wrappings about her, and the curtains were 
 drawn so that the daylight should not shine 
 fully upon her face and show the ravages that 
 Time had made ; yet enough could be seen to 
 impress her son with the conviction that his 
 mother was an older and feebler woman than he 
 had thought, and to soften his tone and manner 
 towards her in no slight degree. 
 
 She was talking to her maid when he entered, 
 and also engaged in feeding a great white cat, 
 which had its seat on a cushion at her side. To 
 Gaston she vouchsafed, therefore, very little 
 attention. 
 
 '' I tell you, Alice, I will not have pink roses, 
 and that is enough. Do you imagine that I wish
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS, 285 
 
 to dress like Miss Eavenscroft ? Somethinor rich 
 and simple is what an old woman ought to wear. 
 Mimi, my darling, will you not eat then ? My 
 precious, it is cream, not milk ; do not turn away 
 thy pretty little head. An aigrette, Alice, or the 
 diamond clasp which I wear with my gray satin, 
 or perhaps the beetles with ruby eyes — oh, what 
 an imbecile you are ! Am I always to repeat 
 
 that Mimi, my Mimi, you would not leave 
 
 me?" 
 
 " I understood, madame, that you wished to 
 speak to me," said her son dryly. " If you are 
 engaged, I will come at another time." 
 
 "Ah, Gaston, sit down," said his mother care- 
 lessly, as if she had but just perceived him. " Don t 
 be impatient ; I shall be ready directly. If you 
 had come when I sent for you — Alice, for hea- 
 ven's sake, do not put yellow and pink together. 
 And see, you have let Mimi upset her saucer. 
 Was ever anybody surrounded by such a set of 
 idiots as I am ? And there is Mimi going ! My 
 angel ! my Mimi — — " 
 
 " And I also," said Gaston. '' My dear mother, 
 I will come back when you are able to converse 
 with me."
 
 286 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind," said the 
 Baroness peremptorily, dropping her querulous 
 tone at once. " Go away, Alice. Take the saucer 
 with you, and let Mimi out. What are you cry- 
 ing about, little fool ? Pick up the ribbons and 
 
 go." 
 
 Alice, a pretty trim little damsel, whose eyes 
 
 were now dim with tears, groped rather feebly 
 after her belongings ; and Gaston, half com- 
 passionate, half impatient, stooped to assist her. 
 She curtsied in a frightened way, and made her 
 exit with speed ; after which, Mr. Kavenscroft 
 shut the door after her, and returned to his 
 mother's side to find her watching him with half 
 shut eyes. 
 
 *' Don't interfere with my maids any more, 
 Gaston," said the terrible old woman with a curl 
 of malicious pleasure about her lips. " You did 
 that once too often. Lucy was the best servant 
 I ever had before you came across her." 
 
 " You will put me under the necessity of 
 leaving your house altogether if you allude to 
 that subject again," said Gaston, with a sudden 
 light in his gloomy eyes. " I must request you 
 not to mention her name for the future."
 
 MADAME WALD STEIN'S VIEWS. 287 
 
 ''Not a pleasant subject, is it?" said ttie 
 Baroness, charmed at being able to wound him 
 so easily, but with an air of spurious sympathy. 
 '•' I do not wonder that you avoid it, poor Gaston." 
 Then, as a gesture told her that she was going 
 too far, she added hastily : " However it was not 
 of that that I wished to speak : it was about 
 Olivia. We strayed from the point a little the 
 other day. Will you not sit down, Gaston ?" 
 
 " Thanks, no, I prefer to stand. It is about 
 Olivia that I also wish to speak." 
 
 '' How curious ! Well, dear Gaston, suppose 
 you say what you have to say first, then I will 
 tell you my little projects.^' 
 
 " As you please. I thought of speaking to 
 Felicia, but feared that she might be distressed 
 by my question. Is it her T\dsh, or yours, that 
 Olivia should be so absurdly intimate with that 
 boy of Eichard Hervey's ?" 
 
 " Lancelot Aylmer ? Eichard's ward ? " said 
 the Baroness, looking at him steadily, with 
 completely arrested attention, and some little 
 curiosity. 
 
 " Eichard Hervey's son, whom he does not 
 choose to acknowledge," said Eavenscroft shortly.
 
 288 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Madame Waldsteio continued to gaze at him 
 for several seconds with an inscrutable expres- 
 sion which might have been astonishment, per- 
 plexity, or even amusement, and which Gaston 
 found decidedly vexatious. Presently, however, 
 she averted her eyes, took up her fan and began 
 to examine its feathery tips, while she said in a 
 tone of almost exaggerated interest : 
 
 " Is that really true ? How very romantic! 
 How did you hear of it, Gaston? I suppose 
 Cousin Eichard Hervey did not tell you ? " 
 
 " I heard it years ago from Marshall," said 
 her son, mentioning his solicitor's name. " Of 
 course I am not certain that the report is true ; 
 but if not, I should like to know who the fellow 
 is, and where he comes from. He and Olivia 
 seem to be like brother and sister." 
 
 "Indeed they do," said Madame "VValdstein, 
 sighing. " Eeally, I wish we had heard this story 
 sooner. A most unfortunate complication! " 
 
 It seemed to Gaston that she was half smiling 
 as she said the words. He turned upon her 
 angrily. "You do not want her to marry him, 
 I suppose. Is this the great marriage that you 
 planned for your granddaughter ?"
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS. 289 
 
 '' Do not speak so loudly, Gaston ; you make 
 my head ache. Marry him ! poor dear Olivia 
 knows better than to dream of such a thino-. 
 Besides they are both children, and he is 
 only Olivia's age. They have played together — 
 that is all." 
 
 " And why did they ever play together ? It 
 is a most unsuitable acquaintance. How is it 
 that you are so friendly with your cousin now, 
 mother ? You were on very different terms in 
 the old days." 
 
 Madame Waldstein spread out her hands with 
 a gesture of repudiation. " I friendly with 
 Kichard Hervey ! I detest the man. He is use- 
 ful to me sometimes, that is all. It is Felicia 
 you may blame, not me. She pities him, pities 
 the boy, pities everybody. I cannot control 
 Felicia's pitiful tendencies. Take care that you 
 do not have Hervey for a brother-in-law, Gaston. 
 I am continually expecting that announcement. 
 With a cousin it is always j)ossible." 
 
 " She could not care for Eichard Hervey." 
 
 " She never cared for Philip, yet she married 
 him. You talk like a schoolgirl, Gaston, instead 
 of a man of eight -and -thirty. AVell, now that 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 29T) AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 YOU know the dangers that beset your path, will 
 you take my advice and get those two w^omen to 
 London, or somewhere ? Olivia ought to be 
 presented." 
 
 " I have been too long out of England to 
 be able to manage such matters." 
 
 ^' A mere excuse, Gaston. All that I want 
 you to do is to tell Felicia w^hat her duty is with 
 respect to Olivia. It will come with more effect 
 from you than from me. I am tired of talking. 
 If they decide on going, Lady Wylde will present 
 Felicia. I believe she is going up to town in two 
 or three weeks' time with lima Zaranoff." 
 
 " Ah, by the by, who is she ?" 
 
 "lima Zaranoff? Her mother was Natalie 
 von Lowenstein, one of my dearest friends when 
 I was in Vienna. She died of a fever when lima 
 was two or three years old — a lovely little thing 
 the child was then : I was her godmother — and 
 her husband, Josef von Lowenstein died soon 
 afterwards, leavino^ the dauo-hter in the care of 
 his friend, old Count Zaranoff." 
 
 " I see — her future husband," said Gaston 
 carelessly. 
 
 " Not at all : listen. He and his wife took
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS. 291 
 
 care of the little one, and in course of time 
 betrothed her to their son, Count Maurice — such 
 a handsome boy ! — but very wild and eccentric 
 in his ways. He was first a page, then he 
 entered the guards, and we all thought that the 
 marriage would take place immediately, when 
 every one who knew them was electrified by the 
 news that he had mixed himself up in some 
 Kevolutionary intrigues, particularly with a set of 
 Polish fanatics called Strolenski. Don't you 
 know the name, Gaston ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Pray go on : I am very much 
 interested." 
 
 '' Countess Zaranofi" belonged to a Polish 
 family herself : I suppose that the son inherited 
 some of her opinions. He — Count Maurice — 
 concealed the Strolenskis in his own house, and 
 actually fired on the ofiicers who came to arrest 
 them ! I believe that he killed one of them ! At 
 any rate, he was also arrested and exiled to 
 Siberia." 
 
 *^And she? — " Gaston's face expressed some 
 curiosity ; '' she — married him and accompanied 
 him, I suppose ?" 
 
 Madame Waldstein shrugged her shoulders.
 
 292 AA^ OPEN FOE. 
 
 " My dear Gaston, you are — inconceivable ! " 
 she said. 
 
 " Oh . . . Then the okl Countess was dead 
 and she married the father instead ?" 
 
 " Pray allow me to finish my story ; I have 
 a good reason for telling it to you. The parents 
 were both dead by this time, and Maurice Zara- 
 noff had inherited the estates. These estates 
 were forfeited. Of course you could not expect 
 lima von Lowenstein to sacrifice all her prospects 
 and marry a man in that position ! The engage- 
 ment was broken ; and she married shortly after- 
 wards a distant — very distant — cousin of Maurice 
 Zaranoff 's ; and upon the marriage the Emperor 
 settled upon them all Maurice Zaranofi^'s estates, 
 and made the cousin take the title of Count. 
 So lima became Countess Zaranofi" in spite of 
 Maurice's banishment." 
 
 " Kather hard upon the exiled Zaranoff*," said 
 Gaston, musing a little as his mother paused. 
 "What became of him?" 
 
 " Of him ! I suppose that he is still working 
 in the mines at Siberia," said the Baroness loftily. 
 '^ A happy release for lima.*' 
 
 " Was he so depraved ?"
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS. ^93 
 
 " He must have been odious to join those 
 abominable Nihilists. I think that he was a 
 little mad. She would have suffered tortures 
 had she married him. He was spending his 
 whole income on the Eevolutionary party." 
 
 *' Vile ^Tetch !" said Gaston satirically. Then 
 with a keen glance and a bending of his brows, 
 he asked, " You have no reason to think that he 
 has escaped from Siberia ?" 
 
 '•' Xot in the least. What makes you think 
 so?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing. And — excuse me — but con- 
 sidering that you have spent the last fifteen 
 years in England, you seem remarkably well 
 acquainted with the family history of these 
 Zaranoffs. Were they friends of yours ?" 
 
 "Yes, all of them. But I hear the news of 
 the world from various sources, although I am a 
 prisoner in Xetherby ! The Longmores corre- 
 spond with me still; they told me the history 
 of Count Maurice and lima von Lowen- 
 stein. lima has been staying with them in 
 London." 
 
 " Who are the Longmores '?" 
 
 " My dear Gaston ! You mxi>>t remember
 
 294 AN OPEN FOE. 
 
 Sir Adrian Longmore — the old General ! He 
 used to stay here in your father's time." 
 
 '' Yes ; I remember him." 
 
 "He was a great friend of the Zaranoffs — a 
 connection by marriage, I believe — guardian to 
 the young Count until he attained his majority. 
 Maurice Zaranoff used to spend half his time 
 with the Longmores when they were living at 
 Vienna and afterwards in London. If you had 
 been in town you would certainly have met 
 him.*' 
 
 " Ah, yes," said Gaston, who was becoming 
 weary of the subject, and certainly did not 
 attend as closely to the last few sentences as he 
 might have done. " Ah, yes ; but may I ask, 
 mother, why you take the trouble to relate to 
 me this interesting story?" 
 
 Madame "Waldstein looked him full in the 
 face and played with her fan. " Can you not 
 guess?" she said. 
 
 Gaston shook his head. 
 
 " lima Zaranoff is a widow. She has a large 
 property; she is young and beautiful. I know 
 of no person whom I would sooner receive as a 
 daughter-in-law," said the Baroness.
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS. 295 
 
 " I see. But I do not intend to marry again," 
 said Gaston coldly. "And if I did, I would 
 not take a woman who liad broken off her 
 engagement to a man merely because he was 
 poor and in disgrace." 
 
 "' Bah ! that is your romantic side. I thought 
 we had had enough of that in old days. Your 
 travels in Asia have left you with as little know- 
 ledge of the world as ever." 
 
 Her son made no answer. He pulled his 
 moustache and looked blankly out of the window. 
 
 " Madame Zaranoff is coming here to-day/' 
 continued the Baroness in a dryly suggestive 
 tone. " I shall be glad of her society and advice 
 for Olivia. I shall be obliged to you, Gaston, 
 at any rate, if you will pay her a certain amount 
 of attention. She is a person worth cultivating, 
 for she goes everywhere, and is greatly esteemed. 
 I think it is a compliment to Olivia that lima 
 has taken such a fancy to her." 
 
 Gaston shrusrsfed his shoulders and was silent. 
 The old lady, looking into his dark and dissatis- 
 fied countenance, and feeling that he had been 
 worsted at more points than one, was seized 
 mth a fleetino' curiosity to know the real reason
 
 296 AJV OPEN FOE. 
 
 of liis return to England. She asked a question 
 sharply. 
 
 " What brought you home, Gaston ?" 
 
 " Anxiety to see my relations." 
 
 '' That is so likely ! What beside V 
 
 "No other reason. There was one relation 
 of mine, at least, whom I came to see." 
 
 '' And that was " 
 
 "Hervey's granddaughter, Vera." 
 
 " Oh, that girl ! I remember her ; a little 
 wizened wretch wdio shocked Felicia by singing 
 a vulgar comic song when you brought her here." 
 
 "She is now a beautiful woman and a fine 
 singer." 
 
 " Indeed ? And you came home to see her f " 
 
 " I regret that I did not do so earlier," said 
 Gaston composedly. " I had forgotten how 
 long it was since she came here, and fancied her 
 only seventeen or eighteen. She is now nearly 
 three-and-twenty, I believe. Yes, I came back 
 to see her, and to persuade Richard Hervey, if 
 possible, to do something for her." 
 
 " Do you think you can persuade Richard 
 Hervey to do anything I " 
 
 " I shall try."
 
 MADAME WALD STEIN'S VIEWS. 297 
 
 " You have great faith in yourself," said 
 Madame Waldstein ironically. 
 
 '' I have faith in my cause. Have you anv- 
 thing else to say to me, mother ? If not, I will 
 ask you to excuse me. I have a good deal of 
 business to transact." 
 
 He took his departure, glad to get away 
 without a Cjuarrel, and Madame Waldstein was 
 left to her own reflections, which were not of an 
 unpleasing kind. 
 
 The old intriguer thought that she had man- 
 aged her work very well. She was delighted to 
 find that Gaston believed Lancelot Aylmer to be 
 Mr. Hervey's son, for it was she herself who had 
 caused a story to this eflect to be conveyed to 
 Gaston's ears. Ever since Mr. Hervey had 
 insisted upon bringing the boy home from a 
 French school, where he had been placed for a 
 certain length of time, Madame Waldstein had 
 been devising plausible stories to account in 
 Gaston's eyes for his presence at Xetherby. 
 The supposed relationship between Lancelot — 
 or rather Bertram Eavenscroft — and Mr. Her- 
 vey, was a very happy flight of her imagination, 
 especially as she could see that Gaston was
 
 •298 AiV OPEN FOE. 
 
 developing a strong prejudice against the lad. 
 If tlie Baroness could have liad lier own way, she 
 would not have allowed the boy to come within 
 a hundred miles of Netherby ; but Mr. Hervey 
 had taken the matter into his own hands and 
 declared that Lancelot (as they called him) should 
 be as a son to him, and should live with him at 
 Netherby Manor. Madame Waldstein was ter- 
 ribly afraid lest Gaston should learn the truth 
 during his visit ; but she hoped that it w^ould 
 not be a long one, and she did not intend to 
 make it particularly pleasant. A few more 
 scenes such as she already had with him, and she 
 knew that he w^ould leave the house in a rage, 
 and perhaps return to it no more. 
 
 She did not want him to marry, and she 
 believed that her suggestion respecting Countess 
 Zaranoff's fitness for him as a wife would 
 decidedly prejudice him against that young lady. 
 The old Baroness knew her son's weaknesses of 
 temper exceedingly well. She Avas trying all 
 means to induce him to leave Netherby, even 
 while she seemed most anxious for him to stay. 
 
 The incipient love-affair between Olivia and 
 Lancelot must also be crushed before it went
 
 MADAME WALDSTEIN'S VIEWS, 299 
 
 any further. If Gaston were to take Felicia and 
 Olivia to London and remain there with them 
 until he left England for the East once more, 
 Madame Waldstein thought that she could sleep 
 in peace. She had set her heart upon Olivia's 
 becoming the heiress of Eavenscroft. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Printed hy R. & R. Clakk, Edinl'ur^h.
 
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