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B." writes : — The unexpected death of Miss Lily Dougall, announced in The Times, will be mourned by many friends and is a serious loss to liberal theology. She had reached the age of 50, and had written a number of novels before she produced any theological work. It was not until sonrtfe fifteen years ago that her religious interests began to find literary exprepsion ; then some half-dozen volumes followed tKe book, " Pro Christo et Ecdesia," with which her name was for some time associa^^d. These volumes found an appreciative public because in them shrewdness, religious earnestness, and no little knowledge were happily blended. She lacked the discipline necessary to make a trained theologian ; but she had read Widely and combined independent judgment with a flair for good scholarship. She best deserves to be remembered, how- ever, for the skill and sympathy with which she gathered in her house at Cumnor, near Oxford, groiips of men and women interested in religious problems. These gatherings had a quality peculiar to themselves, because of Miss Dougall's personal charm and religious insight. Frail in physique and a little hesi- tant in speech, she was none the less the uni- fying centre of her various conferences. They were stimulating and strenuous, because conversation, argument, illustration, and repartee went on unceasingly. The gravest issues were discussed with sincerity and frankness ; and the hostess was ever ready to prevent over-seriousness or ennui by flashes of subacid fun. These Cumnor gatherings were the source of three important books, " Concerning Prayer," " Immortality," and " The Spirit." Each has already taken rank among the best collections of theological essays of recent years. They are written from the standpoint of liberal orthodoxy and are singularly free from polemical bitter- ness. To each scholars of weight contri- buted ; and not infrequently the reader comes upon passages of great religious depth and beauty. IVo of Miss Dougall's clo8»5st associates in religious writing have already passed away prematurely. A. W. Turner was killed in the war ; and Cyril Emmet, whose development was of exceptional worth and promise, died while on a visit to New York three months ago. In spite of bodily weakness, Miss Dougall had great energy, mental and physical. Her sense of humour fortified her spiritual serenity. It prevented her from worrying over hostile criticism, and gave piquancy to her own iConlinentH on sophistry and humbug. With |her Modernist sympathies there went a liznple, almost childlike faith. Perhaps for "^Lia reason she had a great love of children, she herself said : — Religion can never Fely lose touch with the simplA' things o{ le. ALL iX wherein thou even now tL\LE EN, & CO. ;6th STREET II I ■! M n iiiw ,i»i: .'sr.'i' '^r?^..: ■ t BEGGARS ALL a Botiel BY L. DOUGALL ' "Yes, here in this poor hampered Actual wherein thou staiidtst, here or nowhere is thy ideal."— Carl\xe even bow LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. AND NEW YORK : ,5 EAST i6th STREET 1891 ' '- \ L ^'i PZ^. l'bV:> n i^'\ 5B BOOK I. '1 5:/ B 110730 iAib n 11 ummmw^^fwmi'ifmr 'i BEGGARS ALL. ►^ ' CHAPTER I. In one of the western counties of England there is a flat-topped hill. It rises to west and north with precipitate sides from the plain, whose tilled land is dappled with the habitations of men. On this plain, as far as eye can see, are larger and smaller collections of roofs, from farmstead to city ; b at the top of the hill is a lonesome moorland. A long, white road stretches across it, leading from the village of Croom, on the eastern slope, to a town at the western base. The wind was wild on a dull March afternoon when a man walked on this road from Croom and came to the brink of the hill overlooking the town. On this edge of the moor a line of stunted larches, gray and one-sided, bent with the gale; and below, where the road dipped, was a niggardly fir wood, which swayed with a sound like rushing water. Some rocks on a beetling brow further over had slipped and fallen ; beneath them there was a quarry which laid bare the stony heart of earth. Underneath stood an old town, with a new town added to it. The old town was on a ridge which was a ■ BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. K low spur of the hill ; its parish church and old-world roofs, thus raised, were conspicuous. Beyond then a new town had spread itself and crept all round, circl ng the older part with an arm of newer houses. It seemed a prosperous place, and the time-worn lines of the buildings on the ridge gave it stateliness of aspect. Far and wide the plain stretched cold, swept by the wind. White smoke, rising from chimneys, was chased this way and that. The town lay like a thing which God had helped man to build, so much a part of nature it seemed, grouped according to the contour of the land, matched in colour to the leaden sky and the scarred face of the rocky hill. When one looks down upon a busy centre of life from a solitary place the situation gives objective reality to the attitude the spirit of man must often take as it looks out upon the haunts and doings of himself and his fellows. The man who had now crossed the hill loitered in a mood of contemplation. He was middle-aged, stout, and of common appearance. Here in the fir wood the road divided and a sign- post, giving insufficient explanation of the division, stood with extended arms, like a white cross. The stranger stood with his fat hands clasped behind his ample back and almost a beseeching look upon his broad, uncomely face. He looked at the town, the sky, at the perplexing division of his road — one could hardly tell at what he was looking. There was strength underlying the entreaty on his face : entreaty is not necessarily weak. He evidently thought himself quite alone as far as his kind were concerned, for there came from him an I POOK I.l BEGGARS ALL. as an audible breathing of the emotion within him. It seemed to take the form of a psalm or prayer ; at least, there was something about the greatness of God's pity and power in his whispered monotone, the spasmodic utterance of which seemed to give him relief and refreshment. He was not alone. Among the firs above the quarry there were two shanties, habitable, but looking, at first sight, like the rest of the place, deserted. In the door- way of one a young man stood, and from that niche of observation watched the newcomer with that minute interest which an alert mind in idle moments often bestows upon a novel object. His interest, or a feeling of honour in making his observation apparent, -drew him out on the road. He was young ; lighter, quicker everyway, than the other. As he emerged his face wore that curious mask of impenetrability which sensitive men can assume when they wish to hide that they have caugrht another in what to them would have been a mortifying lapse of self-control. They were strangers, and they talked as strangers do, beginning with desultory remarks, entering into dialogue of question and answer. It was a couple of miles to the town, the young man said, by either road round the hill, but there was a short, steep path through the quarry. He was rambling for pleasure ; he did not mind going home now and showing that way. It was a beastly day, anyway — this as a further blast of the wild, cold wind struck the hill and the men and the fir trees — not a good day for a walk, but what else could a fellow do on such a holiday ? 6 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. " Is it a holiday ? " asked the other absently. The reply was laconic. " Good Friday." "Ah, so it is." The stout man seemed still more absent for a minute ; his mind seemed to wander with his glance beyond the old post, with its cross piece, to the distant sky. He recalled himself and spoke. The voice was pleasant ; there was a ring of simple honesty in it. " I have been travelling for some days." " A walking tour ? " There was something in the i question which indicated disbelief in the suggestion — f a swift, curious glance from the young man's eyes which '^ was past before the man of heavier make would have ' I had time to begin to meet it. " I am not in a position to take a pleasure tour. I have only walked from Croom Junction. I am looking for a poor woman whom I have traced here from London." " I am in the news line. I am a reporter for the Evening Journal. My name is Kent." " My name is Gilchrist. I am going to try to get a situation in some gentleman's service." The extreme simplicity of this reply caused Kent to look with more open curiosity. "I told you my name and what I do because I thought I might help you to find whoever you want. About things that go on, you know, I know — well, almost everything." It was not an exultant boast, if boast it was. The weather and the place were not such as to inspire high spirits. All was dull and bleak. Gilchrist made as if to sit down by the roadside. His movements were those of a very tired man. His face looked heavy witli Book L] BEGGARS ALL. I it. Ihe if ftre til fatigi' J. Kent glanced at him with a light, good-natured pity. "Come into this cabin. It belongs to a friend of mine." He did not look as if he would be on intimate terms with the inhabit/ant of such a shanty ; he seemed almost a gentleman — this young townsman ; but a man seeks a rude cabin as shelter from weather almost involun- tarily and without much question of invitation. Gil- christ went in at the open door to which he was pointed. He found himself in a one-roomed dwelling, fitted up with tolerable comfort. That which surprised him was that, after he had seated himself near the fire at Kent's invitation, he discovered the friend alluded to, stretched on a low pallet, asleep. He looked like a young man somewhat withered and prematurely grey. He slept on like a baby. Kent stood between them and introduced the sleeping to the waking man. There was veiled comedy in his manner. Perhaps he had been amused at the simplicity of Gilchrist's self-introduction, and supposed him too stupid to perceive his mockery. " My friend whom you see asleep is called Montagu the lamplighter. Montagu was, for unknown reasons, entered as his name on the Orphanage register when he was a baby, and he was there brought up to the task of lighting street lamps. He sleeps by day because, what with lighting the lamps and putting them out, he runs about half the night." " He has faith in humanity to sleep with his door open." Kent was blowing the embers of the fire. He gave )'1VH»'W"IV'^ 8 BEGGARS ALLJ [Book I. V. » ■ .■V..'# again a furtive glance of curiosity. The form of words struck him as unnatural in a servant. Yet he would have staked his reputation for shrewdness on the asser- tion that Gilchrist was truthful. " He doesn't leave it open, but he lets me open it from th(^ outside. He and I are old chums ; we began life in the same orphanage together." He coaxed the fire into flame, and began searching for means to make tea. " He and I are the products of modern philan- thropy. He was half-witted, so they trained him to light lamps ; I was sharp, and they gave me schooling." Kent made tea without milk. He was deft with his hands. " We will each leave a penny on the table ; that will pay," he said. Gilchrist rose and went to the bed, looking down with kind curiosity in his expression. " I was sharp and they gave me schooling," repeated Kent. " They put me through the Board School, and I got on. There is just one thing in all the Christian philanthropy nowadays that is worth giving and re- ceiving — that is education." " Yes, if it is the right sort." When they came out Kent shut the door behind him. Putting a bit of twisted wire into the rude lock, he tried to push back the bolt. Gilchrist asked further questions about the lamplighter as he watched the operation with interest. " Bother it ! " Kent was poking with his wire, and could not make the bolt slide. " A professional house- breaker would do it with dexterity, I suppose, or have better implements." Then, succeeding at last, he answered the questions in better humour. "Oh yes, Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 9 it ,her the or he '■es, r he'll wake when the sun goes down and it's time to go his rounds, as sure as a church clock, and he'll sleep till then unless the crack o' doom wakes him. He goes by habit as a clock by springs — he goes, he doesn't live. He is a character." They clambered down by the edge of the quarry -pit to the broad, beaten surface of a high road running into the town from the south. An old house, labelled " Or- phanage," stood in trim, uninteresting grounds. Gilchrist was surprised to come upon it so suddenly. " Is this the place you spoke of ? " Kent's regard turned on the place to which the ques- tion directed his attention with the look a man might bestow upon some monster which, in spite of familiarity, had power to excite wonder as well as disgust. " The same," he said ; " and they trained Montagu to go from here t* ■ his lamps, and from his lamps here, till he couldn't get out of the habit, so he lives above there." " They were kind, I suppose. Authorized cruelty is out of date." " Kind ? " He shrugged his arms. " As kind as one can be to a batch of anything. They brought us up in batches ; but Montagu had the worst of it, for he had to stay a long time before he was sufficiently wound up to go by himself." They walked between fields where garden stuff was grown in summer. Further on, the side of a small park, which belonged to a private house, skirted the road. That passed, the town began by an outstanding row of small, brick cottages. Kent gave information idly when he felt inclined. The land, he said, gi'ew remarkably good strawberries. i, \. / 10 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I i» & The house in the park had been empty for years ; it was said to be haunted by the ghost of a baby. " A baby ! " " Yes ; floats through the air in long clothes, I be- lieve, and yells." The tone implied great contempt for such supeistitions. " It is said some one left a foundling at the door, mistaking the house for the Orphanage. The owner wouldn't take it in, so it died. The ghost ; resulted." Some paces further along the road he added, " An old man named Gower, from India, is f ,-x..g to buy the place, they say." Gilchrist straightened himself. " I am going to see ' I an invalid gentleman of that name." " Just come home from India, gouty, has a daughter unmarried — not young, rather pretty, arranges penny readings, and that sort of thing ? " Kent's items of interest were a long interrogation. " There is one lady in the house — a niece, I believe." I " ' Miss Marian Gower ' is the name on the charity lists. She's been taking a header into benevolence since they came here. You may depend it's the same people." When they came to the first tavern a blue omnibus stood before it, just about to start on its route further into the town. Gilchrist caught it by hastening his .;, steps. As the heavy vehicle jolted away, Kent walked / up the pavement in the same direction. He tried not !to follow Gilchrist's bulky form with too evident curiosity in his eyes. He was conscious of that awk- ward sensation which a naturalist feels when some new I specimen escapes him before it is classified, and he, remembering its peculiarities, fails entirely to imagine to what class it may belong. Cook I.] BEGGARS ALL. 11 The omnibus went on to the end of its journey. The stopping place was at the old parish church. There Gilchrist, alighting, looked about him as strangers look at such old town centres. On all sides there were stone pavements, old walls, high antique roofs. Gilchrist, turning instinctively from the thoroughfare, sought a square pavement, upon which the main door of the church opened — a lounging place, where old elm trees stood up in the flagstones and horses and wheels might not come. Opposite the church stood a block of build- ings, put up by some ambitious merchant of a past generation who had built his own name, in the pos- sessive case, in large stone letters upon its upper wall. " Babbit's " was the name of this building ; but Babbit was dead and his business had vanished, and, like a sign of the timerf, his place of merchandise had been rebuilt inside and converted into a Board school. Ugly, :i Book L] BEGGARS ALL. 19 Marian watched, and did not feel kindly toward him. A certain determination of suspicion was born in her lieart toward the new servant. CHAPTER III. way m she jord's When Gilchrist stopped by the beggar-woman she was standing with her back to him. He laid a light iinger for an instant on her shoulder. " Whose baby is that ? " She turned with a start. Her whine ceased. " Is it you ? " she gasped in an awed whisper. " Yes. Whose baby is that ? " " Where did you come from ? " Her dazed wits seemed incapable of the effort she was making to collect her ideas. Instead of answering him, or waiting for his answer, she broke again into her habitual whimper. " For the love of heaven, don't be hard on me, Tom." " Don't," he said. " I found you had come here, and I have followed you. I know that you picked up the child on the way." " I borrowed it from a woman I met ; she had six, and a drunken man. It helps to keep me warm as I carry it, and it's a sight better for it to be with me, and," whimpering again, '' I kind of like to hug and kiss it, Tom ; it comforts me best, next to the drink." Her gray hair blew untidily over her unlovely face. She did not look womanly ; the dignity of her soul seemed soiled and tattered like her garments, yet she -j-rr- . ilJJJIVVBJI. 20 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. had this left — that, when he brushed aside the shawl to look at the child, she strained the little head to her breast and kissed it fondly. They stood in mingled moonlight and gaslight. Gilchrist watched her narrowly. Strange to say, the child looked healthy enough and not wholly uncared for. " You never give it a drop ? " he asked. She steadied her voice to answer. " On your honour, nc, Tom." " Nor let it fall when you can't walk straight ? " " It v«rould be worse off at home, Tom ; on your honour, it would." Again she broke into her whine. " Don't take it from me, Tom ; it's all the bit of love I've got, and I walked from London just to see " He lowered his voice, but spoke steadily, " To see Gower." She stood stupidly, crying a little, as if from habit. " I only wanted just to look at him." "Silvia." " Yes, Tom." " I don't know what you may have wanted of Gower, but you will get nothing from him. I have told him that you are provided for, I am going to stay with him as his servant in order to be near you if you need help. Do you hear ? do you understand ? " " I'll never come and disgrace you, Tom, I'm sure ; I bless you every day of my life. For the love of God " " Stop." She stopped so suddenly that the whine, the sound of which he had checked, was still written on her features. Book L] BEGGARS ALL. 21 " You got my message ? " he said. " You are in the room I arranged for you to have, and you get good food every day ? " " Yes, thank you, Tom." But her face spoke an un- speakable discontent. " I'll let you have milk ior the child if you want to keep it a few weeks." " I can make enough to get it that." " Is it no use, even yet, my entreating you to give up this begging ? " " I'd just break out again, Tom ; you know I would." " Well," he said, as we say, " well," meaning to denote our helplessness to alter ill. Then, in a minute, " I am in Mr. Gower's house ; you can come there if you want me ; remember that." He spoke kindly, but with authority. He was not young, but he looked younger than she did by a good many years. " Good night," he said. He went on, and she followed him down the pave- ment and across the square. When he reached a letter- box he put in Marian's letter and returned. The beggar stepped aside, making way humbly for him to pass. She went on toward the old part of the town. Between the hill on which the old town stood and the fashionable square laj'' a number of short streets of intermediate respectability. Into one of these the beggar turned, and, entering a tenement house, she knocked at a room on the ground floor. " I'm cold and tired, dear lady." She began her whine almost before the door was opened. " For the love of Heaven, let me in to sit down a bit." mmitmtmtm i ■><■■ 22 BEGGARS ALL. [Book L The woman who opened the door was elderly and very feeble, with the blight of some fatal disease upon her, a motherly woman of quiet aspect. The beggar came into the yellow gaslight and shut the door. There are many good women who preserve a certain sternness of dignity toward all except their own dear ones and little children. The mistress of this room was one of these. Standing bowed feebly, as if with the weight of her own weakness upon her shoulders, she looked at the beggar with grave benevolence, The in- tent to do good was evident on the saintly face, but not the passion of love. The beggar used no words, but lifted the baby from beneath her shawl and held it towards the other. Then the flash of love leaped out of the faded eyes. The baby made up a face to cry. With all the tender wiles that only one whose vocation in life has been motherhood knows, the elder woman took it in her arms and comforted its fears. It was not very easily pacified. The fresh air and motion of walking had kept it quiet fbr hours, but now the light and heat of the room roused it thoroughly. One gas-jet lit the room, which was fairly large but very bare, unless the atmosphere of love and spiritual beauty, which was apparent to those capable of seeing, might be said to furnish the space within the blank walls. A meagre fire fl^icked its light on some cooking utensils. Near it was a couch, on which a bedridden girl lay helpless. A larger bed in the corner, a table, some chairs, and travelling boxes, were all else that the room contained. T<( Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 23 The maudlin beggar sat near the door, feeling stupe- fied by heat and rest. The girl on the couch watched with bright, restless eyes, as her mother exerted all her feeble strength to dandle the crying child. " Mother," she said, " at your age you really ought to be able to see a baby without wanting to nurse it. You ought to have got over your weakness for babies." She did not say, " You are too ill to waste your strenofth in such work." Illness was one of the sad facts of daily life which was never mentioned between these two. The mother made a little mess of bread, hot water, and sugar, and fed the baby till it cooed with satis- faction. " Such a tiny morsel of bread. It cannot be wrong to give it away," she said in an undertone. The baby evidently did not thuik it wrong. " If I thought Star would not come for a while I'd wash it," she said, again looking at the bab^-, while she spoke, with a coaxing smile. " Star cannot come till nine, mother ; it is not long after eight." The operation of the baby's bath was commenced. With slow and feeble step the delicate lady made sundry journeys across the room. A basin, a towel, a rag, were brought to the fore. Warm water was supplied from the kettle. She seemed to become quite blithe in her work. " The soap can hardly be said to cost anything," she remarked to her daughter. The beggar still sat stupidly by the door. The mother seated herself very near her daughter's couch, and they exchanged low confidences with each other 24 BEGaAES ALL. [Boor I. . / over the baby's toilet. They agreed that the beggar kept the child more carefully than she kept herself ; that it was not very dirty ; that it was a healthy, well made babe; that the beggar was not so tipsy as she had been on a former visit ; and that her speech betrayed the fact that she had seen better days. Then they forgot to talk, and the mother occupied her- self only with that language of cooing smiles in which babies and their lovers converse with one another. The little naked boy sprawled upon her knee, play- ing with his own freshly washed limbs, crowing at the firelight and at his nurse's smiles. This woman was nearly sixty ; she might have been much older, so worn and feeble she looked. She had never possessed beauty's physical part ; yet, whoever had once seen the soul of beauty, wo aid have recognized it again in her face. It did not lie in the smooth silver hair; nor in the loving deptb. of faded gra,y eyes; nor in the lines of the withered face, which spoke of purpose, love, and con- stancy ; nor yet in the smile that came, like the reflec- tion of long, inward joy, to greet the baby's new-born laughter. Not in any of these, although they were pleasant to see ; but pervading them all there was some- thing — something which men, seeing long ago in the faces of some of their fellows, tried to portray on canvas by a golden glory round the head. The cripple girl watched them both with shining, observant eyes. "Oh, mother," she exclaimed suddenly, "the baby has just begun to live in this weary world, and you have gone through all the sorrow that heart can feel, yet your smile is brighter." i Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 25 the con- reflec- born were ome- the on ining, baby you feel, " What are you saying, love ? " The mother looked up from the baby, having taken in nothing of what the girl had said. " Nothing ; it does not matter." The interruption reminded her to dress the baby, and, with many sweet words and little nursery chants, this feat was accomplished. She took it back to the sleepy beggar, her face growing grave as she drew near. " I hope you are rested," she said with gentle dignity. " I wish I could offer you a cup of tea, but " — here a slight pause and an inward sigh — "I am as poor a woman as yourself, inasmuch as I am obliged to live on the charity of others. I have no right to give any- thing away." Some dormant sense of righteousness struggled to the surface of the besotted mind. " Heaven bless you, ma'am. I don't know what's given me the habit of coming here, unless it's to let the child see your sweet face. It's not to ask for food or money I came, and I don't know why you let the like of me inside your door." The other hesitated. She felt that some word of exhortation or comfort ought to be given here ; but, although she belonged to that class of religious people who believe verbal preaching to be a part of every one's duty, it was a part which always came as a trial to her. At last she said, but with exceeding diffidence and modesty, "You asked to come in for the love of Heaven." The words represented nothing to the beggar's mind except the memory of her own cant, and at that she T 26 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. began to whimper and cant again as, taking the baby, she shuffled out. The towel and the rag that were used for the baby's bath were washed out with tired, trembling hands. When the room was put in order again it was a very weary woman who sat down by her daughter's couch. They clasped their hands together and seemed wait- ing for some one's advent. Many steps passed the window, of which they took no notice. At last they both stirred with certain expectation. There was one footfall that they knew a long way off. " Star is coming," they said to each other, and smiled. CHAPTER IV. Esther Thompson came into the low room where her mother and crippled sister waited. Esther worked in a shop. She was just such a young woman as one might pass in the street without notice ; but every human soul has individuality, and she had hers. " How is my mother ? " There was a pretty import- ance in her tone. " Star wants to know how her mother is. Here have I been thirteen mortal hours without hearing how she is." She had tripped now into the room, shutting out all melancholy as she shut the door upon the night air, bringing with her the ease of mirth. If it cost her an effort, no one could have seen it. Coming to where the two were together, she touched the mother's chin lightly Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 27 her soul with her hands, turning the thin face up so that she could read its tale. All signs of mind weariness vanished from the two invalids. The mother lifted her eyes with fervour of satistied love in them ; the cripple raised herself a little on the couch, and seemed to prepare for the pleasure of the day. " Mother is tired," said Star, reading the worn face. " And how is Cripple Dick ? " Richarda Thompson, thus grotesquely addressed, did not answer for herself. " Mother has been washinof babies." " Babies ! Where did she get them ? " " There was only one ; it belonged to that beggar. I hadn't the heart to stop her doing it, for it amused her." Star was still caressing her mother's face with her liand. " Oh, fie ! " she said playfully, looking down into her eyes with inexpressible love and respect ; " oh, fie ! to wash a beggar-baby ! Star does not allow such doings." Then she knelt down for her evening's kiss. " Mother," she said. " Daughter." In long, close embrace they fondled one another. " Star," said the cripple, " talk to us. It is so much nicer to talk than have supper. Say to us something quite new, that we have never thought of before. You always can." Oh, the weariness, to an active mind, of long days without any income of fresh experience, with only misfortune to think upon ! The cripple looked to her active sister as to one who had creative power. " You can always invent something new," she repeated. 28 BEQGABS ALL. [Book I. "So I can." Star rose with perfect adaptation to her sister's mood. "This evening," she announced, " there is a topic of the utmost interest to be discussed." "Oh, Star, what is it?" Richarda's eyes glistened with interest. " Ah ! well, just wait until I can decide ; but, in the mean time, there is going to be a treat for supper." She had brought some fish, which she proceeded to fry. She went about her work with many flourishes of her pan, while she descanted on the freshness of the fish. She did not tell them that she had begged it very cheap of a kind fishmonger on the plea that it was Saturday night. Her face burned now as she thought of her hardihood, but she made great pretence that the tiny fire was too hot for her complexion. Very delicate the fish was when it was cooked. There was a tiny scrap of parsley to lay on each piece. There was no butter for the bread, but it was cut thin as paper and toasted. A cup of cocoa without milk was supplied to each. What a fine feast it was ! They all said so many times, trying to cheat themselves and each other. The cripple could not sit up ; the mother was too tired to leave her low chair. Star, attending to their wants, ate her supper sitting on the floor at her mother's feet. She said it was the pleasantest way to take supper. " Now ! " Richarda spoke again. Star was putting away the dishes. "Yes, there is a very important subject to discuss this evening, if I could only think what it is Oh," as if she had suddenly remembered, " it is matrimonial advertise- ments." / j Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 29 : was nany The d to ate She re IS if I had 'tise- The mother became grave. Mothers are so quick to dread evil. The cripple put out her hand and touched her arm, as if begging sympathy in her own pleasure. " Isn't she funny, mother ? Isn't it wonderful how she always says the very most unexpected things ? Well, Star, go on. I never thought of it before, but I perceive now that it is very important that we should all give our opinion on matrimonial advertisements this eve '"ng." " \Vhat put such a curious subject into your head, Esther?" This was the mother, hardly beguiled into a smile. " Don't you know, dearest, that when you have fish, and then cocoa, you always think of matrimony and advertisements next ? It is natural association." " Of course, mother," Richarda laughed. " I don't see the connection." " Don't you, mothery ? " said Star soothingly. " In our shop Miss Sims trimmed a bonnet to-day that she said was lovely; and, when the girls asked her what was so lovely about it, she said that when people were not born to feel such things there was no use attempting to explain them." "The mother-bird ruffles her feathers at anything that suggests marriage," said Richarda ; " but it needn't, for, you know, I am off the list, and Star " Star took up the word. " And Star, as you know, never has the chance of speaking to a man from one month's end to another. Although, to be sure," she added, with a little laugh, " that would make the resort to advertisement all the more necessary. How should we word it ? — 'A yoimg and penniless woman, so domesticated 80 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. that she would never think of leaving her mother and sister (both invalids), desires to correspond with a rich and good gentleman with a view to matrimony." " Dear child ! " said the mother. Then she fell into a reverie, in which the sorrows and joys of the past gave shape to possible events of the future. Richarda put out her hand again, and pulled her sleeve. " Listen, mother ; we are discussing. It opens new vistas to one's thoughts. Don't muse now, mother ; be amused instead." " My opinion is,"^ said Star, " that there is no reason to consider it disgraceful. A moment ago we just happened by accident , as it were, upon a case of a very respectable young woman who would have no other way of becoming acquainted with men who might want to marry her," " But would your young woman not cease to be respect-worthy the moment she advertised for lovers ? " the mother asked in clear, quiet tones. " Let us waive that point. Women don't make offers of marriage any way. But suppose a young man in the same friendless situation. Let us consider the case of a young man called X. X. knows no young women, except those of inferior sort. He has no friends to introduce him to any. He has to work day and even- ing, or he would lose his situation. He is lonely, and has just enough salary to support a thrifty wife. Why should he not advertise ? Wouldn't many a nice girl be happier as his wife than toiling in some shop ? " " No nice girl would answer him," said the mother. " But consider the case of X.," said Richarda. " It is interesting. I can shut my eyes and see him in his Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 31 lonely room. He blushes and trembles as he writes out the advertisement." "It is more likely that he is sitting in a public- house, laughing over his supposed dupe with his boon companions." " Hear the mother-bird ! " exclaimed Star gaily. She sat down, and wound her arms round her mother. " She will fiirht it out to the end — won't she ? — even if she is tired. She won't leave the wicked people who make such advertisements an atom of virtue to lean on — will she ? " " Not one in a hundred of such advertisements arc genuine," said the mother. " But," said Richarda slowly, " supposing that X." — and here it turned out that Richarda, lying with her eyes shut, had thought out the circumstances of X. minutely. It was clear from her account that, if he remained true to duty and honour, X. could do nothing else than advertise for a wife. It was with zest that Richarda entered into the pleasures of the imagination in connection with the theme her sister had chosen for her, presumably at hazard. Esther's mind, although more fertile in sugges- tion, was never equal to such sustained flights of fancy. They had not been bred to the monotony of trouble which now formed their daily life. They must find some relief. Richarda found hers in fantastic words and thoughts. After her mother had been carefully helped to bed and had fallen into the first light sleep, Esther crept back to her sister's couch. " Dicksie," she whispered, " did the man from the chapel come to-day ? What did he say ? " ;'W if 32 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. " He said it all over again about putting mother in the Incurables Home and me in the Hospital." " Oh, Dicksie." " Yes ; and mother said she had begged them before to leave us together, and " " Well ? " " I suppose we ought to feel grateful to them, but it was so hard to hear her entreating that stolid man. She had to tell him all over again about our coming from California, and father's death, and the bank failing. He seemed to have forgotten it. At last I think the dignity of her misery had some effect on him ; and he said we could go on having the five shillings from them, if we could make that do with your salary. She told him " " What did she tell him ? " "That she knew she would not live through the summer." Then in the dark room there was silence a minute. " Star," said Richarda, " this damp, low room and anxiety about us is killing her fast — fast. Star ; and if they take us away from her she will die at once." There was no further word spoken. The last ember of the fire fell into the ashes, and left the room in complete darkness, except for what glimmer from the Easter moon could find its way down the narrow street and through the window curtain. Esther went back and lay down beside her mother. There are some so poor that they have no place or time for weeping. Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 33 CHAPTER V. The next day was Sunday, and Esther went to morn- ing service at a Nonconformist Chapel with which her mother had formed some connection. She prized each moment of this one day at home, yet, for her mother's sake, she went to service ; and, with a great longing for solitude, which was to her [Unattainable, she turned on her way from chapel into [the public square to sit by herself for a little while. Birds were chirping ; buds were swelling ; clouds jwere softly passing overhead in voluminous veils of [white. People thronged in the principal paths, but [Esther found a lonely bench by a side railing. What she had come for she hardly knew. Her brain was scalded with unshed tears, but she had no thought of reeping. She certainly had not come with thought of raining comfort from the sweetness of the season. She gat with her back to the concourse of people ; her eyes rere turned where the roofs of the town dipped with |ihe slope of the land, and a clear cold strip of blue sky ly under the edge of the cloud. "There is no help," whispered the girl defiantly, Dking into that heavenly region of perfect blue. The pink buds of the sycamore near her hung down |,nd made a fretted frame to her glimpse of celestial )eauty. She had keen anxiety in her heart that she dared D f^l i i; I ■ i 84 BEGGARS ALL. [Book L not share with her mother and sister. The money she earned seemed the only means of securing to the dying mother the comfort of love in her children's companion- ship. So precious did the mother's last days seem to the daughter that they covered just then the whole of her life's horizon. And yesterday at the shop she had been threatened with dismissal. " And it will come," she said to herself. " They will surely dismiss me. If I did my best for a hundred years I should not do as well as the chits of girls who have been brought up to the work." The words seemed to rise up within her and say themselves, not audibly, but with passionate distinctness, in her mind. Then there was a lull, and she seemed to have calm and time to consider what had been said. Again the passion arose, as of some spirit weeping within her and breaking forth into lamentations, not grandiloquent, but in the simple language of girl-life. " Father always called me his home-bird. I am only fit for that. Oh, father, father, why did you die and leave us ? Where are you now ? " Her face wore that coolid look which betokens trouble too deep for observation of its surroundings, but now she did turn her head and scan, with absent glance, the moving people. Was there, in all that town, no man, loving and strong, to whom she could turn for help — she who felt herself unable to stagger further beneath the burden she had to bear ? The daughter of a truly good man will turn so naturally to manhood for help and comfort. Her eyes fell back disconsolate to the path at her Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 35 feet. Then the moan rose within her again, " Oh, father, father!" When it was past she sat some time and seemed to think of nothing. She watched the sparrows on the railing before her, and felt her heart numb and dead. No one came very near her. Her mind recovered itself from its momentary torpor, and she made a little movement to rouse herself to (practical thought. Think she must, for there was no one to think for her or for those she loved far more than life. But first she looked again into the infinite (distance of the blue above the plain. "There is no help," she said again. This time her lips formed the words, as if challenging an answer. On the path, not far off, an elderly lady came slowly by in the full sail of silk robes, and after her the im- [portunate beggar-woman. The beggar was repulsed, so [she fell back, canting loud enough for others who were approaching to hear her virtuous complaint. " Oh, well-? -day, my lady ; but it's a sorrowful world, [and if it wasn't for our trust in Heaven, there'd be little bo keep us from sin." Esther looked at the woman, hardly aware that she heard her. She waited until these people had gone by ind her corner was quiet again. Her hand stole guiltily bo her pocket and brought out a sheet of folded news- )aper. It was the advertisement sheet of yesterday's paper. Esther had read it before ; she read it again, glancing leedfully over the closely printed page at a multitude of situations declared vacant in various phrase. , I ..;,-,, ..r- t i - H i ! k' 36 BEGGAES ALL. [Book I. There was not one, or at least only one, that offered a ray of hope to her discouraged heart. She had noticed it the day before ; her eyes came back and back to it with fascination. It was not by idle chance that she had chosen the topic of last evening's talk. Under the mask of comedy she had tried to find some vent to the burden of her heart. This advertisement — the only one that seemed to offer a situation she could fill — was among some others under the head of " Matrimony ; " but it was distin- guished from the others by a certain particularity as to the mental qualities of the wife desired, which seemed to her to give it tone of superior feeling. " A young man, able to meet expenses of married life, wishes to make the acquaintance of a lady, educated, courageous, and gentle, who would devote herself to making his home happy if she became his wife. — Ad- dress, ' Honour,' Office of this Paper." " Courageous," " gentle," " to making his home happy," " Honour." Esther emphasized the words that gave her a gleam of hope. She was but young, and had lived the sheltered home life that prolongs the trustfulness of childhood. She thought long. At length the wave of her reverie swelled and broke into resolution. She spoke half aloud as she rose. "If he has a spark of honour in him he will know that it is an honour to take care of mother ; and it is not begging — I will repay it with my whole life." Esther went home, and repeated the sermon to her mother, like a child repeating a lesson. They had tea together. It was so cheerful to have [Book I. Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 37 offered noticed cjk to it Dsen the ; comedy n of her b seemed ne others 1,8 distin- rity as to ieemed to t married educated, aerself to afe.— Ad- le happy," gave her lived the 'ulness of ler reverie lalf aloud In him he If mother; Imy whole Ion to her ll to have Star at home. They talked a little of the old home — the big, hospitable house on the other side of the world, where they had dispensed such loving hospitality. They could not speak much of that past life and the dear father now dead. They each hastened to change the conversation when it glanced on any subject suggesting tears; they each knew that they dared not begin the weeping of which they could not foresee an end. Star would write to one of their friends in the old place. She took her paper to a far comer of the room, and sat over it a long time. When she brought it back it was only half written, but it could be finished next Sunday. They all agreed that it must be a very good, long letter to be worth the stamp. They did not know that, when she ran out for a breath of evening air, she posted another letter, written secretly as she sat apart. Poor child ! she had been obliged to fling, as it were, her words on the paper ; the secrecy of her act deprived her of place or time for consideration. She had written — " I venture to answer your advertisement. Nothing would induce me to answer it if I were not in great [trouble. I am twenty-four, and have good health. I have had no education that is worth anything in earn- ing money, but I have been brought up as a lady, and i have read a good many books. I believe I am gentle [and courageous. I know I could make a house cosy and comfortable. I love to make people happy. I never J failed in that at home. " My mother, sister, and I came from California a I year ago. My father had died. He had a large fruit farm near San Francisco, and we sold it and put all the money in the bank till mother decided where to invest i^^^ 'J'.r I A^ •* 38 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. it. My mother and sister were both ill, and, as this is my mother's native place, we came here to see a doctor about my sister. When we got here we heard the bank had failed. Nearly all our friends there had lost money too, so they could not help us much, and mother's friends here are all gone. We could not go back, for mother and Richarda were too ill. Our lawyer at home thinks that by-and-by we may possibly recover a little of the money, and that would be something for Richarda ; but mother is dying now, and I cannot support them. It is horrible to live on charity. " What I want to say is this. If, when we meet, you want to marry me, and if you will take care of my mother and sister while they need it, I will be so grate- ful to you ; I will marry you and be devoted to you all my life. They would not need much. If I could have a small house for them to live in, where they could see something better than narrow streets, I would be glad to do all the work and have no servant. I am very clever at housework. I am not pretty ; but most people think I am very nice. I have not known many men, because we lived in the country ; but I know my father, or any of his friends, would have thought it an honour to take care of women like my mother and sister — they are so good. None of the people we have met at the chapel here seem to think so. " I dare say you won't want to answer this letter ; but if you still want to meet me, you must write first and promise to take care of my mother and sister." Her true sentiments showed all the more clearly through the disordered haste of her words. Her strong young pride consorted ill with her need. She had re- [Book I. Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 39 this is I doctor le bank i money , friends )her and aks that of the •da; but Q. It is leet, you e of my 30 grate- o you all uld have ;ould see e glad to ry clever fie think because Ir, or any |r to take sy are so lc chapel IS letter: rrite first » clearly jr strong had re- solved, and threw her poor little fishing-line out boldly into the sea of fate. She did not see how poorly it was baited. She waited the result. She did not throw herself after her line. She knew she had no proof that the advertisement was genuine. She did not lack common sense and resource. She asked her unknown correspondent to write to initials (not her own) at the address of a small shop, whose mistress, a religious woman, neither curious nor communicative, could be trusted to keep that much of her secret. Star had a further plan. Should the answer prove satisfactory, she determined to appoint a meeting in the old parish church between the Sunday services. The church was large and of such architectural interest that whispering parties of sight-seers were always to be seen in its dim interior, when, as on Sunday, the doors were open free of cost. As it stood on the hill, she thought she might, when she reached it, rest for a few minutes. Then, if the man whom she was to meet should accost her, and should not look honest (she hr.d a high opinion of her own judgment), she would walk away without speaking. " I cannot tell a lie," she said to herself. " I can't deny that I made the appointment ; but if I refuse to speak and walk away, he can never be sure that it was I who made it." So reasoned Star, and she put her letter in the box. rr - • ' *J., ■!,■..• 40 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. CHAPTER VI. ' I .' Star called on Monday evening for her answer, but there was none. On Tuesday evening she found it awaiting her. "You are thinking of changing your situation," remarked her friend the shopkeeper, noticing her flushed face. After that Star was afraid to read the letter there. She took it, and walking a bit homeward in the gas- lit street, turned into a book-shop where she knew no one. Her hands trembled so that she could hardly open the letter. The words danced before her eyes, yet they were written in clear, manly hand. I " Dear Madam " (it began), " I thank you for your letter. I honour you for your sentiments, as far as I understand them. I think, however, we cannot tell whether we respect one another till we meet. If I may call upon your mother, and see you in her presence, I shall be happy to do so. " Awaiting your instructions, " Faithfully yours, "Hubert Kent." He gave what might easily be a genuine address. It is natural, when we feel ourselves to be wandering Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 41 from the beaten path, that we should be aroused to try to detect the slightest sign of danger. In the two days that had elapsed since she had written, Star had been representing to herself numberless ways in which the answer might seek to impose upon her. She was ready and anxious to cast aside the communication upon perceiving the slightest hint of presumption or double- dealing, but what was there here to claim suspicion ? It is true that the letter did not contain the promise of help she had required, but the desire to be made known to her mother was praiseworthy. The letter was at once better than she had feared, and less than she had hoped. There was nothing to justify her in retiring from the offer she had voluntarily made ; still less was there in it any of that spontaneous outpouring of a sympa- thetic heart which, in her more childish moments, she had dreamed might possibly be elicited by her own frank letter. Perhaps the greatest deprivations of poverty are the lack of solitude and leisure. Star had a momentous resolution to take, an important letter to write : yet she dared not linger long on her way home ; dared not trust to an opportunity to answer the letter at home ; and she felt that, even then, her presence was an intrusion in the little book-shop, which was about to be closed for the night. What was to be done must be done quickly. She bought a sheet of paper and envelope, feeling guilty in , the expenditure of her penny, and, begging grace from I the stationer, she answered her letter at the counter. " I cannot ask you to come and see my mother," she wrote, " because she would be very much displeased if she knew I had written to you. She is so delicate I n- 42 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. I '■ 1 cannot tell her all that troubles me. I co».»'. .' 54 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. best men do not always possess) for taking initiative in the protection of those under his care. A narrow street, that went crookedly down the hill between ancient houses, was the nearest way home. Star's pace grew quicker, so that Kent had some ado to keep up with her. The rain fell heavily, and the wind drove it ajrainst them. " I could shelter you better," said he, " if you took iny arm." So she took his arm, feeling that to refuse would be absurd. She was still unconscious of the pace at which she was hastening him along. She felt desirous of making some apology, also of thanking him — she felt thanks were his due. She began to wonder at the same moment, with feverish suspicion, if he were in earnest, and, if so, what motive prompted him. In her tumult of thought, in her surprise and bashfulness at finding her hand in his arm, she could get no words — none, at least, that she could speak with composure. At length she faltered — " Why do you promise me this ? Why should you care ? It was a moment before he answered. " Partly because one thing you told me in your letter was untrue." " What ? " " You said you were not pretty." " I am not." " I may not be a good judge " — he spoke quietly — " but / think you are very pretty." " Oh," said Star, and caught her breath. Her sensa- tion was not of pleasure. I Book I] BEGGARS ALL. 55 " When may I see your mother and sister?" he asked. " Oh, I do not know " — with troubled gesture—" what I can tell mother. She must never, never know how I met you." " Will you let me tell her as much of the truth as she needs to know ? " " You ? " she exclaimed. It seemed so strange to think of this stranjjor communicatinjj to her mother anything about herself. They stood at the end of the short street in which was the room that was her home. She said — " We live there — that third house from the other end, and it is the first door to the left as you go in. But you must not come till I can think how you can come." The storm drove against her. Flustered, unable to collect her thoughts, she would have run from him ; but she felt that his arm detained her under the shelter of the umbrella. " You have not told me vour name." He looked down at her, and his glance was ^ ery kind. " Esther Thompson," she answered, like a child answering the catechism. " Take my umbrella, and, when you get home, tell your mother you were caught in the storm ; that a man offered you his umbrella, and said he would call for it. You can truthfully tell her that it was offered most respectfully." He put the umbrella in her hand, clasping her fingers over the handle, for she could not make up her mind to take it from him. She went down the street, almost blown along by l^ff r ; i' LJ. 56 BEQGABS ALL. [Book I. the wind ; but as she went in at her own door she cast one look back. Hubert Kent was walking rapidly away in the driving rain, his coat collar turned up, his head bowed to protect his face from the storm. The whole street — fronts of houses and paving stones — glistened, as water glistens under the moving lights of tiying clouds. Every moveable fragment on wall or pavement was hustled by the wind. Other foot-pas- sengers — there were but few — seemed hustled by it also ; but, as she went hastily in, she received a distinct impression that the man who was bearing the beat of the storm for the sake of giving her some protection from it, was walking on in his own way, and with his own gait, unmoved either by gust or lull. His was a dark figure in the glistening rain. CHAPTER VII. " Mother, I was caught in the rain, and a man came and held his umbrella over me, and then he made me bring it home. He said he would call for it." Esther sat down as far as possible from her mother and sister, to guard them from the damp of her clothes. She was flushed and excited, but that was natural in escaping from the wind and from a stranger. " And did you think it wise to take it from him, my dear ? " the mother asked reproachfully and in surprise. "It was offered — he offered it very respectfully," she faltered. [Book I. Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 57 she cast rapidly i up, his m. The stones — lights of wall or foot-pas- jd by it a, distinct } beat of >rotection with his [is was a lan came lade me mother clothes, itural in I him, my mrprise. Illy," she " Esther can't afford to spoil her frocks now, mother," said Richarda. " Besides, I consider the incident in- teresting and romantic. Was he a nice man, Star ? " Richarda was interested, but the mother looked in real alarm for the answer. " He was — at least, I think he was kind," pleaded poor Star. " He did Qot mean it ill, mother, I think. I can't tell you what he was like, Richarda; I hardly know." That night Star could not altogether maintain the assumed light-heartedness which characterized her manner at home. " Mother, mother ! " she said, sinking down on her knees and encircling her mother's feeble form with loving arms, " would it not be a grand thing if some- thing should happen, and I could take you and Dicksie out to live in the country and see the flowers, and have fresh eggs and milk ? Ever such a little house, with Star always at home with you vvould be like paradise ; wouldn't it ? " They had talked of many things since Star came in with the borrowed umbrella ; the mother had for- gotten it. "Foolish child! " she said playfully. "Why build air castles that cannot be realized ? " Then, more seriously, " We have done all we can for ourselves, and we shall have everything in God's good time, dear heart ; till then, it is our privilege to be content." " Are you contented, mother ? " " I hope I am, and that my Star is also. She ought to be; she has health, and a mother to love her, and a very kind, patient sister." 58 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. " Oh, mother, it is for you I am discontented." A wonderful light came into the mother's eyes ; the light that still shines in earth's noblest souls, the reflec- tion of radiance that shone first so long ago, when the angel host hover-^d over the pasture of Bethlehem. " You have no right to he discontented for me, dear, for I have great happiness." At night, when sleep and darkness had fallen on the room, Star left her mother's side and went, as she had done before, to sit between the dying fire and her sister's couch. A faint, red glow fell on her face, on her nightdress, and the old shawl she had wrapped about her. Richarda awoke with a start. Star, sitting on the floor, leaned her head on her sister's pillow. " I want to ask you," she said, " is mother really happy — think, hajypy — here in this room, living on charity, having us live on charity, you lying here without one beautiful thing to look at, I working in a common shop and coming home at night alone ? You know she would give her life to save us from what we have to bear. She can do nothing. Is she happy ? " " But she is happy. Star. It is mother's way. It's the * joy of God,' you know." She spoke as if alluding to an ordinary quality. " And you, Richarda ? " " Sometimes I am wretched ; but if I want anything most, it is not so much to have things diflerent as to be what she is. When I lie here I sometimes think that is the only real peace." Star put her sister to sleep again as she would have soothed a little child. ^f ■!:!• ( .111 iill [Book I. I" 2yes ; the he reflec- when the em. me, dear, en on the i she had ; and her ICQ, on her ped about fid on her said, " is this room, you lyin^^ I working ht alone ? us from Is she vN'^ay. It's alluding anything ent as to nes think i >"^ Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 69 She herself did not sleep, but sat there trying to realize the events of the day. Had she done wrong or right ? She hardly knew. Looking inward, all things seemed uncertain. Was it only pride and wickedness in her that made her present way of life intolerable ? Was it wrong to be maddened by the thought that all the beauty of the spring might pass, and her dying mother feel none of its reviving force, and her sister die too, perhaps, for lack of it? Ought she to school herself to let them bear all that other poor, not know- ing that of which they were deprived, could bear more easily ? Did virtue lic^ in letting them endure and die, and perhaps be wrenched from one another's love before the end by a cold system of charity, or was she right to rescue them from that at any cost ? At any cost .? Her face set sternly over the question — it had no answer. And what of Hubert Kent ? But on this (question her mind refused even to deliberate. Her faltering answer to " Was the man nice ? " had been, indeed, the mirror of her own mind. She did not know. She dared not think. One detail concerning him, however, her con- fused thoughts grasped as the nearest practical necessity. She must pave the way for his first interview with her mother. She burdened herself with this task. She did not know how to perform it. Duld have fli 60 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. CHAPTER VIII. I ill Star had no sooner opened the door on her return from work the next evening than she perceived that all was not as usual. There was an air of pleasure unusual to the place and its inmates. Another glance showed her flowers on the table near Richarda. That young lady was laughing. Even her mother laughed a little at Star's anticipated surprise. " Star, Star, aren't they lovely ? Keep away. They are all mine and nother's, not yours at all. We have a young man who comes to see us — mother and I." They were indeed lovely, but not expensive ; such things as might be gathered on an early morning walk, if one knew where to find them — primroses, violets, anemones, with cool moss and bits of ivy. Her mother was still busy taking the remainder from the basket, setting the thirsty little stalks to drink in every avail- able receptacle, taking deep pleasure in touching the tiny messengers of spring with loving fingers. Her mother's pleasure in the flowers was so evident, so tender, that Star was stung to the quick by the pathos of the former deprivation which such pleasure betokened. During the day she had relapsed into a half remorseful feeling con- cerning her action of yesterday ; now, she held up her head, rejoicing in what she had done, and nerved to act her part in the little scene here awaiting her. Her sister was regarding her still with laughing eyes. K Book I.J BEGGARS ALL. 61 ( i eyes. " She won't ask where they came from, or whether they were exchanged for an umbrella or not. Oh no, she will not stoop to be curious." Poor Star felt more intensely curious than they could suspect, if not in the anticipated way. She knew too well that only one could have brought the flowers. She did not know how to shape her inquiries about the interview. Yes, the visit she dreaded was past. That which had seemed the greatest difficulty in her way, her mother's reluctance to friendly intercourse with a stranger, had been surmounted without her aid, and the manner in which it had been accomplished gave her a feeling of her own feebleness compared with another's strength. It appeared, when she was able to draw the full account from the laughing Richarda, that the suitor had come armed with no persuasions but what appeared to be the very simplicity of boyish straightforwardness and manly reserve. He had given an account of the Sunday interview, as far as strict truth and the omission of all that would inculpate her in her mother's eyes would allow. Their pact of marriage of course he did not mention. He stated that he, like themselves, v/as friend- less, but he made it clear that he had never been otherwise ; he confessed that he had been a foundling, brought up on charity. He even seemed to have again reiterated that he did not come up to their standard of excellence. He said that he was quite unworthy of tiieir friendsliip, yet he would esteem it an honour to be allowed to serve them as a friend. He implied that Esther was his object, yet he distinctly implied that he was not a fit suitor for her. And, withal, he had not I I r r "f I j ji 62 BEGGAKS ALL. [Book I. appeared to be plausible in manner or speech ; what he said seemed to have been prompted by strong sentiments of truth, and eagerness to be of use. All that he did not say seemed withheld by natural modesty and reserve. In short, a young man less anxious to recommend himself, and more anxious to be of direct and immediate service to his lady-love, had never made an appeal to a parent's heart. Simple and direct as his method of putting himself on a friendly footing with the family was, he had done nothing to startle the invalids; he had shown himself gentle and retiring. He had spent half an hour with these two women, both shy with the shyness that comes inevitably with suffering and confinement, and left them the happier and more light-hearted for his visit. Star blessed him in her heart. " Of course," concluded Richarda, " our ideas con- cerning him are very nebulous as yet. Do you think he really means to come a-courting ? We entirely agree with him that he is not good enough to be an admirer of yours ; but then, you know, when a man affirms his own inferiority, you can't make any further reference to it. I am inclined to think that mother sanctioned the affair." " I gave no sanction to anything," said her mother, growing troubled. " You only opened your motherly heart when you heard he was friendless, and looked hospitably upon him ; didn't you, dear ? " asked Star. " It is quite true that you did not give your sanction," continued Richarda, " but I think he has it, for all that. He stole it from you by a sort of highhanded robbery." Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 63 " There is abundance of time to consider whether we can make a friend of him or not," the mother said. The thought of time restored her composure, which had been ruffled by Richarda's words. To hearts in middle life the thought of time to consider brings tran- ({uillity, as surely as it brings impatience to youth. The word grated on Esther. The flowers her mother was handling so lovingly would soon fade, and whence should they get more ? How was she to obtain for these two ailing ones the health, comfort, and pleasure-giving influences of spring and summer, if time must be given to consider this man's claim to rescue them ? Time ! — and her mother was dying ! CHAPTER IX. Hubert Kent came again twice that same week. The flrst evening Star was detained at the shop, and did not see him. He had talked to Richarda on the subject of her favourite books. He had insisted upon Mrs. Thompson's acceptance of a basket of fresh eggs, packed in a handful of the first, sweet clover from some happ^' spring meadow. " This must not be," said the elder lady gently ; " you must not bring us — " she hesitated a moment, and then said " eggs," for want of a more general term to denote what he had brought and what he might bring. He took back the gift instantly and put it beside his hat. 64 BE6GABS ALL. [Book I. The two women looked at it and at his disappointed countenance. They both knew that the contents of the basket would give the other much-needed nourishment. Each was willing to sacrifice her own pride for the other, but Star must not be compromised. " It is very hard on me," said Hubert Kent. A strong distress marked his face. " What is the good of work- ing from Monday morning to Saturday night if people whom I like are none the better for it ? Am I not to have pleasures like other people because I have been set in the world without any special relation to anybody ? " " There are other pleasures and uses in life besides giving away eggs," suggested Richarda playfully. " No ; I have no relations, no friends. If you will not let me do anything for you my life has neither pleasure nor use." Was this only a strong will that knew how to get its own way, or was there real desire to do them good in his chagrin ? Perhaps both ; but they only saw the distress on his face, and were touched. Richarda held out her hand for the basket. "I will take it if mother will not, but you must remember it is I who take it, not — not Star." Hubert was all good humour in a moment. He put the basket near Richarda, anu nlaced a sprig of flowering clover in her hand. " Why do you call her Star ? " he asked confidentially. Then followed a glowing account of Esther's perfec- tions ; all that she had been in the old home, and the thousandfold more that she had proved herself to be since they had fallen into trouble in a land of strangers. Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 65 must [o put rering Itially. ierfec- id the to be Ingers. Richarda had not meant to talk about her sister or praise her, but Hubert listened with an attention which w as irresistible to sisterly love and pride. Yet after this conversation there had been, or seemed to have been, an implication that he had a right to be interested in Star. " He has stolen my consent too," said Richarda. " He is a terrible thief." Still the mother reposed on that restful feeling of time, the more so that Star expressed no opinion to them concerning the new friend. Her silence seemed to them light-hearted indifference. " She will not take it seriously," said Richarda to her mother ; " but she ought, for he is certainly in earnest. To us Americans his lack of ' family,' which may be said to be entire, ought not to be an insuperable objection. He is evidently able to rise. It is wonderful how well he has educated himself." One distinct benefit Hubert had conferred already ; he formed an inexhaustible subject for thought and conversation to Richarda through the long, suffering days which she was forced to spend in that low room, from which, as Star had said, not even the sky (that part of nature most accessible to the poorest) was visible. The invalid girl, like many w! o are set aside from active participation in the incidents of romance, formed definite theories concerning them, and classified each with an air of authority. " This is evidently a case of love at fii*st sight," she said. At another time she said, " Mr. Kent's plan of lending an umbrella to a girl whose face he liked in a church, and then calling on her people, 66 be:ggars all. [Book I. is at least simpler than advertising for a wife, mother." " Yes, better than that," said the gentle mother ; " he would never have found our Star that way." So transparent had the family intercourse been, that to suspect her child of an unavowed course of action did not enter the mother's mind. When Kent came again on the Friday night Star was at home. The low, bare room, which heretofore liad always had a certain grace in her eyes because of the privacy of love, now seemed to her more than ever an unsuitable abode for her mother. How the fact of having to receive him there bespoke their abject poverty ! She could see that her mother felt it also. Habits of a lifetime of dignity and ease are not easily bent to the yoke of such necessity. Star pleaded fatigue, and sat very silent, her hands folded listlessly on her lap. Kent talked to Richarda, and again about books. When he rose to go Star went to show him out, and, shutting their own door, stood witli him at the foot of the common stair. The outer door was open to the lamp-lit street. The soft spring air came in and tantalized her ; it had none of the freshness of growing green here. Above the roofs of the opposite houses a planet trembled ; behind them was the unsteady light of a gas-jet, flaring half way up the stair. Star stood with her back to her mother's door ; one hand behind lier still clasped the handle. She turned her face to the young man, half beseeching, half defiant. " How are things at the shop ? " he asked ; " getting on better ^ " Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 67 one lurned jfiant. itting " No." He seemed to consider. "I went to see a row of small houses out on the South Road," he said. " They are small, and not genteel ; but they are new, and seem well built and comfortable." He stopped again, and Star said, " Oh ! " in a hope- less sort of way. " I have decided to take one and furnish it. The houses are mere cottages ; one is already taken by a working man ; but better furniture would make a difference. There are fields opposite, and a meadow and a grove belonging to a big house not far off. I think you would like it ; at any rate, this place is not liealthy." He spoke in a decided, slow way, as if anxious that she should follow him. " Now, look here," he went on, and paused to dig his thumb-nail into a crack in the wooden banister (they were neither of them at ease). " Look here, if you will take them out to that house, it won't cost you any more to live than it does here. I can have it ready in a week." " How could we ? " asked Star. " There would be the rent and the furniture." " That's my business." " We couldn't," she said hopelessly. " You could if you would. You would be quite free ; you would not be bound in any way. And then, at the end of the summer, if you still thought as you did on Sunday, then " His voice grew softer with the last word. " Mother wouldn't," she said again ; " and besides, I should be absolutely bound." Her words trembled perhaps more with excitement than feeling, although m 68 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. she was touched by what seemed to her his great kind- ness. Recovering herself after a moment, she added, " I thank you from my heart, but we must just stay here for the present." " That is just what you must not do," he said. " The hot weather is coming on. The drainage in tliis street I find is bad. To your mother and sister, accustomed to fresh air, this room is slow death. You were quite right in estimating it as that when you spoke on Sunday. I wish you would accept my plan ; there is only one other." " And if," said Star wearily, " and if, at the end of the summer, you did not think as you did on Sunday, how should I find money to repay you ? " He gave her a quick, respectful glance. " There is no fear of that," he said. " My mind is made up." " Why ? " No attitude, no face, no word, could have seemed further removed from the idle dalliance of love than hers were. It was a young girl's face, growing visibly older each moment under the strain of deep emotion and anxiety. " I follow my fate," he said. " I have this peculiarity which distinguishes me from other men — I always know my fate when I see it. You constitute all the happiness of life for me. I knew it when I first saw you ; I know it now. " That would seem to me a foolish way of talking in any one else," she said deliberately, " but you are different." " You may believe me." They stood and listened to the footsteps on the stone Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. ()9 of the street ; every minute some one passed the doorway, giving no heed to them, receiving no attention. " Then," said Kent, as if they had had an argument and concluded it, "the only way will be to be asked in church next Sunday — that would give three weeks." " Is that what you want ? " " That is what I want — very much," " Then do that," she said. The words came with a nervous gasp ; she could not find voice to utter them. She opened the door behind her to enter hurriedly. " Are you sure, Star ? " His tone was almost like a cry ; he was so fearful that she would be gone before she heard him, and it came to her like some echo from outer darkness, her brain was reeling. At the narrow opening of the door she turned back a white face and looked out at him. " Quito sure," she said. CHAPTER X. mgm are stone Star looked so very weary that it was not until the next evening that her mother took an opportunity to chide her gently for this colloquy. " Did you think it quite wise, my child, to stand so long at the door with the young man ? " The tenderness of the maternal reproach arrested Star in a train of anxious thought which she was pur- suing as she washed the supper dishes. That day she had met Kent to ratify her consent of the previous 70 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. evening. She was now trying to decide how she would make the communication to her mother which she knew she must make. She had no thought of telling tho whole truth at once ; but part of it must be told. Hero was the opening. How much deceit lies in half tho truth she realized sadly as she spoke. " But, mother, I had hardly spoken to him all the evening. I did not wish him to think I was unkind," " That you were insensible of his kindness — I under- stand that ; but would not a word, a moment, have been sufficient ? I do not wish to find fault, dear child " (tho mother's heart was quickly sensitive to pain she might be giving), " only to let you know that you remained longer perhaps than you were aware of." Little did the mother know how far her daughter had gone beyond the reach of pain at such gentle admo- nition. Her mother's pain was all she thought of. " I did not mean to stay so long, but " — Star moved at her work with nervous celerity — " the fact is, he — he asked me to marry him." " Asked you to marry him ! " The withered face flushed with indignation ; the faded eye kindled. " So soon ! This shows he is no suitable acquaintance for us." Star struggled to argue with apparent calmness. " Circumstances alter cases. He must perceive that it is not very comfortable to receive frequent visits from him here." " He confessed of his own accord that he was not a gentleman," said Mrs. Thompson, with an unwonted touch of sarcasm in her tone. " This certainly proves it." ** When he said that he referred to his position, not not toted Is it. I, not Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 71 to his character. But, mother, what position have we here ? " Mrs. Tliompson si<:^hed deeply. Star's artniment diverted her attention for tlie moment from Hubert Kent's personal (jualities. The future of her daughters often occupied her thoughts. She could not hope much for release from poverty for them in England ; her constant hope was that they miglit return whence they came, when she was passed away, and money enough could be gathered to defray the expense of medical treatment for the suttering Richarda, and for the return journey. But, even then, she knew too much of the fluctuating population of a western city to hope that they would be met by many steadfast friends in their native place. She knew, too, that even there the attention due to penniless girls was different to that given to the daughters of a hospitable house. It was indeed difficult to say what position they could hope to regain. But the heavenly disposition to hope and trust was strong in the mother's heart. She found no words with which to answer her daughter ; none the less was she confident in that old idea, which has ruled the conduct of so many of earth's best minds, that they who love God will not be left long by Him in degrada- tion. Star, seeing there was no answer, followed up her advantage, but went too fast. "Mammy" — with a sweet attempt at playfulness — " there is a little house on the edge of the town, where there is a meadow and a grove. When I marry him, you and Richarda and I are all to go there. Don't you want to go soon ? " »*_ ^T(jwe)«"Wia***»~~« ■wAefcv-*» >~ ■■•• !»•■■»** • «- ■* ~ fc«. 72 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. But the mother heard nothing but that word " when," and the confident tone in which marriage was spoken of. " Oh, my daughter ! " she whispered in shocked tones ; and tlien again, " My daughter ! my Esther ! " With a gesticulation unusual to a serene nature, she rose from her chair and stood with clasped hands, the strength of her heart's sorrow shining through the veil of her physical feebleness. " Esther " — with parental sternness as unusual as the demonstration of grief — " Esther, you did not pledge your word to him ? " " Oh, mother " " You did not, you could not, encourage the advances of a man whom you only met by chance, and who could show himself so devoid of all delicacy as to hint at marriage before a week was out." " Mother, dearest mother, I think he is a man who makes you feel confidence in him." " Confidence ! — in a man of whom you know nothing, who could take advantage of your helpless position to speak of marriage so early ? " " Indeed, I have told my story badly ; I am letting you think unfairly of him. He asked — what he really would like is, that you should take possession of this little house of his, so as to have more air, more comfort for yourself and Richarda ; and then, at the end of the summer — he said distinctly 'at the end of the summer ' — he thought I might know him enough to judge whether I could marry him or not. He expressly said that he would hold me under no obligation. Could I help being touched by such kindness, mother ? " " It was not kind ; it was insulting." .«Kv.,. Book M BEGGARS ALL. 7;j :ting he )11 of nore end the idge said lid I " You forget how poor we arc. An offer of help is not insulting. He was straightforward ; he meant what he said." " But you refused it — you said at once that you could not accept it ? " "Yes; but " " Esther, have you promised to marry this man, of whom you know so little ? " " Yes, mother." " And you have done it for our sakes, my child ? " Tlie eye of love pierced instantly beneath that which appeared untilial, but her pain was unabated. No sorrow in which a young woman might indulge could compare in piteousness with this mother's grief. The searching question, " You have done it for our sakes ? " the turning away of the tottering form ; the involuntary, audible whisper, " Never till now have I felt the bitterness of poverty ; " — all these told Esther that the little arts of love and caressing, the playfulness with which she was prepared to soften her mother's surprise and dispel her opposition, would now be quite useless. She stood frightened and irresolute. She had never before seen her mother in this abandonment of grief. Richarda lifted herself on the couch. Her nerves were little able to bear the strain ; she was becoming alarmed. " Say that you will give it up, Star. Tell mother that you will write to him and take back what you promised." The advice, although it did not move Star's resolu- tion, Lad the effect of bringing some ray of comfort to her mother. She sat down now, looking white and •V^' vwwr 74 BEGGARS ALL. [Book L faint, Imt f^azinjir at Esther, not so much with clisplease dan-d to utter, were brought forward that night on behalf of her purpose. Hei* argument was not, " Jf I do this, you will reap the beneHt." That was hi'V tru(^ motive, but she knew it would not serve her as a plea. Sh(^ nnist maki; the most of her reganl for her lover and of his kindness. Never had she felt how gi'eat his gene'visity was until she now perforce ound together in perfect union of heart and mind. Now there was a false note in the hai'inony. Had any othei* grief than her own conduct trouhhsd her mother, Star wouM have s(H)thed it l»y a thousand pretty caresses; now, gentle and entreating as lu^r mother was, there was a majesty in wounded motherhood, felt rather than seen, which pr<'venteeen soothed ; all this had happened before Star reverted mentally to the conversation that had passed, and to her first astonishment at perceiving that her oomtmnicm was not nnuiy years her senior. He was still holding the reviving pulse of the invalid between his shapely fingers. " You will do nicely now." He smiled to the invalid, who smiled in return. Star knew that the half-caressing cheerfulness of Iiis tone was probably a professional mannerism. She felt that it was pleasant. " You," she })egan, " you are not Dr. Bramwell ? " " Yes, I aui," he said ; " at least, my name is Charles Bramwell. But I am not my father, if you mean that ; I am my father's assistant." " Oh," said Star faintly, " it was the elder Dr. Bram- well who was here before." " Yes ; but he told me about the case. He was in- terestinl. We often have cases in connnon — my father and I." He still spoke with unvarying cheerfulness. He rose and took his hat and gloves, which were lying on the bare floor, where he had put them on entering. " My father is excessively busy just now. I will come back in the morning about eleven." " Thank you," faltered Star. He was gone. Star took his place at the bedside, Soon her mother slept. The gray morning crept in at the window. Star had many thoughts. M ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ m IIIM 1^ iU 112.2 IJ4 11^ 1^ 20 hiui. mm 1.4 1.6 m ^ /}. ^J. o / >^ ^^>. ^ '^.1» ^" ri.*- L

ught. nt of Her n the orood- ints. To be energetic and business-like in pursuance of a certain end does not always (in a woman at least) pre- clude a large amount of agitation in the matter. Marian never thought of shirking the duty of investigating, if possible, the mystery of the letter ; she did not like the investigation. A glance at the Directory showed her that there was truly a Mrs. Couples on the South Road, who let " apart- ments." Her next step was to find the Church district- visitor in that region, and make inquiries as to the standing, religious and otherwise, of the house and its inmates. The information she thus gained, although not large, satisfied her that there was a young man f 'r^mmm - #* .. 134 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. called Tod living there, and that she would risk nothing in seeking a personal interview with him. She saw no other way of proceeding further. She waited an oppor- tunity to make her visit at such time as she might find him. Before she found this opportunity Marian had twici? been out to inspect the furnishing of her uncle's new house, and four times she had driven up and down the dusty suburban road that led to it. This road assumed a very difFerenH ««pect to Marian from what it had done to Esther Thompson. Star, coming from low-roofed, gloomy quartevs, her eyes enamoured of the April morn- ing, her heart beating with the excitement of her risky little venture on the sea of fate, her pulses full witli the health of youth, had seen much to attract in a road which seemed so good-naturedly to lend its width and length to give room and air and light to humble dwellings. Her glance had naturedly sought the garden- plots trim with flowers, rather than those which were neglected, and rested longer on windows which showed clean curtains than on those where dirty blinds hung askew. Coming as far as Mrs. Couples' door, she had thence turned back, thus traversing only that beginning of the road built up like a street. She had hardly dared to glance beyond, where, in the level distance, her eye might have caught the dim outline of trees and fields, where she knew that cottage stood which Hubert Kent had taken. Because she had not dared to look very nearly at this open end of the road it continued to wear a much more rural aspect in her idea than in the reality. Marian, driving in the afternoon sun, looked at the houses through the dust raised by horses and wheels, '■'"-'■■' - '* Book I.] BEQGAES ALL. 135 twice 1 new n the iumed [ done oofed, morn- risky I with , in a width mmble arden- were owed hung le had inning- dared er eye fields, Kent very lo wear eality. lat the heels, and noticed, with quiet disgust, all the untidiness and inelegance of the place and its inhabitants. She watched, with a sort of annoyed fascination, for the number of Mrs. Couples' house ; but her uncle was with her, and, with all the constraint of close companionship in whicli there is no confidence, she feared to let her eyes rest on the house a moment lest he should remark it. To her hasty glance even the carefully tended wallflower and the lilac so early in leaf appeared vulgar and common. Further on she looked at the small row of insignificant houses which formed the end of town in that direction, and remarked to her uncle that whoever lived in them would, in future, be their nearest neighbours. " Neighbours I " he said, elevating his eyebrows ; " not till we or they fall among thieves." " It is nice," she pursued, taking no notice of his loftiness, " to see that nowadays they are building even working-men's cottages with an attempt at good taste. See, the windows are latticed, and there is a little cornice above each door." But before she had finished they had got beyond this little brick row, and in a minute more were rolling up the short avenue that led to the old house in the park, so soon to be her home. A few days after Marian sought the South Road again on foot, at about seven in the bright spring even- ing. Her mind was perturbed by dislike of her errand. The boys and girls playing about were rude and noisy ; the whole population had come to their windows and doors to enjoy the fine weather, and it seemed to her sensitive nerves that they were there partly to gaze at her. 136 BEGGARS ALL. [Book I. When, at last, she stood at Mrs. Couples's gate, she was particularly distressed at wiiat seemed a lack of privacy in the position of the household. There was a young man sowing annuals in the front border; he worked as one at home who was working for pleasure. Outside the doorstep a very stout woman was sitting on a broad wooden chair, having a curious look as though she and the chair had been planted and were immovable. Marian hesitated at the gate. She had come fully aware that the course she pursued must depend some- what on circumstances, and circumstances seemed strangely unpropitious for performing her mission with- out attracting remark. But, though her nervous heart was hesitant, her attitude was decisive in the extreme ; and, moreover, she had donned her most dignified gar- ments, for, like other sensible people, she knew that there is a language of dress. She observed that the young man gardening had a dark, rather attractive face and firmly knit figure. He came toward her in- quiringly. " There is some one of the name of Tod living here ? " Marian appeared to refer to an envelope she carried in her hand to give her the name. It was a nervous feint. " Yes." He set the gate open. " Are you " she began. " Is that your name ? " "Oh no," cheerfully, and with evident interest in her and her errand. Then he signified that the man wanted was indoors, and that he would be willing to bring him out. There was that in his face which made her feel that to have him as an onlooker in the coming interview - *^r*'^^t!«>rT>vAMr• Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 187 the iive in- ?" it in man tg to that view would be unendurable. She refused hi.s aid, and pushed on to speak to the woman at the door. The young man went back to his flower-beds with a good-humoured indifference to her apparent haughtiness, and the woman did not stir, but looked at her, as she came close, with a satisfied smile. " Mr. Tod ? Yes, he's in ; he's after having his tea — yes." Mrs. Couples was more communicative and less breathless when sitting than when standing. She had the same inward way of going on with whai9ver she said in a happy murmur behind the smile until she sai> ip in as I Marian moved into the house with alacrity. She had only a few steps to take from the open door, but the back of the lobby was dark and, had it not been for the suggesti"^ --—■*— " »-^ t^t-yr**"** ■ DOOK I.] BEGGARS ALL. 141 king t of ised first the lane ex- ene re- and tter ing ost hed less on- ver absurd the confusion might be, there was effort after something not all ignoble. She only felt this in- distinctly, yet, in that moment, the humanity in her was touched and brought into play ; she was no longer a woman merely defending her right, no longer merely a cultured mind looking down, critical and displeased at minds beneath her. She began to forget herself, her dignity, and her discomfort ; and, in the first beginning t)f this oblivion, she was conscious of a nervous tendency to inward laughter, so very ridiculous was the effort the 3'oung man was evidently making to decide whether it would be more elegant to continue without his boots, or to put them on before her. But Marian could not stoop to consider this problem with him. She spoke quickly. " Did you make a voyage from America lately ? Is this envelope addressed to you ? " He came towards her now slowly, as if drawn by a sj^ell which caused him to forget the problem concerning the boots in a deeper source of concern. He stood humbly a pace from her and craned his neck over to look at the letter. " Beg pardon, 'pon my life," he whispered earnestly ; and, suddenly taking the letter, he concealed it in his pocket, as if very anxious to put something he was ashamed of out of her sight. Marian could only look her astonishment at his word and manner, and, above all, at this rapid disappearance of a document about which she had intended to make leisurely judicial inquiry. But, receiving no intelligible answer to her glance, she went on severely with the words she had prepared. " It was sent to me first from the shipping-office, to IT [jmmt f i; il; 142 BEGGARS ALL. [Book L whose care it is directed, whither I returned it, dis- claiming all knowledge of it. Now it has come to me from the Dead-lettv^r Oflfice." " Very sorry, 'pon my life," he said again, looking at her so seriously the while that she almost wished he would relax into an appearance of less intense concern. " I saw, to my extreme surprise and displeasure, that the letter bears my own address and signature," she continued, " and, as it also conta.'ned some indication of where you were to be found, I thought it better to ask if you could explain it instead of putting such a foolish matter in the hands of a lawyer. Of course, if you can- not explain it, that will be my only course." She had all the talking to herself; he seemed too distressed to speak. " Do you know something about the letter ? Did you expect to receive it ? Are you aware that I never wrote it ? " "Deeply, painfully aware." The words came with such an energy of trouble that, in spite of herself, she felt sorry for him, although she did not know on what grounds. "Who did write it?" He came half a step nearer, and put his head a Iji f little nearer still. " I did," he whispered. " You wrote it ! " — in astonishment. " To yourself ? " " I wrote it to myself " — still in a whisper, and with a fearful look down the lobby, lest the words might go outward in return for the cheerful street sounds that were entering. " Why did you do it ? " asked Marian. She spoke \k Book I.] BEGGARS ALL. 143 a If?" rith go that )ke now as in old days she had spoken to the delinquents of the schoolroom, not angrily, but with displeased authority. "There's a table on the ship, you know" — he was speaking now in a mild, explanatory way — "in the saloon near the captain's table, and when the ship touches Queenstown, the letters that have come to meet the passengers — it is so awfully jolly, you know, to see a letter lying there addressed to one's self; but I never did," with a sigh. " Many of the fellows in the travelling line like myself, get them" — here another sigh. "And so," with sudden scorn, "you wrote a letter that you might show to your companions and deceive them into supposing that a lady living on the parade had written to you." " Ton my life," looking at her with weak sincerity, " I never meant that living soul should see it." " You could not have hoped to deceive yourself." " It w^as a melancholy attempt," he said, " At self-deception ? " She was too absorbed to notice how pitiless was her authoritative catechism. " At self-deception." The words came like an echo that had caught the trick of human sorrow. It is the habit of the enlightened schoolmistress to invariably administer encouragement with punishment. From mere habit now, having probed the depth of the sinner's wickedness, her manner took a more benevolent tone. " Does no one ever write to you ? Have you no friends ? " He glanced, perhaps unconsciously, but pathetically enough, at the cheap, old banjo, and at the sunset. ■7^w»- ■.-. "WJIlil vif'