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The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes ou les planches trop grandes pour dtre reproduites en un seul clich6 sont filmdes d partir de Tangle suptrieure gauche, de gauche d droite et de haut en bas, en prenant h nombre d'images n^cessaire. Le diagramme suivant illustre la mithode : 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 -tf-t C "L^ <5W» V. ^f <^ CATARRH WOE CURED 1 ikit not by the tiae of the liquida, emuflb, powders, etc. , asuaUy wiferen ^e public as catarrh cures. Some of these remedies may afford tern* porary relief but none have ever been known to effect a permanent cure. The reason for this is that these so-called cures do not reach the seat of the disease. To cure catarrh you must reach the root of the disease and remove the original cause of the trouble. NASAL BALM is tiie only temedy yet diRCovered that will do this. It never fail$, and in even thiis most aggravated cases a cure is certain if NASAL BALM is persistently used. It is a well-known fact that catarrh in ninety-nine cases out of every hundred originated from a cold in the head, which the sufferer neglected. NASAL BALM affords immediate relief when used for cold in the head. It is easy to use. recjuiring no douche or instrument, and is soothing^ cleansing and nealmg. As positive evidence that .catarrh can be cured by the use of NASAL BALM, we submit the fol* lowing testimoniala from among hundreds similar in our possession :-^ Mr. Horatio Collier, Woollen Manu- P. H. Munro, Parry Sound, says :— facturer, Camerontown, Ont., states ; Nasal Balm has uo eaual as a remedy Nasal Balm is the only positive remedy for cold in the head. It is both speedy for catarrh that I every used. and effective in its results. Miss Addie Howison, Brockville, Ont. .says : I had catarrh for years, my head was so stopped up I could not breathe through my nostrik. ^ My breath was ^very impure and continiiafly sa^ Noth- ing I could get jgave me any relief until using Nasal Balm. From the very first it gave me relief and in a very short time had removed the accumulation so that I could breathe freely through the nostrils. Its effect on my breath was truly wonderful, purifjring and removing .every vestige of the unpleasant odor, which never returned. D. S. McDonald, Mabou, C.B., writes : Nasal Balm has helped my catarrh very much. It is the best remedy I ever used. Mr. John Foster, Raymond, Ont, jxrrites : Nasal Balm acts like a charm for my catarrh. I Lave only used it a short time and now feel better than at any period during the last seven years. In fact I am sure of a core and at very small expense, ^ D. Derbyshire, president of the Onta- rio Creamery Association, says : Nasal Balm beats the world for catarrh and cold in the head. In my own case it effected relief from the first application. Mr. John R. Wright, representing Messrs. Evans, Sons and Mason, whole, sale druggists, Montreal, says:— Nasal Balm cured me of a long standing case of catarrh after many other remedies failing. BE WAR E of I M ITATI O N S.^a^JfJ-OS*^ NASAL BALM .rem its wonderful curative properties has induced certain un- scrupulous parties to place imitations on sale, closely resembling the style of our Sarkage, and with names similar in sound. Beware of all preparations styled [asal Cream, Nasal Balsam, etc., they are fraudulent imitations. Ask for Nasal. Balm and see that you get it. ^ If you cannot obtaiii NASAL BALM from your dealer it will be sentpost-paM .A raneipt of price, 50 cents and ji, by addressing, FULF^ORD &. CO., BROCKVILLE., ONT Oaipamnnfet " Obms or Wiaoon " sent frse on applicatio»- In Touch Id. Sweetness In DurabiHty ^ In Workmanship Holds more Gold Medals and Awards than any other Piano in Canada. WARRANTED IN EVERY RESPECT. Five Years' Guarantee with Each Instru- ment. LOWE8T^PRICB8. EASY TgRMB. Sole AL.f£eixoy Toronto Temple of Music Jr S« POWLEY A CO. 68 King St W. Toroiito, Out. U -fT FAVOUR AND FORTUNE ^ NobH BY THE AUTHOR OP •'JACK URQUHARrS DAUGHTER ••Who will not t)e ruled by the rudder, mu%t be ruled by the roek.»» Swdiih Pro9tfK TORONTO : WILLIAM BRYCE, PUBLISHER. Ei.tcrea acooraine to Act of the Parliament of Oanafla In the voar one CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A DBSJOINTBD HOUSEHOLD . , ^ , . '**7 CHAPTER II. , ^^ A VBRT SENSIBLE BNOAGBMENT , , , , . 19 CHAPTER III. Tony's romance. • • . , , .37 CHAPTER IV. a bad beginning , . . . , , ^ 5g CHAPTER V. DIVBBOIKO LINBB ....... 69 CHAPTER VL ■noaobd with a client . . , , 39 CHAPTER VIL nrm w dibgiuoi . , . , , ^ , 108 -. -S^ f 6 CONTENTS CHAPTER VIIL A TR0UBLE80MB OHAROB . . • • • .117 CHAPTER IX. "ruin" . . • • 124 CHAPTER X. BARBARA . • , • • 137 CHAPTER XI. Tony's visitor • 149 CHAPTER XII. HOW OLD FRIENDS MEBT . . . « « .163 CHAPTER XIII. Barbara's history 176 CHAPTER XIV. THB SBORET OF TRUB LIVINQ « « , . .184 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE CHAPTER L A DISJOINTED HOUSEHOLD A fool's lips enter into contention ; Death and life are in the power of the lips. Fbotibbs. SMALL house in a small crescent in tlie prosaic precincts of Bayswater, does not form, one might say, part of the environments of an heroic life ; but, looked at in a certain light, there is, doubtless, a story to be unwound in efVeiy human existence which — however trivial in detail and flat in outline it may seem at a casual glance — is yet a voyage from the unknown to the unknown, and fraught with wonderful possibilities and risks. In such a house as I have mentioned, then, my heroine was bom and lived for twenty years of her life. She was the eldest of three children who, having early lost their father, were left with their widowed mother in rather narrow circumstances, or, as the latter was wont to observe every day, in straits of abject poverty, which deprived her of all she had a right to expect as a lady of good birth. Mrs. Milner pitied herself in a thoroughly sincere and com- prehensive manner, and never wearied of enlarging upon her undeserved ill-fortune in ever having met Mr. Milner, 8 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE in losing him so early, in being left with three children, in having a boy's education to superintend, and in having two daughters — portionless daughters — not only to feed and to clothe, but also to marry. On the day upon which I wish to introduce Mrs. Milner to ydu, she was sitting alone in the twilight, knitting. It was November, and the weather was bitterly cold ; and, as she drew her chair nearer to the fire and held up her work so as to form a screen for a face that had never po5 essed any beauty, save that of colouring (she was still very c .reful of her complexion, and terribly afraid of getting it injured by exposure to the adverse influences of either heat or cold), she began to turn over many domestic matters in her mind. Grievance after grievance was aired and lamented, but that upon which she dwelt the longest was the grand difficulty of getting her daughters off her hands. There was three years' difference between the girls, the respective ages of Miss Fortune and Miss Favour being twenty and seventeen. They had had the ill-luck — poor things ! — to be named after a pair of twin aunts, of Puritan extraction, from whom there had been expectations, hitherto unfulfilled, and now almost hopeless. They were attractive-looking girls, sufficiently well made, well featured, anii pleasantly coloured to be considered, by some, remarkably pretty ; and, indeed, with money and judgment expended upon their appearance, they would have passed muster in the higher ranks of good looks, especially Fortune, the elder sister, whose style was decidedly better than that of Miss Favour. One of Mrs. Milner's first grievances had been the name of that eldest daughter. Could she allow the servants to call her Miss Fortune ? Was her child to grow up a laugh- ing-stock, and perhaps to have her prospects blighted, just to gratify a stupid whim of Mr. Milner's? Who cared anything about a Puritan ancestry ? Why, the Puritans I i. ! A DISJOINTED HOUSEHOLD f were dreadful people, who hated the King and the Court, and amusement, and dancing, and going out, and everything that was right and proper and pleasant, and who dressed like frumps. Puritans, indeed ! If the Milner ancestral tree could have shown a Duchess or even a Countess on its branches it might have been worth while to namo one's daughter after her. But after an old Puritan great-aunt ! However, the question was settled, and very soon. Miss Milner was christened, as her papa desired, Fortune ; but her mamma's fear concerning the servants was never realised. Like hundreds of other English girls, Fortune Milner was never called by her Christian name, and very few people out of her own family even knew what it was. In the nursery she was called Miss Tunie, and as she grew older Tunie gradually passed into Tony, and it was by this somewhat boyish appellation that Miss Fortune Milner was now universally known. But it was not upon the vexed question of Chr***^-:-*' names that Mrs. Milner's thoughts were ninnir ^at afternoon. A weightier matter occupied her now ; marriage ! Where was a distracted mother to find two husbands who could support penniless wives in the station she expected for her daughters ? They had had admirers without end, for they had been allowed to extend their acquaintance in any fashion they pleased, and to go to as many juvenile parties as they could get invitations for; and some of Willie's schoolfellows had big brothers who somehow found their way to No. 5, and who met the girls in their walks in Kensington Gardens and elsewhere ; but all these invitations and parties and walks had only led them to fresh acquaintances and to greater expense in dress — not to husbands. Mrs. Milner mentally recalled all the youths she knew, and found them all equally hopeless as matters of speculation. She and her girls had been at a dance the previous evening, where she had had the bootless satisfac- tioaof seeing that her daughters excited a great deal oi F 10 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE ■ i admiration, and that they got more partners than they could provide dances for ; but that went for nothing. Tony was twenty now, and this kind of thing had been going on for three years, and nothing more had come of it — nay, rather worse than nothing ; for had not that worth- less Levinge appeared and disappeared, and had not Tony's fresh looks been dimmed ever since her ridiculous flirtation with that young scamp ? Mrs. Milner hoped every one had forgotten it but herself, and felt more and more ill-used as she reflected upon the change which she could not help noticing in Tony. It was perversity ; it was natural wickedness and temper ; it was a reckless damage to her own prospects ; it was childish folly, if that indeed accounted for her loss of complexion and spirits, as some provoking, disagreeable relatives declared it did. Now, where were those girls? Tramping all over London, she supposed, in the mud and dark. Too bad of them ! The sisters had indeed acquired the very uncommend- able habit of taking immensely long walks and staying out after dark in winter ; but a disinterested observer would have said that it was clearly in Mrs. Milner 's province to prevent any such doings. She, however, never foresaw anything for good, and only interfered with the girls' pro- ceedings in a captious, irregular, and totally unreasonable manner, prompted by the mood she happened to be in at the moment. They took a large margin of liberty to them- selves, and in the most unexpected hour suddenly found they were in deep disgrace, and were in the midst of a squall of reproaches, accKsations, and bitter words ; which, although forgot next day by their mother, left a sad and scathed track behind ihem which no a^^er-change could efface. Fortune was better able to forgive these outbursts than Favour, for she had a more generous disposition than her sister ; but they made less impression upon the latter, as \ A DISJOINTED HOUSEHOLD 11 she, being as unreasonable as her mother, did not grasp the full injustice of them. Such training, or absence of training as theirs had been, does not produce noble characters ; no high standard had ever been held up before them ; nothing but the flattest commonplaces had ever fo- : 1 the family talk ; and they had never heard praise .^ {"red upon any one except for something appertaining to o ward appearance. Home was not a happy place. Mam i was tiresome ; Willie was always a plague ; and they could never keep a decent servant for more than a few months. Nobody who could escape from them would put up with Mrs. Milner s foolish, un- reasonable complaints. At 5, Hillsborough Crescent, grumb- ling was to be heard from morning till night, from mother, daughters, or domestics, and sometimes from the whole household simultaneously. One fruitful source of discontent with the girls was their mother's repeated refusal to grant them the luxury of five o'clock tea. It was an unnecessary expense, she told them ; and, goodness knows, she l^ad enough expense that she couldn't avoid to meet. The stocking-knitting proceeded rapidly in the twinkling firelight, and Mrs. Milner was nursing up a strong fit of peevishness with which to receive her daughters, when a visitor was announced, and Mr. John Challoner entered. Away flew Mrs. Milner's gathering clouds ; for the young and prosperous-looking man, who was taken so warmly by the hand and invited to sit down by the fire and have a comfortable chat, was the junior partner in a rich and highly-esteemed firm of solicitors — the firm which had always been employed by the families of Mr. and Mrs. Milner, and in whose charge the will of the surviving aunt, Miss Favour Milner, was deposited. Of the contents of this all-important will Mr. Challoner himself knew nothing ; he had not long been made a partner, and many secrets were locked in the bosom of that great man, the senior partnec» in which he had no share. 1^ f >• i ! 18 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Mr. John Challoner looked thoroughly intelligent as well as honest and self-respecting, and there was an eager, i:espectful interest in his bright brown eyes when he was talking to a lady, Q,nd an air of thoroughly knowing his own business when the other sex was concerned, that made him popular with the one and respected by the other. He was, in the best sense of the term, " a good fellow." He seemed a little nervous to-day, however, and, after a hasty glance round the room, as if he expected to find somebody under a sofa or behind a curtain, he cleared his throat and re- mai'ked — what was a palpable thing — that the young ladies were not there. The aggrieved monotone was to be heard in Mrs. Milner's voice as she replied : "No, indeed, they are still out this very cold, dark afternoon," and then suddenly, by one of those instincts which sometimes flash through the density of even stupid people, an idea broke upon her mind, and in a different key she continued: "Of course, I know they are hurrying home as fast as they can — poor children ; but the days close in so rapidly now that it is dark before — before one knows where one is. My girls do enjoy their walks so much, Mr. Challoner ; and when they come in they make me scream with laughing with their accounts of all they have seen and done. They are such entertaining com- panions, although they have little enough amusement, I am sure, and I don't intend to complain, but sitting here alone I get a little fidgety about them sometimes, fearing they might catch cold ; and there are so many horses about in the streets, an accident might happen any time, and I can't afford, Mr. Challoner, to give them new dresses every time they spoil theirs in the rain, and girls, as you know, dear Mr. Challoner, are not always thinking of these little matters. Ah ! I sometimes say no one would wish to be a n^other if they knew the anxieties." How long Mrs. Milner might have run on in these dia- A DISJOINTED HOUSEHOLD 13 jointed sentences no human being can guess ; but Mc. Challoner, who had been vainly endeavouring to stem the tide with assents which led to nothing further, now resolutely broke in : " I am glad to find you alone, Mrs. Milner," he said, " for the fact is, I have something to say which I should not have been able to say before your daughters. I don't want to — to be abrupt, but at the same time I am most anxious to get it said before I am interrupted. You are aware that, through the kindness of the uncle to whom I have owed my education and start in life, I have now become a partner in our firm, and, finding myself well able to provide comfortably for a wife, my chief object is now to — to settle — and — in — short — may I say that I have long admired your elder daughter, and if she should not un- fortunately have formed any other attachment — and you wei*e to give your consent — I should hope — I should try to gau 'lers. She has known enough of me by this time to allow of my beginning upon the footing of a friend rather than upon that of a stranger. What do you say, Mrs. Milner?" " What, indeed ! " Recovering fi-om a shock of surprise, joy, bewilderment, and almost incredulity, Mrs. Milner gasped out : " You do, indeed, take me by surprise, dear Mr. Challoner — so very unexpected — I never observed you take any particular notice of my little Tony." " Well, you see, I did not feel myself justified in doing so until I could see my way clear ; that was my idea, at least. I have always said that I don't know how a man can dangle about a girl when he has nothing to offer her, and, maybe, is standing in her light all the time, and spoiling her life. No, I've seen your daughter at intervals for some years now, Mrs. Milner, and, though I never came to the house, or followed her about, I thought of her and of no other. I'm not given to falling in love ; I was rather a shy youngster with ladies ; but I hope my wife would think %^ 'fl^ rg *—"* to I 14 FAVOUB AND FORTUNE II • -< I j [ i all the better. Now, Mrs. Milner, do you give your consent ? May I come to your house and endeavour to get Miss Tony to like me ? " Here, at any rate, was an honest wooer, and as his intended mother-in-law looked at him standing straight and square in front of the fireplace, and listened to his crisp, energetic words, which rang like true coin (as they were), a true and human delight swelled up within her, and choked her utterance for a minute. She rose and took his hand. " Mr. Challoner, I'm surprised, I'm pleased, I'm happy. I am sure you will make a most excellent husband, and I do indeed give my consent. Tony is a lucky girl. I only hope poor Favie will be as fortunate." " Thank you, thank you. Now, Mrs. Milner, there is only one question I want answered. I told you I never was in love before. I can bring my wife the first of my love, and I do want the assurance that I may hope for the first of hers. I've seen a good deal of misery come from a girl marrying the wrong man, when there was another she really . cared for behind the scenes, and I couldn't go in for anything of that kind. I shall be at my office all day, and I don't want to think my wife has plenty of time to fret over an old love, or that the old love may be dropping in to luncheon, and so on, or that there is a good long page in my wife's past life which is a secret to me. I'm not, I hope, a jealous fellow, or unreasonable, but this is a strong notion of mine, and it's a bit of advice, too, that my old uncle gave me before he went back to Melbourne, and which I always meant to act upon. I remember his saying ^ Jack, some day you'll be wanting a wife — well ! remember this ! you'd better thrust your head into a hornets' nest than marry a girl who has an old love knocking about somewhere — it's the deuce and all, that is ! ' So I supposed he'd had some uncomfort- able experiences upon the subject, and I just promised to attend to what he said, and he reminded me of it again before I left the deck of the steamer which took him off." A DISJOINT ED HOUSE EOLD 15 Here was a second shock to Mrs. Milner, and this time of a disagreeable nature ; but it was rapidly merged into a deep and unexpressed hope that Tony would not be so mad, so wicked, so foolish as to mention that scamp, young Levinge. Fortune's mamma was one of those unscrupulous women who, without any talent for scheming, or habit of telling downright falsehoods, would so dress up and varnish every bit of truth, that it turned into something quite unlike itself She had that subtle spirit of insincerity which is falser than the biggest lie. She would have sworn black was white in such a cause as the present, and commended herself for doing so ; therefore, without hesitation, she replied : *' Dear Mr. Challoner, Tony is, you know, very young, and has had no opportunities of forming an attachment. I will not say that she has not had foolish boys to admire her ; but that is a very, very different thing. I quite agree with your uncle, who is, I am sure, a most sensible person, and I am happy to assure you that you need fear nothing of that kind with my daughter. Perhaps the one thing to be rejoiced at in our poverty is that I have been compelled to keep my children under my own eye." This was one of the many falsehoods that Mrs. Milner had repeated so often, that she had at length grown to believe in it herself The anxiety visible in John Challoner's face cleared up instantly. He no more doubted Mrs. Milner's word than he would have suspected her of a design to abstract his cigar-case or his purse from hia pocket. He was, indeed, a happy man ! "And now, Mrs. Milner, when may I come and see your daughter ? " he asked. " I suppose I had better be guided by circumstances about mentioning the — the subject? And perhaps you had better not say anything about my proposal to her yet. She ought to be prepared. Let me wait until she knows me a little better." "Oh, whatever you like, Mr. Challoner. Tm sure lili '»m/fmm 16 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE ' m you will manage it all very nicely. And pray drop in whenever you please. But you must be prepared to take us just as we are. I know you won't mind our very, very quiet, plain ways. Once upon a time I should have minded them very much myself. Ah ! if I could but have foreseen ! As I very often say tx) myself, Mr. Challoner, 'if we could only all of us foresee.'" (John Challoner thought that the power of prescience mighi very probably make some difference in the course of affairs ; but his companion would not even give him the chance to acquiesce in her remarks.) " It is no use grumbling, is it ? " she continued ; " and all that I really care for in life is to see my children better off and happier than their poor mother has been. You know, you can always let me have a post-card to say when you are likely to appear, Mr. Challoner, because if we should happen to be out or to be engaged I should be so sorry > Yes ; then I shall expect to see you frequently, very frequently." " May I come in on Sunday afternoon ? " " Certainly ; and I will see that the girls don't go- fljdng off to Westminster, or St. Paul's, or the Park. Tea on Sunday then. That will be very nice." " Then, good-bye for the present, and— and you don't know how happy you have made me, ]\ s. Milner. You see it is no use a man having a good income, and gooa health, and plenty of work that interests him, if he has no home. I never had a home ; my parents died before I can remember, and a bachelor uncle brought me up. I had no sister or any woman to care for me ; and that is, I suppose, what makes me so shy and stupid in a business of this kind. But I shall get over my awkwardness in time, I've no doubt. Men may say what they please ; but, sooner or later, they all want a home of their own and some one to work for. A happy home like this!" he continued, looking admiringly round upon the wax flowers and fruiti the Berlin wool-work, the antimacassars, the A DISJOINTED HOUSEHOLD 17 Irop in to take y, very d have lid but If, Mr. (John might irse of ^e him no use '. really bappier ou can 3 likely ►pen to Yes; ently." n't go- Tea don't You gooa le has )efore e up. lat is, siness ss in ; but, 1 and " he owers , the very sham lace, and the cherry-coloured, papery satin bows, with which Mrs. Milner's drdwing-room was profusely decorated : — " what a thing to have before one at the end of a hard day's work, and all through a quiet Sunday ! " Mrs. Milner at that moment believed that her home was a happy one, and with a smile and a sigh answered : " Yes, indeed, dear Mr. Challoner, wealth does not make home happy, nor poverty prevent its being so." Then the young man took a hearty leave, and walked away light-hearted and contented, and rejoicing over the treasure he had found. He had scarcely turned the corner when the two girls returned ; they had had tea with a friend, and had come away directly, so they felt they had been very good ; and having had a very pleasant afternoon, were in cheerful frames of mind. They found their mother, as may be supposed, in an answering mood, and instead of Tony being scolded for not talking, and Favie for chattering, all was harmonious until a ring at the door-bell drew from Favie the exclamation that " there was that tiresome Willie ! " and then the girls ran off to their own room. It was not Willie, however, whose feet ascended the stairs, but Mrs. Milner's late visitor returned. " I beg your pardon for coming back, Mrs. Milner," he said, smiling ; " but on remembering that Sunday will be the 13th, I found that I was obliged to go down to Dorking on that day, and so I want to know what other afternoon would suit you as well ? " "L really think, Mr. Challoner, there is no time like the present ; the girls have just come in, and if you will stay here I will send Tony down to you." " Oh, no ; I could not think of turning you out of your drawing-room, Mrs. Milner ! " exclaimed John Challoner. But Mrs. Milner tcould go to the door. " Girls, where are you ? " she called out. Whereupon a voice answered 'Li 18 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE from the dining-room, where, as they were not allowed a fire anywhere else, Fortune and Favour were fond of lingering that they might have their talk to themselves. " They are downstairs," said the anxious mother. " Then let me go down, I will manage it," replied the young lawyer, and, without another word, he ran down- stairs, opened the dining-room door, and said : " Miss Favour, Mrs. Milner wants you in the drawing-room." The two girls looked at him in surprise ; Favie ran out quickly, he holding the door open for her. Then he shut it and came over to the lire. "You ought to have been a doctor, Mr. Challoner/* said Tony. • " And why, Miss Milner ? " *' Because you are so cool — and what do you call that long word beginning with a p ? " "I'm afraid you mean peremptory," answered John Challoner, with his pleasant smile. Tony was seated on the dining-room table with her hands clasped in her lap. She had a moody, melancholy expression which was not rare with her, but which was not pleasant to see on so young a face. She was quiet and graceful though in her movements, and John Challoner did not admire her the less because there was a want of finish about her -a decided girlishness which has frequently dis- appeared by the time a London girl reaches twenty, while it lingers much longer with her country cousins. She would not sit on the dining-room table when she was Mrs. Challoner, nor wear that listless air when she was entertaining guests — ^in her own house. And, for the present, Mr. Challoner looked with deepened interest at the pretty face and figure betore him, and cherished romantic hopes. I CHAPTiil 11. A VERT SENSIBLE ENGAGEMENT And each day brings its weight of doat, Our soon -choked souls to fill ; And we forget, because we must, And not becaabe we will. ISS MILNER, I have something to say to you," he began; and then he stopped short. Tony looked up, and slipped from the table to her feet. ** You are going to say that I should not sit upon a table when there are chairs to be had," she observed, quoting an oft-repeated rebuke of her mother's —"but it is comfortable," she added, "and I have always done it." " Pray sit where you please," said John Challoner ; *' only listen to me. What I have to say will require you to give it your full attention." " Is it anything disagreeable, Mr. Challoner ; anything about money ? Surely we cannot be going to be poorer than we are ? " There was a harassed look in the girl's face which pained the young man. *' No, no ; nothing of the kind ! It concerns yourself only ; or, at least, that is all you have to consider, and— oh, Miss Milner, I am such a wretched hand at an ex- 2 20 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE planation, and I am so anxious not to frighten you by my abruptness. What shall I do?" *' Say as shortly as possible what you want." " Miss Milner, I want to ask you to be my wife, and 1 want you to take time to consider the proposal, because I know very well that it will take you by surprise." The girl looked half stunned. She did not move, but gazed down at her clasped hands or the floor ; and John Challoner waited, and waited patiently, but with self- restraint, for the answer. A deep sigh was her first utterance ; she looked up at him. " Are you sure ? You know so little of me," she said out of her deep wonder. " Quite enough to think that you and none other are the wife I must choose to make me happy. Could I, do you think, make you happy ? " " I cannot tell you all of a sudden like that. I should have to say no ; it is the first word that comes." " I will not take the first word, for I want you to know more of me, to get to like me, if possible, to understand the love I offer you, anu gradually to take pleasure in the thought of a new home — of course you cannot tear yourself away from your old one in a hurry." " Oh, my home is not — it would not break my heart to leave that," exclaimed Tony, almost passionately. " Of course, I don't mean Favie, I should always want to see her — and to have her with me wherever I went. We quarrel — not very often, though — but we have been together all our lives. We have played, and had lessons, and been punished together — and though that is long ago — oh, very long ago for me — yet those are things which no one forgets. And Favie is not very wise, but she is — she was — she is my only friend. I have no great friend besides." How Tony stammered over those latter words ! But it all seemed right and lovely to John. A VEET SENSIBLE ENOAOEMENT 21 rou by my ife, and 1 because I move, but and Joliu with self- )ked up at me," she I other are ould I, do I should a to know nderstand ure in the I yourself rt to leave course, I r — and to -not very our lives, punished long ago ts. And i my only ow Tony 1 seemed " I could give you a good many of those things which I suppose women like," he went on, persuasively. "You mean a carriage, and horses, and balls, and dinner-parties ? " she said, interrogatively. " Well, yes ! and other things — books, pictures, pretty things. And I could take you abroad ; to Italy, to France — to see any place you chose — if you care for that sort of thing ? " *' That sounds better. Sometimes I think that a big house with a crowd of servants would be troublesome." " I am not, of course, very rich ; I work for my living ; but I could give you a comfortable home in London, or in the country, within reach of London — whichever you pre- ferred. I am my uncle's adopted son, and he is a rich man, so we need not be anxious about the future." " I should never be that," said Tony. Perhaps at forty she would not have made that remark. ** You don't dislike me, do you ? " John asked, taking her passive hand in his. "I like you, Mr. Challoner; I always did," she answered, and she looked at him with an expression in her dark-gray eyes which he tried in vain to read. There was some struggle going on within ; some hard, confused struggle in the dim recessv of her mind. What was true and good? What false and evil? Who should show her which path to take, and which to refuse? and why to choose ? How was she to come at a right judg- ment, or any judgment at all ? Circumstances had hemmed her in ; fate had taken her as a whirling blast of wind takes a handful of dead leaves. Was there Lny firm ground in life? Was there such a tiling as true love, as a happy home, as perfect trust between two human beings ? Was a door of escape opening for her away from her mother's injustice and capricious temper ; away from a dirty, noisy, spoilt schoolboy brother ; away liiir 22 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE i from second-rate, shabby-genteel, would-be smart society ; from miserable pretence, from sordid shifts, from bad servants, from stinted pleasures, from London in August and September, from a dead weight of weariness, which almost always made life seem upon the verge of being unbearable ? And if such a door was open, should she not spring through it into a new world, a happy, bright world of love and liberty, wherein all should be forgotten ? She did not put into words what it was that must needs be forgotten, but she began to pant for — freedom ! " Mr. Challoner," she said, " I do not know what made you think of this." ** I suppose no one can tell that. No one can say why, among fifty pretty girls, only one should attract and rivet a man. I dare say it ca7i't be explained, or the explanation would leave it just where it was before. I love you, though I always thought I admired very fair girls. I want you just as you are, and if you marry me, you will fill up every cranny and nook in my heart ; you will fill it right up to the brim, and that is the sort of feeling one wants. Tony, dear, say you will marry me." " I think if you are so foolish as to wish to marry me — a girl without beauty, accomplishments, or money — a girl from a house like this " she, too, looked round her, but with a sad contempt in her look. " If this really will make you happy, why — I think you are a good, kind man, and I should be mad to refuse." He took her then and kissed her, and as he did so he wondered, with a pleased wonder, how long it was since he had kissed any woman's face. And she ? It sent a pang through her — sharper than she had thought she could ever feel again— remembering the rain of passionate kisses from boyish lips which would never touch hers any more for ever ! John Challoner did not ask her one word of those inquiries he had made of her mother. Her word w&3 art society; from bad in August ness, which ?e of being )uld she not )right world tten? She at needs be what made m say why, and rivet a explanation ^ou, though I want you [vill fill up ail it right one wants. larry me — ley— a girl id her, but ■ will make nan, and I J did so he s since he nt a pang she could late kisses any more of those word was 5 A VERY SENSIBLE ENOAOEMENT enough. He was a modest, siiraightforward, practical man, with more heart than he suspected himself, although he had on the whole a very just estimate of his own character. His imagination was that of the average Englishman, whose whole training, as well as the avocations of his life, leaves little room for the culture of that portion of the mind ; 'and yet his imagination deepened his emotions, and coloured his existence insensibly to himself, and had had no small part in his choice of a wife. He knew very little of Tony Milner, but there was a something looking through her shadowy gray eyes, moulding her delicate features, and hiding in the tones of her voice that appealed so strongly to the higher and deeper part of his nature that he felt that unless he could have her for his wife — unh ^ he could blend and fuse his interests and hers tQgether — he should miss what would make him both a better and a happier man. It was to be hoped that a few more years of his brain-sharpening profession might assist him in studying character, for that he should have believed in Mrs. Milner appears rather a slur upon his perceptions. "I should like to have a long day with you," John Challoner said presently. " Will you come out somewhere with me, dear? This is not the time oi year for the country, but we might manage something, so as to get to I'uow one another better. I feel as if there was so much to be said, and talked over, and I want you all to myself" "I'll go where you like, so long as it is not to the British Museum," answered Tony. " But the days are very short ; hadn't we better ivait until they lengthen ? " John looked astonished, and then laughed. " By the time they begin to lengthen," he said, I shall hope to havft a home ready for you, and to have you in it. There is no possible reason for delay, and I should be so much obliged if you will look at some houses with me. I should like to begin to put things in train at once." " I think you had better get mam^a to do that with fy^ II i ■ ' i ill 24 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE you ; there is nothing pleases her more. I don't know anything about good houses or bad, and I don't know that I care." " You will when your own is in question. May I call for you at two o'clock to-morrow and take you out for the afternoon ? " ** Oh yes, if you like." " And will you be ready, if possible, when I come, that wo may not lose the best part of the day ? " Tony said she had no objection, and soon after this the lovers parted, and then, as John Challoner walked slowly bade through the muddy streets to his lodging in Gower Street he became aware of a dull sensation to which he could not give a name. He was experiencing none of that joyous elation of spirit which he considered ought to have come naturally under the circumstances. Moreover, he suddenly remembered that something had seemed to shut up all approach to lover-like talk between him and his af&anced wife. They had only spoken together of the commonplace matters which any other two people might have discussed. Now he tried to comfort himself by calling this coldness on Tony's part shyness ; but, in truth, there was no sort of shyness in her behaviour, apart from her first nervousness. The shyness of a ^ew joy, too good almost to be true, had certainly not been there. He accounted for that, however, by saying that he had never made those approaches to her which are the evidences of laying a siege, but had suddenly, and without any ordinary preparation, made his ofter ; and now he almost wondered why Tony had accepted him for a moment. Thus he settled the question of her coldness by making out to his own entire satisfaction that a really nice girl requires her warmer feelings to be called into play by love-tnaking on her lover's side, and that the liking that MidS Milner had acknowledged for him was all he could even wish for at this early stage in the proceedings. Then A VERY SENSIBLE ENGAGEMENT 25 don't know *t know that May I call I out for the I come, that sifter this the alked slowly mg in Gower to which he none of that ight to have \loreover, he 3med to shut lim and his jther of the eople might his coldness as no sort of lervousness. )e true, had at, however, iches to her d suddenly, offer ; and d him for a coldness by really nice ito play by liking that 1 he could gs. Then he began to wonder what sort of a futur he should make, and to wish with all his heart that the engagement might be a very short one, as he had no doubt at all that he should make an excellent husband. Tony had sent him away without allowing him to see her mother again. She had promised him to tell Mrs. Milner of the engagement herself — which she was perfectly prepared to do ; but she could not bear the anticipation of the scene which she pictured to herself taking place if she were to walk into the drawing-room with John Challonei', and then and there announce the fact of their engagement. Her motLjr's mock sentiment, disjointed volubility, assumed high^mindedness, and evident pettiness would have caused her the bitterest shame and discomfiture. She often wished that she did not see her parent so vividly, and feel so out of harmony with her. After Mr. Challoner had taken his departure, Tony left the dining-room and stole upstairs on tiptoe. But, quietly as she went, Mrs. Milner, who had been sitting in breathless suspense, heard her footsteps, and pounced out upon her just as Tony was congratulating herself upon having reached the sanctity of her own apartment. "Tony! Tony!" Tony hated to be shrieked for, but she came forth and answered at once : " Yes, mamma." " Come down this moment, Tony. How can you keep me waiting in this manner ? Be quick, do ! " With a heavy sigh Tony descended again and entered the drawing-room, taking the precaution to close the door behind her. A very necessary precaution, too ! for, whenever she was at all excited, Mrs. Milner's voice became so shrill and loud that it could be heard from one end of the house to the other. There was still no light in the room but that of the fire, before which Mrs. Milner had been sitting during the last twenty minutes, nursing her curiosity and agitation. " Well; iT iSSS !i' 'I I ' I i 1:1 ' I FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Tony, I do think you might have come straight to rae," she began, in a heavily aggrieved tone. " Indeed, 1 think you ought not to have allowed Mr. Challoner to leave the house without seeing me. It was very improper of you — very. I might have wished to ask him to dinner — not that I know how we are ever to ask any gentleman to dinner with such a cook as ours. She is a perfect disgrace to a gent 1 mean to a lady^s household, and I am convinced that she drinks — the wretch! But, as I said before, I have every right to be offended at Mr. Challoner's leaving my house without even 80 much as coming in here to shake hands with me — although I know perfectly well that in the^e days mothers are less than nothing, and no mother ever got less consideration from her daughters than I do. But I suppose you do intend to tell me whether you are engaged to Mr. Challoner or not?" *' I am, mamma,'' Tony answered, with a sort of gasp, realising the fact more fully as she spoke. '' He has asked me to be his wife, as. I dare say you know, and I have accepted him. I suppose you are glad ? " " Of course I am delighted, my dear I " cried her mother, kissing her warmly. " Such a charming young man, so rich, 80 gentlemanlike, so pleasant, so clever ! and his uncle a very old man, and so rich ! You are a very lucky girl, Tony — wonderfully lucky, considering how poor a chance you had of marrying at all, not to say in a really satisfactory manner. You can easily do something for Favie when you are married. I believe the senior partner has one or two sons — in the army ; they would not take to office work. Oh, what a relief it is to me after all these Jong, miserable years. I'm so delighted it is settled off hand ; at first it was arranged that Mr. Challoner should come to tea on Sunday, but he came back to say he had remembered suddenly that he had to go down to Dorking, so he could not come. Tony, did he tell you why he was going there? What can he have to do at Dorking ? " A VERY SENSIBLE ENGAGEMENT 27 it to rae/* she 1, I think you ave the house fovL — very. I it that I know er with such a 1 mean to le drinks — the y right to be I without even me — although •thers are less ideration from 1 do intend to Challoner or k sort of gasp, ' He has asked have accepted d her mother, g man, so rich, d his uncle a ry lucky girl, poor a chance ly satisfactory avie when you as one or two office work, ong, miserable at first it was ea on Sunday, suddenly that D come. Tony, What can he " He did not mention the place to me. He is coming here to-morrow ; but he said nothing about Sunday." " Then do ask him to-morrow why he has to go down to Dorking ; he ought to tell you. It cannot be business on a Sunday, and I know he has no near relations. I really feel quite curious to know why he goes to Dorking. He e v'idently looks upon this engagement as something which could not possibly be put ofif." "Oh, very likely," replied Tony, dreamily, her eyes fixed on some white and yellow asters that had been sent her for the dance the previous evening, by a ^ery juvenile admirer, and which were now fading in a little blue and gilt saucer by her side. " Tony, do look more interested in what I am saying to you," exclaimed Mrs. Milner, angrily. "I don't believe you've been listening one bit. I've been talking about this mysterious engagement of Mr. Challoner's to go to Dorking on Sunday, of which you seem to know nothing." " Mr. Challoner will probably have a hundred engage- ments a week of which I shall know nothing," remarked Tony, indifferently. " And I am sure I shall not ask him about them." " Then you will do very wrong, Tony. Now that you are engaged to him you ought to know all his plans and friends, and you must not allow any secrets to be kept from you now. I do hope that you will take my advice in this matter. If you don't, you will repent it. Make a point of knowing all about Mr. Challoner's doings, and don't let him hide anything from you." " I don't suppose it will be a question of hiding" said Tony, biting her lip with the impatience that a long expe- rience of distrust and curiosity on the part of her mother excited in her. " Mr. Challoner is perfectly well able to manage his own affairs, and I shall never wish to know anything which he does not choose to tell me." A safe and bensible resolution, if Tony only kept to it ; 2r FAVOUR AND FORTUNE i ! i ,1 I ! I i i but, unhappily, where suspicions are sown broadcast, a seed here and there is apt to germinate and bring forth bitter fruit. Half an hour ktor Tony was alone mdi her sister in the room they shared together. She stood leaning against the toilet-table, absently staring into vacancy, until Favour exclaimed : " Why, Tony, what is the matter ? You look about as sensible as one of those idiots we saw mesmerised, or what- ever you call it — electro-something. I believe, if I were to tell you to catch a butterfly, or knock some one down, or shiver with cold, or sing a song, you would do it just as they did. What are you mooning about ? " " Favie," said Fortune, waking up, " I am going to do what I expect you will think a most extraordinary thing. I am engaged to marry John Challoner." Favie sat down suddenly upon the bed and stared at her sister. " You don't mean it, really ? " she gasped out at length. Yes, I do." [t's too funny ! " And Favie went off into a peal of laughter. " Oh, Tony, that dull, tiresome sort of man ! That Mr. Challoner, who scribbles away all day at wills, and is paid for tbaching people how to quarrel ! Why, why, Tony, you have scarcely ever talked to him, and I never saw him look the least bit in love. Is he in love ? Did he tell you he was ? Oh, do tell me what put it int" both your heads ! " " I don't see anything to laugh at," said Tony. " I am going to marry Mr. Challoner ; and 1 don't know that he is so remarkably solemn. Of course, he is not a boy." " Never was," murmured Favie, who had her own ideas of the manners and behaviour suited to gilded youth. " I know quite enough of him to like him, and he likes m«, and that is all people expect in marriage," continued Tony, with a poor little attempt at cynicism, and a deep sig^ whi !;|TT^ IS I i 11 ' ; 111 I 'I' li FAVOUR AND FORTUNE ., down, but went slowly on, in and out, round and round the ceramic collection, as if china, its history and varieties, were the passion of her heart. She did not consent to rest until she was so tired that she could go on no longer, and then Mr. Challoner, who had felt bored beyond words for the last hour, revived in spirits, and joyfully led the way to a recess, in which he found a comfortable seat, where they sat down ; he wondering all the while why he did not feel as happy as he had expected and intended, and how long it would take him to find himself somewhat less of a stranger to this young girl who was so soon to be his wife. Tony did not seem half so much interested in their future as he had hoped she would be ; but, at all events, the mention of houses, furniture, and plans for their wediing-tour, awoke more animation in her than any attempt at love-making on his part had done. The least approach to sentiment seemed to chill her; but so quietly and swiftly did she parry any opening words of tenderness, that he managed to persuade himself that it was un- intentionally done on her part. " We shall get to know one another better every time we meet," he said, tenderly ; " but I dare say people always feel a little strange until they are actually married. I have had very little experience of the kind,- but I think it must be so, Tony ; don't you ? " " I dare say. I suppose it depends upon the people — whether they have known each other well before they got engaged. Now, you and I have led such different lives, so, of course, we can't expect to understand one another at first. And then we have seen so little of one another. 1 have had nothing but holidays all my life, and you nothing but work, it seems." "You shall never have any work in the future if it depends upon me. Tony, how strange it seems that you and I should be looking forward to spending our lives together." / A VERY SENSIBLE ENGAGEMENT 83 Tony made no answer. Truly the thini^ was very, very strange to her ; but she supposed it must be the same to any girl in her position. A long blank lay behind her, and on the other side of it, the bright glow of a girl's life : hopes, dazzling and unsubstantial as a fairy's dream, and vivid excitement, which drank up all her powers of en- joyment. Of course, this present situation was cold and colourless in comparison ; but then life is that when once the cup that is never offered a second time is shattered and spilt. The world goes np, and the world goes down. And the sunshine follows the raiu ; But yesterday's smile, and yesterday's frowni Gan never come back again. In the past poor Tony had known a separation worse than death, a sorrow that had wasted and laid desolate her young life. But the healing hand of Time had dulled the acute pain, and when she looked back now the most melancholy memory was not that of the grief, but of the joy that had preceded it. Her sorrow's crown of sorrow was remembering happier things. Her life might know a hundred troubles heavier to bear than that first crushing blow ; but the deep delight of the dear old days could never be felt again. "Tony, shall I be able to make you happy?" John Challoner asked her, anxiously. " I do hope so ; and you said that you liked me quite enough to begin with." "I am sure you will be kinder to me than I deserve, and I shall be very grateful to you," Tony answered, turning her face to him with a sweet smile, which made John's heart beat faster than it had ever beat before. " Am I the sort of man you fancied you would marry, dear?" 84 FAVOUn AND FORTUNE n I II I i',M ill!; ':'! liil';; i ill'' m! "I I : "One never fancies anything very definite about — about the future — anything likely to come true. I don't know ; I never did. We talked nonsense some- times— Favie and I— but I generally described her fate, not my own." " How terribly your mother and sister will miss you ! " " Favie will/' Tony replied, briefly. " And your mother surely ! She said she could hardly forgive me for carrying you off ; you seem to be such a pet with her." Poor Tony blushed hotly. She could imagine too well all her mother had said to this trustful, straightforward victim — or she thought she could. If she had really known all, she would not have been sitting quietly beside him as his promised wife. " I wish I had more relations to introduce to you," said Mr. Challoner, trying not to know that conversation was carried on with effort, and that Tony had said not a word out of the fulness of her own heart. " I am badly off in that respect ; my only real relative is my uncle who brought me up, and he is in Melbourne. It was a toss up at one time whether I should go out there with him, or stay where I am. If I had gone, Tony, you and I should not have been here together." Tony laughed. " No, I don't think we should, if you had been at the other side of the world, Mr. Challoner." " 1 shall write to my uncle to-night and tell him all about it. I am sure he will be delighted." " I don't know why he should be. You will have nothing to say about me which could not describe half the girls you meet with. Perhaps your uncle may be angry with you for marrying a girl without a penny." " No, no ! What right have I to expect money, even if I wished for it, which I don't ! I am glad, Tony, my darling, I am glad you have none. A man ought to desire to \L > about — true. I use some- L her fate, iss you 1 " uld hardly such a pet ne too well ghtforward ally known side him as ) you," said rsation was not a word adly off in rho brought J up at one stay where d not have )uld, if you alloner." ell him all ave nothing he girls you (?ith you for ney, even if Tony, my ) to desire to A VERY SENSIBLE ENGAGEMENT 35 provide for his wife with his own work. I'm sorry it even entered your head to think about whether you had some paltry money or not." "I am sure I am not mercenary," said Tony. "I can*t say I troubled myself about my poverty when you asked me to marry you. And I think, moreover, that you are right, and I shall not mind taking from you what you give me. But money is of importance. What terrible trouble comes from want of it ! How many hearts are broken ! " "Happily neither yours nor mine, dearest. How thankful I ought to be for not being in the position of many a poor fellow, better than I am — not able to marry the girl he loves for want of a decent income ! " They sat in that recess for a much longer time than was spent over this conversation; but at length Tony, who had been afraid of seeming to weary of her lover's company, and, indeed, had tried hard to persuade her- self that she was enjoying it, said it must be getting late, and that they would have only just time to get back to dinner. So the first long Ute-d-Ute between the pair came to an end, and they returned to the Crescent to find Mrs. Milner in a vague agony of curiosity and excitement, wondering, suggesting, in a broken torrent of repetitions, where they had been, and what their future plans would be. Favie had spent a very dull afternoon, missing the companionship of her sister, and with no occupation for her vacant mind, and only a little distasteful needlework for her unskilled fingers. When they were in bed that night. Fortune, who had been remarkably taciturn, said suddenly : '* Favie, it is a dreadful thing being engaged to be married." Favie, who was half asleep, murmured shortly : " I tihought it was t^e nicest thing in the world," and straight- Da I I! I!!i FAVOUR AND FORTUNE way lapsed into dreamland, and had a little bndal drama to herself. Tony, on the other hand, lay broad awake; sleep would not visit her eyelids, and before she could pull herself up, she had fallen back into one of those absorb- mg day dreams of the past, which she ought to have done with for ever. I'i hiii (I i 1 .il i!r;i:i!i Mi I CHAPTER III. Tony's romancs Doomed at best to be But an impossible pc .sibility. FEW years ago, before this story began, when Fortune and Favour Milner were so equally light-hearted and light-headed that it was not easy to discover the fundamental differ- ence in their minds and characters, they had had neighbours in the Crescent, who before long began to exer- cise the strongest influence over one, at least, of them that had ever come into their experience. These neighbours were a certain Lord Ernest Levinge and his family, who arrived one April morning at No. 7 in the Crescent, their advent causing great excitement to the inmates of No. 5. In the first place it might now be open to Mrs. Milner to visit a Duke's daughter-in-law. which was in itself a matter of deep contentment to that lady ; and in the second place there seemed to be boys and girls of all ages, including a couple of tall, handsome youths, who were detected by Miss Pavie's quick eye as soon as they came within range ; and that was a matter of equal contentment, and of even greater o.roitement to Mrs. Milner's daughters. During the wliole tlm ) the Levinges and their luggage were being transferred to the house, amid noise and confusion, Fortune and Favour were standing behind the curtains of their dimng-rooinr f^ wr lMiM£J| l!ll i| ! I :H!i! i 'i'i I i^i i; ) i I 1:1! :J8 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE window, watching the scene of distraction, and it was only when it came to a climax in a violent altercation between Lord Ernest and the cabman that Tony retreated, trying to drag her sister away with her — an effort in which she signally %iled, as Favie enjoyed the excitement of the row exceedingly, and would not be turned away until the cab- man had taken his departure, loudly anathematising his lordship's lack of liberality. The two girls were full of the scene for some time after- wards, and were only divided upon one point — and that did not concern either Lord Ernest or the cabman, but had reference to the two young men who were standing by. One of these youths had almost outdone his irascible father in swearing at the driver, whereas the other had evidently tried by good-tempered joking to smoothe and arrange matters. Now Favie thought the former of the pair the more handsome, distinguished, and spirited, while Tony had been better pleased with the laughing blue eyes, the kindly air, and the bright expression of the latter. Before long they had ample opportunity of forming a more matured and impartial judgment concerning the merits — personal and otlierwise — of these young gentlemen, as they met them the following week at a dance given at a neighbour's house. Of this party the Llisses Milner were undoubtedly the belles, and a more watchful mother than theirs would have been made decidedly anxious by their conduct on the occasion. They showed the most open pre- ference for the two young Levinges, dancing with them time after time, throwing over other partners for them, and finally going down with them to supper, a meal which was extended over an indefinite period, until, indeed, it was time to return home. From this evening a rapid intimacy sprang up between the four, and every chance of meeting was eagerly taken advantage of. The two households were in their own ways unfavourable yet true typer of the two nations. At No. 7 disordei: it was only m between I, trying to which she of the row til the cab- latising his I time after- ind that did m, hut had standing by. .scible father id evidently and arrange the pair the while Tony lue eyes, the ter. of forming a Lg the merits ntlemen, as :e given at a Milner were Imother than |ous by their st open pre- with them [or them, aiul al which was |deed, it was lid intimacy of meeting lunfavourable 7 disordeir T0NY*8 ROMANOB 8& rioted. No sort of housemaid's work ever seemed to be performed there. An unwary visitor was sure to trip up in a torn carpet, to knock against chairs and tables stowed away in unexpected places, or to find that any article, such as a hat or a pair of gloves put down, brought away with it the dust of many months. And they were fortunate if they got safely downstairs again, as one or two stair-rods were invariably missing. Children's broken toys strewed the drawing-room floor, and the remains of meals seemed to be as constantly in the dining-room as their odour was all over the house. Stale tobacco-smoke was the normal atmosphere of No. 7, and when any of the family were going out to a dinner or a dance, the state of general turmoil was indescribable. At any time of the day a clatter as of a troop of cavalry might be heard up and downstairs, accompanied by stifled giggling, alternating with peals of laughter, or yells that would have done credit to a troop ot North American Indians. Such was the state of things at No. 7. With the ways of No. 5 we have already been made acquainted. Into this gay and careless circle Favie plunged with her whole heart. She had never found companions so much to her taste as the young Levinges. From the hour of intro- duction she was completely absorbed by and into their household. The girls flattered and petted her ; the boys fought for her good graces, and the only flat hours she knew from that time were those in which she was torn away from fun and romps to the sour and dull propriety of her own home. There, too, was want of money ; but there — unlike in the Irish household— every pinch of it gripped like lobster's claws. At No. 5 there reigned cleanliness and neatness, in spite of threadbare coverings and darns ; but there was also a painful and unceasing struggle to keep up »-ppearances, from which No. 7 was wholly free. Tony was equally attached to the new interior which in 1 1 ' t |||i,; 1 1 1 (Hi ' 1; ■ 1 ip ; 1 i I i : ■ 1 ' 1 i '1 ; ■ m i p!! lili! 40 PAVOUB AND POBTXJNB thus enlarged her experiences, but after a diffei'ent mannei*. She did sometimes join in the noisy games and fun, but far oftener she and Ernest Levinge might be seen in the window of the back drawing-room, or else in the balcony on hot summer evenings, or, in short, everywhere where the rest of the party did not intrude. Ernest was the blue- eyed, kindly-looking young fellow, who had first attracted her notice on the occasion of the war against the cab- men. Mike, the other brother, carried on an extensive flirtation with Favie, but it was clear that there was not much heart wounding on either side. Miss Favie was not Susceptible. Unfortunately, Tony was. She had indulged in many a dreamy fancy before she met Ernest Levinge ; but they had died as they had lived — mere unsubstantial phantoms. Now, for the first time, a young and fascinating man was over head and ears in love with her. There was something very winning about the young fellow — in his fair, frank face, his merry laugh, and his ready tongue, which glossed over his folly, his ignorance, and alas ! his unsteadiness of principle. Tony had high aspirations, and a deep admira- tion for all that was good, noble, and self-sacrificing. -Nevertheless, she took the gilded bait as greedily as any young and innocent fish, and was quite prepared to put her hand in Ernest's and to go with him into the world in search of fortune. Poverty she did not fear, with him, she said. She scorned the hard worldliness which would suggest that two young people cannot eat, drink, and be housed and clothed entirely with love. By moonlight on the balcony, by daylight in their long walks, in stolen strolls through the gas-lit streets, in tete-a- tetes over smouldering fires, the two exchanged their vows and protestations, and talked over a future as probable as a chapter from the Arabian Nights. Tony was in a condition of rapture which, for the time, will lift a girl, whose imagination is the most highly-cultivated part of TONY'S ROMANCE 41 her, into a heaven of her own, in which earth, its necessities, its pains, its difficulties, are forgotten. Mrs. Milner soon became more and more displeased with her elder daughter's silence and absence of mind ; but her asperities had no longer power to hurt Tony. Ernest ! Ernest ! Ernest ! Not for one half-hour by day or by night did Tony hear any other name than that with intelligence, or listen to any other music than that which the one sound awoke. The nightingale does not tire of his "jug, jug," or even the cuckoo of his two notfes, but an incessant repetition is apt to pall upon uninterested ears. Favie was a capital listener ; that is to say she never checked her sister by any disagreeable words of prudence or warning ; but even she would sometimes grow tired of the very name of Ernest, and would try to turn the conversation upon the Levinge family in general, or upon Mike Levinge in particular. Of course the girl's friends and acquaintances knew all about " the affair " before Mrs. Milner took any notice of it. She did not care how closely Ernest Levinge danced attendance upon her child as long as there was no question of marriage, and it was indeed long before any end so prosaic had occurred to the couple. But the climax arrived at length, assisted, as such catastrophes usually are, by an outsider who, whether from motives of self- interest, or a general instinct of meddling, cannot refrain from putting in a finger. The Levinge fainily, with three or four young friends, including, of course, Tony and Favie, had gone down to that scene of cockney felicity, the Alexandra Palace, for a long day, thoroughly prepared to enjoy themselves, and caring little whether performing ponies, acting monkeys, concert singers, or acrobats were to minister to their delight. At the appointed time they, poured into the Great Northern Station, overflowed a railway-carriage, chaffed guards and porters, and made a deafening noiae-^ ■ / " T" 42 J'AVOUR AND FORTUNE it;!h 11 |:: I iv all except Ernest and Tony, who slipped away and got into another compartment, of which they were the sole occupants ; and so in the highest spirits they all reached Wood Green Station. It was a lovely day " in the chill and slowly-greening spring" — only for a wonder the weather was not chilly, but marvellously warm for April in England. The blue, stainless air was clear and warm ; buds and flowerets were sprouting forth ; birds were singing and bees were humming, telling to the dwellers in a dusty, crowded city, " tales of fair meadows, green under constant streams/* It was a perfect day, the very day for an expedition, they all agreed ; not that it would have detracted much from their enjoyment had it poured cats and dogs ; for neither the Milners nor the Levinges ever permitted the weather to interfere with their schemes of amusement. Tony had been the only member of the party who had not observed signs of festivity as they approached their destination — signs which indicated one of those fetes which are a terror or a delight according to the ideas of those who have to do with them ; an invasion of peace, or a holiday to be looked forward to with eagerness. She asked what the crowd meant, and expressed her fear and dislike of such popular gatherings when they reached the gates. "Do let us all keep together," she said, addressing herself especially to Favie. "We might easily lose one another in this* crowd, and we must not do so." One or two of them laughed at her alarm, and Ernest took her hand within his arm and said he would see that she, at least, was not lost. A time for luncheon was ap- pointed, and I'ony enjoined Ernest to keep within sight of Favie and his brother Mike, who had taken charge of her. In spite of the crowd, this was done for a time, at least, and Tony's attention was so distracted by her surroundings that there was certainly no enjoyr^ient for her up to the tune TONT^S ROMANCE! 48 md got into ) the sole all reached irly-greening not chilly, The blue, )werets were re humming, y, "tales of expedition, •acted much d dogs; for jrmitted the sement. ,rty who had oached their those fetes the ideas of of peace, or srness. She her fear and reached the addressing ily lose one and Ernest uld see that Bon was ap- thin sight of irge of her. at least, and mdings that to the tizue when the party reassembled to eat a luncheon at which they could scarcely secure the attention of one waiter, there being a multitude waiting with manifest impatience for their turn. Many were the uncomplimentary epithets lavished upon the scene in general, as well as in detail, but there were enough Levinges to keep up a running fire of jokes, and to prevent smiles and laughter from sinking into a monotonous strain of endurance. The general scatter after luncheon left Tony and Ernest together as usual. All had agreed as to the train they were to go back by, and again Tony had begged that, as much as possible, they should all keep together. In five minutes she looked, round and saw nothing but a moving mass of strangers. " Oh ! " she exclaimed. " Every one has vanished ! And how are we to find them again among these thousands and thousands ? " " The best plan is not to look for them," replied Ernest. "But I'll show you what I consider the best view in England." They stood on the platform outside the building, and Tony looked with delighted admiration over the wide ex- panse of country visible from it. Here they could walk up and down in peace, for the platform was comparatively de- serted, whilst Ernest talked about himself to the most sympathetic listener he was ever likely to get. He had been in his usual high spirits all day, but Tony had not felt happy ; she did not know why. Perhaps she damped her young lover ; but certainly, before they had been an hour on the terrace, where they found seats before long, he, too, had taken rather a melancholy tone, and, for the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance, talked gloomily of the future. " Tony, I wonder how all this will end ? " he said. " What do you mean ? " " I sometimes think I had better emigrftte." 1 i n; Ml !i! Ui 14 FAVOUR AND FOBTUNB '• Seriously ? Well, I think you wil) have to, unless you get something to do in England soon." " There is nothing to do in this hlessed old country. I had a regular row with my father last night over it." "Oh! What did he say ? " " That I was an idle beggar. It's not the first or the nineteenth time he's made the same remark. He vowed he would not keep me any longer." " And what did you reply ? " " The old story — why wasn't I brought up to earn my living ? Why had he never taken the trouble to get some emplo3rment for Mike and me ? Why didn't he use family interest ? What's the use* of having a Duke for a grand- father if he can't set one on one's legs somewhere ? " '* And he was angry ? " " Oh, wasn't he ! I said we might, at least, have had a decent education; and that in these days, when every butcher and grocer sent his sons to good schools, and got them on, there isn't much chance of a gentleman earning dry bread for himself if he could scarcely spell or write." Your grandfather ought to have sent you to school." Yes ; but, unfortunately, he died when I was about nine, and my uncle didn't seem to see having a large family tacked on to him besides his own six. I suspect he has as much as he can manage, and he quarrelled with my father." What more did Lord Ernest say ?" He teas mad ! He said a good education would have been thrown away upon two scamps like us, and I'm not sure he wasn't right there ; but he might have got us into the army somehow. That's the life for me ! After all, emigration is all very well if you mean to work like a nigger ; but the army is what suits me. I've seen a good deal of military life, and there's always some fun going. And then in war time it's glorious ! And they say things are brewing up for a good fight all round, so now's the time. Father Bays he can't, or won't, get us into Sandhurst, and, indeed, tt €t H t€ TONY'S BOMANOJB 4% e to, unless country. I 3r it." J first or the He vowed to earn my to get some e use family for a grand- iie ? " , have had a when every >ols, and got nan earning or write." to school." was about arge family ct he has as my father. ti would have md I'm not got us into After all, ke a nigger; ood deal of And then are brewing le. Father kud, indeed, we are too old now, I believe. It's a beastly shame ! We were kicked about from place to place, and the turn let slip. I'm certain father might have got it done if he'd taken the trouJble ; but you don't catch him taking trouble for one of us." " But what will you do ? It is so hard upon you.'* "Do? I don't know. If I emigrate will you come with me, Tony ? I shan't go alone." " I'll go anywhere with you," said Tony, in a choking voice ; " I don't mind where, as long as I am with you, Ernest." Ernest seized both her hands, and squeezed them tight in his. " Tony, you are a darling ! I was not going to leave you behind, I can tell you. I say, Tony, we'll get along somehow, I know we shall. You don't want much money, do you ? and, in time, I'll make a fortune for you. Oh, I'm sure to tumble on my feet somehow ; we Levinges always do." "I'll earn some money, too," said Tony. "I don't quite know how ; but there must be ways if one makes up one's mind to it." " Of course, plenty of ways, especially out in Australia or Virginia. Why, it does not matter what gentlemen do there — they turn their hands to anjrthing ; driving cabs, selling tobacco and rum, farming their own land — anythint;. I can load a cart, and you make hay, you know, Tony ; and in the winter we'll keep some sort of store " *'And I'll learn to bake, and do everything!" cried Tony. " Why, the fact is, we shall want nothing but a little ready money to start with, and that I can borrow, and pa^ back in a year or so. I tell you what, Tony, we had better be married directly and start off." *"* Oh, I don't think that is possible," said Tony, shyly ; and from Ernest trying to convince her that it was possible and desirable, and in every way the right thiDg to be doWfrl 46 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE I ! i ilif ll IHliil they both gave themselves up to the bliss of the moment — of their mutual certainty of loving and being loved — with all the boundless prodigality of their age and dispositions. To love one another was life — everything was bound up in that ; and nothing impossible to the Celtic wannth and excitability of Ernest, and the romantic dreams of Tony. It was all very foolish, but very unworldly and very sweet, and perhaps in all their lives they might never have any- thing to look back to so steeped in sunshine, so brimmed with joy, as those few foolish, rapturous hours in that Cockney paradise. Nay ; fruitless as they seemed to be, Ernest was doubtless the better for having experienced them, even when their very sweetness made them doubly bitter in retrospect. Of course they forgot the whole world, and all the trains in it ; equally of course, they awoke with a start to the sudden discovery that they were too late for their appointed meeting with the rest of the party ; and a run down the hill at the top of their speed just enabled them to hear tha fatal whistle, and to see their train steam out from the little station, on its way to London. They stood and watched it, and then turned to one another. " What shall we do ? " "Perhaps some of the others may have missed it, too !" Tony exclaimed. " Let us try to find out." " We shall have all the more time to ourselves," cried Ernest, exultantly. " But it will make it so late. I shall be in a dreadful scrape," said poor Tony. However, there was nothing to be done but to wait for the next train. In the meantime, they fell in with none of their party, and there was such a crowd at this later train that they had difficulty in finding places at alL Now Mrs. Milner had had a visitor this afternoon iu the person of her Cousin Selina, who came periodically to tea, and unlimited gossip. Cousin Selina always hs4 a I T0N7'S ROMANCE 47 moment — ived — with ispositions. und up in imith and 5 of Tony, i^ery sweet, have any- brimmed rs in that ned to be, xperienced em doubly '. the trains ;art to the ■ appointed 1 down the ;o hear tha from the stood and i it, too !" ves," cried a dreadful bo wait for th none of later train emoon iu Ddically to pet topic for these occasions, or it would be more correct to say, a special victim to worry. She was voluble and graphic in her narratives of the misdoings of her acquaint- ances, and although Mrs. Milner herself was a favourite subject in her absence, she was also one of Cousin Selina's most sympathetic and eager listeners. She could always contribute her mite of information or conjecture. Now, on this particular day. Cousin Selina came armed with a budget of the Levinge family delinquencies, especially those of the young men ; and great was her enjoyment of the "painful task" of relating the history of Tony and Ernest's love affair, and reproaching Mrs. Milner for her blindness and folly in pennitting it to go on. A verrlf:ig and warm discussion ended with her saying that she really could hardly believe it, but she had been told that the whole party had gone down to the Crystal Palace together that very day with no other chaperone than some giddy young married women, as flighty as the rest of them. In vain did the discomforted and angry Mrs. Milner declare that it was not the case ; they had not gone to the Crystal Palace ; the truth was extorted by the indomitable Selina, and, after a short but expressive silence, she begged to ask her cousin what she expected to be the end of it all. The simple truth — which Mrs. Milner never spoke — would have been that she did not know ; but she took a good deal of trouble in putting the whole affair in the best possible light for herself, and laid great stress upon the wilfulness and disobedience of her children, which must be due to the perversity of nature, as, according to her own account, no daughters had ever been brought up with more scrupulous care thaL hers. " I am sure you must be extremely uneasy, Letitia,** said Cousin Selina, " and I shall not leave you until I see the girls safe home ; / should call it late now for such a party^ but as I have no daughters of my own, perhaps I am i^ril!: 'I',; ill 11 ' ! illlli I ! i! ll'll^^ 48 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE no judge of the liberty allowed to young ladies of the present day." Much as she wished her gone, Mrs. Milner of course pressed Ler cousin to remain, and Cousin Selina gently worried the subject for another hour. In return, Mrs. Milner said the most disagreeable things she could think of, and so the time passed pleasantly, until a loud knock at the door diverted the attention of both ladies. *' At last," observed Cousin Selina, looking at her watch. Light footsteps ran upstairs, passing the drawing-room door. " Ashamed to come in," commented Cousin Selina. Mrs. Milner went out, and called, " Fortune, Favour." A tardy answer was given, and Favour was ordered to come down. She presented herself alone. " Where is Fortune ? " inquired her mother, austerely. "Oh well, mamma, I'm afraid — that is — Fortune has not come in yet." t " That means, I suppose, that she has stayed at No. 7. i can only assure you, Favour, if it is of any use my speaking, that this is the last time such a thing shall occur. You are out abominably and disgracefully late, and I should be glad to know how it was that Lord and Lady Ernest Levinge wure not in charge of the party ? " , " Why, they never go ! " cried Favie, who knew that her mamma was perfectly aware of that fact. " We had Mr. and Mrs. Hawley Grand with us, as we told you we should. I dare say Tony will be in directly." " As I should not like to be out later than this myself, I will say good-bye, my dear Letitia," said Cousin Selina, " and I will leave word at No. 7 that Fortune is to return home immediately." " But you see, Cousin Selina, Tony is not exactly there. There are heaps of trains from Wood Green, and she would be certain to catch the next. I don't know how she came to miss it, but Mi some of us had a run for it, and I TONY* 8 BOMANOB 49 didn't know she and Eniest were not in until we got out at King's Cross. I dare say it wasn't their fa'.ilt." " Upon my word ! Fortune and Mr. Ernest Levinge left behind at the Alexandra Palace alone ! " exclaimed Cousin Selina, with an awful triumph in her tones. " Nonsense ! impossible ! " cried Mrs. Milner, angrily. " Really, Favie, there is no making out what you mean ! You talk such nonsense. My dear Selina, must you really go— really ? Well, then, good-bye, and mind you remember me most kindly to Charles, if you should happen to see him this evening. But I know that he is out at whist all day —and all night, too, they say. Well, I won't trouble you to call at No. 7, for I know you don't visit the Levinges, and T6ny is perfectly safe with Mr. and Mrs. Grand. Good-bye, dear. So many thanks for taking compassion on my loneliness. I have so much enjoyed our chat. I always feel so much the better for a long talk with you." /Thus Mrs. Milner contrived to overpower even Cousin Selina, and having diplomatically hustled her out of the house, she returned to shed her wrath upon Favie, who did not much care what she said, feeling tolerably certain that it would not be carried out. Mamma never seriously interfered with their amusements, and to-morrow generally brought forgetfulness of all last night had spoken. But this evening Mrs. Milner appeared to be more in earnest than usual, and she talked and scolded, and scolded and talked, until nearly two hours later, when Fortune crept in, feeling very guilty and very happy, and altogether dazzled and overwhelmed by the events of the day. By this time, Mrs. Milner had worked herself up into a state of fiercer anger than she had ever been known to display, and like a douche of iced water came her denunciations of the Levinge family — of the daughters' unladylike conduct — and her positive declaration that she should put an immediate stop to an intimacy which was positively injurious to her girls' prospects. lili l!! 1 ,. I I 1 ijIlM 1 iijiii ''i 'l;;i i !!l!!l m 50 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Tony's intoxication of bliss was speedily sobered ; but yet neither she nor her sister could believe that their mother actually meant what she said. They retired to bed as soon as they could, and once safe in their own room, Tony, amidst sobs and tears, unfolded her exciting tale to her sister's wonderinj]^ ears. Favie listened with the most intense interest ; she had never yet had so moving an experience of her own ; but it was delightful to think of Tony as a heroine of romance. Of course, Ernest and Tony had arranged to meet early the following day, and at eleven o'clock, the young lady ran swiftly downstairs, hatted and booted, to be confronted by her mother, who asked, in tones which boded ill for Mr. Levinge's chance of a walk with his fiancSe, where she was going alone ? " For a little walk, mamma," faltered Tony, guiltily. " Then understand that I do not mean you to go for a little walk. You will go upstairs at once, and take oflf your things, and you will remain indoors this morning ; and this afternoon you will come out with me. For the future I intend you to show me a little more consideration, and not leave me to walk alone as you have hitherto done." Under other c'^'^nrastances Tony would have felt inclined to smile at thiji k, for Mrs. Milner had never cared for the compan^ x daughters, preferring to pay those little afternoon v. ., which were the joy qf her life, alone. But to-day she was in no mood for smiles as she retired to her own room in very low spirits to write a little note to her lover. Then she intercepted her brother when he came in from school, and gave it to him, with the promise of sixpence if he should deliver it into Ernest's hand, and bring her back an answer. " Oh, I know your little games ! " said the horrid boy ; *• suppose I were to show this to mamma I" 1 1 T0NY*8 nOMANOW 51 "Then Ernest Levinge would thrash you," answered Tony, promptly. " But there is no harm, Willie. I'll tell you a secret ; I am engaged to be married." " Oh, well, I'd sooner it was Favie," returned the boy, coolly ; " she will give me a lot of trouble when you go away. Sisters are a plague ; but I'd sooner have two of you than one of her.'* " You aggravate Favie, and mamma spoils you, Willie ; but if you are good, perhaps I'll send for you to Australia, or America, some day." Willie performed a short war-dance of satisfaction at this prospect, which exactly suited his ideas, and shot off on his errand, which did not take long to fulfil, as Ernest was prowling unhappily about outside the house. Tony's note said — after explaining the cause of her non-appearance — " If you look out for me at nine o'clock, I will come across the balconies to you — mamma will then be playing bezique with a friend ; but I cannot stay long, or she might miss me — I miLst speak to you." The answer said : " And I must speak to you, darling ; we are in a nice mess altogether." The balconies of the Crescent were only divided by a low partition, over which the Milners could vault with perfect ease, and as to the young Levinges, many had been the complaints of their cat-like propensity to patrol the whole length of the Crescent, and futile had been the efforts to keep them off the premises of their luckless neighbours, whose very roofs were not safe from this enterprising Irish tribe. -Lord Ernest was always from home after dinner, and his wife slept so peacefully every evening, that the mob of noisy girls and boys about her did not make her lift an eye- lid ; so Ernest knew that it was quite safe to do ".s they had often done before : take Tony through the drawing-room into the back room which was shut off and used as a schoolroom — for the girls did make-believe lessons ch a s 2 n ! I lliill'l i' ! 11'; ; il' -:: i lii;-!:iii:|. 'I wmh \ I! '- 1 11 ill '•I!' ii! .lliii!!- Hi il m. 52 J11F0Z7E ^J^D FOBTXTNE little daily governess, who was as equal to coping with their high spirit and determined ignorance as she would have been with a family of young wild cats. Ernest turned all stragglers out of this room at ten minutes to nine, with large threats against any who should | dare intrude upon his interview with Tony ; but finding the spirit of mischief and fun too ripe among them, and ap- prehensive of jokes . a roughly practical nature, he took them all into his confidence, and struck awe into their souls for the time being by declaring himself engaged to Tony Milner, and about to settle a run-away marriage with her, as his father had behaved most cruelly, and vowed that very day that he would hear no more of it, and that Ernest Should be sent away from home to drudge at some low business which was unfit for a gentleman, and would never even supply | him with enough dirty money to keep him alive— as gentleman ought to live. ^ The poor hot-headed boy was earnest enough when he and his pretty girl-love were seated like a pair of love-birds together in the window. " Tony, mavourneen ! it's a cruel shame if they part us ; isn't it now, dear ? and I'll do something desperate." " Ernest ! did your father mean it ? Why should he and mamma set themselves to make us miserable? Did you tell your father what you intend doing ? If he knows that you don't mean to be idle, he can't object, surely ? " " He just laughed at me, that's what he did, and asked me where I was going to get the money to start with ; and I said I was sure he might borrow it for me, and that he owed it to me to try ; and he said he'd borrowed so much for himself that he did not know whom to go to next, and that he could not help me to a penny ; and that if he thought I was going to be such a fool as to hamper myself with a wife — that's how he put it, darling — that he wouldn't do it if he could. He flailed up then, and so did I ; and the TONY'S BOMANOB tz end was that he swore that unless I took a wretched little pla?.e in some hole of an office \/hich he could get for me through the family lawyers, he would cast me off altogether. There's a father for you ! " " And, Ernest ! " sobbed Tony, " mamma declares that she will not let us be with you as we have been ; I told you how she stopped me this morning, but I thought if I told her that I had promised to marry you she would be obliged to give her consent. You see, I am not of age even." "There's the mischief of it," exclaimed Ernest. "I believe we can't even run away ; I don't know though that we couldn't manage that, as Fin of age, and it's only saying that you are, too. And if you are not now you will be some day, and once we are married they can't take you away." " Ccme in to-morrow and tell mamma, and let us see if we can get her consent. Only do you think your father would ever forgive you ? Because I won't have you quarrel with him for my sake." "Of course he will, darling ; he goes about like a weather-cock. He's hot-tempered, but soon forgets." It was thus settled with tears, and kisses, and vows that they were to confide in Mrs. Milner, in the hope of an unexpected softness of heart in that lady being developed by the unparalleled woes of the young lovers, who were prepared to face the world together in the strength of their love. The event was what might nave been foretold by any rational being with absolute certainty. Mrs. Milner received the confession with anger and disdain, and re- fused to entertain for a moment the idea of the alliance with the noble house of Levinge which had been arranged for her. " If you had means I should have no objection," was the most gracious thing she said. "But to come to me, utterly penniless, and without a profession, to ask for my , I 54 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE lliiili I l^^A I !! li ilir mwimi i! < 1 i : daughter, I m" ist tell you, Mr. Levinge, is an unheard-of thing. It is my bounden duty to inform you that I decline to see my daughter starve." As this resolve was not to be shaken, a clandestine marriage was next proposed ; but as Tony did not at once agree, so strong a pressure was put upon both young persona by their respective parents that her scruples of conscience made her sorrowfully submissive for the present; and Ernest — as flexible as he was hot-headed — suddenly took a fit of despair, and after a wild and passionate stolen interview with his love, went oflf and enlisted in a cavalry regiment. Tony was sitting alone w•^h her grief when he burst in, and flinging himself on the floor, buried his face in her lap, and burst into a passion of tears, terrible to her, who could do nothing but join with them. His handsome face was pale, his blue eyes red, his fair hair rough, his mouth quivering as he held her tightly in a last embrace, and kissed her while their tears and sobs mingled. " ril come back in a year, I will, darling," he exclaimed, brokenly. " Wait for me, Tony ; I'll never forget you, never ! " But the year came and went, and another year, too, and Ernest Levinge did not come back — did not come back to her. She saw him once, and he turned away with a quick, hot blush, trying to pretend he did not see her. He was in his trooper's regimentals, and that was, perhaps, the reason he would not recognise her. But Tony knew then that he was in London, and day after day waited for some sign, some token of unforgetting love. But it never came ; there was no stability in the young man, and his surroundings were too much for him ; he did not bear the best of characters in his regiment, and that hot boyish love of his was not deep enough to stand the test to which it was put. And so in pain and humiliation the sun of poor Tony's girlhood went down. She was faithful to her dream, and TOIfST'S ROMANCE 55 long after she knew it was only a dream, and hoped against hope through many a weary day, saying to herself that if Ernest was false, the world could hold no other love for her. The Levinge family had by this time entirely gone from her ken, having abruptly departed for the Continent one Sunday night, without any intimation to their creditors. !l,„ifl ( i H i ,, I i il ■i'V:||ll| ilil! 1 1 III |i i 111 ill' \W§ I IIP li! 1 CHAPTER IV. A BAD BEQINNINa One Binall cloud may hide the sunlight j Loose one string, the pearls are scattered ; ^ Think one thought, a soul may perish ; Say one word, a heart may break. I FTER that unfortunate episode with Ernest Levinge, Fortune never again met with any man who could touch her once susceptible heart. There was no longer any excitement to her in being admired, and, as a matter of course, admirers were fewer. She had greatly altered. The old self lay a long way back in the past, but sometimes she would remember it with wonder, and would try to connect it with her present self. And then she failed to find the links. The links were there, of course, but she had to wait until she was some years older before she could see them. The enthusiasm which was really a part of her nature seemed to be ex- hausted, but it had from time to time been spent upon persons and ideas widely apart from youthful lovers and rosy hopes of a love-lit future. This sort of development was painful, and Tony suffered without sympathy ; for, indeed, there was no one to understand anything of what went on within her, and she did not understand it herself. If she had done so she would naturally have been happier. A BAD SEOINNINO 57 As it was she was far from happy, poor child ! She was in permanent disgrace with Mrs. Milner, who saw her be- coming less popular and less brightly pretty, and Favie now began to be " the pretty Miss Milner," and the one sought after among their acquaintance. And then, when almost every one had forgotten that Tony had ever been different, John Challoner came on the scene, and she was at once reinstated in her mother's good opinion. After all, she was marrying before her far more admired sister, and the delightful excitement of this prospect put Mrs. Milner into the highest good humour. John Challoner was about as complete a contrast to the bright, gay, bewitching young lover of old as any man could have been. He was plain, quie* , and never by any chance brilliant or amusin^r He was thoroughly un- imaginative, very practical, and not at all caressing in manner or speech, being, indeed, abrupt and often curt in words, and so totally unaccustomed to women that, after a few days' engagement, he got into the way of treating Tony somewhat as if she had been a male friend whom he trusted, and for whom he had that solid, well-established affection which needs no demonstration. His jiancet% manner had insensibly checked any latent warmth in his own. Love of the best and most sterling sort was in his heart, but it needed some awakening touch to bring out its fire and tenderness. And that touch was not given. Mr. Challoner had never been a reader of poetry or novels, and his views of life were of a calm, prosaic nature, such as he had witnessed without much thought among the ordinary men and women of his acquaintance. He was not of an actually uns3nnpathetic nature ; but he had never learnt to feel with those finer other pulses, or to measure the heats and chills which no thermometer can gauge. However, he had heard most of the men of his acquaintance speak pleasantly of their wives, and he was quite aware that a good wife added greatly to a man's hapf ^ness, while m \\\i fii 1' iiii iii-i'ii' lliHIiiti \\t\\\ iiiKiiijiii I ;lil ill I" I.. . 58 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE a disagreeable one did much to mar it. His business necessarily brought him into the knowledge of family quarrels and disagreements of all kinds, and these he most sincerely wished to avoid. He considered a marriage with an ill-tempered, extravagant, unprincipled woman as the greatest of all misfortunes that can possibly befall a man, and he looked upon the men who married such women as mad. Passion, admiration, or affection were no valid excuses for such an act. The head must govern the heart, or the whole life would go wrong. There was much solid good sense in these views ; but still, it must be admitted that they were one-sided. There is everything to be said in favour of prudence and common sense ; but still there is something to be said also on the side of youth and love. But it was just this some- thing that did not appeal very forcibly to John Challoner. His life teas one-sided. He consorted almost entirely with steady-going, middle-aged men, and it was from them that he drew his ideas; thus growing middle-aged himself before his time, and before he had experienced the sweets and bitters of youth. He rather looked down upon young men as a rule, holding them to be foolish and unstable. Their notions he thought crude and false, and their conduct trivial — not squaring with the actualities of life ; and he wished to be removed beyond their shiftJng, frivo- lous, changing circle, and to take up his stand at once as a sensible man of business — to begin, in short, as he meant to go on. As far as business went, this answered admirably. Mr. John Challoner got on rapidly. He was as much respected as though he had been twice his age, with hair thinned and silvered by long experience. But every day he lived he felt less and less in tune with men with the wine of youth effervescing within their brains — leading them on like a will-o'-the-wisp into countless absurdities; and at seven-and twenty he had left the thoughts and ways of A BAD BEGINNING 59 youth far behind him. When the wish for a wife and home of his own came into his scheme, he looked dispassionately about him, and, after some deliberation, fixed upon Fortune Milner, whose looks and manners had always appeared to him singularly pleasant, and just what a man would prefer, whose days were spent hard at work among dry law books and drier parchments, hearing quarrels, and arranging matters with the idea that all men were conspiring to defraud, over-reach, and grasp at one another's goods. From his point of view, women appeared so much the better half of creation that a bad woman was a rare excep- tion, and a false and ill-tempered one not much oftener found. To love was their business in life, and he thought they did it pretty well. In his experience they were t ostly docile to their fathers, and aflfectionate to their hub inds and children. But as we have seen, one of the earliest im- planted ideas he had of women was that things were sure to go wrong if they married when their hearts were no longer theirs to give. He was so convinced that a woman follows nothing in heaven or earth but the dictates of her own heart — i.e., her love for some other human being of the opposite sex — that he believed if a man had hold of that rudder he need not think of anything else : domestic happiness was secure ; and if notj why, then shipwreck was certain. Duty was for men ; it seemed too hard and rough a guide for women. Religion, he believed, was a sentiment which sweetened their characters when love had them safely in tow, biit, without that, was soon scattered to the winds. Therefore, when John asked Tony to become his wife, he held, all unknown to himself, the most shallow and unreal views of that half of the human race with which, for the first time, he was entering into close relations, and thus the two came to be as widely apart as if they spoke in diffe- rent tonVies, and came of the most alien races ; and yet, without fear, they contemplated spending the rest of their lives together in the intimacy of a tie which must be 9fi k 60 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE .i'^'i Ijili'liii I long as it endured a hard and fast circle shutting them into a tete-a-tHo capable of being a bondage bitter as that of a galley-slave. Mrs. Milner could not long exist without a grievance, and her elation at the prospect of marrying a daughter was now chequered by the disagreeable fact that a bride must have a trousseau, and that a trousseau demands a serious outlay of money. It really was •» difficulty to her to find the needful funds, as she had always lived up to her small income, with a straining to make it go further than its limits permitted. Favie treated these lamentings as the dictates of a dis- position which abhorred expense, and believed she could find the money if she chose ; but Tony was better in- structed. She felt no interest in the accumulation of wearing apparel, and was strongly averse to the trouble and worry she foresaw over every individual article. So she took the matter in her own hands, and told her mother that she would rather not have the things ; that John Challoner wished to marry her, and not her clothes ; and she begged, therefore, that the wedding might altogether be divested of the pomp which, under the circumstances, would be a mere effort and pretence. This by no means pleased Mrs. Milner. What would people say if it was done meanly ? She was not going to have impertinent remarks made about her inability to do for her daughter what other people did for theirs ! The end was a curious, and, to poor Tony, a humiliating concession to appearances. In vain she answered that John had no relatives, and therefore there was no one whose opinion need disturb them. Mrs. Milner was determined that Cousin Selina should not be able to sneer at the meagreness of her celebration of the important e'^ent. So Tony's outfit was woefully incomplete and deficient in useful articles ; but she had any number of useless ones. Ske had a cotton velvet cloak, trimmed with some unknown i A BAD BEOJNNING 61 ting them :er as that grievance, ighter was •ride must i a serious tier to find ) her small r than its s of a dis- she could better in- ulation of rouble and So she lother that Challoner |he begged, ivested of be a mere 'hat would t going to |ility to do I imiliating I that John )ne whose letermined ler at the ^ent. .deficient ^less ones. unknown fur, mounted on black muslin, that fell to pieces in a month. She had a box full of very long gloves, costing eighteen- p nee a pair, that split the first time of putting on. And, for the great occasion, she had a poor white satin, that crackled like paper, covered with imitation Iloniton, an imitation lace veil to match, and a wreath of shabby arti- ficial flowers. Mrs. Milner gloried in this costume, repeatr ing, over and over again, that nobody would ever guess how little it had cost — or how little it was worth, she might have added. The wedding breakfast was ordered on the same showy and economical principles that had influenced the selection of the trousseau, and as many guests were invited as could possibly be crammed into the small dining-room of No. 5. Hearing which. Cousin Selina remarked : "So like Letitia ! She fancies that everybody is as foolish as she is, and that we can't detect the difference between a good thing and a trumpery one. I should be very sorry to see any daughter of mine in a three-and-six- penny satin on her wedding-day, and with a wreath off a twelfth-cake on her head. And as for the breakfast ! I only hope that Charles will not drink one drop of what they call champagne, or of their sherry either, or I shall have him laid up for a month. So ridiculous of my cousin making all this display when everybody knows how poor she is ! It would have been far more respectable had she done things quietly — only she is such a fool ! " It really did seem that if Mrs. Milner valued Cousin Selina's opinion, and dreaded her sarcasms so much, she might just as well have given Tony the serge dress she begged for, and have let John Challoner off the gooseberry and the speech he shuddered at. All was, howevw, gone through with according to Mrs. Milner's programme, and the hapless bride and bridegroom had to bear it with as much resolution as they coujid ill ''I !!iiii':ili I i I :i! ^liiii 62 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Favie was greatly excited, and in her heart she was glad that the affair had not been concluded with that brevity and obscurity desired by the principals in it. She had a new frock after her own heart, as gay as she could devise it ; and felt of far more importance than she would otherwise have been. She had attended so many weddings as a longing spectator, and scrutinised so many bridesmaids, that she felt sure that her part at least would be gone through to perfection, and when John Challoner presented her with a locket, which was quite the finest thing she had ever possessed, it is not going too far to say that the day was one of radiant happiness to one at least of the party. John went through his part of saying it was the happiest day of his life— when it was, in fact, one of the most miserable— with the dogged pluck of a Briton. He thought it an odd arrangement that the very height of discomfort and awkwardness should be the approved be- ginning to the joys of married life ; but he accepted his lot with outward calm, and only inwardly gasped for the hour of release. At length Tony was permitted to go upstairs with her I sister to change her dress, and then it was allowable in him to hold his watch in his hand, and evince some impatience to get off. "That's over!" exclaimed the pale-cheeked bride, tossing her despised wreath upon a table. "After all it was great fun," observed Favie, whose eyes were sparkling, and cheeks glowing. "And you looked so nice, Tony ; white satin is so becoming." Tony was holding her big bouquet to her face absently. " You wouldn't have had that beauty if you had been married in green serge as you wished ; are you going to take it with you, Tony ? " went on the animated brides- maid. "No, indeed, Favie, you may keep it ; I don't want to be takea for ^ bride wherever I go I But it's the only real A BAD BEOINNINO 63 thing about the whole affair ; it was the only thing that prevented my feeling like a May-day sweep." " John must have given no end of money for it, Tony ! I wonder now if you will be rich. Doesn't it seem funny for you to have as much money as you can want to-day, and yesterday we had scarcely ten shillings between us? Mamma ought to let me spend more now you are gone. If she is stingy I shall tell you, and you must tell her she ought. She will mind what you say now you are Mrs. Challoner." " What a much better plan it would be if people were born married ! " sighed Tony. " There is something so — so odious about beginning. Of course it comes right after- wards." " Oh, of course ; and John is nice. It was so nice of him to get that lovely locket for me ; I shouldn't have cared half so much for a ring, except that I might have had fun, pretending to be engaged, you know. Tony, what a blessing you did not marry that Ernest Levinge ; I don't believe he had a penny in the world, and, after all, he did not care a bit about you ; they were just alike — Ernest and Mikie. I thought Mikie cared for me, but it was lucky I did not care for him. Don't you wish Ernest might be walking through the Crescent just as you are going off with a shower of white shoes after you ? I do ! " " I don't," said Tony, biting her lip. " Now help me, Favie, or I shall be late ; and don't talk any more of those old times, when we all made ourselves so ridiculous." Favie did not look best pleased at this remark. The days when she had made herself ridiculous were certainly not past, and she did not like to hear her sister speak as if she had settled down into what Miss Favour termed " the real dowdy." When she was quite ready, Tony stood for a minute before her looking-glass. She looked far nicer in her " going-away " costume of dark brown serge, with the dainty I V p 64 FAVOUn AND FORTVNB little muflf and toque to match, than she had done in hei* bridal finery, and Favie, who was busy collecting stray articles, said to herself that Tony was thinking how well that dead-leaf colour became her. But Tony was thinking of nothing of the kind, and her eyes were fixed, not upon her own reflection, but upon her wedding-rini(. That novel possession seemed somehow to be not upon her third finger, but tightening itself round her heart, and proclaiming aloud that for ever and for ever there was a barrier between her and her old boy-love. No matter now, if he were to come back saying he had been true all along, and only waiting to make a position he could ask her to share. No matter now if he were looking forward to an hour of re-union in which he might explain all his seeming fickleness. No matter now if he had rank and wealth as well as love to ofifer her ; she was tied and bound henceforth to that steady, respectable, kind, unromantic lawyer, Mr. John Challoner, and all her love and care must now be for him. Poor Tony's heart sank lower and lower. That foolish, unreal, happy past would surge up again at Favie's idle words. Oh, why had Favie mentioned Ernest Levinge now ? It was wrong, it was cruel of her to do so ; but it was not meant to be cruel. It was bnly thoughtless and inconsiderate — like Favie herself. And then, in contrast to her sister's conduct, came a strong sense of John's worth and goodness, lifting her heart again. " Yes," she thought, " life such as I once imagined waa impossible to any one ; and, at least, as John Challoner's wife, it need not be so empty to me as it has been of late." Meanwhile, amid the free and incautious chatter of the wedding guests in the drawing-room, certain words had floated to John Challoner's ears, as thistledown floats, and stuck in his memory as burs stick among fringe. " Yes, very nice-looking, but great want of colour ; I do not admire pale, thin girls myself, but I dare say that A BAB BEQINNINQ 65 change of air and happiness may turn Fortune into a beauty yet," some one eaid. *'The truth is, my dear, Tony has never looked the same since that affair with that young scamp, Levinge," replied Cousin Selina. * The way in which she took it to heart was really quite — I was going to say indelicate — how- ever, of course that was over long ago, and a good thing too, for he turned out as badly as one could expect." At this moment the door opened, and Tony entered^ while John Challoner was sitting stunned by the blow he had received. Perfectly pale, and like a man who, having received a mortal wound from a bullet, will remain per- fectly still for a moment and then drop down dead, he was standing there like a statue, and at the moment of his wife's entrance there were too many people crowding round the door for her to observe him. The bustle of her entrance brought him to himself; and, as he rose under the necessity of con ing forward to meet her, a stinging, biting sense of indignant anguish took the place of his first numb- ness ; but he crushed it back with all the strength of his will, bracing himself to bear the pain, as a brave man might have done under a cruel surgical operation before chloroform was discovered, and then he went through a leave-taking which was as hurried as he could well make it, considering that it had to include a fond embrace and a tearful volley of studied sentiment from the woman who, he knew, had deceived him. If these people — strangers — could talk openly of " that affair with the young scamp, Levinge " as if it were a well-known thing, most assuredly the mother, who had told him so smoothly that her daughter had never loved any man— knew the history too, and had lied to him. Truly, it was as bitter a draught as was ever poured out for a man on his wedding-day. The last words of farewell had been spoken, and last kisses given ; the carriage door had been shut with a bang ; the volley of old shoes had been thrown; the horses had i- "I'l mi »l<\ KM I 1 1 ni III, ill .11, ; I 111 66 FAVOVB AND FORTUNE set oiF; the crowd of wedding smiling faces were left behind, and John Challoner at length found himself alone with the girl he had chosen as his life companion — his wife — with a miserable, burning sense of loss and mistake which he had made up his mind to conceal as well as he could. If Tony had been in love with him instead of relying entirely upon his love for her, a very short space of time would have sufficed to bring him into a sober and healing frame of mind, and the shock might even have been bene- ficial, as the shock of a shower-bath, in showing him how foolish he had been in holding a theory that a second love could not be so deep as the first, and that there are not stronger chords than youthful passion to bind a woman to husband and home. His character was a generous one, but in this particular it was warped ; his faith was small, and his love young and weak, although throbbing with a warm life which made him feel all the more acutely the disappointment of being second where he had believed himself first. He had been wronged, and while he said a few words — he scarcely knew what they were — to his wife, he was searching his memory anxiously to find out if she had aided in the deception. Tony was too much preoccupied with the novelty of her situation, too bewildered and excited, too shy and tired, to be able to string her thoughts coherently together, or to observe anything strange in her husband's behaviour. She was not surprised at his silence or his gravity, and as she never raised her eyes to his face, she had no opportunity of being struck by his pallor and gloom — so unflattering in a bridegroom. The happy pair were going first to Folkestone, en route for Paris, where they were to stay for three or four weeks, and Mr. Challoner had very much looked forward to showing that city of delight to Tony, who had never once crossed the Channel, but this beginning was like going for a picnic through a drenching fog, which shut out all A BAD BEGINNINa 67 prospect and chilled to the hone. All the little husiness of travelling routine was gone through mechanically by Mr. Challoner, and it was with a deep sigh that he threw him- self back on his seat when he had finally drawn a warm rug over Tony's knees, and the train had begun to move. Whilst standing for a few moments on the platform alone, when her husband was looking after the luggage, Tony had felt a desperate impulse to run away, anywhere, from this man — who was, after all, a stranger to her — back again to Favie, and to the old, untrammelled life. She had found that life unpleasant enough very often, but in this hour, looking back upon it from her present position, she experienced a wild longing to return to it. The hills looked so purple in the distance that she forgot how steep she had found them to climb. " Oh, if I could only get away by myself" she said to herself in the sudden fit of despair that had overtaken her ; and then, with a heavy sigh, she remembered that this was impossible. But a few short hours before, she had of her own free will taken this same stranger *'for better for worse " until death should part them ; and now for the first time in her life, perhaps, a daughter of Mrs. Milnpr's found herself bound to abide by the words her lips had spoken. "No, thank heaven," thought John Challoner. "She did not deceive me, and I have no reason to suppose that she knew that her mother did. If I had asked her, she would have confessed the truth ; but it is odd there should have been so little confidence between us that she should not have told me anything of her life. I suppose confidence comes after marriage." The journey seemed horriV^" long and wearisome to Tony. "Is it a sort of parody of marriage?" she thought. " Oh, no ; jf it were so, every one would not talk as if marriage was the only desirable thing in life to a woman. I am married ; yes^ I am a married woman. Here is the V 2 i^ .l:A i. i; i, till i!,i' FAVOUB AND FORTUNE ring on my finger ; but it does not seem natural. Oh, dear ! a man is a stupid companion — that is to say, the sort of man every one marries. I wonder what Favie is doing now. Ah, how she would like to see Paris ! I wish he had asked her to come, too." "Is she thinking about that young fool?" thought John, gloomily, on hearing her sigh. " Well, she is my wife, and I must make the best of it, even if she is ; but if she had wilfully deceived me to begin with, I could not have stood it. To spend one's life with a treacherous, deceitful woman ! Good heavens, what a purgatory ! " Tony was very tired, and she was of a clinging nature, with a child's desire of caresses from those she cared for ; she would gladly have put her head on her husband's shoulder, for they were alone, and rested with his arm round her ; but he had placed himself opposite her, and he was not looking as if he had any such ideas. Tony had read almost every novel written in the last ten years, and she was sure that he was not behaving in a manner which carried out his professions of love. It looked as if, now he had won her, he did not care about her, as if he had already repented his deed. She hid away her face, pretending to sleep, and large tears rolled plentifully down her cheeks. Truly, they were a foolish couple, making misery for themselves because life and human nature were not exactly cut out after the patterns which their ignorance had settled to be the only right ones. In time they might be as meek as others, to whom experience has taught many secrets ; among others, the art of yielding to strong forces instead of clashing blindly against them. But, in the meanwhile, they were composing a very bitter brew, which they will drink with wry faces. CHAPTER V. DIVEBGINQ LINES There are certain events in the life of every one which fashion and stamp their character ; they seem small and unimportant in themselves, but they are great and important to each of us ; they mark that slight bend where two lines which had been running parallel begin to diverge — never to meet again. — Max Mullbb. T was on a bright winter's day that Tony looked upon Paris for the first time. There was snow on the roads, and ice on the lake, and a clear blue sky overhead ; and the frosty air seemed to have imparted a more than usual amount of vivacity to the gay dwellers in the pleasantest city of the world. The Challoners did not put up at an hotel, one of John's clients — a widow lady — having placed her apartments in the Chauss^e d'Antin at their disposal for a fortnight. " They are so different tb London rooms," Tony wrote the following day to her sister. ** They look very smart and showy, afid they are not exactly uncomfortable, but they are comfortless— if you can understand the difference. The chairs are of carved wood, and handsome — but so stiff and hard and tall ; and the salon is furnished with violet Utrecht velvet — which I think hideous. But it was not Miss Gardener's taste ; she took the rooms already furnished from a French lady, so she is not responsible for the frightful big onnolu clocks ^nd candelabra ; but when I get into my I * . 11'i 70 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE m\ i y^t'W i h ' I'D 'I : ■ !l!!!i|*s! ! i ^ ::i!! i II ill ll! house, Favie, we'll have no Utrecht velvet, and certainly no ormolu, but we'll have pretty chintzes and cretonnes, and basket-chairs, and Queen Anne tea-tables, and all sorts of nice things." I Regularly every other day during her stay in Paris did Tony write to her sister. She sent her a long account of the opera-house, and of " Faust," of the skating in the Bois, of the Boulevards by gaslight, of the pictures in the Louvre, and of the artists — some quiet young girls — who were copying them ; and all this vigorous correspondence was not kept up in accordance with any promise, but simply because now that she was away from Favie a yearning after that companion and confidante of her whole life had taken strong possession of Tony. She— the bride of a few days — felt so utterly lonely that her heart ached for the sister left behind. One afternoon as she was putting Miss Favour Milner's letter slowly into its envelope she fairly broke down. A sob rose in her throat, and putting her head on the table she burst into tears almost without knowing why she did so. But presently, through the medium of her tears, she saw a huge body of dark sorrow overshadowing her life ! " He doesn't love me ; he never did," she cried. " He made the mistake of fancying he did, and then he was too honourable to draw back. Or is it possible that mamma drew him into it ? He spoke to her first — she sent him to me — how do I know what she said ? A woman — any V. Oman but myself— could do anything with John. He believes so strongly in women. Oh, why did I liot die before I accepted him ? Why did I ever marry him ? I have only made him and myself miserable." These thoughts were not spoken aloud, except the last sentence, which burst out as a relief to the oppression of her mind in one short, sharp, pain-wrung gasp. John Challoner was standing in the doorway, and they emote him like a blow from a steam-hammer. If there had been DIVEBQINa LINES 71 nothing rankling at his heart, no cherished bitter thing eating out the core day by day, he would have come forward, taken her in his arms, and had a full explanation on the spot, and their lives would have made a fresh beginning. But having nursed the serpent he must needs bear the sting ; and so, before she knew he was there, he had turned away again, and taken his misery out into the open air, leaving her to struggle with hers, and to lock it up again as soon as possible. An angel could not have convinced him at that moment that the memory of that young scamp Levinge was not the cause of that burst of tears. He saw that she was sitting at her desk, but even then he would not allow himself to imagine that she was writing to her old love. She might be writing a foolish diary, or scribbling one of her long epistles to her sister. But then the odious thought obtruded itself, did Favour know anything about that young reprobate ? Did she meet him ? and did she write about him to her sister ? Only married a fortnight, and entertaining such suspicions ! Truly there must have been unsuspected deeps in John Challoner's practical nature into which the plummet was being dropped with a vengeance for the first time. He had looked forward to his wedding-day as the beginning of the full sweetness of life to him. All that had gone before had appeared broken and scattered pieces of colour which marriage would gather into a beautiful, comprehensible pattern. There had been nothing to solidify, and bind together, and he had dreamed — yes, even he had dreams— of the woman who was to enter in, and be the centre around which his future days and years might perfectly combine in one whole ; he said to himself that he had asked but one thing of that woman — though, indeed, he had required several — and that he had been wronged, deceived, cheated, if not by the wife he had chosen, by her nearest relative, her mother ; it seemed to him at that 72 PAVOUB AND FOBTUNS ^\hUi moment as if they were one and the same, and although, perhaps, he was not so unfair as to associate Tony with Mrs. Milner in the deliberate falsehood uttered by the latter, yet, because Tony had not of. her own free will confessed her former attachment, he always blamed her in an equal degree. As he looked on he saw a spoilt lifb before him ; no confidence between him and her ; the cold mist which had arisen upon their wedding-day stretching out blankly between them, perhaps growing more and more chilling as years went on ; for a slight misunderstanding has in it a terrible power of growth. After walking about for two hours he returned to the hotel, and found his wife sitting before the fire with an open book beside her. " Are you not late ? I thought you were to take me out at two o'clock to see the skating," she said, in her quiet voice which now seemed to convey a hopeless sense of distance to John's sensitive ear. " I am sorry I should have kept you waiting, Fortune." "It is Fortune which generally expects to be waited for," rejoined Tony, with a certain dry quaintness which was characteristic of her. " It shall npt happen again," John said, gravely. " It does not matter ; I was very much interested in this book, and we are going out this evening." John sat down and looked into the fire. Did you write to your sister to-day ? " he asked. Yes ; and every time I write I think how much poor Favie would enjo'y being here in Paris. She would really appreciate it more than I do, in the way of amusement." " You are getting tired of it, perhaps ? " "Tired? Oh, I don't know. Are you?" " I begin to think that I ought not to waste much more time away from business. But I do not wish to hurry you away." " I will go whenever you please ; the day after to- i( €t DIVEBGING LINES 73 morrow if you like ; we have seen almost everything we both wished to see, and I shall be pleased— that is, I am quite ready to go home. Any way, we should have turned out of these rooms on Tuesday, and we may just as well leave them on Saturday. I shall be very glad to see dear, dirty old London again." "Glad to go back to London/' repeated Challoner to himself, " and tohy, I wonder ? " " He is longing to get over this tef^-a-tSte with me," thought Tony ; " he prefers the drudgery of office work to my company." So it was arranged that they should leave in three days Silently and gravely they sat out a performance at the Fran^aise that evening, and an opera the next ; they spent all the rest of their time out of doors ; and day by day they grew to vote the brilliant city more and more sleepy. Then they went away to foggy London, which was by no means in its best looks to greet our moody bridegroom and . grave bride when they took up their abode in one of the well-built, old-fashi6ned houses in Bloomsbury Square, where they had elected to live. Perhaps they both wished they might shake hands and part ; he to go to his bachelor chambers, and she to her shabby old home in the Bayswater Crescent. But it was not to be. "Yes, mamma must have tricked him somehow into marrying me," Tony bitterly reflected. And now he visits it upon me." Favie was not long in paying her sister a visit; she had a thousand things to say, and ten thousand to ask. "Well, Tony! and how do you like being a real married lady ? " " When being a real married lady means going to Paris ; getting in as many operas and theatres into the days as possible ; seeing the latest fashions ; skating by torchlight to the music of a splendid band, playing all one's favourite waltzes, and bringing home pretty things, how can you ask, Favie?" 7i FAVOUR AND FORTUNE I ■' II " I do think you are very lucky ; it's been miserably dull without you. I declare when I think of my afternoon visits with mamma, and the evening with Willie kicking his chair, or the table, by the hour together, I feel as if I would marry a commissionaire, or a policeman, if he asked f> me. " There is just one thing to remember, Favie. When you are married — whether you like it or whether you loathe it — there is no getting out of it. There you are for life." " Not if you can get yourself made a widow, Tony. That's really the best thing ; because then you have no one to bother you," " But you are just as likely to leave your policeman or commissionaire a widower, so you had better not count upon that." "Now you are married, Tony, mamma has begun to plaguQ my life out to marry, too ; and is always holding up your example before me, because you have made what she calls a sensible match. You don't know what I have gone through, hearing her tell all her friends, and people who don't care a straw about you or her, and don't want to listen, all about John Challoner and John Challoner's prospects, and his devotion to you, and your beautiful home, as if you had married a marquis, and come to your house in Belgrave Square for the season." " I know ; I went through it when mamma Jook me a round of farewell visits.'* " I don't believe any one makes so many calls as mamma in this world," sighed Favie. " And she seems to pick out the stupidest people in London." "But you have had several dances. Were they good ? " " Perfect • " cried Favie, with the animation which this topic alone could call forth. " Quite perfect ; oh, I must tell you all about them, especially the last ! " Whereupon followed a long and detailed account, beginning with the iil DIVEUOINO LINES 75 miserably afternoon B kicking el as if I he asked I. When ou loathe Dr life." w, Tony, ^e no one ceman or •unt upon begun to jlding up what she ave gone ople who want to lalloner's beautiful J to your [)ok me a 3 mamma pick out jre they lich this 1, 1 must lereupon with the dress worn upon the brilliant occasion, and going minutely through all partners, old and new. " And really, Tony, Mr. Richardson was so like Mikie Levinge, that I danced five times with him, partly because it seemed like old times, and partly because he is such fun. But he did not half like my saying he reminded me so of an old friend ; he said he did not like old friends, and he supposed that was my only reason for dancing with him." " You had better not dance five times with him again, Favie, if he is like Mike Levinge ; indeed, I wish you would not dance so often in one evening with any one." Favie' stared aghast. " Oh, you are an altered character ! Why, I'm sure you often did it yourself, Tony, and so shall I as long as they dance well. Mr. Richardson dances splendidly — better than Mikie did; he was so dashing, and in a crowd it was terrible, but Mr. Richardson guides one through anything. • After all, T wouldn't have changed places with you ; there is nothing like dancing, and John Challoner must have been a dull old fellow to go about with ; you can't have any fun with him now, can you ? " " Of course a husband is not the same as a partner for a waltz, and I did not expect to laugh and talk nonsense all day with John, as you and I did. Men are so difi'erent when you come to live with them, and I think that perhaps one liaa to give up some pleasant things when one marries." " I thought so ; and except when everything is tire- some, and mamma cross, and Willie troublesome, I always say to myself that I will not marry for years to come. But then I am sure to change my mind next day." "Don't expect a life of amusement when you marry, Favie; you must make up your mind to sober down then." " Well, I am sure I have no amusement now, except when I ^0 to a dance ; and even then I miss you to talk it over with afterwards. I am obliged to put up with any girl I •rmi 76 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE can catch, and they are all stupid and taken up with their own flirtations. Mr. Richardson has a sister about my age, though she looks much older. I made rather friends with her. She teas dressed abominably, but I believe they are rich." " Where did you meet them ? " " At the Handcocks*." " I thought we settled never to go f '^re again, Favie ; we met such a queer set of people thert j ear ; you don't know whom you may pick up at a house li^e that. I remejnber that I was quite ashamed to bow to some of the men Miss Handcock introduced to me when I met them afterwards ^ in the Park ; and it is so unpleasant to cut people." " Oh, yes, that is true," replied Favie, rather confusedly, "but still the Handcocks were very kind to me after you left. They called constantly to take me out in their carriage, and so whfn they invited me to their ball, I really felt that I ^ ought to go." Tony could not suppress the smile that would rise to her lips at this remark, for her sister was not, as a rule, so desperately anxious to do the thing she ought to do. " And really," continued Favie, " there were some very nice people at their house this year. Mr. Halidcock has made a lot of money, and the party was most beautifully done. There were such flowers on the landing, and the ball-room was lovely. After all, Tony, we are too poor to be particular. It is not as if I got a chance of going to a lot of good parties. I haven't. And I ought to be very much obliged to any one who takes the trouble to invite me. Mamma gives nothing in return." "I know we are poor, Favie," replied Tony, gently, " but that does not prevent our being ladies, and it makes it all the more necessary for us to be careful with whom we associate. It is so much easier to get into a bad set than to get out of it again, and one gets known by one's friends. And remember that if you are seen with third-rate people, m DIVEBOINO LINES 77 nice people won't care to be seen with you. For my part, I must say that the society of the vulgar doesn't amuse me. » Favie reddened slightly. She evidently did not agree with her sister. "What you call vulgar people are often the most amusing," she said, rather sheepishly ; " and then they make so much more of one. I was made (][uite a fuss with at the Handcocks'." " How did mamma like them, Favie ? " "Oh, very much. They flattered h3r tremendously, and she said, as we were driving home, that really in these days money made the only distinction between people — that the great thing was to be rich, and that if you were only that you might be as peculiar as you pleased. And I really think she is right, Tony, although I hate money. I am sick of the sound of it ! You have pleased mamma by marrying for money, Tony ; but I mean to please myself, whether there is money or not." " I married for money ! " repeated Tony, shocked and surprised. " Why, what else ? Don't tell me you cared for John Challoner," replied Favie, laughing. " I dare say it was the right thing to do, but you did not marry for love." Tony was silent. Put plainly before her, she was com- pelled to acknowledge the truth of the assertion ; perhaps John Challoner might well resent it. She had not married for love ; neither for money indeed ; but for weariness of her home, for change, to get away from her aimlessness, and because she believed John loved her. " I hope when you marry, you will marry some one as well worth loving as John," she said to her sister, moved by some vague, yet strong feeling. " It won't be any one the least like John, you may be sure," laughed Favie, jumping up and beginning to waltz after the fashion of the accomplished Mr. liichardson. f! 78 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE J ! On the following day Favie bounded in again just as her sister was preparing to go out, brimming over with the blissful intelligence that the Richardson family had called, and had left an invitation to a dance on the following evening. "What, before mamma had returned their visit?" asked Tony. " Why, how could she? There was not a day to spare !** " Why did they not call before ? " " Oh, Mrs. Richardson said she had been so busy." " And what is she like ? " " I don't know ; Miss Richardson brought her card and the invitation." " Well, Favie, I think the whole proceeding very imper- tinent ; it looks as if she did not care to be acquainted with mamma, and thought you would jump at her invitation. I do hope you will send a refusal." Favie coloured up to her hair. *' How ill-natured you are, Tony ! Why should you wish to deprive me of a little amusement? Besides, mamma has accepted, so it is too late to think more about it. Really there's no harm, and they meant to be very civil ; Mrs. Richardson sent a great many messages. And now, Tony, I really want you to do me a kindness ; if you don't lend me your pink silk with the lace on it, I shall not be able to go, for mamma won't give me another dress, and I quite finished mine at the Handcocks'. Now do, there's a dear ! — and I expect it is not the sort of dress you wear now you are married." "I'll give you a prettier one than that for your next party, if you give up this one," said Tony. " It would be a good reason with mamma " " No, it would not," broke in Favie ; " she says I can wear my old yellow one. And, indeed, I can't ; you never saw an3rthing so dirty ! Mamma never sees when a dress is dirty ! But she has made up her mind to go, and she can't go without me." DIVEBQING LINES 79 " Well, then, promise me you will not dance so often with this Mr. Richardson." "Why, how could he ask me at his own house? It is quite impossible ! Now, Tony, you know you used to be nearly as fond of dancing as I was, and you danced much oftener with Ernest Le^^'nge." "I don't set myself up ud a pattern, Favie. I wish we had had some one to prevent a great many things we both did. You are welcome to my pink silk, and may keep it for your own." After this interview a whole week passed without the sisters meeting, to Tony's great surprise. She went several times to her mother's, but Favie was out, and Mrs. Milner was too glad to have Tony as a listener all to herself to take the trouble to guess or to explain what had become of the other daughter. Tony had been happier in that week than she had been in Paris, for she had been thoroughly occupied in getting her house in order, but instead of eagerly looking forward to John's return from his office in the evening, she felt a sort of chill expectation — almost trepidation — when the customary hour drew nigh, and books and newspapers took up their whole evenings. Sunday was a long, weary day of companionship with- out sympathy, or even the ease of thoroughly established indifference. But upon Sunday, Tony talked to her husband about the neglected education, and general unsatisfactori- ness of her little brother, and though John did not say much at the time, he went over to Mrs. Milner the next day, and in the evening told Tony that he had arranged to send Willie to a good school, upon the condition that Mrs. Milner did not listen to any complaint so spoilt a boy might make, nor take him away without his, John Challoner's, consent. Tony was pleased and grateful, and, as she thanked him, she impulsively put out her hand and laid it on his. He 80 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE m [it started, then held hers gently for a moment, and put it away. Tony felt the half withdrawal to begin with, and shrank back into herself. " He has not a particle of love for me,'* she said to herself, sadly. "But, being a good, generous man, he acts according to his nature." Now Tony was not a girl whose affections for others depended upon theirs for her, and wavered with theirs, independent of their character. She could admire and appreciate the finer qualities in John Challoner, and a firm trust, and dependence upon his right dealing, was the high- road to her deepest love. Thus sh seemed to herself to be learning to love him the more, as he drifted the further from her. In her many lonely hours she pondered over the question which was of paramount importance to her ; why had he married her without love? Was there any underlying secret which must for ever raise a blank wall between them ? or would he in time learn to love her as their interests became more inseparable ? It wac a wet day, a foggy, forbidding day, in which no discreet person who could stay by a fireside would venture out ; in consequence of which Tony had found the hours long, and had had an unwholesome quantity of leisure in which to brood over that which was becoming a fixed idea with ner. She had caught cold, moreover, and felt low and shivering. At about half-past three in the afternoon she heard her husband come in and go straight to his study. In another half-hour the cook sent up a message to the effect that something had gone wi-ong, and would Mrs. Challoner be pleased to come into the kitchen ? Tony said she would go, and went. Passing the study door — much to her surprise — she heard her husband engaged in low and serious conv jation. Wondering who his visitor might be, and with a quickly banished notion that she heard something like muffled sobs, she went on about her business. Upon reaching the kitchen, DIVEBOINO LINES 81 she learnt that the cook had forgotten to watch something whose delicate existence depended upon watching, and a dish was hopelessly, irretrievably spoilt. What was to replace it? Tony did not know much about such matters, and after suggesting several perfectly impossible dishes — dishes that she had partaken of in Parisian restaurants, which required some twelve hours to prepare — she at length hit upon some- thing feasible, and, having given her orders, she reascended the staircase on her way to the drawing-room. As she halted for a moment at the top of the kitchen stairS; the study door opened slowly, and two persons came forth. *' Do not come to the house again," John Challoner was saying in a low, grave tone. " You can always write to me, and see me at my office, and I shall be down at Dorking as usual. Good-bye, Barbara ; I am sorry you are out on such a day, my child." Then Tony, as she came forward, could just see her husband's back, and a vanishing, slight female figure. Hastening her steps, she ran upstairs so swiftly and lightly, that she was quite unperceived. Upon reaching the drawing- room, she shut herself in with a burning light in her eyes, and pale cheeks, and hands icy cold, as her hands always turned in a moment of intense nervous excitement. Throwing hersei; upon the hearthrug, she buried her face in her hands. " That is it ! he was in love with this girl, and in pique, or under some mistaken feeling, he married me. How often, I wonder, have they met since that day ? Ah ! this was why he was so dull in Paris, so anxious to get home ! Oh ! how cruel ! how intolerable ! How shall I bear it ? " She had her moan and her anguish out, stretched upon the rug, with the firelight shining on her smooth, brown hair in its thick coils. ''Barbara, Barbara, mij child/' he called her. " Oh, how long he must have known her, o ((?lff1 HS i » : ; 1 *gjjl j i' \ ■ :^f 1 I ll 82 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE how lie must love her ! and I never knew, I never knew ! And he has taken my life and spoilt it ! Why am I to be crushed again and again ? But oh, what was the old misery to this ? This is real, I shall never escape from it. Only death can put it right, only if I am taken out of their way ! Chained together for life ! How can men and women be fools enough to marry ? " At five, the servant who brought up her tea, found her ying on the sofa, with her face concealed by her hand. " Tell your master I have a very bad headache, and shall go to bed soon, and shall not be able to come down to dinner. I would rather be left quite alone, tell him." She added that she could bear no lights, and only wished for a good fire in her room. In accordance with her request, Mr. Challoner did not come to disiurb his wife until just before dinner, when he found her, as he supposed, half asleep, and was too considerate to talk to her. Outwardly, nothing seemed to have disturbed domestic harmony, and there was no alteration in the behaviour of husband and wife after this unlucky day ; but Mr. Challoner noticed with concern his wife's pale and depressed looks. They were not upon sufficiently natural terms for him to express his feelings, but he lingered as he went out of the breakfast-room on the following morning^ and said, in a voice which sounded constrained : " You seem tired, I should not advise you to go out ; perhaps you have been doing too much since we have been at home. Can I do anything for you ? " " Nothing, thank you," Tony replied, rather chilled than touched by his words. " I shall not go out this morning, I expect my sister." " I hope she will stay to luncheon with you ; you have not seen her lately, I think." " Not for some days." Favie arrived early. Opening the door of the room in DIVEBGINO LINES 83 wWch her sister was sitting writing, she came in quietly, with- out her customary bound and rush. She was looking very pretty, but not well ; her dark hazel eyes were bright, and her cheeks had the velvety bloom of a good brunette com- plexion, but she had changed in some respect — it was difficult to say in what. Tony, who was very quick in noticing expressions and in feeling the mood of those she was with, observed this as soon as she saw her sister. She greeted her warmly, then said : " Have you been in a scrape with mamma, Favie ? " " Why do you ask ? Have you heard anything ? " Favie exclaimed, startled. " Nothing. Come and tell me about it. I will leave these letters for the present. I am tired and only want a talk." " Well, mamma is cross, that's all, and I came as early as I could get away, and mean to stop till five o'clock. But, Tony, I have something really interesting to tell you. I was just coming out of Kensington Gardens yesterday, when a tall, big man suddenly crossed the road and took off his hat, and stopped in front of me. * You do not re- member me,' he said ; and I knew him in a moment. Who do you suppose it was ? Ernest Levinge himself, looking years older, very handsome, but ill and queer, with a long, thick, golden moustache, and his eyes blazing as they used to do when he was angry ; they are not so lovely as they used to be." " Well, and what did he say ? Was he in private's uniform, or in plain clothes ? " " You are not half so much excited as I expected. He has left the army ; he never rose from the ranks as I ex- pected he would, and now he is just going oiF to Australia. He said he had been hanging about for days trying to see one of us, and then he asked after you." " Did he know I was married ? " **Yes. He asked me if you hated him, if you had o 2 1.1^1 1 i i |l V 84 FAVOim AND FORTUNE forgotten him, or if you still liked him a little—just a little — for the sake of old days." Fortune turned crimson. " Oh, Favie, I hope you did not talk any nonsense about me to Ernest Levinge." " Any nonsense ! of course not/' replied Favie, emphati- cally — as if it were the sort of thing that she could not do if she tried. " I never talk nonsense ; but, Tony, don't you want to know what Ernest said ? " "What did he say?" The question was asked in a strange tone of subdued emotion, but Favie did not notice anything unusual in it. " Well, he says that he should like very much oh, so much — to see you again " " Poor Ernest." " And I said that I was sure you would like to see him again " " Oh, Favie, I hope you were careful- n " Of course I was. But listen to his message. He says he must see you, and I am to arrange it. You are to come out one morning into Kensington Gardens — with me, and Ernest will be there and meet us. And then you and he can have your long talk together. It will be the saving of him, I am sure, if you seem to take an interest in him, and to like him, and " " Oh, Favie, don't ! " cried Tony, in a pained voice. "Don't what? Oh, Tony, you must meet him — you must. Listen ! it is all arranged beautifully " " Favie ! you don't consider what you are talking about. What do you suppose John would say ? " " Oh, if you are bound to tell John everything — but I don't believe you are so fond of him as all that. You don't know what it is to care so much for any one, Tony — 80 much that you did not mind what the vhole world said," — Favie was quite incoherent now. Tony looked que: 'oningly at her. " I don't know what you mean, Favie ; it is not a question of how much or how mtEEOINQ LINM ^ little I care for John. He is my husband, and to meet Mr. Levinge would be as wrong as it would be foolish." *' How could it be wrong just to speak a few words to cheer up the poor fellow ? I suppose if he goes away in despair and drinks himself to death you would' be sorry, Tony ? " " Do you suppose I can save him by meeting him, and hearing him repeat all he said to you ? I would put my hand in the fire," cried poor Tony, starting up, "if it would do any good ; but if he drinks I cannot save him. He might have kept straight and risen ; he was young, and strong, and clever, and every one liked him. What has he done with all his friends ? why has he let himself be beaten? Poor fellow ! poor Ernest ! I am so sorry, but I can do nothing." " You might do a great deal. He said he would be in the Gardens every day between eleven and twelve for the next week in hopes of seeing you. Well, there is no harm in going there one morning ; any one may walk there ; and he need not know you went on purpose." " For what other purpose should I go at this time of year ? How was it you were there, Favie, when you met him?" Favie turned uneasily away and laughed, but Tony saw a burning colour come into her cheeks. ** I was there with a friend : we had something to talk over." Favie spoke in a manner she sometimes assumed when she intended to say so much and no more, and Tony knew she should get no further answer to her questions. "If you were to see him for five minutes — only five minutes — you might send him away for good. I think you are most absurd, Tony, to be so particular ; do you suppose John consults you whenever he speaks to a lady ? or that he would feel bound to confess afterwards if he met one ? " A pang ♦/ent through Tony's heart ; she thought of Barbara, and was silent. m ! "■ \f\ ■ i III liljliip' 86 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE " I was sorry for Ernest ; he is very handsome, and looks, oh, so much older," Favie ran on. " He must have been very fond of you, Ton3% I didn't think he was, as he never turned up, and let you marry John Challoner ; but norw I do believe he didn't come because he was so unfortunate. It was really very nice of him. Oh, Tony, I'd a thousand times rather marry him than John Challoner ! " "You will never marry either, and you are a goose, Favie ; the wife of a man who drinks is the most miserable of all women." "I don't know about that. Perhaps he would leave off ; men will do anything for ix girl they love." "Or say they will," said Tony, drily. "If Ernest Levinge had truly loved me he would have kept himself steady for my sake, and had patience, and worked, and some day come back to me." " And found you married." " No," said Tony, colouring, " I would have waited for him, but he never asked me to do so." " He wishes he had now, at any rate. Tony, I can't think why being married has changed you so. You talk as if you had jumped over half your life, and were fifty.** " I feel fifty sometimes, alone here all day.'* "Poor dear, so you must. I will come often to see you ; somehow I have so much to do lately.** " What ? Altering your dresses and trying experi- ments on your hair? I have only been married three weeks, and you have quite changed your style. I hope you will not get into an exaggerated, conspicuous imitation of the fashions, Favie. I think if a girl has but a very small allowance, her cniy chance of looking well is to dress very simply, and not to try and keep up with the fashion books." Favie protested that both hair and costume had been greatly admired. " And, Tony, now that there is only one of us, of course, there is so much to be done." nM ^ DIVEBOINO LINES 87 " You have been out whenever I had been to mamma's this last week ; whom do you walk with ? " " Any one I can get," replied Favie, promptly ; " and this afternoon I want you to take me with you. I don't care where we go." " Shall we go to one of the Winter Exhibitions ? " asked Tony, who had developed a taste for pictures since her marriage. " Ye-es," replied Favie, slowly. She had said that she did not care where she went, and she had really no other place to suggest. But why did Tony want to go to a dull picture-gallery ? Surely Marshall and Snelgrove's would be pleasanter, and for the price of a pair of gloves or a hand- kerchief you might while away a whole afternoon there most delightfully. " Have you any more dances to go to, Tony ? " asked her sister, as they were driving to Pall Mall ; " and, by-the- bye, I have never inquired now you enjoyed your ball at your new friends'." " It was the best bax^ x ^.ver went to in my life.'' (The last ball was always the best with Favie.) " They must be very rich people, Tony. Everything was so splendid, and I never saw such toilets. Miss Richardson's dress was of white satin — such a satin ; it must have cost at least fifteen shillings a yard, and it was made veiy simply, just a style you would admire, but it fits her like a glove, and the front was all embroidered in gold thread ; and she had her hair dressed in the Greek style — her brother told me that some man in Regent Street always did it for her when she was going out. Tony, I wonder you don't have your hair dressed by some man when you go out. I felt so dowdy beside her. But, after all, one can't do more than enjoy oneself and be admired, and I danced every dance and had the best partners in the room. I never was at a ball where there were so many good dancers." Favie's eyes sparkled and her pink cheeks flushed 88 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE scarlet as she spoke. She had evidently enjoyed herself to the utmost, and everything at her new friends* house was enlarged upon except her intercourse with the son, which, however, Tony soon discovered had not been limited to two or three dances. Favie Milner, like many great talkers, was not really frank, and although she let out a great deal about every- body else, she never told anything she did not choose to have known about herself. When the carrying out of any piece of folly was likely to be "". dangered, Miss Favie could keep her own counsel with a discretion and a constancy worthy of a far better cause. '■ ....; •'f . ..". CHAPTER VI. ENGAGED WITH A CLIENT Give thy thoaghts no tongue, Nor any unproportioned thought his act. Shakespeabb. PRIL this year was a warm and a sunny month, prophesying of the summer to come. Light, warmth, and sprouting greenness were seen and felt everywhere ; in the dingy London squares and gardens, as well as in the freshening meadows and on the brown hillsides. At the street corners sat weary-looking girls, who had trudged many a mile since daybreak, offering for sale their bunches of violets, primroses, and Lent lilies. These gentle forerunners of summer warmth and splendour did much to lighten the respectable gloom of Bloomsbury Square. The atmosphere of Tony's rooms was fresh and fragrant with the odour of the sweet spring flowers, and the house looked altogether much more homelike and comfortable than it had done two months ago when she first came to it. She had exerted herself considerably to make her rooms pretty, and she had attained her end. She was beginning to throw into her house the interest and the care that some women expend on their clothes, others on their children's dress, others on their church — the desire to beautify and to decorate something or somebody being innate in most women. . ^ i^' •0 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE f. t She was not on better terms with her husband, and she was no happier than before , and although John had never uttered a word that was not kind and courteous, and seemed to be ever thinking of some small new pleasure for bis wife, the burden weighed heavier and heavier on her soul. She had not gone to meet Ernest Levinge, although once or twice she had felt sorely tempted to do so during the week in which she knew where to find him waiting for her. It was painful to her to refuse an urgent request, even from a beggar in the street, much more from her old love, for whose dear sake she had wept much of the bright- ness from her pretty eyes for ever ; and moreover she often felt that she might just as well have gone, for no one wanted her at home until the evening. There were so few things she had to do in her own house — except to order dinner and to arrange and rearrange her rooms — and there was no warm, mutual, wifelike love to keep her heart light and hopeful through her solitary hours. But, in spite of all, Tony, who was not strong, but weak, held on to her first intuitive consciousness that it would be wrong to grant his petition ; and when the week expired she breathed freely once more, knowing that, willing or unwilling, she could not meet him now. Favie now underwent such decided alterations in aspect and behaviour that Tony had no difficulty in discovering that some secret influence was at work with her. Even John Challoner had observed that he did not think Favie looked so nice as when Tony was at home, and the two dressed alike ; and Tony was greatly distressed to find that she was not to be won from her friends, whom she more than suspected to be vulgar and undesirable ; and that when Favie did give any of her time to Bloomsbury Square, her whole manner showed how little she cared to be there, and how ready she was to leave. Her desertion was only less painful to Tony than John's coldness. She felt she was indeed alone. ' E^QAQED WITH A CLIENT 91 At first she blamed herself for not being able to enter- tain her Bu ter better ; but she signally failed. The harp- strings were broken, and responded no longer to the uncer- tain touch. Favie continued to yawn, and looked bored ; to roam restlessly about the rooms, to pinch in her small waist to the most impossible proportions, and to deck her frizzy head with the latest curls and crispii?gs to which she could attain. Mrs. Milner continued to complain that she never saw her, and the discomfort reigning at No. 5 seemed to Tony to have increased alarmingly since she had left liome. She took her sister to two or three parties, and found that at one only she seemed to enjoy herself. It was there she saw the young Richardson with whom she be- lieved Favie to be in love. He and Favie disappeared from the dancing-room together for so long that the young chaperone went in search of her errant charge, and, to her great vexation, found the pair in a bowery corner, from whence she dislodged them with great difficulty, and only with the aid of her husband, of whom Favie stood in awe. " Who is that young fellow ? " John had asked. " He does not look much 9'ood." " I know nothing about him. I wish you would find out something," answered Tony. " He is a new friend of . Favie's, and, I'm afraid, admires her too much." " And she returns the compliment, I should say. I will do what I can, but I do not think Favie is a young woman who will brook interference." All this had taken place about a month since, and, in the meantime, John Challoner had not forgotten to inquire about Mr. Richardson and his family. The first information he received was that he was the eldest son of a very rich man who had risen from nothing, and done wonderful things in iron ; the next, that there were doubts as to whether Mr. Richardson, sen., was so rich as report said ; and then John heard that the young man was idle md extravagant, and a trouble to his fmuly IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^^ ..v*:.v a i FAVOUR AND FORTUNE my mother is a great invalid ; she requires me constantly, and— and — indeed, I have no friends." " Except Mr. Challoner ? The society of your own sex is tiresome to you, perhaps. I know it is sometimes found to be so." " Not by me ! but circumstances, not my own choice, rule me. Oh, Mrs. Challoner, if I had but one friend ! Those girls who can afford to despise the society of other women must be very rich in everything else. Do not think me rude and ill-mannered, but ask your husband if I can come to see you ; he will tell you it is impossible." " I do not doubt it," replied Fortune, in the cold and measured tone she had used throughout, and she turned back to where John stood, impatiently listening to the short conversation between the two girls. " Fortune, have you anything to say to me ? A letter for me ? Be so good as to tell me your errand here." ** I thought," returned Fortune, looking him calmly in the eyes, " that a wife had full right to seek her husband ; you question me as if my visit were as unauthorised as it is evidently unwelcome." " In a place like this, where nothing but business goes on " " Indeed," interposed Tony. " You know, Fortune, that a man belongs to his clients. You have never come here before in this way ; you seemed to understand that perfectly. I cannot guess what has vexed you. ' No man can follow a woman's moods, I be- lieve; but if you have anything to say to me, please say it." " I will not detain you a moment longer. Oh ! pray do not trouble yourself to come downstairs ; one of your clerks will, no doubt, find me a cab. No, I have nothiitg to say. My Jips were sealed on the 8th of last February." " Our wedding-day, Fortune ! What is the matter ? What have I done? I do not understand you in the least." ENGAOED WITH A CLIENT Tony turned from him and went to the door, swept through the office where the clerks sat — asking Mr. Solly, who jumped down from his stool the instant he heard her coming, to call a cab for her — and in another minute she was rattling ofif up the busy streets towards Bloomsbury Square. The day had changed suddenly during the time that Tony had been in the office — one of those sudden transitions that are so characteristic of an English spring. Within half an hour the wind had veered ; the bright blue sky was hidden by heavy banks of dark gray clouds, and a bleak, biting, easterly breeze was driving sharp, gritty particles of dust and soot into the faces of the passers-by. Fortune received the full benefit of this discomfort as she drove home in her hansom, and it did not conduce to raise or calm her perturbed spirits. Meanwhile, John Challoner and his young client were left standing together as they had been before the interruption. "I was in the way — I'm very sorry," Barbara began, simply, as soon as the door had closed upon Tony. " You have nothing to be sorry for, Barbara — although, perhaps, I may have," replied John Challoner, with some- thing suspiciously like a sigh. " But now to your business Show me that letter from my uncle— his last one." Barbara drew a foreign letter from her pocket, and gave it into John's hand. He read it through, and then stood still, considering its contents for some moments, during which the girl waited in visible excitement and suspense. He looked a third time at the date, and then returned it to her. " You see I was obliged ovj cor to you, I could not bear it any longer, Mr. Challoner. Ana, indeed, I did not know what to do ; I had only nine and sixpence left in the world." " Poor child," he answered, quietly, " we can put that a 2 |,vi I : ;!i I'i 100 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE 1 1 ^"i iufijili i^DH* ^ t) t ' i ; i I^HHii ^^^Hi 1 1 MHHii ' 4 ^^■ ■ -f:'?' y ,»ii-v jj |r' ^ ; m>' 1 lBBHHBi''£i i 1 '0! 1^ 1 ' li™wB i 1 1 i li right, at all events. But never let your funds get so low again before applying to me. There is another mail due on Friday ; you will probably hear by that." " I hope so ; for every mail that passes by without a letter makes mamma worse. I think sometimes she will go quite out of her mind. I thought so to-day, and so I said I would come to you." "Is she better on the whole? or has this anxiety undone all your care?" Mr. Challoner asked, in a tone which sounded too full of grave sympathy for the simple question. " No better," the girl replied, in a low and deeply sad voice. "Ah, Mr. Challoner, it is sometimes more terrible than you can imagine. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it one day longer." He took her hand without speaking, intense feeling choking the words of comfort he would have uttered. ''To have no one to tell of my misery but you, Mr. Challoner ; to live from day to day through the same horror, and shame, and dreariness ! " The girl went on, in an outburst of grief : " I wonder at myself sometimes for living, and for even sometimes feeling happy. I think I must be duller and more insensible than a;ny one else could be, to bear it." " It is nothing new to you ; and, most happily, you have good health and courage, poor child. It is a constant trouble to me, Barbara, that I cannot help you more efficiently," said Mr. Challoner, troubled at this moment by an Englishman's difficulty in finding suitable words where his feelings are involved. Barbara, having cried a little more, wiped her brave eyes and tried to smile. " What should I do without you ? " she said, quietly. " I will do just as you tell me, as I always do," she went on. *' But if no letter cornea by Friday's mail, may J coma to you again ? " Jolin looked thoughtful ENOAOED WITH A CLIENT 101 "You are sure it would not do for me to come to you?" The girl shook her head. " You know the sudden fancy she has taken since the letters have not come as usual ; it excites her too much even to think of seeing you^ You know what a frenzy she was in about going to London — she talks of you as she talks of Dorking." " She hates both. Well, then, write ; and come again on Saturday if no letter should arrive. But 1 am not afraid. One is sure to come." " Your wife looked as if she was displeased wth me," Barbara said, suddenly. "It is impossible, for she has never even seen me before ; but I suppose she thought I was in the way." " Not very likely ; she might have expected to find a client in my office ; it is not an unusual occurrence." " I am sure, if it were not for your gre^t kindness, you would find me in the way very often, I give you so much trouble ; and I certainly have often been to you when there has been no necessity, except the necessity of speaking to a friend." "I have been working hard, Barbara, to end all this, and end it must in some way, although it is difficult to see how, for we have to deal with a very peculiar man, and one who has had his own way all his life." " I sometimes fancy we might have done better, if we had been independent of him altogether. But having beeii accustomed to^epend upon him all my life, I never thougbt this until lately, when. I began to wonder why he burdened himself and you with the care of us. If I had had tbe proper education, I might have been a governess, but | ^^ too old now. Besides, education costs so much money, and I could not leave her all day, Mr. Challoner ; I should never know what might happen in my absence." " If drawing or music lessons would amuse you, Barbara, that can be managed. I ought to have thought of it after $ ■I; J M I ! . Si 15 i 102 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE you left school. I dare say time does hang rather heavily upon your hands." Barbara coloured. ** You are very kind, but I think it better that no one should come to the house, and I should be so uncertain in my attendance if I went out for lessons — unless, indeed, they were early in the morning. But I should like singing lessons beyond anything." ** Very good ! you shall have them. Here are ten pounds, Barbara ; that will supply you for the present. And if I-should hear by 1 day's mail, you may rely upon my letting you know at once. Come ! I will go part of your way with you, as you pass Gower Street." The two went out together to the Underground Railway Station, and Mr. Solly, regarding them with a meditative eye, said to a fellow clerk : " That ward of our John's is a fine girl. I wonder what Mrs. John would say if she knew how often she comes here. She must have a deal of business on hand, and I've never yet found out what it is." "There's a good deal of crying done, by the look of her," the other remarked, gloomily. "And she's not the only person that has been crying to-day," thought Mr. Solly, with vivid recollections of the look that Mrs. John'*^ fair face wore as he put her into the cab. -But he was a discreet man, and he kept his thoughts on this subject to himself, merely congratulating himself on the fact of there being no Mrs. Soljy to drop in unexpectedly upon him during office hours, and to look p&le and tearful upon learning that he was " engaged with adientb CHAPTER VII. FAVIE IN DISQRAOB I i * Cheat her not with the old storj. Soon she will forget. Legends and Lyria, HERE was mad confusion in Fortune's mind during that drive home from the office, and for some time after. She did not know what she felt or what she thought. She only knew that she was stung to a restless energy most unusual to her slender frame and finely-strung nerves. She could not sit and muse ; she did not feel inclined to shut herself up and cry ; but hurrying at once to her list of engagements, she found, to her great satisfaction, that she was going to a ball that evening. " If I could only get rid of dinner ! If I could only invent some excuse for not dining," she said to herself, as she paced up and down her room, and turned over dresses, and flowers, and ornaments, as if her whole future was hanging upon the appearance she should make that evening. " I know what I'll do," she cried, suddenly. " Favie is going ; I will dine with her, and take her on to the ball." So she rang for her maid and dressed for the evening, feverishly afraid the whole time of hearing John come i|i. Every five minutes she caught herself looking at her watch. I ■ ' ! !S;-: 4 >■" ■ ;.: 104 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Lucy, the servant, put an amiable construction upon her actions, believing her to be anxious not to go out before Mr. Challoner returned, and certainly Mr. Challoner was unusually late this evening. Lucy was rather a romantic person, and deeply interested in the doings of her pretty young mistress. *'Not," as she frequently observed, "that she con- sidered Mr. and Mrs. Challoner to be at all the bride and bridegroom ; " the correspondence upon etiquette in her own penny weekly having taught her exactly how the newly-married should behave. There "as no running to the window to look for her husband's return on Tony's part, and Lucy had never once detected Mr. Challoner in the act of glancing up, as he drove oiOf to the office in the morning Ah ! how dififerently did the heroes and ' heroines of the Family Novelist behave themselves ! How patiently did the Lady Berysinthe sit at her chamber window awaiting the coming of Lord FitzAlberic, and what fiery glances that ycung nobleman cast upon the ' wife of his affections as he rode forth of a morning to fight one of those duels which appeared to be the chief occupation of his life ! "I think I heard master's key and the door shut," Lucy observed presently, as she pinned a wreath of clematis into Tony's hair. Tony's hands turned quite cold. " Why should I fear to meet him ? It is he who ought to feel shame," she thought. " This lonely life has made me nervous." It was not John, however, and time went on and still he did not return. She might now safely start for her toother's house, she thought, and she did so ; leaving a message for her husband, " That if he intended going to uhe ball, he could call for her in the carriage which was to fetch her and her sister at the proper time." There was a sensation of excitement and relief when Bloomabury Square was left behind, and the next meeting FAVIE IN DISGRACE 1Q5 with her husband indefinitely postponed. It was some twenty minutes before the door of her mother's house was gained, and when at length Tony was admitted, she saw, plainly that she was not expected. "1 shall be here to dinner, Sarah," she said to the servant who admitted her. * " Very well, ma'am ; Miss Milner is going out this evening, I bel^*' e — at least I saw her dress laid ready." " She ^ 'oing with me. Is she in her room ?" " Yes, ma a ; she had her tea upstairs." Fortune nt in search of her sister, thinking that it was evident t.jm the mysterious tones in which Sarah had made her remarks that a more serious disagreement than usual had taken place between her mother and sister, for Sarah looked as if she could have said much, an she would. Before Tony could reach her sister's room, however, she was intercepted by her mother, who, opening her door suddenly, asked who was there. " You, Tony ! Well, I did not expect to see you ; but as you arc here, come in. I wish to speak to you. You were going to Favie's room ? Yes, I know you always seek her first ; but I must insist upon speaking to, you before you see her. You are going to the Prynne-Wiltons*, then ? I see you are dressed. But I shall not allow Favie to go with you after her disgraceful behpviour this after- noon. I believe no mother was ever neglected and ill-used as I have been. You have c6me to dine, I suppose, I am sure I do not know what you will find for dinner. As I did not expect you, of course I did not provide for more than two. There is waste enough, I assure you, without my ordering dinner every day for every one who might choose to drop in. And I might as well save myself the trouble of sitting down to table to-day — as far as I am concerned dinner is a mere farce — I shall not eat a morsel. I cannot describe to you, Tony, how upset and ill I fee)*" 'P 1 * I ■'■ |! cR iff ■ i 106 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Thus rambling on, Mrs. Milner closed the door, and Tony, throwing herself into an easy-chair, prepared to lend an attentive ear to the burden of complaint she knew to be impending. " What has Favie done ? " she asked. " She has ruined her own prospects, and given me the^ greatest possible annoyance. Selina will get hold of the whole story and spread it everywhere. As for those Richardsons, they have behaved shamefully. If I had lived in the style that I ought to be living in, they would not have dared to treat me in this infamous manner." Tony said not a word, and Mrs. Milner, who had been fidgeting nervously about the room, sat down opposite her daughter and resumed her discourse, after taking breath. "Mr. Richardson called upon me this afternoon, and asked to see me alone." " The young man Favie dances with ? " inquired Tony. " No — but his father ; a most unpleasant person, with no manners. If I had known what sort of people they wei I should never have allowed Favour to go to their house." ** It is a pity you did not know." "The day before yesterday Favour went with a large party of young people down to Richmond, and there it seems that young Richardson, who was with her all the day, made her an offer, and she accepted him." Indeed ! " You may be sure I should have been glad enough to have married both my daughters within six months, and the Richardsons are a very wealthy family. But they will not hear of it." • "And Mr. Richardson came to tell you he could not give his consent ? " " Yes. It was a most trying interview for me ; he came creaking upstairs, and striding into the drawing-room, and then sat down as if he meant to break the spring of the chair, stretched out his legs, and held his hat with both €1 it m\ EAVIE IN DISGRACE 107 hands. I looked quietly at him, and I saw him look at the carpet, round the walls, and at the chairs and tahles, with a scornful sort of surprise, as if he wished me to believe that he had never been in anything less fine than his own great, gilded, hideous drawing-rooms. And I know very well that those enormously rich men always begin with sweeping out a shop, or blacking boots. Well, I wished to be civil, so I began to say something — I forget what — and the man broke into the middle of it in a rasping voice, which made me feel inclined to stop my ears : ' As I believe you know something of this piece of folly between my son and your daughter, ma'am, we will waste no time, but go at once to business, if you please, as my time is valuable.' " " How did you know about it, mamma ? " asked Tony. " Favie told me the night before that she was engaged, and that young Richardson was coming this morning to speak to me, and just before lunch, after I had been in a fever the whole morning expecting him, in he came, red in the face, and in a frightful temper, and told me that, as he was quite dependent upon his father, he 1 id been obliged to tell him of his engagement, and that he had flatly refused his consent, saying that he would cut short his son's allow- ance instead of increasing it, if he persisted. You may fancy what an agitating day I have had." " Did Favie and young Richardson give it up, then ? I suppose there was nothing else to be done." "I really don't know what Favour said or did; but I know by the time the young man went away I was perfectly exhausted. Of course, I could not allow her to marry a man without a penny of his own. I must say I think I have a right to look forward to being a little more com. fortable than I have been, when my daughters are both married, and I could never allow Favour to marry unless it took her completely off my hands." " I am afraid she has set her heart upon him," Tony said, sadly. * i 108 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE I I k i %: \ €t €1 tl "It is foolish and absurd of her," interrupted Mrs. Milner, "although I must say I am disappointed, for it might have been such an excellent match. I am very much vexed with Favour ; she ought to have known how the family would receive her before she went such lengths ; and I have no doubt that a little attention on her part would have made a great difference, but she never thinks of anything. I am sure / did all I could. I constantly asked Mrs. and Miss Richardson to tea, to meet people I thought they would like to know." " And I suppose young Richardson came too ? " Yes, generally." Then you knew what was going on ? " And they knew just as well as I did ! I put up with those vulgar, overdressed people for Favour's sake as long as there was any good in it. But to go on with my story — where was I ? " ** Go back, please, to the afternoon visit, mamma ; what did Mr. RichUrdson say ? It seems to me very dishonourable to make his son break his engagement because Favie has no money. Rich people iike these ought not to care about it." " They are the very ones to care most. The man was most insulting ; he spoke as if I had been trying to catch his son for my daughter for the sake of his wealth, and he declared again and again that if they married they would be beggars. He talked of nothing but money — the old snob ! " " Poor Pavie ! I do not much like what I have seen of the young man, but I am very sorry for her. I suppose want of money was the only objection ? " "The only one he mentioned. He said he did not think his son would like poverty, and that he was not fond bf work. Of course, one does not expect a young man brought up in luxury to be fond of work." '' And what was settled ? Anything ? " "We talked a long time, and then he insisted Mptfa I FAVIE IN DISGRACE 109 seeiLg Favour, and in she came, looking perfectly savage. I was quite ashamed of her. He certainly tried to be civil to her, and joked a little, but there she stood — she would not sit — looking as white as a ghost, with her teeth clenched even — and did not utter a word, except when he asked her a direct question. He told her distinctly that she must give up this engagement, and he said she was so much admired that he was sure she would very soon find a much more suitable husband than his son Edward would make. And then he turned to me, and said that young people sometimes were the better for a little change of scene, and that if I would take Favie to Brighton, or Scarborough, or Ryde, or any other cheerful place that she might fancy, he would — would make — arrangements ; in short, he gave us to understand that we were to be at no expense. I really began to think better of the man after that, Tony. Of course, he is not a high-bred gentleman, like your dear papa was ; but still, he was very kind in his way of offering us that little trip ; and if Favie had not behaved like an idiot we might have been packing our things now. You quite understand, I hope, Fortune, that I am the very last person in the world to put myself under an obligation to anybody — above all to a man like Mr. Richardson — and in this case, I must say, I should not have considered that he was doing us any favour. It was the very least he could offer to do for Favie, after having broken off such a promising engagement, to give her a little recreation and amusement. And, as it was really so long since I had had any change to do me good, I said I would think about it, And that 1 felt sure he meant kindly and well. And I did expect Favie to make the best of it, and to say some- thing tolerably pleasant : so imagine my horror upon hearing her burst out into the most unladylike language, declaring that I might go to Brighton, or to the world's end, if I choso, if I liked to be a beggar, and to take the money thrown at me by the man who had insulted UB, but i; 110 F ■" II I FAVOUR AND FORTUNE that she was not going to accept alms and be bought off— that she was quite sure, too, that Edward (so ridiculous of her calling him Edward !) would not be bribed to break his word, and that whatever came of it they meant to hold to one another. I was shocked, and I tried to stop her, but she would not heed ; and at length Mr. Richardson bounced up from his chair, and, turning very red, said : 'Very well, young lady, if this is the way you take an offer which was kindly meant, I wash .jy hands of you altogether, and I warn you once for all that if you marry my son, he and you will have to work for your breud.' " " The offer might have been well meant, mamma, but it could only have been made by a vulgar-minded man. Of course, it would have been impossible for Favie to have accepted it." " It was made to me, and I consider Favour behaved in a most disrespectful manner, Tony." " Favie was the first person to be considered, mamma." " I do not think she deserves much consideration." " It is getting rather late ; I should like to see Favie before dinner. I will go to her room." " You are always anxious to leave me" Favie was standing before her dressing-table when her sister entered her room, slM she did not turn to welcome her. "Oh, it was you I heard talking ^o mamma," she observed, when Tony came and stood by her. " I thought some one was hearing the history from mamma. Well, Tony, what do you think of it ? " The girl spoke in a hard, defiant manner, and looked pale and dark round the eyes, which were the only signs that she had been grieving. Favour had a good deal of stubborn determination, and, having once resolved to go to the ball, she had put a firm hand upon her feelings, and would not allow herself to indulge in tears, which would leave unmistakable traces behind them. Tony saw with surprise that her sister was preparing for FAVIE IN DISGRACE 111 the party, and she hoped that it might be an indication that Favie's heart was not so deeply concerned as she had feared. " I am very sorry, Favie ; I want to hear about it from you." , ^ " Mamma was delighted at the idea of a bribe ; she is very angry with me because I did not accept it meekly," said Favour, bitterly. " How do things stand now, Favie ? " " Do you suppose we shall give each other up at the first word of a greedy, selfish old man ! " Favie cried, turning and looking her sister full in the face, with sparkling eyes. " We are not so weak." " He is going to the ball to-night, I suppose ? " Tony said, with a sudden light upon her sister's motives. Favie nodded assent. " They cannot lock us up." " Favie," said Fortune, earnestly, " don't do anything in a hurry. You have plenty of time before you. You may wreck your whole life now if you do not take time to consider. You can do no harm by being patient, and by insisting upon Mr. Richardson being patient, too. If he depends entirely upon his father, as I suppose he does, he must wait ; and if you really care for him — if you love him — ^you will be willing to wait too. You are both very young, too young to marry yet ; and you must not bring him into poverty. If you keep true to one another for a year or two, you may be quite sure the father will think better of you both, and be more ready to help you ; he could hardly refuse when you have been tried, and he sees you mean to keep to your engagement." " You talk as if a year or two were so many days ! " cried Favour, passionately. " You are married to a man you never loved ; you don't know what it is. I tell you we would beg together, work together, starve together, rather than be parted. I don't care if every one is against me, I will hold to it 1 You don't know bim, but I do, and I an^ 112 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE V ' m- not going to submit to that old tyrant and break Edward's heart. He had the audacity to say that I should soon find some one else ; there is no one else in the world for me but Edward. From the first day we met it was so. I don't care to go arywhere except to meet him ; and he cares just as much for me. You don't know what I feel ! " Tony was silent. " I would have done the same for Ernest," she thought. " And yet, now, Ernest is nothing to me. Are my feelings really shallow ? or, will Favie change too ? " " Was Mr. Richardson surprised at his father's refusal to give his consent ? " she asked in another minute. " Utterly astonished. Knowing his father to be a rich man, he did not suppose there could be any difficulty, for it was nothing but money, or my lack of it, that made the old man object." " He ought to have forewarned his son." " It was spite, cruelty ! Just to show his power over him ! " " Favie, I cannot help wishing that you were not going to-night. As I take you, I feel I am responsible for you, and yet I can do nothing. Promise me that you will not dance more with him than with any one else. You see, if difficulties are to be thrown in the way of your engagement, you ought not to be seen much with him." " I hate hjrpocrisy ! " exclaimed Favie. " We are en- gaged, and every one may know it." " But you are not engaged, Favie ; you are under age, and he is not his own master. Wait ! don't be carried away. Defiance is of no use ; and this is a serious thing, remember, not a trifle. If you are old enough to be engaged, you are old enough to behave sensibly about it, and there is no liypocrisy in preventing yourself being talked about." " Ah I thought you would come to that, Tony ! I don't care what people say ; they may all be as ill-natured as Cousin Selina, if it amuses them." If FAVIE IN Bison AGE 113 Tdny remembered the time when she had had as gi-eat a contempt for the world's opinion, and she knew that it was in vain to try to make Favie take her present view ; the cold calmness of which seemed to herself to stand somehow in pitiful contrast to her sister's .varm, excited feelings. She loved Favie dearly. For the greater part of her life she had been the only creature she might truly h^ve been said to love ; and she would have done anything to help her. She felt Ijer sister's trouble deeply. " Favie, if I ould — if I can do anything for you, I will, • indeed I will ; I am so sorry," she said, bending forwanl and looking in her sister's face, which was glowing with stirred and mingled feeling. Favour made no reply, unless a brief nod might be accepted as such, but Tony knew that it was not from indifference. Had Mrs. Challoner been of a firm, strong nature, prompt and decided in action, neither her own nor her sister's story would have been the same. She would then, in this instance, have refrained from going to the ball, and Favie could not have gone without her. But Tony would not have been Tony — but somebody else — if she could have acted in this sensible, resolute manner. The idea did pass through her mind so to do, but faded away for want of a firm grasp upon it, and Favie continued her toilet, until her sister rose and helped her in some final touches, thus taditly giving her consent to the proceedings of the evening. When the pair were summoned by the sound of the dinner-bell, they found Mrs. Milner already in the dining- room, with a chill, fretful expression upon her long, pale face. She glanced coldly at Favie, and then reiterated to her other daughter her apologies and complaints about the dinner. It would have damped the hardiest appetite to have had to eat while Mrs. Milner's frosty words dropped at shbrfc intervals throughout dinner ; fortunately, Tony, ai^hoitgh now deeply sensible of her sin in coming un- lU FAVOUR AND FORTUNE W 4 5^ i'^:l ., invited, did not feel inclined to make havoc uprm the tender supplies, and Favie hardly swallowed a morsel besides the bread she crumbled and ate in a manner half absent, and half defiant. The ungenial meal drew at length to its close, and Mrs. Milner, turning icily upon her younger daughter, said : "You intend going to this ball, I presume, from your dress." " I do," was Favour's curt reply. " Then I trust," resumed her mother in a more agitated manner, "that you will not behave so as to cause a scandal. I wash my hands of you ; but I recommend you to avoid the folly of making yourself conspicuous with a man you know you cannot marry. Look at Fortune ! She had the sense to give up young Levinge, who was a penniless scamp, and marry John Challoner ; the consequence is, she is comfortably settled with a good house (in a bad locality, I admit), and everything she can want. Why don't you follow her example? You may be sure this young Richardson is a worthless young man, or his father would not cast him off." The pas>*'>nate reply which was ready to burst from Favie's lips was checked by Tony's touch and look. "Go, go, Favie," she said, in a low, imperative voice, and her sister obeyed and ran upstairs, thrilling with indignation, and flushed with proud defiance. All the evil in her untrained nature rushed upwards in a flood led by one good spirit— that hatred of calculating world- liness, and that fervent love for another, so natural in the young, but which, if harnessed with the wild steeds of pride and self-will, and with the reins thrown upon its neck, is certain to break away in a reckless race which inevitably ends in disaster, and often in a ruin for which no remedy is possible. The weight of grievous pain which fell upon Tony at her mother's last words was such as she had never before experienced. In her short married FAVIE IN DI80BA0B 115 i:^ life she had learnt to look with new eyes upon many things ; she had learnt the real value of a man like John Challoner, and the flimsy nature of her wild fancy for Ernest Levinge ; but this very knowledge made it more bitter to her to remember how she had married her husband ; without love, without reflection, in a mere selfish desire to escape from petty and harassing troubles. She had all she wanted? Had she? With an aching heart she owned to herself that having married with her real self concealed in cold, proud reserve, a mutual understand- ing between herself and her husband had now become impossible, and that her life's true happiness was swallowed up in the breach which lay between them. Her mother's words struck the key-note of her life, and of her whole dealings with her children. A shallow, empty worldliness had ruled their poor young lives ; she had never taught them nor led them to admire anything grand, or noble, or wise, or true, and the fruits of such neglect were ripening now. Unfortunately, the chief sinner was not the chief sufferer. The parent's hand had sown the worthless seed, but it was the poor children whose teeth were set on edge by the bitter fruit But to-night, for the first time in her whole life, Tony, instead of only standing opposed to her mother, included herself in the blame. "Mamma may not have managed us properly," she reflected ; " but then we were veiy wilful, and very idle, and rebellious. I believe that more disobedient children never lived, and we cared for nothing on earth but amuse- ment. It would have taken a clear head and a skilful hand to manage us, and it was not mamma's fault, perhaps, that she was unequal to the task. I dare say she did her best." Then she looked up, and spoke very quietly and gently: "Mamma, all this is a great trouble to poor Favie, and she naturally feels it very much. I will do what I can, I 12 I . I. lie FAVOUR AND FORTUNE promise yoii ; but we must not be too har4 upon her. Think liow young she is, and how unaccustomed to trouble. Of course, she will see that for a time at least she must give up young Richardson ; and perhaps the best way to reconcile her to that would be to send her to stay with us for a little while. In our house there will be nothing to remind her of him, and then, possibly, she will do what you wish so much — ^forget him altogether." There was' a touch of quiet sarcasm in Tony's voice as she spoke the last words. It seemed to her just now that life was made up of forgetting. Ernest Levinge had for- gotten her. And her husband? Was not his life being embittered now because it was impossible for him to forget her? Would he not gladly do so if he could? Perhaps the people the most to be envied were those who, like her mother, found it difficult to remember. Oblivion must be a blessing sometimes, thought poor Tony. " If I can manage it, mamma, I will take Favie away from town for a little while," she said, suddenly, after a long pause, during which her thoughts had not been with her sister. " Will you, my dear? I'm sure I shall be delighted to get her away for a bit. Her temper has become so trying, Tony, and: " And here Tony put a stop to any further discussion by following her sister out of the room. •if CHAPTER VIII A TROUBLESOME CHARQP Let me persuade yon, take a better course. Ueni-y IV, BebellioD, flat rebellion. HumUt. I OR some time be =5 Mrs. Challoner and her sister made their appearance in the ball-room young Edward Richardson had been watching impatiently for them. If but an excited feeling, and an ardent desire to see and to be with one individual, is love, then was he deeply in love with Favour Milner, whom he considered quite the prettiest girl of his acquaintance. If the unworn fancy of a young man whose wishes have all been selfish, and have never been crossed, is love then Favie might be thankful for an unbought gift of truest value ; if the shining glass and glittering tinsel of a pantomime fairy be precious stones and pure gold, then was this young unruly passion the love which makes life beautiful, and which is so sacred a tre^ure t^at angels might weep to see how lightly it is sometimes held, and what worthless impostors Haunt in its sacred name. Favour Milner knew much about the tinsel, nothing about the pure gold of love. She had fed her poor little mind upon worthless periodicals, which she had shared with the servants in her mother's house, and she did not 118 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE possess any of the imaginative delicacy which had preserved Tony from the stain of vulgarity. To* have such a word as " vulgarity " applied to either of them would have out- raged Mrs. Milner and Favie, but it would not have been misapplied ; for the one worshipped that god, often vulgar, " money," and the other dragged all high and noble realities, including love, down to her own low and thought- less level. Selfish absorption in one object, for whose sake all other duties and affections were abandoned ; vanity triumphant and intoxicated ; an imaginary future to be grasped at in defiance of advice and authority, meant love to Favie Milner and Edward Richardson, and to other young persons who are in such a desperate hurry to meet with the radiant divinity that they fling themselves pell- mell under the chariot wheels of the first phosphorescent impostor they meet with, and are often ground in mind— and perhaps in body too — ground down in the mud amid the crushed buttercups and tender grasses of their springtime. Young Richardson was hanging about the top of the staircase, picking a valuable young plant to pieces, when the two sisters ascended ; the one with a heavy heart, the other with a strangely beating one. They both looked extremely pretty this evening, but seen beside Tony, Favie did certainly not appear to advantage. Her beauty of colouring seemed only to add to the commonplaceness of her stylr when your eye lighted on her after dwelling on her sister's pale, calm face and graceful bearing. Favie entirely lacked that repose that is so essential to real beauty ; and she was not graceful ; although this was less apparent at eighteen than it would be ten years later, when you felt certain that she would either be a rosy dumpling, or a faded wreck — the future of those full, round, pink faces being always so difiicult to predict. Mr. Richardson was a burly young fellow, with light- brown curly hair (greatly admired by Favie), commonplace good looks, and a style of dress as elaborate as an anxious A TB0UBLE80ME CHABOE 119 study of fashion and the habits of modern England would permit. When he saw the two sisters he drew hurriedly back and slipped into the drawing-room behind them, but not before he and Favie had exchanged rapid glances ; and immediately she had returned the greeting of her hostess she turned back, took his arm and walked off with him to a temporary bower erected on the landing above, her flushed, sparkling face lifted defiantly to his, and her scarlet lips pouting a challenge to the rest of the world. There was an I-don't-care-what-you-think-of-me expression on Favie's fair face to-night that to Tony's more refined perceptions appeared both foolish and unseemly, and the colour came into Fortune's pale cheek as she found herself left quite alone amidst a crowd of strangers before she had even secured a seat. It was unfair of Favie, who knew that her sister always felt rather shy upon entering a room, to desert her like that ; and it was inconsiderate, too — but then Miss Favie was not much g'ven to considering the feelings of others. Presently Tony found a vacant chair in a corner of the room, and there she sat down and watched her sister dance two waltzes in succession with young Richardson. When these were over, an old friend came up and asked Mrs. Challoner to dance the Lancers with him, and as the set was forming Tony caught sight of Favie in the doorway with three or four would-be partners standing round her, Mr. Richardson in the midst of the group listening with a somewhat sneering expression to the nonsense that was being talked, and with which Favie appeared quite delighted. She was very busy filling her card with names, and Tony, bethinking herself that there is safety in numbers, took up her partner and introduced him : " Favie, 1 want to present Mr. Gibson to you," Favie glanced up coquettishly, and thought Mr. Gibson looked grumpy, and vouchsafed the coolest of nods, " May I have the pleasure of dancing with you. Miss rj^H 120 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE Milner ? " asked the new acquaintance, who had been one of , Tony's partners in old days, but who had never cared much to know Favie. As a rule Fortune's partners did not care for Favour, and Favour's admirers returned the compliment by j avoiding Miss Milner. Favie, with her usual ill-breeding, hesitated before re- plying to Mr. Gibson's invitation, and then Tony saw young Richardson touch her sister's arm, and frown, evidently taking upon himself the right to direct her proceedings. "She was afraid she had no dances disengaged. Well, there was one, certainly, at the end of the programme, and he might have that if they were still there." Then, with a word or two to her sister, and the light, half-forced laugh which was heard so often tiiat evening, Favie turned away from them all, took her lover's arm, and walked back to the tea-room. Favie could have twirled round and round the live-long night without stopping to rest, and Tony soon saw her back in the throng of waltzers with Mr. Richardson's arm again round her waist. After this dance the couple disappeared while a quadrille was going on, and just then John Challoner came into the room, and made his way straight to his wife. Tony's first impulsive feeling was neither resentment, cold- ness, nor pain — it was trust, and had she been wise enough to have had faith in it, all her own troubles would have been swept away like cobwebs. At the moment Favie's affairs were uppermost in her mind, and, taking her husband's arm, she said : " I want to find Favie, John ; let us look for her." "I suppose it was a sudden idea of yours going to your mother's," John remarked, as they wound their way among the groups of non-dancers. " if it was to tell me you were going, that you paid me that visit in the City, you forgot all about it. I was afraid something was wrong by your manner." " No, no, nothing at all," Tony murmured, hastily, and A TROUBLESOME OHABOB 121 \g to way 11 me you \s by and so lost an opportunity of clearing up all that had gone wrong between them. John was totally unable to attempt to gain confidence that was withheld, and nothing more was said on the subject which was a sore one to both. After a little time they discovered Favour and young Richardson in a very secluded comer. John then found a seat for his wife, and returned to her sister. " I have come to ask you to give me a dance, Favie," he said, kindly. " May it be this one which is just beginning ? I have seen nothing of you lately, and I hope you will not object to an elderly brother-in-law as a partner." '* Do you suppose I have a dance left at this time in the evening ? " Favie answered, with her short, nervous laugh ; " and you know, John, you and I can't get on together, you dance the step of our great-grandmother." " Then come and take an ice ; you won't refuse that after insulting my dancing abilities so cruelly ?" " I'm sorry you are so anxious for my company, because I am obliged to refuse. I require a short rest; and I am going to begin dancing again in half a minute. Get Tony to go with you if you want ice ; she does not know many people here to-night. Good-bye, and I'll tell you when I want your chaperonage, John Challoner." This, although playfully said, was flinging down the glove, and John could do nothing but turn away. **That is an insolent-looking young fellow," he re- marked to his wife a few minutes. later. "I cannot see why Fdvie should be so taken with him." " And she is making herself so conspicuous," exclaimed Tony, with a heavy sigh. "I have overheard such dis- agreeable remarks about her this evening. That Mrs. Humber, who is a great friend of mamma's cousin Selina, is here, and she has never taken her eyes off Favie and Mr. Richardson. To-morrow she will tell Selina that they never left each other, and Selina will tell mamma, and then there will be fresh trouble. Oh, dear ! " 122 FAVOUR AND FOETUNlS *i ,'■' Ji liJL " But Favie must expect trouble if she behaves like a fool," said John Challoner, bluntly. " Yes, of course ; I know that. And it is very foolish, and is very bad taste, too, her darling all night with ^oung Richardson after this morning's scene." " He has no business to behave as he is doing," said John. " He is a selfish young wretch, drawing all this attention to the girl ; and I shall tell him so." A little later in the evening Mr. Challoner succeeded in catching the culprit and drawing him into a quiet corner. " I want a word or two with you," he said, gently ; "and you must not suppose, Mr. Richardson, that I am interfering in what is no afifair of mine — for such is not the case. Perhaps you are not aware that I am the only grown male relative that Miss Milner has, and as I have the management of the family business matters, I have been, in some measure, a guardian to the girls. Now, Mr. Richardson, if you will listen to me like a sensible man, I think you will agree with me that it is not the part of a gentleman to make the girl he professes to love conspicuous in the eyes of a world which, in matters of which it only understands half, is not usually good-natured in its judgments. It is a man's part to shield, and not to expose a woman to its comments. My sister has been with you for the greater part of this evening, and her friends are asking if she is engaged to you " " She is," interrupted young Richardson, who had once or twice before attempted to break in up a John's sermon. " Excuse me ; until your father and her mother give their consent, she is not, and cannot be." "I didn't know young ladies were bought and sold without any will of their own in this country," said the foolish young fellow, attempting to be sarcastic. "I am not aware that they are," returned John, calmly. "What I was talking of was the objection to A TROUBLESOME CHARGE 123 a girl under age forming an engagement against the consent of those in authority over her ; and of the care that an honourable man ought to, and will, take, that he does not meanly abuse, to his own advantage, the ignorant trust and affection of the girl he loves. You are young, but she is younger ; and the more ready she is to sacrifice her interests to you, the more resolved you should be to protect her against herself." " It's a pity you haven't a pulpit," said the cub. ** I should be much out of place in one," answered John, "although I can speak what I have in my mind about my little sister, as any man ought to be able to speak for one he is bound to guard. Now, look here ! I am not preaching to you, Mr. Richardson, but I want you to see that so long as your father refuses his consent, you and Miss Milner must agree to separate ; and if you and she are in earnest, I do not see why it need be for very long. I dare say your father will be induced to see the thing with your eyes if you wait a bit, and don't annoy him by opposition. I put it to you as a sensible man." Young Richardson, being a thick-headed boy, however, instead of a sensible man, kicked against advice and authority, and was more than ever convinced concerning the superior claims of his own will and desires. " You are all against us ! the whole lot of you ! but see if Favie and I are not a match for you yet 1 " he exclaimed, quitting Challoner abruptly. "Young fool," thought the latter; "selfish young *fool ! " As soon as she decently could, Tony informed Favour that she must return home, and as even that spirited young lady was compelled to conform in some degree to ordinary usages, she was led away, an unwilling captive, and deposited at her unhomelike home in good time. m: I •'WW J CHAPTER IX. " EUIN " M; One sorrow never comes but brings an heir. Shakesprars. |ATIGUED, and unrefreshed by sound sleep, Tony rose very late the following morning, and a sense of depression and listlessness settled down upon her as soon as ever she was fairly awake. " What sort of a day is it ? " she asked her maid, who was drawing up the blinds. " Well, ma'am, it is not exactly a fine day, but I should not call it a very bad day, neither," replied Lucy, who never could answer the simplest question in less than a dozen words, and upon whom speech had evidently been bestowed to confuse as well as to conceal meaning. " As usual, I shall have to find out for myself," thought Tony. Nc : it was not exactly a fine day, and any one less given than Lucy to the use of long and involved sentences, would unhesitatingly have pronounced it a very bad day. It was raining slowly but heavily, in that steady, uncompro- mising manner that says plainly that it means to go ^n raining all day, and the rain and the wind, and the long perspective of umbrellas, muddy petticoats, damp water- proofs, and clinging ulsters, were doing their best to turn April into November. / "BUIN" 125 Undei a neighbouring portico sat Tony's favourite flower-girl ; but there were no violets or Lent lilies in her basket to-day. In their stead there were some bunches of dirty brown water-cresses— for which surely no one would have an appetite on such a morning — and the poor girl was breathing on her purple fingers to restore circulation, and drawing her shabby plaid shawl more clo?ely round her shivering form, as if to get all the warmth she could out of it. " What could Lucy mean by saying that it was not a very bad day ? " thought Tony, as she was completing her leisurely toilet. " I call it a horrid day, and I do feel so tired and done for Gome in! What is it, Lucy? A note?" Th^ pink envelope was addressed in Mrs. Milner's handwriting ; but Tony did not open it until she had given her orders for the day, and had settled herself comfortably in the morning-room. " I suppose it is about Favie," murmured Tony with a sigh as she broke the seal — but she had not read the first of the two closely-covered sheets before her whole manner changed. Her sleepy eyes began to kindle with excite- mmt, her pale cheeks flttshed, and her hands trembled violently. Out of a rambling, incoherent volume of ill- ohoeen words she began to disentangle the fact that some dire disaster had befallen some one in her mother's house. Favie, who was either victim or culprit, was named with an exuberance of epithets and bemoanings, and being unable to get a clearer idea from the word " ruin " than of some- thing which might mean a burglary or a bankruptcy, Tony rang the bell, ordered a hansom to be stopped, and, snatch- ing up the first hat which came to hand, she drove off to Bayswator, a weight of anxiety pressing like a hand of ice upon h«r heart. But that which hor mother's letter had left so vague )u4» however, by this time, t»km thua f»R (onn ux h^r 126 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE ';•■;) '!^: M '■'■''V- mr mind. She saw young Richardson lurking somewhere in the maze, and although having parted from her sister so short a time before, she could not believe that anything decisive had taken place, she was sufficiently alarmed to give more heed to her mother's ramblings than she might have done, if her own observations had not already filled her with uneasiness. " What has happened, mamma ? " were her first words as she opened the door of her mother's bedroom, where that lady was moving about in a distracted way from drawer to drawer, from table to wardrobe, apparently re- lieving her mind by futile efforts to put the place tidy. The room presented a strange aspect of disorder, which was the sole result to which she had attained. " Tony ! " she shrieked, " I am sure I am glad you have come. I should have gone out of my mind if I had been left alone any longer. Where is John ? Why didn't he come ? Gone to his office ? What business had he to be gone to his office when the whole family was plunged into this distress ? So like a man ! Thinking of nothing but money-making ! Of course his wife's sister is nothing to him " " Mamma, what is it ? Wh^e is Favie ? " asked Tony, in a sharp, clear voice, which demanded a reply. " Favour has eloped with young Richardson," said Mrs. Milner, with a sudden change in her manner, fi:om fury to chilly anger. " I wash my hands of her. I have had a note from the father, evidently written in a towering rage, and on half a sheet of crumpled note-paper. So rude ! — no regard for my feelings ! And certainly I ought to be con- sidered before any one else in the matter. He will have nothing to do with them, he writes — says that they must pro- vide for themselves, and that before the day is over we shall all know how much maybe expected from him; and, of course, it all means that because Favie has no money of her own she is not good enough to many the son of a rich man; and. *'nuiN** 127 ■ony. pro- shall lurse, own and, as far as that goes, I'm sure I don't know who Mrs, Richardson may have been, but she is no more a lady than- " ** Mamma, pray remember that I know nothing, and do tell me when Favie went away. Are you sure she went with that young man ? Have you heard from her ? Why, I left her safely here at a quarter past one last night — not twelve hours ago. She disappl&ared, then, this morning ? Has any one tried to follow them ? " " Look there ! " exclaimed her mother, pointing to an open telegram on the table. Tony seized it, and read : " Favour Richardson to Mrs. Milner. "Married at 8.30. Tell Tony will coine back in a week." " Yes, that is all. A telegram. Not even a note. I never wish to see the girl again ! " cried Mrs. Milner. Tony stood in silence with the pink paper in her hand. / " But how — where were they married ? " she asked at length, trembling with excitement. " More disgrace still ! At some registry office, so Mr. Richardson tells me — there is his note. I don't believe it is any marriage at all." " Then let us — let some one put a stop to it at once," cried poor Tony, in an agony. " I will go for John — no, I will telegraph for him, and I will go at once and find Favie. Mamma, can't you tell me where this office is ? We might trace them." "ISo, indeed, I can't tell you anything more. And would you believe it, Tony, the wicked girl has taken away nearly everything that belonged to her. Indeed, I shall b^ surprised if she has not taken a good deal that does not belong to her, bit by bit. She must have some place to put them into, so I don't believe they have left London. And what they are to live upon. Heaven knows. I suppose she will not hope to get anything from me." Tony lost no more time in talking. She rushed out, 128 FAVOUn AND FORTUNE VM ■_!.■, !}>;■'.:■■ ' ''vS^^^nf"^'' ' 1 fi^^^^^^H > tele.sfraphed to her Imsband, and then took a cab J^ the llichardsons* big house in ^lanchester Square. All the blinds were drawn down, as if there had been a death there, and there was some delay in opening the door. " Can I speak to Mr. Richardson at once ? " asked Tony, delivering her card. " Mr. Richardson sees no one to-day, ma'am." *' It is on important business — it is about his son," Tony said, with the colour rising in her cheeks. " Very sony, ma'am, but I have strict orders not to admit any one whatsoever," was the respectful reply. '' Take in my card. Say Miss Milner's sister must see Mr. Richardson." " Very well, ma'am," was the black automaton's answer. The automaton knew perfectly well what had happened — and other things also, of which Tony was ignorant. Presently he appeared, and showed her into a library — so called — but scantily furnished with books, where Mr. Richardson was seated. Tony had not been prepared for a grim, haggard-looking man, and her first thought was, " What a blow this has been to the poor old father ! " He bowed politely, and said, in an abrupt, hoarse voice : " You have come to ask about your sister, Mrs. — Mrs. — Challoner. I can tell you nothing but that she has inveigled my son to his absolute ruin. I do not know, and do not care where they are ; for the future I shall have nothing to do with them. If they starve, I cannot help them." " Stop ! can you tell me at what registry office t^ey were married ? " "I cannot. I am sorry I can only spare you a fiew moments of much-occupied time. I suppose you all thought that once the girl was married to the only son of a very wealthy man — a millionaire, perhaps you called me^— that she must have a share in his plunder. You will . find |^a are mistaken." *'BVIN** 129 *' If you do not know that this mad marriage was as much against our wills as against your own, it is nothing to me," said Tony, half choking with mingled emotions. " But, at least, can you give me no clue whatsoever to their movements ? " " Not the slightest ; they took care of that. As for its being a mad marriage, that it certainly was, and there must have been false swearing ; but, any way, I cannot waste my time in looking for the young fools. I have other things to think of" " I will not detain you any longer," said Tony, white with indignation, trouble, and dread. Then Mr. Richardson rang the bell, and, with stiff bows on either side, they parted. As the gentleman in black was showing her out, a sudden idea occurred to Tony : " Can you, or any one in the house, help me to trace Mr. Edward Richardson ? You probably know " The automatic butler, whom she addressed, looked as respectfully obscure as long habit had made him. "It is not improbable, ma'am, as one of the footmen might have been in young Mr. Richardson's confidence ; if so, I will certainly let you know. No trouble at all, ma'am." *' Thank you, thank you very much," said Tony, eagerly ; but, being unused to the ways of the world, she did not think of binding her mission upon the automaton's memory by means of half-a-sovereign. She had only lately become accustomed to the sight and touch of them herself, and this seemed to her too great a being to be open to such seduc- tions. She left her address with him, however, and he proceeded to gratify his own curiosity in trying to get Charles in plush to confess to having farthered his young master's plans. Charles was, however, impenetrable. "You may ask me what you please to-morrow, Mr. Heels, and perhaps you may then hear a little tale ; but I'm 130 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE a man of my word to-day, sir," and, havin^f obtained this and no other answer to his queries, Mr. Heels, having in common with the other inmates of that big house more engrossing affairs to occupy him, pursued the subject no further, and Tony waited and watched in vain for message or news from that source. Meanwhile, John had received the telegram in the midst of his business, and had answered it thus : " Important business for next three hours. If marriage has taken place, too late to do any good. What church ? " Tony replied : ** Registry Office, unknown. I do not give up." She was angiy with John for not coming in person at her summons ; and she did not believe in any business really preventing his doing so Throwing reason to the winds, she concluded that it was something in connection with Barbara which kept him. "He is interested In nothing which concerns any one else," she said bitterly to herself, in her folly and impatience, and also in the grief and love of her heart ; for she felt that no pains, no sacrifice would be too great to save her sister from the misery she had brought upon herself. Some words of Mr. Richardson's had made a deep impression upon her, as they chimed in with her mother's vague phrases. "There must have been false swearing." So that perhaps Favie's being under age might invalidate the marriage ; Tony hoped so. And surely, a marriage at a registry office was not the same as one at a . church, with a licence, or after banns. Favie might yet be delivered from a fate which Tony felt certain would be a very evil one. If only John would exert himself ; if only some one would try to save her ! She rang next for her cook, who was, she considered, the most reliable person in her house- hold ; and from that solid and sensible functionary she extracted the information that there was a registrar's office to each district, and that a lady might go to any one she **EUIN" 131 this ig in more ct no sssage mage rch ? '* son at 3 really da, she Barbara ,ny one itience, It that r sister ) words n her, chose, and look over the entries of marriages in a book, for a slight offering to the officer in charge. ** And I shall be happy to attend you, ma'am, if you'd prefer not taking Lucy — which an older person is sometimes more convenient." Tony thought that upon this occasion she should prefer the attendance of the more sedate and less talkative lady. Lucy would be maddening at such a mo^nent with her long, rambling dissertations upon what might have happened — if only something else had happened ; something which did not happen to have happened ! So Tony and cook sallied forth together, the former not having the faintest idea of what a registrar or his office wo-.^d be like, or how the marriage ceremony c^uld possibly be performed in such haste and with such apparent ease. At three offices she stopped, made her inquiries, and looked at the latest entries in the book. Twice she came away no wiser than before, but the tliird inspection was successful. The large formal volume was opened at the page in which blotting-paper kept the place, and there, in newly-dried ink, she read the names of Edward Charles Richardson and Favour Florence Milner. With shame and sorrow she observed, too, that both had proclaimed them- selves of legal age to dispense with the sanction of parents or guardians. " And does this constitute a marriage ? " asked Tony, lifting a blanched, tear-stained face to the grizzly, bearded gentleman who presided over the office. " Certainly it does, unless there has been false swear- ing on either side, and in that case the party might be prosecuted." At the word ** prosecuted *' Tony started, as visions of Favie, shorn of her golden locks, and attired in prison garb, rose before her. No ! it would never do to let this man suspect that th^x^ )iad be§ii false swearing on her sister's part. H J^ite' ^ 132 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE i h^^^^^^Hl"'' ■ At this moment several persons entered the room, and Fortune, finding she could receive no further attention, made a sign to cook to come away. Leaving the dingy room, they sallied forth together again. The rain had ceased by this time, and although the pavement was an inch deep in mud, and the roads looked as if they had been watered with pea-soup, there was a bright sun overhead, and the drops that were falling from balconies and window-sills were glistening like diamonds in the light. It seemed like an aggravation to Tony's misery that everything looked so cheery. The one thing she was thankful for was her companion's silence. She did not know that poor Mrs. Burns was cudgelling her brains for a suitable remark, and that failing to think of one she very wisely held her peace. Before leaving the office Fortune had ascertained that the young couple had not gone away in a cab, and this she felt would make it more difficult to trace them. For the present they were lost sight of. At all events she could not find them. But surely John might do somethin.7, she thought. John might set a detective to find them, and bring them back within an hour. She had great ideas of what a lawyer could do, still greater notions of what a detective could encompass. The very word suggested something almost magical to her ignorant mind. And if only John had come at once when she sent for him, why, by this time the marriage might have been annulled, and Favie brought to reason, she thought. For the first time since her return from Paris, Tony did not effect one single alteration in the arrangement of her room this afternoon. She had something else to occupy her thoughts to-day, and she did not even notice that her white china cherub was wheeling an empty barrow — a most unusual occurrence. Earlier than his wont, John returned. " Tliis is a very bad business, Tony," he said, coming *'BUIN" 133 into the drawing-room where she sat, her hat still on her head, for she intended going back to her mother's very soon. " You did not seem to consider it of much importance when you. refused to come in answer to my telegram.'* " It was impossible just then ; but things are even worse than you know. Mr. Richardson has failed utterly. Instead of being a wealthy man, his business has been a hollow sham, propped up on the shoulders of his victims for many months ; and his objection to this unlucky mairiage is fully accounted for." Then Tony told him that she had been to the registry office and seen the entry. "And now there is no time to be lost, John ; and I have been thinking that I will do my best to find them, and you had better go at once to the — the Chancellor. I suppose he would be the right person to get the marriage annulled, or whatever you call it. And perhaps we shall find them quicker if we get a detective officer to look for them ; don't you see how much important time those three hours of yours have lost us ? " John listened while his young wife ran on excitedly with these remarkable suggestions, with a countenance which was inscrutable, and, therefore, intensely provoking to her. She only saw that he was inwardly opposing her, and did not see how unwillingly. " My dear," he said, gently, " I very much fear we can do nothing ; we have no clue to their hiding-place ; and there is no appealing to the Chancellor, or any one else. Favour is not a ward in Chancery ; and if she were, the marriage once accomplished, the only result of arresting the young scamp who runs away with her is imprisonment for him, and at the end of that, the finding herself tied for life to one for whom her foolish fancy has had time to cool down, and perhaps evaporate," *' I see how it is ! " cried Tony. " If poor Favie had a father or a brother to care fpr )ier, she flight \f^ r^scoed ; 134 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE J' -i f 1 i ! 1 S;;'i.i V H ' !Sp i ■ 1 1 1 1 11 H)r Hi'' ^^^r ^ ' JBi but you take no more interest in her than if she were a total stranger. You can give your time and trouble to one who is, or ought to be, a stranger, like Barbara Dyke — but for your wife's sister you will do nothing ! " The bomb-shell had exploded at length. Tony, like many gentle, dreamy souls, had a stream of lava running beneath the quiet surface, which now and then broke its bounds and flamed up into scorching words and looks. The blanched whiteness of her face, the fire in her eyes, astonished her husband as he had never been astonished before. He could see that the slight figure trembled with excitement, that the soft mouth was stiffened and tightened with emotion ; and, straightforward and innocent man as he was, he felt the blow her words gave him, more even than he was aware at the moment. " Tony ! " he began. He was, as we know, without eloquence, of the stumbling tongue and silent heart of the Saxon race, and before he could muster words she was standing before him, speaking in hot haste the pent-up folly of months. " I know it all ; you married me caring for another girl ; you deceived me ; you repented directly when it was too late. I don't know why you did such a cruel thing. And now you desert me. I would give my life to save my sister, and you won't stretch out a finger to help me. You know you could find her ; you know you could get this marriage undone. What is the use of being a lawyer if you don't understand such things ? You never loved me ; and now I tell you I love my sister, and you are nothing to me. I wish I could tell you to go and leave me and be happy ; but that is impossible. I cannot set you free ; but I would rather work for my bread than live with you, and if I — by myself — can only find my sister, I only ask you to leave us togeth*. r and to trouble yourself no more about me." " Good heavens ! Tony, explain yourself ; are you out of your senses ? " cried Jolm. •'BUIN** ld5 )W I lid LS But without another word Tony had fled, and, stunned and bewildered, he threw himself into a chair and tried to think, and to comprehend. Possessed by the demon of the passion she had been nursing in secret, and had now let loose to torment herself and her husband, poor foolish Tony flew in her swift, noise- less fashion down the stairs (I have said that she had not taken off her ont-of-doors garments), and in two minutes the heavy street-door clanged behind her, and she was hurrying down the square. She hailed the first hansom that passed and jumped in, and then discovered that she had to order the man to drive somewhere. For a moment she was confused and silent, and at last she gave Mr. Richardson's address. The door was opened by a footman alone this time, who looked at Tony with surprise, as if a lady visitor on that day was not an expected apparition. " I — I have come to ask if there has been any news of Mr. Edward Richardson ; perhaps you can tell me ? " Tony said, looking into the not unprepossessing face of the young man with such questioning and steady eyes that he turned very red ; for he was, in fact, that same Charles whom the butler, now engaged in packing up his personal property, suspected of being in the young master's confidence. Tony's intuitions were excessively keen when not blurred by her feelings. " You know something, I am sure. I am Miss Milner's sister, and I beg of you to tell me anything you can which may assist me in finding her. She has no one but me to help her ; and oh, think of the misery of such a marriage for her ! She is so young — and neither of them knew the misfortune which was threatening the family." She held out a sovereign to him. In going out with her cook she had taken that prudent person's advice, and filled her purse. Charles clasped it until it was nearly red-hot with the 130 FAVOUn AND POnWNB heat of his agitation. In all his life he had never before been appealed to by a very pretty, well-dressed young lady, with tears gathering in her large eyes, and those eyes fixed unswervingly upon him, so that though he writhed and quivered he could not escape them. Heaving a deep sigh, he said : "I don't think you will be able to find Mr. Edward to-day, ma'am — but — but I have took articles for Mr. Edward to No. 27, Hanover Street, and in about a week's time I dare say you might find him there. And if you was to write to that address, why, no doubt, your letter would be forwarded." " Oh, thank you, thank you," cried Tony, excitedly — she might have been less grateful to the young man she was addressing had she known that he had acted the part of witness at her sister's wedding—-" I am so very much obliged to you." Then without another word she re- entered her hansom, and a minute or two later she was speeding towards Hanover Street^ Hanover Square. CHAPTER X. BARBARA WhiRpering toDgnes do poison trnfch— Aud life is thorny, and youth is vain. HEN Mr. Challoner found that his wife hadi left the house, he concluded that she had gone to her mother's. Trying to forget for the time the explosion of anger on Tony's part* that had so much surprised and grieved him, he turned his thoughts towards Favour's affairs. Long ere this he had telegraphed to old Mr. Richardson for news of the runaways, and had received for answer, " Nothing known." It is a bad business, thought John, and he grieved deeply at the wrong and false step Favie had taken. But he was far more angry with Edward Richardson, who was the promoter and instigator of the evil. He felt as indignant with that young gentleman as Tony herself could be, but he knew (and his wife did not know) that nothing could be done to shield Favie from the results of her own folly. As she had made her bed — or, to speak more correctly, perhaps, as it had been made for her by others — she must lie on it. The eternal law, which makes sin its own blindfold redresser, would not make an exception in this case. That the wretched ill-brought-up child had, on llie very threshold of life, put upon herself chains which would weigh her down and eat into her heart in time, he had no doubt. He foresaw clearly what kind of a husband this selfish^ brutal-looking ^oung man would prove whe)| I 138 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE '^ I: he found himself ruined, pennil^^ss, and hampered by domestic ties, after a life of pampered luxury and idleness. He knew, too, that Favie was not likely to prove a help- mate to her husband. She might get on very well with a man who was rich, easy-going, and, like herself, wholly given up to amusement ; but she had neither abilities, education, nor strength of character, and he greatly feared that this marriage, which had beg\m in falsehood and wilfulness, would go on in struggle and weakness, and end in hatred and misery. John Challoner had led a pure, upright life himself, and, therefore, his instincts were singularly true. He had iin him the unerring conviction of the undeviating law by which all evil, as well as good, bears its certain chain of consequences. He knew that men continue, day by day, to sow thistles, and then expect to cull figs ; and he knew that to all eternity this thing is impossible ; that the thistledown, light and playful as it appears, once let loose, will infest the ground, and bring forth in unexpected places the bitter growth of stubborn root and lacerating leaf But being what he was, a large-hearted, tender man, he sorrowed greatly for the poor child,' who had been suffered to grow up without a vestige of right training into the wild, crooked thing she now was. While he was thus musing, the library door opened, and in walked the last person on earth he desired to see at that moment. "Barbara!" he exclaimed, starting to his feet. The girl's fair face was flushed, her blue eyes wet, her manner hurried and troubled. " Oh, John," she began, piteously ; " there is fresh worry for us. I had this note just now from Roddy. See ! he is hiding, and wants money to escape with.'* " Hiding ! from whom ? " John took the scrap of papw and read, still standing, while a perplexed frown knit his brows. "Arrest! a debt I never heard of before — the BARBARA 189 and that The Inner I resh jee 1 [aper his -th» young fool ! Running away just at this critical time ! Good heavens ! shall I always find him thwarting me just as 1 see a chance of setting him on his legs ? Will nothing teach him common prudence or manliness ? " John spoke to himself, not to the tall, sorrowful girl standing watching him while he rapidly ran his eyes over the crumpled morsel of a note., written in pencil hy the young reprobate who had been for some years the curse and grief of honest people. Barbara did not speak ; she was ready to do all she could for that thankless brother of hers, but she did not blind herself to the fact that all his troubles were of his own creation, and that any true and manly feeling would have pre- vented his getting into the terrible scrapes from which John Challoner and she had been doing their best to save him. " Do you see he says he is ill ? " cried the poor girl, when Mr. Challoner looked up from the note. " 111 ! " he commenced, impatiently ; " ill ! '* — then he checked himself, remembering that the culprit was Barbara's brother. " I am not going to make the smallest excuse for him, John," she continued ; ** but I don't believe he would say he was ill unless he were, and I must go to him. He must be in a wretched little lodging, and he is certainly in want of money. Of course I must ask you for that. You know I cannot help myself." " Of course, of course ; do not distress yourself about that, and I will come with you at once. You could not possibly go alone to this place, and I must see what is to be done. Why in the name of fortune could not the boy have been honest for once, and told me of this debt, when I urged him to keep nothing from me, and engaged to do my best to help him ? It does not seem to be in his nature to act on the square." " Will this interfere with his master's promise to over- look that — that affair ? " asked Barbara, her voice sinking 140 FAVOUR AND FOUTUNB I ; i-^':.( 4 J: ifc;! as sh6 alluded to the hated business which was the blackest cloud over her life — certain dealings of her brother Ronald's in connection with which the terrible word fraudulent had been uttered more than once ; and for which, after long negotiation, John had at len{^h secured a half promise from this young man's employers that they would for once forbear to prosecute. " I fear so, I fear so — because from what I can make out, the wretched boy has already broken his promise, and has been speculating ; but I see no use in talking until we have seen him. Oh ! there is a visitor, and I never heard the bell ! But, happily, no one will be shown in." In this happy confidence in his servant's discretion, John was signally mistaken, for the visitor, who, after a very short parley, made her way briskly to the door of the library, was no other than Cousin Selina, and every one who had the advantage of that lady's acquaintance would know that she was no more to be kept out of any place she intended to invade, than the winds of heaven are to be prohibited from rushing and gushing through cracks and crevices in an old house. " Mrs. Challoner was not at home ? Then, perhaps, Mr. Challoner was ? Engaged ? Oh, no matter for that ! Iwr business brooked no delay. Go up to the drawing-room and wait ? Certainly not ! she knew her way to the library, and there she should find Mr. Challoner. My dear Joe " The breathless commencement died away, and Cousin Selina remained standing, holding the door-handle, and gazing open-mouthed upon her respectable cousin by marriage, who, with the unmistakable countenance of one taken unawares, was standing opposite to a tall, fair girl, whose pretty blue eyes were swimming in tears. Cousin Selina uttered an exclamation, whereupon John came forward and shook hands rather impatiently. " I am afraid I musjk ask you to return later, for I am particularly pressed for time just now. My wife has gone BARBARA 141 out, and I am on the point of starting on a business errand ; can I give Tony any message from you ? " '* Bless me ! don't you know what has occurred ? Favie has run away " " Yes, I know it all." "And now, what is to be done? I have left her poor mother quite broken down, at least, very seriously put out ; and, as a near relative, I feel it my duty to " "I am sure you will do all you can to comfort Mrs. Milner and advise ; I do not think, myself, that anything can be done, as we do not know where the young couple are. Will you excuse me ? " So saying, John seized his hat, and held open the door for the two ladies. Cousin Selina, in high dudgeon, swept out through the hall, refused to have a cab called, and departed with a scanty farewell, making no account of John's earnest apologies, but fixing an eye upon Barbara, which seemed to say: ** Young woman, I hold you accountable for this, and I shall not forget it. You are found out." Barbara Dyke cared for neither looks nor words ; she was only desperately anxious to be on her way to her unhappy brother, and full of painful wonder how all this fresh trouble was. to be concealed from the sick, nervous mother at home, whose infatuated idolatry of her only boy had ruined him. It was in a wretched lodging in Holborn that they found the poor prodigal, and as Barbara walked up the street (John had dismissed the cab at the corner, the driver having declared that there was no room to turn, and no way out — it was a blind alley) she could not refrain from a feeling of thankfulness that her mother, at all events, was spared the sight of her darling's present abode. On the pavement) and in the gutter, the children swarmed ; singing street songs, and playing r-treet games — which always seem to necessitate so much noise — or lookingatstreet sights, the present sight being a drunken man lying full length in the middle of the road. " What a place to be ill in ! " whispered Barbara to John, 142 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE as they ascended the wooden staircase that led to the room where Ronald Dyke lay. They found him lying on a wretched bed, his handsome face haggard, his eyes sunk and wild, and the red and white of the fair complexion he had shared with his sister faded to a leaden gray. A more deplorable spectacle John thought he had never beheld. But he was not alone in his misery. By his bedside sat a taller, older man, who rose upon the entrance of strangers, and, putting down the cup he had been raising to the sick boy's lips, slipped quietly out of the room before Barbara had sufficiently recovered from the shock caused by her brother's appearance, to thank this man for his kindness and attention to him. The woman of the house, delighted to see responsible-looking persons come to visit her burdensome lodger, said to John, in a very self-satisfied tone : " That young man and me have done all we could for him — trouble enough, too, I'm sure I I couldn't have took him in if I'd know'd. Yes, that's a good friend to him — didn't ask his name — comes here mostly by times in the morning, but last night sat up with him. Doctor thinks he can't get through with it — says he's been neglecting of himself, and taking a drop too much ; 'tis some sort of fever, and he don't think he'll last much over to-morrow." John put up his hand with a warning gesture, and Barbara, who had stared half wildly at her while she spo*ce, went and knelt by th4 bedside, and took her brother's wasted hand. She would have kissed him, but a faint gesture prevented her. " Can he be moved ? '* John asked. " You'd better ask the doctor ; he will be here directly. I'm sure I'm willing, when I'm paid all expenses. I don't want a death in the house." " Can he speak ? " John asked, abruptly. " Now and then. Doctor said he'd best not try, and it pains him in his throat. I'm sure I've done all I could." BARBARA 143 " Yes, I am sure you have, and you shall not he a loser hy it," said John, anxious to get the woman out of the room. He SAW that the wretched boy was too ill to be spoken to, too ill to think of the money he had been so anxious about, and, indeed — little as he knew of such things — he believed the poor fellow was going to end his short, disgraced life under this dilapidated roof. Meanwhile, Barbara was trying to make out what her brother wanted to say to her, and, as she gazed upon him, her kind heart filled with tenderness which overwhelmed and dissipated all the righteous indignation she felt against his sinful follies. " Why did you not come yesterday ? " She just made out those words, and hastened to answer in her low, full. tones that she had come to him directly she got the note — which she afterwards discovered to have been delayed in conse- quence of the urchin to whom it had been confided having totally forgotten it. After some anxious waiting, the medical man, who was kindly and carefully attending the poor boy — gratis — came up the creaking stairs and into the bare, dirty room. " I am truly glad to find friends here," he said ; " but there are too many in the room just now." John and the landlady took the hint and withdrew, and then Dr. Smith, after closely examining the patient, gave Barbara his directions concerning him. "And if you take my advice," he added, "you will send for a trained nurse. The utmost care is necessary in this case, and nursing is more important than medicine." " I'll do whatever you think right," said Barbara, timidly. Then, after a pause, " Is my brother any better ?" " I fear not. But he is very young, and that is in his favour." " Had we not better move him to a more comfortable place ? " and Barbara shuddered as she looked round at the bare walls, and the dirty, scanty furniture. Mi FAVOUR AND FOUTTJNB " Not now. 27*0^ ought to have been done before ; but, without moving him, we may make him far more comfortable than he is. I will seiul you in a nurse, and m look in again the last thing at night. But you must not sit up with your brother. If the nurse requires as- sistance, that young man who sleeps in the house will give it. He has been a kind friend to the poor invalid since this illness ; but up to that time I rather think your brother would have done better without such an ac- quaintance." '/ And now to return to Tony, who had met with a very cold reception at No. 27, Hanover Street. The owner of that small, stuffy, and fashionable house was perfectly well aware .that the young gentleman who had engaged his best rooms a short time before was the son of that great financial firework, Mr. John Edward Richardson, who had just gone out like an expended rocket, and he had resolved not to let him keep the rooms longer than a week, meaning at the expiration of that period to tell him that the apartments were wanted for a lady who had the refusal of them every season. The owner of No. 27 was perfectly well aware that teuants like young Richardson were often difficult to get rid of, and were never advantageous to keep, and, therefore, he replied very curtly to poor Tony's earnest in- quiries respecting the whereabouts of his undesirable lodger. He did r ' ^^now where Mr. Edward Richardson was. He believ*^' vvas out of town, but really he had no means ang out. If the lady liked to leave a letter *"to be jrwarded," it should be sent as soon as ever Mr. Richardson's address was ascertained. In dire despair Tony returned to her mother's house to listen to all the old story over again. Never had mother been so badly treated by a child as she (Mrs. Milner) had been by Favie, and never had a mother made such sacrifices for her children, or done so much to ]^7nmote tV'eir interests. Favie was a regular Milner. In spite of all their tadv BARBARA 14& MS. no Iter rer to lei lad ;es bs. ulv about their Puritan ancestry, the Milners were all foolish, and heartless, and ungrateful, like Favie, and very frivolous. "Tony, I don't believe you have the very sli^^htest feeling for me," cried Mrs. Milner, presently, waxing furious at her daughter's continued silence. " Yes, I have," replied Tony, absently. Her thoughts were far away at that moment. She was wondering where that unhappy couple had fled. " Well, then, you have the strangest way of showing it. You have never said one word about me in the whole affair. It is always Favie, Favie, Favie. Now that you are a married woman, Tony, it would be in better taste if you were to exhibit a stronger sense of propriety, and not always to uphold your sister when she acts in defiance of my wishes, and " And how much longer Mrs. Milner would have con- tinued to talk on that subject of which she was never weary — her own unappreciated excellence — it is impossible to say, for at this moment the door opened and Cousin Selina entered unannounced, and in a towering pas?ion against John Challoner, who she considered had grossly insulted her. She was delighted to find his wife, upon whose head she might pour out her wrath. It is supposed that two anxieties are better than one, as a sort of balance is kept between them ; and it is certain that had it not been for the unh.appy condition of things between herself and her husband, Tony would have suffered more trouble about her sister ; and had it not been for her distress on Favie's account, she would have been overwhelmed by her more personal sorrow, and unable to sit in Mrs. Milner's dull drawing-room listening to that lady's bemoanings, and prepared even to receive Cousin Selina. "I have just come from youi house, Fortune," that ^imable person of course began. *'And there I found 9i}rAttlf q^uite de trop; your husband W9'=' so taken up with ?' (i 146 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE giving legal advice, I suppose, to a young lady, that he almost, I may say quite, turned me out of the house." " I do not think he could have intended anything rude, Cousin Selina," said Tony, with a sharp pang at her heart. " Who was the young lady ? He has so many clients." ** I did not know that young ladies were in the habit of going to law. This one was tall and light-haired, with a colour. / do not know who she can be ; a cousin perhaps of Mr. Challoner's, for they went away from the house together in a harsom. But I have no doubt that thai also is a common thing nowadays. I don't profess to know anything about young ladies' doings ; they are very aifterent from what they were some years ago." There is a traditional idea that the spider collects poison from flowers as the bee collects honey ; but whether or no that is a libel upon spiders, or whether— if they do make such a selection — it is for chemical and medical purposes of which we are ignorant, it is certain that many a Cousin Selina — masculine as w^ell as feminine — has the knack of gathering poison of a very deadly description where others would come away with honey, and, maybe, balm. And so the envenomed drop was injected into Tony's agitated sensibilities with positive pleasure to the operator, whereas if Tony had cut her finger badly, Cousin Selina would have been the first to run round to the nearest chemist's or s"rgeon's, and would have bound it up with her own pocket-handkerchief. ** Of course my husband has a great deal of business of which I know nothing," said Tony, with dry lips. ** Legal matters are terribly dull," she added, with the echo of a laugh. But presently she made an excuse to get away by herself. " I will never go back to him ! " she said, passion- ately, with the passion of a child. '* It was because of this girl, who seems to haunt him, that he refused to do what I asked him about Favie. Let Him please himself. Til no longer submit to the mockery of living in the same BARBARA 147 house, and dragging the chain of daily life with a man who is indifferent to me, to whom I must be a perpetual burden." Tony's nerves were all fevered now by excite- ment and exhaustion, for bhe had had much fatigue and little food that day. *' Why did he not marry Barbara- how I hate the name ! — while he could ? Why did he cheat me into manying him ? " When Cousin Selina had taken her departure, Tony went down and told her mother that she would stay with her that night, and Mrs. Milner gladly consented to the arrangement, as she was under the positive necessity of having some one to listen to her unceasing flow of lamenta- tion and reproach. The events of that stirring day were not yet over. Tony was just on the point of going to bed, when a cab drove up to the door containing her maid, who sent up a note to her mistress to the following effect : *' My DEAR Tony, " I have just received a telegram from my uncle, who, it appears, was on his way home from Melbourne, on business, when he was seized with a dangerous illness at Marseilles. He earnestly entreats me to come to him without delay, and I find that in order to do so I must leave London at 7 a.m. Of course I wish to see you before starting, and I beg of you to forget the foolish misunder- standing of to-day, and to come at once to " Your affectionate husband, " J. T. Challoner." " What ! * The foolish misunderstanding of to-day ! * Did he dare to speak of the insult offered to her in that manner ! Cold, heartless, faithless tyrant ! Go to him, indeed T Never, never ! He might come to her if he wanted to see her so sorely. She would never go back to him — back to the house to which Barbara had been told she had better not come." L a / p 148 FAVOmt AND FORTUNE I •4 5^ I. ill This note was a trick to get her to return home, lest the servants should suspect some quarrel had taken place. "Well, then ! let them suspect it if they liked. It was the truth, and Tony was too wretched to care for conventionality. Moreover, she was determined not to yield to her husband's wishes in this matter. Fidelity and affection alone gave a man a right to dictate, and John was wanting in both towards her. You cannot love two people any more than you can serve two masters. He did not love her, and she was not going to obey him. She would just show that she had a spirit, and that she could act with determination and consistency. And so stifling the impulse to hurry on her clothes, and to get home as fast as she could be driven thither, Tony hastily dashed off" a few words on a piece of note-paper : " I am with my . lOther, and I shall remain here. You appear to look upon what you choose to call a ' foolish mis- understanding ' as a whim of mine. It was not so. — F. C." That was all. And with a haste which looked as though she was afraid of yielding, Tony fastened it up, and delivered it to the messenger, saying she had a bac* head- ache, and thought she had better remain where she was for the present. The headache was a fact, and when Tony got into bed in the dark, as soon as she laid her weary head on her pillow she burst into tears. She wept, poor child, until her cheeks were sore with the salt tears streaming down, and the more she cried the more she thought of to cry about. All the troubles of her life seemed to rush together in a crowd, and clamoured to be attended to, and in the morning she opened a pair of heavy, scorched eyes to a dismal world. The clock struck seven. The hateful sound was taken up by one set of chimes after another, and, with a feeling of cold despair, Tony said to herself : " At this moment he leaving London." CHAPTER XI. Tony's visitor This day shall change all griefs and quarrels into love. King Henry 7. in a ling fing he BRIEF line to poor Barbara Dyke conveyed John Challoner's distress at leaving her at such a time, but he added that he had great confidence in the doctor's kindness, and he enclosed a cheque which would prevent her feeling any anxiety as to money matters for the present. It was the only anxiety, however, from which she was relieved, for her brother grew worse instead of better, and at home her difficulties had increased. Her mother, of whom nothing has yet been told, was a complete invalid of the most difficult kind to deal with. Beginning life with a temper she had never been taught to control, and nerves to which she had ignorantly given way, a great deal of trouble occasioned by the ill-conduct of the man she was so unfortunate or so mad as to marry, ended in shattering her whole system, and reducing her to that con- dition of mind compared with which insanity itself is almost to be preferred. Violent as a savage, and unreasonable as a baby at times, she had fits of melancholy and remorse in between, which were fully as difficult to bear or to manage. She idolised the boy who had early shown an inclination to i ' '' 'ilH 1 'l^nH ^ ) 1 5'. ■^■. -i^ l^HH II 150 FAVOUR AlfD FORTUNE follow in his father's steps, and whose unworthy conduct — if it was not actuall}'^ criminal — in the excellent place John Challoner had found for him in a great house of business had almost killed her when she had first learned something of it, and upon this both Mr. Challoner and Barbara thought that the one thing they could do was to keep the boy's misdoings secret from her for the future, and, as any reference to them aroused the same frenzy which had seemed so alarming, this was done at the expense of the most wearing agony to poor Barbara, and the most incessant watchfulness. Perhaps they were mistaken ; those well-meant secrecies generally ai'e a mistake. But how common they are I There is no firm ground to stand upon when facts are huddled out of the way, and it is more than doubtful if any suffer- ing is saved, nay, if the whole truth brought into whole- some daylight may not often prove the very air of healing which is needed. . - John Challoner was a good lawyer, but he had not learnt the A B C of dealing with women in extra-legal cases ; and Barbara was a good girl, who did as she was bid, but fihe had not arrived at the conclusion that every sane and right-loving mind has its own responsibility in action and conduct which cannot by any means be trans- ferred to another. How many undesirable things happen because people do the expedient instead of the merely right ; because they take the prudent instead of the upright course. If all our present little group of actors, who are making themselves and one another miserable, and reaping the sour fruit of past sowing, had been as wise, and good, and heroic, and dutiful as we all ought to be, and are not, there would have been no story to tell about them, or no such story as we are wont to read in life and books ; but as it is, they have all got themselves into a complete tangle, and if any human interest is lacking in them it will certainly not be that of the bhinders common to all who TONY'S VISITOR 151 tread this flowery and stony stage in the four winds of heaven. Ronald's illness must of course be broken to his mother, and then ensued a scene painful beyond description. Her boy must be brought home to her ; they were killing him in that wretched lodging. She must go to him ; she knew she could if she tried. Barbara was insensible and unfeeling, as she had always been ; hard as a stone towards the darling boy. Her hardness had been one of the cruel sufferings which had brought him to the gates of death. John Challoner's desertion at this critical moment was as heart- less as it was self-seeking. Yes, yes ; the old man's money — that was what drew him ?way ! In a gi-and patience and forbearance, Barbara endured and soothed he: mother's ravings ; but she could not but see how worn the poor woman looked when they had died away. She dreaded leaving her to the one rough servant they kept, and she had been so exclusively her nurse that she knew she missed her greatly every hour of her absence. And yet there was her only brother, perhaps dying in loneliness at some distance. When her great weakness forced the unhappy mother to acknowledge that she was unable to go to him herself, she began to reproach Barbara with her indifference towards Ronald in not being with him ; and when at length Barbara left her, thinking that after all fretting was worse for her than anything else, she found the poor boy had been asking incessantly whij she did not come to him. A nurse had arrived by this time, and had made things more comfortable. John Challoner's trusty cook had also sent beef-tea, and brought sundry necessaries with her in obedience to her master's orders, who gave her at the same time a caution not to gossip with the landlady about the sick lad in whom he was interested ; and the doctor was very attentive. * The " friend " was also at hand, and he had sat up with Ronald half the previous night, and the V:a\i |53 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE nurse expressed her opinion of him as " a most obliging young man, with a lovely blue eye, and one who she didn't suppose had an enemy in the world, except it were brandy." Barbara was frightened. *' Does he drink, then, nurse ? ** *' I shouldn't care to say he doesn't, nor I don't wish to say he do," was the oracular reply. " But whether or no, he is a handy, agreeable young man, and there are many who begin with being too fond of a glass, and steady down afterwards into opposite courses, which we may all pray for." This, although obscure, relieved Barbara's fears, and after a short conversation with the stalwart assistant-nurse, she came to the conclusion that although the ex-soldier — as she felt convinced this young man was — bore signs of dissipation which marred an originally handsome face, that he had already begun to turn to those "opposite courses" which nurse deemed so desirable, and that his kindness to her poor brother showed that his nature was not ruined by that most fatal blight to the whole moral character — love of drink. When she returned to her mother, Barbara was dismayed to find how ill the results of her absence had been. There had been delays with her necessary food and medicine, a window had been left open which ought to have been shut, and a door had been shut that should have been left open ; the servant seemed to have made up all arrears of forgetfulness and stupidity which Barbara's constant supervision had allowed to accumulate, and what with temper, and fretting, and the ghastly sympathy administered by her handmaiden, the poor lady was very much worse in her bodily health, and yet resisted the idea of seeing her doctor. , Barbara was thrown completely upon her own resources iu John's absence, and as she sat down to consider what TONY'S VISITOR 153 was best to be done, she had to check a natural inclination to give way to helpless tears. But there was a fund of strength in the healthy mind and body of the girl, and she soon roused herself again, and determined not to fret herself by looking forward even to the next ( ;. How- ever, as the day 'wore on, and Mrs. Dyke's nervousness increased with the approach of night, Barbara was sorely tried. " Barbara ! " the poor woman exclaimed, " I am certain the poor boy is being killed by neglect. I am the only person who can attend properly to him. I insist, I command that he shall be brought here to-morrow. I can give up this room to him, and sleep on a sofa Of course, I shall be up the greater part of the night- "Sut I must — I will have my poor boy under my own eye. f ou must bring him here in a comfortable carriage to-morrow morning; you will find all my directions written down ; I have thought over everything." " I will ask the doctor, mother ; he told me before, you know, that Roddy could not be moved." "That is the way in which I am always put off! I don't believe you do ask the doctor, Barbara; you thwart me in every way ! Yes, I know how it always was ; you have no dut}', no affection, either for your poor mother, or my poor ill-used darling. You pay no attention to my wishes ; you take no trouble for his comfort. My boy is being murdered — yes, murdered, — and I shall hold you answerable for his life." "Mother, everything that can be done for Roddy is being done, and if we^do not bring him here it is because the doctor says it would be too great a risk." ' " I tell you, you cold-hearted girl, he shall come here, or I will go to him. Yes, ring the bell, and tell Charlotte I will have a cab and go to my boy at nine o'clock in the morning, and she must get my breakfast ready in good time." 154 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE f I " Charlotte has been in bed for an hour, mother ; let us wait and see how you are." " What does it matter how I am ? I will have my own way sometimes ! " screamed the poor, half-crazed creature. " You have not given me any messages from my boy ; you keep back even those from me. Did he read my letter ? Answer me that." "Mother, he was too ill to read," Barbara replied, quietly. The letter in question liad been six closely-scribbled pages, which Mrs. Dyke had exhausted herself in writing, and to read which would have been a severe exercise for one in sound health. Barbara had abstained from making the most of her brother's illness before her mother for fear of alarming her or of working her into a perfect frenzy ; but she now saw that she must try to put the case more clearly before her. She therefore told her that Ronald took no notice of any one, that he lay in a stupor with his eyes closed, that to disturb him would endanger his life, and that one of Dr. Smith's strictest orders was that he was to be kept perfectly quiet. *' If you could only see him, mamma, you would know that his reading a letter is simply out of the question," said Barbara, impressively. But Mrs. Dyke would not listen, and ended by working herself into such a paroxysm of violent distress and anger, that Barbara was up all night attending to her and trying to soothe her. A hopeless task. Every nerve in the poor woman's weakened frame bore witness to the unchecked temper, the unrestrained desire, the unruly will that she had neglected to curb when they might have been brought into subjection, and that had now gained dominion over her. The habits of hastiness and petulance, that once might have been over-ruled, had Income constitutional now, and were the tyrants and tormentors of the wretched woman's life. She had sown to the flesh, ajid of. the TONY\S VISITOR 155 ^wn ure. you ,ter? etly. ages, id to ae in f her g her N saw B her. )f any lat to ne of kept [know Ition," not ^xysm jnight nan's iper, had )ught over once lional tched the flesh she was reaping corruption. How many a so-called bodily ailment may be traced to causes — certainly not physical ! Barbara found out that almost the whole of the previous day had been spent by her mother in writing to the sick boy ; that these MSS., penned from time to time, had accumulated to the size of a volume, and that their theme for the most part had been her — Barbara's — iniquities, and the shortcomings of poor Charlotte, the maid-of-all-work. The recital of their iniquities had over- flowed several sheets, which were now awaiting Ronald's perusal, and which Barbara very wisely consigned to the safe keeping of the flames. What a night that was for the unhappy girl, already worn out with anxiety, and struggling against despondency ! She could not sleep. She was too anxious to rest. There she lay in her little white bed, pressing her cold fingers to her hot eyelids as if she could press out the grief that was torturing heart and brain, trying to stifle her sobs lest her mother should hear her, clenching her little hands, and gnawing her fevered lips to force them to keep silence. " If I might but cry I should feel better," she said to herself. When the dawn broke she had decided that such a scene as she had gone through yesterday with her mother could not be risked again, and that the only way of avoiding it was not to leave Mrs. Dyke alone. But then, how was it to be avoided? There was no possibility ot conveying her to those dismal lodgings where Ronald lay, and even supposing her strong enough to bear the exertion, the noise, the excitement of the move, they could do nothing with her in that cramped space when they got her thercs. It was impossible to imagine that poor, pampered, invalid lady climbing those rickety stairs and making herself comfortable within those four damp walls, withia sound of those back-street cries -the Puuch mi Judy, 156 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE .■;S- ifll the brandy-ball man, the niggers, and the squalling children. Besides, what good could she do when she got there ? She was accustomed to lie down on her sofa all day, and in the house where Ronald lay dying there were few enough chairs, and sofas were an unknown luxury. But if it was impossible to take Mrs. Dyke to Holborn, it was equally unadvisable to leave her at home alone, and still more impossible for Barbara to let a day pass without going to her brother. And then, if she went off to Ronald, with whom could she leave her mother ? When she began to seek for some friend who would come and keep the invalid company during her absence, and direct her mind from dwelling on painful topics, she positively could, not think of any one able and willing to undertake the office ; for the Dykes' position had been one of complete isolation, and the only people with whom Barbara was upon speaking terms were a few tradesmen and their wives. The baker's wife, at No. 1, was almost a friend, but she was busy in her little shop all day long, and the butcher's wife had enough to do minding her brood of little ones. Suddenly an idea flashed through Barbara's mind like an inspiration ; what it was will presently appear. / John Challoner was travelling further and further from his home, when Tony came back to it ; back to the gray, smoke-stained house, which seemed to her more sombre than ever. The heavy door clanged behind her, as feeling very small and very lonely, she walked slowly upstairs in the empty silence, which seemed so much greater than usual for the thought of the bustle of hurried departure which had taken place a few hours earlier. Such loneliness Tony had never known before ; her sister vanished— spirited away — her husband gone ; but that ought to have been a relief to her if she was at all consistent. However, Tony was no more consistent than t\^^ X^&t of the world, and thQ thought which would keep TONY'S VISITOR 157 Ling she Bofa own )oni, and hout nald, )egan ) the mind d not office ; iation, eaking paker'a in her nough idea hat it ^r from gray, iomhre (feeling lirs in than )arture ; her ; but at all It than keep coming uppermost was that she had let John go away for an uncertain time, out of England, without a word of farewell. She pictured the manner of his going again and again to herself, and perpetually wondered how he had taken that brief scrap of writing from her. Her silent, companionless dinner was hateful to her, and she made it as short as eliO could. Then the long evening drew on, and she took up the most interesting book she could find, in order to divert her thoughts. Soon, however, the book was impatiently dropped, after she had turned over half a-dozen pages — nay, had read them with her bodily eyes, — while all the time, she had been wondering how soon she could get a letter from John, and' what he would say to her. Perhaps he was so deeply offended that he would not write ? Could he treat his wife with such neglect ? Was her offence, in refusing to come at his bidding, very great ? How would it appear to a man ? It was the end of April, but the weather was cold, and Tony was glad of a fire in her morning-room to-night— of course, the drawing-room was out of the question when she was alone. She drew her Buckingham basket-chair close up to the fender stool. There was another, a more masculine- looking chair opposite, empty. She leant her head upon her hand, her eye rested upon theflainme de Ponche coloured flame that came leaping up through the crevices in the log of ship's wood that was blazing away in the grate, and she sighed. Her little dog Jack had curled himself up at her feet, and was sleeping peacefully. Even he was in no mood for her company to-night, and Tony felt very much alone— ^more bitterly alone than she had ever felt before. Then her mind flitted off to Favie, and in a few moments bftck again to John. This time she linked the fair, tearful faoe of Barbara in the train of her thoughts, and from that she went ba^ck step by at^p to the di^y {ohn Qh&Uon^r called 158 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE 1 1 15! ■! at No. 5, in the Crescent, and made his offer to her. It seemed a long and cloudy vista of misunderstanding to look through ; and there, with no one to cast even tacit reproach upon her, she arraigned her own conduct, and, in the matter of accepting John as her husband, found herself guilty. Concerning the coldness which had sprung up actually on their wedding-day, she acquitted herself But concerning Barbara ? There she wavered, and could not decide for or against her conduct, but a deep sigh, born of the conviction that John had all along preferred the girl whom, for some hidden reason, he had not married, closed the subject. The hours went by without bringing any tidings of Favie, and the succeeding morning seemed to open another day of colourless gloom to Tony Challoner, who scarce felt the energy to stir from her spring-flower-scented drawing- room (the Cupid's barrow was full of pale yellow cowslips to-day) where she had listlessly seated herself in all the depression of a reaction from great excitement. It was a lovely morning, the smoke was rising straight into the sky from the chimney-tops, the birds were singing merrily overhead, and the soft, warm, April sunshine was flooding the world with glory. But Tony felt no inclination to go forth and enjoy the healthful spring weather. She cowered over the fire as if it had been mid-winter, and gave herself up to the fatal habit of day-dreaming. Towards noon she heard a ring at the front-door bell. ** Oh, I can't see anybody," she cried rather petulantly, as, rising to her feet, she rushed on to the staircase to give the manservant orders to say " Not at home." But she was too late, the footman was already in the hall, and Tony returned despondingly to her seat by the fire. A minute or two later the door was thrown open, and "Miss Dyke" was announced. In checked surprise, and feeling as if she had had some gross insult offered to her in publioi Tony rose and looked at the advancing figure in TONY'S VISITOR ir>9 gray- -that same abominable gray she had followed to John's office. Barbara's fair, smooth face was pale, and blurred with watching. With a questioning, deprecating expression on it, she came eagerly forward, but Tony did not move a step to meet her, and did n^t speak, fearing herself. "Mrs. Challoner, will you forgive my coming in this manner ? You were kind enough to ask me to come and see you, and I seemed, perhaps, ungi-ateful and rude. I told you I went nowhere ; but now Mr. Challoner is gone, and I have no one to advise or help me, I have come to you. Will you forgive me, and let me tell you all I can ? " ** I cannot imagine that I can be of use to you. Miss Dyke," answered Tony, slowly and clearly ; "I am a total stranger to you and your affairs." " I know you are ; but I thought Mr. Challoner might have spoken about us." " Mr. Challoner has never mentioned you ; and I have no wish to learn, in his absence, what he evidently thought proper to conceal from me." *' He is so good — he did it on our account. Since— since certain misfortunes happened to us, which began just before your marriage, he has kept silence about us. It was the only thing to be done, and before that we knew no one, because he was desired to see that we were living in a very quiet way. We were then at Dorking " — (" Ah ! " gasped Tony) — "and saw no one but himself. We have never made friends like other people." " Perhaps you may not object to telling me how it is that you and Mr. Challoner became on such terms of intimacy ? Sit down, Miss Dyke." Barbara obeyed mechanically, and replied to the question with none of the hesitation which Tony expected. '* I see no reason why you should not know, Mrs. Challoner. As long as I can remember, my mother^ brother^ and I have depended upon Mr. Challoner's uncle 160 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE 1 1 i —who is now ill at Marseilles— for support. I cannot tell you why he took this burden upon himself; but as he never appeared to take a personal interest in us, or showed us the slightest affection, I suppose we must have some claim upon his generosity of which we know nothing. I do not remember my father, and no one ever mentions him. Before Mr. Challoner (the uncle) went abroad, he nut us in charge of Mr. John Challoner, who has paid us the quarterly allowance made to us, and has been more than kind in every way. My mother is a great invalid ; her nerves have been over-tried, and she is sometimes a great distress to — to those who have to do with her. At one time she could do nothing witiiout Mr. Challoner, and was always sending for him, or sending me to him ; but after my mother had taken a sudden and intense dislike to Dorking, and Mr. Challoner had been at the trouble to move her to London, we got into difficulties. We suddenly ceased to hear from Melbourne ; our money was not sent — and then mamma began to mistrust and dislike Mr. Challoner. She is very violent at times — she does not reflect — she does not know what she is saying. And then troubles arose about my brother, which made it more necessary than ever that we should keep quiet. But you will want to know what brought me to your house, and I will tell you in as few words as possible. My brother lies dangerously ill in a wretched lodging in Holbom, and my mother is ill at our little house in Kilbum, and I have no friend I can ask to be with her while I am with my brother. You are about my own age or younger, and you look kind and gentle, and it came into my mind that I might ask a great favour of you. It is very bold of me — I scarcely know how to ask it now I am here ; but I do not know what to do. I cannot leave my mother alone again, and I must go to my brother for some time in the course of the day. Will you then, Mrs. Challoner, do a most kind and generous deed? Will you come back with me, ai^d stay with my poor mother while 1 go to Ronald ?' TOITY'S VISITOR 161 It I -I [not lain, |e of and id The girl was trembling with anxiety by this time, and looking pleadingly into Tony's face, which had paled, and then returned to its natural colour while she spoke. Tony had weighed every word and tone of her visitor. " You speak very kindly of me, and yet you can have no reason to like me," she said. Barbara looked surprised. " But why not ? You are the wife of our kindest friend, and I have heard of you so often from him ; not that he talked much about you to me, of course ; but long before you were married I knew he thought no one in the world was to be compared with you. It was no surprise to me when he told me of his engagement, and how happy he was ! I had almost prayed that you might not refuse him ; I could not bear the idea of disappointment to so good and kind a friend." Tony turned away her head, and bent it from its erect and motionless attitude. There was a short silence. Was this girl acting a part, and hiding out of pride the inward smart — as Tony herself would have done ? " You were, then, to all intents and purposes, brother and sister?" she observed, with her eyes fixed upon Barbara's face, in which the ketnest observation could detect no trace of undue emotion. " I scarcely ventured to consider myself in that light," Barbara answered. "For, although he was our only friend, he is not a man to be on intimate terms with a girl of my age. But in considerate kindness he was certainly like an elder brother to me. He gave us much, but he asked for nothing in return." " He gave so much ? I do not quite understand you," said the inquisitor " He took so much trouble for us, and you know how ne would dislike great professions of gratitude ; well, he did not want that, which, certainly, / always hope to feel towards him ; and I could not help fancying that v/e must be ■f 162 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE 11 4 1 I'd' ;B r m a burden upon him, although he never let us hint at such a thing. Imagine my distress, then, when my poor mother took a violent antipathy against him. But that went as suddenly as it came, and to-day she talks of nothing but his goodness, and thinks that if he were here all would be well." " Possibly, she fancied at one time that you might have married him ; or that he wished to marry you," Tony said, with the same quiet but close inspection of the other girl's face, which she had carried on throughout the interview. " Oh, I do not think anything of that sort could have entered any one's head," Barbara replied, with a very genuine smile, but feeling that the remark was somewhat impertinent nevertheless. " I do not see why not." ** Well, to me it appears out of the question ; and as for Mr. Challoner, I do not think he could have been made to understand that such a thing was possible ; I have been much more like a niece to him." The stone was rolled away from Fortune's heart ; in a moment — cle ar as daylight after rain — she saw her folly and error ; and in her heart begged pardon of her husband. *' And now," she said to Barbara, with a ring in her voice which it had not before, " you want me to come with you ; I will put on my hat at once." " Oh, how good— how good of you ! " cried Barbara Dyke. " I take it as a sort of duty in my husband's absence ; I am sure he would wish me to help you as much as possible," said Tony, turning back from the door with a rare, bright smile ; "if you are his niece you must be mine, after a fashion." Barbara little knew the good she had done by her courageous trust in the generosity of a stranger. CHAPTER XII. ^1^ ii I )aTa ice; bh a be her HOW OLD FRIENDS MEET Morning brings back to me the Past ; and the Past brings np not only its actualities, not only its events, and memories, but stranger still — what might have been. Every little ciroum8tr*noe which dawns on the awakened memory is traced not only to its actual, but to its possible issues. ?HE experiment with Mrs. Dyke had answered beyond Barbara's most sanguine expectations. With the capriciousness so characteristic of invalids of her kind, she had taken a sudden fancy to Tony Challoner, and made herself so pleasant to her, and gave so little trouble, that, until Barbara came back, Tony almost wondered how Miss Dyke could have represented the charge of this poor old lady to be so heavy. But directly Barbara reappeared, a change came over her mother. She was indignant that her daughter could give no better account of Ronald ; she resented it as a personal offence. Barbara always made the worst of ever3rthing, just to grieve and harass her. It was done on purpose. And then she worked herself into such a frenzy of anger that Tony came away wondering how the poor girl could put up with such scenes, and fiill of pity for her sad and bravely- borne lot. For herself, she had had a new experience, and it was wonderful what ft bracing effect it had had upon her. The M 2 164 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE sight of another's trouble had chased away the thought of her own, and the consciousness of having been of use was a real and a very new pleasure to Mrs. Challoner. She re- , solved as she was leaving the house that, however irksome she might find the task, however captious and disagi-eeable Mrs. Dyke might prove upon more intimate acquaintance, she would continue to pay her a daily visit as long as there was any need for it, as long as Barbara was required to attend upon her dying brother. There was no more sitting over the fire with her hands before her, doing nothing, for Tony to-day. She returned home in a mood for work, and as soon as she had taken off her bonnet and cloak she attacked the table border that she had begun weeks ago, and that progressed so slowly, and as she stitched away she began to meditate, not upon her own woes, but upon what she could do for the Dykes. Barbara was a nice, good, dear girl, but she did not understand how to make a room look either pretty or homelike, and Tony shuddered with recollections of that ugly, stuffy little apartment at Kilburn. " I'll give them some new cretonne curtains," she said to herself, " and I'll take them some flowers to-morrow — some violets and primroses — and I miglit give them that basket-chair that John says is out of place in the dining- room, and Susan could make a pretty cover for that horse- hair sofa, and then really, with a little pains and arrange- ment, the room might be made to look almost pretty." Just as Tony was an-anging it all in her own mind, settling the colour of the cretonne, and deciding where the basket-chair should be placed, and whether the flowers should be put in the window or on the table, she suddenly heard a light, quick step upon the stairs. In anotlier moment the work was thrown down, and Mrs. Dyke's room entirely forgotten, as, with a low cry of " Fa vie," she fell into her sister's arms. ^)here w^ the culprit, the runi^way, sj)aikling, laughing, EOW OLD FRIENDS MEET I65 dmling (for, short as had been her absence, Mrs. Favie had already managed to array her small form in a garb that certainly might have astonished the lilies of the field) and SeZn '''*'' ""'^^ "" '^'''*' unprecedented show of « w^!®^.^®^ '''*'' *^® '*''''"' ^""^ ^^^«ed the door. Wei , didn t you wonder where we were ? Were vou very much surprised ? Was mamma very angry ? Oh I have such heaps to tell you, I don't know where to begin I came straight to you. Edward has gone to his father! U course, he must forgive him, and make him a good allowance ; and oh I am so tired, and so hungry, and so hot ! J3ut I wanted to see you first, and so I got Edward to leave me here on our way." Tony did not know how to speak. " Favie I'm afraid you will be very sorry for what you nave done, she began. "Mamma will say that she's afraid I am not sorry enough, and Cousin Selina will say that it is just like me to be hardened to the wickedness of my conduct ; but it's nothing to what Ted will have to go through, poor dear, and all for me ! ' " But, Favie, you don't seem to know. Have vou not seen the papers ? " ^ « ^iru"^ ^^^ *^'^^^' ^^^' ^ ^^^^> yesterday. Why? What, Tony, what has happened ? " " About Mr. Richardson." " He's not dead ? " No ; he has had great losses." Oh, nothing to such an enormously rich man » " " They say, F.ivie, that he is ruined." Favour turned sharply to her sister. "Ruined? Nonsense? Who told you?" "John. It is in all the papers ; he is bankrupt." ;Eayour flushed orim^on^ and laughed a defiant little t€ U 166 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE i '!> ,. 1 ! ! "He's going to make that out to frighten us," said the foolisj child. '* But he is too enormously rich for such a thing to happen suddenly. And of course, Edward would have known all about it if it were the case." "I hope with all my heart that things may not be so bad as they seem, Favie ; and if your husband has to depend upon himself, you must help him to be courageous. But, Favie, how could you go off as you did ? Oh, why, why did you not wait ? " " Now, don't be cross, Tony ; they all said we were not to be married, and we vowed we would be ; and, you see, we did it in spite of every one, and I am so happy ! Oh, I wouldn't have it undone now for the whole world." " But to be married at a registry office, Favie ! How do you know it is right and safe ? " " Why, Tony, that shows how much you know. It's as good as a mamage in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's put together, with ten bridesmaids in pink satin, and all the choristers singing hymns." " Favie, had you not to swear that you were of age ? " Favour blushed and frowned. " No, I did not swear anything ; and they ought not to make people swear, it's very wrong. And what business of theirs is it how old we are ? I call it a most impertinent and ridiculous curiosity." This was unanswerable, as many of Favie's speeches were. Favie had just ended the last cup of tea and a bit of cake, which she had enjoyed like a hungry schoolgirl on a holiday, when they heard a visitor's ring at the door. She jumped up. ''That is Edward, I expect," she said; "he was to come here for me," and she went to the drawing-roox*. door. "Say 'not at home' to any one else, Favie, please,**' said her sister. It WMS young Richardson, and Favie ran down to drag him into the house to see her sister. sow OLD PsiBms MEET vacantly out of the window ^d K v ^"t "» «»«°'. looW Favie clung to hin, "nf !'»*"'« ^s lips. ^ tJ. :^''^"''«Vated,ali^^''^^*«tallwedo?" the ^st thing 3.0U can doTtolS'f " Why. I thi„k Pavie shrieked. " 'fed rJ^ ^ *» y^"" mother " Tony came forwarf ,< S u"^* ''° ^<>« «>aan ?" yt v! '"' "* f''^ "^ two X-it*' ;"" J^^« ''-here you- You mw< kno^ ' ;""e you »re looking about «on,ethmg.» '""^^ City men who will get /o„ tto '^'^f^p^^'kXt^f^^: »"* "f-ernhing for ' f> " are thrown upon your! I '! i ■■I * L I fill III Hi \ 'i mi BARBARA S HISTORY And there is a look of Bympathy iu her eye when I speak thus, that binds my soul to her, as no smiles could do. What can draw the heart into the fulness of love, so quick as sympathy ? ??^JJ^Q^N her letters to her husband, Tony had never once mentioned Barbara ; but she waited im- patiently for his return that she might tell him all that had taken place. Week after week slipped by ; April passed into May ; spring gave piace to summer. The bright-eyed girl at the corner of the square offered pinks and roses instead of violets and daffodils for sale, and Tony's morning-room was fresh and fragrant with the scent of summer's fairest flowers. But John Challoner was not there to enjoy them. He was far away in the south of France, attending upon the uncle of whose recovery he was now ceasing to entertain any hope. The old gentleman's condition varied continually. In one letter John would report him to be much better, to have taken a long drive, and to have passed a good night. Then the next account would tell of a relapse. Presently there was a talk of bringing him over to England. " The first day that he is up to it we shall move him," wrote John — " get him to Paris by easy stages, and once there I shall telegTaph to Dr. Hamilton to come over and meet us. His present medical attendant hr^i^ promised to accompany us as far as Paris." ./. '; . BABBARA'i^ HISTOET 177 That account Tony received on the fifth of June. On the seventh she got a hurried note from her husband telling her to continue to address to Marseilles, as his uncle was worse again, and moving him was out of the question for the present. Two days later she heard that the feeble life was dying out, and then came a telegram announcing that all was over, and that her husband was on his road home. Barbara had written twice to Mr. Challoner, but with- out mentioning Tony, as the latter had begged her not to do so ; and the poor girl was now in a great state of perplexity and anxiety upon hearing of the old merchant's death, wondering what would now become of her sick mother and herself. It was on a lovely June evening that John Challoner returned. The beautiful day was ending in a glorious sunset of green, and crimson, and gold, as he drove up to his home. Tony received him in the library, where she had been sitting all the afternoon, feeling so nervous and anxious, that she was unable even to occupy her fingers. At length she heard his step, his voice, and, for the first time, her heart gave a great throb of joy to greet them. How would he meet her ? ' " She had never in her short, businesslike notes offered any apology for, or explanation of her conduct before he left home, and now she felt thoroughly uncomfortable and ashamed of herself. And this was how he did meet her. With outstretched hands and a smile of such single-hearted delight that words were scarcely needed. "John, dear John, I am so glad you have come back," cried Tony. The clasp of his arms, and the kisses upon her face and hair, were his answer and echo. It was a warm summer evening ; the two were sitting by aa open window, and Tony's hands were held fa£t in her husband's as she poured out her confession. 1 I'if I 1,1 41 iir- 178 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE " And now, John, why do you suppose I behaved so shamefully to you ? " ** You had got some extraordinary notion about Barbara into your head, I know ; and it was a good deal on that account that I was so anxious to see you before I left. I made up my mind that nothing that I could help should come between us ; and that, as you had vexed yourself about the girl, I owed you an explanation." " I got it for myself," said Tony. *' You did, did you ? How, if I may ask ? " " From Barbara Dyke herself, who is now the greatest friend I have, Mr. Challoner. I have left you nowhere in the estimation of your ward." " And how and where did you contrive to meet her ? You have evidently taken full advantage of my absence." " She called upon me of her own free will, and I went with her to see her mother. I have sat with that unfortunate and most fatiguing invalid every day while poor Barbara was attending to her brother, and I learnt very early in our acquaintance that I had made a great mistake, John. I — I fancied that you had wished to marry Barbara Dyke — that for some unknown reason, you and she had made yourselves miserable by not marrying, and that, no sooner did you find yourself tied to me, than you repented your rashness with all your heart, and that, in a way, you and Barbara used to meet to wail over what might have been." " You gave me credit for an uncommon deal of sense ! " "Well, you know you did not display any unusual amount in keeping Barbara in the halo of secrecy, which you cannot deny that you did." "But that was entirely my uncle's doing. I never could make out his reason until just now — he told me the whole story during his illness." " Which you must tell mc presently ; but, John, I am not entirely to blame, for there certainly was, even from our wedc' 1 ^.g-day, something — I could not understand what H ABB ABA' 8 EI8T0BY 179 — a sort of coldness and cloud, which was not the result of my imagination." " 1 wish I had told you at once what it was, Tony ; but really, a woman was such an unknown being to me, that I did not know how you would take it, and I did feel very sore on that subject." Then he told her what he had overheard, and Tony listened in amazement, and with the sudden recognition that she had stood in utter unconsciousness upon the edge of a precipice when Favie had acted the tempter's part, and tried to persuade her to meet Ernest Levinge. A meeting at that time would have been a totally different thing from that one by the deathbed of Ronald Dyke. " Tony, was it true ? You will not be afraid to tell me?" " It was perfectly true that Ernest Levinge and I were very fond of one another at one time, when I was seventeen, John. I had no idea that you would have given it a thought if you had known about it, and I was going to tell you that the friend who had done everything for poor Ronald Dyke before Barbara went to him, and who was invaluable afterwards, was no other than Ernest. I never saw him until the hour the poor boy was dying, and that was the first time we had met since we had parted years ago. Our lives had fallen apart, as lives do fall apart ; but I was very glad to shake hands with him once again, and to wish him success in Canada, where I hope he will do well ; he seems to have sobered down from his wild ways. John, I did not know what love was when I made a hero of that mad boy. I know now." For the first time Tony of her own accord put her arms round the neck of her husband, and a thought arose simul- taneously in their minds that in that love they might safely hope to continue to the end of their lives, as it was one of those goou things whose essence is eternal. " I told Barbara to come ? \d see you to-monoi» N 2 lij I f, 1 ! I 1 I '' ■l!'i 1^<' |i;-' in. 180 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE morning," Tony said. "She is anxious, poor girl, for herself and her mother, now ycur uncle is dead." " I am glad you did ; I can tell the story I heard from him to you both at once." '' So, Barbara, you stole a march on me, and took my wife by storm ! " The three were sitting together in John's library, and on the table in front of him lay a folded parchment. ** I was sure you would forgive me," said Barbara, with smiling, honest eyes. " Do you know that after all my uncle was a married man, Barbara ; at least, he had had a wife, of whose existence we were all ignorant," said John Challoner. "And now this is the story that I shall tell you as briefly as possible, because I want to get to the end, which is the most important part of it. My uncle married, years ago, out in New Zealand, where he made most of his money ; at first he did not care to tell any one at home, as my father, who was his only near relative, was in India ; and the two rarely corresponded in consequence of an old quarrel ; and, moreover, he did not see that it was any one's affair but his own. Of course, I don't agree with him there — however, in course of time a son was born, and then my uncle dis- covered what sort of woman he had married. She seems to have had a very strong attachment to some man before she met my uncle, and to have married out of pique with the other fellow — of all inducements to marriage the most absurd, I should say. The alliance did not turn out well, because she was a woman of ungoverned temper, and most unreasonable into the bargain. She never tried to get over her early infatuation ; but the man was killed in a row soon after, so nothing more was seen of him. However, she led her husband a wretched life, and the boy was a perpetual bone of contention between them. She allowed him to have his own way in every respect, took part with him BARBARA'S HISTORY 181 against his father, and let him grow up ignorant and dissipated. Barbara, this is a bad story for you to hear ; I forgot for the moment ; but when you learn who this unfortunate boy was, you must remember that he began life with the way for going wrong made easy to him by the wilful folly of his mother. When he was about thirteen his father had to punish him for some flagrant piece of ill- conduct, and the mother was so enraged that after a terrible scene between the two, she ran off, taking the boy with her ; and his father never saw him again until he was dying. The boy shook off his mother's authority when he was fifteen, and began life on his own account — no matter what he did. He spent his time between New Zealand and Australia and San Francisco, and somehow had money to spend more often than not, and never once wrote to his father to help him. Presently his saother died, and then my uncle saw less reason than ever for making his marriage known. It was a painful, a hateful subject to him. **Sf « >w, we never knew how, this son, who was called jjicK, managed to fall in with a girl of superior birth and education to those with whom he was in the habit of associating. He was a handsome young fellow, with a very winning manner, when he chose, and he finally induced this girl to elope with him. *' She was the daughter of some wealthy farmer, and Dick had made up his mind that the man would be sure to forgive them some day or other, and to leave his child the fortune he had saved for her. But there Master Dick was mistaken, and when a few years later he sent hia wife and children — there were two, a boy and a girl — to the farmer's house, begging him to take them in for a time, for they were in great trouble and want, the old man positively refused to receive tlieni within his walls, and they would have died of starvation, it is said, but for the kindness of some settlers, who gave them food and 182 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE i I •. Si; ;>■ t i shelter, and finally carried them off to Dick's father, who was now their only hope. "My uncle, God bless him! took them in, and from that hour supported the poor, forsaken creatures. Shortly after- wards, poor Dick was mortally wounded in some street brawl, and just lived long enough to send for his father and implore his forgiveness. Ah ! Barbara, poor girl, you have guessed, and Tony too. Yes, Barbara, it was your father ! — and it was your mother who brought you and Ronald as babies home to England, and whom your grandfather — my ur '. i Challoner — charged himself with. Barbara, he was not pleased with the way in whicL poor Roddy was being brought up ; it reminded him too much of his own son ; and he often said that nothing but evil would come of it. And so he waited, preferring not to make his relationship known to you, and binding secrecy upon your mother, who had no wish to open the door to inquiries from you and your brother about your father. " My uncle knew all about you both, and was looking forward, dear old man, to seeing you, child, when he heard of Ronald's death, and he knew too, that the poor boy had done so badly for himself that an early death was perhaps the best thing that could have befallen him, even in the eyes of those who grieved most for him. " Then he made a fresh will — he had waited, and waited for a change in affairs that he might finally settle his intentions — and now, Barbara, prepare for a surprise ! Beyond a certain sum, which he left out of goodwill and affection to me, he has left everything he possesses to you, and I must congratulate you upon being a very considerable heiress.'* "I guessed — I guessed who Barbara was tho moment you said your uncle had married," said Tony. Barbara, who was by no means so quick of thought, could scarcely take it in even now. She was cr3ring, she was bewildered, grieved, glad, surprised, and relieved from BARBARA'S HISTORY 183 a real anxiety, all at once. She had been dreading destitu- tion, and lo ! she was an heiress. She had felt herself a waif in the world, and lo ! here was a tale of relatives suddenly made known to her, and the man who had been the kindest friend of her life, was linked to her by the tie of blood, which when allied with friendship adds so much strength to it. The only sufferer left now was her poor mother, whose little remaining strength had received a severe shock in the death of her s^i. When that sad life should be over, the troubled waters would settle down for ever into a clear and shining blue, for there would be no more unruly and violent tempers to stir up the mud. ,! 'f CHAPTER XIV. THE SECRET OF TRUE LIVING .ill! " We talk of hnman life as a journey, but how varionsly ig that journey performed ! There are those . . . who walk where every gale is arrested and every breeze tempered. There are others who walk on the Alpine paths of life against driving misery, over sharp afflictions — walk with bare feet and naked breast, jaded, mangled chilled."— Sydney Smith. in ! lU LMOST two years had passed happily by with Tony and her husband. There was a nursery now in the house, and where small shrieks and laughs and the sound of pattering feet are heard, loneliness is out of the question. John Challoner was busier than ever, but Tony felt his absence from home less, for her own time was fully occupied. The floral decoration of her room had ceased to be her one pursuit, and the embroidery of small frocks had superseded table borders. She was a great deal with Barbara nowadays, or rather Barbara was a great deal with her, for it was not often that Mrs. Challoner could find time to run down to the pretty Sussex village near which Barbara had taken up her abode. Nothing would have induced Miss Dyke to take up her abode in London — nothing ; not even the pleasure of being near her Bloomsbury Square friends whom she loved to call her cousins. Like a bird in a cage, she escaped from the grim, smoky, foggy town where she had suffered so much, THE SECRET OF TRUE LIVING 185 as soon as ever she had the power to choose her own home, and the means to make that home all that she wished it to be. She needed new scenes, new interests, she told John Challoner, who agreed with her. " And mother, too, will be the better for the change," she added. And there Mr. Challoner again agreed with her. Fond as he was of Barbara, he had no wish to secure Mrs. Dyke for a neighbour. But, long before th6 time of which I am writing, the poor, fractious, violent-tempered invalid had passed away to rejoin her dead boy " in the land that is before us," and Barbara was living alone, nominally ; but, in truth, she very rarely was alone. She had made many friends since the day when she told Tony she had so few, and she took a deep interest in her friends, and delighted in having them with her, particularly when the being with her was of service to them. With poor Favie Richardson, time had brought nothing so visible as trouble. Her husband had never exerted himself to improve his position, but shirked as much work as he possibly could, and was only kept on by the generous forbearance of his employer. Favie, the idle little butterfly of the Bayswater Crescent> had struggled hard with ignorant brains and inexperienced fingers to be something different from a drag upon him ; and in those dreary lodgings she called home, in daily drudgery — such as a servant in her mother's house would have scorned — amid the storms of her sulky husband's temper, and his reproaches for having brought him down to this condition, the poor little girl drank the bitter draught she had brewed for herself. Her mother had never forgiven her; but Tony was constant in her visits, and unwearied in inventing little ways of helping her, which required some management, as Edward Richardson had begun to exhibit an irritable sort of pride, which could not endure that his wife should receive favours from her relations. It was not a very high-toned .'*:^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. ^ .>\ 1.0 i^Ki I I.I 1.25 2.5 1^ 1^ ■ 2.2 t Ml 12.0 II III 1.8 ^U VQ ^;. '/ /A 186 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE feeling, as it did not prevent his taking advantage of any friendly generosity or good-natured act which was ex- clusively for his own benefit ; but he seemed to take a low and cruel pleasure in making Favie feel the whole weight of their poverty. Barbara Dyke had come to spend a week or so with Tony, and one day they went together to see Favie. They took a cab, for Fortune could not bear to drive up com- fortably in her own carriage to the dismal little house in the cramped and melancholy street in which her sister lived. She also instinctively wore a plain and sober dress on these visits, and Barbara, whose heiress-ship had not imbued her with a desire for gauds, and who hated the whole paraphernalia of an elaborate toilet, appeared in a garb almost as nun-like as that gray one in which Tony had first made her acquaintance. Such a dirty maid-of-all-work answered after a con- siderable lapse of time to their second ring at the door-bell, which hung weakly as if broken down by a long existence of fatiguing labour. At length they got into the narrow, dark passage smelling of every horrible domestic plague, and were then left to find their own way into a small room which was the Richardsons' only sitting-room. Every time Tony looked round at the ugly squalor of it her heart ached ; she had tried the experiment of bringing a little work-table and comfortable chair for her sister ; but Mr. Richardson, in an access of wrath against things in general and his wife in particular, had kicked the one until he had broken it, and turned the other into the kitchen in which he was aooustomed to sit and smoke with the owner of the house. The sickly smell of used-up air and lingering cooking was mixed with a less unpleasant one of soap and steam, and a little wash-tub stood on two chairs, sending a damp doud slowly up, while Favie stood with her back to the door busily ironing a garment at a tabid. y THE SECRET OF TRUE LIVING 187 She turned with a start when she heard her visitors, and then ran to welcome them. She had greatly altered, poor child. She was thin now, and there were angles in the place of the slender roundness which had been one of her attractions. The small face had lost, too, all its bright, wholesome colour, and the eyes, set in a dark ring, had forgotten their sparkle ; her hair even had become rough and dull, and her dress was utterly neglected. A pin where a button ought to be, and those buttons which remained, frayed out ; no collar, but a string of beads round her threat showed what a pitiful change had taken place in the girl who used to spend half her time in adorning her little figure. But the string of beads which would have been so much better away told that a little of the old Favie yet lingered. On the table in the middle of the room lay a small bundle rolled in a shawl and lying on a pillow ; and on the floor — almost under her feet — sat a very tiny child, dirty and tumbled looking, and pretematurally soured by its ex- perience of life, with a woollen something in its thin arms which it believied to be a very superior sort of doll. Before this atom had learnt to balance itself on its feet, bundle number two had hurried to claim its share in the miseries of the household. " Oh, how glad I am to see you, Tony ! " cried Favour, embracing her sister, " and you too, Barbara ; how good of you to come ! Sit down if you can," she added, sweeping two chairs clear of encumbrances in a cavalier fashion. " Excuse me, but I must finish my ironing whilst the iron is hot, because Mrs. Barker gets into such a temper if I ask too often to have it heated. I am sorry you found me at this, but I do my washing in here because it is so cold downstairs — it's such a draughty place." " We ought not to have come on such a busy day," said Barbara. ♦' Oh, as for that, every day is alike. You see Edward 188 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE must have a clean shirt every da)^, and as I have to get that ready for him Oh ! what a time it was before I learnt to do it properly ! Tony, don't you remember how limp they would turn out ? Well, I do little things for the children too, now, for washing is so horribly expensive." " How are the babiss ? " asked Tony, looking down at her little niece on the ground with the respectful sort of curiosity with which that particular child always inspired her. "They are well enough," replied Favie, abruptly; "they know how to keep quiet, too, and that is a comfort." Tony glanced swiftly at her sister. She knew that she loved her unpromising ofifspring to an almost passionate degree, and she saw that she had turned paler as she mentioned them, and that she was biting her lips, while the red rims to her eyes were a clear sign of recent tears. "Now tell me about your pretty home, Barbara," she said, as if to turn the subject, " are you fonder of it than ever ?" Barbara and Tony amused her as well as they could with village histories, and with the many adventures and misadventures of Barbara, before she thoroughly learnt to settle into her place, and Favie sometimes laughed, and when they paused, bid them go on. At the end, Barbara said : ** It strikes me, Favie, that you might just as well send all the things you can to my laundry at the beginning of the week. I can send for them every Monday, and you shall have them back on Saturday. You will let me do this, won't you ? It is no trouble, nothing to thank me for, I can assure you, and your little children will then have clothes smelling of the country, which will be good for them." It was a piece of practical good nature on Barbara's part, very characteristic of her ; but the homely offer produced a most unexpected effect. Instead of replying to it, Favie turned crimson, as, flinging herself on the floor, she clasped her little girl to her heart, buried her face in the child's fluffy hair, and wept bitterly. Her sobs soon frightened the little tWng, who began to whimper most piteously. THE 8ECBET OF TRUE LIVING 189 le )d Iffy le Fortune and Barbara looked at each other in shocked surprise. " What can be the matter ? " whispered Barbara. " Favie ! Favie ! what is it, dear ? cried Tony, kneeling down beside her sister. " The children ! the children ! my darlings, my own, own children ! they are going to take them both from me. And poor baby is only ten weeks old, and they are go'm^ to take her away from me. Oh, it is cruel, it is cruel ! What shall I do?" " Favie, dear," said Tony, " calm yourself. Tell me all about it. Perhaps I may be able to help you. Who is going to tear Alice and Baby from you ? . . . Oh, Favie, darling, do calm yourself. See ! you are frightening the children." " Calm ! " sobbed out Favie. "Would you be calm if any lady tried to take Jack or Bee from you ? It is old Mrs. Richardson and Aunt Favour who are doing all this. The Richardsons are pretty well off again, and she said she would take one child, if my relations would take the other. Mamma, of course, would not have anything to do with them ; and, then, fancy my astonishment when Aunt Favour drove down here one day, and said she would adopt Alice, and bring her up. It was like choosing a puppy from the Home for Lost Dogs ! " went on Favie, indignation getting the better of her trouble. " She came in her brown brocade, with her spectacles ; and Mrs. Richardson was in her black and gold silk, with her double eye-glasses and yellow feathers. She poked the baby with her smart parasol, and told it to open its eyes ; and then Aunt Favour put Alice through a sort of catechism, as if the poor dot could understand a word, or speak one ! And then Gdie said she could not bear boys, but thought she was ezftctly fitted for bringing up a girl, and had thought of adoptiog one before ; as if you could buy them any diif ii& Oov«nt Oarden Market like fruit ^r flowers 1 And ^9^^ 190 FAVOUR AND FORTUNE 1 1 Mrs. Richardson said she could not endure girls, but that she didn't mind a boy ; it would be something to occupy her when she found the days long. And so it ended in their settling to take away my babies, and they will grow up strangers to me. I hope I shall die the day they send to fetch them ! " " They must go, I suppose ? " Tony asked. The colour rushed for a moment into Favie's cheeks and brow. " Edward says they can only starve here/' she said, in a low, repressed voice. " He says it is impossible for him to support them. Well, we are pinched enough ; but, at least, there was something to make life endurable while I had Alice." " Wretch ! " muttered Barbara, in a low voice, that only Tony could overhear. " Hush ! " whispered Tony. " Remember he is her hus- band, Barbara. If we could but have persuaded her that he was a selfish wretch before she married him ! It is too late now. Let us try and help her to make the best of things." Then they turned to Favie and did their utmost to soothe her. But what comfort could they offer? To suggest that she might often see the little faces for which she would hunger night and day would have been a mockery. To bid her seek consolation in the certainty of their having a sufficient quantity of food, clothing, and education, would have been to call upon her for the exercise of a philosophy which was foreign to her nature. Before so heart-breaking a sorrow, earthly comfort was dull. But more than in all past years did Tony's heart yearn over the poor little mother, the neglected wife, the companion of her childhood and girlhood, who had made such a sad shipwreck of her young life. It was a dark moment in which to take leave of Favie ; but what future years may bring forth is not yet to be seen. The only rifb in the clouds at present, is the hope that in love, wid suffering; and brave work, Favour Richardson may win TEE 8EGEET OF TRUE LIVING 191 her salvation from the empty frivolity of a selfish life. And if we could see things aright, perhaps we should know that she is gaining what is better than comfort, better than riches, yea, better than a dear earthly love, which is given but for a time. That there is a wondrous power in suffering to bring out of human souls qualities immeasurably nobler than are ever developed without its aid, is a fact that only the feeblest, or the shallowest, are ever tempted to doubt. Even Tony, who would give her right hand to spare her sister pain, would be very sorry to see Favour unlearn the lesson of tribulation, and return to the slight, feeble, thin-natured Favie of yore. " We both needed the discipline of sorrow," she often tells herself; "I'm sure I did." ♦ She has learnt at last to be very happy, simply, soberly happy ; remembering that the millennium is not yet, that the best of human beings are fallible, and that this world is no ready-made Eden, but a garden in which the stubborn soil has to be worked upon by our own hands, and the seed sown in youth, which, in old age, is to bring forth the glad harvest of flower and fruit. The eye of prudence keeps watch over her life now, and preserves her from many a heartache, for it tells her that she must be prepared to meet, to guard against, and to forgive errors, even faults, in the highest and noblest characters. She has learnt to expect less, and to do more — a lesson that most need to learn. For still, in mutual sufferance lies The secret of true living ; Love scarce is love that never knowi The sweetness of forgiving. THE END Extract from Mr. Sidney Dickinson's letter to the Boston yoitmai, descriptive of a trip over the Canadian Pacific Railwajr from Vaa> )ouver. B.C., to Montreal. ?he impression that is made upon the travener by a joikiney ovet Unls road is, at first, one of stupefaction, of confusion, out of which emerge slowly the most evident details. II one can find any fault with the trip, it must be upon the score of its excess of wonders. There is enough of scenery and grandeur along the line of the Canadian Pacific to make a dozen roads remarkable; after it is seen, the experiences of other journeys are quite forgotten. The road is attracting large numbers of tourists, and will attract more as its fame beccmes more widely known; it is, undoubtedly, the most remarkable of all the products of this present age of iron. I have crossed the continent three times and should have some criterion for the judgment, and may say that whether we look to Ontario and Manitoba for richness of soil and peaceful and prosperous homes of men ; tP Lake Superior for ruggedness of shore, beauty of expanse of water, or wealth of mine and quarry ; to Assiniboia and Alberta for impressive stretch of prairie and wild life of man, bird an(J beast, or to the Rocky, Selkirk and Cascade Mountains for sublimity and awfulness of precipice, peak and crag — we shall find them aV as they nowhere else exist, even in America, the land of all lands for natural resources and wondera No more delightful trip can be imagined than that by the Canadian Pacific Railway during the months of pummer. For ourselves, until near Montreal, we found neither heat nor dust, and arrived at our journey's end with little feeling of fatigue. One point is especially worthy of remark — in- deed, two, but one above all the rest. That is, the superior meth< ods of provisioning the line, a thing in marked contrast to some roads which I could mention, where travellers are sure to be fed irregularly and wretchedly at the eating houses by the way, and, in consequence of delays, often are unable to secure any provision at all for eight or ten hours. The Canadian Pacific runs dining cars over all its line, except through the mountains, and there well man- aged hotels furnish a most excellent meal and at a moderate cost. In the diningcars (which are put on in relays at certain fixed points) meals are served exactly on time from day to day, and even in the vildesf 'egions the passenger may be sure of dining, supping or breakfasting as well and cheaply as at any first-class hotel. 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