cr y^.^( FROM MOOR ISLES Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/frommoorisleslovOOfothrich FROM MOOR ISLES H Xove Stors BY JESSIE FOTHERGILL AUTHOR OF THE FIRST VIOLIN,' ' KITH AND KIN,' 'PROBATION,' * HEALEV,' ' ALDYTH, ' BORDERLAND,' ' PERIL,' ETC. A NEW EDITION LONDON RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON ?9ttblt«hcr« in ©rbinarg io ^ev 4Wjtjc«tj5 the (T lun 1894 [Ail rights reserved] n9f CONTENTS PART I. CHAPTER PAGE I. ' THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS !' - - - I II. ALICE ORMEROD ----- 7 III. BRIAN'S ANTECEDENTS - - - -25 IV. WHAT ALICE SAW - - - - - 32 V. HOW THE DAY ENDED - - - - 48 VI. BACK INTO THE TOWN - - - - 64 PART 11. I. INES WRITES - - - - - - 72 II. I GO FOR A HOLIDAY - - -,-88 III. WITH LISA - - - - - - 102 IV. FESTIVAL - - - - - - 113 V. IN THE WOOD - - - . - 130 PART III. I. HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH - - - 148 II. PLAYING WITH FIRE - - - - - 1 65 IIL THE BRACELETS - - - - - 173 IV. ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD - - - - 1 80 V. ELISABETH LISTENS - - - - - I90 VI. MORNING THOUGHTS - - - - - 198 VIL BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME - - - 214 844 CONTENTS CHAITER PAGE VIII. ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED - - - 230 IX. ELISABETH DISAPPROVES - - - - 24 1 X. 'BATAVIA,' FOR NEW YORK - - - - 259 PART IV. I. WITH AN ENTHUSIAST - - - - 267 II. AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S - - - - 278 III. WHAT WE TALKED OF - - - - 287 IV. 'WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' - - - 299 V. DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS .... 308 VL GATHERING CLOUDS - - - - - 318 VII. THE HOLIDAYS AND AFTERWARDS - - - 326 VIII. I SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY - - 330 IX. A CORRESPONDENCE - - - . . 340 PART V. I. INES WRITES ---... 359 II. COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING - - - 371 in. ELISABETH'S MISSION .... 335 IV. AT THORNTON - - - - - 397 V, LUCY - - - - - - - 406 VL *THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS !' - - - - 413 VIL INES WRITES - - - - - - 422 VIII. FROM MOOR ISLES - - - - - 438 FROM MOOR ISLES §nxi I. CHAPTER I. One night, late in October, when it was pitch dark, moon- less, starless, and black, a soft, moist westerly wind, with just a slant of south in it, was playing a wild but melodious symphony over the great stretches of moorland, and across milies of bleak northern country, as it came with a soft but tremendous rush up a rough, uphill road, and rising ever into a deeper roar, seemed to give a leap as it reached the summit of the long brow, and encountered a wild, upland sweep, over which it could and did tear rejoicingly, whist- ling, calling, and crying from hill to hill, till it struck the great blunt, square head of Ravenside, the huge buttress which at that point shuts off Lancashire from Yorkshire. Smiting this mighty hill-top, it ruffled the heather, and laid low the forests of bracken, which thickly clothed his mighty sides, and tried to soften the grim outline of his dark head, and then it tore lustily onwards. There was joy and hope and life in it, for all its boisterous roughness. I FROM MOOR ISLES In the course of its career upwards and onwards, towards Ravenside, and along the rough lane just mentioned, it only encountered one human figure, and that figure it did not succeed in knocking down. The time was half-past twelve, midnight ; the lane was two miles from Hollowley station, and the solitary who was plodding along, from the town and towards the country, was a young man, one Brian Holgate, who went regularly every week, during the autumn and winter months, to the concerts held in the great manu- facturing city some twenty-five miles distant from Hollowley, and walked at midnight from that enterprising town to the hamlet of Thornton-in-Ravenside, or Thornton, as it was always called — a good three and a half miles, mostly uphill, and, after the borough of Hollowley itself w^as passed, un- lighted by art of man. Whoso wished for light along that road must carry his own lantern, but Brian never bad recourse to this assistance. His home, the old house which belonged to him, and in which he lived alone, Moor Isles by name, was at the end of this three and a half miles, just on the outskirts of the village of Thornton-in-Ravenside. He had accomplished more than two miles of his three and a half, and he seemed to be in no hurry to get to the end of his journey. Brian was young — only just over three- and- twenty; it mattered little to his robust health and untried nerves, nourished by the keen moorland air and simple country fare which had all his life been his portion, if they missed a night's rest, or half of it, once a week. Had that one night's exertion been all the strain which he put upon his youth and strength, there would have been nothing in his condition to call for either surprise or com- miseration. 'THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS r He plodded on, his hands in his pockets, his long light overcoat flung open at the chest — for the encounter with the mild autumn tempest left him warm, not cold. He knew the way by long experience, dark as it was ; and it was more unconsciously than consciously that he turned now to this side and now to that, to avoid the inequalities, or rough and stony bits of which he was aware, in the road ; pursuing the easiest, if most irregular, way, feeling nothing but plea- sure and exhilaration in the roughness of the wind, the darkness and loneliness of the night. As he cHmbed thus homewards, his voice sounded out on the wings of the wind; snatched away sometimes, almost before it had left his lips ; at others, driven back into his throat by some capricious gust. The snatches of melody which this voice sent forth on an errand to the top of Ravenside had certainly never sounded there before. Ravenside summit, bald, square, and bleak, had long ago been a favourite resort of the unholy community of wizards, witches, imps, and elves of evil nature, and of their black master himself — so the legend ran, and it was a legend which no one in Ravenside Forest ever thought of questioning — it was not told as a legend, but as a matter of fact, in many a farmhouse all over that country side. Details might be had by any ingle of the Walpurgis-nacht orgies and revels of which that mountain-top had been the scene. Witches had assuredly existed there once ; had not a waxen image, stuck over with pins, tumbled one day out of a nook in the great chimney of Rough Launde, one of the oldest farms in the vicinity, showing what black arts had been practised there ? And the strains which now rolled in a rich, if not highly cultivated, baritone voice, must, if they ever succeeded in FROM MOOR ISLES reaching the summit of the hill, have been potent to arouse any lingering shades of olden times which might still hover, or sleep, or weep there— for they were bound up in a tale connected more or less with these very revels — just now Brian lifted his head, and sang with all his might, and with a swing of intense, almost rapturous, enjoyment — * ** Towns with their high battlements, Tower and wall — Fair maids with their haughty thoughts, Scorning us all — . To glory they call us, Soon they both shall fall, shall fall- Soon they both shall fall." * H'm — m !' the voice sank deeper, and hummed away softly — then took up snatches. ' "yi7w nox stell-a-a-a-ta^ velamina pandit ; nunc bibendum et a77iand 11771 est? . . . h'm — m — m !" ' Then, in a loud, triumphant swell, * " Gau- dea77ius igitur^ gaudea77LUs / . . . Cesares dicamus, vent, vidi, vici. Gaudea?7uis igitwl" * Grand !' he muttered to himself ; * grand, by Jove ! Why does it ever come to an end ? There dwelt a king once in Thule' — his voice sank into melting accents — ' pah ! I hate women's songs in men's voices. She sang it superbly, though. . . . But, after all, I'm not sentimental. Felix has it. What a voice ! what an artist ! and— ay, what a man, surely !' And his head swayed to and fro in remembrance of a wildly rocking measure, while he sang : — ' " Dear Kath'rine, why To the door of thy lover Drawest thou nigh ? Why there timidly hover ? THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS!' I II ' Ah, sweet maiden, beware ! Come away, do not enter ! It were folly to venture — It were folly to venture — Come away, nor enter there." 'It's a maddening thing, when it once gets into your head— if I could sing it Hke that ! It's mortally sad, though. How does it go ? ' " Ah, heed thee well, fair lass, Lest thy lover betray thee — Thy lover — thy lover betray thee. ' '■' Then good night, alas ! From ill-hap what shall stay thee ? Then good-night, then good-night, then good-night !" ' he shouted, giving his voice full swing, and sending it loose upon the wind. He sang no more connected phrases, but, as he plunged along through the darkness, kept shooting out disjointed notes, the burden of it all being still the same — ' " Then good-night, alas ! From ill-hap what shall stay thee ? Then good-night, then good-night, then good-night !" ' It came with a lingering, reluctant, and long-drawn note, as he glanced aside to where a small steady light shone through a window close to the road, and the dim solid mass of a house seemed to make itself almost more felt than seen in the inky darkness. He made no mistakes, but with un- erring touch laid his hand on the latch of a wooden gate, at one side of the house, and went along a walk shaded by trees to the front ; for this old house, like many another built at the same period, had its back to the highroad, while its front rooms looked far away over woods and fields to the smoky town in the vale, Hollowley, justly so called, and. FROM MOOR ISLES beyond the smoke, to where there stood another circle of blue sentinel moors. Brian had a key to his own front door. As he fitted it into the lock, a joyful whimpering greeted him from within, and, when he pushed the door open, there emerged from a parlour on the right hand a superb silky collie, fawning, waving his tail, welcoming, with shining eyes and affectionate curves of his beautiful body, his careless, but never unkind lord and master. * Hey, Ferran !' said Brian kindly, as he patted the creature's head for a moment, then shut the door, and followed it into the room, where a red fire burnt low, where a table was spread with some simple eatables, and where a lamp was shining steadily. An old-fashioned, wooden- bottomed chair with a rounded back stood near the fire, and on the chair lay a fiddle-case. The collie went up to this chair and sat down before it, and looked at Brian, with a wag of his tail and a shrewd smile, as if to say, 'Here I've been ever since you left, and it's all safe and sound. You can look and see.' 'Good lad!' said the young man absently, as he turned the lamp a little higher, cut a slice off the piece of cheese, and a junk from the loaf, and, seizing a bottle, poured some brandy into a tumbler, and added cold water to it. And still he seemed unable to rid himself of the air and of the words which haunted him ; still he kept softly singing : — * " Then good-night, alas I From ill-hap what shall stay thee ? Then good-night, then good-night, then good-night !" ' He began to eat, but did not make much progress with it — lifted the tumbler to his lips, then set it down again. THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS!' ' Nay,' he murmured to himself. He had something of a habit of talking to himself, as solitaries have, now and then. ' That doesn't go down after this night's music. How I wish I always felt like this !' And, leaving the table, he drew forward a music-stand, and opened a score, and with loving hands drew the fiddle from its case, and laid it affectionately against his breast. But before beginning to play, he went to the window, and opened it wide, and then, seating himself once more, drew the bow across the strings, and with that one action, and the sound that resulted, proved, to any that might have had ears to hear, the touch and the soul of a born musician. For a very long time Ferran and he and the fiddle had it all to themselves. It was after three when at last, with a reluctant sigh, he replaced the noble old instrument in its case, shut the window, turned out the lamp, and with the violin-case in his hand, and Ferran at his heels, climbed up the narrow stair of his old house, to his room and to his bed. Scarcely had he laid his head upon his pillow, after hearing Ferran, with a long, satisfied sigh, compose himself on the mat outside, than he fell asleep, of course, but even as he lost consciousness the words still lingered on his lips — ' " From ill-hap what shall stay thee ? Then good-night, then good-night, then good-night !" ' CHAPTER II. ALICE ORMEROD. Long before Brian Holgate awoke on the morning after his concert, his neighbours at the farm, and Sarah Stott, his old retainer and housekeeper and his solitary indoor servant, FROM MOOR ISLES were up and doing. A lovely autumn morning had fol- lowed on the gusty damp night — only enough of the late gale remained to blow away the mist and fogs from about the ridges and tops of the moors and hills. At half-past ten in the forenoon life and the business of the day were in full swing at ' Ormerod's farm,' occupied by Farmer John Ormerod, his daughter Alice, his cripple son Andrew, and their helps and retainers, consisting of a stal- wart, rosy-cheeked country lass of twenty, in the house ; and sundry men and boys without : herds, hinds, helps, and such as pertain to the outdoor workings of a moderately-sized and prosperous grazing farm, for little grain flourished any where in that bleak country. Travelling over the highroad along which Brian had last night trudged so late, one arrived first at the back door of Moor Isles, his own house. At one side, a gate opened into a walk, with the homse side on the left, and on the right a high stone wall with trees of a very fair growth for that part of the country, hanging in a pleasantly shaded manner above the walk, and making an arch overhead. Turning to the left one came to the front of the house, with its door in the middle, its window on either side; three windows above, and three small arched ones higher again. It was built of gray stone, this little unpretentious old country mansion ; the door and windows were painted a spotless w^hite, there was a gleaming brass knocker, and a little flight of worn stone steps, always washed very clean, and with the edges skilfully whitened by the careful hand of Sarah Stott. No one was stirring about the front at this hour. The house looked due south, and there w^as a Dijon rose climbing round one of the windows, with still a few belated blossoms ALICE ORMEROD left. Some asters of different colours were in the borders just beneath the windows. The garden sloped rather steeply from this little terrace in front of the house. First came strawberry beds, then a level of grass with a walk all round it, and one across the middle. In each oblong of grass stood a tall, spindly old rhododendron bush, and another flight of steps led to the last and largest portion of the garden, which was well stocked with such fruit-trees as will yield produce in so northern and bleak a climate— rasp- berries, gooseberries, and currants chiefly, and a few hardy apple-trees dotted here and there. It was all very small, very homely and unpretending, but it had a genial look in all weathers — it bore the aspect of a home, and it shared, with one human being, the deepest and intensest affection of Brian Holgate's heart. There was a great view from the front of the house, of the smoky town of Hollowley, with its endless forest of tall chimneys, and beyond them more ridges of moor. Moor Isles (probably a corruption of Moor Hoyles, or Holes) had descended from father to son of the Holgates for generations, and before it another and a smaller dwelling had stood on the same site, and had belonged to the family for several hundred years. But to return to the highroad. Close beside the gate leading into Brian's garden — beneath the wall of his garden, in fact — ran a deep, rough lane — a ' cow-lane ' leading to the pastures where Ormerod's cattle lived and moved, and had their being, and serving as their road when they came up to the farmyard to be milked. The farm itself was just on the other side of this lane, on a level with Brian's house and garden. A high wall divided the farmyard also from lo FROM MOOR ISLES the lane, and it too was a pleasant, genial spot, with its deep stone porch leading into a grand country kitchen, from which access was obtained to a staircase and a parlour, the latter seldom used, but not quite so ghastly in appearance as most parlours of that class. But with the parlour we have nothing to do. Here, in this huge raftered kitchen, with its stone floor, its vast cavernous fireplace and ingle ; its adjuncts of daily use, harmoniously blended into a homely beauty ; its cosy nooks, its broad, low windows and deep window-seats — here are the objects of interest for us. A young woman and a youth w^ere the only occupants of the warm, cosy place. Fine though the day was, there were dark, shadowy corners in this great kitchen, and the fire- light flickered gaily in them, though it was but eleven o' the clock before mid-day. Alice Ormerod, the ruler and mistress of the farm, was standing at a dresser which was in front of one of the windows, and she was busy with flour and butter and milk ; a baking-board and a rolling-pin were in constant requisition, and an array of pie-dishes before her were piled up with fine damsons, all glittering from the bowl of water in which she had been stirring them round to cleanse their skins. Andrew, her brother, sat at a little round table in another of the windows looking south, and nearer to the fireplace. He looked small and crumpled up ; his crutch was beside him — a book and papers, pen and ink before him on the table. And at the moment they were silent. No greater contrast could well have been imagined than that offered by this brother and sister. Alice was twenty- three, and Andrew was twenty years of age. She was tall, strong, and perfectly made ; she possessed a frame so justly ALICE ORMEROD proportioned and so harmoniously finished, that one did not realize at first that she was what might be called a big woman. Upright as a dart, and without any stiffness of carriage, her movements were free and graceful. Her lilac print gown was made with great simplicity, but had some pretensions to shape and cut, and fitted closely over the nobly sweeping shoulders and beautiful bust. Her figure was more that of a Diana than of a Hebe, Venus, or Juno — spare, though not lean ; with admirable, strong muscles playing beneath her fair, healthy skin, and firm, not too abundant flesh. And the face that went with this figure was the face of a brune, with rich subdued red glowing through the clear olive skin, tanned nut-brown by the busy out-of-doors life of the summer and harvest time ; dark, straight eyebrows, over eyes of a deep fine gray, and long black lashes ; a mass of straight, glossy hair, brown, not black — a most distinct, decided brown, silky and smooth, with here and there a tawny reflection where it caught the sunlight ; and a noble, steady, kindly mouth, with capacity for sternness, for pathos, for invective or persuasion — for everything except lies or meanness. A chin, strong but not coarse, finished off this face well, and the whole head was set on a round, firm throat, which just now was browned by the sun and air. The details are the details of a beauty's appearance, but Alice Ormerod did not strike one as being a beauty, though handsome she undoubtedly was. Perhaps it was the spirit within, which, being nobler than its frame, caused one to think less of her beautiful face and form in particular than of the general effect of health and strength, rightheadedness, steady daylight of mind and spirit. Be that as it may, she FROM MOOR ISLES had certainly all the beauty, all the health and strength for both of them. Poor Andrew had been a cripple from his birth, and suffered sadly from an infirmity of the spine which, while not amounting to an acute disease, was sufficient to keep him in such pain for hours, and even days and nights at a time, as quite to incapacitate him for active work of any kind. Perhaps one should except active mental work. The lad's brain was quick enough ; and he could never be kept too busy with books and studies. He was deep now in some zoological work of a popular kind, busily making notes, and trying to answer questions for an examination paper, and happily unconscious for the time that he had a weak back and a short leg, and that he could not move without a crutch. So they kept one another company — silent, but in the best of harmony and sympathy — the fire crinkled and sparkled ; the great clock ticked ceaselessly. Andrew studied the characteristics of the somewhat insipid protozoa, and Alice deftly mixed and rolled paste, tucked it over one pie- dish after another, and now and then tried to hum a tune — not very successfully, and yet, perhaps, a highly sympathetic ear might have detected a resemblance in her somewhat tuneless murmur to Brian's stave of the night before — ' " Then good-night, then good-night, then good-night !" ' The murmur suddenly died into silence as footsteps became audible on the flags of the yard outside ; then a figure stopped before the window and smiled at her, and Brian's voice wished her good morning. ' Good day, Brian,' said she, in a clear loud voice. ' Don't ALICE ORMEROD Stand in my light, but find your way in, if you've anything to say.' 'I have so,' he answered, in an emphatic tone, as he passed to the door. In the momentary interval Alice drew a deep breath, and exhaled a prolonged noiseless sigh. Her fingers manipulated one particular piece of pie-crust with great vigour, and then — the door was opened, and Brian, with his frank, handsome face, his blue eyes, and his sunny hair and moustache, ' fresh as paint ' — to use his own expression — and looking no whit the worse for his late hours, lifted the latch and walked in. Andrew roused from his absorbing interest in his study, and looked up, his face brightening. * Eh, good morning !' said he. ' Good morning, Andrew. How are you, old chap ? Hard at work over your learned books ! I never did see such a fellow as you are. Good morning, Alice,' — with a very pleasant smile upon the young woman. ' Do I interrupt ?' ' Not that I know of, if you'll mind what you're doing,' she said, in rather a crisp tone. ' Sit you down there in th' rocker, and let's hear what it's all about.' * Oh, I can't tell you from all that distance off !' he said, disdaining the proffered rocking-chair, and drawing near to the dresser. He seated himself, wrong way about, on one of the wooden-bottomed chairs, clasped his hands over the top rail of its back, and looking up at her, with an expression composed of mirth, dismay, and doubt, remarked tersely — ' Eh, I am in a fix, Alice. I'm fairly at my wits' end.' * Why, what now ?' she asked with seeming indifference. * Whatever have you been doing ? Not ' She paused, looking at him, the rolling-pin in her hands. 14 FROM MOOR ISLES arrested on its way to the layer of paste on the baking board. * Nay,' he answered her, with a smile, as he looked straight into her eyes ; * nothing o' the sort this time. I didn't even drink a drop of bran dy-and- water before I went to bed. And I was up late, too.' * Ay, you were so,' she replied. * I heard your fiddle at after one in the morning.' « Why ' * Yes ; you always throw open the window, and I always sleep with mine open, you know, and I woke up,' she went on, a little more quickly, * I woke up, and thought it must be getting on for morning, and then all at once I heard your fiddle going, and you were playing, too.' ' To be sure !' he cried, waving his hand, and trolling forth ' "Towns with their high battlements, Tower and wall ! Fair maids with their haughty thoughts Scorning us all ! To glory they call us, Soon they both shall fall." You hear that, Alice Ormerod ? " Soon they bo-oth shall fall." By George ! what a concert it was last night !' ' If that's a song you heard, it sounds heathenish enough. Pray, is that in one of your operas ?' * Not an opera — no. That comes from a piece called "The Damnation of Faust," by a P^enchman, Hector Berlioz ! Ay, that's music !' 'Well, that was what I heard you at, I suppose; and I then heard the clock on the stairs strike two in the morning, and then I went to sleep again.' ALICE ORMEROD 15 ' That was a sensible thing to do. But you haven't heard what trouble I'm in. ^^Ja?n nox siellata — stell-a-a-tay ' ' You sound as if you were,' she retorted. ' I haven't any time to waste. What is it that's wrong ?' ' In this wonderful piece of music you must know there are four principal singers — a lady and three gentlemen. The lady sings soprano, the gentlemen tenor, baritone, and bass. Well, you know, I've heard it before, and I've heard them in it before. I know two or three of the musicians in Mr. Warburton's band — a little, not much,' he went on modestly. ' They are very kind to me. They give me hints about my voice sometimes, and about my fiddle too.' ' They call your voice a baritone, too, don't they ?' asked Alice, striving not to look excessively pleased and in- terested. ' Yes, they do. And this man who sings the baritone part in " Faust " — the wicked spirit's part — Mephistopheles, he's called, if you want to know ' ' Meph-is-toph-eles. I shall try to remember that. Well, what of him ?' 'What of him?' echoed the young man, pausing; and then, with a face eager with excitement, and with the ready tears of his emotional temperament rushing to his eyes, though they did not overflow — * why, he's simply splendid. There never was such a man as Felix — his real name is Felix Arkwright — but, you know, they often twist their names about a little for public purposes ; but that doesn't matter,' he added, finishing his rapid parenthesis — ' that's nothing to do with it ; " he's simply the rarest man in the world !" That's Shakespeare — you haven't read Shake- speare? But that's what he is. The greatest artist, and l6 FROM MOOR ISLES the finest gentleman, and young, quite young. Why do you cast your eyes down in that way, and look displeased ? You know nothing about it — how can you ?' he concluded pettishly, falling from his rhapsody into a huff. ' I'm not displeased,' she said, but there was gravity in her tones. ' He must be a very wonderful man, if he's all that. But what does it all lead to ?' ' What does it all lead to ? Why, to this. Last night I was introduced to him — in the interval between the two parts of the concert — and he shook hands with me, and said he'd heard about my voice — and my violin — from Brown, you know, one of the second violins, who knows him. He has been very kind to Brow^n.' ' And is that a trouble to you ?' ' Nay ; I never was so proud and pleased in my life. I tell you, when he looked at me with those eyes of his, and spoke to me so open and so kind, I fairly trembled. I felt so small beside him. And yet, before we parted, I had — what do you suppose, now, Alice and Andrew, that I had done ?' 'Offered to sing to him, perhaps?' suggested Andrew, while Alice smiled. 'Andy, I'll give you something to remember me by, if you don't mind. Offered to sing to him, indeed ! I'm not quite made up of self-conceit. No, but I had invited him to come out here and see me.' This news, when at last it came, had its full effect. His auditors were silent in awe and astonishment. Though belonging to a musical and music-loving race, neither Alice nor her brother had the musical faculty, and their sole ideas on the subject were derived from what they had heard at ALICE ORMEROD 17 local musical gatherings. Brian, with his wild enthusiasm on the subject, his fiddle, his voice, his persevering attend- ance at the great Irkford concerts through all weathers and at all times, was a great mystery to them. But he was their friend, their delight, and their admiration ; their gallant young neighbour, who was a favourite in spheres of which they knew nothing, and who yet was always to them the same genuine, simple, brotherly creature ; and they received his dictum on all such matters as a final one. If Brian had said this or that about anything relating to music, it was so. There was no appeal. He had said that this Felix was the rarest man in the world — the greatest artist, the finest gentle- man. Of course he knew all about it, and if he had invited this admirable Crichton to come and see him, of course that was an important matter. It was Alice who first recovered presence of mind enough to say — * Eh, did you though ? And what did he say ?' * He said he would come to-morrow. ' ' Well, that's all right.' ' He doesn't often have the time for such things. He's singing again to-night, at Bolton, or somewhere there, but nowhere on Saturday — not because he hadn't been asked, you may be sure, but because he didn't choose. He pre- ferred to take a holday. And sometimes he likes to go off quietly to out-of-the-way places, where no one knows him, and he heard that Moor Isles was such a place, and I told him it would be the proudest day of my life if he would come. And he said, " It's exceedingly kind of you. I will come with pleasure." And he asked me not to ask anyone to meet him.' 2 i8 FROM MOOR ISLES ' And of course it was easy enough to agree to that,' said Alice. * Ay. But that isn't all ; for when we'd arranged it all, he stopped and thought a minute, and then he said, " Would it be an abuse of your hospitality " ' — Brian raised himself up, and put on a commanding air, which im- pressed them very much — ' " if I were to bring two ladies with me ?" ' * Eh, my sakes ! Lasses ! That's a different story,' cried Andrew, intensely interested. ' Not a bit of it, lad. It's only a continuation of the same story. I said, " Sir, as many of your friends as you choose to bring shall be welcome in my house as flowers in May." He smiled most kindly, and said, "Oh, I am not altogether unconscionable. But I know it would be a very great pleasure to these ladies if I might bring them with me." And, of course, I said that my pleasure in seeing them would be beyond description. So they're coming.' 'I wonder if they're singers, too,' speculated Andrew, while Alice was silent, not looking quite so brilliantly pleased as she had been a moment ago. 'Them singing ladies, I've heard,' pursued the youth reflectively, ' are that full of airs and graces, there's no holding them, and wherever they go, they must have porter and cream mixed, to drink.' ' I know nothing about that. If they want porter, there's plenty at my house; and if they want cream, I suppose there's some here that won't be grudged me.' 'Well, but,' interposed Alice, rather abruptly, 'it seems to me like as if we were a long while in getting to the point, if there is any. If you've asked them, and they're coming, and you think so much of them, where's your trouble ?' ALICE ORMEROD 19 *0h, Alice! it isn't me,' said the young man, his voice suddenly changing, and a shade of something like despair settling on his face — ' it isn't me. It's Sarah Stott.' There was a pause, and then Alice, laying down her roll- ing-pin, leaned against the lintel of the window and laughed — laughed till the tears ran down her face. Andrew joined in a more moderate manner in the mirth, and Brian, his arms still folded on the back of the chair, looked from one to the other, with a gloom of expression which nothing seemed to lighten. * It's all very well, Alice,' said he, ' for you, that are young and strong, and mistress of all around you, to laugh. But what would Andy do, I'd like to know, if he wanted to have his friends, and he'd a Sarah Stott, that sat down in the kitchen rocking-chair, and told him it couldn't be done ?' ' Couldn't be done !' repeated Alice, her laughter suddenly ceasing. ' What couldn't be done ?' ' I'd totally forgotten her when I gave the invitation ; and when I told her this morning, instead of rising to the occa- sion, and trying to think what could be done, she just gets into a temper, and, as I tell you, she sat herself down in the rocking chair, and she says, "You've gone and invited all these folk at a moment's notice, without asking me a word about it — people as it'll take a week to prepare for properly. It can't be done," she says. " You may as well send 'em word at once as it can't be done. / shall none be ready for 'em." And she'll be as good as her word. You know Sarah Stott, Alice ; you know what she can be, when she takes it into her head,' he added piteously. 'Ay, I do so,' Alice assented. 'Sarah is a good servant. 20 FROM MOOR ISLES but a bad master. You've let her get the mastery, Mr. Brian, and she makes you feel it. In her proper place she's all right, but she can be as spiteful as any one I know. Are they coming just for the day, these people ?' ' That's all. I said I could find them bed and board if they liked, but Mr. Felix said they were all engaged on the Sunday. So they'll be here about one — not before, and I guess they can't stay much after six, if they want to get back in decent time. And I did think as that could have been managed. Mr. Felix has seen a deal of grand doings and fine folk, but he's so simple and nice — he'll not turn up his nose at anything. And I'm sure the ladies will be equal to him, whoever they may be. But you might as well say so to that pie-dish as to Sarah, when once she's made up her mind against a thing. I don't know what in the world I'm to do,' he added dejectedly ; and he presented the spectacle of a strong man in bondage to a female yoke — the sad, but not uncommon sight — a master the slave of an ancient retainer. ' I never thought, till she took it in that way, but what it could have been managed,' he said sorrowfully. Where were now the war-like ditties and the mystic sere- nades ? Where the pride of his youth and his manhood ? Prostrate and paralyzed before the ultimatum of Sarah Stott ! ' And it can and shall be managed,' said Alice suddenly and decisively. She pushed her baking-board aside, and sat down in a chair opposite to him. Her face was flushed ; her eyes bright ; her breath came quickly. She looked the embodiment of strength, resolution, and the capacity to carry out her designs. * Put Sarah Stott out of your head. You shall have your friends over, and they shall want for nothing.' ALICE ORMEROD 21 ' Eh, Alice !' exclaimed her brother ; while Brian looked at her in wonder and gradually dawning delight, with parted lips and dilating eyes. * Alice — what do you mean ? You can't make her do it. You can't make her set to, and cook things, however few — and I don't hold with making a great display, beyond what you can justly afford. You can't make her get out the best silver and polish it up a bit, and the glasses and things, and those old Indian dinner things, and all that ; and you can't make her clean herself up a bit, and put the things on the table and hand them round civilly — and that's all I ask, and all that's necessary. But you can't make her do it,' concluded the young man, in a tone which showed that the iron had entered into his soul. 'No,' said Alice, in a voice of suppressed excitement. * I know that. No power on earth can move an obstinate old woman as wants to vex you. I can't make her do it. But I can do it myself.' ' Bi' the mass, Alice, thou art a rare un !' cried Andrew, in an ecstasy of dehght, as he thumped his crutch on the floor, and looked with rapture at his strong, handsome sister. Brian's face flushed as he looked at her. He stammered out, ' I never thought of such a thing — never ! You may take my word for it. And I don't see how that can be, Alice. You're my friend, not my servant.' 'And what's a friend good for, if they can't do a deal better than a servant, if needs be ?' she retorted ' I tell you, I'm going to do it. If Sarah Stott thinks her crabbed temper is going to succeed in making you look inhospitable — sending word to people not to come, when you've invited 22 FROM MOOR ISLES them !' she cried in great excitement — * if she thinks that, she's just mistaken, that's all. That's not our way at Thornton — to ask people to see us, and then tell 'em we find we can't do with them. How could you ever look this great singing gendeman in the face again ? And, besides, I'm fain to see them. It'll be something quite new for us, won't it, Andy ? Nay, nay ! They shall come, and, as far as country fashion goes, they shall find nothing wanting. Trust me !' And, indeed, she looked as if she were to be trusted. Brian jumped from his chair, and seized her hand and squeezed it. 'You are a true friend, Alice — you are so. Till you promised this, I didn't know how much I'd set my heart on having them. I'll never forget your goodness.' * Oh, there's nothing so much to remember, as I can see ! Now, just listen, and then you must be off, for I shall have plenty to do. They will come at one, you say. Well, I reckon by half-past they'll be ready for their dinner ' ' I fancy they call it lunch,' he suggested deferentially. ' They may call it what they please, so long as it's there for them. They shall have a leg of roast mutton — small — one as has hung for nearly a week, as would give a dying man an appetite. Then they shall have some partridges — I know how to cook partridges — and a plum pie, and a custard, and an egg pudding — yes, they'll get no better any- where, though I say it. And then some apples and nuts, and some preserved ginger, and some other things that I know of — and a cake. And you have wine — very good wine. What should they want better than that, I'd like to know ?' ALICE ORMEROD 23 ' Nothing,' said he fervently ; ' and I tell you, they'll like it just as well as if it was at the Prince •( Wales's own table. And, Alice, there's just one thing I'd ask you as a favour, for I'm not going to pretend that I won't let you do this for me — ^just one.' ' And what's that ?' she asked graciously. * If they may have some coffee the minute they've done. I know they like that. I happened once to overhear ' * Coffee and cream they shall have,' said Alice. ' There's your mother's silver coffee service, and there's the old thin red and white china. That's all right. Then, before they go, some tea, with some jam, and eggs, and tea-bread. That's quite simple. Now, you go back to your house, and, if Sarah says anything to you, just don't answer her. Don't for the world tell her of this. I'll look in upon her after I've cleared our dinner out of the way. And you'd better come and take some dinner with us to-day, Brian. Sarah shall never have it to say that there wasn't a clear field for preparing for them. And leave the rest to me.' * You are good,' he repeated ; and then, with an uneasy look, 'But, Alice, I can't abide the idea of your setting things on the table, and handing them round. I shall just feel ' * All that you've got any call to feel is, that when I say I'll do a thing, I mean to do it myself, and to do it well. You must leave everything to me, and it'll be all right.' * It will, Mr. Brian — it will, indeed,' Andrew assured him earnestly. ' I know it will,' said Brian in a slow, solemn voice of deep conviction. 'And I shall be thankful to her for ever.' 24 FROM MOOR ISLES 'Well, now I must clear these pies out of the way. And you slip in here at half-past twelve for some dinner. My word ! see how time's flying. It's nearly twelve now. Sarah Stott, indeed !' she concluded, seizing a cloth and wrenching open the oven door. Brian, grateful, but still embarrassed, moved towards the door. ' Then I'll say nothing about it to her ?' 'Nothing in the world. Leave it to me,' seemed to come from the depths of the oven. And Brian, with a nod to Andrew and a ' See you again soon, lad,' went out. Left alone, the brother and sister were silent for a little while, till Alice again said in emphatic tones, 'Those old servants get beyond all bounds. I'll Sarah Stott her ! The idea o' setting herself up in that way. Brian's far too indulgent to her.' 'Well,' observed Andrew in an impartial tone, 'there's no doubt but he'd have been poorly off without thee, Alice, this time. But I tell thee one thing, lass. I hope he'll keep, or be kept from going near Barracloughs' between now and to-morrow.' ' I don't think he'll go near Barracloughs, if Barracloughs don't come near him,' Alice decided, after a pause of con- sideration. 'Anyhow, I'm not going to fash myself about that. My business is to make up for Sarah Stott's bad behaviour, and I mean to, I tell you, I do so !' As she made this announcement, she raised herself from a slightly stooping position over the oven, the heat of which had perhaps given an extra brightness to the red in her cheeks. Be that as it may, she happened to meet Andrew's ALICE ORMEROD 25 eyes fixed upon her, as he listened, with great approval, and, it would seem, with something else as well, for there was a queer, humorous look in his eyes, and a shrewd smile upon his big, not ill-natured mouth ; and as Alice's colour rose still higher under his scrutinizing gaze, he observed specu- latively — ' Poor Sarah Stott ! She's getting to be an old woman now. I guess she couldn't have been so young, even when you were a baby, Alice. I wonder if she ever had a lover.' ' Lover !' retorted his sister in an indescribable tone. ' Thou's sat too long over thy books. What's lovers got to do with it, in the name of goodness ?' And with that, without waiting for a reply, she went out of the kitchen, and imperatively summoned some distant invisible * Lizzy ' to her aid. Andrew smiled, and turned again to the books, over which, she said, he had sat too long. CHAPTER in. Brian's antecedents. It boots not here to relate how the pacification of Sarah Stott was accomplished in one single encounter between herself and Alice Ormerod. Suffice it to say that the said pacification was effected, and that thoroughly; that the crabbed ancient retainer, who had been Brian's mother's servant during the first years of her married life, and her mistress during the last years of that life, and who of course felt, in consequence, that she might do or not do exactly as she pleased in the son's house — this rebellious vassal was 26 FROM MOOR ISLES subdued from rank insubordination into a kind of ungracious submission, and while assisting Alice to the best of her power in the preparations for the morrow, had to content herself with a continuous undercurrent of grumbling at the changed conditions of things since the old days, and of despairing wonderings as to what would or would not 'happen next.' As to Brian, with the cowardice charac- teristic of his sex in such emergencies, he fulfilled Alice's behest to the letter, and said nothing to Mrs. Stott. His whole mind was set on the promised visit of these strangers — he was quite conscious that probably, after it was all over, his henchwoman would make him pay somehow for having carried his point in the present, but that was a matter for future consideration and suffering. Just now, he had the comfortable conviction that his friend Alice was a host in herself, and that under her direction all would go well. He offered to make himself useful in any way that might be thought desirable, but he took care never to be left alone with Sarah. For all her conquered state there was a re- bellious glare in her eye now and then, which made him thankful for the protection of Alice's presence. That, how- ever, would be withdrawn when she had to return to the farm in the evening, but she had provided for this con- tingency also, and invited him to go back with her, and sup with them. * Why, I'm fairly living at your house !' he cried. ' I think I'd better go somewhere else. I'd thought of calling in to see Jim Barraclough, and ' 'Now, donUf Alice said to him, in a sweet persuasive voice, and she laid her hand, shapely, if roughened and red- dened by its daily toil, upon his arm, and looked at him. BRIAN'S ANTECEDENTS 27 As they stood thus, it might well have occurred to an observant mind, with a turn for analogies, that the young man was a vacillating, tempted human soul, and that the young woman who looked at him with her clear, steady eyes was his good angel, drawing him back from some danger. So strong she looked, so handsome, and so winning in her panoply of maiden modesty and daring combined, that the idea, ' Surely he must love her,' could hardly have failed to occur to any well-regulated mind. ' Don't go there — for this one night,' she said pleadingly, in quite a different tone from any she ever used to him when others were by. ' Come to us, and stay with us.' ' You never like me to go to Barracloughs',' he said res- tively. ' You are never yourself about them, Alice, and I can't imagine why.' *Well, we'll say I'm not,' she replied, but with no look of intending to relinquish her purpose. ' Never mind that. Barracloughs are always here, and so am I. You can see them, or we can talk about them, any time. Your friends are coming to-morrow — this gentleman that you think so much of, and two ladies. Now, Brian, don't go to Barra- cloughs'. You know what I mean.' * I do know, Alice,' he said suddenly ; ' and you're right, as you generally are. I won't go to them. I'll go with you, because you're good to me, and, what's more, it makes me feel good myself to be with you.' * Now, that's good of youj' she said, with a little almost imperceptible, shake in her voice. 'But I thought you would. Bring your fiddle and give us a tune. Andy and father will be fain to listen. You know they always are.' 28 FROM MOOR ISLES He nodded. ' I'll get it,' he said, and went oif upstairs to seek it. Alice seized the opportunity to say to Sarah Stott, in a rapid undertone — * If any o' those Barracloughs come, Sarah, and ask for him, he's out, but you can't tell them where. Do you understand ?' On this point the old woman and the girl were one and undivided. ' Ay, I understand fast enough, and they'll none get to know from me where he is,' she said ; and then Brian re- turned with his fiddle, and he and Alice stepped across to the farm, where a glorious fire filled the great kitchen with a ruddy, dancing light, and where Andrew was waiting for them with a joyful greeting. They all passed a sociable, happy evening, talking, listen- ing to Brian's music, and his accounts of the fine things he heard and saw and did when he visited the great city to the south-west, and of many other things, and at eleven o'clock he went home decently enough, never even asked if any Barracloughs had been near, and after playing to himself for a short time, went to his bed, and fell asleep, filled with great anticipations for the morrow. ' Eh, but yon's a decent lad enough, when he gets into the reet company,' said Farmer Ormerod, when Brian had gone. ' It's a real pity as he has nothing to do — no bit of work as he needs must attend to. It would be th' savin' on him if he had — keep him out o' bad company, and o' the rest on't.' The reflective silence of his son and daughter gave con- sent to this statement. BRIAN'S ANTECEDENTS 29 Brian Holgate had been left an orphan some five or six years ago. He had been the only child of his parents, who were of that class of which a few remnants linger, scattered here and there over the land — people who had once been more considerable both as to property and position, but who had contrived to retain their old family dweUing-house, and enough property in land, farms, and sound investments to bring in an income more than enough to absolve them from the necessity of working for their bread. Brian had in- herited from them the old house itself, the only home he had ever known, and property to the amount of something over three hundred a year. He and his people were strictly provincial, strictly rural, and rural Lancashire, at that, in all their ways and habits. They had never been in the habit of gadding about. His father had never been farther afield than to Irkford and Blackpool — to the first of which he had been known once or twice to repair on the occasion of some great and solemn pubUc festivity, while to the latter he had gone several times for the benefit of the sea air — a briny atmosphere matching in strength that which played about the bleak moors amongst which he usually lived. Mrs. Holgate had been rather more of a traveller. In her young days (so the record ran) she had spent some three months in London, drinking as deeply of the cup of amusement and dissipation as was commensurate with visiting a very proper and steady-going family of dissenting relatives. She had also, at different times, visited difierent parts of her native county, and had even taken a jaunt to the Lakes once with Brian, when he was a very little boy. But even that can scarcely be said in these days to constitute extensive travel. And, so far as was known, Mr. and Mrs. Holgate both 30 FROM MOOR ISLES took very much after their respective forefathers, who, though in nowise blood connections, had hved near together, always on the same spot, had done the same things, thought the same thoughts, and steadily vegetated on, in exactly similar hnes, for many generations. It may perhaps be credited that to such a couple their own son Brian came as a great, and not always agreeable surprise, with his mercurial temperament, his extraordinary love for music, his sudden furies, and equally sudden meltings back into sweetness — his picturesque beauty of face and figure, and his general instability of purpose as regarded the keeping of the conventionalities as practised in Ravenside Forest. Where had he come from, this anomalous creature? How had he ever come from them — that was the thing ? Was he intended as a cross, or as a blessing in disguise — very much in disguise? And how was he to be brought up ? Obviously, there was but one answer to that — as his father before him had been brought up. It never occurred to them to try and find out whether treatment a little different from what had been given them might not be better suited to this so obviously different child of theirs. On the contrary, with the rigidity peculiar to that mould of mind, they saw quite clearly that the same kind of treatment, intensified, might have the desirable effect of making their black swan into a white one. Sarah Stott, who was an oracle to both of them, had also pronounced strongly in favour of this line of treatment, and accordingly, the eager, excitable lad, with his head full of dreams and fancies, and his throat full of melody, had been sent to the rough Hollowley grammar school, and kept there, amongst the rudest of the rude, the hardest, toughest, and most unsympathetic of surroundings, until a serious BRIAN'S ANTECEDENTS illness, brought on by exposure one day when he had played truant to read poetry in the woods, had aroused his parents to the stern conviction that in thus persisting they were only — throwing their money away. A council of war was held, in a somewhat aggrieved spirit, which ended in his being allowed to go to the Vicar of Thornton-in-Ravenside to read with him daily. They all shook their heads over this inno- vation, and were not too well pleased when, in direct con- tradiction to their croaking prophecies, a distinct improve- ment soon became visible in the lad's spirits, health, and whole appearance. The vicar was a lonely man, and an ardent musician himself, and when he died, which happened when Brian was about seventeen, he left him his violin, which, so his will stated, was a genuine Amati. Brian alone had any appreciation of the value of the legacy ; his parents thought a fiddle an odd kind of thing to leave to anyone. Since his nineteenth year he had been left pretty much to his own devices, which, as we have seen, led him into the vicinity of as much music as he could conveniently, or in- conveniently, manage to hear. He had gradually become acquainted, through faithful and persevering attendance at the concerts, with some few members of the orchestra, and for a short time he had taken lessons from ' Brown, of the second violins,' of whom he had spoken to Alice, with the results already made known, and perhaps with some others, potential, if not actual ; aspirations, vague wishes and long- ings for a kind of life which he had hardly pictured with any distinctness to himself, but the idea of which loomed vaguely and grandly in his heart. He had great thoughts anent the promised visit of Felix, the noted singer — thoughts which none knew of but himself, though Alice Ormerod 32 FROM MOOR ISLES without knowing exactly what they were, perhaps guessed that there were thoughts there, and wondered wistfully about them. And so dawned the Saturday morning, the day which was, he had said, to be the proudest one of his life. CHAPTER IV. WHAT ALICE SAW. Shortly before noon Brian set off into HoUowley to meet his distinguished visitors. He had a gig of his own, but that wa.s, of course, useless on an occasion like this. There would be four of them to return, and the road to Thornton was a steep and toilsome one. Brian had ordered a large cab and a pair of horses to meet them. The two women were left to complete the preparations, spreading of the table, and so forth. ' You look after the things being ready for the table, and I'll do the waiting,' said Alice to Sarah. The younger woman was looking wonderfully handsome and attractive in the gown which, either with innate good taste or by some lucky accident, she had chosen to put on for the occasion — a fine gingham of a rather light, dull blue shade, made very plainly and simply; it was one of her ordinary working dresses, got at the beginning of the season, but never before worn. In its style it was as simple as the plainest house- maid's garment, so as to be useful for the purpose for which it was intended ; but in quality, cut, and finish it was of superior nature. Despite its simplicity, and despite the delicate lawn apron with little frills, meant to give an air of WHAT ALICE SAW 33 humble domesticity to this toilet, Alice had not succeeded in looking like anyone's waiting-maid, or, indeed, like any- thing but the beautiful and independent young woman that she was. And the finishing touch — the cap — she had not been able to make up her mind to, but wore her own splendid hair, in its usual style, drawn back not quite tightly, and plaited in thick plaits at the back of her head. And so prepared, she sat down with Sarah Stott in the kitchen, and awaited the arrival of Brian and his visitors. . * There they are, for certain sure !' cried Sarah excitedly, as at last, after half a dozen false alarms, a cab did really pass the window, and then clattered over the stones near the gate. *Ay, there they are, sure enough,' Alice repeated tran- quilly. And then, through the open window came the sounds of laughter in voices of a calibre they did not often hear in Thornton — a man's voice, women's voices, and a sort of parley, in which Brian's voice also made itself heard, and the words, ' Oh, not till seven, if you will keep us so long !' and then a silence while they came round to the front of the house, and then a fresh bustle as Brian's voice said — ' Walk in, pray, and I will call my servant.' ' You stay where you are, Sarah, and never trouble your- self,' said Alice, rising, and feeling just a single flutter at her heart, in spite of her composed bearing. These friends of Brian's, whom for love of him, and that he might not be put to shame before them, she was going to wait upon — what manner of persons might they be? Well, in another moment she was going to see. She heard them go into the larger parlour, a kind of drawing-room ; she heard a 3 34 FROM MOOR ISLES woman's voice say, in tones of rapture, * Oh, what a lovely doggie ! Will you speak to me ? What is your name, you beauty ?' And then Brian called out, * Sarah I' Alice walked straight along the passage to the parlour door, where Brian was standing, expecting his aged retainer. He had not understood how thoroughly Alice meant to do what she had undertaken. When he saw her advancing, his face flushed violently, a look, half laughter, half vexation, came into his eyes, and he paused. ' You called, Mr. Brian ?' said Alice simply ; and at the sound of her voice the guests looked in her direction, and, Brian standing a little inside, she saw them also. There were three of them, as expected. A tall man, with something in his look and bearing such as she had never seen before. It struck her instantly, and impressed her, and she wondered what it was. Then two ladies ; one tall and mature, though still young, with a beautifully-formed figure, and a piquant, attractive, plain face, full of life and intelligence ; the second, tall, too, but much younger than either of her companions — a mere slip of a girl, not more than seventeen ; slight, but very graceful, and with the love- liest face Alice had ever dreamed of. They stood and looked at her, all three, in silence, with arrested attention and well-disguised surprise. Brian, as usual with men in such cases, was quite beneath the occasion. Alice, however, was fully capable of dealing with it. ' 'A^as it to take the ladies to get off their things ?' she asked tranquilly, as he did not speak. 'Yes, please,' he said hurriedl}-, * if you will be so good.' WHAT ALICE SAW 35 ' Would you please come this way ?' she said to them, and stepped without further ado up the narrow, low stairs, and led them into the ' best bedroom,' where she had prepared everything for their comfort. ' What a delightful, scented, country room, Ines, isn't it ?' said the elder lady to the girl, who looked smilingly, and perhaps a little dreamily around, and assented in a low, sweet voice. ' Can I help you at all ?' asked Alice, feeling for the first time one moment's uneasiness in the presence of their beau- tiful soft frilly garments, their mantles of lace and velvet, their curious dainty gloves, and the faint, indefinable perfume that seemed to be wafted from them at every movement. ' Nothing, thank you — unless it was a little hot water,' said the elder one. 'My face is covered with smuts, I know ; and there is a little one on the tip of even your nose, Ines, my child. Verily, one does not travel in " the manu- facturing districts " without getting traces of it.' ' The hot water is there,' said Alice, pointing to a jug of it ; * and dinner is at half-past one ; and if I could be of any help to you, would you please ring that bell ?' — and she pointed to the bell-rope. * Oh, thank you !' they both exclaimed, in what seemed to her straightforward simplicity an unnecessarily emphatic and grateful manner; 'you are so kind; but we will find our way downstairs again as soon as we are ready.' But, despite this emphasis (she was not acquainted with the expression ' gush '), Alice did not dislike either of these ladies. They were quite different from anything she had ever seen before, totally unlike any of the moneyed dames FROM MOOR ISLES of Hollowley and its vicinity ; but she quite understood that they meant well, and really did think her kind when they said so. ' Then I will leave you,' she said, with a smile, and went away, followed by another ' Thank you so much ! There is everything we want.' Down into the kitchen again, to the assistance of Sarah Stott, who, now absorbed in the business of the feast, had forgotten her disapproval of the whole entertainment, and had so flung herself heart and soul into the culinary pre- parations as to forget even to ask what * th' strange folk ' were like. Then there was another sound of light laughing voices, as the ladies came downstairs. ' Eh, how they do mince !' observed Sarah Stott ab- stractedly. ' It sounds like it, but they don't mean to. It's just the way they've got used to,' Alice hastened to explain. 'Now I reckon I can carry in this mutton, and tell them to come to dinner.' Which thing she did, with the comfortable consciousness that her colleague was now bent on her work, and that all would go well. When they were all assembled round the table, and delightedly admiring the dish of Dijon roses and richly- tinted autumn leaves which she had placed in the middle of the table, and while she stood beside Brian while he carved, and took the plates from him, she had ample opportunity to * take stock ' of the visitors, and she did so. It was a round table, and the tall man, the ' great singing gentleman,' as Alice called him, had seated himself opposite WHAT ALICE SAW 37 to Brian. Alice took but two looks at him ; with the first she measured his outward appearance, his stature, features, and bearing, and said to herself, 'Thirty-four or five, I should say ; and eh, he is splendid-looking ! Brian was right ; he's a picture of a man.' With the second and longer look, she studied his expres- sion, at the same moment taking notice of the sound of his voice, as he turned towards the young girl, with a half-smile, saying — ' Well, Ines, how about the Sanskrit roots now ?' This, of course, was Sanskrit roots to Alice, who, how- ever, decided within herself, ' He'll do ; I'm certain he'll do. I could trust that man, for all he's such a fine gentleman. Brian was right again. He's simple and he's nice.' And at the same time, her quick eyes took note of the slight blush which covered the cheeks of the young lady whom they both called ' Ines,' as she replied, with a laugh, half embarrassed, half audacious — ' Oh, you think you can vex me with my Sanskrit roots ! But it is useless for you to try. I don't mind.' ' Mr. Holgate's beautiful village and delightful old house, not to mention his lovely dog, ought to banish all recollec- tions of such tough, dry things,' said the lady with the plain face and dark eyes. ' I'm very glad if you like them ; and I'm sure you are most welcome here,' said Brian simply. * It's only country •fare and a country place that I can show you ; but I often think that though it's such a toil to get into Irkford and back for any little bit of amusement, yet I would not change this old place for the finest house there.' 'No, indeed, I should think not !' she cried, with emphasis. 3S FROM MOOR ISLES ' Change your own old home for a brand-new Irkford palace ! I hope not, indeed !' 'I agree with Mr. Holgate,' said Felix; 'but as for you, Lisa, you would be utterly wretched away from the " cinder heap," as your friend Reedley calls it — utterly wretched. You put on a lot of sentiment about the countr)', and rocks, and mountains, and so forth ; but the paradise of your heart is ICO, Queen Street, and to be within a threepenny 'bus-fare of the Concert Hall.' 'So it is, for a permanency,' the lady owned candidly. ' It's what I have been accustomed to all my life ; just as Mr. Holgate has to his old country-house. We are both well suited in our surroundings, I consider.' * Mrs. Reichardt is as faithful an attendant at the con- certs as yourself,' said Felix, turning to Brian. 'I should be afraid to say how many years it is since she has missed one of them.' ' Why afraid, pray ?' she asked, half laughing. ' Because it might reveal how advancing years are telling upon you.' ' Pooh ! I'm not afraid of advancing years. They may come. I shall never give in to them. I think it is the greatest mistake ever to stop being young. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Holgate ?' * Well,* said Brian diffidently, and with a blush, ' I haven't thought about it for myself yet ; and I should think you have no need to do so either, however many years, as Mr. Felix says, you may have been going to the con- certs.' * There f said she, turning a laughing and delighted face towards the artist ; ' there, Felix, your words are powerless WHAT ALICE SAW 39 now to Sting me in the slightest degree. I never had any- thing nicer said to me in my life— never !' ' I have heard the same kind of thing before now from you, when I've happened to say something that pleased your fancy,' he retorted. ' I do seriously think I ought to have warned Mr. Holgate of your determined propensity for making yourself agreeable — literally — to every one, no matter what their opinions may be.' She merely laughed. ' Do not try ; it is of no use.' And Brian, looking at her, added, ' I don't suppose you can ever have seen me, because I sit in the gallery ; but I have often noticed you at the con- certs. Your places are in the twelfth row, and you never fail. At the last one, I saw Miss Grey with you. Of course I didn't know who you were ; but I recognized you both the moment I saw you at the Hollowley station.' ' Yes ; I was there on Thursday, too,' said the young girl, who, it appeared, was called Ines Grey. She spoke almost for the first time, and looked with a smile and a half-depre- cating glance at Felix, who also smiled as he returned her glance, but with something in his expression which Alice's observant eyes saw, but which she could not interpret to her own satisfaction. ' Yes, indeed, you were there,' he said, shaking his head. ' That was Elisabeth's doing, not mine.' Ines smiled again, and nodded her head, as if to say, ' It matters not whose doing it was. I was there ;' while Mrs. Reichardt observed, in the tone of one who feels that she has reason and common-sense on her side — ' There was no harm in it, Felix. The child must hear some music of some kind, and it is quite natural that she 40 . FROM MOOR ISLES should wish particularly to hear yours. I think sometimes that you are rather crotchety in that respect' Felix laughed aloud; while the young lady, going very red, said, in tones of something like defiance — *M. Felix is never crotchety, Mrs. Reichardt.' Elisabeth smiled a good-natured, tolerant kind of smile ; but Felix himself looked rather surprised, and Ines, turn- ing to Mrs. Reichardt, with a sudden change of tone, said quickly — ' Please forgive me.' * I am not offended, dear child,' said Elisabeth, with so generous and kind an inflection in her voice, that Alice took her more than ever into her heart, and was deeply interested in observing how, after this little episode, they all three smiled pleasant, genial smiles, as if they were accustomed to be on very good terms with one another, and were relieved when even the semblance of a cloud was quickly dispersed. What did it all mean ? AHce speculated, feeling that she had never witnessed anything half so interesting. A mangled version of ' The Corsican Brothers ' at the Hollowley theatre, which had constituted her only experience of play-going, was nothing, nowhere, in comparison with this real play going on under her eyes here around this table. What she felt about them, though she would hardly have known how to put it into words, was that they each and all lived their lives, and lived them to the full ; that they drank the cup of experience, of whatsoever flavour it might be, which was presented to them, at a full draught, and not in sips — to the last drop they drank it. They had a firm grasp of their lives and of what happened in them, and did not vegetate WHAT ALICE SAW 41 in a mere existence. Keenly she felt this, as the shape of her own daily life flashed into her mind — not with a sense of disparagement, but with one of contrast. Then, who were they ? In what way were they related to one another ? She would have to ask Brian afterwards, though perhaps he him- self would not know. She had never felt so much interest in, or curiosity about, strangers before. And if they had in any way repelled her, she would not have felt it now ; she would have let them, and all connected with them, glide from her mind once and for all, after they had dis- appeared from her actual sight. But they did not repel her. Though so utterly outside anything in her previous ex- perience, she was conscious of liking them all three heartily, and of liking each one in a different way. She felt as if she should never tire of looking at Felix, with his face so strong, frank, and handsome, and his clear eyes. Once, when hers happened to encounter them, she felt pleasantly thrilled. It was a good spirit that looked at her ; she only just checked herself in time from smiling back a greeting to this spirit, in which perhaps there was something akin to her own. She liked Mrs. Reichardt — 'Elisabeth' — for somewhat similar reasons, setting apart the fact that, instead of being remarkably handsome, she was what is called plain in feature. But she had so true a smile, such shrewd, kindly eyes, so honest a ring in her voice, that she inspired confi- dence and liking in every way. Like many plain-featured women, she had the beauty of a tall, admirably propor- tioned figure, and possessed also a fine natural taste in dress. Everything she wore, she wore well, with individual style and distinction, and made it look as if it were hers 42 FROM MOOR ISLES alone, and could by no possibility belong to anyone else. She had superb dark hair, coiled all about her head ; and finely shaped white hands, on which were one or two very handsome rings. Miss Grey puzzled Alice a little. She called the lady 'Mrs. Reichardt,' and the gentleman 'Monsieur Felix.' which had an odd, foreign sound about it. Yet she seemed on the most intimate terms with them, and they called her •Ines/ 'Child,' or 'Dear Child,' indifferently. She was beautiful, though so young, and she would become more beautiful. With all her extreme youth and even ardessness, there was a certain still, stately pride about this young girl, which Alice detected at once ; not a disagreeable pride, but a quiet aloofness and composure, which was evidently inborn and inseparable from her. Her face was pale, her eyes gray and dark, her hair of a bronze-brown hue, and the outline of her face and figure, long, fine, and, though graceful, proud — like herself. When the dinner, or 'lunch,' as she noticed that they called it, was over, Alice said to Brian in an undertone — ' Mr. Brian, if you'll go into the parlour, I'll set you your coffee there directly.' Brian rose at once. He was tr>ung to carry out his part of the bargain, but he did not succeed in getting rid of a conscious look, which amused his friend Alice. This young woman had remarkably keen eyes. Little that took place escaped her. But, being perfectly comfortable as to her own doings, nothing that passed embarrassed her. She had been aware for some little time that Elisabeth was observing her, though she managed very creditably to control and almost to conceal her curiosity. And now she saw that WHAT ALICE SAW 43 Felix also had begun to remark upon her ; and he, being a man, did not so thoroughly succeed in disguising his interest. Miss Grey alone seemed so occupied with her own thoughts as not to heed much that went on around her. But when Brian rose from the table, they all did the same, and followed him into the parlour; and when, after an interval of a few minutes, Alice went in, carrying the coffee on a tray, she found that they had grouped them- selves in a manner which struck her with surprise, and made her wonder more than ever in what way they were connected one with the other. Mrs. Reichardt was standing a little forward, with her back to the window, Brian's cherished violin in her hands, and she was just drawing the bow across the strings in a long, loving note, which made Alice think, ' Why, it's like when Brian plays ; it speaks for her when she touches it !' Brian himself was standing almost directly opposite to her, looking on with the intensest eagerness and interest. No wonder, thought Alice, who knew that he loved that little fiddle as if it had been his own child, or his sweet- heart. Though the day was mild, a fire was burning briskly in the grate — a fire of wood and peat, giving forth a delicious, pungent odour. Felix had thrown himself into a deep armchair at one side of the fireplace, facing the window and Elisabeth, and Alice gave another glance at him. She had expected — she knew not why — that he would have long hair and wear a velvet coat ; and, on the contrary, he was attired just like any other gentleman whom one might meet in the streets. At this moment he, too, was 44 FROM MOOR ISLES looking at Elisabeth ; while Ines Grey, having drawn a low stool up to the side of his chair, had seated herself upon it, quite close to him, and leaned forward, her chin in her hand and her great serious eyes also fixed intently upon Elisabeth. When the latter saw Alice come in with the coffee, she laid the violin down, remarking, ' Ah, when I've had my coffee, then I will treat myself to a tune on that lovely old fiddle ' * Will you pour it out, or shall I ?' asked Alice, with a smile, as she set it down upon a small table. ' Oh, will you be so kind, please ?' said Elisabeth, pausing and looking at her keenly and quickly. Then, glancing with an odd, amused expression towards the other two, she said briskly — 'Come, Ines, here's a fine opportunity for waiting upon him ! Take him his cup of coffee.' * Do not interrupt Ines,' said Felix, with a smile. ' Having been dragged away from her severer studies, she is taking a real holiday, bucolic in its absence of thought. She is like the Boston young lady who went to visit in New York, in order that she might enjoy a complete intellectual rest.' 'Now, why do they all laugh at that? What does it mean ?' Alice speculated with eager interest, as she heard the light, amused laughter which went round after Felix had made this remark. But the only answer made by Ines to the mirth at her expense (or at that of the Boston young lady) was a slow, contented smile, as she rose from her little footstool, and going up to where Alice stood, asked her in a gentle voice — ' Will you please pour out a cup of coffee for me to take to Monsieur Felix ?' WHAT ALICE SAW 45 * She Speaks his name differently from the others,' Ahce noted, while she poured out her coffee, which Ines took from her hand, and thanking her, carried it to Felix, with undisturbed gravity and sedateness, and gave it to him. 'Thank you, Ines,' said he, 'Aren't you going to have some yourself?' ' No, thank you.' • Against Madame Prenat's rules ?' he asked. 'Really, I wonder what kind of a dragon you think Madame Prenat is ?' said the young lady, with some anima- tion. ' You have said such odd things about her in the last few days !' And with that, she again placed herself on her little stool, and added, in a decisive voice, ' I don't think this is a proper time for coffee.' Alice quite sympathized with her in this opinion. She could not imagine what they wanted with it now. But, pausing a moment, to see if they all had what they wished for, her quick eyes noted that as Ines seated herself beside Felix, with this remark, and her heavy plaits almost touched his knee, he, without moving, or looking at her, or seeming in the least degree surprised or embarrassed, lifted his eyes to Elisabeth's face and met hers fixed reflectively upon him — and upon Ines. They exchanged a look — Felix and Elisabeth — the meaning of which was a mystery to Alice, and then Elisabeth, having quickly drunk her coffee, took up the fiddle again, saying — ' So this is your Amati, Mr. Holgate ? Worth its weight in gold;' and she turned it round and round with loving hands, and examined it with the eye of a connoisseur. ' A little gem ! You have been in luck's way. Felix, you lazy fellow, are you not coming to look at this fiddle ?' 46 FROM MOOR ISLES * No ; but I am most willing to listen while you play it for my edification.' 'Always the same,' said she, shrugging her shoulders with a half-laugh ; and Alice, having no excuse for remaining longer, reluctantly left the room, just as the first note sounded. She had not occasion to go in again very soon. The fiddling continued for some little time, together with the sounds of laughter and talking. To Alice it sounded just the same as when Brian played it ; but a musician would have known at once that whereas Brian produced a very sweet, untrained tone — a sort of * warbling native woodnotes wild,' which was spontaneous and delightful enough — Mrs. Reichardt was a profoundly cultivated musician, and a rare and accomplished artist. Every note that she played be- trayed the handling of a past-mistress of the instrument. If Alice knew nothing about this, Brian did ; and he sat and Ustened in a kind of rapture, and also with a feeling of despair. * I shall never do anything like that — never ; no amount of practice could ever bring me to that,' he said to himself, and wondered when she had begun ; where she had studied, and under whom ; and with what severity of exer- tion she had attained to that consummate ease and mastery of the wonderful instrument. But this he confided to Alice on a later occasion ; at present, she only heard the sounds, and, in her ignorance, wondered why Brian did not take the opportunity, and give them a sample of his own powers in the same direction. After some time, it seemed as if they resolved to go out for a stroll, for the two ladies ran lightly upstairs, and pre- sently returned with their things on. Just as they were WHATALICE SAW 47 going out, Alice took the opportunity of stepping forward and asking Brian at what time she should serve tea. It was not consistent with the due observance of etiquette or of hospitality in Ravenside Forest to let visitors leave without tea, whatever else they might have consumed during their stay. Mrs. Reichardt expostulated. ' Indeed, you will kill us with kindness ! I am sure we do not need any tea. Our train leaves at seven, and we shall be home in time for dinner at half-past eight. At what time must we leave here, Mr. Holgate ?' ' I'm very sorry to say that if you must go by the seven train, you will have to leave here by a quarter-past six at the latest. It is a long way, and for two miles there are no lamps on the road.' Despite expostulations, it was arranged that they should partake of a cup of tea about half-past five, and this agreed upon, they went out. Brian said he would show them the great view of Ravenside, which was obtained after climbing a rough uphill lane for some quarter of an hour. It was already after four when they left the house, and the crimson sun was declining, and in the air there was the sharp, crisp feel of an autumn afternoon — voices rang out distinctly, and footfalls could be heard for a long distance. Watching them as they went up the highroad towards the lane, Alice remembered that from the spot to which they were going they would see not only Ravenside, but the whole of the gorgeous flaming sunset, which was already beginning, coming naturally after the wild and stormy days and nights which had gone before. 4« FROM MOOR ISLES CHAPTER V. HOW THE DAY ENDED. Brian and his guests were not out of doors very long. They presently came back, talking, laughing, and apparently in the highest good-humour. They all went into the large parlour, and Alice, passing to and fro between the kitchen and the dining-room, where she was setting the tea-things, could hear — for the drawing-room door was a little ajar — first, some isolated notes of music, now on the piano, now on the violin; and then the piano ceased, and the violin had it all to itself. It was Mrs. Reichardt who was playing, and Alice seemed almost to feel the stillness with which they all listened to her. The girl herself, though she could not understand how beautiful it was, nor how wonderful, still realized that it was something quite unusual. Those wild, luscious, long-drawn strains did not appeal to her as they did to those within, but she moved softly, and placed the cups and saucers very gently, so as to make no bustle or disturbance, interrupting their pleasure. The violin went on for a long time, as it seemed to Alice, unbrokenly — now up, now down ; now in long-drawn, piercing strains, now in short, sobbing ones, or what Alice called jerks — so they appeared to her. Then, with one long, sweet note, it stopped, and she could hear a faint, low-voiced murmur, of thanks and satisfaction probably. She smiled to herself as she went round the table, critically examining the position of everything on it. She was glad that music had been played. Brian had given of his very best to entertain these HO W THE DA Y ENDED 49 guests, and she knew that they could offer nothing in return so purely delightful to him as this music. * Food for the gods,' he would call it. Alice smiled brightly again to her- self, all alone ; threw her head back, and gave a little silent laugh. She knew that expression of his, though she was not very sure what food for the gods was — something of this kind, however. * I reckon,' said Alice to herself, ' that they can do with some food from the Moor Isles kitchen as well.' But the music was not all over; there was some more talking, some stray notes on the piano, some more decided chords, and then a man's voice singing — a voice at the sound of which Alice suddenly stood stock-still, and then, as if drawn irresistibly forward, moved into the passage, and listened. She could hear the difference between this singing and Brian's singing much more plainly than between Brian's playing and the playing of Mrs. Reichardt ; and perhaps that was not surprising. She strenuously tried to catch the words of the song, but failed— they were in a foreign tongue ; so much she under* stood ; and the music of them was so penetratingly, so divinely beautiful, that it made her heart ache with a deli- cious pain. As a matter of fact, Felix was singing, to Mrs; Reichardt's accompaniment, Riickert's beautiful words, to the still more beautiful music of Schubert, the ' Greisen- gesang.' In solemn, noble sweetness it sounded forth : — ' Der Ernst hat mir bereifet des Hauses Dach ; Doch warm ist's mir geblieben im Wohngemach. Der Winter hat die Scheitel mir weiss gedeckt ; Doch fliesst das Bhit, das Rothe, durch's Herzgemtich . . . so FROM MOOR ISLES ' Der Jugendflor der Wangen, die Rosen sind gegangen All gegangen einander nach. Wo sind sie hingegangen ? Ins Herz hinab. Da bliihn sie nach verlangen, wie vor so nach. * Sind alle P^reudenstrome der Welt versiegt, Noch fliesst mir durch den Busen ein stiller Bach. Sind alle Nachtigallen der Flur verstummt ? Noch ist bei mir im Stillen hier eine wach. Sie singet, Herr des Hauses, verschliess das Thor. Dass nicht die Welt, die Alte, dring ins Gemach. Schleuss aus den rauhen Odem der Wirklichkeit, Und nur dem Duft der Traume gib' Dach und Fach.' Alice knew not why tears rushed to her eyes as she listened to the deep, pathetic notes, sweet, strong, and thrilling to her very heart. It was as if all strength had left her in the presence of something more beautiful than before she had ever even imagined. And opening her eyes as the notes were coming to an end, she saw Sarah Stott standing beside her, looking almost awestruck — not a common expression on her face. ' Eh, lass, but that's fine !' she murmured. *Ay,' assented Alice; 'it's finest sort of thing as we've ever heard, Sarah ; you may take my word for that.' * Perhaps he'll sing again. I wish he would,' said the old woman. And in fact, after a brief pause, the piano was struck again, the voice uplifted once more in something quite different. * I guess Mr. Brian will like that^^ said Alice, with great penetration. HOW THE DAY ENDED 51 ' Si les filles d'Arles sont reines Quand la plaisir les rassemble aux arenes, Les bouviers aussi, je crois, Daus la lande en feu sont rois, Oui, la-bas, ils sont rois. Et s'ils veulent prendre femme, La plus fiere au fond de I'ame Se soumet a leur choix.' And in fact it would have been odd if Mr. Brian, or indeed anyone with ears to hear, had not liked it exceedingly ; but Alice knew the kind of ditties, of a proud and masterful kind, which were most congenial to Brian, and oftenest on his lips, and she recognised this as one of them. While they listened with ever-increasing delight and wonder, and as the song was drawing to an end, Alice's quick ear suddenly distinguished footsteps close behind them. She turned rapidly, and in the dim light, which was every moment growing more into darkness, she beheld two figures — those of a rather tall man, and of a small, slim, lightly-poised woman. They were coming from the kitchen, towards the two listeners to the music. Sarah Stott also turned and saw them. She uttered a curious little sound, between a snarl and a snap. ' Eh, what a fond thing o' me, to have left th' dur open !' she said unceremoniously, and openly scowling upon the visitors, while she set her arms akimbo and glared at them ; merely saying after a pause, in far from encouraging tones — ' Well, Misther Barraclough ?' ' Thanks for your usual warm welcome, Sally,' replied the man — he was a young man, too, with a face which it would perhaps have been carping to call ill-favoured. 'Is Mr. Holgate in?' he asked, as Mrs. Stott made no 52 FROM MOOR ISLES reply to him, and at the same time he cast a meaning glance at Alice Ormerod — a glance which at once made him posi- tively, not negatively, ugly. For Alice herself, she had become perfectly rigid, both in expression and attitude ; all the happy geniality and con- tentment had gone from her face and manner. Her eyes and lips were cold as stones, and as hard ; there was no compromise in her aspect of intense aversion to the in- truders. Before Sarah had time to answer the question about Brian, the young woman who accompanied * Misther Barra- clough ' had put in her word. She was so short that she hardly reached to Alice Ormerod's shoulder, and so slender and small in every way that probably Alice, if she had put forth her physical strength with a physical purpose, could easily have picked her up and flung her to some distance away from her — upon a heap of stones, for instance, or over a precipice, or into a pond— without being any the worse for the exertion. She knew it, and many a time as she had sat with a sad heart by her kitchen fire, thinking of Lucy Barraclough, she had looked down at her own strong hands, and powerful, flexible wrists — had felt the sap of life and strength so abounding within her, and had whispered to herself with a bitter sigh — - ' Ay, if that was all that's wanted !' Some thought of the same kind troubled her now, as she fixed her eyes, grown suddenly sombre, upon the brother and sister. * There's no need to bar the way against us, though we may not be as good as some people,' said this little creature, smiling as she unwound a white knitted ' cloud ' from about HOW THE DAY ENDED 53 her throat, though she did not take it off her head. ' We aren't going to detain him a minute. Good-evening, Miss Ormerod ; I see you are neighbourly ; it's but a step across here from the farm, is it ?' AUce merely looked at her in silence ; she was not elo- quent as to words — her strength did not lie in that direction. What she felt now, sweeping over her with a sense of fiery desolation, was that the beautiful dream of a day was about to end in black clouds, storm, and ugliness, and that all her strength could not prevent it. She could subdue Sarah Stott, she could serve the man she loved, and be quite happy in his pleasure ; she was powerless in the presence of Lucy Barraclough. 'Has Brian got a party, or what's going on with all that singing?' asked the young man impatiently. 'For mercy's sake, don't let's have such a lot of mystery about it ; we're old friends. I suppose he can see us ?' Alice clutched at the last straw of a hope, and spoke. * He's got visitors — yes,' she said ; ' very particular visitors they are, and he's not done with them yet ; but I dare say he'll be able to speak to you a minute. Wait here while I tell him.' And she stepped into the room just as Felix was singing the last phrases of his song. Scarcely had she moved to the door than the young man, muttering something which sounded very like ' D d humbug !' also stepped forward, saying — ' Come along, Lucy; this is all a lot of infernal nonsense!' and pushed into the room, followed by his sister. They confronted the whole party. Felix, who had just ceased to sing, was standing near the piano, at which Mrs. 54 FROM MOOR ISLES Reichardt, who had been playing his accompaniment, was still seated ; Brian, at the other end of the room, was lean- ing on the back of a chair, his face filled with the delight he had experienced in the music ; and Ines Grey, in an obscure corner of the room, leaned back in her chair, shading her face with her hand. Alice had only just entered; she hesitated before crossing the whole space of the room to Brian. With the entrance, immediately behind her, of the other two, the eyes of all in the room were turned upon them. Alice, when she per- ceived what had happened, drew herself up into an attitude, perfectly natural and unconstrained, of superb disdain ; she paused a moment, looking from one to the other. She saw Brian start up, a crimson flush on his face ; he was not look- ing at her at all. ' Jim — Lucy,' he almost stammered. ' If we interrupt, pray say so, and we will go,' said Jim, with a painfully expansive smile, and mock politeness in his voice ; ' we wouldn't for the world intrude ! We came in a friendly way, with a little invitation, not knowing you were engaged — did we, Lucy?' * No, indeed, or we wouldn't have come in,' said Lucy, throwing the white cloud off her head, and glancing with quick, bird-like glances round upon the company ; she also smiled, and her smile bore a powerful resemblance to that of her brother, though he was a big and decidedly ugly young man, and she was a very small and decidedly pretty young woman. She stood revealed— a tiny, dark, fragile creature, ex- quisitely trim and neat in every line of her figure and point of her costume, which consisted of a rather bright crimson HOW THE DAY ENDED 55 satin gown, a grand collar and cuffs of lace and embroidery, and a sparkling chain of some kind round her neck. She did not exactly lose her presence of mind, but she glanced quickly round upon the company with eager, interested glances ; none of them escaped her observation — Felix and Mrs. Reichardt, Ines in her corner — she saw them all ; and lastly, the smile became more marked, and she looked at Brian. ' We've seen nothing of you for days,' said Jim, in an in- gratiating voice. ' We came to fetch you back to supper. No offence. We'll go.' * There's no need to go,' said Brian, in a slightly tremulous voice, as he came forward and walked straight up to Lucy, looking at her all the time with eyes which told their tale in a language which he might read who ran ; ' you just come in time to see my guests before they leave. Sit you down, Lucy ; we are just going to have some tea before Mr. Ark- wright and the ladies go. Jim, sit down.' But there was no need to sit down. Alice had left the room ; but it was not she who came to announce tea at that moment; it was Mrs. Stott, and she performed her office with a marked sourness of mien, patent to all beholders. Brian performed a hasty kind of introduction, and they all went into the other room. Lucy, indeed, did whisper some- thing to Jim, who shook his head, and muttered, ' Not I !' in response to her words ; and, despite his repeated protes- tation that they would go, they did nothing of the kind. Brian placed a chair at the tea-table for Lucy, who seated herself in it in silence, casting repeated looks at the visitors — openly at the ladies and their attire — more furtively at Felix, who, as they were not doomed to spend the evening 56 FROM MOOR ISLES in this new company, found himself highly interested and entertained with the whole affair. Brian made one or two rather incoherent attempts to explain to Lucy the nature of the day's entertainment. She listened to him almost in silence, saying ' Yes ' and ' No ' now and then. Her brother, thinking perhaps that a little amiable chat might improve the occasion, turned to Ines Grey, who sat next to him, and, with the family smile illumi- nating his features also, made some observation, to which, after a pause, she replied coldly and discouragingly. But the Barraclough brother, at any rate, did not appear to suffer from nervousness. Brian was sensible of Jim's far from polished behaviour, and he suffered, and yet was delighted, and showed his delight every time his eyes rested upon Lucy. Mrs. Reichardt, perceiving his embarrassment, came to the rescue by rising after they had drunk each a cup of tea, and saying that they must on no account be late for their train, and she thought they had better now go and get ready. The kindly manner and the pleasant voice in which she spoke to the young fellow became absolute icy vacancy as, in moving, her eyes swept the face of Lucy Barraclough. Brian jumped up, ran to the door and opened it, and called to Sarah to bring a candle for them. His behest was answered by Alice, with a little shaded lamp in her hand. She led the way upstairs ; Brian avoided looking at her, and returned to the dining-room. How different were her feel- ings now from those with which, in the morning, she had attended these ladies upstairs ! She was about to retire and leave them ; but Ehsabeth, turning to her, said — ' Do please forgive me ; I want to tell you that we have HOW THE DAY ENDED 57 had such a dehghtful day ! We never remembered to have enjoyed ourselves more. It has been so peaceful and bright and pleasant. And when we were out with Mr. Holgate, we learnt how much we were indebted to you for our great pleasure and ' ' He promised me he'd say nothing about it,' said Alice, her face, which, since the arrival of the Barraclough con- tingent, had looked pale and tired, now suddenly flushing crimson. But she did not withdraw her hand from that of Mrs. Reichardt, which had clasped it. 'And he did not ; he did not say one word till we asked him. And we had no business to do so, you think,' she added, smiling into the girl's proud, embarrassed face. ' You must forgive us. I'm afraid we are just a little bit off-hand in our ways sometimes, and you know we could not help looking at you — as soon as ever we saw you. You should not be so — well, what you are, if you don't want people to notice you. And I'm afraid we asked Mr. Hol- gate about you, and he became quite enthusiastic, and said what a friend of his you were. And we thought it so nice of you.' ' Oh, it's nothing — nothing !' said Alice, her face turning pale again, as some painful emotion crossed her mind. And just then she raised her troubled eyes and met those of Elisabeth. The glance seemed suddenly to loosen her tongue, and she said — ' You're welcome as welcome can be ; and I was down- right glad to do it. It was just like a fairy tale — you and the young lady, and that gentleman's beautiful singing, such as /never heard the like of before. But it's all spoilt now,' she added, with passionate bitterness and disappointment. 58 FROM MOOR ISLES ' All the good's gone, and all the pleasure. And they will be the ruin of him in the end — those two downstairs. And it's cruel — oh, it's cruel and hard !' ' That man and that girl ?' EHsabeth asked in a low voice. ' I didn't much like their looks, I must confess.' ' Like them ! Eh, ma'am, there's not one good thing about them, and he's fair mad after them ! I did think they'd have let him alone, when they knew he had company as they hadn't been asked to.' ' But they did not know ' ' Didn't they ? They perhaps said they didn't. They're not so particular as all that about telling the truth, aren't Barracloughs. But there,' she added suddenly, *I've no call to be troubling you with such things ! We mun all carry our own burdens. I'm rightdown glad if any of his friends have enjoyed themselves at his house ; and when you've gone, I shall go home. There's nothing to keep me now.' EHsabeth looked at her with kindly, sympathetic eyes. * Do you ever come to Irkford ?' she asked. ' Very seldom — once a year, maybe. We get the most of what we want in Hollowley.' * But you do come sometimes. This is my card, with my address on it. Will you promise that, whenever you do come, you will come and see me ? I should look upon it as a favour — a very great favour. I shall never forget you. Will you come ?' ' I'm sure you mean it,' said Alice, looking at her. ' Ay, I'll come. Even if I was in misery, I'll come.' ' Even in misery ! Yes, I should appreciate that. I should know you believed in me. Remember, I fully expect a visit from you soon,' HOW THE DAY ENDED 59 'I don't know about soon. But I'll come. I will do that.' 'Thank you. Good-night. Don't wait for us to go, if you want to go home. Please shake hands with me.' Alice put her hand within that of Elisabeth, and tears rushed to her eyes. * Eh,' said she, ' I do like you. I could never have thought I could like anyone so much, first time o' seein' them. Good-night. 1 think I'll just slip across now. There's nothing more that I can do — nothing.' She followed them downstairs, and went into the kitchen. No one noticed her. 'Good-night, Sarah Stott,' said she in a muffled voice. * We can do no more. We mun leave them to it. I'll come in to-morrow morning and help you to side away th' glass and silver.' She cast a shawl about her and stepped out into the darkness, with bowed head and stooping shoulders — this proud Alice. Within half an hour of her departure, Felix and the two ladies had driven off to the Hollowley station, and Brian Holgate had left his own house, and was walking in com- pany with his two latest visitors up the lane towards the ugly, staring red-brick house, built out of the profits of a railway-grease manufactory, which house had been christened by its owners, ' Jessamine Lawn,' but which was known to the entire neighbourhood as ' Barraclough's ' — neither more nor less. Jim Barraclough, continuing in the darkness to smile his somewhat portentous smile, maintained a judicious silence. He left the palaver, as he called it, to Lucy, who knew 6o FROM MOOR ISLES better than he did how to conduct that part of the business. *We shall soon be afraid to come near you,' she said, with a laugh, ' if you are going about with such grand folk as those people that we're not good enough to be invited to meet !' ' You know that wasn't the reason, Lucy,' he said humbly and apologetically. ' I couldn't help it. You know I should have liked to have you there all the time. But it was quite a sudden thing, my asking him. He's a great man — I never hoped he would come at all. He sees more people than he can remember, and he's sometimes thankful for a bit of quietness. So, when he asked me to let them come quite alone, of course I said I wished him to come in the way that would please him best. It isn't pride in him, whatever you may think. He's quite beyond all that sort of nonsense.' ' Oh, all very well ! But he brought those two women along with him, and never troubled to know if you had a lady to entertain them,' said Lucy, in whose mind the occurrence seemed to rankle. ' Nay ; he knew 1 was a bachelor, hke himself.' ' A bachelor ! And pray what were the ladies, then — relations ?' ' The elder one, Mrs. Reichardt ' * She had as ugly a face as ever I saw,' said pretty Lucy spitefully ; ' with that great bulging forehead and turned-up nose !' He replied gravely, ' It's a pity if you could only see that her features were not handsome, and nothing else. She is a great friend of his — his oldest friend. She lives at Irk- ford, with her father-in-law, an old Mr. Reichardt. He's a HOW THE DAY ENDED 6i German, but she is an Englishwoman. She's a widow ; her husband died after they had been married only a few years. She's a lady every inch, Lucy, say what you like, and fiddles like an angel from heaven.' Lucy laughed ; she had not much interest in either fiddling or angels. * And the girl ?' she asked * Miss Grey, Miss Ines Grey, is her name. She is a ward of his, and goes to school ; but she's with them on a holiday just now.' * Humph ! Well, I thought them very set-up conceited people. And if he didn't want anyone to meet him what was Alice Ormerod doing there ?' Slowly and reluctantly he answered, * Alice was very kind. She had been helping us. Sarah Stott is getting old now ; she loses her temper, and finds things troublesome. But Alice ' * Alice doesn't. No, I dare say !' remarked Miss Barra- clough, with the same light laugh which she had uttered once or twice before. ' Here we are !' she added, as they turned in at a brand-new iron gateway, and began to make their way up a new gravel drive, towards a house which showed itself dimly as standing on an eminence. 'You shall have a social evening with us, and forget all about your singing people and their grand ladies. I can't see what you want with them, when you have your own old friends close at hand.' At this juncture Jim walked on ahead, saying that he would open the door for them. Brian at once slackened his pace, and came to a pause, taking Lucy's hand, and saying persuasively^ — 62 FROM MOOR ISLES * You aren't cross with me, Lucy ? You know very well I'd rather have half an hour of your company than a whole day of anyone else's.' ' So you show it by neglecting us, and asking a whole lot of strangers, and having Alice Ormerod in and out, making eyes at you, and ' ' Lucy, it's a lie !' said he violently, as he almost tossed her hand away from him. * You know it's a lie. Why do you say that of Alice Ormerod ? How dare you, when you know it's false !' ' Oh, dear, dear ! If that's the state of affairs, you'd better go back. I see I am nowhere now. Go back to her, sir — go !' *You know that your little finger is dearer to me than her whole body,' he said savagely ; ' but you've no call to tell lies about her. You can be so cruel; I think some- times that you are a devil leading me to destruction !' She burst out laughing ; and if there was a nervous ring in her merriment, he was far too much excited to notice it. ' Well, I never wanted to be taken for a ninny ; but a devil — there's a good deal of difference between the two ! I thought I was your friend, and that's neither one nor the other.' 'You're the only woman in the world for me,' he whispered hoarsely and indistinctly. ' Lucy, I haven't seen you for three days. Just one ki$s !' * No,' said she, in a clear, cold voice, as she drew a little to one side. ' Not one, till you've earned it.' ' Well, and how am I to do that ?' he asked, trying to curb his impatience under a tone of resignation. ' Don't make yourself disagreeable to-night, upsetting the HOW THE DAY ENDED 63 whole party. They are going to play cards, and you must join in pleasantly.' ' I don't care for cards,' he said reluctantly. ' It's you I want to see, not the cards.' * Well,' said she indifferently, ' all I can say is, Jim and Richard Law care for nothing else; and if you can't give way to them, they won't ask you to come. And I can't, you know, of course.' ' Well,' said he, * anything to please you, or be near you. I'll play, though I don't see the sense of it. And the kiss ' * We can talk about that when you've shown that you meant what you say.' 'You're a precious long time in walking up the drive,' jeered Jim, as they ascended the steps and went into the vestibule. ' Mind your own business, Jim,* his sister ordered him ; ' and, Brian, come in.' Brian followed them into a lighted hall. The frank, con- tented expression had disappeared from his face, and had given way to one of uneasiness and indecision. It was quite clear that he was not a free agent. His eyes followed Lucy about with sombre persistency, with the looks of a lover, but not of a happy lover. Though it was not publicly known, he had been in a sort of way betrothed to her for nearly a year. But there had never been any sense of security or certainty about it, and he had deteriorated in more ways than one since the conditional engagement had been made. Lucy had made the conditions ; they were — that her father was not to know anything about it, nor any outsiders ; and that if he complied with these stipulations, she would marry him — some time. 64 FROM MOOR ISLES CHAPTER VI. BACK INTO THE TOWN. Felix and his two ladies were not at all too early for their train. They had not waited two minutes on the dreary and grimy platform of the HoUowley station before it came. Then they found themselves with a first-class compartment to themselves, a lamp dimly burning in it, and outside, what had been twilight before, transformed into darkness. * Well,' said Mrs. Reichardt, leaning her head back and drawing her hand across her eyes, 'I don't think I ever spent quite such a day before. In some ways it has been unique.' ' But not disappointing, I hope ?' said Felix solicitously. ' Not in any one way. No ; I have been interested, amused, and thoroughly well entertained from beginning to end. And I have been touched too. I have caught sudden and unexpected glimpses into little tracts and islands, as it were, of pathos and romance ; I have indeed.' *You always do, you know, wherever you go,' said he, w^ith cheerful scepticism and a smile which helped to make it comprehensible why, apart from his gift of song, he was so great a favourite with his public. 'It is a failing of yours. You can no more help finding pathos and romance in everybody you see, than some other people can help find- ing out the flaws and blemishes. It's all subjective, you know — most of it, at any rate.' ' Ah, yes, you always talk in that way I But I know that what I say is true. Ines ' — she turned to the girl who BACK INTO THE TOWN 6$ sat beside her, and laid her hand upon hers — ' did you hear what passed between me and that beautiful Alice Ormerod in the bedroom upstairs, or were you pondering over your " roots " so that you lost it all ?' 'Oh, I heard — and saw,' said Ines Grey, smiling. 'Yes, Monsieur Felix,' she added, turning to him, ' it is quite true. It was very pathetic and romantic, and very sad, too, I think.' ' Don't tell me what was pathetic and romantic,' cried he; ' I will tell you ! I will reveal to you what I saw, and then we can see whether it agrees with what you saw. In the first place, I thought, after observing them for some time, that that beautiful and most modest and well-behaved young woman was disposed to feel not altogether unkindly towards our host, and ' ' He thought^ after observing them for some time !' ejacu- lated she. ' Oh, men ! what extraordinary creatures they are ! I saw that within ten minutes of our having sat down to lunch ' ' Now, Lisa, that's a little too much ! You may consider my words wrapped up in any amount of polite and round- about phrases, but— I don't believe it ; I don't believe you saw anything of the kind.' ' How you spoil yourself, and what injustice you do your self, Felix, by persistently wearing this mask of cold, un- feeHng cynicism !' she cried warmly, at which both her companions laughed heartily ; and then he, with sudden seriousness, added — ' You are mistaken as to my cynicism. I think your idea is more of that nature — your idea that a girl as proud as that girl evidently is, would under any circumstances allow 5 66 FROM MOOR ISLES such feelings to become evident in ten minutes. I'm sure she did not. Anything more dignified, modest, and irre- proachably ' ' Pshaw ! of course I didn't suppose jou saw it, or Mr. Holgate either, for that matter. But I did, and I'm sure Jnes did; now, didn't you, Ines ?' ' Not in ten minutes,' said Ines, her fair face crimsoning. * I — wasn't thinking about it.' Felix looked half vexed, and half amused ; an expression which the young girl was quick enough to observe, but which escaped Mrs. Reichardt, absorbed as she was in reflections upon her discoveries in the regions of romance as found at Moor Isles. ' I'm perfectly certain it is so. And those creatures who came in afterwards, that man and that girl— what odious people !' ' A very pretty girl,' said Felix exasperatingly. 'A little vulgar chit, with such a bad expression ! Ines, you must have seen what a bad expression she had.' ' I did not like her ; she looked insincere,' said Ines. Elisabeth nodded triumphantly at Felix, who merely shook his head, and observed gravely — ' Whether sincere or insincere, she looked to me very fragile; so slight and delicate, as if she could not stand much. And whatever may be the case with the other girl, it is at that little Lucy's feet that our friend Brian lies. She can do what she pleases with him.' 'I wouldn't go so far as that,' said Elisabeth, whose wishes were often father to her thought. She wished well to Alice Ormerod, to whom she had taken an extraordinary liking, and she had not seen any of the day's events so BACK INTO THE TOWN 67 clearly as Felix had. * That he was very much attracted by her, I do not deny, but ' ' I do go so far as that,' said Felix ; ' and I hold to it and repeat it I There's a drama going on in that quiet little hamlet, of which we have just had a glimpse, and which has excited and interested even us, strangers as we are.' He spoke with gravity and apparent sincerity; but kept a watchful eye, with something like a smile in it, upon Elisa- beth's face the while. ' Even we have been excited and interested,' he went on reflectively, as he leaned forward, with his elbow on his knee, and pulled his moustache thoughtfully. 'What must it be to them, living each so near to the other, in that quiet little rustic place, with no outside things to distract their attention — able to give almost as much time as they please to studying their own and each other's hearts ?' ' In that quaint old house, so homely and pleasant,' Elisa- beth eagerly joined in, in a kind of chorus, * with all those wild, grand moors on every side, and that great hill — Raven- side — what did they call it ? That sunset — was it not wild and grand ?' ' And the farm close by, with the friend of his childhood,' pursued Felix, the smile, which she was now much too enthusiastic to notice, becoming more marked, * doing all she can for his good, and the other little ' * You may say it,' said Mrs. Reichardt, as he paused ; * it's just what I think myself.' 'Yes, and the other little — witch, we will say— it's a witches' country, you know, and I suppose some Mother Demdike or Mother Chattox has allowed her mantle to descend, altered to suit modern views, upon Miss Barra- 68 - FROM MOOR ISLES dough's shoulders ! — this little witch skipping in and out, and every time poor Alice thinks she has got a little hold of him, tripping up and touching him with her little finger, or lifting her hand, whereupon he instantly comes tumbling down from any little pinnacle of common-sense to which he may have clambered, and it is all to begin over again — each time more difficult to manage than the last.' Elisabeth shook her head in gloomy, earnest assent to this picture, and sighed deeply. ' Yes, yes ; I fear you have seen only too truly ! I wonder bow it will all end ? But,' she added sharply, and suddenly looking up at him, ' I thought these little islands and oases of pathos and romance were a nonsensical dream of mine !' * I never said they were not. But I have, I think, skil- fully filled in an imaginary outline to please you. I like to please you. One wishes to gratify one's friends, even at the ' ' Expense of truth, I do beUeve he was going to say. Well, all I can say is, mark my words. We shall hear more of these people. I shall make it in my way to hear more of them. I am profoundly interested in them, and in every- thing relating to them. I do not mean to lose sight of them, or ' ' Till the next nine days' wonder appears,' said he, laugh- ing and leaning back ; * till the next claim on your interest and benevolence starts up, in the shape of the most beautiful, talented, and unfortunate girl that ever Hved; or a mis- understood youth who ' ' Felix,' she exclaimed, turning upon him with a flush of real vexation upon her face, and even stamping her foot a little, ' when you persist in that sneering, horrid tone, I could BACK INTO THE TOWN 69 almost hate you, sometimes ! It is unworthy of you, and you do not in the least understand how deeply my feelings are engaged in this matter.' xA.s he still continued to look at her with the same good- natured, tolerant smile, she suddenly changed her tone to one of defiance, and proceeded with animation — ' People who live in glass houses should not throw stones You are the last person in the world to take that tone. Who, I should like to know, is more quixotic than ' ' Spare me !' he besought her, extending his hands with a look of genuine alarm. ' Oh, spare me, and remember your promise !' ' You exasperate me till I forget all my promises,' she began, when Ines, who had been watching Felix closely during the whole of the conversation, leaned close to Elisa- beth's ear, and half whispered — 'He is putting it on more than ever— I saw him do it. It's too bad of him ! He thinks you won't notice.' ' Wise little girl !' exclaimed the elder lady, her vexed expression suddenly disappearing, while sunshine beamed over her face once more. ' There, Felix, shake hands. You are an incorrigible cynic ; you were born so ; you have lived so. You will never be anything else. I shall have to endure you as best I can.' He took the extended hand, bent over it, and kissed it, with a smile, 'Amen!' he remarked. ' Your instinctive knowledge of character is nothing less than profound.' Ines, still leaning against Elisabeth, looked from one to the other of them, and laughed a gentle litUe laugh. The dispute, if dispute it had been, was over, but for the rest of 70 FROM MOOR ISLES the time during which they were journeying to Irkford, they still talked with lively interest of Brian Holgate and of his old home ; of the little gray moorland village of Thornton- in-Ravenside ; of the rough, stony lane up which they had wandered, between banks of heather and gorse, bracken and harebells, to look at ihe sunset, crimson, wild, and glorious, and at the huge dark form of Ravenside Moor, looking like some couchant monster, black against the golden sky. They talked of beautiful Alice Ormerod, and of her innocence, simplicity, and helpfulness. It was all some- thing which, on the outside, at any rate, was, as it were, out of their beat. They had looked into another kind of life, and seen feehngs, common, of course, to all humanity, ex- pressed in a different way, almost in another language, from those they knew. That was why they were interested. And the impression made upon Elisabeth's mind by what she had heard and seen was by no means so fleeting as FeHx would jestingly have made it appear. When at last the train rolled into the great lighted city station, and they had to get out, Elisabeth heaved a deep sigh. ' Back again into our civilisation !' said she. ' To-morrow evening, Felix, will be as great a contrast to this as it is possible for one thing to be to another. With the people still, but what a different people !' ' You know all about it, I suppose,' said he. ' I don't. I trust myself blindly in your hands. I hope you are not going to let m.e in for something quite too extraordinary.' ' I'm going to let you in for doing a real kindness to those who sorely need it,' she said reproachfully. Then, kindUng, even as they threaded their way through the bustling crowd, BACK INTO THE TOWN 71 towards the outside, where her carriage was to be waiting for them — ' Ah, yes ! If you knew what I know ; if you knew the joy that one such action on our parts, so easy and so simple for us, can be to those hundreds of toihvorn men and women ' ' Regardless, as usual, of time and place,' said Felix, drawing her hand through his arm. ' Allow me to offer you my support during your harangue. I've often thought, Lisa, that you could, if you only had the opportunities, emulate one of our greatest and most copious orators, and do it well ; and I know nothing about the toihvorn men and women, but I do know that that extraordinary little enthu- siast, Reedley, has struck a perfect mine of the same sort of thing in you ; and I hope you won't carry it too far, that's all.' ' You never understand. Wait till to-morrow comes, and you have seen for yourself,' said she ; and he laughed, and said, 'Well, I will;' while Ines Grey, walking close behind them, shook her head, and smiled to herself. [72 fnxt H. CHAPTER r. INES WRITES. It is many years now since we spent that autumn day at the old stone house amongst the north-east Lancashire hills, and on looking back, it seems to me as though that day had been the first in a certain chain of circumstances in our lives — I mean in the lives of Elisabeth, Felix Arkwright, and myself, Ines Grey ; as if it had been the forerunner of the new set of thoughts and feelings which began soon after to distinguish my life, at any rate, from what it had been before. Elisabeth has been writing about it, and she asked me the other day if I objected to contribute my share to the story. No, I did not — I do not. Her request it was which sent me to my writing-table, and to unlock a drawer in it which for years has been closed, and the con- tents thereof undisturbed. I drew forth from it sundry volumes of MSS. — the journals I kept many, many years ago, while still a girl, and in many respects a very childish girl. I am not going to quote from them — no. They are too crude, too raw and small, those old journals containing the INES WRITES 73 outpourings of a girl's heart, to be presentable in the pages of a connected, grown-up narrative. They would be simply ridiculous, and far from interesting, too. No, their poor little fancies I will not drag out to the light of day. But yet, as I turned them over, and came upon passage after passage, all referring to one subject or to things akin to it ; exaggerated in language if not in feel- ing, but always, as I found, steeped through and through with one great feeling— one passion, as I now see it was, of blended love and gratitude ; when I read these extracts, and saw the heart they half concealed and half revealed, I knew that amidst all its errors, hasty, ill-considered impulses, mistakes, impertinences, that heart was really ever, to use the common old expression, 'in the right place.' As I saw this more and more clearly, while turning over these old leaves, inscribed with the unformed caligraphy of sixteen and seventeen, I covered my face with my hands, and wept with joy and pride and thankfulness. After all these years I see it plainly spread before me — the whole case ; all the murmurings, the sorrowings, and repinings over my own incapacity ; my wild, ardent wishes that I could do more, be more — have something tangible to show ; all my aspira- tions after fame and glory — not for my own sake — how futile they were, how needless, and how amply was the want of power to become this something great and glorious atoned for, covered, and made right and successful in the midst of its unsuccess, by this one great love, unwavering, unerring, unshakeable. How it grew and developed, I can see; always the same feeling, in different and succeeding stages — from the outspoken admiration and confidence of the child rejoicing in a strong, kind protector, throu h the shy, 74 FROM MOOR ISLES embarrassed enthusiasm of the school -girl, deeper than before, but afraid of obtruding itself by speaking; dim in- timations of the existence, as yet vaguely in the background, of another kind of love, terrifying even in its unrealized strength, up to the ever- deepening consciousness of the maiden — love stronger than death; making a giant of a weak girl ; but hidden as deeply as possible even from her- self — well, it was hardly to indulge in a rhapsody on my own feelings that Elisabeth asked me to do my share in the piecing together of her story. So, having studied these old journals for the record of events, and having unexpectedly extracted from them, running alongside of this record, the faithful chronicle of my own heart and mind, I will here proceed to set down the facts, together with some of the feelings which sprang from them ; and when I have done that I will burn my old journals. They have done their duty — let them go ! And, in order to make my story clear, I shall have to go back, and as briefly as possible relate how it happened that Ines Grey ever came to be what she was, at seventeen years of age — a happy, if rather dreamy girl, leading a life fuller and richer than she knew, even though she might be well aware of the extent of some portion of her riches; sur- rounded by all good and beautiful influences ; by love and gentleness — and not a neglected waif, fighting a bitter battle with a world that was too strong for her, as it had been for her mother before her. \\^en my father, a brilliant and fashionable young attache at a foreign court, with nothing in the world but his official salary and an allowance from his father (he was a younger son), met my mother, who was the English governess in a INES WRITES 75 rich and well-known noble family much about the court, he was twenty-five and she was twenty two. To fall in love, go through a brief courtship, and get themselves married, was the delightfully simple and rapid work of six weeks. To encounter, afterwards, the fury of his family, who had had very different views for him — their indignant reproaches, and the punishment they meted out to him, which took the form of stopping his allowance and practically disowning him — utter and complete refusal to countenance or receive him and his impecunious and insignificant bride under any circumstances whatsoever — to stand face to face, in fact, with the complete wreck of material prosperity and hope for the future — this was accomplished in a not much longer time than that which had led to it. That is, three months after his first meeting Ines Marston, my father had made her Ines Grey ; had gained a true and loving wife, and lost every prospect of worldly success. For a short time after her marriage, my mother continued her duties as governess in the family where she had met my father. They were attached to her, and wishful for her to remain with them. Then came the inevitable break ; the prospect of mother- hood; the temporarily broken health, the cessation of employment ; no feeling of anger on her part, but one of acquiescence in the fact that the education of the little Grafs and Grafins must go on without interruption, whatever might become of Mrs. Raymond Grey — and then a long series of clouds and misfortunes, varying in darkness, but never really disappearing. The most terrible and crushing of all came at last, the death of my father, of typhoid, in Paris, when I, her baby, was less than a year old. Then began her fearful battle with the world; with poverty, failure, and adverse 76 FROM MOOR ISLES circumstances of all kinds. She had a brave heart and a proud spirit, if an unforgiving one in some respects. While to her it was the crown and glory of her life ; the thing for which she had been born, to have been my father's wife and the mother of his child, she never ceased to resent, with undying strength, the treatment of herself and her husband by his family. Not even for her child's sake would she in any way introduce herself to their notice. She calculated her prospects — success doubtful ; poverty and wretchedness almost certain — her child her own ; no favours asked, and none refused or grudgingly granted. She resolved to face Paris, cruel, hard, and utterly indifferent, like every other great city, to such as she was, and there try to make her liveHhood. She was an accomplished musician in a light and graceful style (a gift which she did not in any way transmit to her child). She had still two or three moderately influential friends, and with infinite difficulty, and by the constant practice of a heartrending and body- wasting economy, she contrived, with her child, to exist, to keep alive — it was hardly more. She gave lessons in singing and piano - playing, and occasionally she received a commission to sing either at some evening or afternoon at a private house, or to take some small, secondary part in a public concert or oratorio. It was on one of these occasions, when I was seven years old, and my mother was twenty-nine, that, at the last moment, she was sent for to sing a little solo part coming in between the choruses in a new romantic composition which had just leapt into popularity. Being by a German composer, it had of course been heard everywhere else before it penetrated to Paris ; but music-lovers had begun INES WRITES 77 to clamour for it, and at last it was to be produced. The chief ' star ' of the occasion was a young English baritone, one Felix Arkwright by name, then between twenty-four and twenty-five years of age, who had been making a furore for eighteen months or more, in London and the English pro- vinces, and who was now singing most gloriously in French to a French and English audience, cool and critical in the extreme. The idea of singing even her small part before them, and in the presence of Felix, as he was called there, somewhat unnerved my mother. The life which she had now for six years been leading, of incessant struggle, and constant pressure of her whole slender personality against the door, to keep the wolf out, had not had the most bracing effect upon her nerve, her courage, or her health in general. Instead of being inspired by the promotion so suddenly extended to her, she was flurried by it. Instead of arraying herself promptly in her one smart evening cos- tume, coming to the front, and looking as if all were well with her, and she without a care or a trouble, which, as every sensible person knows, is the way of ways in which to get on in the world, she felt and looked shrinking and timid, pitiably wanting in manner and aplomb. As is well known, feelings like these, if once indulged in, are apt to gain upon their victims ; and it seems a pity that when women are overtaken by poverty and misfortune, and are forced to encounter the strength of the world arrayed against them, they cannot at the same time have their nerves and sensibilities turned into tempered steel. Science as yet has shown us no way to such a consummation — it certainly had not arrived in my mother's case. She did not that evening distinguish herself by any very brilliant success. 78 FROM MOOR ISLES In fact, she sang out of tune more than once, occasioning a shght hissing from some of the audience, which hissing had not the effect of reassuring her. She was nervously and intensely conscious of it all ; but that which troubled and unnerved her more than all the rest put together was the keen, direct glance of the young Englishman in all the pride of his youth, his popularity, and his success. After each slip that she made she was terribly aware of his eyes fixed piercingly and (of course) angrily upon her. Becoming more and more confused, and with ever a stronger sense upon her of a benumbing kind of headache, and of oncoming illness, she at last lost her presence of mind at a critical point, and in an agony of nervousness took up the words of her solo at a wrong place entirely. There was quite a loud storm of hissing, there was a wretched discord as the instruments, triumphantly going on their way, did not quite succeed in drowning her ill-timed contribution to the concert. She saw the angry scowl of the conductor, and heard his muttered ^Madame, que faites vous^ done P It was all very terrible and overpowering, and at this juncture ' Madame Ines,' as she was called in the bills and programmes, took the opportunity of fainting away. A certain amount of bustle and commotion was inevitable ; for about five minutes the concert was stopped ; but very quickly the unconscious form of Madame Ines was borne away to a dressing-room, and there left with an attendant, a candle, and a glass of cold water. A charming little blondine^ with blue eyes and a mouth of iron, was beckoned forth from amongst the first soprani, and with the greatest success undertook the part in which Madame Ines had failed. (This was the beginning of a very brilliant INES WRITES 79 career for the young lady, who charmed everyone by her presence of mind, and by the adequate style in which, at less than a minute's notice, she filled up the gap caused by the other woman's stupidity.) So the first part of the concert came to an end, and orchestra, chorus, and soloists dispersed to their different haunts, for a quarter of an hour's pause. A number of the admirers of M. Felix were waiting for him, with congratulations, and praises, and many other agreeable, if transient results of a brilliant success. He smiled upon them all, as he had the habit of doing ; was courteous and kind, but persisted, with the dogged perse- verance said to be so strongly developed in his nation, in inquiring, until he got some sort of an answer — * Where is the lady who fainted ? — the English lady — they told me she was English — Madame, what is her name ? Ines ? Yes, Madame Ines. She looked ill. Where is she?' *0h, she's all right,' said the />rwia donna of the evening. ' She will be looked after. Most likely she has gone home. Stupid of her to make such a fuss, and what a mercy that little Lucile should have proved herself so useful and capable !' ' Yes — quite so, but ' 'Come, Monsieur,' added the lady, who was not accus tomed to be thwarted, ' I wish to present you to a friend of mine.' * Presently, Madame,' he answered her, with a gracious smile and bow, as he turned his back upon her, still inquiring right and left for Madame Ines. ' What interest can he possibly have in that dowdy, stupid So FROM MOOR ISLES frump of a woman ?' the prima donna asked angrily, her face red with vexation at his want of gallantry. But he had at last found Madame Ines in an obscure little dark room, in which the candle was still burning dimly. She had recovered consciousness, and the attendant had left her and gone to seek more amusing company. She sat limply in a frowsy-looking armchair, and she looked sick and sad and spiritless. She had not gone home. She did not look as if she were capable of getting home without some assistance. ' Madame,' he began, pausing on the threshold of the litde den — for it was nothing more. She looked up lan- guidly, and slowly recognised him. Then tears rushed to her eyes, and over her face spread a slow, painful blush. ' Oh, Monsieur !' she began, half rising, ' I cannot express my shame and mortification at having sung falsely and put you out. I have no excuse. I was not well enough to undertake the part, and I knew it. I — I — it is so seldom such a chance comes in my way — and I have my little girl to think of. I felt as if I could struggle through with it, but ' 'I was very sorry to see how ill you were,' said Felix. ' The interruption was nothing. T felt sure you were even more indisposed than appeared, and I have come to see if you are not going home.' ' Presently, Monsieur, since you are good enough to ask — when I feel a little more rested, and able to walk as far as the omnibus.' 'You must not dream of walking anywhere,' said he quickly. ' Oh yes !' She tried to laugh. ' On the contrary, 1 INES WRITES 8i must not dream of driving. Pray do not let me detain you. I shall presently set out. I feel better already from the kind way in which you have received my stupid blunders.' ' You have your wraps here,' he said, looking round. ' Yes, I see — a shawl, a hood ; permit me. Now ' — when, with his help, she had put them on — 'take my arm. This way He led her round to a side entrance which he knew of, sent a prowling gamin skipping in search of a cab, which soon appeared ; put her into it, with gentle, but quite un- questioning decision, got her address, and said a few words to the driver ; then spoke to her through the window. ' He will drive you straight home. And — pardon my freedom, but these Paris drivers are such rascals, sometimes — I have taken the precaution to pay him the exact fare. May I call and inquire after you to-morrow morning — about noon ? Thanks, and au revoir.^ In another second he had disappeared ; and she, lost in thankfulness and astonishment, gave herself up to the long unknown luxury of getting home so easily, and to reflections of gratitude which for the time being were stronger than her sensations of physical illness. Such was the manner in which my mother made her first acquaintance with Felix. Mine began on the following day. I remember exceedingly well how she was too ill to go out to any of her engagements that morning, and had to send notes to the pupils who were expecting her. Also, how she said to me, caressing me, that perhaps a gentleman might call — she didn't think he would ; it was most unlikely that he should remember ; still, one ought to be prepared. And with that she roused herself to fight against the ever- 6 82 FROM MOOR ISLES increasing sensations of illness, which were rapidly becoming too strong for her, and dressed me in my poor little best frock, and herself put on that gown which was usually reserved for rather superior occasions. Having accomplished thisj it seemed as if she could do no more, but sank down in her easy-chair, and, when I placed myself at her feet, laid her hot hand on my head, and became strangely still, with her eyes closed, so that I was frightened, and became still more so when I heard her say now and then, half to herself, as if she did not know she was speaking aloud, ' He won't come. He will forget. Of course he will forget, and I am so ill.' But just before the little timepiece struck the hour of noon, someone did knock upon our door. * Run, darling, and open the door !' said my mother quickly to me ; and I obeyed, turned the handle with both my small hands, and confronted, with much amazement, a visitor of an utterly unknown kind in my experience — a tall and handsome young gentleman, with bright, kind eyes, and a pleasant smile which gradually spread over his face when, after looking far above my head for the person who had opened the door to him, his gaze travelled gradually down till it encountered the top of my head, just above his own knees, though I was involuntarily standing on tip-toe, the better to see what he was like. ' May I come in, little lady ?' he asked, laughing, as I made way for him ; and he stepped forward, saw my mother, looked at me again, and apparently took in the whole situation. I found that he was holding me by the hand, closing the door, and then advancing towards my mother's side. INES WRITES 83 ' Good-morning, Madame. I hope you have recovered from your faintness of last night, and feel better to-day.' She tried to smile, to rise, and to speak, and succeeded in getting out something about ' Your kindness — such trouble — not much better, I fear. But I will take a few days' rest, and then ' * And then ' seemed to leave volumes unsaid. I saw the smile on the stranger's face give way to an expression of much gravity, but the kindness and goodwill never clouded over for one moment. * I fear you are very far from well,' he said seriously. ' This, I suppose, is your little daughter ? I see her likeness to you.' ' Yes,' said she, brightening up for a moment. ' This is Ines, my only child. But I always think she has such a look of her father ' — proudly. ' Ines, this gentleman is called Monsieur Felix. Shake hands with him, my darling, and say, " Good day, Monsieur." ' I obediently did so. I felt at once the most unbounded confidence in M. Felix. He, probably to gain my mother's confidence the more quickly, took me in his arm, as he seated himself nearly opposite to her, and, leaning forward a little, held me encircled, and occasionally stroked my head with his hand while he talked. ' Monsieur Felix, professionally, here in Paris,' he said, explaining. *My name, my own private name, is Felix Arkwright — which might be anybody's name, might it not, Mrs. Grey?' She smiled a Httle. He was strong, kind, and determined. She was weak, lonely, and feeling every moment more sick, ill, and stupefied. For the first time, in all the years of 84 FROM MOOR ISLES Struggle, a great terror had come over her, a feeling of help- less, naked impotence, such as sometimes is the forerunner of an attack of severe illness. It took him but a short time to make her tell him all her circumstances and history : her scanty supply of friends — they had been mostly of a migra- tory kind, and had dropped off, one by one ; how, on her own side, she did not possess a single relation, and how the relations of her husband had behaved at the time of his marriage. To all of which he listened with a grave, respect- ful interest, seeming in no hurry to move or get the inter- view over, until she, suddenly recollecting herself, made some feeble kind of an apology for thus troubling him with her private anxieties — having no claim, and so on. ' You and I are of the same nation, Mrs. Grey,' he said. ' It seems to me the most natural thing in the world that you should tell your own countryman these things. I can see several reasons why we should have confidence in one another — first, as I say, because we are both English. Then, you tell me your father was a clergyman. Well, mine is not exactly a clergyman ' — he smiled — ' but he is a very learned man, and, until I was able to help him, he was very poor too. He is a great scholar, and he holds the post of librarian to Lord Urmston, near Kirkfence, in Yorkshire. I'm very proud of my father, though I have bewildered him a good deal by persisting in becoming what he can't help thinking is a bit of a vagabond ; instead of entering the Church, and receiving the living of Urmston ' — he smiled again. ' So there are two points in which our circumstances are very similar. And we have both the same art — we serve at one shrine, don't we ?' ' Oh, pray don't laugh at me !' she exclaimed, doubdess thinking of the fiasco she had made the previous night. INES WRITES 85 * I am not laughing, indeed. I am perfectly serious,' he replied, and went on ingeniously finding other reasons why they should experience a fellow-feeling on many points. When he went away, it was with the avowed intention of sending a doctor at once, and with the promise speedily to call again, and hear that she was better. That was what he said. My mother, one of the proudest and most inde- pendent of women, submitted Hke a child to these measures. She was too ill to resist, in fact, and her one idea was that by some means or other she must get well enough to begin to work again. It is needless to go into details of the events which swiftly followed the advent in our lives of this new friend. The mistakes, the languor, and the fainting-fit of the evening; the headache, the oppression, and the feeling of stupefaction of the following morning, were the beginning of my mother's last illness. When next Felix Arkwright called she was delirious, and did not know him, and ere long she succumbed to the same fever which six years earlier had carried off her husband. Her illness was short , and sharp ; there was never any doubt from the first as to how it would end. Her strength, both physical and nervous, had been too much and too long undermined by her fife of privation, solitude, and anxiety, for her to be able to resist the ravages of the fever. Its fiery breath extinguished her, literally, and that very quickly. To me, when I think of it, that period is always heavy in the background of my memory, like a terrible dream, or a great black cloud, sweeping resistlessly up and over all familiar things; darkening the whole landscape of life. Little did I know of it all, save of one terrible hour when I 86 FROM MOOR ISLES saw a dying woman holding the hand of that strong and gracious protector whose suddenly begun friendship had never wavered for an instant She, as I say, was holding his hand ; I — for some reason not explained to me till after- wards, when I learnt that she, feeling the end near, had asked for me — was held by his other arm on the bedside. She was trying with all her failing strength to explain some- thing to him about her child and its father's relations — how Ines was not to go to them ; they would hate her and be unkind to her, — anything rather than that — a convent, a charity school. Better the coldness of the world on which one has no claims, than the hatred of kindred by whom one is not wanted. The world, she seemed trying to explain, will, in the last resort, find you a grave in one of its rivers or attics — the kindred will grudgingly compel you to live in woe and torment Unless Ines could go to them with a welcome, she must never go at all. Dazed, frightened, and not comprehending, I heard all this, and heard the voice in reply — ' Have no fear for Ines, Mrs. Grey. Your child shall not suffer any of those things you fear for her. I promise you this. I'll swear it, if you like.' * No, no !' said she, with a last effort at a bitter kind of pleasantry, ' you are a stranger ; it is relatives who hate people. Your word is as good as your bond. You have proved it. Do not think it is more than the body that dies,' she added. * I shall see and know it all. Ines ' She stretched out her arms to me ; but, before she could touch me, fell back. I began to cry. Felix rose quickly, spoke to the nurse, and carried me in his arms into the other room. Nurse and doctor went to the bedside. The INES WRITES 87 door between was closed. Felix sat down in the parlour, placed me on his knee, and caressed me gently, while we both sat very still and watched for, I knew not what. I was not too young to know something of what death meant. I understood one thing very well — that I should never see my beautiful mamma any more. That was after the nurse had come in and said a few words in a low tone to Felix, and he had then, gathering me to him, said, after a pause — ' My little Ines, your dear mamma is dead.' Who shall depict a child's terror and grief — its anxious little heart and wild forebodings — its awful sense that the one who was always there is gone, and that it has nowhere to go? Not I, for one. Time has mercifully dimmed and erased the acute feelings of that time. I have only a general recollection of desolation, of the nurse's pitying looks, the landlady's apprehensive regards, the doctor's quick inquiry and shrug of the shoulders. I remember, too, the smile of P'elix, as he said, in answer to all these doubtful expressions, 'I undertake for the little one. She will come with me.' He was as good as his word. This young man, with his open countenance and pliable and gracious manners, had a fund of dogged resolution and determination in his character which one would hardly have expected to find in a genuine artist-temperament. Perhaps his was not quite that kind of temperament, but of that anon. He was not to be cajoled, ridiculed, or argued out of his purpose. Openly and in the light of day he declared his intentions. Convents and charity schools seemed to have no charms for his mind. As a matter of duty he communicated with my father's people, 88 FROM MOOR ISLES who wrote and grudgingly offered to defray my expenses at a cheap school, where I could be brought up with a view to eventually earning my livelihood as a governess. ' Governess, from seven years old !' I remember hearing him say, as he tossed a letter which he had been reading on to a table, and looked at me, not gently and smilingly, as usual, but with a red colour in his face, and an angry frown. * D d cold-hearted churls !' he observed aloud ; and then in a lower voice, as he still continued to gaze at me — * Lisa will know. Yes, that will be all right. Come here, little one ; I'm not cross with you. Will you come home with me, eh ?' ' Oh yes,' I said promptly, and he laughed. ' Too funny, to go to Paris " in maiden meditation fancy free," and return a family man ! But Lisa will understand — yes. Heaven be praised, she will understand. Then you shall go with me, my little girl. We'll see if there isn't some- thing better in store for you than an inexpensive boarding- school where you could soon begin to make yourself useful, and then teach the young idea till you are seventy or so. Bah !' He rang the bell, gave me into the charge of a young woman who was temporarily acting as my bo?nie, and with a more contented expression on his face went out, on his business or his pleasure, with both of which he was abun- dantly provided. CHAPTER n. I GO FOR A HOLIDAY. When M. Felix, as I called him, because everyone else did so, returned to England, after a triumphantly successful visit / GO FOR A HOLIDA Y 89 to Paris, I and my nurse formed a part of the impedimenta which accompanied him. He must have written, I suppose, to Mrs. Reichardt, telling her of his arrangements. At any rate, his first engagement, after his return, was to sing at a concert in the great northern town. It was one of the places which he most frequently visited, and where he was most popular. When he sang at Irkford he always stayed with the Reichardts. Elisabeth and he had known each other all their lives. Their ages were almost identical, and in their childhood her father and his father had been next-door neighbours and fast friends. Mr. Crompton, Elisabeth's father, had been a surgeon in extensive practice ; Mr. Arkwright had been, by way of attempting to be a business man, in the stock and sharebroking line, but with his heart in literature and the classics. At last his business had come to an end. By the interest of some friends he had received the post of which Felix had spoken to my mother, and had gone, with his boy, to the country. But the brother-and-sister friendship between Felix and Lisa had never been broken off, even when he went to London, and then to Italy, to see what he could do with his voice, and she, at nineteen, married Max Reichardt, the only son of a wealthy German merchant at Irkford. At the time I speak of, when he brought me with him from Paris, Elisabeth had been married five years. She was childless, and though devoted to her husband, her energies were great, and she had many outside interests to fill up her time. The house was a resort of artists and musicians — of all such who were to be found in that dingy manufacturing town. At twenty-four Elisabeth was the same woman that she was at thirty-four — genial, gifted, 90 FROM MOOR ISLES enthusiastic ; her passion for music only rivalled by her passion for humanity. Her husband, who adored her, delighted in furthering all her schemes for the improvement of mankind in general, and of the lower-class women and child-kind of Irkford in particular. Elisabeth was very loyal to her sex ; not in any loud or obtrusive way, but deep down in her heart, in all her principles, in every action in which the question of womankind arose at all, she was their unflinching champion. Even at that time, and young as she was, she had a vast correspondence on all kinds of social and philanthropic subjects, and was hand in glove with the workers of that day, who at that day were almost universally considered maniacs, amiable, doubtless, in intention, but often mis- chievous in action. Her good works, done for pure love, not for either glory or praise ; her music, which was also a passion, and a real one, with her ; her great heart ; her quick and receptive if not always perfectly judicious mind — these were things as inseparable from the personality of Elisabeth Reichardt as motion is inseparable from the sea, or majesty from the mountains, or beauty from trees and flowers. They were her beauty ; they and the spirit which animated her and them gave loveliness of the highest kind to her homely- featured face, and made her what she was. Felix told me about her before we arrived there, describing a very good and very kind lady who would be very glad to see me. ' Will she love me ?' I asked. My mother had so often told me, with showering kisses, ' I love thee, my darHng, I love thee !' — and my heart had ached after both the words and the kisses. Lisette was very kind, but she would not / GO FOR A HOLIDA Y 91 crumple my new black frock by too demonstrative an embrace. ' She will love you, little one — yes !' he assured me quickly ; and put his arm round me, as if suddenly realizing that perhaps I needed something of the kind. He had not deceived me. It will easily be understood that what Mr. Reichardt good-naturedly called Felix's freak, commended itself seriously and with delight to his wife. With the greatest pleasure she gave herself up to the ques- tion, What is to become of the child ? and involved Felix in endless consultations as to the best course to be pursued. It ended in his going away to London to fulfil an engage- ment, and leaving me to pay a long visit to his friend. But he often reappeared on the scenes, and I, meantime, led a very happy life — happy, in spite of the fact that I did not cease to miss my sweet mother. Nor did these people try to make me forget her. Though Felix never spoke of her to me, Elisabeth did ; she talked to me of her, took me on her knee, and asked me questions about her, told me I must do this and that because my mother would have wished it ; told me, too, beautiful things about mothers in heaven watching over their little children on earth, and loving them for being good. And Felix, who was some- times present during these discourses, sat by and said nothing, but never contradicted her. I need not relate in detail what became of me, little waif and stray that I practically was. I know that I passed a happy childhood and young girlhood ; pardy with Elisabeth, and a great deal of it in the quaint old house in a wood on the outskirts of the great Yorkshire town of Kirkfence, where Felix Arkwright's father lived ; and I believe it was a real 92 FROM MOOR ISLES joy to the old man to busy himself with the education of Felix's adopted child. At any rate, he did busy himself with it, and perhaps no child was ever better educated, in the real sense of the word — better trained to use the intelli- gence she had been born with — than was I, by this old- fashioned gentleman, with the somewhat timid manner, and deep, innate goodness and purity of heart. Felix always said that though his father was utterly devoid of knowledge of the world ; though he had failed pitiably to accumulate money amongst the other money-makers; though he was devoid of any ambition beyond the possession of certain (to him) priceless books, and free access to all the treasures of Lord Urmston's library, yet that to know him was a liberal education. And I am sure it was. Chiefly with him I studied history, Latin and Greek, and the classics — the severest classics of English literature ; and ran about the woods, and galloped over the moors, and tore my frocks, and tanned my face and my hands, and learnt to despise the telling of lies and the pretending to be or to know what I was not or did not know. There, too, also I learnt a somewhat old-fashioned code of silence and humility before my elders and my betters ; the latter being included in the former always — learnt implicit obedience to my kind in- structor, and was perfectly happy till, when I was fourteen years old, I was removed from Lanehead, and placed in London, under the charge of one Madame Prenat, a friend of both Elisabeth and Felix. Elisabeth meanwhile had become a widow, and her father- in-law, old Mr. Reichardt, had come to live with her. All her happy life was darkened for many months, clouded for years, by this loss, but with time the impulses of a naturally / GO FOR A HOLIDAY 93 sane and healthy nature reasserted themselves. Much of the glory and the dream had departed, but Elisabeth did good, and fiddled in the after-days as in the former ones, and continued to be the fast friend, and the most trusted one, of Felix Arkwright, her old companion, who, after work- ing hard for some years in obscurity and silence, literally awoke one morning and found himself famous, and from that hour stood in the very front rank of his profession. But this is wandering somewhat from the point. To Madame Prenat's charge I was consigned, and well she did her duty by me. She was the English widow of a French professor of languages, who had held a high post in a well- know^n London college ; and she added to her income and pleased her own love of giving instruction by taking a certain number of young girls under her charge, on the dis- tinct understanding that she was to educate and form them on the principles which she considered good. I will not here enter into a description of those principles, and of what they practically led to. Suffice it to say that with many parents they would not have been popular, since a good deal more attention was given by Madame to inner realities than to outside polish, though she had her views on the latter point, too. Elisabeth was very enthusiastic for her. Felix was per- haps not enthusiastic — perhaps he did not understand or care enough about it all to investigate the subject very deeply. But he believed in Elisabeth — in her heart and her head ', and if she believed in Madame Prenat — good 1 Such probably would have been his verdict on the matter. Three years passed, during which I studied hard and with eager avidity, under Madame Prenat's auspices. She it was 94 FROM MOOR ISLES who discovered my one small talent, in the direction of philology, and especially in that of the ancient and Oriental languages; and she it was who fostered this talent, and caused me to discard the pursuit of many other things, usually considered component parts of a ' young lady's ' education. I was happy with Madame Prenat. I was happier still in the holidays, with Ehsabeth, whose goodness to me never failed or changed ; but I was in Paradise on the occasions, few and far between, always to be remembered, on which Elisabeth, Felix, and myself were all staying together at his father's house — once for a whole week this pleasure lasted. Who shall describe the high happiness, the unbroken harmony of those golden days ? Not I — I felt it in every fibre of my being. I could not, either then or now, analyse it, and I have no wish to do so ; but, looking back upon those days, it seems to me that in them met together several things which are perhaps not often found so combined — friendship, relationship, protectorship, all good in themselves, and in this case unflawed by any alloy of jealousy, distrust, or littleness of any kind. Says the poet of comradeship and democracy — • The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel.' And for those who should lead the life that was mine in those days, the wonder might well be perennial. The one cross in my lot, if cross it could be called, was that M. Felix, as I had the habit of calling him still, never would, if he could help himself, allow me to go and hear him sing in public. I wondered why, then. I know now. / GO FOR A HOLIDA Y 95 I learned it by degrees. I knew the privilege to be mine which most people would have given a great deal to possess; I could hear him sing specially for me, or for his own immediate circle, almost as often as I pleased. And I valued this privilege highly ; but that which I so delighted in — to see him the hero of the wildest applause and enthusiasm at great concerts or festivals, he generally suc- ceeded in preventing, nor would he ever give any reasons for this prohibition — to me, at any rate. •Ah, M. Felix, may I not go and hear you sing to- night ?' ' No, Ines. I'll sing for you at home, if you like. Never mind the concert' ' But why— but ' ' Because, my sweet child, I don't choose it,' was all I ever got by way of a reason ; and though it was always said with a smile and a kindly look, I knew perfectly well that it was final. I might, and did comment upon it frequently, and probably very impertinently. The impertinence never disturbed Fehx, though it might sometimes amuse him ; nor did the comments, except on one or two very rare occasions, chiefly through Elisabeth's interference, ever gain me the privilege I longed for. Through her agency I once or twice knew him to break this rule, and let her take me to some concert or oratorio at which he might be singing. I only dimly knew that he sang in opera also ; at that time I had not, to tell the truth, a very clear idea what opera was— I never heard Felix in one ; and it was only afterwards that I found he was not particularly devoted to that branch of his profession. I discovered it by accident once, overhearing someone say he had heard him singing in a certain opera, 96 FROM MOOR ISLES and what a pity it was, that, with his voice, he should be, as an actor, a mere stick. Speechless with indignation, I looked up at Elisabeth, who was with me, and who had also overheard this candid expression of opinion. She laughed immoderately, and took an early opportunity of relating the incident to him, I being present. He laughed too, and shrugged his shoulders. Then, seeing my face, red with anger, he laughed again, and observed that I seemed to regard it as a personal insult. ' They might not think it perfect, but they had no need to say — a stick P I burst forth. At which Felix and Elisabeth both laughed again ; and he, speaking more gently, told me — * When people have things to do that they particularly hate, my child, they may succeed in getting through them by force of will ; but — especially in the regions of the fine arts— they are not likely to be as graceful or agreeable in their performances as those who do the same things con amore. Your unknown friends were quite right in their remarks, whatever your sage head may think on the sub- ject.' I was silenced, but far from convinced. I pondered the subject, and wondered why, if he hated this thing, he did it It must be, I decided, because the music was so glorious, and he loved it so, that in it he forgot what he called the mummery pertaining to it all ; perhaps there was a grain of truth in this assumption. I was very young, very ignorant and high-flown in my ideas, and it never for a moment occurred to me that my hero undertook this distasteful part of his career in order to secure the large sums of money which he could so easily gain by it ; no, I only wished he / GO FOR A HOLIDAY 97 would let me see him in his capacity of ' stick '; but that wish was never gratified. Thus, happily, easily, gladly, my life progressed, till now in this October, just after I had passed my seventeenth birth- day, and when I had been reminding myself, with a feeling of wonder, that it was nearly three months since I had seen either Elisabeth or M. Felix, I one morning got a note from him, dated from a London hotel : — ' Dear Inks, * If Madame Prenat will allow it, and if you can be ready for the 3.30 N.W. train to Irkford, this afternoon — do not deceive yourself into thinking I mean to-morrow— I mean to-day as ever is, — if this can be managed, and you will have your things on, and your traps packed up ready for some two weeks' absence from town, I will call for you in a cab about three o'clock. If Madame will spare me three minutes of her precious time, I will explain to her the reason of this short notice. We go to Mrs. Reichardt's, and I have wired to her that you are coming with me. ' Yours ever, * Felix Arkwright.' ' Oh, Madame Prenat !' cried I, rushing to her, with this document in my hand ; ' you will not object, will you ? A whole fortnight ! What can be going to happen ? And to Mrs. Reichardt's ! Oh, is it not too, too blissful ?' Madame took the note, read it, and smiled her slow, ex- panding smile, then looked at me over her spectacles with- out speaking. I was quivering with impatience and excite- ment. It is a curious break in the middle of term,' she ob- 7 98 FROM MOOR ISLES served. ' It is like a man — a poor, ignorant, single man, to forget all such things, and think October as good a time as August for a holiday.' * Ah, Madame ; but if he wishes it ' 'True, if he wishes it,' she repeated; 'and if you also wish it. Suppose it were something very disagreeable to you that your guardian wished ' * I should do it, of course,' I replied stoutly, but feeling the suspense terrible. I was silly enough to think that she might oppose the scheme, and that Felix might submit to her opposition. ' He must have some reason for it,' I went on urgently ; ' he knows all about the terms and things — he does, really.' The smile became grimmer. ' The poor dear man ! He thinks he does, I dare say ; he tells you so, but we must not accept every word from him au pied de la lettre. He has many things in his head,' she nodded. * He must have a reason,' I reiterated stupidly. * Assuredly,' she admitted. ' The reason appears to me quite obvious — in fact, not to be mistaken.' * Why, what do you mean ?' 1 asked, at a loss. ' Ah, you will not study the newspapers as I bid you,' she said, laughing : ' consequently you must suffer from ignor- ance, and, as it is nearly twelve, and Mr. Arkwright is to be here at three, the sooner you go and prepare for your departure the better.' I forgot the awe which tempered my warm affection for Madame Pr^nat. I threw my arms round her neck, gave her one hug and one kiss, and flew upstairs to my room. I had no time, in the agonies of deciding what to take and what to leave, to go into the question, ' What can the reason I GO FOR A HOLIDAY 99 be which appears so obvious to Madame Prenat ? The newspapers— what of the newspapers? Well, I had no leisure to think about it. My object was to be ready at three o'clock, when Felix should call for me. And naturally, at three o'clock, I was quite ready ; in- wardly in a state of the greatest agitation ; outwardly calm and well-behaved, as I sat in Madame's private sitting-room, in her presence, and waited for the expected ring. The ring, when it came, was inaudible in that room. Just as I was beginning to have sickening qualms as to the possible advent of a telegram from Felix, to say he was prevented from coming, the waiting-maid threw open the door, and announced him. I sprang up, and started towards him, as usual. What was it that arose between us, in one brief instant, between the time of my rising from my chair, and the meeting of our hands ? What paralyzed my tongue, and utterly quenched my usual voluble joy on such occa- sions ? I did not know, but felt a strange constraint. I left my hand in his, and looked up at him silently. He, however, was not afflicted with any such sudden dumbness. ' Ready, quite ready, I see,' he said, with a laugh, and stooped, and touched my forehead lightly with his lips — as he had always done. * You look well, child,' he said ; and then, leaving me to one side, passed rapidly on, to greet Madame Prenat, and I realized that I ought in any case to have waited till he had done so. * I hope this is not against all your rules and regulations, Madame Prenat,' he said, smiling, and trying to look as if he considered it a serious matter. ' At any rate, I see you have consented, whatever you may think of the irregularity. Mrs. Reichardt wrote and told me it was all FROM MOOR ISLES wrong ; but, you see, one can't alter the time of the Festival, even for such an important person as this,' and he looked at me. ' That is understood. I was sure it was the Festival,' said she, with dignity and affability combined. * Festival !' I echoed — ' what festival ?' * Doesn't she know ?' said Felix, opening his eyes, and laughing again. * How very amusing ! Evidently, Ines, you do not take that interest in my proceedings which might reasonably be expected from you.' * But what festival ? I'm very stupid ; but what festival is it ?' I demanded again. An idea had arisen in my mind as to the meaning of all this — an idea so laden with promise of delight and enjoyment that the contemplation of it quite overpowered me. ' I told her she ought to study the newspapers,' said Madame. And then, in a kindly tone— 'The musical Fes- tival at Kirkfence, child ; the great triennial Festival. Surely you must have seen the announcements, for weeks past, and that Mr. Arkwright is to sing there.' * The Kirkfence Festival ! And — are we — I thought you said we were going to Mrs. Reichardt's ?' ' So we are — to-day,' he said. ' I have to sing at Irkford to-morrow. On Friday I have to sing at a town near there ; and on Monday we will all go together to my father's, and stay over the Festival.' ' And am I — going — too ?' I asked in solemn, awe-struck tones. ' You — are — going — too,' he said, with a low bow, and an imitation of my dramatic tones. ' Unless you very much object,' he added more briskly. / GO FOR A HO LID A Y loi I sat down again, and clasped my hands, and looked at them. They were both smiling — generous, delightful smiles of goodwill and kindness. ' She does not seem altogether to take to the idea,' said Felix. ' It is too much — too much happiness !' I said gravely. * But I shall get accustomed to it. I am ready, M. Felix.' ' Yes, it is high time we were going,' he assented. ' You will pardon the abruptness of the summons, Madame ? I would really have called, if I could, to explain.' She waved her hand graciously. ' You have been very considerate, hitherto, in not interrupting her studies,' she said indulgently, and with the manner of one who, while judging from a very lofty standard, is still anxious to give credit where credit is due. * I am not sorry for Ines to have the break. It will do her no harm, nor will the change to the bracing air of the North be bad for her.' He had been gradually retreating towards the door, and now again said we had only just time to catch the train ; shook hands with Madame Pr^nat, and went towards the stairs. I bestowed one more embrace upon Madame, who kissed me with unwonted demonstration of affection, and hastily whispered in my ear — ' All pleasure to you, dear child, but don't let your excite- ment get the better of you so. You look quite pale now. After all, a musical festival is— a musical festival— and nothing else.' 'And nothing else — that's just it,' I replied, as I rushed downstairs and to the door, where I found the cab waiting, and Felix standing by, looking impatient. FROM MOOR ISLES * Euston Square —as quick as you can go !' he told the man j and I felt that I had fairly begun my unexpected holiday. CHAPTER III. WITH LISA. That was indeed a most delightful journey — that four hours and a half in the train from London to Irkford. To my great relief, the strange paralyzing sensation which I had felt on first meeting M. Felix did not return. Why I should have had even a momentary feeling that he was in some way changed, I could not tell. It was ridiculous and unaccountable, I soon told myself Here he was, exactly the same as ever, in the best of spirits, as I soon became myself, so that \ve laughed a great deal at all kinds of small and trivial incidents on the way, or at the most feeble kind of jokes or remarks of our own or of one another's. The newspapers and picture papers which he had bountifully provided remained unread. If he had feared that we should need them to while away the time, through lack of matter about which to converse, he had evidently been mistaken. We talked without ceasing — or rather I did, principally — during the entire journey. My spirits had risen immensely. My confidence in him was quite restored — or perhaps I should say my confidence in myself, — the conviction that it was all right — that he was not bored with me or my schoolgirl platitudes and experiences, but ap- peared, on the contrary, to be deeply interested in what I had to tell him about my career at Madame Prdnat's. In WITH LISA 103 fact, he put a good many shrewd questions to me — questions which, if I had not been really filled with a single-hearted enthusiasm for my studies, I might have found somewhat embarrassing. ' After all,' said I at last, winding up a prolonged account of my doings, *I enjoy the Sanskrit and Professor Wil- loughby's lessons the most.' He looked at me with a curious expression. ' It seems an odd taste,' he observed. ' Why, do you object to it ?' I asked, suddenly sitting up again, and looking at him with some apprehension. ' Object ! Not in the least, if you enjoy it.' * Oh, I do ! And Mr. Arkwright — your father, you know,' I added, with some embarrassment — ' I began Greek with him — I did a good deal of Greek with him. I liked it better than anything else that we did. And he said I had some aptitude — some "scholarly capacity," that was what he called it. So, as I liked these languages so much, and Madame Prenat examined me in all I had learnt, to see ' 'Oh, it's quite right, Ines,' he assured me kindly. *I know Madame Prenat is like that ; that she has a wonderful gift for finding out people's best mental capacities — so Mrs. Reichardt says, and I believe her. And of course it is good for the best faculties of the mind to be trained. Go on with it all, as hard as you like. We shall be having you a learned young college do7ina^ if there can be such a thing. It is a little beyond me, that's all. Things of that kind always were.' ' Monsieur Felix ! Beyond you 1' I repeated, in solemn incredulity and indignation. 104 FROM MOOR ISLES He nodded. * Yes, exactly — beyond me. So my poor father discovered, and shook his head sorrowfully over it. I remember his telling me, when at last he had made up his mind to it, and found that I had a voice to sing with, but no powers for Greek and mathematics — no senior wrangler capacities — that God had given and God took away. If it had pleased Him to endow me with only a lower gift, it was not for us to complain, but to make the most of what had been bestowed. And he was right.' Felix looked straight at me as he gave me this informa- tion, and I could not in the least discover w^hether he was speaking seriously or sarcastically. I held my peace and wished I had not said anything about my own supposed ' capacity ' for philology in general, and the Oriental tongues in particular. ' I know it was the greatest comfort to him, to try his hand on your education,' he went on. ' He found a con- genial soil in which to plant the seeds of his own great learning — because, you know, he is very learned. I don't suppose you will find it all holiday at Lanehead. He will want to see how you have been going on, and to hear what you are going to do.' ' I will tell him everything he wants to know. I wish I could ever do him credit,' said I from my inmost heart. But I did not feel quite so buoyant as before. That little remark of Felix's, to the effect that these, my favourite studies, were a * Httle beyond him,' oppressed and afflicted me to a certain extent. There was a little silence, during which I reflected deeply on this and kindred topics, and then summoned up courage to ask — WITH LISA 105 ' You say you don't mind my going on with these things. But suppose I worked very hard at them, and got really to understand something about them — would you, then, call me a blue-stocking, and think me a horrid prig ?' At first he looked amused, apparently on the verge of laughing. Then, seeing my intensely earnest expression and anxious suspense, his look changed. 'My dear child,' said he kindly, 'calling you a blue- stocking could do you no harm. And prigs are like poets, born, not made. No Sanskrit and no Greek could make you into a prig, and no ignorance of those things could pre- vent you from being one if you had the makings of one in you. But you are not a prig — you won't be a prig, ever. We will not think about it.' 'I am glad you say so,' said I, and there was another pause. His observations had given me comfort as regarded the prig and blue-stocking question. There was, how- ever, another matter about which I was anxious to be enlightened. ' You are, then, going to sing at Kirkfence ?' I asked. ' I am. Mademoiselle.' ' Every day ?' ' Every day ; generally twice a day.' ' And is Mrs. Reichardt going to all the concerts ? But of course she is.' ' Yes, of course. Can you imagine her staying away from one, unless she were too ill to move ?' He smiled blandly at me — would not help me out — per- haps did not understand that I wanted helping out. ' You will never let me go anywhere where you are sing- ing,' I said, feeling a little afraid of coming to the point. io6 FROM MOOR ISLES ' So I suppose I shall stay at Lanehead with Mr. Ark- wright.' ' I fully expect that Mr. Arkwright will himself indulge in the dissipation of several concerts — especially those at which I may distinguish myself. But of course you can stay at Lanehead if you like.' ' You know what I mean,' I exclaimed almost sharply. ' Are you going to let me go to any of the concerts, or not ?' My dignity was offended. I wished to look majestic ; I do not know what I looked, but I felt as if I should burst into tears very soon. Felix, on the contrary, appeared greatly amused. ' Why do you offer one a premium to tease you as much as possible ?' he asked, laughing. ' But I will explain, honour bright. A great musical festival is not the same thing as either an ordinary concert or an opera. I wanted to give you a holiday, and some pleasure, if I could. 1 con- sulted Lisa, and she solemnly assured me that nothing would so effectually secure both for you, as taking you to the Festival, since you have a curious wish to hear me sing — in public. So I thought that this time you should, if you like and wish it, go to all the concerts.' I sat and gazed at him. * To all — all the concerts ? After I've so often teased you to let me go, when you said no . . . oh, you are good!' I said, quite brokenly, and turned aside and looked out of the window. What a happy girl I was ! Then I furtively drew out my handkerchief to wipe away a tear of joy, and was somewhat relieved to find that he was standing up, and, with his back towards me, was taking our small packages from the netting ; for we were now travelling swiftly through WITH LISA 107 the smoke of Irkford, though it was too dark to see any- thing save masses of great buildings, and lines of twinkling street-lamps far below. ' There !' he observed, as he laid the things down on the seat, and could not avoid catching my eye. * What a little goose she is !' he said gently. And then — ' Your gratitude is extravagant, my child. You must not make so much of it.' I made no reply. I had my own views on the subject. There was no more conversation. The train glided swiftly into one of the great Irkford stations, and then half an hour's drive brought us, just after eight o'clock, to Elisabeth's pleasant old house, situated in one of the nearer suburbs of the town. That night I dreamed wildly of Sanskrit and Greek, Budha and music, and awoke in the morning with the conviction that I was a thoroughly lucky and enviable girl. And this conviction only grew stronger as the delightful days flew by. We had gone to Irkford on a Wednesday. On the Thursday there was the ' Faust ' concert, at which I was present, in spite of some objections urged by M. F^lix. Elisabeth combated them by an application of the adage, ' In for a penny, in for a pound,' and I maintained a discreet silence, only too glad to have the chance of going, and not wishing to spoil it by any ill-timed interference on my own part. On the Friday he sang again at a concert in a neighbour- ing town. EUsabeth and I were left to our own devices, and I had the bliss of hearing full particulars of the plans for our enjoyment at Kirkfence during the Festival week. So perfect and delightful did these arrangements appear to io8 FROM MOOR ISLES me, that I could only draw deep sighs of profound satisfac- tion as one detail after another of them was unfolded to me. I was sitting on a stool at Elisabeth's feet, with my hands clasped round my knees, and I remarked after a silence — * I don't think there is anyone living in the world now, happier than I am. To have a fortnight's holiday, — to go to the Festival at Kirkfence — the musical Festival, — to hear such things as Monsieur Felix told me were going to be performed there, and ' ' But, Ines,' she interposed, quietly but suddenly, ' I don't quite understand. You don't care for music to that extent ?' 'I love music,' said I. 'It's like nothing else, to me. But you mean I cannot express myself in it. No — that is true. I cannot, and it often makes me sad when I realize it.' ' I did not mean that,' she pursued, in the same quiet, conversational tone. ' What 1 mean is, that there are other things you take more delight in, as things. You say you love music. But can you imagine yourself attacking the difficulties of music, and grappling with them, resolved to overcome them for sheer love of the thing, as you do the difficulties in your philological studies — your Sanskrit and Arabic roots, your Parsi grammars, and all the rest of them ? Because, of course, Madame Prenat keeps us acquainted with your progress, and she speaks very highly of your capa- city for languages. You love these difficulties — they are pleasant to you, as my violin difficulties were to me when I was practising six hours a day, or more.' ' No,' said I, ' you are quite right — as usual. I could spend the whole day over those things — those roots and grammars, and my beloved Max Miiller, — the more difficult WITH LISA 109 it is, the more I love to grub it out, and get to understand it, whether it will or not. But it is quite true. When I was studying music for a time, because I thought he would hate anybody who didn't understand it, my head ached, and my heart too ; and after a couple of hours of it I felt tired to death, simply. How thankful I was one night, when he had been dining at Madame Prenat's, and she insisted on my playing after dinner. I think she must have told him all about it, for when I had done, she asked him if he did not think I had progressed nicely ; and he gave a peculiar look, and said, " Well, Ines, I am sure you have done your best ; but if I were you, I wouldn't bother with the piano any more." I could hardly believe it ; and then he said that without any music at all I should be perfectly satisfactory, but with a small quantity of very bad music, I should be dreadful. And he said I never need touch another note, so far as he was concerned. Yes, I was thankful.' * Exactly. Then why this extravagant delight at the pros- pect of nearly a week of nothing but music ? — because, you know, we shall hear of very little else at Kirkfence. You won't have much chance for your linguistic studies, except perhaps a few hours with Mr. Arkwright.' ' It isn't only the music,' I told her, ' though that is a great deal. Though I cannot play, and cannot sing, and could not tell when an orchestra made mistakes — unless they were very bad, — and though I know nothing about lights and shades, and all that technical stuff, you know, yet those great compositions make me feel as nothing else can — oh, they are glorious ! But the chief thing, the greatest thing, is that I am with you and Monsieur F^lix ; you are both so happy in these things, and then I am the same.' no FROM MOOR ISLES ' You are happy with both, or with either ?' 'Yes.' 'Equally happy?' she asked me. She was lying back in a low easy-chair, and I held one of her hands in mine. She had the most perfectly beautiful hands and wrists I ever saw. I made no reply to the question. ' Equally happy ?' she asked again. * Don't ask me questions.' ' Yes ; that question I shall ask. I ask it again, and you must answer it, Ines, my child. Answer it before I tell you why I ask it.' ' Well, then, I must tell you the truth. No, I'm not equally happy with either of you. I love to be near you — I do love you ' — I squeezed her hand ; ' but I'm happiest of all where he is.' 'Why, I wonder?' * Why ? I suppose I could give reasons ; but I don't know that they would be the true ones.' ' You queer child ! what do you mean ? ' I mean, there is every reason why I should love him better than anyone else. And yet, that is not why I do love him so much, though I love him for that ' 'You are getting involved,' said she, as quietly as if we had been engaged in discussing the relative merits of different kinds of bonnet trimmings — as quietly as if she had not known that we were on dangerous ground. ' Not in my own mind. I am quite clear and decided. You gave the reason in that little German song you sang the other day — * *' Und sprich, woher ist Liebe ? Sie kommt, und sie ist da !" WITH LISA III I don't know. I only know that it is so. He has been so good to me that I would die for him in a minute, and yet — I believe I would die for him if he had not been so good to me.' * Oh, dear ! we are getting quite too subtle in our distinc- tions,' said Elisabeth suddenly. * We'll turn to something more commonplace. And yet, Ines,' she went on quickly, * you are right, quite right, to feel happier with Felix than with anyone else. I don't want to dispute that. I didn't want to make you say you cared as much for me as for him. I'm glad your heart is in the right place. But, darling, you must never talk about these things so openly, to anyone but me — do you understand ?' She passed her hand over my head. I smiled as I took possession of it. * I never wish to speak to anyone but you of them,' said I. And then her generous words seemed to sound again in my ears — * I didn't want to make you say you cared as much for me as for him ;' and the feeling which then rushed over my heart sent a sob to my throat. ' Elisabeth !' I cried, kneeling at her knee, and eagerly looking up into her face, ' what I cannot understand is why / should be loved by two such people as you and Monsieur Felix, or cared for by you. What am I, to deserve it ? I know you love me. You often say so — your goodness shows it. I suppose men don't go about saying they love people — like me ; but he would not be so good to me and give time, Ms time, and thought, and care, to my stupid affairs, if he didn't care for me a little bit. And why ? It frightens me sometimes, when I think of it, and feel that I can do nothing, nolhing for it, except stand still and take it all.' 112 FROM MOOR ISLES * Oh, you can, Ines ! You can go on loving us both. It all helps to make life sweet — love does, of any kind. Per- haps you are doing more than you know — certainly for me — perhaps even for him, by just being what you are. . . . And now, we have talked sentiment enough. I will ring for lights. I have ever so many letters to write before post- time.' Felix returned very late that night from the neighbouring town at which he had been singing, and I did not see him again until the following morning, when he came down late for breakfast, hoping we had not forgotten that we were to spend a happy day in the country. * We have not forgotten,' said Elisabeth. ' What sort of a concert had you last night ?' He shrugged his shoulders, looking very cross. ' I detest that sort of thing,' he said. ' I did what I had to do, got away as quickly as I could, and put the whole thing out of my mind as speedily as possible. A lot of dressed-up, vulgar people, who don't care two pins for the music, and don't understand a note of it, but who have more money than they know what to do with, and who go because your humble servant is the fashion, and they have to pay a high price for their tickets. I didn't see one responsive face in the whole crew.' ' Wretches !' I exclaimed emphatically. Elisabeth laughed gently. ' Poor Felix !' said she. * Come, Ines, we must get ready to go and see this wonderful young man and his fiddle.' How we went to Moor Isles, what we saw and did and heard there, has already been related. Except as a pleasant day, spent with my two dearest friends, and as an occasion FESTIVAL 113 on which I heard Felix sing, as I loved to hear him — at his best — the visit did not make very much impression on my mind, though, afterwards, I got into the habit of dating a good many things as having happened before, or after, ' that day at Moor Isles/ I pass on to what followed. CHAPTER IV. FESTIVAL. The Sunday morning, the day after our visit to Thornton- in-Ravenside, was spent in a desultory manner. I remember it chiefly from the fact that Elisabeth played for Felix the accompaniment of a new and very difficult song, which he was to sing at the Festival, by someone whom they both called ' poor Hopkinson,' the singing of which song was to make or to mar him. * I do hope it will make him, Felix,' she said, pausing. * He is a true musician, and I wonder you aren't a Httle bit afraid of standing up with " Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm," when you reflect upon his anxiety, and remember how fickle these audiences are. Suppose they just take it into their heads to dislike it, or, worse still, to be profoundly indifferent to it ?' He shrugged bis shoulders. ' If Hopkinson is anxious, all the more reason why I should not give way to any such feeling. I mean to do my best for him — I can no more.' *No, that's true,' said she; and as they tried it over, I realized that it would probably be either a great success or a great failure. It was unlike anything I had ever heard 8 114 FROM MOOR ISLES before. In he evening Elisabeth took us to her People's Recreation Hall, where she fiddled and Felix sang, and thereby a great many people were put into high good humour with themselves and each other. On the following morning, the Monday, we started for Kirkfence, and early in the afternoon arrived at Lanehead, a rambling old stone house, situated in one corner of the great park belonging to Lord Urmston, whose wonderful library was in the care of Felix's father, old Mr. Arkwright. It was a sweet spot, with a garden opening at one side into delightful rough wood and moorish grass ; while from the front windows there was a noble view, commanding distant Wharfedale hills — the sentinels, as it were, which kept guard at the entrance of the enchanted land of moor and fell, castle and abbey, wood and rushing waterfall, which to some partial minds are covered by those two little words, ' the North.' I had my wish, and went to all the concerts — there were seven of them — and heard Felix sing at most of them. When he was not singing, he occupied a place between Elisabeth and me, and Hstened to the others. Though I look back upon that time with pleasure, and with a sense that pleasure and not pain predominated in it, yet the two incidents which stand out in my mind as chiefly connected with it all are painful — more painful than pleasur- able, that is. The first of these incidents took place on the Friday morning, the third day of the Festival. This morning had been devoted to the bringing out of a new work by a popular composer, to the production of which four of the greatest singers of the day had devoted their best efforts — two ladies. FESTIVAL IIS one a world-renowned soprano, and the other a scarcely less celebrated contralto ; a tenor, f/ie tenor, if there was one, and Felix Arkwright. The baritone part happened to be the most important one of all. Fehx had created it, and had surpassed himself, so they all said. I sat and listened ; evea I could understand that the work, if not on a par with those of Beethoven, Schumann, or Handel, was still a far from ordinary composition. That was a life — something like a life to live, I decided, as I watched the rapt attention with which they listened to his production of the new and striking music : to be able to stand up, one single man before all that vast concourse of people, looking for all the world like one of themselves — no better, no worse — not as good, many of them probably thought, for there were proud people present, high up in the ranks of society and of wealth. But one and all, when he stood up and took his part, and sang before them, became as nothing, so it seemed to me. He had the key of a portal leading into another world ; not only had he that key — some of them, perhaps, had as much as that — but when he had passed that portal, thrown it open, as it were, and invited us to enter with him, he was clearly perceived to be one of the great princes of that world, ruling by divine right — an artist, one of the kings of art. Elisabeth and I sat rather near the front that morning — too near to hear perfectly well, but not too near for great enjoyment ; we were, in fact, on the front row of the regular reserved seats. But so many places had been applied for by persons coming after the concerts had begun, and by strangers passing through the town, that the committee had caused chairs to be placed here and there in the pretty wide space which lay between the orchestra and this first row of ii6 FROM MOOR ISLES reserved seats, and these were all occupied, to the number of fifty or sixty. Elisabeth was fully occupied with her copy of the music, following the work in its completeness, both orchestral and vocal. She took no notice of what passed around her, save to look up now and then with a smile of pleasure at some particularly good effort of orchestra, chorus, or soloists. For my part, I had declined her offer to let me look over the music with her ; I was quite content to sit there, in a delightful, blissful dream, seeing vaguely the great hall ; dimly conscious of the mass of people behind us ; carelessly watching, almost without knowing that I did so, the ex- quisite and elaborate morning toilettes and gorgeous bonnets of the two lady-soloists — but turning aside every now and then to give a glance at Felix, and to think how very good he had been to procure me this pleasure. He sat next to Madame Reuter, the great contralto and celebrated beauty; renowned, too, for her love of good company, her ready wit and social powers. I did not feel quite at ease, somehow, as I saw her bend a little towards him, raising her music before her face, and tell him some- thing — in the nature of a joke, apparently, for her handsome shoulders shook violently, and her face, when it emerged from behind her music, was red ; a look of mirth was on it still ; she lifted her lace handkerchief and wiped tears of enjoyment and amusement from her long dark eyes. He turned to her, surprised, attentive, and amused also, it would seem, when he understood what it was all about. He too laughed, with great enjoyment — not behind his music, but openly, heartily, though of course silently. She looked at him, with her head a little thrown back, and a sort of ex- FESTIVAL 117 pression that appeared to say, ' Now, did you ever hear anything like fAa^?' And he laughed again, whereupon Madame Reuter appeared almost overcome by her feelings of merriment, and they both seemed to be having rather a good time of it. She turned her fine eyes to him, and flashed her dazzling smile upon him — so it seemed to me ; and I did not like it— no, I did not like it, though what business of mine it was, was more than I could have said. Why should he not enjoy good company ? And Madame Reuter was reported to be particularly good company. Tired of watching this (to me) displeasing scene, I turned my eyes resolutely away, and cast them first upon my own long gray suede gloves, which I was wearing with a rather recherchee toilette, one chosen a short time ago by Madame Prenat with considerable care, and approved of by Elisabeth as the very thing to wear at the morning concerts. It was, I remember, all gray — composed of thick soft silk, and some fine thin woollen stuff mixed with it, which fell in soft folds ; and with this went a hat of white and gray with many soft, plumy feathers. There was no hue brighter than gray in all the costume, and Elisabeth had laughingly said, * Ines Grey^^ and patted my shoulder before we had set off. In my hand, I recollect, was a black fan, and this fan I furled and unfurled, and tried to keep my eyes from again, with anxious curiosity, seeking Felix and Madame Reuter. Looking up at last, in a desperate effort to find some counter-attraction, my own eyes were encountered by another pair — a pair belonging to a young man with a pale, hand- some, clean - shaven face, and a very grave, responsible expression. Next to him sat a young girl, and beyond her an old gentleman with a ruddy countenance and white FROM MOOR ISLES hair, a high nose, and a determined expression. They formed one party, and occupied some of the extra chairs I have spoken of. Seemingly they were only casual visitors — the men were both in somewhat easy-going garments, and the girl, who resembled the old gentleman, and had scarcely any of the distinction of the younger one, wore a travelling costume of gray tweed made with severe plainness, high starched white linen collar and cuffs, and a litde gray toque of cloth and silk crowning her thick flaxen hair. She was not looking at me, but it was at her that I looked, with critical indifference. Her round, good-humoured, rosy face was, I decided, far from intellectual. It was set into an expression of highly proper and intense want of interest in the music, the people, and the proceedings in general. She looked straight before her; quite serious, quite modest; quite and entirely uninteresting. I hardly knew why I watched her, or her party. Gradually, however, a peculiar sensation took possession of me. I felt as if I had some- how got outside my own body, and was gazing at it from a little distance. She was not like me, nor I like her, I knew. I had not that round face, nor those rosy cheeks ; my hair had none of that flaxen tinge ; it was, as I often regretfully confessed to myself, of a dull bronzy hue. The only point in which any resemblance between us existed was in the eyes. She had not the pale blue eyes that might have been expected to go with that hair and complexion, but fine, rather dark gray ones. I also had rather dark gray eyes. I could see them in my glass, and Felix sometimes called me ' Gray-Eyes.' They were very like hers. And as mine once more met those of the young man, I saw, startled, that his also were gray — ^just the same kind and colour. FESTIVAL 119 They were, then, brother and sister. They were so young that the old squire, or whatever he was, looked too old to be their father— probably their grandfather, I decided. And at this juncture there was a slight pause. The chorus, which, almost without my knowing it, had been singing loud and long, rustled gently down into their places, and Felix stood up. I forgot the party of strangers, and looked at him again, as he rose, with a slight smile still on his face ; and his eyes too fell upon the strangers. The smile faded instantly — a curious expression came over his face— it seemed to grow a little hard. Then another kind of smile, not an altogether pleasant smile, crossed it. Then, from the strangers, he looked directly at me, caught my wide-open eyes eagerly scrutinizing him, all at once seemed to remember himself, gave me a nod and a friendly look, and then, losing sight of us all, turned to the conductor, with his eyes fixed upon his dd^on, and in another moment there came the notes of a magnificent airia in the new ' Jason ' composition— a composition founded on the words of a well-known living poet — ' O Death, that makest Life so sweet ; O Fear, with mirth before thy feet ! What have ye yet in store for us, The conquerors, the glorious ?' It was superb, I felt, as I listened with rapture to the ever-recurring strain — ' What have ye yet in store for us — for us — in store for us ?' I, too, forgot it all — all the people, the place, the time, and everything else, in listening. The scena, of which this was the first part, was a rather long one. Madame Reuter FROM MOOR ISLES had to take a part in it. They sang divinely together, these two great artists — sang in a style to make us all forget time and place, and whether it was night or day, and all our outside interests and passions and concerns, and to think and feel only of and with them and the great tragedy that they unfolded to us. With the end of their duet came also the end of the first part of the concert. It was a long and trying piece of work, and when it was over, there came a pause of half an hour for rest and refreshment. Every- one rose, rustled and bustled about. Chorus and instru- mentalists fled, after the prolonged applause was over ; the great orchestra, lately so crowded with life, now lay revealed, empty, save for the scattered desks and silent instruments. I sat where I was, dreaming, and wondering what it all meant — if it were really all summed up in the words of Felix's opening song, ' O Death, that makest Life so sweet !' I did not think it was death that made life so sweet, but just life itself, strong and full, brimming over with eagerness and interest. I could not believe that it would ever end, this continuous, undulating sea of music and melody, and of the grandest id as and emotions. And, filled with these thoughts I leaned forward, with my chin on my hand, and slowly opened and shut my fan as I meditated. I was roused by a touch on my shoulder — ' Ines !' I looked up, startled, and confronted Felix ; he was look- ing at me, and his hand was on my shoulder. ' Yes ?' I said. ' I see you are in a brown study, or a blue dream, or something of the kind ; but just pull yourself together, my FESTIVAL 121 child, and take my arm, and come with me for two minutes. I want you.' I rose, looking at him, I dare say, with tragic solemnity of aspect, for he laughed and said he had no evil designs of any kind ; he wanted to introduce me to some friends — with great emphasis. Elisabeth looked at us also, in inquiring surprise. He apologized for leaving her, but said he would speedily return. And then he drew my hand through his arm, and I mechanically walked on by his side, gathering in the fact that he was a little bit excited himself, for he had become slightly paler than usual, though he was perfectly quiet and self-possessed. It was not far that he led me ; up to the old gentleman, the young gentleman, and the girl, whom I had already been observing. The two young people were standing up, looking about them ; the old man remained seated. The brother and sister, I saw, watched us as we approached them ; the girl with mild curiosity, the young man with greater interest. And as we drew nearer, the old gentleman, turning his head, caught sight of us also ; his eyes remained fixed upon Felix, and a deep purple flush spread all over his face. He looked angry, embarrassed, annoyed in the ex- treme, but not surprised. He half rose, as if driven from his position by some sudden blow — then sat down again. His eyes dilated, became round and angry, and glared upon us, so it seemed to me, as we approached. I could not help glancing once more towards Felix. He was smiling slightly; his good-humoured provoking expression had again come over his face. We now stood close to this FROM MOOR ISLES group of three. Felix, looking directly at the old man, bowed to him, and addressed him, and I listened. ' It is at least ten years, Mr. Grey, since I had the honour of meeting you, and though I have not forgotten you in the least, I may have to recall myself to your recollection ' 'Not at all,' was the reply, after a pause, during which he seemed to struggle with himself, and then decide to brave it — whatever 'it' might be — out. 'Remember it perfectly. Did not know you were to be here. I don't know much about these things ; we heard there was a festival going on here, and my granddaughter wished to hear some of this new music, and ' 'Yes !' smiled Felix, in his most amiable tones; while I felt myself growing rigid, partly from surprise, partly from dismay, as the facts of the situation suddenly flashed into my mind. Felix had never made any concealment about my relations, and the fact that when they had refused to receive me, he had, after returning to England from Paris, sought an interview with Mr. Grey, and said he wished to adopt me, and Mr. Grey had sullenly said he might do as he pleased in the matter — that, for his part, he thought the school he had proposed was provision enough for me. This, I realized, was my grandfather, as well as that flaxen- haired girl's — she and the youth were my cousins — the children of my father's elder brother. I had heard of them vaguely. I had been far too happy and satisfied with my lot as it was, ever to speculate with any interest or curiosity about them. The scene appeared to be a revelation to them, as well as to me. They gazed at Felix with open- eyed astonishment, and turned to their grandfather, as if asking for an explanation. FESTIVAL 123 * I hope the new music has not displeased Miss Grey,' Felix went on blandly ; and as my hand began to tremble, and he felt it on his arm, he drew it a little more firmly through his, glanced kindly at me, and went on — 'Judging from the only member of your family with whom I am intimately acquainted, I should think that music is not very much in their line. This young lady, at least, has little knowledge of it.' I was breathless — I felt as if things would soon begin to swim round me, but I recollected Felix's words, ' Pull your- self together,' and I did so, and met the unwilling, angry eyes of the old gentleman with a steady, unflinching gaze. * Let me present her to you !' FeHx went on, still smiling. ' This is your granddaughter, Ines Grey — and I may take the same opportunity of thanking you for not refusing to leave her in my charge ten years ago. The trust has made me a happier man ; it has given joy to others as well as to me, and I don't think she has been a very unhappy girl — have you, Ines?' He laid his hand upon mine, and looked down at me with the kindest of smiles. I felt that so far I had betrayed no outward emotion — inwardly I was trem- bling like a leaf in the wind. I clasped my other hand tightly over his, and said, somehow, my own voice sounding strange to me as I heard it — 'You know I have never had an unhappy hour — thanks to you.' I stopped ; if I had tried to say another word, I should have burst into a storm of nervous weeping. I clung to his arm and was silent. ' Ines is a truth-telling person. 1 never knew her to utter the shadow of a falsehood,' said Felix pleasantly. ' It may 124 FROM MOOR ISLES gratify you to know for yourself that she is not unhappy — it may. I ahvays impute the best motives, in dealing with others. But I see this encounter has been a little too much for her — too much of a surprise, so I will take her away again. Good-day. I am delighted to have renewed our acquaintance.' He was turning, to my intense thankfulness. I managed to make some kind of an inclination of my head, and to feel a sense of profound relief that it was all over; when the young gentleman, who had been watching the proceedings with the most lively interest, spoke to Felix. 'Pardon me an instant. I think, sir' — turning to his grandfather — *it is only fair that you should allow us to make our cousin's acquaintance, and you might explain the circumstances to us afterwards. At any rate, I shall feel much hurt if I am forbidden to do this.' There was a pause. The scene was becoming unbear- able to me. At last Mr. Grey, with a mighty effort, said — *If you wish it, Maurice. As you say, I can explain ater. This young lady is your cousin, Miss — Miss ' * Ines,' observed Felix obligingly. * Miss Ines Grey. And this,' he added, turning to me, * is my grandson, Maurice Grey — and his sister, Maud.' Maud Grey looked at me, not with much emotion of any kind, it seemed to me. Inasmuch as there was something irregular in the scene, she disapproved of it ; otherwise it concerned her but liitle. She inclined her head slightly to me, without speaking, and drew nearer to her grandfather. Maurice, wuth a smile of great sweetness, which wonderfully lighted up his pale face, held out his hand. * Will you shake hands with me, Cousin Ines ?' he asked. FESTIVAL 125 I looked speechlessly at Felix, who surveyed the young fellow with an expression of great goodwill, and laughed a little as he said — * Why do you hesitate, child ?' And I at once put out my hand, but silently. * I only knew vaguely that I had a cousin somewhere,' said the young man, very seriously. ' This is not a time for going into explanations, but, if I am allowed, I shall have the honour of making your further acquaintance, and that of Mr. Felix also.' ' That will give me great pleasure,' said Felix, as he took out his card-case. ' That is my club. I shall be delighted either to see or to hear from you there. Ines, you have had enough. We will go back to Mrs. Reichardt.' With a bow, and a general 'good morning,' he this time effectually led me away, and back to Elisabeth's side. The whole scene had been played out in less than ten minutes. I felt as if it had taken a year. I sat down, and Felix stood before us, looking at both Elisabeth and me. 'You were a good girl, Ines,' said he, 'very good. I could not have wished you to behave better. Don't worry about it. It's all right. Don't think about them again.' I was speechless. A fear had entered my heart. He went on to Elisabeth, with an amused laugh — ' I happened to catch sight of this child's affectionate and solicitous relatives, and I could not resist taking the oppor- tunity of showing her to them— especially to him. Bless my life ! It has been too much for him — they are going ; he and the demoiselle — the girl in gray, Lisa — she and Ines seem to have a similar taste in colours,' he laughed again. 'The youngster remains. He has designs upon 126 FROM MOOR ISLES our further acquaintance. I beg your pardon, sir?' he added, discovering that his father was saying something to him. For my part, I had drawn close to Mr. Arkwright's side, and clasped my hands over his arm. * I hope, Felix,' said he to his son, ' that you have not been inflicting needless pain on anyone. Ines looks none the happier for this scene that you have put her through.' * It is all right,' I whispered hastily, and Felix smiled. * Pain !' he repeated. ' What pain could be connected with the fact of a grandfather making the acquaintance of our Ines? It ought to be pleasure unmixed.' * Ought to be, perhaps,' said his father ; and Elisabeth, though smiling, shook her head a little. ' If you are all going to censure me,' said Felix, ' I had better withdraw ; and, indeed, I can't stay any longer. But aren't any of you going to have anything— no wine, or biscuits, or sandwiches ?' We all declined, and he then said again that he would withdraw himself from our disapproving glances. ' No one is disapproving,' I interposed, in a loud whisper. * It is all right. I said so before ; and I shall be all right, too, in a minute.' ' Of course !' he said, and went away. I steadily averted my eyes from the direction of those three chairs, though I knew that two of them were now empty. I would not look. I did not wish ever again to see the people who had occupied them. But I was vividly conscious that the young man, Maurice Grey, who was, it seemed, my cousin, and wished to make my further acquaint- ance, remained in his place, and, without looking at him, I was aware that he looked frequently at me. But when FESTIVAL 127 the concert was over, and we left the hall, he did not again accost us. We went away at once, driving out to Lanehead, to take lunch and rest, before going down again to the even- ing performance. It was this evening that Felix was to sing the song which had been composed by ' poor Hopkinson,' as he and Elisa- beth always called this young composer. They had dis- cussed it so much that I had grown deeply interested in it all myself, and had almost forgotten my unwelcome relatives in the excitement of expectation, when we went down again in the evening. ' Poor Hopkinson ' was somewhere in the hall, it was understood. As we took our places my eyes fell once more upon those three chairs. I began to re- member again. But the persons who had sat in them that morning were not there in the evening. The chairs were occupied by three men ; one, by his wild appearance, dis- hevelled hair, and not too dazzlingly white linen, an aesthetic critic; the second, a youngish-looking man with laughing eyes and a nearly bald head, who had a small drawing-book, and was evidently taking views of the chorus and some of the soloists. Felix seemed to know him ; he caught his eye and nodded to him, whereupon he promptly began to take Felix's portrait, while some of the young ladies of the chorus giggled, as young ladies sometimes will, with small reason. The third man was a natty-looking little Roman Catholic priest, who had the score of the music that was being sung, and who appeared to appreciate it all thoroughly, and sat with his eyes half closed, drinking it in, but who woke up thoroughly when at length the last number of the first part of the concert was reached, and Felix stood up to sing a song, entitled in the programme, * The Man-of-War Bird.' 128 FROM MOOR ISLES There was a little stir and bustle. The programmes rustled about ; murmurs were heard. ' Man-of-War Bird — Whitman, Hopkinson — who is Whitman?' (This, it must be remembered, is a good many years ago.) 'Who is Hopkinson? Hopkinson — oh! don't you know? He has done some good things, but no one knows anything about them. Might as well have done nothing at all. Well, let's hear this. I wonder what it is ?' * If only it isn't too intellectual for them !' Elisabeth said in my ear, with something like a groan. ' That's all I am afraid of. You know, after all, they are not intellectual, for all their ravings about classical composers. I shall not look at him, Ines. He really means this, and I don't want to disturb him.' I nodded. I was of the same mind. The song was ac- companied by the full orchestra. Some strange phrases and modulations, which instantly took my fancy, were heard, and then Felix sang this song — * Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm, Waking renewed on thy prodigious pinions, (Burst the wild storm ? above it thou ascendedst, And rested on the sky, thy slave, that cradled thee,) Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating, As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee, (Myself a speck, a point in the world's floating vast). ' Far, far at sea. After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks, With reappearing day as now so happy and serene, The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun, The limpid spread of air cerulean. Thou also reappearest. Thou born to match the gale (thou art all wings), To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane, FESTIVAL 129 Thou ship of air, that never furl'st thy sails, Days, and even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating, At dusk thou look'st on Senegal, at morn, America, That sport'st amid the lightning flash and thunder- cloud, In them, in thy experiences, hadst thou my soul, What joys ! what joys were thine !' He ceased to sing, and I was sure that Elisabeth was looking and feeling anxious as to the verdict of the public, for whom she had hoped it might not be too intellectual. Fortunately, we had not very long to wait for the said verdict. It certainly was intellectual music, but perhaps it had in it also the mysterious quality which constitutes popu- larity, whatever that may be. Perhaps the audience were disposed to refuse no favour to their present supreme favourite, Felix Arkwright. So far, he had carried every- thing before him. He did so once again. There was a momentary pause ; a terrible one to Elisabeth and me, and perhaps to * poor Hopkinson ' also. Then the applause burst out ; it was loud, long, and persistent, and Felix made no ado about yielding to the cries for a repetition of the song. He sang it again, rather better than before — there was a perfect fury of delight and applause ; and loud cries for the composer, who at last did emerge from his corner, and confront the now vociferous and delighted crowd. And he also shook hands with the singer, with a look I shall never forget. It was the end of the Friday's concerts, and 'poor Hopkin- son's ' reputation as a composer of songs was made. We departed, rejoicing. 130 FROM MOOR ISLES CHAPTER V. IN THE WOOD. We departed, rejoicing, as I say, but not together. Old Mr. Arkwright and I went back to Lanehead, in company ; Felix and Elisabeth were both bidden to a supper-party, given by a common friend, who was that night entertaining a large number of the artists who had sung or played. We arrived at the quiet old house, said good-night, and went to our respective rooms. I fell asleep very soon after I had gone to bed, and had not the faintest idea at what hour the other two returned. But, though I fell asleep soon, as one may, very often, even in a state of high nervous excitement, still, the excitement was there — the excitement arising from a combination of great and long-sustained enjoyment and pleasurable emotions produced by the noble music, and the fear and subtle pain and apprehension mixed with it, con- tributed by the episode of the morning — the discovery of my, to me, most unwelcome relations; the recollection of Maurice Grey's look, which seemed to tell me that he, at any rate, did not consider the matter at an end. All these things were still in my mind, and began to agitate my brain the instant I opened my eyes in the morning. I had slept for a good many hours, and woke very wide awake indeed. As soon as I was conscious, I knew that sleep had quite fled. I lay still for a little while, my hands clasped behind my head, my eyes fixed on the dimly visible ceiling of my old-fashioned bedroom, with the long beam running across the roof. It must be very early in the morning. By and- IN THE WOOD by the light grew stronger, and presently I heard a clock strike six. Then a gleam of sunlight crept through the blinds, and played upon the wall and ceiling. Then I heard the stealthy step of the matutinal housemaid creep down- stairs, and presently distant sounds as of grates poked out, pails carried about, and other household noises. I closed my eyes again, with the reflection of the sunbeam still in them, and almost immediately there arose in my brain the distinctly visible picture, with all its details complete, of a woodland glade, the trees of which were covered with fiery autumn tints : the grass of it was soft, fine, and short. Banks of fern, bracken, and autumn gorse spread away into remoter glades, and I vSaw myself standing beside a silent, dark-looking pool, part of whose surface was diversified with brilliant green slime and weeds. This picture was vivid enough ; so vivid that with a smile I opened my eyes ; said half-aloud to myself, ' The very thing — just a little sur- prise for them at breakfast,' and, unclasping my hands, I promptly arose, pulled up the blind, and looked forth on a glorious dry October morning, precursor of an equally glorious day. There had been frost in the night ; it lingered yet on the grass and on the leaves of the autumn trees, but the sky overhead was of a magnificent deep blue, and from the meadows and hillocks all around the mist was rolling away in soft, silvery wreaths. I felt so strong, so happy, so capable of going through life with credit and renown, arid of not yielding to adverse circumstances ; it was a glorious, comforting mood to awaken in. I dressed as speedily as might be, put on a little fur- trimmed cap, seized my warm plaid, opened my door softly, and as softly stole downstairs. Sometimes old Mr. Ark- 132 FROM MOOR ISLES Wright rose early and took a morning walk. I hoped I was beforehand with him on this occasion, and it seemed that I was. Perhaps he was tired with the unwonted excitement of the past few days, and had slept later than usual. All the life I saw was in the form of Mary the housemaid, who, with broom and pails, was just coming through the hall, with the obvious intention of cleaning the steps. ' Lawk, Miss Grey !' she observed, seeing me. ' Open the door, Mary, as quietly as possible. I am going for a walk before breakfast. And if any of the others come down, do not say that you saw me.' In another moment I was out, in the delicious sharp morning air, the gravel of the drive crunching frostily under my feet. It was not very far to the spot I wanted to reach. A ten minutes' walk through a field, rough and moorish, brought me to the gate leading into the woodland I had dreamed of; and here it was, even more beautiful than my dream of it. Such handiwork of nature ; such forms, such tints, such traceries — such lights and shades, melting into and out of the dim blue mist and into the sunshiny spots ! I knew it well, and felt happy and at home there. London — the gray square, the dim-looking house, the outlook upon buildings and streets — Madame Prenat and my professors, all seemed very far away, and belonging to another world. The wild flowers were over— all but a few autumn yellows and reds, but there was this endless variety of beautiful leaves and twigs, grass and mosses, fading ferns, delicate tendrils -and the pond, just as I had expected it to be; I knew it from many an old holiday ramble — many an hour's rest by its banks on sunny days, when the coolness of the wood had been grateful. It was still and dark where the IN THE WOOD 133 water showed ; brightly green and yellow where it was grown over with slime and weeds. The pond, somehow, was not as delightful as when I had last seen it ; the rest of the surroundings were, if anything, more so. I had wandered about the glade for some little time, picking here a leaf and there a twig ; when suddenly, at a little distance in the wood, I perceived a treasure — a cluster of harebells, and not far away a few late tufts of heather. With a joyful exclamation, I made for them, gathered the flowers till not one was left, and then turned in search of fresh plunder. * Well !' said a voice behind me. ' So you are here, after all, though I could hardly believe Mary's statement to that effect. What has brought you out so early ?' I was still stooping over my flowers, and by the time that I had started in my surprise, and had had time to feel the jump that my heart gave, I had had time also to pull myself together as on a former occasion. I stood up, looked round, and said tranquilly, as I stripped some leaves away from my bouquet — * Why, did you think I should never find out such a place as this ? I don't know why, I am sure.' ' Oh yes, I will trust you to have found it out long ago. The only thing is, there are times and seasons for every- thing. Seven o'clock in the morning ' ' Is a good time, and so you seem to think,' said I. ' And yet, I should suppose it was much worse for you than for me, for you have got a voice to take care of, while I have none— of that kind.' ' Listen to her, telling me to take care of my capital,' he remarked, half laughing. 'Then you didn't know that I 134 FROM MOOR ISLES have been here, and generally a good deal farther, every morning since we arrived ?' ' No, indeed, I didn't,' I said, honestly astonished. * It is one of my old country habits. One loses it in town sometimes, unavoidably, but here — there's something that makes it worth one's while to renew it.' * And is this your favourite spot ?' I asked sentimentally. ' It is a favourite spot of mine,' he said decisively. * But please tell me what you are doing here.' ' I came because I awoke very early and remembered how beautiful the leaves and things were here, and I thought I would gather some — for you and Mrs. Reichardt — and for Mr. Ark Wright — for breakfast, you know.' * For breakfast ! What an extraordinary notion ! Is thy servant an ox that he should eat this thing ?' ' For your plates, that was all,' I explained, holding up a small bunch of harebells and leaves. * For our plates, there will probably be bacon, or fish, or something — or game. My father understands a real York- shire breakfast,' he said meditatively. ' You know perfectly well what I mean,' I argued ; ' but, if you like, I will explain it to you — Madame Prenat always says we should try to explain ourselves — it often shows how very vague and formless was the thought behind our equally vague and formless words. Therefore, what I mean is this, Monsieur Felix ; a present of flowers is perhaps of not much intrinsic value, but it may mean affection and esteem — at any rate, it is a little kindly attention. Autumn leaves are as beautiful, I think, as the most splendid flowers. I love to look at them. I thought that you — and the others — might also like to look at them, I was going to make three IN THE WOOD 135 little bouquets, and lay them on your plates, just to show that I had been thinking of you. That would not have prevented you from taking bacon upon your plates after- wards ' ' I prefer a hot plate for bacon,' he said, after looking at me attentively ; ' cold plates for bouquets ; hot plates for bacon.' * Very well,' I said, trying to cover my nervousness — for I was nervous, though I could not have told why — by a pro- longed stream of talk. * If you insist upon being so very exact, I could have laid the bouquets Reside the plates — then, whether they had been hot or cold would not have mattered. It seems to me that it shows a want of respect for a beautiful landscape, and for lovely flowers and leaves, to be talking incessantly of bacon and hot plates.' 'Well, it was not I who brought it on. When you are told that you are to have a bunch of leaves and grass for your breakfast, you have to show that you don't intend to submit to any such thing. The worm will turn. . . . But,' he added, leaning with his back against a tree-trunk, and half smiling as he looked at me, ' there is another use to which your pretty things might have been put — in my case, at any rate. I feel almost hurt that you have not yourself proposed it.' ' And what is that, pray ?' I asked curiously. ' A buttonhole for this morning's concert.' ' This — mine ? Do you mean that you would, really ?' I stammered. 'Would what ?' he asked, beginning to laugh. ' Would wear it, if I arranged it for you ?' * Why, certainly. I have to sing " The Old Manoah " 136 FROM MOOR ISLES this morning. Surely autumn tints would be most appro- priate for that part.' ' But,' said I, holding out my leaves and harebells, and looking critically at them, ' these are poor little things, after all. When you get down to the Hall, you will find, as usual, a lot of lovely flowers — hot-house flowers — ferns, roses, and ' ' Well, yes. They generally are there, by some means. Did you ever know me to use any of them, for that purpose ? It is uncommonly kind and disinterested in whoever sends them ; and so thinks the Matron of the Children's Hospital here, only I felt as if I were posing under false pretences when I got a note from her yesterday, thanking me for my lavish generosity to them in the matter of flowers. She shall have whatever there may be, this morning ; and I will have your autumn leaves, Ines — if you will give me them, that is, of course.' He stretched out his hand. ^/f I will give you them ;' said I, striving to conceal my delight in this arrangement. ' Wait — they are not ready yet. I will arrange them after breakfast. But are you sure that when you see lovely Dijon and Marshal Niel roses, you will not ' ' Va pour la feuille morte P he said decidedly. ' There, you have gathered a great wisp of stuff. You will give me a little bit of it, and I shall wear it, and think with pleasure of Ines and of the old pond, in which I managed nearly to drown myself twenty years ago. . . . Now, Ines ' — his tone suddenly changed into one of gravity — ' I hate subterfuges and pretences. I have something to say to you, and I fol- lowed you here ; I asked Mary if she knew whether you were down, and she told me in which direction you had IN THE WOOD 137 gone. There's only a short time, and it has to be done. I go to London to-morrow.' I had expected this. By the chill that fell upon my heart now, I found how I had also dreaded it. 'And before I go, I have, as I remarked, something to say to you — something which I expect you will hate, just at the moment.' ' If it is anything you want me to do, I am sure I shall not hate it.' said I stoutly. 'Yes, you will. And, first, I'll ask you a question. Do you trust me quite and entirely, and believe that what I do, in your concerns, I really believe I do for the best ?' ' Yes, I do, and always shall.' ' Very good — yes, you look as if you meant it. You like Madame Prenat, don't you ?' ' I love her dearly.' 'That also is well. She is so clever that I am rather afraid of her, though I must admit that she has never made me feel my inferiority in any disagreeable manner.' ' What do you mean ?' 'What I say. And you find yourself happy and con- tented with Madame Prdnat ?' ' Y — yes.' My heart began to beat, I hardly knew why, and I drew a httle nearer to him. He was silent for a moment, not looking at me. Then, slowly, and yet kindly : ' Ines, I am going to place you in Madame Prenat's hands, and out of my own, for the next two years.' He then looked at me with a very determined expression, still leaning against the tree-trunk, and plunging his hands into his pockets. I did not quite take it in at first, and said, in some surprise — 138 FROM MOOR ISLES * But. surely, I am in Madame Prenat's hands, and have been, for the last three years ?' *Yes — yes,' he said, rather hurriedly. 'But you forget. I said, " out of mine." ' I gazed at him, wondering what in the world he meant, and finally asked him. ' I wonder you don't see what I mean. I mean, you will stay with her — I have such confidence in her doing what is right, and we — you and I — will not — I mean — why, in Heaven's name, do you look at me in that way — as if I were a maniac ?' ' I don't know what you mean. Tell me quickly,' I said, in a voice which sounded strange to myself. But I did know what he meant. It had flashed in a moment into my mind, and I felt as if the knowledge paralyzed me. ' During that time, I think it will be best for you to put me out of your mind altogether. I don't say, forget me — I don't want you to forget me — but live and act as if I were not there. I do not intend to see anything of you. It is only for a short time — you will not be twenty at the end of two years. But two years at your age make a great difference. You want to know my reasons for it, I dare say ' * Only if you wish to tell me them,' I interrupted, in a voice which somehow would not rise above a whisper. * I said I trusted you, and I do, but ' ' But what ?' ' One may trust, and yet feel as if one were being killed,' said I, dropping my hands at my sides, and clenching them tightly. ^Killed/' he repeated, with a not very successful attempt IN THE WOOD 139 at a laugh. ' I am going to tell you just what I think you ought to hear. Ines, I am so much older than you that I might almost be your father ; you heard what I said to Mr. Grey yesterday — how glad I was that he had let me take care of you all this time. That is true, but it does not hinder the fact that I think you have become too dependent upon me — morally, I mean, child, of course,' he hastily added, with a shocked look, as he caught sight of my face. ' You let yourself depend too much on my judgment, and refer things too much to me, even in your own mind — yes, you do. I know it. I wish you to get out of that habit, if possible, and to that end it is that I mean to commit you entirely to Madame Prenat's charge. And I wish her to refer less to me in her dealings with you and your concerns — do you understand ?' Yes ! Oh yes, I understood ; and, what is more, I did not misunderstand. It never entered my head to think that he meant all this otherwise than as he had said — for my good, entirely for my good. I could, an I would, have twisted his words bravely into stabs of unkindness, but it did not occur to me to do so. He had thought the matter over ; evidently in the midst of his numberless engagements and occupations he had found time to do so. The decision he had come to was, to me, an agonizing one. That it was right, I never doubted. ' As for our not meeting,' he went on, ' I have my own good reasons for that too, which I do not think it necessary to tell you. You may trust them. Do you agree, then ?' ' If you wish it' How was it that my tongue declined to utter anything that I really wished to say, and could only in measured tones speak the coldest commonplaces ? 140 FROM MOOR ISLES * If I wish it ! That is not trust, Ines. That is sub- mission, because you can't help it— just the one thing that I hoped I should never see between you and me.' ' Please forgive me,' I said, all in the same toneless kind of voice. ' It is because I am surprised— it is not because I don't trust you. I am not to see you for two years. But 1 may write to you — to tell you how I get on ?' (This I proposed as if it were an irresistibly tempting offer.) ' And you will write to me ?' * Better not. No — we will not write.' By this time I had got to the resolution to agree abso- lutely to every condition he laid down. That was trust. It seemed to me that he was dissatisfied because I did not display also satisfaction. It was beyond my power to give that. ' No ?' I said. ' And never hear anything about you ? You don't mean that ?' ' I think it would — well, if you ever come here in the holidays at any time you would hear of me — enough and to spare.' ' And Elisabeth ' ' Well, if she were in London, she would go and call upon you. And you could write to each other, you know. I don't want you to go and stay with her.' * We could write to each other — for two years. And when the two years were over — if ever they did get over ' 'Oh, we should meet, of course. My purpose would have been accomplished, and I have little doubt that you would thank me for having come to this decision.' ' I wonder why ?' I said beneath my breath. Then aloud — * I should stay with Madame Prenat ' IN THE WOOD 141 ' And by attending to all her wishes, show me that you do trust me, Ines.' I stood still for a moment, and then Hfted my hand to put it within his. ' I will do exactly as you say,' said I. ' But do not go so white — as if I were wishful to make you utterly miserable,' he said beseechingly. * I am sure you wish nothing of the kind. I know you wish me to be happy. And I know you are doing right, if this is what you have decided upon. But I cannot pretend that I like it,' I said passionately. 'I'll bear it. I'll do what I ought, but ' ' But my sweet Ines will show her old friend that she thinks him a brute, all the time,' he said in so sorrowful and pained a voice as I had never heard from him before. The agony that seized me at that moment was beyond all descrip- tion. I felt hysterical as I forced a smile and retorted — * Because she cannot bear to think of not seeing you for two years, that shows that — I — think you — a brute ! Have I — have I behaved wrongly in some way ?' I asked, going nearer to him, and looking at him very earnestly. ' No, you have not,' he said emphatically, and flushing crimson. 'Why will you persist in looking upon it as a punishment? I cannot explain to you. There are things one can't explain. Trust me ! I wonder how much oftener I must say it. And it is the only thing to be said, too.' 'I trust you— I do. But I cannot sing for joy. You seem to think I ought to do that as well. What can I say ? What can I do ?' ' You can smile, or try to. And you can go to Madame Prenat, and make yourself happy with her.' 142 FROM MOOR ISLES * I can 7e/ork with Madame Prenat,' I said, the first gleam of light breaking over the darkness which encompassed me. * I can work. You have nothing against that ?' ' Nothing. Only don't overdo it. You are different from some girls, Ines. Now, while we are about it, I'll give you the only advice I know of, about how to guide yourself — just the same that I should give to a lad if I were sending him off to school. You will find that though Madame may be a good friend to you, yet you will have to depend a great deal on your own good sense and right feelings in some things. And all I can say is, never tell a lie, by word or by deed. Never forsake a friend; never think, whatever you are working at, that you can do it perfectly, and don't need to trouble yourself any further about it. If you ever give way to that, you'll find yourself outstripped by the most stupid of your rivals, when it comes to a test. What is it, besides ? — fear God and honour the king— you can translate that for yourself Walk straight, and you'll come out all right at the end. I trust you absolutely. You have never disappointed me before, and I am sure you will not now. Come back to the house. Heaven only knows what time of day it has got to.' I moved, to do as he suggested. 1 had been standing, rigid, in the same place, all the time, save for approaching one or two steps nearer to him. When I came to step forward, I found myself feeling as if I should fall down. I turned away from him, leaned my hands and my face against the trunk of a silver birch which stood hard by, and cried and sobbed silently and bitterly for a minute or two, till he laid his hand upon my shoulder, and once more said, in a voice of pain — IN THE WOOD 143 * You said you trusted me ?' 'So I did— so I do. But this ' ' And what is trust for, if not to carry one through some such time as this ?' he asked. * It will carry me through — by-and-by. "Go back, and leave me. I'll come directly.' ' No, certainly not,' he answered quickly. * You will come back with me, now.' He took me by the shoulders, and gently, very gently, turned me round. I could only put my hands before my face, still crying. ' You are determined to make it hard for me, whatever it may be for you,' he suddenly said, very quietly, but in a tone which instantly dried my tears, and caused me to look up sharply. I saw his face, quite white, and, as it seemed to me, stern. He looked at me, and then exclaimed, ' Ines I Well, I ought not to have chosen just this time to do it, I suppose. I'm a fool. So Madame Prenat would tell me. So Elisabeth doubtless will tell me. No doubt you are faint and famishing, as well as miserable. And it is cold !' he added, looking round him with a slight shiver, though the sun was shining more brilliantly than ever. 'Come, my — Ines. Give me your hand and come with me.' I dried my eyes, and gave him my hand. He drew it through his arm, and gently stroked my cheek, saying softly, ' You have always been so good. You will not fail me now.' And I felt that I should not. Though the full desolation of the parting was yet to come, I felt that I should not fail. Arm-in-arm we walked a few paces, and then he said suddenly — 'You will not fail. But, my child, you grieve far too 144 FROM MOOR ISLES much about it. Ines, when you set up a human being in your fancy as you, in your enthusiastic young heart, have set me up, and will see nothing imperfect in that human being, it means disappointment and disgust and disillusion, in the end, as surely as a bright sun means daylight,' * Don't,' I said. ' Let me think what I like.' 'I suppose you will think what you like, at any rate.' He sighed. It was not often that I had heard Felix sigh. * Did you mean to leave me here to-morrow ?' I asked, as we drew nearer the house. * I thought so. Why cut your holiday short because I am obliged to leave ?' ' You are going to sing somewhere on Monday ?' ' At the concert, in London — yes. Concerts every night next week, and then the opera begins at the ' ' Don't think I'm tiresome if I ask you to let me go back with you to-morrow, instead of staying here. I would rather go straight to Madame Prenat, and begin my work again.' ' Surely the fresh air here would do you more good ' ' Please !' I said persuasively. * So be it,' he repHed. 'See that you wire to Madame while we are in Kirkfence this morning. The train to- morrow leaves at one o'clock.' We went into the garden, into the house, and I ran up- stairs to take off my things before going in to breakfast. What a white, tear-stained face w^as that I caught sight of as I passed my looking-glass ! I bathed it roughly with cold water, scrubbed it with a stiff towel, and, having thus heightened its beauty, repaired to the breakfast-room. Fehx was there, already seated. I said good morning to Mr. IN THE WOOD 145 Arkwright, kissed Elisabeth, who pressed my hand in silence, and went round to my place. From that hand-pressure, and from the fact that neither Elisabeth nor Mr. Arkwright asked me a question, I concluded that Felix must have given some brief outline of the state of affairs. Lying on my plate was the greater portion of my collec- tion of leaves, ferns, and wild flowers. Feeling my face crimson, I looked across at Felix. He smiled. ' You dropped them,' said he. * You never saw me pick them up ; but I do not wish to lose my little bouquet, if you will still give it to me.' It was kind ; kindly meant and kindly said, but it made me feel as if my heart would break, and also as if Felix Ark- wright were farther away from me — more apart than he had ever been before. Despite all my efforts at composure, it was a sad and silent meal. I hated myself for not being able to behave as if nothing had happened — for having to look dull and sad, and so distressing the others. But I could not be glad, or look as if I were glad. I had not yet had time to begin any speculations as to Felix's reasons for pursuing this course with me. I felt only the crushing grief of the thing itself. We were so late at breakfast that I had no opportunity of speaking to Elisabeth before it was time to go down to the concert. I sat it out, but, oh, with what different feelings from the happy ones of the past few days ! ' For two years — two years — two whole years !' was the refrain which for me ran through all the music ; and when at the end the whole audience, with chorus, soloists, and orchestra, stood up and sang ' God Save the Queen !' as it seldom is sung, the triumphant notes seemed only to peal forth the one 10 146 FROM MOOR ISLES dreadful fact — for two long, weary years I shall not see him, speak to him, or hear from him. And who knows what may have happened before it is all over? I was glad I had chosen at once to go to London. I could work, I knew, but I could not play, under the load of this trial. And to London I went, with Felix, on Sunday afternoon. We had not so much conversation as on our journey down to Irkford ; though we did talk a good deal. I would fain have left the hateful topic out of our discourse altogether — kept it as a good grim skeleton, and dragged it out and ex- amined it whenever I wanted to work myself into a state of misery about anything. Not so Felix. He was far too sane and right-minded, too direct in his notions, to do any such thing. He talked about it openly ; asked me point- blank how I should chiefly employ my time, because, he said, he should like to have some idea as to what I was doing with myself. He said cheerfully that Madame Prenat knew all his wishes on the subject ; he reposed entire con- fidence in her, and I might be sure that whatever she sug- gested would receive his sanction. To all of which I, of course, assented ; and then it seemed but a moment while the dreadful cab jogged us through the dim gray streets and squares to the door of Madame Prenat's house — another moment only before we stood in her draw- ing-room, while she greeted us, self-possessed, calm, and with the suggestion of a reserve of power beneath her quiet manner which impressed me anew after each absence from her. 'I will not stay — no, I will not sit down,' said Felix, 'Good-bye, Ines. Lay my admonitions to heart. Ask IN THE WOOD 147 Madame Prenat if they are not good. We shall meet again, when it's over.' He took my hand, looked at me for a moment, as I stood silently before him. ' Auf wt'ederse/ien /' he said, stooping, and kissing my cheek gently. * Good-bye, Madame. I leave her in your hands.' He touched her hand also, and was gone, without looking back at me. ' You have chosen to come to me at once, Ines, and to begin work ?' Madame asked me, after a pause. 'Yes, Madame.' ' Good ! I have much for you to do. There are certain conditions laid down by Mr. Arkwright. Those must re- ceive our first consideration. I will explain them to you later. For the rest, he gives us car/e bla?iche to study what we please. A man in a thousand !' she concluded, in a sort of pious rapture. ' And now, my child, to your room. Your luggage will have been taken there. We dine at half- past seven. Two friends of mine are coming. Do not dress more than usual.' Silently I turned away. Madame was unbendingly de- termined to have no drivelling sentimentality — and she was right. [ m8] Part HI. CHAPTER I. HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH. While Ines Grey was all unconsciously going through her love-story, drinking of its mingled sweetness and bitterness, without distinctly realizing what the mixture was, which was yet so intoxicating and so irresistible, there was another love- story — quite as vivid, quite as intensely lived through by the actors in it, going on in and around Moor Isles. The one day there whose history has been given was merely a parenthesis in the sentence, as it were — after it was over, Brian was quickly engrossed again and more deeply than before in the persons and in the passion which had for some time been overmastering him. That day which had been so bright and so apart (if he had ever read ' Poems in Prose,' he might, in thinking of that day, have recalled that per- fectly beautiful and perfectly sad one, ' How lovely and fresh those roses were !' but he was unacquainted with that little gem of fancy and genius) — that day was over, gone ; had passed away into the limbo of things which have been and are now no more. Brian might also have laid to heart the HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 149 song which Felix had sung as his last contribution that night, in which came the words — * Sie singet, Herr des Hauses, verschliess das Thor, Dass nicht die Welt, die Alte, dring ins Gemach.' On the contrary, Brian threw wide open the door, and ' die Welt, die Alte ' was soon, very soon with him again, as it had been before. Lucy Barraclough had gone down to Moor Isles that evening, unaware (despite Alice Ormerod's suspicion) that Brian was not alone, but dimly conscious there was some hostile influence at work against her, and with her vanity hurt by Brian's absence from her side, of nearly three days' duration. She had resolved to bring him back to his alle- giance, or, in her own phraseology, 'to know the reason why.' Before finding that he had visitors, she had mentally accused Alice Ormerod of being the cause of his defection, and that must not be allowed for a moment. She soon found out the real state of things, but that made no differ- ence. He had been recalcitrant — he must be brought once more into a state of due submission and humility. The first step towards this consummation, of course, was to drag him away instantly from his own abode and bring him to Jessa- mine Lawn to spend the evening there. How they went thither in company has been related. When they had been assembled some little time Jim proposed a game at billiards — for why should not the proceeds of a railway grease manu- factory be metamorphosed into the cheerful semblance of a green-cloth covered table of the best make, and charming ivory balls clicking pleasantly and sharply as they flew about hither and thither, under the blows of the cues ? Brian ISO FROM MOOR ISLES was no very brilliant performer on this particular instrument — his hands, and his head too, were better adapted for evoking moving strains from his violin, but he loved to think he could cope with the best of them, and if he ever lost — why, of course, one had to lose sometimes. But to- night he won. He was excited ; he talked and laughed a good deal — he made some wonderful flukes, but — he won. They played for money, but not for very high stakes. When the playing ceased, Brian was the gainer of some three pounds ten shillings, part of which he had won from Jim Barraclough, and the other part from a friend of Jim's, who had appeared on the scene soon after they had begun to play — one Richard, or. as he was generally called, ' Dicky,' Law; an oldish young man, with a very delicate, smooth complexion, which would have put to shame that of many a dainty girl ; sandy, almost red hair — not much of it — and whiskers, handsome regular features, and blue eyes — very curious eyes were those of this dubious Dicky Law — they were rather near together, and had the most remarkable trick of always seeming to slide into position when they met those of other people. And sometimes, when he had been silent for a considerable time— for he was not loquacious — if one happened to look at him, one would find his eyes just sliding away from one's face. He had a flannel business near Hollowley, and was sprung from exactly the same class as the Barracloughs themselves ; but by hook or by crook, he had contrived to be very much better educated than they were — to be, in fact, so far as mere modern knowledge goes, well educated. He had none of their broad, vulgar tricks of accent and expression ; he had a great many books, went in for the improvement of the masses, the elevation of HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 151 women, the extension of the franchise ; was Hkewise what by a Scot would be called ' theologically free,' and had many other advanced notions on civilization and social questions ; and yet there were people — Brian was one of them — to whom the brutal ignorance of the Barracloughs — their horizon bounded by the amount of money they could turn over in a year, and their sublime indifference to every amenity of life of the finer and more refined kind — were less displeasing than the more polished personality of Dicky Law. Brian was well aware of the failings of the Barra- clough mankind ; he went there to see Lucy, not them, and he often wondered why Law, who professed to despise ignorance and vulgarity, was such a constant visitor at the house. He had more than once expressed his wonder at the fact, and his dislike of the man, to Lucy, who shrugged her shoulders and said — * Oh, he's awfully stupid, is Dicky ! But Jim says he plays a good hand at whist, and his billiards aren't so bad either. And Jim must have his whist and his billiards, or his pool, you know. You needn't notice him.' Yet Brian had allowed himself to be drawn into playing with him this evening, and, as has been said, retired from the contest the winner of a small sum. Spirits and water and cigars were going freely while the game went on, and Lucy was present the whole time, even playing one short game with Brian, while the other two professed to look up some business details relative to the state of the Irkford market the day before. Brian lost that time. Lucy played a very neat little game, but, as she sweetly said, it was for love, not money, so it did not matter. It was late — after one in the morning — when the party broke up, with a 152 FROM MOOR ISLES promise on Brian's part either to come again on Monday, or else to meet them at the ' Swan,' in Hollowley, for pool. He went away to his own house, leaving Law behind, he having arrived to spend what was there called ' the week- end ' — Saturday and Sunday nights — at Jessamine Lawn. When Brian had gone, Lucy, giving way to the feelings of weariness and sleepiness which had for some time almost overcome her, yawned long and rather loudly, stretched out her arms, and remarked — * Well, if you two fellows mean to keep it up any longer, I don't. I'm tired, and I'm going.' ' Stop a bit, Lucy,' said Jim, with a meaning look ; ' wait till I come back.' * No, I shan't,' she answered, with a sudden, swift deci- siveness, as the sleepiness vanished and a look of displeasure came over her face ; and, before he could leave the room, she was at the door, waving her hand slightly to them, and saying ' Good-night,' she vanished. * You're not half sharp enough,' said Dicky Law to his friend ; and it was astonishing to see what a black look spread itself over his delicate pink and white complexion, and came into his light blue eyes. * Perhaps I didn't want to be,' retorted Jim indifferently. * I don't know what you may be made of, but I've had a long day, and so has Lucy, for that matter. For God's sake, drop the game for a few hours, and let's get a bit of sleep. There's all to-morrow before you.' He spoke sulkily. A slight, gentle smile crossed the face of the other man, but he said nothing. Jim busied himself in extinguishing the oil-lamps with which the table had to be lighted, for it goes without saying that gas was unknown HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 153 at Thornton-in-Ravenside. After doing this, he took up a smaller lamp which stood on a table near the door, and led the way into the hall. Everyone had gone to bed but them- selves. Jim turned out more lights, leaving, however, one or two on the different landings and staircases, and they finally parted, going into their respective rooms. After which, the stillness of the remote country — an absolute, un- broken, palpitating stillness — settled over Jessamine Lawn, as over every other house in the neighbourhood, and the small hours of the Sunday morning gradually grew larger as the inmates of the house slept, or waked, as the case might be. ■X- * * * * The Barraclough men were not at church on Sunday morning ; but Lucy was. She seldom missed attending divine worship once, at any rate, each week. Fresh as a rose, with her pale face and dark eyes, and her exquisitely neat attire and most becoming bonnet, she left the house betimes, and lightly tripped the half-mile that lay between Jessamine Lawn and the parish church of Thornton-in- Ravenside. No venerable, hoary fane, this, but an entirely Philistine and entirely hideous structure, erected in some year of the thirties. Its style could hardly be called debased, because it had none to be debased. It was, if one may say so, a specimen of insignificance so extreme as to be intense. Its interior rose from insignificance into the more positive quality of hideousness. Naked white walls, with here and there a ghastly black marble slab adorned with the usual white relief urn, and weeping willow, and floppy-looking female figure engaged in industriously filling the urn with solid marble tears ; long, plain windows filled 154 FROM MOOR ISLES with diamond panes of a spotty, greenish -white glass; immense, high-walled pews, the object of whose structure appeared to be to conceal their temporary inmates as much as possible from one another, as though they had met for some object of which they were thoroughly ashamed, and were desirous of, unseen, accomplishing their fell purposes. And yet it would seem that they had an uneasy conscious- ness all the time of being observed ; or perhaps it was the existence of that observation which had caused them to build their pew-walls so high — but, at any rate, on the wall on each side of the altar, there was a large black board, with a portion of the Ten Commandments inscribed upon it in golden letters, and at the top of each board was depicted the similitude of a huge glaring eye, also in gold, with fierce golden rays streaming away from and around it — the most utterly frightful, senseless, and hideous illustra- tion perhaps ever offered by the most hopelessly perverse misunderstander of symbolical art that ever existed — the ecclesiastical architect as he flourished during the early years of the reign of her present Majesty. Lucy sat in the great square pew * belonging ' to Jessamine Lawn, and exactly confronted one of the gilded eyes. She had gone to Thornton Church now for some three or four years — the Barracloughs were not natives of Thornton, only settlers therein — and she knew that the eye was there — indeed, she had often gazed at it, and when the sermon was long and uninteresting, she had amused herself by following its gigantic curves, and trying to count the rays that emanated from it. She had often succeeded in soothing herself almost or quite to sleep by this process, but it had. never occurred to her how hideous the thing was — or how ludicrous. That HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 155 was not the kind of thing that interested or amused Lucy Barraclough. So here she sat on this particular Sunday morning, as she had often sat before, with her little Russia leather case of books, ready to follow the parson in all his proceedings, and quite ready, too, to watch the different members of the congregation as they dropped in. It was not a numerous congregation ; Lucy knew them all by sight and by name, if not personally, and as, one after another, they appeared, her eyes rested on each of them, and the expression of her face was unchanged, though in her mind there was excite- ment, and the constant wonder, * Will she come ? Will he come ? I hope they will — but he won't — no.' At last her eye fell upon two persons just entering ; the upright, stately figure of Alice Ormerod, and the somewhat stooping, but still huge and stalwart stature of her father. ' Ah ! there ske is !' Lucy said to herself, giving a little involuntary pat of satisfaction to the bow of her bonnet- strings. She did not think Brian would be there, and, indeed, he put in no appearance. Alice and her father sat where she, almost unseen, could observe them ; and she did so, and saw how Alice's proud face was sad, and paler, too, than usual. The sight gladdened her. It was soothing to her feelings, inasmuch as it showed that her interference the evening before had produced a distinct effect, just where she had wished that such effect should be produced. She knew perfectly well that Brian's heart was her own ; that Alice had, as she put it, ' no chance in the world ' with him. She knew that, by lifting her little finger, she could beckon him in the flash of an eye from Alice's side to her own. All this she knew perfectly well. But she knew also that 156 FROM MOOR ISLES Alice loved him, while she, Lucy, did not ; and though she had no faintest capacity in herself for a high, unselfish love, yet she dimly felt that such a love was in its way a powerful kind of thing, and she was jealous of it — ^jealous that another should possess a weapon which she would never know how to handle. Conscious that Alice was mistress of this great instrument of unselfishness, Lucy was angry and suspicious of every word spoken by Brian to Alice, of every civil look he might give to the young woman ; and the discovery, the night before, of their helpful, sociable intercourse, had filled her with a deep, uneasy anger and vexation. She had at once resorted to her own weapons — those which she could wield with ease and address — had dragged Brian away from under the very eyes of the other woman, whose love made her shy and miserable in the presence of one who knew it and despised it. Lucy had not seen how Alice, with sunken head and drooping shoulders, had slipped away from Moor Isles to the privacy of her own home, but she had guessed at her departure. That, however, was not enough. Alice must be punished, and Brian must be punished, for pre- suming to be together without her knowledge, and for having common acquaintance unknown to her. * If that's the consequence of his going to these precious concerts,' Lucy decided within herself, as she knelt on her knees, and half-sang, half said, the Lord's Prayer, after the parson — 'if that's the consequence, he will just have to give them up. I'll see whether I can't make him. We will try which wins — the concert, or an evening in my company. I remember Alice saying how very good it was for him to go — how it took him amongst dififerent kinds of things and people. I dare say. We will see whether some of his HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 157 friends up at Thornton are not enough for him. Those two women yesterday ' — Lucy's face flushed — ' she had been making up to them, I could see. As if they were /ler sort. I'm certain she prevented him from asking me to meet them. Very well — " For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen." ' When the service was over, she walked out of her pew and down the aisle, looking almost Quakerlike in her soft, dove -coloured gown of silk and cashmere, though the crimson carnations in her bonnet were of a more worldly taste. Lucy understood very well the colours and the shapes of things which best suited her, though she might be somewhat left to herself occasionally in the matter of some particular style of garment for a given occasion. But this morning the colour, cut, and material of her costume were all irreproachable, and, as she cast a side-glance upon the three stiff-looking daughters of the Squire of the neighbour- hood — the Misses Dunstan, each of whom wore the colour least suited to her particular style and complexion, she felt at once a contempt for them and a content with her own more satisfactory arrangements which, if she had been a cat, would doubtless have expressed itself in a loud purring, but which in a woman, and one who was in church, had to be satisfied with looks only. Hapless Misses Dunstan ! Yet there were persons who ound them delightful; and all Lucy's pleasure in the superior elegance of her own attire, all her consciousness of how much richer her father was than Mr. Dunstan, did not quite sweeten the fact that, while these ill-dressed young women took no notice whatever of her — I^ucy — she noticed all three, and their father as well, give the most friendly of 158 FROM MOOR ISLES nods and smiles to Alice and Farmer Ormerod. They would exchange some talk outside the church, she knew. And she was not going to stand by and see it, so she walked a little more quickly, but with no appearance of unseemly haste, to the door ; she stepped outside, and was about to proceed serenely on her way, when she encoun- tered a pair of gliding blue eyes, and the voice of Dicky Law said — * So I'm just in time, it seems, to have the pleasure of walking home with you. Quite in luck's way, I declare !' The smile faded from Lucy's face. A very grave ex- pression succeeded it; it was not in a very spirited voice that she made her retort — * So you've actually managed to be up and dressed, and at the church door by twelve o'clock ! I should think no one ever heard of such a thing happening to you before.' 'To have the pleasure of walking home with you, as I said,' he repeated, smiling ; and, without asking further leave, walked on by her side. They left the churchyard, and turned into the road in the direction of home. When about half-way there, they passed Brian's house, with the farm just beyond it. All was still and quiet, with the stillness of a country Sunday morning. Through the lattice-work blind which was before the lower part of the kitchen window, was dimly discernible the respectable figure of Sarah Stott, moving to and fro, bent on household concerns. Other sign of life there was none. Lucy raised her eyes, slackened her pace, and looked openly and with interest at the little old mansion. 'It's the nicest old house there is anywhere about here,' she observed reflectively, yet decidedly. 'It's the sort of HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 159 house I could do to live in. Somehow I don't care for new houses, like ours.' ' Then why don't you make haste to settle yourself there ?' asked Dicky, his lips growing a little tight. Lucy shook her head, with a little laugh. * If I could settle there alone — but not with Brian Hol- gate,' said she, with the appearance, at any rate, of the most artless candour, ' with his fiddling and his singing, and his temper never two days alike — and nothing to do,' she added, with rare practical wisdom, 'except squander the bit of money that his father left him — no.' * Then, if you don't mean to have him, why don't you let him alone ?' asked Dicky again. ' I don't know that I meddle with him. It's he that doesn't let me alone,' said Lucy. ' You know very well what I mean.' ' Well, perhaps I do. You mean, why don't I make him go about his business? No; that would just mean turning him over to Alice Ormerod ' — she looked with no friendly expression into the farmyard, which they were passing — 'and that,' she added with quiet vindictiveness, 'I never will. With her piety and her pride, setting herself up to be better than other people. That Alice Ormerod is beyond everything with her airs— telling Brian that he was going to ruin by coming so much to us. She meant to me, I know. And he believed her too, and does believe her.' 'Perhaps because it's true,' said Dicky encouragingly. ' But do you mean he told you what she had said ? WAa^ a fool he must be !' * I never said who had told me. I know she said it ; and true or not, I'll never forgive her !' said Lucy. i6o FROM MOOR ISLES 'And how long do you mean to carry on this kind of game — playing fast and loose with him and with me ?' asked her companion searchingly. ' How do you know that Miss Ormerod — she's a handsome girl, by the way — would make three of such as you — how do you know she would look at your precious Brian ?' There was an unpleasant sneer in his voice. Lucy's laugh was no pleasanter as she answered — * Pooh ! I know her sort. She's in love with him. That means, that everything he does that's wrong and silly is not his fault, but someone else's — mine, because he happens to be in love with me. If he happened to be in love with someone else, it would be that someone else's fault.' ' You seem to have gone into the subject pretty deeply.' ' I have. I've been obliged to. She shall not h^ve him unless ' * Unless what ?' Dicky spoke calmly, and Lucy was not looking at him at the moment, or she might have seen how ferociously his eyes glided to and fro in his excitement. She was pursuing her own train of thought — that which had been in her mind during the whole of the morning service at church, and she spoke her thoughts now, without much reference to Dicky, except that she knew talking to him about Brian staved off the necessity of having to listen while he talked about her- self to her. 'Unless he got to be worthless, as you might say — not worth looking at or speaking to ; then she might take him, for aught I cared.' ' You mean, if he'd lost house and land, such as he has. HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH i6i and his money, and couldn't hold up his head, and was low down, like — like this,' said Dicky, kicking a tuft of grass by the roadside, and unconsciously quoting almost the exact words of another — a greater, but not a more unscrupulous than himself, the heartless and accomplished Veitel Itzig. ' Yes, that's what I mean,' said Lucy tranquilly. * If he was too sick and sorry to care who took him up, and if I knew that he'd given me the best he had to give, why then she might have him, when he was worth nothing to anyone else. But there,' she added quickly, ' what nonsense to talk of such things ! They don't happen nowadays. Brian has his house and his property ; he's comfortable enough in a small way — except when I make him uncomfortable. But I wish him no harm ; it's Alice Ormerod I can't do with. Nothing would hurt her so much as for him to be hurt.' ' Oh, you women !' ejaculated the virtuous Dicky. ' To wish to see a girl like that Alice Ormerod brought low, who has never done you an evil turn, except by caring a little too much for a gaping young idiot, who you think ought to be dangling at your apron-strings. It's horrible — perfectly horrible !' He shook his head over the enormity of it. * Now tell me, Lucy,' he added, as they paced about in the garden of Jessamine Lawn, for they had now arrived there — ' tell me one thing — when will you marry me f ' Oh, there's time enough to talk about that !' said Lucy uneasily. She always was more or less uneasy in this man's presence — at any rate, when she was alone with him. * When your fine young Holgate, or your dear Miss Orme- rod, is biting the dust ?' he asked in quiet, gentle tones. She was silent. II 162 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Eh ?' he persisted. *What nonsense! That would mean never,' she said impatiently. ' Biting the dust ! What expressions you use ! As if there was anything to make them bite the dust !' ' Still, it's a kind of beacon in the distance — a sort of goal to keep in view,' he persisted, smiHng gently. 'So shall we say then, if not before?' ' Oh, if you like !' she said, laughing, but not very joyfully. ' Very good !' he said, with sudden decisiveness in his tones. ' Remember, I shall hold you to your word.' * You are not meaning any harm to Brian ?' Lucy in- quired, with vague distrust. ' Oh, none ! I'm only meaning to get the woman I want for my wife as soon as possible. All's fair in love and war.' He laughed. 'What is Holgate to me— except a stupid bore, without any brains, like all these musical creatures ? Feeling — they do everything by feeling — they never reason, by any chance.' ' You are not to do him any harm,' repeated Lucy, trying to speak with a bold carelessness, 'or I'll have nothing to say to you.' She meant what she said, and yet at the same time she was glad of something that staved off any nearer talk of her getting married to Dicky Law. It was, as she well knew, a match that would meet with the fullest approval and satis- faction in her home circle, and it was a match which, she supposed, she would some time or other make. But not just yet — and she did not care to talk about it just yet. 'Why can't you let him alone?' Dicky asked again. ' Surely you have got all from him that you want. He's ever so much in love with you — he ' HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 163 ' He would go back to the Ormerods if I took no notice of him,' said Lucy. ' No, I shall not let him alone.' 'Go back to the Ormerods — reversion to the original type,' said Dicky pleasantly. * From the peasantry he sprang, I expect, if the truth were known, and if left to the guidance of his own impulses and instincts, to the peasantry he would return. But we want to keep him raised above such a mere bucolic level as that, don't we ?' * I don't know what you are talking about. I don't understand a word of it,' she said crossly. ' Ah, you don't thirst after knowledge. You don't attend university extension lectures, such as we have down in Hollo wley,' said Dicky graciously. ' It is almost a pity. You might learn a lot at them. And what's more, you might get other ideas into your head than to spend your time tormenting a fellow who is blindly in love with you, and whom you don't mean to have in the end of all.' Lucy looked darkly sulky and annoyed. She hated to be interfered with and seen through. The game was an important one to her, and she knew that to Dicky it was beneath contempt. ' I can't tell why you wanted to see me,' she said, *if it was for nothing but to give me a long lecture Hke this.' Dicky laughed. ' Lecture, indeed ! I wonder who gets fewer lectures than you ?' ' It isn't for you to begin, then,' she retorted angrily. ' Is young Holgate coming here this afternoon ?' he inquired, not heeding her vexation. ' I don't know,' she answered shortly. ' Perhaps he may — perhaps not. Very often Jim and I go and have tea with him on a Sunday afternoon, and then he comes back to l64 FROM MOOR ISLES supper with us. But I don't think we could take you there, without an invitation,' she concluded demurely. ' I guess not. Well, I don't care. We shall meet at the " Swan " at Hollowley, on Monday night, or else up here again.' ' There's the first bell for dinner. I must go and get my things off,' said Lucy, turning towards the house. ' What a sweet little prayer-book you have !' he remarked, taking it out of her hand. 'And a hymn-book, too, I declare !' 'Yes, Jim gave me them.' * Really ! If I had had the least idea you had a fancy for such things ' ' I must not be late. You know father gets furious if anyone is a minute behind time for dinner,' she said hur- riedly, taking her books from him and going quickly in. ' Yes,' muttered Dicky to himself, as he watched her light, dainty little figure trip up the slope towards the house ; ' I know he does. He must have a disgusting big feed, and everybody seated to a minute, and a full discussion of the dishes, and the price he paid for each thing, and tell us all how he never stints his fishmonger or his butcher as to price, and how well they serve him in consequence. Bah ! What a place is this, to be sure ! What a life for responsible human beings to lead ! Money-grubbing and eating — that's all they do or think about ; and my young lady there hasn't even the money-making to keep her out of other mischief. If she were not so d d pretty with it all ! But she is. I never fought hard for anything before, unless I was sure it was worth the trouble. I'm not sure about this at all ; at least, not for the future 3 it's pleasant enough and amusing HOW LUCY WENT TO CHURCH 165 enough in the present. No, I'm not sure, but I mean to fight for it — and I mean to marry her if fifty Holgates stood in the way !' Then he too went into the house, filled still with re- flections on the life these people led. They all met round the dinner-table; and in such wise had Lucy Barraclough accomplished her usual Sunday morning's occupation — attendance at Divine worship, and then a little stroll round the garden of Jessamine Lawn till dinner-time. CHAPTER n. PLAYING WITH FIRE. On the Monday night, billiards were resumed, this time at the ' Swan ' at Hollowley, as Dicky had said ; and this time Brian lost more money than he had won on the Saturday. He and Jim Barraclough drove home in the latter's dog- cart, at a late hour ; and Brian promised to go up to Jessa- mine Lawn on the following evening, when whist, instead of billiards, was the form taken by the entertainment. Brian hardly knew why he had gone to the ' Swan.' He had no desire to do so ; he had no wish to play billiards with Dicky Law ; but also, he had no particular attraction at home. He felt disincHned for an evening alone with his violin ; he was too restless and feverish to enjoy that. He might have gone to the farm. Of course there was always that resource open to him. They never failed to welcome him and his fiddle. Perhaps it was partly because he was so very sure of that welcome that he did not trouble himself to court it. But for Lucy, though, he might have gone. 1 66 FROM MOOR ISLES But he could not sit and talk to Alice about Lucy, and there was nothing else now that he cared to talk about. The flame of passion had got fresh fuel. A few gentle words from her — a look or two, had roused it all again, and it burnt as high and as strong as before. He was possessed by Lucy and by the thought of her, to the exclusion of every other object. Life seemed worth nothing to him till he had really won her. And his passion, while blunting his perceptions in some directions, rendered them abnormally keen in others, as is the way with devouring passions. He had seen, or thought he had seen, that Law looked at Lucy in a manner which to him, Brian, was suspicious. True, Lucy had no manner of interest in Richard Law. Brian always felt as if Law and he belonged to different genera- tions as well as different temperaments, and he classed Lucy with himself, not with the other. Still, the bare idea that this man's eyes could have looked with favour upon his darling, was enough to set on fire all his aversion to him. He hated Dicky with an instinctive hatred, as one hates a crawling creature, at sight, without waiting to inquire into any beauty of its own which it might possess in the shape of wonderful structure, or minute and curious adaptation of means to ends ; and he hated the very notion of Lucy having anything to do with this crawling creature. Jim, he knew, was rough and ready, and by no means sensitive as to the company he kept himself, or that was kept by others around him. Barraclough pere simply did not give the slightest thought to such matters ; his days were spent at his works and in his counting-house; his evenings were devoted to the consumption of a heavy and elaborate supper, and to a subsequent snoozing over his spirits and water by PLAYING WITH FIRE 167 the dining-room fire till bedtime, with occasional pretences of reading the newspaper. If Beelzebub himself had been sitting with his daughter, Mr. Barraclough would have been undisturbed ; for he was not a nervous man. He would not have cared if he had once ascertained that Beelzebub was a sound and increasing character — financially. I.ucy was alone, practically — the only woman in the com- fortless, large house ; the mistress of its servants, with carte blancl^e to run up bills for household matters, and even, to a great extent, for her own dress, if she so chose ; but with a very contracted yearly allowance of pocket-money, a very limited supply of ready cash for anything she might require on the spot. In the creed of men of the Barraclough calibre, a girl who had what Lucy had, the use of a rich father's house and servants and carriages, required nothing more. She was not expected to have individual tastes. Richard Law knew the exact state of matters in this respect — so did Brian Holgate. Dicky perceived in the situation certain elements possible for him to utilize to his own great advantage ; he had every intention of some day so utilizing them ; and he generally accomplished what he intended to do. Brian, on the contrary, beheld a lovely young goddess whom he adored, and who, with a coyness or a dignity befitting a delicately-minded young woman, held him a little at arm's length for a season, until he should have proved himself worthy of her. That was what he meant to do ; this was what he was now setting himself to accomplish ; and the manner in which he did it was to go night after night to the abode of the divinity, intending to crave some private words with her, lay his case before her, tell her all l68 FROM MOOR ISLES that he wished to do, all that he thought he could do : ask her whether she would rather he made a name as a great singer, or a great violinist ; or, if her taste inclined to neither of these paths of glory, would she prefer him to embark in business, become a prince among merchants or manu- facturers, and for her sake amass a fortune, not of fame, but of money? All these roads, considered in the homely freedom of Moor Isles, seemed easy ones to tread. It needed but her fiat to decide him into which of them he should cast himself, with all the ardour and energy at his command. But somehow that fiat never got spoken ; the question, even, never got directly put He waited his opportunity ; he had not the faintest notion that she knew it, and did not intend to give him one. It was too serious a matter to be dashed at without having the assurance of there being plenty of time in which to discuss it. And, while waiting this opportunity, there was always Jim — or Jim and Dicky — to welcome him. With Jim alone he usually played billiards, and on these occasions he saw more of Lucy than when other men were present. And he seldom lost so heavily, either, at such times. When Dicky Law, and a fourth man, a friend of Law and Barraclough, were there, they played whist. It need hardly be said that, com- pared with the others, Brian was as a child, a baby, in his knowledge of the science of the game. But even these whist evenings he preferred to the others — those which were the most frequent — when he and Jim and Law were alone, and bilHards were voted dull, and whist could not be played for want of a fourth, and they sat hour after hour playing poker, and Brian found that money changed hands with startling rapidity and unexpectedness. This kind of PLAYING WITH FIRE 169 thing went on for five nights out of the seven. Sunday was still exempt ; and during the autumn and winter season Brian continued, from old habit, to make his weekly journey to the concert at Irkford. He persevered in this ; Lucy did not mind his going there — she minded nothing, so long as he was not drawn to the Ormerods. He went, but some- how the music gradually ceased to have its former signifi- cance and attraction for him ; never again did he walk home in the dark with that free, light heart, as on that night when we first met him, trolling his songs, filled to overflowing with the joy of the music and melody, thinking an artist's life the finest life on earth, and half disposed to forsake all and plunge into that career. During the winter there were many more superb concerts and magnificent singers ; many a time, from his place in the gallery, he saw Mrs. Reichardt in her chair down in the hall; once she caught sight of him, and gave him a friendly bow and smile. But the beautiful young girl was gone from her side— the glorious artist did not that season reappear at Irkford. All that episode was over, thrust back, as it were, obscured by clouds and mists of doubt and uncertainty. What was it, he asked himself sometimes, that had come over him, preventing him from any longer enjoying these things as of yore ? Nothing had happened, surely ; he was the same, he had health and strength as formerly. Lucy was always very kind and genial to him, save for a little coquettish aloofness now and then. His friends at the farm always had the same trusting, true-hearted greeting for him ; his dog still loved him ; his horse whinnied with pleasure when it heard his voice or felt his hand ; his old house stood as before, four-square to all the winds of I70 FROM MOOR ISLES heaven, sturdy and abiding, with its sold gray stone walls, its bonny bit of old-fashioned garden ; the grand prospect from the front windows of the great sweep of country, the town of HoUowley, and the rolling moors beyond. And behind, when he looked forth, behold, as of yore, the sloping green fields with their sheep and cattle ; and, rising above them all in the distance, the great dark swell, bleak and wild, heath and bracken clothed, and the square grim head, watching into the north-east, of Ravenside Hill. These things had been his pleasure and sufficement from boyhood — from little childhood. They were all here still, unchanged, and he was here too, and they no longer sufficed him — nay, he was conscious sometimes, when he saw them, of feeling an irritable impatience with them — the kindly, homely faces of man and of nature which loved him, and which he, had he been himself, ought to have loved — they were useless to him. His voice and his fiddle were both more silent than they had formerly been. He often sat brooding, one elbow resting on his knee, while he pulled Ferrari's silky ears. And the only tangible reason which he could give to him- self for this change in his spirits was one at which he laughed whenever it crossed his mind — the reason, namely, that he was losing much oftener that winning, in their evenings of billiards, or whist, or poker ; that twice lately he had had to draw upon his banking account for money with which to pay the sums he had lost ; that this disgusted him, but that, so far from causing him to think of giving up his rational and agreeable amusement, he had got vexedly determined to go on, cost what it might — not to give in to Dicky Law, who was always so confoundedly ready with his little laugh, PLAYING WITH FIRE 171 and his half-sneering suggestion, ' Holgate, if we are getting too fast for you, we can stop as soon as you please.' Too fast for him, indeed ! Brian muttered indignantly, feeling all the strength of youth and emulation and eager desire thrust- ing him irresistibly onward. No ! He, with Lucy in the same house, get up and admit that a bloodless creature like Dicky Law was 'too fast' for Brian Holgate, in any one way ! Never ! He would go on ; he meant to go on, if the going should leave him at last nothing but the roof above him. ' Then I could work ; I should have to work,' he told himself, and went on. The autumn stole quickly by, and winter came. The ripeness and richness of Indian summer were over, the iron- bound sky and earth of January and February followed. It was not a joyful winter, if the truth must be confessed, for several persons at Thornton-in-Ravenside. It was far from joyful for Brian, who, filled with passion and unrest, ambi- tion and resentment, and teased by the constant tantalizing missing of the thing he most wanted, fancied that to give up the course on which he had embarked would be weakness, and who proved himself truly weak by letting himself be led whither he wished not to go, and made to do things that he despised, and which did not even amuse him. It was not a happy winter for either Alice or her brother, who had to stand by and look on while their hero and their friend grew gradually more and more estranged from them, and more and more dissatisfied with himself. They could see that in his sombre and altered looks ; they could only watch it, they could do nothing ; and to Alice it was torture even to speak of it. Andrew knew it, and seldom spoke Brian's name to her, and never let her know that he saw the furtive 172 FROM MOOR ISLES caress she bestowed upon Brian's dog, who, poor fellow, re- mained unchanged in the midst of all the change about him. The farmer was less reticent ; he did not know so much of what was going on in the background, and he often said he was afraid ' yon lad ' was not so well, nor so well-behaved as he might have been. It was by no means a happy winter, either, for Lucy Barra- clough, who, on the outside, at any rate, appeared to have less care and trouble, of a tangible kind, than most people. She had never meant that this exploiting of Brian should go so far ; it made her unhappy as it took a more definite shape, in the course of weeks and months. She wished to stop it. Had she been, at the end of the winter, as free an agent as she had been on that Sunday morning when she had talked to Dick, after counting the rays emanating from the golden eye above the Ten Commandments, she would have stopped it. A few words to Brian, a smile, a private intei view% which she could easily have secured, and in which she could have hinted her wonder that he should care to pass his time as he did, would on the instant have made him strong as steel against the blandishments of Jim and Jim's friends. But she could not venture to speak those words, because she was in bondage — a bondage which had been effected partly with her own consent, and from which she, at any rate, had not the strength or the courage to break free. It had been cleverly managed, and easily, by one who knew her weak points, and scrupled not to use them. THE BRACELETS 173 CHAPTER III. THE BRACELETS. At the beginning of the year, there was a ball in the town, given by the Hollowley Liberal Association, of which or- ganization Mr. Barraclough and Jim were two distinguished ornaments and powerful members, the elder, at any rate, having command of considerable sinews of war. They were not much given to frequenting social gatherings of any kind ; but one must be true to one's party and to one's cause, and the ball came but once a year. Lucy was present at it, of course, looking very bewitching, in a becoming and expen- sive toilette, and wearing, amongst other ornaments, a pair of gold bracelets, set with diamonds and pearls, which had been her mother's, and which had been not given, but lent to her by her father, soon after she had left school. Prac- tically they were hers ; but not in name. Mr. Barraclough did not love to part with his power over anything that con- stituted or represented money value ; so he ' lent ' Lucy the bracelets, and on this particular occasion she wore them. Law was also of the party at the ball — not as a dancing man, truly, but to his own gratification notwithstanding. The Barracloughs were amongst the earliest to leave. Lucy did not dare to stay a moment after her father had informed her that it was time to go. She looked ruefully at her pro- gramme, on which stood half a dozen names against dances not yet danced. It was so seldom that anything of this kind came in her way, and she enjoyed it so thoroughly when it did. But she was not one of the natures that can 174 FROM MOOR ISLES brave blame and brutality ; it was easier and less distressing to fume and obey. She went into the ladies' dressing-room to get her wraps, and in a very few minutes came out again, cloaked and hooded, and with a changed, uneasy expression on her face. Law was standing near the door of the cloak- room, waiting for her. Her own menkind were not visible at the moment. * Are you tired ?' asked Dicky, going up to her, and look- ing straight into her troubled face. 'Come, and I'll find you a seat till they come for you.' * No, no !' said she hurriedly. ' Come here, to one side. I want to tell you something.' She pushed one hand and wrist from out of the shelter of her fur cloak, and in a frightened whisper said — * Dick, I've lost my bracelet. What shall I do ?' His eyes flashed a little as she called him in her haste by his Christian name. ' Lost your bracelet ? Where, and when ? * It must have been in that last dance. I never noticed. And then father came and hurried me off. When I was fastening my hood, I saw that it was gone. It is not in there !' — she pointed to the room from which she had just come. ' I've looked in every corner. It must have been in the ball-room.' She looked at him with dilated eyes and a pale face. ' What is it like ?' he asked her. *It matches this exactly.' She showed him the other bracelet. ' They were mother's, you know. They are not mine. He only lends me them. If he were to find out that I had lost it, I don't know what he would do. You know, he's very — severe if he gets really vexed' THE BRACELETS 175 In Other words, Mr. Barraclough, senior, was in the habit, when exasperated, of using language that would have dis- graced a navvy, and was capable of even laying violent hands on — such a person as a daughter, who could not retaliate. Dicky was perfectly acquainted with these facts. He nodded his head gravely, grasping at once the full bearings of the situation, and feeling instantly master of it and of her. * Take off that other one,' said he. * I'll stop behind and have a hunt for the lost one. Don't look scared, Lucy. You shall have it back all right. You shall indeed, if I have to get another like it made for you. But I guess I shall find it.' She had just time to unfasten it, give it to him, and cover up her arms again, and compose her countenance, when her father appeared, and then Jim. Dicky thrust the bracelet deep into one of his pockets, said good-night all round, handed Lucy into the carriage, and saw them drive away, when he returned to the ball-room. Lucy passed a night and a day of suspense. The evening after the ball, Dicky arrived, and managed to have some words alone with her. ' Well ?' she asked anxiously. ' Well, I'm sorry to say it can't be found.' * Not found !' she almost gasped. ' Dick ! He is just as likely as not to ask to see them. He does, you know, every now and then. Those, and the diamond earrings, and a necklace, and some other things. He likes to calculate how much they would fetch, if he wanted to sell them ; and, of course, if one is missing, he is almost certain to ask about them. Oh, heavens I what am I to do?' *Just do this. If he should ask anything about them 176 FROM MOOR ISLES soon, say that you damaged the clasp of one of them, and it has gone to be mended ; that you confided them to me to see the job throughj and you don't know where I have taken them (that's true enough, anyhow), but that it's all right. Naturally, the second one was wanted in order that the broken one might be made exactly like it. See ?' ' You are very kind,' she said, fully aware how powerful a protection to her was power to say openly that Dick had some hand in the business. There would be no frowns if she could speak up to that effect. * But — but that cannot last for ever — don't you see ?' ' No, of course not. But we will have another search for the first one. There are ways and means of tracing stolen goods quietly, and I've no doubt this has been stolen. And I will manage the whole thing for you, if you will leave it to me.' ' Oh, thank you ! I cannot refuse. And yet — I wonder if he would be very angry if he knew ?' she speculated, un- willing to confide so much power to Richard Law, yet dreading with a constitutional dread, at once mental and physical, the prospect of a violent scene with her father. 'Of course he would — mighty wrath, you may be sure. He has not changed his character in the last few days, has he ? And it is not suitable for you to have to face any such thing. You may rely upon it that I know what I am talk- ing about. No. Leave it to me ; I'll see you through it.' She was silent — and silence gives consent. A week passed by. Her father so far had asked no questions. Dicky had not spoken, and she herself had not spoken. At the end of the time he came early one even- ing to Jessamine Lawn, before Jim had come in from busi- THE BRACELETS 177 ness. Lucy at the moment was thinking about the bracelet and its loss, which worried her incessantly, and she was wondering (for she had sane and natural, and even courageous impulses at times) whether it would do any good to tell Jim of her disaster, and ask him to help her out. Then she shook her head. Jim was not a tender brother. There was nothing exaggerated or sentimental in his regard for his sister. ' Anything in reason,' he would have said, but the particular request preferred would always have been out of reason. And, also, Jim himself was not without some trifling pecuniary difficulties, and his guardian angel, too, in the matter, was Dicky Law. It would not do. She must hear what Mr. Law had to say. When they were seated together, alone, he produced a piece of tissue paper with something wrapped up in it. * There !' he remarked kindly. ' That's the one you gave me.' 'Oh, Dick! And the other?' ' The lost one !' He shook his head. * The lost is not found, by any means — no.' He folded his hands and looked at her with an expression speaking of mild sorrow over the circumstance. ' Not found !' echoed Lucy, with a deep, troubled sigh. ' Then I may as well tell him about it. I wish I had done it first, instead of leaving it to the last.' ' Stop, stop ! No such hurry. What should you say to this ?' This time, a beautiful brand-new morocco case emerged from his pocket. Touching the spring, he opened the lid, and behold, reposing on a white satin bed, another bracelet, the exact copy of the one she held in her hand — only brighter and more lustrous ; newer, in fact. 12 178 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Dick !' She could say no more. *I told you I'd see you through this,' said Dicky, in accents of the frankest and most engaging loyalty. * I said, even if I had to have another made like unto the first. There it is. Take it, and make your mind easy.' * Take it — oh, but that is impossible. You have had it made, expressly ? Why, it must have cost a little fortune. You know I have no money but my allowance. I can never hope to pay you for it — never.' She hesitated, drew back, did not take it into her hand. Dicky bent forward and laid the thing, case and all, upon her knee. 'Easily — pay, and more than pay, for it. Some day, Lucy, you'll be my wife, you know — when you can make up your mind to shake off that poor, silly Holgate lad. If I mayn't do a trifling thing like this, to ease the mind of my future wife, and if she mayn't take it, why, it is come to something !' Lucy looked at him. Truly, Dicky had more chivalry than she had given him credit for. This had all been done in a most romantic, delicate manner, and if her father asked any questions, how easy to show him the two baubles ! And if she could not show them — after all this delay— after concealing the loss from him for so long — no, it was quite impossible. It was impossible — for Lucy. Yet she felt as if she had been entrapped, and that through her own fault. She could not quite tell where the entrapping had come in, or where it was that she had been off her guard — only that it had been done. The conclusion of the scene was that Lucy did not again THE BRACELETS 179 reject the morocco case when it was placed upon her knee ; that there was a conversation, during which Law spoke to her more plainly than ever he had done before ; that at last she allowed him to put his arm around her waist and kiss her — that he held her in his arm for a few minutes, and turned her face towards him with his hand, and looked into it with the look of a possessor, saying all the while the sweetest things about the privilege of being able to serve her, and to set her poor little mind at ease ; that she did not feel the courage and strength to tell him that he had not set her mind at ease, but had only transferred the un- ease from one set of feelings to another ; that at last, saying she heard Jim coming, she escaped, and ran to her room, and slipped the two bracelets into that drawer of her ward- robe in which she kept such things ; locked it, and then sat down by her bed and wondered what it all meant, for one wild moment feeling almost inspired to go down again, give that poisoned thing back to Dicky, confront her father with the whole story, and — take the consequences. Some natures would have acted thus, even at this eleventh hour. With- out entering into psychological reasons, the fact remains that Lucy's was not such a nature. She did not open her wardrobe again, but went downstairs, and said nothing to her father, who had just come in, and was grumbling angrily about something which had gone wrong at 'the works.' Dicky looked at her significantly ; she exchanged the glance with a feeble smile ; and in so doing, gave herself over into his power. Time passed on; the constant play amongst the men went on ; Lucy felt herself tongue-tied and powerless. Dicky had never made any ungenerous allusion to the little trans- i8o FROM MOOR ISLES action which he had accomphshed for her, nor to the money he had expended, in order to give her, as he said, ' peace of mind.' But the transaction was there — the money had been spent ; the compact entered into. She had no longer the right to oppose any proceeding of Law's, however wrong she might think it. The bracelet and its history fettered her as effectually as if it had been a pair of handcuffs, and Dicky a police officer, driving her before him. It was a dreary winter. Lucy wondered sometimes how it was that things were so dull, and that she got so little pleasure out of her life. She had worsted the woman whom she con- sidered her rival ; she had one man helplessly at her feet, and another whose chief object in life was to win her ; she was passionately fond of admiration, but her heart was cold and her soul empty. The joy of helpfulness, hopefulness, sacrifice, was unknown to her, and she did not even know what the need was which yet made her whole existence un- satisfactory to her. CHAPTER IV. ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD. One fine spring morning, while things of this kind were going on at Moor Isles and at Jessamine Lawn, Alice Ormerod, after despatching her necessary household work with greater rapidity than usual, left her kitchen, which looked spotlessly clean and neat, about half-past eight, and went upstairs to her room. It appeared that she contem- plated some important and unusual expedition, for she speedily divested herself of her print working-gown, and took out of her drawers, and from the pegs against the walls. ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD i8i sundry articles of clothing suited for festive or unusual occasions ; and she dressed herself in them. Truth to tell, when the process was accomplished, and she had got into her best gown of black silk and cashmere ; her best bonnet of white straw and black velvet, with some artificial poppies in it; her best jacket, too, a handsome enough affair in its way, she looked, though undeniably a handsome, somewhat sedate young woman, yet still, a trifle stiff, and unaccustomed to her clothes ; not so free and graceful as in her plain, daintily clean prints, moving about, easy and at home, amongst her farm business and domestic affairs. Still, even in this trying 'best' costume, she was a noble figure, and her attire did not destroy the straightforward simplicity of her look and manner, though they might tone it down a little. When she was ready, she went downstairs to the kitchen again. Andrew and her father were both there. The latter was somewhat spruced up as to his outer man : he was going to drive his daughter in the spring-cart to Hollowley station. ' Eh, lass, art ready?' he said when he saw her. * Thou looks rare and well too, eh, Andy ?' ' Gradely,' replied Andy succinctly. ' Are all the things here ?' asked Alice, bestowing upon each of them a glance full of affection, if grave and un- smiling. She had not smiled lately so often as in former days. ' Let's see,' she added, carefully counting some things ; ' the basket with the eggs, and the pot with the butter, and the jar with the cream — that's three. Ay, they're all there ; and my umbrella, and my purse — yes, in my little bag.' 1 82 FROM MOOR ISLES She opened a stout little wash-leather purse, from whose pockets came the gleam of a goodly store of glittering yellow coins. ' And my paper, that I've put all the things down on that we want. And now, father, I'm ready.' * And so am I,' said the farmer ' Come along, lass ; and Andy, do thou tak' care o' thisel'. Go out a bit this fine mornin', and don't stop cowerin' in th' ingle o' the time, while thou'rt fair roasted. Some day we'st find as thou's got drawn up th' lover wi' the draught, and we'st ne'er see thee no more.' ' If I once flew up th' lover,' said Andrew, looking rather pleased than otherwise at the prospect, ' I should ne'er sit down again till I found myself lyin' on th' topmost boulder of Ravenside ; and it's the only way I shall ever get there,' he added with sudden mournfulness. His father laughed loudly at the idea, and Alice, patting his shoulder kindly, told him, ' Those times are all past, lad, for flying up th' lover, or riding on broomsticks o'er Raven- side Hill. Do thou as father tells thee, and mind thou'rt wide awake when I come back, that I may tell thee all I've een in Irkford, all the time I'm there.' With that, and a smile of encouragement, she followed the farmer out, carrying in her own hand the jar of cream, while ' Lizzy ' followed with the other two packages. These safely disposed of, and his daughter seated, Farmer Ormerod clambered into his place, flicked the whip about gray Bessie's ears, and with a lunge, a lurch, and a jolt, they got under way. It was a lovely morning towards the end of April ; lovely, that is, as to brightness and clearness of atmosphere, and brilliant sunshine, but piercingly cold as to wind, which ALICE GOES TO IRK FORD 183 came piping with bitter breath from the top of Ravenside, and was as due north-east as a wind can be. They had not very much to say to each other as they jogged along through the pleasant lanes of the hill country, passing many an old gray stone farmhouse, with its roof of ' blue ' tiles, or row of curious, ancient cottages, their cold gray relieved by the snowy Winds and brilliant masses of fine flowering plants in the windows. Gradually they wound down hill, into an atmosphere less clear and bracing; nearer civilization, perhaps, but most assuredly nearer to the chimneys and the smoke. Just before they entered the town of Hollowley, the rushing of wheels sounded behind them, and then a high spick-and-span dogcart overtook them, flew past them, drawn by its fast-striding horse, and disappeared in a little cloud of dust. ' Barraclough's cart,' observed the farmer laconically. ' Ay — with Jim and her in it,' was all that his daughter replied ; and then, whatever they might have thought, they said no more about it. At the station Mr. Ormerod pulled up, and Alice got down from the cart. He handed her things to her, but did not get out himself. He had business on hand in the town. He nodded to her. * Gather I or one o't' lads'll come to fetch thee whoam,' he promised her, and flicked his whip again, and drove off. Alice collected her things and went into the station. It was yet early for the train. They were accustomed to allow plenty of time to drive from Thornton to Hollowley, especially when the catching of a train was in question. Early though Alice was, however, she found to her sur- prise that Lucy Barraclough was already there, waiting I8| ■ FROM MOOR ISLES apparently for the same train (as a matter of fact, it had suited Jim's convenience to set off early, and drop his sister at the station while he made a call or two in the town before joining her). Lucy, too, was dressed for going into town ; so cunningly were her garments arranged that, though it was absolutely necessary, in that wind, to wear warm clothing, she looked like some Httle humming-bird with brilliantly tinted plumage, softened down by the rich velvety brown of her sealskin coat ; gleams of colour appearing here and there at her throat and in her bonnet. Alice did not lend herself easily to com- parisons with birds or beasts ; she looked exactly what she was — at a disadvantage with regard to appearance, and per- fectly indifferent to that fact. It was Lucy who accosted the other. She had no inten- tion of doing anything more than make Alice uncomfort- able, by saying a few malicious things in a quiet way ; and the temptation to try that was too strong to be resisted. Moreover, her own anxiety on the subject of Brian and the life he was at present leading, made her wishful, in a curious, unaccountable way, to find out what others thought about it. So she looked at Alice with a placid smile. 'Good-morning, Miss Ormerod,' said she cheerfully. * We passed you on the road, I think, didn't we ?' 'Yes,' said Alice unsmilingly. ' Are you going to Irkford ?' ' Yes,' again said Alice, who had placed her three packages on a bench, near to which Lucy was standing, and who now, from her far superior height, looked down upon the other with drooped white eyelids and scarcely concealed scorn. Lucy saw it, understood it, realized perfectly what ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD 185 it all meant, and was furious. Her intention of amusing herself had gone. What she now wished to do, was to strike and hurt. She felt as if she would give the world to visibly disturb that lofty equanimity of contempt, that cool disdain of eye and mouth. They made her feel small — and that she, Lucy Barraclough, should be made to feel small by Alice Ormerod, was an intolerable thing. 'We have been seeing a good deal of a neighbour of yours lately,' she observed, with a malicious little smile. 'Brian Holgate?' said Alice, after a perceptible pause, during which she stared calmly down at the other, and speaking with unruffled outward calm. 'Ay, poor lad, I know you have. The worse for him !' Lucy felt as if a sudden ball had struck her. This was her own secret knowledge which she had tried to wrap away from herself in all kinds of sophisms, put into plain, unmistakable, uncompromising vernacular. For the first instant her vivid sense of the truth of the words rendered her silent. In the next arose again the angry feeling that it was intolerable. She gave a light, somewhat falsetto laugh as she answered — ' Heavens ! I had no idea he had given such offence by preferring our society to yours. What harm are we doing to him ?' ' You're teaching him — at least, you've taught him, amongst you — to drink and to gamble, and make a beast of himself. Six months ago, he was a decent lad enough. Now he's more than half-way to the devil. You and your lot are ruining him as fast as a man can be ruined. That's all.' This heavy artillery somewhat took Lucy's breath away ; 1 86 FROM MOOR ISLES but though heavy, there was a sting beneath it all, as sharp as a dagger's point — there was the truth, naked and bare. Therefore, being true, it was altogether intolerable that such words should be used. * Bless me ! If he is so decent, and if we are so — indecent,' she said, her lips growing pale, while she forced a smile, ' how is it that he prefers our company to yours — as I said before ? I'm sure nothing could be more decent than your family. They say like seeks like. You've known him longer than we have— why haven't you kept him?' ' Because he's demented just now,' replied Alice, with the same sledge-hammer force and directness. 'I never said he was perfect — he has his weaknesses, poor lad, and one of them is to believe in the woman he's in love with, and not to understand how false she is, leading him on with promises that she never means to keep, wakening up all his bad passions, and driving away all the good there is in him. You'll hardly say that he has improved since he began to go so much to your house,' she added, with imperturbable, calm scorn. ' The Scripture says the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel, and it's such tender mercies that Brian is getting just now from you.' ' It's easy to see who is in love with the young gentleman,* said Lucy, forgetting all self-restraint, white with excitement, and with lips quivering with passion. She broke into a little insulting laugh, the eager, raging desire possessing her all the time to make that strong woman wince. Alice heard her words, and smiled a smile which maddened Lucy. 'Is it?' said she. 'Perhaps, Lucy Barraclough, you don't know very well what you're talking about. Brian is my old friend and playmate ; we have known each other all ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD 187 our lives. If I found him stripped and lying in the gutter, I'd lift him out and clothe him— yes, if I knew for certain that he would go back to you the next minute, to be stripped again. You don't understand that, of course. I'm sorry a woman can look like you look, and be what you are. And, since you began it, I'm very glad to have had the opportunity of telling you so.' With that, she turned away, looked at the clock, and, seeing what time it was, went into the booking-office to take her ticket. Lucy was left standing, almost panting with anger, with the sense of defeat, and with detestation for AHce. The conversation had only lasted a few minutes ; it had not been loud, nor attracted any attention. People who intended going to Irkford by the coming express were beginning to drop in and stroll about the platform. Lucy, after a moment, forced herself to walk about— forced her face into an expression of something like composure. ' If he were stripped and lying in the gutter,' she said to herself, or rather, the words seemed to go whirling round and round in her mind, so that she could hear and think of nothing else, ' she would lift him out and clothe him. Very well — I was sorry, but I'm not now. She shall never have him in any other way — never — never ! I will teach her what she gets by treating me in that way.' They travelled in different carriages, and did not even see each other again. The Irkford station was crowded. Alice made a porter carry her things to a cab for her. He suggested a ' 'ansom '; which she declined, with some con- sternation, and finally drove off in a four-wheeler, having given the man Elisabeth Reichardt's address. She scarcely saw the busy streets through which she was driven — she FROM MOOR ISLES was thinking, as she had been all along, of that interview with Lucy at the Hollo wley station. * I'm afraid I didn't say what was best for him, poor lad, though it eased my own mind. If I'd known how to disgust her with him, and make her throw him aside — but I'm not clever at such in-and-out ways, and I did hurt her. I meant to. Whatever may happen, she has heard the truth for once in her life — and she knew it was true, too.' But the consciousness of this fact did not give her un- limited satisfaction. She was thoughtful, and somewhat depressed, and scarcely noticed that they had left the regions of shops and warehouses, and were now driving along a pleasant thoroughfare, with trees on either side of it. Then the cab stopped at the gate of a large, well-appointed house, standing alone, which might have been built some fifty years ago. * This here's number a hundred,' said the cabman. ' Shall I ask if they're at 'ome ?' ' Yes, please. Mrs. Reichardt — ask if Mrs. Reichardt is in.' Mrs. Reichardt was at home, said the footman who opened the door, and Alice got out, paid and dismissed her cab- man, and, carrying her different specimens of country produce, went to the door and confronted the wondering flunkey. ' I wish to see Mrs. Reichardt,' she told him. 'She knows who I am. I will give you my name.' ' Yes — ma'am,' said the man, making a gallant effort to reconcile the homely manner and the numerous bundles with the assured tone and stately beauty of the visitor. And he let her in, and was going to show her into a side-room, when a door was opened, and Elisabeth herself emerged ALICE GOES TO IRKFORD 189 from another room, clad in some most wonderful morning gown, all ribbons and lace and frills ; she had a bundle of letters and a newspaper in her hand, and, as a matter of fact, had just finished her breakfast, after being up very late the night before. She looked, at first carelessly, then with nearer scrutiny, at the figure standing in the hall. Then a sudden light came into her eyes and face — she sprang forward, with hands outstretched, filled as they were with papers. ' Miss Alice Ormerod ! no, this is too delightful. You are most welcome. You have come on purpose to see me ?' ' Well, nearly on purpose to see you,' said Alice ; and her face, too, suddenly lighted up with a brighter ray than had touched it now for many a week. With all her assured composure in speaking at home of this intended visit, she had had more than one qualm of anxiety lest perchance Mrs. Reichardt, in the multiplicity of her engagements and amusements, should have forgotten her. But she had not forgotten her. She knew her at once, and there was genuine delight and welcome in every word and glance. ' Nearly on purpose to see you,' she repeated, gladly letting Elisabeth shake her hand in both hers. * How nice and good of you ! W^ell, come ! You will take off your things and stay a long time — all day, if you can. I will send to have your packages put aside.' ' They're nothing but a few trifles that I made bold to bring from the farm, hoping you'd not object to keeping them,' said Alice bashfully. * We do have such things fresh and sweet, and I've heard that they don't always in towns.' *0h, my dear!' cried Ehsabeth, her quick emotions touched in the most lively manner, ' you are too good. Eggs I90 FROM MOOR ISLES — why, you must have robbed yourself! Fresh eggs — they are twopence halfpenny apiece here, and called fresh by courtesy. Butter — cream — oh, dear ! you make me ashamed to take such valuable things. But I shall do so all the same, and they will be very sweet to my taste, especially because I haven't in the least deserved them. I think it is the presents and the pleasures we don't deserve which delight us so when they come, don't you? There's a romance about them which can never attach to the things we have paid for, in any way. Robert ' — she turned to the footman — 'send Mrs. Lewis here at once, that I may give these things into her own hands.' And Alice had the gratification, which she was by no means of too great a soul to enjoy, of seeing a stately cook, of critical aspect, huge girth, and few words, come sailing into the hall, receive the things, and, with approving eye and gracious smile, declare that they were a treat to look upon. Then Elisabeth took her visitor's hand. *Come with me,' said she, 'and tell me all that you and ' — with a sudden glance— 'Mr. Holgate have been doing since I saw you there.' And at these words Alice's face grew sad again while she followed her hostess upstairs. CHAPTER V. ELISABETH LISTENS. ' How often have I thought about you, and remembered your promise to come, and wondered whether you would keep it !' said Elisabeth, when she had got Alice into her own sitting-room, and made her take off her things, and ELIZABETH LISTEN 191 put her into a very comfortable chair, which, however, rather incommoded the young woman, who was not accustomed to lounges, or lounging, in any shape. * I thought you might have forgotten me, though I hoped you wouldn't,' said Alice, pleased and soothed, as she looked round the charming room, so full of all kinds of (to her) mysterious and inexplicable things — things which would have been dreadfully in her way if the room had been hers. The big writing-table, with its numberless drawers and pigeon-holes, its tapers and silver pen-dishes, and piles of paper and envelopes, and mountains of papers and notes ; it almost made her head ache, merely to look at them. How could any mortal woman cope with such things ? The reading-stands, the curious chairs, the wonderful standing- bookcases, and others which revolved, the music-rests, and a hundred other things were equally bewildering to her. The flowers, only, she understood. Every glance which she gave round the room made her feel, more and more, how utterly different was this woman from herself, how her life was filled with interests and amusements which, to Alice, were merely puzzles. This feature of the case, taken alone, would have been simply discouraging. But, on the other hand, everj glimpse of Elisabeth's own face made it all appear simpler and easier. That was not a puzzle, but a very pleasant and comprehensible fact, and when she looked into it, the room and its mysteries, hinting of spheres of which she knew nothing, dismayed her no longer. * What a long time it seems since we spent that delightful day at Moor Isles ! I have never forgotten that name,' said Elisabeth. ' At least, it seems a long time to me — perhaps not to you.' 192 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Ay, but it does,' said Alice earnestly. ' It's been the longest six months I ever spent. I think time that's full of trouble or disappointment always does seem long.' ' I am very sorry if your time has been filled with such disagreeable things,' said Elisabeth. * I remember you saying to me that you would come and see me, even if you were in misery. Perhaps you had a presentiment of trouble ?' • Perhaps I had,' said Alice sadly. ' Anyhow, the trouble's been there.' * Tell me about it, will you not ?' said Elisabeth gently. ' If I can't do anything for you, I can sympathize.' Whereupon Ahce did tell her, with a simple, calm con- fidence and belief in her which touched the tender-hearted woman of the world inexpressibly. Elisabeth listened while Alice related to her all the sad tale of the last six months, not in profuse detail, and in very simple, homely language, but with a power and a directness which made her hearer feel exactly w^hat she had gone through, and yet was going through, of vicarious suffering, for Alice had nothing to relate of her own home and surroundings that was not bright and cheerful. Indeed, she remarked casually, while telling her tale, that she did not think many people had such a father and brother as hers. She did not tell Elisa- beth in so many words that she was in love with Brian Holgate, but the love had been part of her for so long, and her nature was so transparently truthful, that to one who knew as much of the circumstances as Elisabeth did, it was confessed in every sentence. It was not a tale that seemed to require comment. Alice did not appear to have come to ask, * What shall I do ?' ' What do you think ?' of this or ELISABETH LISTENS 193 the other. She seemed quite at unity with herself about it. But it was evident that she had needed someone to whom simply to tell the tale, and Elisabeth realized that, from the girl's very character, she had come to the person in whom she felt the most absolute trust, and this fact was balm to Mrs. Reichardt's soul, and pleased her more than the most brilliant social success ever could have done. Alice did not make a long story of it all ; but, looking into Elisabeth's eyes, wound up by saying — ' It's a sad pity, isn't it, that he should be so misled ?' ' It is, indeed,' agreed Elisabeth. ' And now,' said Alice, ' I want to ask how you've been yourself all the time since I saw you, and about the gentle- man and the young lady that came with you to Moor Isles that day. Has he been in these parts again ?' *No, he has not. Felix has not been down here again. He has been very busy. He always is. He is very popular, you know, and, what is more, he deserves his popularity.' ' Ay, I liked his face well. I could have trusted him any- where.' * I have seen him, though he has not been here. I was in London once or twice when he was singing. In the autumn he is going to America.' ' To America !' exclaimed Alice, with a sudden look of interest and excitement. * Is he ? What for ? Is he going to stay there long ?' ' For some months, at least. I don't know exactly how long. He is going to sing there, of course. He is sure to have no end of engagements when he gets there. They are very anxious to hear him.' 13 194 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Ay, I dare say. And the young lady — Miss Grey was her name — how is she ?' * Miss Grey is very well, too. She is in London, not at school exactly, but studying very hard with the lady with whom she lives. We think we are going to be very proud of her. She shows a really wonderful gift for the science of languages — what they call comparative philology — yes, it's a dreadfully long name, isn't it ?' added Elisabeth, laughing. ' Neither Mr. Arkwright nor I understand much about such abstruse matters, but ' ' I should like to put that name down,' said Alice, with great simplicity. ' I can never remember it myself, but my brother Andy will want to know all I've heard about, and he will know what it means.' 'You shall have it,' said Elisabeth, with great glee, seizing upon a little notebook, and writing the desired expression upon a leaf, which she tore out, and handed to Alice. ' It means, amongst other things, the study of very ancient languages ; Latin and Greek, and what they call the Oriental languages — the languages of India and Persia amongst them. We hear she has an absolute genius for these things, and Professor Willoughby, under whom she studies, says that none of the men he teaches can come anywhere near her. So she is going to be quite a learned lady — as full of wisdom as possible, and I think she will be beautiful too.' * She was very sweet-looking,' said Alice. * Was it true what I heard — that the gentleman — Mr. Felix, you called him, has adopted her ?' ' Oh yes,' said Elisabeth, smiling. * That was a long time ago. Yes — yes. She is his adopted — daughter. He is very fond of her, and she of him.' ELISABETH LISTENS 195 ' I saw that she was very fond of him,' Ahce assented, with some emphasis, so that Elisabeth could hardly conceal a smile, as she thought, ' Poor Ines ! she will have learnt — already, I dare say, to conceal her feelings rather more than that.' Aloud, she said, ' Indeed, she ought to be fond of him He has, by his goodness to her, not only saved her from poverty, because there are worse things than poverty — but he has given her a thoroughly happy life, and it is through him that she is now able to follow these studies which she loves so much, and in which she is so likely to excel. If ever Ines Grey makes a name in the world, it will be because Felix Arkwright put it in her power to do so.' Alice nodded gravely. ' Yes,' said she, * I quite see that. But I don't think that was what made her so fond of him. It was quite a different expression.' ' Well,' said Elisabeth, who laughed, and seemed to under- stand this not very lucid remark, ' I cannot tell you anything about that ; but I do know that he has been very good to her, and that she repays him with real love and gratitude.' ' Ah, yes,' said Alice reflectively. ' Do you know what it was made me so take to you that day, and to the others as well? It was because you all seemed so kind and con- siderate to one another. It seemed to me as if you wanted to do right, and to think right by one another. There was nothing disagreeable anywhere. I thought to myself, well, they are fashionable ladies, and he's a fashionable gentle- man, and I've heard that such-like are often so selfish, but I'm sure these have good hearts, however fashionable they may be, and they would be just the same if they were at the very top — kings and queens.' 196 FROM MOOR ISLES ' It was charming of you to see our good qualities so quickly and so plainly,' said Elisabeth, laughing ; ' and in a way you are right — about Felix, at any rate. He has been as much flattered, and sought after, and bowed down to as any prince. There's no doubt of that. If you knew the idiotic things that some people do, just to get him to look at them or speak to them — women, especially, of course, I'm sorry to say — if you knew, you would blush, as I do, some- times. And yet, he has not been a bit spoiled with it all — not one bit. Oh, he's a wonderful fellow, I think, and I'm glad we have been friends ever since we were boy and girl together !' * I don't wonder,' said Alice. ' Eh, how I wish Mr. Brian would have made up his mind to go from home, and do something of the same kind. Not that I mean,' she added quickly, ' that he is great, and a genius like Mr. Felix, but it would have been something for him to do, something to keep him out of such-like mischief as he's got into. When did you say he was going to America ?' 'Some time in September, for the winter season there. They do everything in winter over there — in the cities, at any rate.' Alice nodded, and looked thoughtful, and soon afterwards wished to take her leave. Elisabeth, however, insisted on her having some refreshment, and then she departed, saying she had a great deal of household shopping to do in Irkford. ' We only come in about once, or, at most, twice a year,' she explained, *and when we do come, there's a lot to do.' With the most cordial assurances and invitations on each side, they parted. Alice had accomplished her wish — she ELISABETH LISTENS 197 had assured herself that Eh'sabeth had not forgotten her, or felt less genially to her than before ; and she had obtained information about Felix and his intended movements, which interested her. A half-formed purpose — more an idea than a purpose, was already agitating her brain ; but it was as yet far from being near even serious consideration. Meanwhile Elisabeth, left alone for a few minutes, drew an easy-chair up to her sitting-room fire, and, throwing herself back into it, meditated. ' What is there,' she wondered extremely within herself, ' in that young man, that should make these two girls be fighting a deadly fight over him, and with one another, for his favour ? For that's what it comes to. He seemed to me a pleasant, mediocre lad enough — rather good-looking, wasn't he ? yes, blonde, with a bright, open smile ; a little boyish-looking — no particular kind of character, either one way or the other. There's this noble Alice Ormerod in love with him, and the other girl evidently thinks it worth her while to make an effort to keep him. Is it mere proximity ? Is it that there's no one else ? I don't believe that— there are men enough and to spare, in this division of the kingdom ! It is not that "Satan finds some mischief still," in Alice's case, at any rate. It's very odd,' — she shrugged her shoulders. ' I give it up. Of course he's in love with the wrong woman. They always are. He is idle enough, as Alice says. It's a pity. I shall tell Ines about this visit when I write to her. And I think I shall tell Felix too — shall I ? — I don't know, but I should like to tell him that Alice Ormerod has been to see me, and what is more, I should like to tell him what my visitor said about him and Ines. In my opinion, he is playing with fire in 198 FROM MOOR ISLES this experiment of his, and will most likely burn his fingers before he's done. I hope he will not scorch the little girl to death in the process, that's all.' CHAPTER VI. MORNING THOUGHTS. It was autumn again — October now. The spring and the summer had swiftly rushed by, as time does rush that is speeded with misfortune and disaster. It would be a profit- less task to relate in detail how those months had fled. They were over, and the weary story which had begun to be enacted at Moor Isles, at Ormerod's farm, and at Jessa- mine I>awn, twelve months earlier, was still apparently dragging on. It did not seem to accelerate its pace, but, what was of more importance, its movement, if slow, was always in the same direction— that is, the downfall of Brian Holgate, once begun, never ceased. He would not, now, have allowed it, even if his enemy had been merciful, and had stayed his hand. Of course Brian did not call it ruin— he called it standing up with spirit against the man who, he was now quite certain, wished evil to him, and would gladly have seen him, if not absolutely stripped of money and money's worth, yet so reduced that he should no longer be of any account. His fierce dislike of Law, aided by other things, had con- vinced him that 'the fellow,' as he always called him, even in his own mind, really was after Lucy. Brian's faith in Lucy was firm, but it had become a passionate effort and endeavour with him to beat Law out of the field, or, at any MORNING THOUGHTS 199 rate, not to give in — never, never to give in. He was not giving in, but he was getting, if not every day, at least every week, more impoverished in the effort to cope with these two, his companions, as if he were on equal terms with them, in all that goes so far towards success in gambling, as in everything else — in estate, in experience, in capacity for the calculation of chances, in nerve, and sang froid. He did not take Jim into account ; it was nothing to him if he lost to Lucy's brother ; but he was embittered beyond description against Law, and resolved to fight it all out to the death. With regard to his position, he had lost in their con- tinued games of whist and poker, more than one half of his patrimony. His old house remained to him, and rather less than a hundred pounds a year ; but he was often straitened for ready money, and his face now never wore any smile. Lucy's intention, expressed twelve months ago, to find out whether the attractions of the music at Irkford could out- weigh that of what she had been pleased to call his 'old friends' at Thornton, had been carried out, and the 'old friends' had won the day. There were no concerts for Brian this season; no such healthy, wholesome pleasures drew him to themselves. The spirit which had once revelled in such things seemed to have fled, or been extinguished, and another to have taken its place. The journey which, last year, he had so joyfully undertaken, and the music which had so well repaid him for his pleasant toils, were things that, when he thought of them, seemed to belong to another world. He was gloomy, irritable, or depressed, as the case might be. When he lost money to Jim Barraclough and Dicky Law, and came home cursing his luck, he drank too FROM MOOR ISLES brandy to make him forget his reverses. When, on the other hand, by some unusual chance, he won from them, he drank more brandy to celebrate the change in his fortunes. Everything about him bore the signs of deteriora- tion, mental and physical. He was wretched, and he was aware, in the midst of his own wretchedness, that he was making others wretched too. He knew — none better — that it was he who caused Farmer Ormerod's rugged but kindly countenance to look stern and hard when he met him. It was his, Brian's, present behaviour which brought that sad look into poor lame Andy's eyes It was grieving over his misdoings that had stamped proud Alice's face with that expression of unshakable sadness. When she met him now, and said, ' Good-day, Brian,' her voice was softer than it had ever been before in speaking to him, but it was with the softness born of pity and sorrowful disapproval; and her smile, which she still tried to show him, was so much harder to bear in its mournfulness than an angry frown would have been, that it wrung his very heart to see her, and he would even sneak out of the way to avoid meeting her. And, what was almost more portentous than any of these things, Sarah Stott, his former tyrant, had become utterly meek and woe-begone. She now never objected to any order he gave, but received it in silence, and carried it out to the letter in lamentation and mourning and woe ; almost the more terrible in that it was expressed in no articulate word, but conveyed solely in manner and through a dolorous cast of countenance. He, and he alone, had caused this sad change, had drawn the black cloud over these hitherto smiling skies. There were times when he cared nothing about it. When he was excited— elated or irritated by gain MORNING THOUGHTS or loss, he would, if the recollection of this grief that he had caused crossed his mind, shake his head impatiently back, and consign them all to the devil — if they liked to go there. But in the earlier parts of the day — those hours claimed by disagreeable reflection as her own, and which she generally contrives to secure — especially when he awoke in the morn- ing, puzzled and depressed, and w^hen the remembrance of his losses and his woes rushed over him, and his nerves were too unstrung to resist the reproaches of his conscience — at these moments it was that the idea of the suffering he was causing to these faithful, loving souls, was an ache and a stab, a burden which he felt to be greater than he could bear. Then their faces seemed to flit before his mind's eye, and the slow, saddened tones of their voices echoed like a dirge in his ears. Everything in the actual world loomed unnaturally large, vague, and dim in his mind. Only one thing was real— the excitement of the gambling, which had taken absolute possession of him. It had been a gradual growth. At first, as has been said, he disliked the play, and joined it simply in order to be near Lucy. And for some time this endured, the game, when cards were played, being generally whist, in which Law was a proficient. Brian found it stupid ; Law found it irritating to play with such an infantile performer as Brian ; and one evening, suddenly pushing aside the cards with which they had been playing, he proposed a change. * Let's have a turn at poker,' he said. 'All right,' said Jim. ' I don't know it,' was Brian's remark. He was indifferent. It was a bore. He knew only that he was heartily sick of whist, for which he had absolutely no taste. 202 FROM MOOR ISLES 'Oh, we'll soon teach you,' said Jim cordially. 'Let's begin now, and we won't have any real stakes till Holgate knows a little where he is. Here's the chips. Shall we suppose it's five shilling ante, eh?' Law assented, and Brian was forthwith initiated into the mysteries, the charms, the fatal fascinations of draw-poker, and by the end of the evening had grown interested, but had brought no more insight to bear upon the subject than was expressed in his remark when they rose, that it seemed an uncommonly easy game to learn. ' Oh, uncommonly,' said Dicky mildly. 'And it seems to me you can leave off so easily that there's not much risk,' added Brian astutely. 'Yes, of course, you may leave off and lose nothing at all,' Jim assented. ' Only it's not many who do, somehow.' From that hour Brian was safe and docile in their hands. He could no more resist the attraction of the game than a bird can resist the eye of the snake that is fixed upon it. He lost, he won, he lost again. It soon possessed him ; he would lie awake at night thinking over all the chances and possibilities of the game, seeing combinations, or inventing them ; reahzing where he had been a httle incautious, or a shade too cautious here and there ; determining to bring his newly-acquired wisdom to bear on the next game, confi- dent that he understood it and its possibiUties thoroughly. He was in the net ; perhaps he knew it vaguely and in the background, but he had not now the least wish to escape from it. This was reality — at this a man might make his fortune. Everything else was phantasmal and unstable. It would have been he who would have raised objections if the other two had wished to discontinue the play. MORNING THOUGHTS 203 And Lucy — he had never yet found his opportunity of speaking to her, and asking her what she wished him to make of himself. She was there still ; he saw her often enough, but never alone. It seemed to him that she, too, was changed and subdued. Once, soon after the poker era had set in, it had struck him that perhaps she might dis- approve of his having so thrown himself into a game so hazardous; and, under that idea, he absented himself for nearly a week from the card-table, but with the sole result of finding that the play was almost as difficult to give up as Lucy was to win, and that its attractions were rapidly becoming formidable rivals to hers. As he did not see Jim and Dicky, he did not see Lucy, either ; he was filled with fears and suspicions as to what might be going on, and he not there. At the end of some five or six days, the inaction, the loss of excitement, the deadly nausea produced by the effort to think over his situation, and to take stock of his present position and future prospects, had reduced him to a state of nervous depression and irritability bordering on aberration. His existence and his sensations were unendur- able. He could think of but one method of procuring relief for them. With a plunge, he rushed back again into the old ways, and in the excitement of watching his chances, got at least a temporary fillip to his limp, unstrung nerves, and forgot, for a season, his actual position. He lived, now, in a state of moral drunkenness, sometimes of physical drunkenness, too, but of the former always, so that he could no longer discern what were realities and what falsities. His judg- ment, his nerve, his will, were all weakened, were all getting undermined. What shock would restore the balance, or 204 FROM MOOR ISLES whether it ever would be restored, who should say ? Some temperaments, after their big breakdown, either physical, mental, or moral, recover, and grow stronger, tougher, and more self-sustaining as the years go on. Others, more delicately poised, or of weaker calibre, never recover the original strength — much less do they surpass it in the years that follow the crash. They continue living, moving, looking very much as they used to look, but they are maimed ; and if ever they were put to the test, the weak point would show at once. Brian awoke, one morning in late October, from a heavy, but far from restful sleep, during which he had tossed and turned, dreamed and groaned, after the fashion of anything but a quiet mind. He had come home very late at night, or rather, very early in the morning, having won, but so little that his gains did not allay the sensations with which he was filled, of rage and bitterness over his persistent ' ill- luck '; less capable than ever of admitting that it was not so much want of luck, as want of skill and experience — inferi- ority to the other players, in fact — that always, nearly, placed him in the position of loser ; less capable than ever of giving it up, in consequence, and washing his hands of the whole business. No, he was going to Jessamine Lawn again to- night, of that he was certain, and the same wearisome, tedious, feverish story would be gone through again. The sensations, both mental and physical, which he experienced in this awakening were horrible. He awoke to darkness. A great black abyss seemed to encompass him round about. Look whither he would, he could see no gleam of light, no cheer, no hope or confidence. It was quite late— after ten in the forenoon, when he awoke, and, MORNING THOUGHTS 205 after a struggle with himself, managed to rise and dress him- self, and to crawl downstairs. Though the sadder season of the year was approaching, this was a lovely, sunshiny morn- ing, mild, still, and genial. The front-door stood open, and Ferran lay on the top step, lifted his head at the sound of his master's footfall, rose, and advanced to meet him, with curving motions of love and pleasure, and with affectionately down-drooped head. Brian, seeing him, and seeing also the sun shining in so pleasantly, went and stood at the open door, the limp tips of his limp fingers just resting on the faithful beast's head. He leaned sideways against the lintel, and looked forth upon the prospect, without any care to feign an expression of the ease and contentment that he did not feel. And as he stood thus, Sarah Stott, who had also heard his footstep, came from the kitchen, with a tray in her hands, containing some of his breakfast. The old woman, passing to the dining-room, caught sight of his face, and of its expression. She hastened into the room, set her tray down in haste, and put her hand to her head, suppressing a groan. 'Eh, but it's awful ! It fair fleys me to see yon face, and to think as it's our Brian as wears it.' She shook her head. All her oracular knowledge, her wise saws and sayings, were here as so much vacant chaff, powerless to avail aught with him for good or for evil. She set the things on the table, and then came out to him, with a look of greater composure. ' Mr. Brian, your breakfast's ready for you.' He nodded, without moving, or looking at her ; but did not look as if he meant to come in. She went a little nearer, and laid her hand upon his arm. 2o6 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Come, lad !' said she ; ' come and get thi' breekfast, and don't stand theer, wi' that gloppent look — come, Brian, thow'rt nesh for want o' food.' * I don't care if I never see food again, Sally,' he told her, looking with a dreary smile into the face of his erstwhile crabbed and tyrannical servitor. But he suffered her to pull him gently into the dining-room, and dropped listlessly into the chair she set for him. Sarah Stott retreated into the kitchen, and, hardened old sinner that she was, covered her face with her apron, and wept. * Eh, my lad !' she muttered sobbingly ; ' eh, my bonny, bonny lad ! To think it should ha' come to this ! What's to be the end of it all ?' From this attitude she was roused by the appearance, at the door, of the carrier, to know if there was anything to be done in Hollowley. * Nay,' said she, ' nowt nobbut to call at Mary Mitchell's on your way back, for th' washin' — that's all.' ' Ay !' said the man, ' 1 have to fetch away Barracloughs' washin' too, from there. They've sent a deal o' their things to Mary, lately, and it's a help to her.' Mrs. Stott, whose eyes were by this time perfectly dry, sniffed contemptuously. ' I thought Mary Mitchell professed only to wash for th' gentry,' said she. 'Well, Barracloughs reckons to be gentry. They've money enough, choose-how.' ' Humph ! Gentry ! My certy, them gentry !' she laughed scornfully. ' / saw some of their things one day, when I called in to see Mary. Cottofi towels P (No words can paint the withering scorn of her tone.) ' A dozen or MORNING THOUGHTS 207 two of 'em They have 'em all o'er the house. That's no gentry's habits. You might as well dry yoursel' with a duster; every bit. There's never been such a thing seen i' f/it's house, and never shall, while I manage it ; and we don't set up to be so very grand, noather.' 'Well, well,' said the carrier, who was a peaceable man, * I'll call for your washin' and tell Mary I'm not to bring no cotton towels along wi' me.' He departed, and Mrs. Stott, somewhat refreshed by this speaking out of her mind, went about her work with renewed vigour. As for Brian, all unconscious of the able champion- ship of his domestic arrangements which was being carried on in the kitchen, he did not remain long at table, nor was there visible much difference in the amount of victual left upon the board when he rose from it. This time, he took his hat from a peg, and, followed by Ferran, went out into the garden, lighted a pipe, and strolled down the steps of the quaint little terraces in which the bit of ground was laid out, till he had descended to the lowest level — a larger space than the rest, planted with fruit-trees and vegetables, and with a number of old-fashioned red and white rose-bushes, growing contentedly amongst the gooseberry and currant- trees. There he found an elderly man, working with spade and rake, a bundle of weeds lying on the ground near him. He had a pale, somewhat pragmatic aspect, and looked up and nodded as Brian approached. 'Trying to make this old place look decent, Bill?' said the young man drearily, as he paused for a moment, and removed his pipe from his mouth. 'Ay,' was the reply, 'and it's none so hard, either. It's been well looked after, has this here old garding 2o8 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Well, I've lost most of my money, Bill. I think this will have to be about the last tirne you'll have to come.' ' Dun yo' mean as I dunnot gardin so as to suit you?' he asked crossly. ' Nay, nay, but that soon I shan't have money enough to pay you for what you do so well.' * Ah, weel — we con settle that some other toime. Shoo-oo !' — to a hen which had found its way over the wall from Ormerod's, and was now diligently scraping up a well-ordered bed. ' Ay !' he added, with a kind of slow, sententious chuckle, as the creature, with much fluttering, fuss, and clucking, flew back to its proper place, ' yo' can garden so as to suit a man, or even a woman, though they're a tickle sort o' fowk to satisfy, hutjyo' cannot gardeti so as to suit a hen ' — in tones of solemn conviction. ' They 11 mend it for you, how yo' mak' it. They can ne'er let well alone.' Brian burst into a short, mirthless laugh, as he leaned on the wooden gate which led into a great, bare pasture, sloping for several acres downhill. * No, you're about right there,' he said dryly. The man glanced up at him, sideways, and looked thoughtful. He had known Brian all his life, and he, too, saw the changed expression, the haggard eyes, and hollow cheeks. ' Have yo' heerd o' my feyther's travels, Mr. Brian ?' he asked. * No ; where has he been ?' ' Well, yo' seen, he's near ninety, is my feyther, and he hasn't been so very far afield, all his life. But he were forced to gang down to Hollo wley last week, along o' some lawyer's business. He hadn't left Thornton not for nigh on MORNING THOUGHTS 209 ten years ; but he were always uncommon interested in anything he heerd tell of. And he said he mun get his will settled, and he mun have a ride in one o' these here steam- trams. So he did both ; and he coom whoam fair beside hissel' ; he were so pleased wi' it all. And he towd us — he says, " Eh, but them trams are a queer mak'," he says ; "there's a hecher reawm," he says, "and a locher reawm, there is," says he, " and th' hecher reawm's a windy spot."* B' the Mass ! we laffed at him — we did so !' Brian again laughed, rather drearily. The time had been when he would have chatted with the man, drawing him out, and hearing all kinds of quaint, old-world lore and ex- pressions, hearing the words used which are to be found in the ' Faerie Queene,' and which are to this day vernacular in this district, and in no other part of England. He used to delight in such little talks. But not to-day. He moved on, nodding to Bill, and wishing him a brief good-morning, and then he went back towards the house. The man looked after him, with a shrewd, commiserating expression. ' In a bad way !' he said to himself, and went on with his weeding. Many hours lay before Brian ere the business of the evening could begin — the question was how to get through with them. Nowadays, when he had once opened his eyes in the morning, from his heavy, yet unrefreshing sleep — when he had once aroused from the wild dreams which pur- sued him, and showed the depraved state into which his nerves had got — no feeling of rest or repose, no momentary drowsiness, even, ever came to his aid during the long day. * * There's a higher place, and a lower place, and the higher place is a windy spot ' — i.e.^ draughty, cold. 14 FROM MOOR ISLES It had to be lived through, and endured with full, over-clear consciousness ; every moment to be, as it were, reckoned with. The daylight hours had become a long torture to Brian, and, having once arrived at that condition of mind, there was little wonder if he looked forward with a hungry longing to the evening, when at any rate there would be excitement to drown the thoughts which had accumulated, black and dreary, during the day. This morning, going into the house again, he wandered for a time, aimlessly, from one room to another, and at last, coming to a standstill in the larger parlour, his eyes fell on yesterday's newspaper, lying still folded, on the top of the piano. It was one of the large Irkford papers, and he picked it up, more in absence of mind than anything else, and casting himself into an easy-chair, opened it, and glanced over it. The first page contained, as usual, an- nouncements of all the amusements — concerts, theatres, public meetings, religious gatherings, circuses, free-thought lectures, etc. Conspicuous amongst them was the adver- tisement of the coming concert. ' Mr. Frank Warburton's grand concerts. To-morrow ' (that, he reminded himself listlessly, now meant to-day) * Mr. Felix will sing " The Sapling Oak," and the aria from Marschner's opera, " Hans Heiling." — " An jenem Tag* da du mir Treu! versprochenr ' * Lord, what a distance off it all seems,' thought Brian, bitterly and wearily. * What's to hinder me from going to the concert to-night, as I used to do ? I'm not so weak in body yet nor so poverty-stricken in purse, that I couldn't manage that.' But though he did not admit it to himself, but.continued MORNING THOUGHTS to dally aimlessly with the idea of going to Irkford, yet the fact remained that he had no longer the power of will to accomplish such a breaking loose from the present state of things. In his heart he knew well enough that he would not go to the concert ; but would, after getting through the day as best he could, and when night had set in, go up to Jessamine Lawn, and there resume the now nightly occu- pation. Then he opened the broadsheet, idly still, and on the middle page saw a paragraph headed, 'Approaching de- parture of Mr. P'elix for America.' There followed the information that to-morrow's concert afforded the last oppor- tunity which the English public would for some time enjoy of hearing their favourite artist, as Mr. Felix sailed on Satur- day from Liverpool for New York, in the Cunarder Batavia^ with the intention of making a prolonged stay in America, and of smging in all the principal cities of the United States and Canada. He would remain in Irkford until the Satur- day morning, when, accompanied by friends, he would leave for Liverpool, and sail at 2 p.m. The sole manager and agent for Mr. Felix during his American tour, it was added, was Mr. Charles Percival, who accompanied him, and it was requested that any inquiries or communications might be made to him at such and such an address, and by letter only. Brian read this paragraph with suddenly roused interest and attention ; then threw the paper down and reflected upon the matter. He was in no mood to do justice to others, or to see his own or anyone else's circumstances in a true light, and he bitterly and angrily asked himself what he had done that there should be so great a difference between 212 FROM MOOR ISLES his lot and that of this other man. Felix himself had spoken in the highest terms of the quality of Brian's voice, and had said that had he only begun an artist's career early enough, he might have ranked with the very first of them. Felix had his voice and nothing else — Brian had an absolute genius for that most difficult and delicate of instruments, the violin. Felix, again, had started on his career with scarce an advantage — his father was, and always had been a poor man ; had failed disastrously in his brief attempt to cope with business men on their own ground ; had thankfully retired into obscurity and lived there since, a learned, un- worldly scholar, existing on some three hundred pounds a year. Felix had succeeded ; none but himself knew how hard, how unflinchingly he had had to set his shoulder to the wheel ; how many inborn likes and dislikes he had smothered or silenced in order to gain that success. Brian had begun life with more than old Mr. Arkwright's income assured to him, ample funds on which to live while he studied and worked. He had had no incumbrances, no dependents, no poor relations to drag him down — nothing but himself and his own advantage to consider. Yet here was the one man a world-famous artist, whose smallest doings and movements were chronicled like those of royalty, and whose exercise of his art procured for him just as much money as he chose to ask for. Moreover, in him. as Brian had observed (with delight and admiration then, with sour envy and bitterness now), there was a strong, self-reliant independence of outside things, a cheerful, sane, and healthy way of looking at life and of taking things as they came, which added to the charm he exercised over those with whom he came in contact. MORNING THOUGHTS 213 * I dare say,' Brian muttered angrily to himself, ' I should feel cheerful and independent if I were like him — a sort of king, with all the world at his feet, and men envying him and women worshipping him. Ah, if 1 were like that, Lucy would not hold out any longer ! I should be sure of her, the only thing I care for, and — ay, there's no rhyme or reason in it — why one man should have everything and another nothing.' At this instant Mrs. Stott entered the room, with floury hands and with a cooking-apron covering her gown. ' Eh, Mr. Brian, are you theer ? Mesther Ormerod's sent across to ask if you'd lend him yesterday's newspaper for an hour or two. There's sum mat as he wants to see in it' * Ay, there it is,' said Brian, pointing to it as it lay on the floor. ' He's welcome, and he can keep it. I've done with it.' ' Why not tak' it across thisel', lad ? It's long enough sin' thou were theer. They'll be fain to see thee,' she said coaxingly. He shook his head with vexation. ' Nay, give it to the servant, or whoever it is,' he said shortly. And poor old Sarah, not wishing to irritate him (she who had never hesitated to speak her mind to him as plainly as if he had been her own child), took the paper and left the room with a sigh. Farmer Ormerod found what he wanted in the Irkford Chronicle; it contained every week an excellent article, entitled ' Farm Notes,' treating of butter-making, cattle rear- ing, silage, sweet and sour, and the best methods of pre- serving it, with other matters appertaining to the mysteries 214 FROM MOOR ISLES of farming life, and the good man studied it and laid it down. That same evening, just about the time at which Brian's steps turned towards Jessamine Lawn, Alice Ormerod, wearied with a hard day's work — she worked very hard now, with a sort of insatiate fury for employment not natural to her well-balanced organization— seated herself in the ingle, having exhausted every task she could find ; and she also picked up the newspaper, and, after looking over it at first indifferently, she likewise appeared to find something which interested her, for she read attentively for some time and then sat and gazed into the fire, unconscious of the scorch- ing of her face and eyes ; and the thought in her heart as she shook her head sadly and sternly was — ' Eh, if only that could have been !' CHAPTER VII. BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME. Despite the rural soHtude in which Jessamine Lawn was situated, and the engaging innocence of its name, very late hours were constantly kept there — hours which were whiled away in anything but innocent employments. It was seldom that the party of card or billiard players separated before the small hours, by which time Mr. Barraclough the elder would have been for some hours in his bed, and Lucy, too, would have sought her couch ; or, at any rate, her room, whether she slumbered or not. Then, when they at last gave up, Brian would pass his hand over his forehead, hot BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 215 and burning with the excitement of the play, and would try to bring himself back again into the actual ])resent, while the others, paper and pencil in hand, made out the reckon- ings. He generally went away with one of these httle accounts in his pocket, containing a business-like statement of his losses — rarely of his gains — which account he was free to contemplate on the following morning; free, also, to speculate upon the best means of procuring the necessary amount, if he did not happen to have it in the house. He always brought it up with him on the following evening, when a peaceful settlement took place all round, losers pay- ing up like men, and winners pocketing their gains with the easy grace of conquerors; and then, all scores being cleared, they were free to start afresh, ' with easy minds,' as Jim affably observed. It so happened that on this particular evening the pro- ceedings were not destined to be carried on as late as usual, as will be related. It also so happened that Brian had no occasion to take with him either gold, notes, or cheques, as he had gone away the night before slightly the winner. But, as has been related, he went in an evil frame of mind and a shattered condition of nerves, down on his luck, suspicious and jealous, and passionately anxious to worst Law, and beat him out of the field. The three of them sat down about nine o'clock to the usual poker. Brian's brief run of luck of the evening before seemed to have deserted him, and he still trusted to luck, never having fairly grasped the adage which Law had so often uttered, namely, that 'cards, in poker, are nothing compared to knowing what to do with them when you've got them.' Brian's hands were wretchedly bad, and he felt 2i6 FROM MOOR ISLES his irritation rising as one after another was dealt to him, each one, as it seemed, worse than the last. He failed to note that the others were very little better off than he was. The betting was not exciting; the pools were small, and were taken now by Law, now by Jim, but never by Brian. They played on for more than an hour ; there was nothing to presage a storm, or the occurrence of anything remark- able, and Brian began to realize that amusements are some- times as hard work as the treadmill. He was sick of it, and would gladly have given up, but that would have been too ignominious. It was a lesson to find that the wild game of poker could sink into a miserable inanity, no more interest- ing than would have been the measuring out yards of ribbon over a counter. Jim was saturnine, Dicky imperturbable, as usual. Law was watching Brian quietly the whole time, and the first change in the state of things at last took place when the deal happened to be Brian's. His chance, it seemed to him, had now arrived. He found that he had dealt himself three kings, a three, and a four. He could no more have helped the change that came over his countenance, incautious though it was to give the slightest sign, than he could have flown. He raised his head, and, with an excited look, said — ' Here goes ! I'll make good my ante, and five pounds better. Who's for playing ?' Dicky, after one imperceptible glance around, saw the raise without the slightest change of expression. Jim, whose cards were worth absolutely nothing, threw them down. ' I'm out,' he observed. ' So it's between you and me,' said Dicky, with his gentle BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 217 smile. ' Well, I haven't much to boast of, but I'll see you through, anyhow. I'll take one card, if you please.' Jim raised his eyebrows at the apparent artless candour of this admission, but spoke not. Brian gave a card to I.aw^, and dealt tv/o to himself, retaining his kings, and dis- carding his three and four. The cards he drew were nothing less than two aces, giving him a * Full,' not to be beaten by anything less than 'Fours,' ' Humph !' said Dicky quietly.; ' threes, I suppose, and you beg for a full, but I've seen you do that before.' * He means it this time,' said Jim carelessly. ' Keep your hand steady, Holgate.' 'You mind your own business,' said Brian, in sudden irritation, and shaken by the excitement of it— 'you haven't paid either to play or to criticise !' Then, turning to Dicky, he added, ' It's no good, whatever you get — you had better pass over the pool and let us start fresh.' 'Thanks for your good advice. Let's get on with the game. I bet five pounds.' ' See the five, and ten better.' 'See the ten, and five better.' ' See the five, and fifty better,' said Brian, frowning and going rather pale. 'Oh, here's a high old bluff!' muttered Jim, who was looking on with extreme interest. Brian did not notice him. Dicky, appearing not to notice anything, took up his cards, which were laid before him, and examined them carefully, as if to be sure he had fallen into no error. Then, half to himself — ' It's robbery — I've half a mind to see the fifty, and stop it.' He darted a quick glance from under his half-closed 2i8 FROM MOOR ISLES lids at Brian, and after the lapse of a second or two, ' See your fifty, and five better.' * See your five, and a hundred pounds better,' followed quick as thought from Brian. ' Holloa, Holgate ! are you aware that it will cost me a hundred to go on ?' *Yes, I am. Put up your hundred, and as much better as you like.' ' Humph ! See the hundred, and five better.' * I say,' observed Jim, ' I call this getting too stiff. Td drop it, if I were you.' ' It's not for me to drop it,' retorted Law calmly. ' My raises are only five pounds. It's the most I dare do.' *See your five, and five hundred better,' said Brian, also calmly, but not with the calm of an easy mind. ' Oh, Lord !' said Jim, in his own mind. ' What must such a fellow play poker for — he shows every change in his face, like a girl when you pay her compliments. He's got a big hand, too, to go on like this.' * I suppose you know^ what you are doing ' said Dicky deliberately. ' Because I know where I am ; and if you're simply bluffing, remember, I can last longer than you can.' (' By George ! What does he mean, talking in that way ?' was Jim's inward comment.) There was an angry flash in Brian's eye, as he answered, ' I'm going to do as I please in this game, without your advice or anyone else's.' He knew that if Law had fours, it must have been dealt to him, since he had only begged one card — and he knew, too, that the chances against such a thing were about four thousand to one. He would push it on to the bitter end. BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 219 And he looked wrathfully at his opponent ; while Jim, again within the recesses of his own mind, said to himself, * Good Lord ! it's like playing with a baby !' ' As you like,' said Law. ' It's my turn to bet. I believe you have six hundred and eighty on now. I'll make it seven hundred to oblige you. So it will cost you twenty pounds to play.' 'I'll see it through,' said Brian. *What do you call Moor Isles worth ?' ' Moor Isles — what do you mean ?' came from both the others. * What I say. What value would you stake against it ?' ' This is absurd,' said Law. ' Told you I would do as I pleased,' said Brian doggedly. * Name the amount you think it is worth, and stake against it, or pass over the stakes to me.' ' Moor Isles is worth — from seven hundred and fifty to a thousand pounds,' said Law slowly. * Say a thousand,' Brian remarked. * Well, a thousand — and if you stake it, it may stand as a thousand pounds staked. // you will do it. You had better consider.' Brian, perfectly oblivious, in his excitement, of the fact that Law could at any moment stop the game, and that he never did, but each time dexterously ' raised ' his opponent, said — ' It's twenty pounds to pay this time. There's my note for Moor Isles. See your twenty, and a thousand better.' 'That means,' said Law, as if reflecting, and warning Brian at the same time, ' that I can see your hand if I make good the thousand.' 220 FROM MOOR ISLES * Yes, that is it,' said Brian ; and his breath seemed to fail him. The game was his — that Law had no such cards as his own, he was convinced. This victory would compensate for all the previous defeats he had sustained. ' It will cost me a thousand pounds to see your hand,' said Dick pensively. ' Well, see your thousand, and one thousand better ! Now it will cost you a thousand to see mine !' Brian saw on the instant how he had been befooled. Because Law had raised five and ten pounds steadily throughout the game, he had decided that he would con- tinue raising five and ten pounds. He had intended to 'see' Law this time, and show his hand. There was no question of any such thing now. He had not the fifth part of a thousand pounds left in the world. He could not pay what was necessary to enable him to see Law's hand. Law, who so quietly went a thousand better, had any number of thousands more with which to continue his game. Brian knew that he was entrapped, beaten, ruined. * I can't see that,' he said, and laid his cards down. The cards, the table, and the forms of his companions swam before his eyes. It was only with a mighty effort, resulting from his almost insane determination not to give in before Law, that he at last pulled himself together again, and heard Dicky's voice saying quietly — * I take the pool.' ^ It seems so,' said Brian mechanically, staring from one to the other of them, and feeling as if he were still in a nightmare. The strain had been horrible. Jim, when Brian's haggard eyes rested upon his face, withdrew his, and looked at the table, the cards, the chips — at anything. BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME ' Would you like another game ?' asked Dick civilly. * No — unless you like to play on — for love,' said Brian, with a grim little laugh. ' Not much fun in that,' was Jim's somewhat embarrassed contribution to the conversation. ' No, I vote we stop for to-night, and to-morrow Holgate can think about it, and see how he stands. We should be sorry to lose him.' * Oh, very,' said Dicky politely. ' But it might be as well for him to stop for a bit. He doesn't look well, and you ought to be up to the mark all round, to get any enjoyment out of poker.' These were the only words by which Law expressed any triumph over his ruined opponent, but they were more than enough. Brian stood up, and walked away from the table. Jim, leaning over to his friend, asked in a low voice — * What the devil did you hold ?' Dicky looked at him quietly. ' I asked Holgate a thousand pounds to see my hand, and he wouldn't. Do you think you are going to see it for nothing ?' And he shuffled his five cards into the pack. ' I don't mind about staying any longer,' said Brian, from the other end of the room. ' I'll go back— to Moor Isles I wonder if Lucy is up yet ? I'll say good-night to her if she is. Perhaps it may be a long time before I see her again.' ' I don't know,' began Jim, with a look of sheepishness and hang-doggishness combined. 'It's after eleven, you know, and ' ' Oh, I guess she won't have gone yet,' said Dicky cheer- fully, and with an appearance of the greatest candour. ' As FROM MOOR ISLES you say, Holgate, why not say good-night to her now? Come along, Jim.' But just at this juncture, before Brian could inform them that he wanted none of their company in the interview he was seeking, the door was opened, and Lucy herself looked into the room, as she occasionally did, before going to bed. At first her face wore a slight smile, and her eyes travelled involuntarily in the direction of the card-table. Then a look of surprise crossed her countenance at the unexpected vision of the three men standing, with anything but undis- turbed expressions, instead of being, as usunl, seated, silent and intent, round the card-table. She missed the customary rapid upward glance of Brian at her entrance — a glance which, in spite of her double-dealing, she felt the want of, and to which she unconsciously looked forward. ' What ! Have you done already ?' she began, and came a little forward into the room, for, truth to tell, she was glad of a little company of any kind in these latter days, and the prospect of half an hour's chat, even with the^e three men, every one of whom bored her no little in reality, presented , itself as a pleasanter alternative than finishing her lonely evening by going to her lonely room, and lying awake for several hours, wishing that Brian Holgate would go. De- spite her resolve to punish Alice Ormerod through Brian, Lucy had no desire to punish Brian himself ; she was sin- cerely uneasy about his present conduct, and she had become wakeful of late. The thing had got on to her nerves, and she had acquired the bad habit of listening and watching, not for someone to come, as is often the case with women, who can only wait, cannot do, but for someone to go, before she could slumber — and the effects of a mid- BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 223 night waking are very much the same, from whatever cause it may arise. * Yes, we're quite good and virtuous,' Dicky answered, as the other two made no reply to her. ' We have finished for to-night, and were just about to part company.' Lucy began both to feel and look uneasy. She misliked it ever, when Dicky spoke in that genial, satisfied tone, as if he were an innocent, open-hearted creature who wished well to all the world, and could not imagine that anyone could possibly wish any evil to him. Reasoning from the known to the unknown, she looked quickly at Brian, and could not understand the import of his expression. He was pale — he had been pale for a long time now. He did not look excited — his eyes were cast down, and he was smiling a little, in a peculiar way which she did not like. Dicky was smiling and pleasant. Jim, her brother, did not seem alto- gether at his ease ; as it seemed to Lucy, he did not look quite satisfied with everything. And there was something in the air, as it were, which filled her with uneasiness, though they were all three apparently so quiet and collected. Certainty may be considered by some strong natures pre- ferable to suspense, but the impulse which suddenly took possession of Lucy with overwhelming force was to get away from this scene — to leave it and these three silent men to wind up their accounts alone. She did not want to know what the something was that lay behind it all. She felt as if she would much rather not know it ; and, acting on this impulse, she said — ' Oh, well, then I won't come in. It's after eleven — time for all decent people to be in their beds ; so I'll wish you good-night.' 224 FROM MOOR ISLES 'Stop one moment, Lucy,' said Brian, in a low voice -he spoke rather quickly too — that was the only sign he showed of any excitement or agitation. ' I've something to say to you. Perhaps I shall not see you again for a long time. I need not take up time with telling you why. My friends here will explain that afterwards.' (Dicky nodded as if to say, *Ay, I will, old fellow.' Jim wriggled uncomfortably.) * Anyhow, that's the truth. I'm forced to go away from here, and it may be long before I come back. So I wanted to say good-bye to you, and to tell you ' ' Why, Brian, what should make you want to go away?' she interrupted, her woman's instinct discerning at once what kind of words he was intending to say to her, heedless of the presence of the other two, who, indeed, did not at this moment exist for Brian, in the almost savage joy he felt at finding the barriers at last broken down which, invisible and intangible though they were, had yet all this time prevented him from speaking out to Lucy as effectually as if they had been composed of triple plates of steel. It was strange, though it never struck him, that for months he had been waiting to see her alone, and win her over to him, and had allowed all kinds of small obstacles to prevent the interview, and now he felt the strength and the power to set everything and everyone else aside, and say just what had been burning in his heart, and eating it out for so long. And Lucy knew this; she saw in an instant what he meant to say, and a great fear took possession of her, so that she felt as if she would rather die than hear what he was bent upon uttering. But her feeble effort to stave it aside was futile. This time it was he, not she, who was strong and who ordered how things should go. BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 225 ' Why should I want to go ? — because I'm ruined !' he answered, without any hurry or bluster, but with a calm that was much worse than all the ranting and raging ever indulged in by ruined man. ' I'm ruined ; stripped naked and bare — not in law, I suppose, but in honour.' (Lucy stood still ; the words were like a horrible echo of the conversation she had had with Dicky more than a year ago.) 'And it has all happened for your sake, Lucy; not that I want to blame you,' he added hastily, as he saw a sudden expression of terror come over her face. ' Oh no ! You are not to blame ; and, for your sake, I don't grudge it. A man must taJce his chances, I suppose, and to win you it is only right that he should work very hard and have some- thing to offer you worth your accepting. And so long as I had the means of getting near you without working, do you see, it was too strong for me. I couldn't tear myself away. Now I shall be obliged to. There's nothing else for it, and I don't mind. I'm young and I'm strong, and I can get on well enough when there's nothing to keep me back. And you won't mind waiting, I know. It won't be for long, and if it were, you would be the same to me if you were old and withered as you are now, never doubt that, Lucy.' His voice sank into a tone of the deepest tenderness, and his face took an almost rapt expression, so that poor, passionate, vacillating Brian Holgate looked beautiful with an almost unearthly beauty through the expression which lit the eyes and suffused the countenance worn with excitement and with the furious mental wear and tear of the last twelve months. He advanced towards her, holding out his hand. Lucy stood white and speechless before him, feeling that 15 226 FROM MOOR ISLES the long-accumulating results of the game she had been playing had now gathered themselves together, and that there was no escape from them. If she had been alone with him, she might have abased herself and explained, or she might have cajoled and deceived him once again. As it was, she was utterly powerless, defenceless, and while listening with hot cheeks to Brian's passionate words, could all the while only hope, in a feeble, helpless kind of fashion, that Dicky would, out of his distaste for scenes of any kind, let the farce be played out without telling Brian the pitiless truth. It all depended on his good pleasure. Now she saw to what an extent she had placed herself in his hands. Until she had got a word or sign from him she was paralyzed and tongue-tied. Brian had literally forgotten the other two. It was Law's voice which once more awakened him to the fact of their presence. 'Lucy,' said the master of the situation, coming round and standing beside her, ' you may see that Holgate is a good deal excited. We'll hope things are not so bad with him as he's disposed to think, and in the meantime, as he seems to be under some little mistake about your feelings for him, we had better have a proper explanation. It is best to face facts always ; I think he does best to go away, and it's quite natural he should wish to say good-bye to you. You're old friends, and I understand all that. But it would be a pity to let him go away under a false impression about either of us ; therefore, we may as well tell him that most likely when he comes back, he'll find Lucy Barraclough has become Lucy Law — eh ? Do you see, Holgate ? Lucy and I are engaged to one another, though we have not cared BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 227 to say anything about it ; and I see she is not inclined to talk about it much, even now. Ladies often do not like to have a fuss made about these things. Still,' he added soothingly to her, ' you need not look as if you were going to faint, Lucy,' and he supported her with his arm, for in very truth she looked as if she could not stand. ' Keep your hands off her, you dog !' said Brian, looking at him, his eyes blazing scornfully from his pale face while he stood and looked at them both, and became, if possible, each moment more white, more wrathful, and more despair- ing-looking. ' No doubt you'd like well enough to have her. Do you think I've never seen that all this time ? But she isn't going to be entrapped by you in that way. Engaged to you, you pitiful, lying sneak ! If she weren't here I'd give you the name you deserve !' He laughed unpleasantly. All this, it must be remembered, was taking place very quietly. The voices were not raised ; the gestures were not excited of any of them. It was not a brawl, but a life-and- death grapple, and anyone outside passing the closed door would have heard nothing more than the ordinary tones of an ordinary conversation. Brian turned to Lucy once more, and his voice melted into all the music it was capable of, and that was a great deal. * Nay, Lucy,' he said, ' come to me — don't fancy I will ever let him touch you ' — though it was Law's arm which at this moment kept her from falling — ' come here and tell me he lies — not that I need to hear it, but just to settle him.' * Yes, tell him I lie, Lucy,' said Dicky to her, with a calm undisturbed by Brian's low-toned, passionate invective. He held her more firmly in his arm, and Brian, for all his brave words, stood there and did not fell him to the ground. 228 FROM MOOR ISLES * Tell him, Lucy,' said Dicky again. ' Do I lie, or do I speak the truth ?' ' Speak, Lucy !' said Brian, after another pause ; ' it's you who have got to settle this thing now. He says you have promised to marry him. I say it's a lie. Is it a lie, or is it not?' ' No !' came in a whisper from Lucy's lips, but in a whisper which was audible enough to all those who heard it. 'It's best to face facts,' said Brian, a sudden sharp, cruel look crossing his face — the kind of look which can come into the kindliest eyes, the sort of feehng which can over- master the sweetest natures under certain combinations of circumstances. It was as much the instinct to preserve him- self and not own that he was beaten, as any desire to torture her, which prompted his next words. ' Best to face facts. So you have lied to me ?' No answer. * You have tricked me and duped me.' Silence. ' You have known what was going on here, and you have sat by and never said a word.' Still she did not speak. * And all the time you knew I was coming here for your sake, and you were letting him make love to you, and knew all that was going on — you were letting him do as he pleased with me.' There was another pause. Dicky whispered something into Lucy's ear to the effect that she must not mind — Hol- gate was mad with defeat — it would all pass over. Brian meantime walked close up to them and said to her — ' Lucy !' BRIAN PLAYS A LOSING GAME 229 She looked up. What she felt was that she hated them all, and would have liked to make them every one suffer what she was suffering now. ' You've done this,' he said, smiling ; ' you are no better than a ' Lucy shuddered as the shameful epithet struck her ears. Brian went on in the same deliberate way — • ' It's just the same sort of thing that the worst girl on the streets would do. Some of them wouldn't. They would have some pity. A man may be very sorry for that sort of girl, but he doesn't want to marry her ; at least, I don't. It seems there's one ready to take you, so I'll leave you to him and wish you good-night !' Dicky's arm was powerless to support Lucy any longer. She writhed out of his clasp and sank in a terrified, sobbing heap against a chair which stood near. Horrible, horrible words ! Could a woman ever get over such a shame ? And what, oh, what had she ever done to deserve that such words should be addressed to her? Was ever a girl more cruelly and undeservedly ill-used than she had been ? And that it should have been said to her before these two other men ! She suddenly sprang up, made two steps to her brother, seized his arm, and, in a panting voice, cried — * Jim, you coward ! you coward ! How dare you let him say it ? It's your fault, and yours /' she turned with mad- dened eyes towards Law ; 'and you let me bear the punish- ment !' ' I say,' said Jim, turning to Brian, ' you'd better look out what you are saying to my sister, or it will be the worse for you.' ' Your sister is worthy of her brother, and does honour to 230 FROM MOOR ISLES him ; and her lover and your friend is the exact match of you both,' reph'ed Brian, with a sneering laugh, as he walked towards the door. ' No doubt it seems all right to you, but some people have a way of thinking that the sort of thing you've been doing is not what honest men and women do. You can easily judge whether the cap fits.' With that he closed the door and left the house, leaving them to consider his words. CHAPTER VIII. ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED. On the Friday morning, the day after that scene at Jessa- mine Lawn, Eli-abeth Reichardt and Felix x^rkwright sat together in her house, over, it must be confessed, an inor- dinately late breakfast. There had been a supper party the night before, at the house of one of their musical friends, and to-night Elisabeth was having a farewell reception for her friend at her own house. Perhaps neither of the good souls had the courage to face the prospect of a quiet even, ing tete-a-tete^ w^ith the parting of the morrow standing before them. Old Mr. Reichardt, who had, in good old German fashion, had his Friihstuck, literally his * early bit,' long ago, and had, ever since, been diligently employed in the perusal of his English and German new^spapers, had greeted them as they came down one after the other with some little jest about the late hours they kept ; had talked over last night's concert, and congratulated Felix on his rendering of a certain song of Schumann's, which was a great favourite with the old gentleman; and now he rose to make his usual ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED 23 1 excursion into town, to hear the news of the business in which he no longer took an active part — to call at his club and see the latest telegrams, and incidentally to collect a little gossip and furnish himself with an appetite for lunch, lie said a friendly ' Auf wiedersehen ' to them and took his departure, leaving them alone. There was silence for a time between them, as they pro- ceeded with their meal. Elisabeth smiled to herself every now and then. Felix was rather grave, and drank his tea and consumed his fish in a business-like manner. At last Elisabeth, with a certain look of effort, said — 'And do you actually mean, my good friend, that you are going away without a word or a sign to the little one ?' Felix looked up, and the expression that crossed bis face showed that this topic had been discussed between them before, and that he was now reminded of it — not altogether pleasantly. * I told you so, Lisa, didn't I ?' * Yes ; but I didn't believe you. It was just after your arrival — just when you were hurrying off to rehearsal, and I supposed you had not time to add the qualifying clause.' ' There is no qualifying clause. I meant what I said.' * I still cannot beheve it. I cannot imagine you doing anything so— so uncomfortable for me.' He smiled slightly. * I know you have a great confidence in your own power of getting just what you wish for, and that the confidence is, as a rule, well-founded. But if you wish for this, why, disappointment awaits you. And I don't see exactly why it should makejF^^/ uncomfortable.' ' It makes me vicariously uncomfortable. I suffer for Ines.' 232 FROM MOOR ISLES * Quite unnecessary. Ines knows nothing about it.' 'You imagine that they don't read the newspapers at Madame Prenat's ?' she said, with withering emphasis. ' I can tell you they do, even though they may be printed by steam, and full of lies.' 'Well?' ' And do you suppose Ines ever takes one up without looking through it to see if your name figures in it ?' ' If she ever was guilty of such folly, let us hope that a year's experience has cured her of it.' He spoke rather coldly, and looked as if he would prefer to change the subject. Elisabeth, however, had had this topic on her mind for some time. She had chosen this method of opening it out, as it were, and she intended to go on with it at all risks. But, intimately though she knew Felix Arkwright, his character and disposition, privileged friend and confidante though she was, she still felt a Uttle trepidation as she went on — ' A year's experience of what, Felix ?' ' Of the fact that she can get on very well without me, and that there are other people in the world quite as interest- ing as I am — which was what I intended her to learn.' 'Well, you know, I call that rather assuming things to have happened, while really knowing nothing about it. How do you know that the year's experience may not have had just the opposite effect ?' ' Not likely,' was the brief reply. ' Nothing more likely,' retorted his friend decidedly. ' Remember, I have seen her since you have. I called, as I told you, the last time I was in town, and had her to dine with me at my hotel. I saw nothing to show that she ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED 233 was in the least changed. FeHx, I'm going to say some- thing to you which I know you will resent — at least, I'm afraid so. If you don't like the thing, you must look to the motive that prompts it. You are going away for a long time, and to such an immense distance, that I should hate to have anything not quite clear and plain between us. Do you see?' He nodded, but did not look altogether pleased as he threw one arm over the back of his chair, and, instead of looking at her, fixed his eyes upon the fork with which his other hand trifled. Elisabeth leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her hands clasped, and looked earnestly at him. ' You know,' said she, 'that I have never asked you why you took that particular course with Ines a year ago. I felt you did not care to talk about it ; I felt it would be pre- sumptuous in me to approach it ; but, Felix, you know, as well as I know- your looks have told me many a time that you understood me when I looked at you — you know, I repeat, that that girl is in love with you.' She had spoken, and her steady look did not reveal the nervousness she felt. For a single instant the hand of Felix, which was balancing the fork on one of its fingers, shook ; the fork fell upon the table. He pushed it away from him, looked directly at Elisabeth, and replied gravely — * I know that a child of seventeen, with a lively fancy and an exaggerated sense of gratitude for what I have done for her, may have unconsciously allowed herself to think a little too much about me. Since you speak about it, I can — to you — not to anyone else. She had not the cunning or the experience to hide it. She was over-grateful, poor little 234 FROM MOOR ISLES thing ! It is not a weakness one often meets with. Such things will happen, I suppose, now and then ; but if they are taken in hand in time, no harm comes of them ; and I took it in hand in time.' Mrs. Reichardt sat listening to this discourse with an in- describable expression on her face. It was not laughter ; it was not sadness ; it was not mockery ; perhaps it con- tained a little of all three of these things. ' Since you say you will speak of it to me,' she said gently — 'which I appreciate in you as a mark of confidence — tell me exactly how you took it in hand, and what effects you expect to follow from your course of action.' ' I took it in hand by committing her into Madame Prenat's charge, and explaining to that lady that I wished Ines to "come out," in a certain sense; and I decided not to see her again for a couple of years. Two years between seventeen and nineteen will make as much difference in her as twenty, or at any rate, ten, would, when people get to our age, Lisa.' * Still both under forty, my good sir ; not at all too old to have susceptibilities and emotions of many kinds. How- ever, I now understand you better; you admit, though reluctantly, the fact that I urge. I am not much surprised at that. And you did not wish to make a fuss about it, to hurt her feeUngs, or to lay bare her secret to anyone else — in that you were right, and I like you for doing it. Whether what you have done will have the effect you anticipate, that's another thing altogether. Far exempk, why not have let her come to visit me now and then ?' ' Because I thought it best for the separation to be com- plete—that's all.' ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED 235 * H'm ! One can't always cure a bad habit by one single effort of will. And you told Madame to take her out a good deal ? Why, I wonder ?' ' Because I know the society Madame frequents is beyond all suspicion — it is very good society; you know that — neither the fast and fashionable, nor the outrageously rich and vulgar. I felt that if she met anyone under Madame's wing, and fell in love with him, and he with her, it would be certain to be all right.' * You take my breath away. Talk of women being such trusting creatures ! But I see your motives ; they are excel- lent. And suppose she goes out and meets people, and does not fall in love with anyone else ?' He shrugged his shoulders. ' If so, it cannot be helped. She could have no better home than with Madame Prenat ; with her she shall remain. She will learn that I am her friend and well-wisher always. And it is not as if she had no brains. Ines will never die of ennui, especially in that house.' 'But,' Elisabeth persisted, gently, but firmly, 'suppose she not only does not fall in love with anyone else, but does continue to be in love with you ?' 'I wish you would not speak in that way — making a child's passing fancy into a serious thing. She will not do anything of the kind.' She shook her head, with the same look of mingled sweet- ness and bitterness of feeling. A man — the kindest-hearted of men — even her friend Felix, dealing single-handed with the mystery of a girl's heart, — it filled Elisabeth with wonder, with pity, and with a little mournful amusement also. 'Ah, well, let a man get into his head the idea of a 236 FROM MOOR ISLES system,' said she, * and when facts go against that system, so much the worse for the facts ! Stay, FeHx,' she added, seeing a look approaching to anger in his face, ' don't mind that. I think it is awfully good of you to have endured this catechism from me; but one thing more. You may say what you please, but it is possible that things might turn out in that way; she might only have grown fonder in absence, you know. Hers is not a fickle nature; and at nineteen Ines Grey will be as beautiful a girl as you or anyone else could wish to see.' 'Well?' * You say you mean to see her again at the end of the time. That may be wise in you, or it may not. But do you mean that, supposing that were the case which I have imagined possible, you would not marry her yourself?' * No, I should not marry her myself.' * Do you mean that you would let some false notion about difference in age, or taking advantage of her, or something quixotic of that kind, step in and spoil your happiness ?' Felix was silent for a time, looking down at the table, with an expression Elisabeth could not understand. She watched him in some anxiety. The idea of the possibility of this marriage had haunted her, as a kind of pleasant dream. It had delighted her; she had pondered over it many a time, though she had never before spoken of it. She wondered now at her own audacity in going so far; but the matter— especially the matter of the happiness or unhappiness of Ines Grey — was one which lay very near to her heart. What did that look of Felix mean? What would he say ? She was prepared to fight to the death any ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED 237 scruples he might entertain, of the kind she had mentioned. At last he looked at her. ' Not in the least, my dear Lisa. I am not such a paragon as you seem to think me. I feel quite sure that if I wanted to marry her, I should perceive dozens of reasons for doing so, and should be vastly hurt and offended at her ingrati- tude if she did not see her way to complying with my wish ; but — my dear woman, don't look at me in that horror- struck, reproachful way — I don't want to marry her. I never shall want to marry her. I'm not in love with her, if you will kindly try to believe me. She is a sweet child ; it would be impossible to find a sweeter child anywhere. Many a time I have congratulated myself that she was my sweet child, and from the very nature of the case a child she will always remain to me.' (Elisabeth, with almost superhuman self-control, refrained from retorting, 'For all that, she failed to see nothing but a father in you.' She had her ends to gain and was silent.) 'I could spend weeks with her, and thoroughly enjoy her company and her cleverness and her dainty ways, and be glad she is so pretty — I like beautiful things — but my pulse would never beat faster for the tenth of a minute all the time, nor should I ever feel hotter or colder for her proximity or her absence. When I parted from her — you will think me a brute, but it is the plain and simple truth — it was because I saw that, in her enthusiasm, she ran a danger of being somewhat un- happy about me, and as I had not the least intention of being unhappy about her, it seemed to me in the highest degree unkind to ' * Put danger in her way. Well, I have courted this dis- closure. I have brought it on myself, and it serves me 238 FROM MOOR ISLES right I don't know whether it is what I might have expected, or not, but I could cry — yes, I could cry, with disappointment !' ' I'm very sorry, but what can I do ?' 'Nothing. You are always so horribly sane and clear and certain in all your views and intentions. I could scold you — oh, how I could scold you ! So like a man, to begin a romance and never finish it. As for Ines, my heart bleeds to think of her.' She rested her chin on her hands, and tears actually did rise to her eyes, and burnt there, though they did not over- flow. She had spoken rather too plainly, in her chagrin. 'Your heart bleeds for her? I am sure I don't know why,' he said in a tone of extreme vexation. ' Surely there would have been more cause for it to bleed if I had played fast and loose with the child. I haven't. I have acted as straightly by her as if ' 'It's difficult to find a parallel case,' she said, laughing vexedly. ' You can surely give me credit ' he began. ' Oh yes, yes ; you have behaved like a Jiian and a gentle- man, FeHx.' (Was there a touch of raillery in the words, ' like a man ' ?) ' Under the circumstances, I suppose there was nothing else for you to do. And I am sure you have been very patient, and you must be left to carry out your own experiment to the end. But one hates to be put in the wrong, and have one's hopes dashed to the ground. Thank Heaven ! Ines herself suspects none of this.' Here her footman came into the room with an envelope on a waiter, and went to Felix. ' A telegram for you, sir. Will there be any answer ?' ELISABETH IS DISAPPOINTED 239 He tore it open, and read it. There was a moment's pause. Then — ' Well, of all the nuisances that could have happened — no, no answer. Read that, Lisa,' and he gave it to her as the man left the room. It was before the days of ' sixpenny wires,' and the mes- sage ran — ' Mrs. Lauriston, Birmingham, to Mr. Arkwright, Queen Street, Irkford. My son very ill — typhoid. Must give up journey. Great regret.' ' Why, that is your companion that was to be, isn't it — young Lauriston ?' * Of course it is. My go-between, factotum, dme damnee, everything. Percival is no good in anything but the barest business matters. And a good fellow too. I counted on him absolutely. By Jove, but I'm sorry for this ! They are very poor, you know, and the lad is a hard-working lad. His salary was evidently a great object to him, and I meant to have given him many a hint about his voice, and how to begin his career. I am sorry.' 'I shall inquire into it,' said Elisabeth promptly. 'Why must they go and be living in Birmingham ? I wonder how soon he would be fit to go out to you, if you could get a substitute in the meantime ?' * Oh, I suppose I could go on, somehow, without anyone ; but it is such a frightful bore having either to see people — people who sometimes make such asses of themselves — or to say you won't see them. And he really understood about it, and he liked me, too ; and I am sure I liked him. It was worth anything to see his delight at the prospect of seeing the world under my auspices. Well, typhoid is 240 FROM MOOR ISLES typhoid. The unlucky young beggar, to go and get it just now !' There was a perturbed silence ; Felix flicking the telegram impatiently to and fro, Elisabeth thinking profoundly. * Must he be a gentleman by birth and education ?' she asked. Felix laughed. ' Well, I should prefer it, I must say. I know what you are thinking of,' he added, looking severely at her rather conscious face. ' One of your beloved Reed- ley's proteges. I dare say he could find half a dozen who would be willing to go, but I want help, not hindrance.' 'You had better take Ines — such a child, and yet she would be a help,' said Elisabeth sweetly and maliciously. ' Or give up the undertaking altogether.' ' No, I mean to go through with this. If they think it worth their while over there to pay to hear me, in their usual style, I shall be almost at the end of my road by the time I get back. Besides, I want to see the Great Repubhc' Elisabeth shook her head. It was no secret to her, though it remained a mystery, that Felix Arkwright was not in love with his profession, though he might be with his art. She had at her command all those worldly goods for a portion of which he was working, and she sometimes won- dered what he would say if she told him she would like to divide them with him — and remain free. But the im- mediate question was, not his feelings about his profession, but the means by which to find him a substitute for the secretary and companion who had been taken ill in so untimely a manner. And at this juncture the footman again made his appearance. ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 24I ' There's a young person, ma'am, who says you know her, and she is very anxious to see Mr. Arkwright. I was to say her name was Ormerod, and her business was very important.' ' AHce Ormerod !' cried Elisabeth. ' She wished to see Mr. Arkwright?' ' Yes, Tia'am. I've taken her into the library.' * What does this mean ? Felix, come !' They went out of the room together. CHAPTER IX. ELISABETH DISAPPROVES. Alice was indeed waiting in the library, but still standing up, where the footman had left her. Her face, though calm in expression, was very pale, and there was something in her eyes and on her mouth telling of mental suffering — severe suffering. Elisabeth saw it at once, and at once said to herself, ' The young man has been behaving badly ; but what can she want with Felix ?' Felix saw it too ; but what he felt was that this young woman was not at all like the young woman he remembered seeing at Moor Isles, and that, either from ill health or some other cause, her beauty was much diminished. That was his first feeling. * Alice Ormerod, I'm glad to see you,' said Elisabeth heartily, as she shook her hand. ' What brings you here, though ?' And then, seeing a sudden pained look cross the other's face, she quickly added, * But never mind. I'm glad you have come. My servant said you asked for Mr. Ark- wright. Here he is !' 16 242 FROM MOOR ISLES ' I made so bold,' Alice answered, in a trembling voice, as her eyes timidly and for a moment rested on Felix's face. She had fancied that she remembered him so vividly and exactly, that he was the most approachable person she had ever known, and that it would be so easy to speak to him. But now, as she stood face to face with him, under these different circumstances, and saw how gravely he looked at her, she suddenly felt him very formidable and imposing ; and as the nature of her errand flashed through her mind, and the recollection that these two persons, kindly, well- meaning, were perfectly in ignorance of what brought her there, they seemed to swim before her eyes, and for a moment her courage failed. But only for a moment. Straight and outspoken she had been born ; so she would live, so she would die. And after one moment, during which she met the steady gaze of Felix with an equally steady one of her own, and felt as if a wave of a cold sea had passed over her, she was herself again. ' It was in the newspaper that I saw Mr. Arkwright was here,' she said — * at least, that he was in Irkford ; and I thought he might be staying with you. It's the greatest chance that I ever found it out. It's the greatest wonder that things should have happened just as they have, and I hope neither he nor you will think me very impudent if I ask to speak to him alone — if he has the time, that is. It's a matter of great importance to me, at any rate — and to some others,' she added, with a sigh. Elisabeth had been holding her hand and looking at her all this time, and she now turned to Felix and looked at him. * You can spare the time, Felix, can't you ?' she asked ; ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 243 and he saw that she very much wished him to say yes, despite the smile in her eyes which she could not quite repress. There was something so artless in Ahce's sim- plicity, that if they had not both realized by now that she was in great distress, the smile would have appeared on their faces, as well as in their eyes. 'I wonder what in the world she can have come for?' Felix speculated. 'But I suppose I shall hear what she has to say. It's rather a miscellaneous programme, this, just before setting off.' And aloud he said, *Yes, certainly, I can give Miss Ormerod a little time, if her business is urgent.' * I'll make it as short as I can,' said Alice humbly. ' Then I will leave you,' said Elisabeth, turning away. ' Look here, Lisa,' he said hurriedly, ' don't utilise the opportunity to send for half a dozen candidates for Harry Lauriston's place ; do you understand ?' * /understand,' she replied, in a tone more of sorrow than of anger, as she shook her head ; and saying to Alice, ' I shall see you again before you go,' she left them. * Won't you sit down ?' said Felix, pushing forward a chair, and looking attentively at the girl. Her cheeks were a little flushed now, and he saw her strong and simple beauty assert itself once more. And her distress, so bravely battled with, moved him. ' Thank you,' said she, ' but I don't know whether I can sit still to tell you what has happened.' Nevertheless, she did sit down, and clasped her hands, from which she had taken the gloves — the unwelcome re- straint necessitated by a journey to Irkford. ' You remember, sir, I expect, the day that you and the 244 FROM MOOR ISLES two ladies came over to Moor Isles, and had dinner and tea with Mr. Brian?' * Perfectly,' he said. He, too, had seated himself beside a table, on which he rested his elbow as he faced her. ' I thought you wouldn't have forgotten, for all you have so many engagements and so many friends. Eh, sir, but poor Mr. Brian did think a deal of you ! He was never tired of talking about you.' * Did !' echoed Felix, startled. ' You speak as if he were dead.' ' Oh no, no ! He's alive, thank God And yet,' she added quickly, raising her clasped hands together, and then letting them fall again into her lap, 'I don't know why I should say " thank God !' I think it would have hurt me less to see him in his grave than brought so low as he is now.' No tears came into her eyes as she looked at him, but an expression infinitely more sad than tears overspread her whole face. * I suppose I am to do something or other for that lad,' Felix said within himself * There's some great mess taken place, I can see.' Then aloud, but encouragingly — ' I am very sorry if any misfortune has happened to him. What is it ?' ' You are very kind,' said she, almost breaking down at his tone of interest. 'Perhaps you'll remember, too, that before you left that evening, a young man and his sister came in, and sat down to table, and had tea with you ?' * Yes, I remember that too, very well.' *Well, sir, all Mr. Brian's friends were sorry he had so much to do with that family. They are not a good family ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 245 There's bad blood in them. They're not true, and they are not honest, and their friends are like themselves. Oh, never believe that it was his nature, of himself, to have gone with such people. It was because he had fallen in love with her. If she had been true and honest it would have been all right, whatever the others might have been ; but she was like the rest of them — false. They do say you could never depend on a Barraclough, man or woman, keeping their word. Even if it went against their own interests, sometimes, it seemed as if they had to be false. She was false. She played him up and down, and led him on, and wouldn't say yes or no, and let him keep coming to the house, and made him believe she was going to take him some time or other, and all the time .she was promised to another man — one that had a power over her ; and this man and her brother just set to work, and took advantage of his love for her to make him play cards and billiards, and things I don't understand — nor he either, poor lad ! They wanted him out of the way, and to ruin him was the only plan that came into their minds. Well, he wasn't strong enough to lead that kind of a life, and he got quite mad — quite, quite mad. Mr. Brian hasn't been in his right mind this many a week.' She paused, and choked down some kind of a sob, while Felix sat and listened, and wondered what it was all leading to. Somehow it did not sound as if it were going to be an appeal for money ; but what, then, could it be ? She went on by-and-by : * It had to come to an end at last, that kind of thing. He went up there last night, and as he doesn't generally come in till nearly morning, Mrs. Stott — that's his old 246 FROM MOOR ISLES servant — was surprised when she heard him open the door before twelve o'clock. She had gone to bed, but she heard him come in, and go into one of the sitting-rooms ; and then she heard him groan, and then all was quiet. She was frightened — too frightened to go down; but she never shut her eyes to sleep, you may be certain, and she got up very early, between four and five in the morning, and went downstairs, and, though she was very frightened, she went into the parlour, and there she found that he had never gone to bed, but was thrown down in an armchair, just as he'd come in ; and he was sleeping, and groaning in his sleep, and Ferran, his dog, had his nose on his knee, and was looking up into his face most pitifully. She didn't dare to waken him up, but she stepped across, and told me and my father ; and we went to his house — we were sure there was something very wrong. And they said that I'd better go in and awaken him. Mrs. Stott thought he might be angry with her, if he saw her first thing. So I went into the room ; but he had just opened his eyes, and when he looked at me, I do think, for half a minute, he didn't know me. And then he says, " Why, Alice, what time o' day is it ? Have I been asleep ?" And then he saw the lamp, and that it wasn't daylight, and he sat up, and looked about him, and at me, and shuddered. I just said Mrs. Stott had been afraid he was ill, and had sent for me, and I said didn't he think he'd better go to bed, and try to get a little sleep. He only laughed at that, and then — oh, sir, I thought my heart would ha' broken — it all came back to him, and he said suddenly, "Alice, I'm going away from here, and I must tell you what's happened, that someone may know what has become of me." And then he told me how they had played, and played, and betted so high, he said ; ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 247 I'm sure I don't know what he means, but at last he got desperate, hoping to beat this man — Law, his name is — and he staked the very house that he hves in — Moor Isles, sir, that he loves better than anything in this world, except the woman that's brought him to this — and he lost it. That sobered him, I know. But as if that wasn't enough, he went to say good-bye to her, and then this other man, who has no more pity than a tiger, and who wanted to get him out of the way for once and all, turns round upon her, and forced her to confess that she had ever so long been engaged to be his wife. Ay, it seems impossible that such wicked- ness can be— but what I tell you is every word true.' (And, indeed, Felix did not doubt a syllable of her story.) ' He told me all this, and then he said death was much better than life for such a fool as he had been, and he was going away — Ke didn't know where — over the moors, or any- where, and perhaps he might die if he stayed away long enough.' Again she paused. 'And you?' asked Felix. 'Why did he choose you to tell all this to — about his love for this other girl, and all the rest of it ?' For a moment, but only for a moment, her face flushed painfully. She was past any coyness of concealment. ' I hope, because he knew he could trust me in anything, and ask anything from me,' she said. ' I'm his oldest friend. We were playfellows together when we were little children ; and we were like brother and sister when we were boy and girl j and since we've grown up I've hoped for nothing so much as his happiness. And he has always been true to me — as his friend. That is why he told me.' 248 FROM MOOR ISLES * And you have come to tell it all to me — why ?' he asked, not unkindly, but almost reverentially. 'Yes, sir; I came to you, not because I've any claim upon you at all, but because I trusted you when I first saw you, and knew that you had a kind heart, and were true. When Mr. Brian had got a little quieter, but before I'd called the others in, he said to me again, " Eh, Alice, where can I go to be furthest away from all this ? If I could put fifty thousand miles between me and Thornton, I think I could even wish to live again." Well, a sudden thought came into my mind. I said to him that he must bear up, and have patience for a day, and I thought perhaps I could manage for him to go a long way off, if it wasn't fifty thousand miles. I'd read in the paper the day before all about what you w^ere going to do. Mr. Brian thought all the world of you, sir, and I've just come to tell you all about it, and ask if you'd let him go with you.' Felix stared at her for a moment. *I^t him go with me!' he at last ejaculated, and then, silent again from excess of astonishment, once more sat and gazed at her. He had had a good many experiences of different kinds during his career, but not one quite like this, and he began to wonder whether he had not heard wrongly. Alice, however, soon set him right on that point. ■ * Yes, let him go with you,' she repeated resolutely, as she looked at him earnestly. ' He must go away, or else he'll either kill himself, or something bad will happen between him and those two men that have fleeced him so. He can't go alone — at least, it would be a very bad thing for him to go alone. He can't hire anyone to go with him — he has ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 249 played away too much of his money for that. But he won't be dependent on your charity, sir, either. He has told me all that has happened, and there is something left — ^just because he wasn't able to get at it in a minute ; and we'll see to that. We want to save him.' (She spoke as if it were all settled and arranged. Felix could not guess how suffocatingly her heart was beating.) ' He'd be proud to go anywhere with you, and I'm sure he might be able to do something or other to help you. At first he may be a little Gad and low, but he'll remember what is due to you. And you mustn't think,' she added, with almost painful earnest- ness, 'because he has been gambling with these men, and has nearly ruined himself, that he's fond of low com- pany. No ; he never was. He never did like drinking or anything bad, till he fell in love with a bad woman. Such a woman's place ought to be amongst other bad women,' Alice went on, with remorseless outspokenness, ' and not in what people think is a respectable house, where everything seems as if it was what it ought to be. That's what has ruined him — not love of bad company. He'll do nothing to disgrace you; I can answer for that. And now you know everything, and it's in your power and in your hands to save him, body and soul, if you'll undertake to do it.' ' To save him, body and soul.' As she ceased speaking, these words echoed in Felix's ears. A noble task, no doubt, he thought, hardly able to repress a smile, as the humour of the situation, of whose very existence Alice was uncon- scious in her earnestness, presented itself to his mind. The only thing was, he was not a missionary, given over to the saving of reckless, passionate young men's souls and bodies ; and he felt very little inclination to turn missionary in this 250 FROM MOOR ISLES particular case. The idea of setting off on his tour accom- panied by the bhghted young man brooding over his blasted hopes and perfidious love, was by no means a pleasant one to him. He would feel him a responsibility, and a frightful bore — this last was what Felix most keenly felt — a bore — such a bore as had perhaps rarely fallen to the lot of mortal man. He did not suppose that Brian, accustomed to be his own master, lead his own life, consult himself alone as to his actions, would be of the slightest use to him in the capacity of useful companion. No ; if he undertook the thing it would have to be without any hope of reward, save the proverbial one rendered by virtue to itself. If he under- took it, it would be — his eyes again searched Alice's face, and he felt it very keenly — it would be because he was too soft-hearted to send this young woman away with, so to speak, her confidence betrayed, her purpose, which was pure and unselfish, frustrated, and her hopes disappointed. With what an effort she must have strung herself up to seek this interview and ask this favour ! She had put on an un- daunted front, but Felix knew that it must have cost her a tremendous struggle to go through with it. In hope, in trust, in the fervour of love and self-sacrifice she had come ; her errand was to send away the man she loved — to let him go now, away from her — not selfishly to keep him near her, and make use of the revulsion which the other woman's deceit might have produced in his mind. What would she feel if she had to return with all her passionate endeavour fruitless, so much eager effort useless ? What a dreariness there would be — what a hopelessness over those two houses this night ! As this aspect of the case came strongly into his mind, there came also the feeling, undefined, but con- ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 251 vincing, that he would not send her away empty-handed and aching-hearted. She was a brave creature, he said to himself, a simple, true-hearted woman, In Felix's own character there was, perhaps, something of the same generous, uncomplicated simplicity of feeling and action ; but as a man of the world he felt that it would not do to make unreserved, unconditional promises. ' I don't know about saving him,' said he. * People generally have to save themselves, you know. But, sup- posing I were to consent, do you think he would come ?' ' Yes ; I can answer for it — he would.' ' I will tell you — it is a singular coincidence — that I have this morning had a message to say that the gentleman who was going out with me to help me in various ways is ill with fever, and has to give up the journey. Now, I cannot take a useless person with me. I want some assistance from my companion ; he would have to write letters, see people, and make himself useful in various ways. Do you suppose that your friend, in his present condition of mind, and accustomed to consult no one but himself as to what he will or will not do, would be able or willing to submit to orders, and perhaps give up his own wishes for my con- venience ? — for that is what it comes to when one person agrees to make himself useful to another.' ' I'll put him on his honour,' said Alice promptly ; * and I'm certain the bare idea of getting away, and having some- thing quite different to do and to think about from what he's ever had before, will be the saving of him. Besides, he does think a deal of you, as I told you. It's been clouded over lately, but it will come out again when he's free from what has been making him so mad.' 252 FROM MOOR ISLES Felix bowed gravely, thinking within himself that to be held in such high esteem was not always the most con- venient thing in the world. But he had swiftly made up his mind to do what this young woman wanted him to do, and he was not going to spoil the concession by making it ungraciously. * Well,' he said slowly, but not unkindly, ' you know him — or, at any rate, you ought to know him and his character well. You speak as if you understood him, and I am sure you have his welfare at heart. I liked the lad very much, I must say, when I met him, and I am truly sorry he has fallen into such bad hands. I think I will do as you wish. Miss Ormerod — with this reservation/ he added, raising his hand quickly, as she was about to speak — ' that I do not by any means pledge myself to take charge of him, or even to keep him in my immediate party all the time I am away, or under all circumstances. You will excuse me if I speak plainly, and remind you that I am going abroad in a public capacity, not a private one. I am bound to fulfil my engagements to the public, whatever may be the state of my private affairs ; and should I find at any time that young Holgate caused me trouble, or in any way interfered with my arrange- ments, I should feel myself perfectly at liberty to tell him that we must part company, and that he must rely upon himself and his own resources. You understand me, I dare say?' * Yes, indeed, sir, I do ; and he will understand too. Oh, sir, there's things that one person can do for another that no thanks can pay for — nothing but our lives can show we are grateful ; and you are doing such a thing for me now, and for him, and for all of us, to-day. And ' She made a ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 253 sudden pause. The colour rushed over her face, the tears to her eyes. She looked at him in affright, and half whispered, 'Eh, I seem as if I only just knew what I'd done. What must you have thought of me ?' For the first time during the interview she saw him, not as a strong abstract power, able to get her what she wanted, but as a man, a very human man — a man with whom she had been pleading desperately for the man whom she loved ; and it suddenly rushed over her mind he had understood it all, as plainly as if she had told it to him in so many words. She felt as if she would choke, and suddenly stood silent. 'What must I have thought of you?' he repeated, smiling. * Nothing but good, you may be sure. What- ever becomes of Brian Holgate, he will not have wanted for a good woman's influence. Do not be troubled about that.' ' But,' she interrupted— she was standing up now, and stammered out — 'you won't tell him all I said, sir. He might think I'd been too bold on his behalf, and ' ' I shall tell him nothing that you would not wish him to hear. What will you say to him? It is as well that I should know.' 'Just that I came to see you, and that your secretary couldn't go with you, and I asked if you'd try him, and that you consented.' 'Very well, that will do. And now, to consider the business part of the matter, I suppose you know that the Batavia sails to-morrow at two in the afternoon. I had already taken a berth for the gentleman whom I mentioned to you, so it will do very well for him. I will see to the transaction — do you understand ?' 254 FROM MOOR ISLES 'Yes, sir, I understand.' ' Very good. Then let him be at Liverpool, and at the Cunard wharf, not later than half-past twelve to-morrow. And I think that is all. I need not keep you any longer. Would you like to see Mrs. Reichardt again before you go?' ' No, not to day ; I'll see her another time. I couldn't talk to anyone till I've got this all settled,' she said ; and Felix almost laughed to himself at the relief he felt at hearing this —he did not want Elisabeth to hear what he had done till Alice Ormerod had left the house ; and, with a guilty kind of feeling, he reconnoitred the country before letting Alice out. The hall was empty, the house was quiet; he was ashamed of himself for not having the courage to ring the bell and have her shown out in orthodox fashion ; but it was much easier, and, above all, much quicker, to walk across the hall with her, and himself to open the door for her. He answered her silent look of gratitude and tremulous emotion — half joy, half sorrow^ — with a smile, and a kindly pressure of the hand. She walked quickly away, and then he, feeling very much like a schoolboy who has been on a clandestine errand to the larder, returned to the sitting-rooms, and wandered from one to another of them, in search of his greatest friend. He found her at last in her ow^n sanctum, craved an audience, and was admitted. She was at her wTiting-table, but turned round as he came in. 'Well, do you want me to go down to her, or do you wish first to explain what her business was with you ?' she asked cheerfully. ' She has gone. Insulting though you may feel it to be ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 255 to yourself, the truth is, she said she did not wish to see anyone else — this time — after we had settled matters.' * What was her trouble then ? Something that you could settle without my assistance, it seems. Oh, and Felix,' she added briskly, ' I have thought of a secretary for you — an excellent one. Yes, one of Mr. Reedley's young men. You are always so nasty about Mr. Reedley's young men, or I should have sent him word straight away to come here at once.' 'It is a mercy you did not. It would have caused a complication, for I have just engaged a — well, I don't know whether secretary is just the right word — a companion, we'll say. Not one of Mr. Reedley's young men, but one recom- mended by Miss Alice Ormerod.' * What on earth do you mean ?' ' Our friend Brian Holgate is to go out with me.' * Brian Holgate ! What nonsense are you talking, Felix ?* *It is not nonsense at all.' He briefly related the story of his interview with Alice, and what she had asked, and what he had consented to do, and added, ' It will be a bore, that's the worst of it — a frightful bore; otherwise, it will answer well enough, I dare say.' If he had hoped to avert the expression of her opinion by speaking in this off-hand way, he failed signally. She was silent for a few moments, looking at him. Then, slowly — ' Do you mean to tell me, sir, that this is serious — this tale I have heard, and not some wild and far-fetched romance ?' * Perfectly serious. Why not ?' 'Because it is simply and utterly mad, and you are usually a sane person — usually — I don't say always.' 256 FROM MOOR ISLES * Mad ? What nonsense !' said the much-tried man, who was leaning with his back against the mantelpiece ; and he moved his foot uneasily to and fro. ' It is mad, and it is nonsense. Don't really tell me you are committed to this thing, and can't get out of it.' ' I have no wish to get out of it,' he assured her, but not with very great heartiness. Then, with more decision, ' But if I had, it is impossible. I have passed my word to her, and there is no going back from that.' She shrugged her shoulders, lifted her hands from her lap, and let them fall again with a mixture of annoyance and resignation in her expression. ' It is too bad — it is beyond everything,' she said. 'I don't understand you. You used to profess the greatest interest in this very young man.' * Perhaps I did. I don't say that I am not interested in him even now. It's a very sad tale, I'm sure,' said Elisa- beth, with a sympathetic sigh. 'But that is an entirely different thing — that is not the same as for you, Felix Ark- wright, to set off on this journey, on which you will be criticised, and interviewed, and talked about, and have everything belonging to you dragged into the greatest pub- licity, with a man who has just gambled away nearly all his estate, out of weak love for a bad girl, and who is now in the first despair and depression of the catastrophe. It is you who will have to look after him, instead of having in him a useful person to take all worry and trouble off your shoulders.' ' I am not so sure it will be so bad as that,' he said. ' It will be a bore, I don't deny. But if I don't mind ' ' If you don't mind, I do,' she told him, her colour rising. ELISABETH DISAPPROVES 257 and her eyes filling with tears of vexation. 'You are in- different about appearances very often, I know, and so am I— about myself, but not where you come in, Felix. You can't make yourself into a mere private person travelling for pleasure, and you ought to have some regard for your entourage^ for our sakes, if not for your own. I wanted all belonging to you to be perfect^ and beyond all criticism, while you are over there. And now — you have let this creature be hooked on to you in this style. There's some- thing so utterly incongruous about it. I could cry with vexation.' When Elisabeth got so far as to call a person suffering from misfortune a ' creature,' she must, indeed, have been deeply perturbed. ' Believe me, I>isa, I shall be equal to the emergency. I knew you would be vexed ; and I am sorry, but I am not quite unversed in the ways of the world, after all. Your friend Alice put it very justly, when she said it might be the saving of him, body and soul. I gave her to understand that if I found him troublesome, or interfering in any way with my convenience, I should feel at liberty to send him away at once.' ' It is done,' was all that Elisabeth would say, ' and it cannot be undone. But I hate it. I am certain no good will come of it, and if it were not your last day here I would quarrel with you.' ' Don't do that,' he said humbly, but smiling at the same time, in a way that increased her exasperation, so that she cried — 'Well, after this, never preach to me about acting on impulse, and saddling myself with all kinds of unprofitable '7 258 FROM MOOR ISLES burdens — never, sir. Nothing that I ever did could ap- proach the recklessness of this.' *Then you admit that you have done reckless things ?' ' I admit nothing, except that you have called some of my actions reckless, while I know certainly that this of yours is sheer insanity. I have a good case against you now,' she added triumphantly. ' Ines was always a sore subject with you. By the use of your superior masculine overbearing strength, you bullied me out of alluding to that business in any but the most respectful way. But this — eleven years later — so much older, and no wiser — no more prudent, no more attached to your own interests — you shall not bully me out of this. I'll punish you with it many a time when you are so odious about my Mr. Reedley. So there ! I dare say you will have saved the young man from destruc- tion. I shall say no more about it, but I utterly disapprove of it.' With which she held out her hand. He came forward, stooped over it, carried it to his lips. ' This kindly hand,' said he, ' has ever treated me more gently and generously than I deserved. And I don't think its owner means to strike me very hard, even now.' * It's owner is a weak-minded, silly woman, where her friends come in. And you have struck me hard enough this morning — and twice over. First about Ines, and now this. Well, well !' B ATA via; for NEW YORK 259 CHAPTER X. 'BATAVIA,' for new YORK. Elisabeth's party that evening was a brilliant success. It was not a very large gathering — indeed, she said she hoped it resembled the entertainments spoken of by one of Miss Austen's heroines as 'small, but very elegant' There was some music, but not too much ; some allusions, not to the coming parting, but to the prospective triumphs of the singer who was going away from them. Felix sang one or two songs of a rigorously cheerful description, and Elisabeth performed a perfect tour de force of brilliant execution (execution, and nothing else, as she herself said) on her violin ; a fantasia, dazzling, and quite devoid of sentiment or of anything but — execution. There were some very pretty women present, and there was a very fine supper to be eaten, and very good cham- pagne to be drunk. And just before the last-named event — the eating of the supper — took place, a young girl who was present implored Elisabeth to get Felix 'to sing "Auld lang syne," or " Home, sweet Home," or something hke that, dear Mrs. Reichardt. They say he can sing ballad music as beautifully as he does everything else.' Elisabeth tapped her arm reprovingly with her fan. * What an idea, child ! As if such things as this had any connection with " Home, sweet Home !" He is not going to " Home, sweet Home," but to America, to New York ; the thing I have just been playing exactly foreshadows in music what his career over there will be. You should never 26o FROM MOOR ISLES try to mix tears with laughter ; it spoils the unity of things. And you must see that British ballad music and Frenchified New Yorkism don't go together.' The young lady blushed deeply, and was fain to with- draw and hide her diminished head, feeling as if she had done a very stupid thing. It was not Elisabeth's way to mortify the smallest or most insignificant of her fellow- creatures in this manner, but as a matter of fact, she was in a nervous agony lest any ill-advised person should actually prefer such a request to Felix, and lest he should comply with it. It would, she felt, have been quite too much for her. But, luckily, no such catastrophe occurred. The lively evening was kept up till a late hour, so that when her last guest was gone, she felt quite justified in pretending to be overcome with sleep and weariness ; in apparently stifling a yawn, and with a kiss to her father-in-law, and a fleeting touch of her fingers on those of her friend, hastening away to her room. They were all late the next morning, and there was not opportunity for much talk before it was time to go to the train which was to take them to Liverpool. ' Don't you think it will tire you very much, Lisa ?' he asked her casually, when she said it was high time to go and put on her bonnet. ' No, I don't. I think it would be much more tiring to sit here thinking about it until der Vater returned to tell me all about it. And I don't care ' — with sublime inconsistency — ' if it should be ever so tiring ; I am going to see the last of you, Felix, at Liverpool, and mind you don't forget to telegraph from New York.' He said no more. She went and put on her bonnet, 'BAT A VI A,' FOR NEW YORK 261 according to her word ; her carriage came round, and they drove down to the Irkford station, where they found several friends awaiting them who went with them to Liverpool, and there, of course, more were assembled. Elisabeth felt her composure returning ; there was safety in numbers. It goes without saying that a friendship like this of Elisabeth and Felix had not been carried on without many a speculation on the part of those who witnessed it, as to whether it would not, should not, must not end in a marriage; and they, being neither children nor simpletons, were perfectly aware of these speculations. Had such a thought existed, on either side, the alliance must quickly have come to an end ; but none such did exist, and their friendship remained — a joy and a consolation to both. At this moment the thought which chiefly agitated Elisabeth's m.ind was not one con- nected with herself or her own privileges, but a totally different one. She, Felix, and her father-in-law were alone in the cab which conveyed them from the Liverpool station to the landing-stage. Here was her opportunity. She was just about to speak, when Felix observed — * I wonder if poor Holgate will be there all right. Rather a sell for me, if he should not turn up after all.' A shade came over her face, and a smile at the same time. 'Oh, dear, I had quite forgotten him ; and you must go and bring him back to me just now, of all times ! Of course he will be there. That proverb about a bad shilling is the truest one that was ever made.' He laughed. ' I must certainly keep him out of your way, or you will frighten him into going back.' ' I wish I could. But a truce to your Holgates ! Listen, 262 FROM MOOR ISLES Felix ; I have something to say to you, and this is the only chance for me. I shall be writing to Ines in a day or two, and, of course, I shall mention having seen you off on this occasion, and, equally of course, she will have read all about your departure in the papers ever so long before. But in my letter may I not give her your love, and say that you told me to wish her good-bye ?' He was on the point of answering, 'Oh yes, if you like'; but, happening to look at her before he spoke, he was struck with something of eagerness and excitement in her face and eyes, and his words were arrested. He paused a moment, then said — 'Now, look here, Lisa, my compact with that child was that absolutely no communications should pass between us — neither word, nor letter, nor message. She is prepared to carry out her share in the bargain like a Spartan. What would she think of me if I were the first to break them — the conditions I had myself laid down ?' ' She would think it adorable of you, I've no doubt.' * You are a very trying person, sometimes ; and for quiet, persistent determination to have your own way, I don't know your equal,' he said, his colour rising. 'But, as I should very much object to her thinking anything I did adorable, I must beg you not to break the agreement that we made with each other ; it will be altogether without my sanction if you say anything of the kind to her.' ' I don't know how you can be so— so granite in your obduracy,' she said vexedly, leaning back and looking crossly at him. 'Leave me alone,' he answered her. 'I am convinced that I am doing right, and that it will all turn out well in 'B ATA VI a; for new YORK 263 the end ; and, if you will leave it all to me, you won't be responsible if anything should go wrong,' ' No,' said she ; ' but I am not happy about it. It haunts me sometimes.' To this he made no reply, and just at this moment their cab pulled up with a jerk. They had arrived at the wharf, and a porter threw open the door. ^ Batcwia^ said Felix briefly, glad to change the subject. ^ Bafavia — this way, sir. The last tender's waiting, and you haven't too much time.' And indeed they had not. They had scarcely hurried on to the tender, when the whistle sounded and they were off. Then Felix bethought himself suddenly of his promised travelling companion, and with a start and a muttered exclamation, he moved a little aside from his friends, reconnoitring the other groups present. Elisabeth guessed at once the reason of his moving away, and her jealous eyes followed him. He had not far to go. Then Elisabeth saw him accost a young man who had been standing alone, and who now made a step forward. They shook hands. Elisa- beth looked, and despite her vexation, partly real, partly assumed, over this part of the business, she started and felt, first astonishment, then pity, as she began to admit to her- self that she supposed this must be their pleasant host, Brian Holgate ; but that if she had met him in the street she would assuredly have passed him without recognising him. She recollected a kindly-eyed, smiling lad, with a fresh colour and a cheerful aspect ; she saw a still-looking man with a thin face, very white, and with eyes that seemed to have sunk far back into their sockets — mournful, haunt- ing eyes. He looked so old, quite calm and self-possessed ; 264 FROM MOOR ISLES but he reminded her of a man she had once seen who had just passed the turning-point in a fearful struggle between life and death, in what had been nearly a mortal illness. Brian Holgate's face had just that expression, she felt — as if the foe had been choked and flung aside, but as if another such victory would be far worse than a defeat. Perhaps, knowing the circumstances, she read something more than would have been apparent to an ignorant onlooker ; but be that as it may, the feeling described seized her strongly. A very slight smile crossed his face as Felix came up to him. The artist also had felt a shock as he encountered those changed eyes of Brian's. It was not in his nature to do things by halves, and he held out his hand cordially, saying — ' We came so late, that I had not time to look for you before. I'm glad you have come, and we will have some talk a little later, on the steamer, shall we ?' * Oh yes,' said Brian quietly. ' Pray do not notice me till you have said good-bye to your friends. I preferred to come alone, and I will gladly wait till you are free.' Felix assented, and was turning away, when Elisabeth came up. Her vexation — what there was of it — had dis- appeared ; it never lasted long in the presence of grief or misfortune. FeHx was surprised at the pleasure he felt when he saw her come forward, with the look of kindness on her face which he knew so well. She too went up to Brian and held out her hand. ' You remember me, Mr. Holgate, I hope ?' ' Oh yes !' Brian's hat came off, and he made a pro- found bow ; but, like all his words and his actions, it seemed mechanical. 'B ATA VI A,' FOR NEW YORK 265 'Go away, Felix,' she said, smiling, to him; and, as he turned back to his friends, she continued, 'Since you are going with him, Mr. Holgate, no matter under what circum- stances, I want to tell you that I hope you will do what you <:an to help him. You will find him so easy to get on with — so kind and so considerate. Remember that there are some of us over here who would break our hearts, more or less, if anything really bad were to happen to him. Will you?' ' Yes, Mrs. Reichardt ; whatever lies in my power I will do, so long as we are together.' ' And bring both him and yourself safely back to us ?' 'No doubt he will come safely back to you. As for me, I shall never return to England.' * Oh yes, you will !' she said gently. ' Perhaps for you as well as for him there are people whose hearts would break.' (He looked at her a little defiantly.) ' You will come back. We shall see you again.' Brian was silent. In his mind's eye he saw the scene of the morning — the cold, dull, autumn dawn, the hurried preparations ; the last look over the fields and hills which he had loved so well ; Sarah Stott's woebegone mien ; his own words to Alice — ' Whatever you do on my behalf, Alice, will be right to me, and far more than I deserve ' — and her pale but composed countenance, her unbroken self-possession, her unfailing presence of mind up to the very last, when she had laid her hand upon his shoulder, kissed him gently, and said, ' Good-bye, and God bless you, Brian, in all your undertakings.' And then the departure. He did not remember much since that moment of Alice's kiss. It seemed to him that from that instant all his past 266 FROM MOOR ISLES was past — dead and buried, and that never more would he wish or try to revisit the scenes in which it had been acted. * I won't talk to you,' said Elisabeth, still more gently. ' I only wanted to tell you that I have never forgotten how kind you were to us that day, and I shall never forget you. I shall always expect Mr. Arkwright to tell me something about you, when he writes. And I shall not be long in going over to Thornton; I want to see Alice Ormerod again.' He smiled a little. ' She'll be very glad,' said he. ' She thinks a deal of you, and has often said so.' Shaking his hand again, she wished him health and prosperity, and returned to her party. They had steamed into the shadow of the Bataviois great black hull. Half an hour later, the crowd of passengers on board the big liner were leaning over the taffrail, exchanging hand-kisses, wav- ing of hats and handkerchiefs, and whispered last w^ords, wM'th tear^dimmed eyes and in broken voices, with the other crowd on the deck of the rapidly diminishing tender, as it relentlessly flew up the river to the town again. Then it was gone, and, so far as most of them knew, before any of those dear hands could again be clasped, or lips kissed, or voices heard, twice three thousand miles must be measured, and all the perils of the deep encountered. FeHx, as he turned away, and looked seawards, had a little uneasy feehng in his heart for a moment, no more. * I almost wish I had said yes, to Lisa, when she asked for that message.' fart IE CHAPTER I. WITH AN ENTHUSIAST. The contrast was a sharp one between those delightful days at Irkford and at Lanehead, and those at Madame Prenat's, which followed my return to her and to the town. But I congratulated myself many a time on my decision to come here, rather than remain there. If for some time after Felix's departure I found it desolate even here, where I had all my studies and occupations around me, and work with which to fill up most of the hours of the day, what would it have been at Lanehead, where I should have been supposed to be amusing myself and taking a holiday, and where I should in reality have been feeling, every hour, every day, the absence of what, I had suddenly discovered, was my most precious thing ? After all, it was not so long since I had left these gray squares and monotonous streets. I had gone away for a certain specified time, and I had returned before that time was over. But I had, it seemed to me, lived through a life- time, since Felix and I had driven away to Euston Square that October afternoon. It was October still. Only ten days later in the month. But years had surely fled since 268 FROM MOOR ISLES then ! Madame, as I said before, did not encourage senti- mentality, and I was grateful to her that she did not. I had no wish to mope, to dream, or to afficher my feelings on the subject of what was, to me, the great event of my life, this separation from Felix, this time of probation which had begun, and which stretched long and painful before me. I went over the whole interview many times in my own mind, but could come to no definite conclusion as to the reason of his sudden action. I could trust him. I felt that more and more as the days went on. I was sure he was not anxious 'to get rid of me,' as I put it to myself; and he had told me emphatically that I had not been guilty of any fault or offence. Perhaps, some time, I should know the reason of all this. I would endeavour, in the meantime, so to act as to please him, should he ever inquire into the matter, and after a time I began to hear and learn many things of which I had been ignorant before, and to understand the mighty power of the two little words, ' they say.' For I soon found that I was no longer a mere schoolgirl. The first thing that I heard after my return was, that the two or three other girls who had at different times shared Madame's instructions and cares, were not coming back any more. It was some time since there had been anyone but myself with her, and one day, after a call from one of those young ladies, who had apparently plunged into a busy social life at home, I asked Madame if we were going to be alone for the future. ' Yes,' she told me : * I have decided it so. When Mr. Arkwright confided to me his wishes about you, and I re- solved to accede to his request, I ' WITH AN ENTHUSIAST 269 * Won't you tell me what his wishes were ?' I interrupted eagerly. She smiled. ' Oh, they were simple and comprehensive — men don't bother you with a lot of details. He hoped I would take charge of you, make you happy, or let you be happy in your own way, give you plenty of employment, and take you into society to a moderate extent. A woman would have trusted me, perhaps, quite as much, really, but she would have had all kinds of instructions to give about not letting you become a blue-stocking, or about your dress, or — oh, fifty things. I saw what he meant, of course. I consented to do it, and at the same time I decided not to receive any more of these young ladies. As you well know, it is not essential to me to have them with me — I mean from a pecuniary point of view. I am not dependent upon it. It has always been a work of love with me — this instruction, this education — building up, as I trust it most truly has been and always will be with me. When I found I might rely upon having you with me for two years, you, in whom I was more inter- ested than in any of the others, and when I found also that it was not merely to learn lessons that you were to be placed with me, why, then I told myself, " I will give myself that pleasure. I will have Ines Gray to myself. I shall feel to her like a mother, and I hope she will be able to confide in me often, almost as a daughter, or perhaps even more easily." It is not always the mother to whom we naturally turn with our sorrows or our joys. And I trust, my child,' she added kindly, ' that if you ever feel in a difficulty, of any kind whatsoever, whether it may have been caused by your own rashness and inexperience, or by the wrong conduct of others, you will never fear to speak to me of it. I do not 27 o FROM MOOR ISLES think you have ever found me harsh or unsympathetic, and I do not think you ever will. What I should resent in you would be not that you had committed a fault, but that you had not trusted me enough to speak to me of your trouble.' * Dear Madame Prenat,' I exclaimed, ' I hope I shall never disappoint your kindness to me.' And, indeed, I was profoundly touched, and felt that no devotion on my part could be too great in repayment of this kindness. 'With Mr. Arkwright,' she pursued, 'one feels on such sure ground. He says, "I trust you — I confide in you," and you are not annoyed by afterwards finding that he meant, "except in this matter, that matter, or the other matter." Yes ' — she nodded her head — ' I think we shall get on and be happy together.' At night I mused over the subject. I had not yet grasped the full bearings of the situation. Felix, it ap- peared, had absolute confidence in Madame Prenat; I knew EUsabeth had. He seemed to have expressed his views to her very fully. It came into my mind for the first time to wonder when this negotiation had taken place — how long had it been in his mind to take this course ? Had it been decided before I received that letter from him about going to Irkford? I would have given a good deal to know, but he had said nothing about it. Madame never mentioned it, and it seemed to me disloyal to pry into the matter. It had been decided thus : — for two years I was to live with Madame Prenat, and do my best to attain to her standard of young womanhood, which was by no means a low or easy one. At the end of two years I was to see Felix again. After that — sometimes I wondered a little, WITH AN ENTHUSIAST 271 but stifled my wonderings. It would be all right, I did not doubt. I was over seventeen ; consequently the first schoolroom drudgery was past. What remained before me, the work that Madame laid out for me, and upon which I eagerly fastened, was a kind of modified college course, carried on at her house, under her supervision ; partly under her own instructions, for she was profoundly versed in some branches of education — in history, for example, and in some depart- ments of literature ; partly under the tuition of different professors. She had a gift which amounted to genius for rapidly discerning exactly what capacities, moral, social, and intellectual, a person possessed ; for putting her finger with unerring certainty on just those which it would be worth while to cultivate, the cultivation of which would be likely to improve, strengthen, and purify the character ; and those which, on the other hand, might be safely left alone, as not likely to repay tillage, so to speak, by the production of any flowers of sweetness and light, larger sympathy, or truer ways of thinking. She was a great advocate for the training of the faculties all round, so as to enable their owner to make good use of them in any given circumstances, as opposed to the admired system of cram on some one or two points, in order to pass competitive examinations, which system finds such favour, glory, and applause in these latter days. And with this gift of discernment she possessed also strong and passionate convictions on such subjects as worthy objects in life, and a constant striving after per- fection. To her views on these subjects people sometimes objected that it would not pay to follow them, however admirable they might be. Success in her much-hated com- 272 FROM MOOR ISLES petitive examinations as often as not meant success in the battle of life which had to follow after them. Failure in the same, however well-equipped the individual might be in the line of education which she advocated, meant failure to find any place in the foremost ranks of society, the pro- fessions, or the services — for men ; and girls were rapidly following in the same direction. To which her answer always was, in tones of resignation, that she knew it ; she did not pretend to stem the torrent single-handed — not she : it was an impetuous, if a shallow one. But, fortunately for her, there still existed thoughtful and intelligent persons of her way of looking at these things— and often they were also persons of means and leisure. Many such persons had committed their daughters to her charge at different times, and she trusted that each one of those girls went forth into the world with some truer notions as to real education than that it was a mad struggle to know more on a given day, of a given subject, than was known by the other feverish com- petitors for the same thing. The leaven might work slowly, but it would work, she knew, and she could die happy in the conviction that she had, whenever the least opportunity offered, introduced it and worked it well into the characters she had been privileged in any degree to form. At such times, when giving us these her views, Madame's countenance took an almost rapt expression, the expression of an enthusiast. Her large, soft, near-sighted eyes would light and glow, her abundant white hair — for it was white, though she was not yet fifty — looked like a silvery nimbus about her strong, noble face, and I, listening, felt all the influence of a powerful, mature enthusiasm upon my own young and as yet untried ardour and passionate desire to WITH AN ENTHUSIAST 273 live the good life, the true and the beautiful life, at what cost soever, no matter how often I might hear outsiders declare that 'they say' Madame Prenat's views are high- flown nonsense. As I have before related, I had not been with her many weeks after my first going to her, before she told me that my dutiful and diligent practice on the piano was exactly so much force wasted and time lost. How she also brought to bear upon me Felix's verdict to the same effect I have told. I never touched a piano again, and at the same time I never ceased to regret my utter incapacity as a musical performer. Besides, she very soon caused me to discard all my arithmetical and mathematical studies, save the one useful accomplishment of being able correctly to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. ' When a person has plenty of talent for other things,' she said, 'and none whatever for arith- metic, we must let him off the arithmetic, and let him know that we expect so much the more from him in other branches of knowledge.' All artistic studies, in the con- ventional sense of the word, she also discouraged. I did not sketch in water-colours, nor dab oils into the semblance of feather beds and cabbages, and call them waterfalls and trees ; I did not perpetrate fantastic tricks with paints and brushes on pots and plaques, and afterwards hang them round the walls and look at them, all unconscious of their hideousness — which is the common doom of those who do paint pots and plaques. I did not hammer brass with dili- gence, nor hew good wood into shapes of fruit and foliage such as were never seen before or since the Flood. I worked not in leather, nor in wax. Floss silks, coloured 18 274 FROM MOOR ISLES cottons, and Berlin wools were strange to my fingers, though I was not unacquainted with the useful needle and thread, and could sew a ' white seam ' with neatness and rapidity. On the other hand, under her stringent supervision, I did gain a clear idea or two about the different periods of art ; the several schools, the main features of them, and the characteristics of the celebrated masters who had flourished and figured in the world's history — from the builders of the Pyramids downwards. I did, I beHeve, get a quick and lively sense as to what was true and what was false art. I learnt something about history and literature ; some main facts concerning them which I was not likely to forget. And as for music, — though I had given over attempting to play the piano, — we were by no means without relaxation in this Hne. Very thoroughly did I enjoy the concerts and the few operas to which we went — never, though, to any in which Felix was singing. I knew most of the great tone- poems, and loved them — but only the great ones. Indeed, in art, as in everything else, I learnt, under Madame Prenat's auspices, to feel an absolute indifference for all that was not of the very best. I scarcely felt contempt for the second- rate — it hardly came home to me at all. I was highly satis- fied with this state of things : it seemed natural and right to care only for the best — not to have any feeling at all for what fell below that. It never occurred to me, and I am sure it did not to her, that she was making me into something so fastidious, by this course of hot-house training (she would not have called it hot-house training, though : she would have said that this was the education which helped nature into the right road, and that the other it was WITH AN ENTHUSIAST 275 which was forced and exotic), that if, or when, at any future time, I should have to encounter things and persons not of the very first order, come in contact with them, and have deahngs with them, the awakening and the friction might chance to be not merely pain but torture. In the mean- time, having swept away all studies and accomplishments which in her opinion were not suitable, she pushed on, all the more eagerly, those which were; and I, nothing loth, needed no spurring on. As I have already said, I found my greatest pleasure in the study of the Oriental languages. These tongues had a fascination for me, with their strange characteristics and the wonderful glimpses they gave into thoughts and ways of life which were not as ours. My chief instructor in these matters was a certain learned Professor Willoughby, a man of great fame as an Orientalist, who was said to know more Sanskrit than any other man in the world. Had he and his wife not been personal friends of Madame Prenat's, I might have wished and sighed in vain for his guidance. As it was, they had dined with us one evening, when the Pro- fessor had been in a singularly good humour. Madame had casually mentioned some of my struggles in my study of Greek, and had roused the learned man's curiosity so far as to induce him to ask me some questions. I was nervous? but pleased. Before the Willoughbys departed that even- ing, he had told me to come to him at an early hour in the morning, a few days thence, when he would see what I could do, and — implied, though not spoken out — whether I was worthy of having a little of his precious time and learn- ing bestowed upon me. I went at the appointed time, and returned radiant. 276 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Madame,' I cried, ' he will give me an hour once a week ; every Tuesday, from nine to ten.' Madame looked at me. Her grave face broke into a smile — the smile could not be made to express all her feel- ings. She took my hand, stooped forward, and gave me a kiss. * You have a future before you, Ines,' she said, looking at me with an expression full of satisfaction ; ' a real future, apart from the crowd. Only keep your health and work hard, but not recklessly, and it lies before you to make a name, and a name in what is for women a new field.' ' I feel afraid when you say that,' said I uneasily. ' You think too much of what I can do, madame.' ' You must not be afraid ; there is no need to be afraid. You must think only of what you are doing — the work and not the goal.' Sometimes I asked her how much work one could ac- complish, how much progress one could make, in two years. ' I wish you would not think of two years,' she always said to me on such occasions. 'Think rather of twenty; think of the years Professor VVilloughby has devoted to these studies ; how he has grown old and gray in them, and has, in such matters, an authority which no one would think of disputing; and yet, when you ask him what has been done in this task of exploring the Oriental languages, and of establishing the science of language itself on a right basis, he smiles with pity and says, " Ask, rather, what there is to do, and I should almost have to tell you — ever)'thing." ' * But, Madame Prenat,' I besought her, ' I don't want to become old and gray yet in anything. I think it is a WITH AN ENTHUSIAST 277 little too soon ; and I don't think of twenty years — two are quite enough for me.' I usually said this a little maliciously, in order to smile at the look of pain and reproach which always overspread her countenance when she heard these (to her) unworthy senti- ments. But our little difference usually ended in my saying, as I took her hand, ' You will not say that I do not work now, madame, at any rate ?' ' No ; you are a good child ; you are diligent, you are thorough. You love your work as few girls have done whom I have known. One must have one's dream, in youth above all. Yes, I had mine once — such a grand dream ! Mon Dieu ! Had it been fulfilled, what a weary old age I should have had ! But, my child, the best of all were not to think of either two years or twenty years, but of to-day and to-morrow, and of how to make the most of them — how best to live them in every way.' ' And that is what I really do, Madame Prenat,' I assured her. ' I should not be happy if I did otherwise.' What I said was true. And the day's work and occupa- tions did really grow gradually more absorbing and interest- ing, till, as week after week went on, and Felix's name was never even mentioned, the strangeness of the silence began to wear off, and I to grow accustomed to it. But every day I never forgot, when I had done reading aloud to madame the summary of the day's news, and perhaps one or two of the leading articles, to skim over, for myself alone, other portions of the journals — advertisements of concerts and operas, criticisms, short notices of new compositions ; and seldom did I fail to find, somewhere or other amongst them, 278 FROM MOOR ISLES the name I was looking for. Yes, it would seem that his life was in its way as even and unvaried as our own ; filled day after day with the same things. Triumphs even must grow monotonous in time, I reflected. Be that as it might, I learnt from these newspaper paragraphs that he was still here, still well ; moving about from place to place, and lead- ing his life. That satisfied me. And at times a letter from Elisabeth v>'ould give me some little detail, all the pleasanter to learn because she knew, and I knew, that she was break- ing the spirit, if not the letter, of our compact, in com- municating it. Such was one phase of my life at Madame Prenat's. CHAPTER II. AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S. * Ines, don't forget that we are engaged this evening — the Farquharsons, you know.' ' So we are. Need I really go, Madame Prenat ?' ' Yes. Why should you stay at home ?' ' It seems to me that we are always going out.' * By no means. Twice or thrice a week.' * One could do so much more if one stayed at home ' ' Perhaps, for the time, one could ; and fall out of touch with all that is going on, and live with your nose in your books, and look bewildered when a man or a woman in society speaks to you. What end do you purpose to gain by making a hermit of yourself ?' *No, you are right, I suppose. And the places I go to with you are always interesting.' AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S 279 ' Of course. The vie de pensionndt de demoiselles is all very well for school-girls, but not for you. Pray remember that you are a young woman now, in the world, like other young women ; if your occupations and aims in life are somewhat different from theirs, that is no reason why you need show yourself eccentric and different from others. That is such nonsense, and usually such conceit ; so make yourself ready.' ' Will my white cashmere do ?' * Just as you like. You know what Mrs. Farquharson's parties are ; use your own judgment. You have plenty of frocks.' Slowly I went upstairs. Having put my books away, I got out my white cashmere gown and began the process of dressing, and while thus engaged I reflected upon her words — ' a young woman in the world, like other young women.' What were other young women like ? I knew not. I had no friends amongst girls of my own age. Truth to tell, Elisabeth had spoiled me for taking much pleasure in girl-friendships ; my whole life and surroundings had tended to keep me out of such friendships. They were very nice, very pretty, these young damsels that I met up and down, with their smooth faces, and eyes, demure or bright — gaze forthright or down-dropped as the case might be — but always, as it seemed to me, on the watch. What were they watching for, these maidens in the pretty fresh ball-dresses, the immaculate gloves and shoes ? What was the meaning of that everlasting question in their eyes, the look of expectancy on their young faces ? I never felt ex- pectant or questioning — never ! Perhaps that was what left me free to observe others and mark this peculiarity. 2So FROM MOOR ISLES 'Your aims and occupations in life are somewhat different from theirs.' What, then, were their aims and occupations in life ? So interested did I grow in the work- ing out of this question, that I gradually became quite still, sitting on an ottoman at the foot of my bed, and, with my white shoelace dropping from my fingers, I gave my whole mind to the solution of the problem. At last a light flashed into my mind. Was it, could it be, that they, these girls in society — whatever that might mean — found, or hoped or tried to find, husbands there ? Was that the meaning of it all ? Did that explain their watchful eyes ? It could not be true of all, but I was sure that it was of many. That was their business, and, if so, our aims and occupations were indeed very different — yea, verily ! I smiled slightly to myself. No wonder that I did not feel drawn to them ; no wonder that Professor Willoughby and Madame Prenat and Elisabeth were to my mind far more delightful company than the young ladies, or than the young gentlemen, either, for that matter. I would ask Madame Prenat about it. I always asked her questions about social matters which might puzzle me. Perhaps she would give some other solution to the problem than that which had occurred to me ; and yet I doubted whether she could, except in regard to some few unusual cases. I was sure I had hit upon the right answer to a great part of the riddle. No, that would never interest me ; and yet, could things go on thus for ever ? Even if I had, as I felt with profound conviction, no interest in the marriage market, still a time would come when I should have to face some other kind of life than this. I should not live for ever with Madame Prenat, I should not for ever continue to be the adopted child of Felix Arkwright, taking AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S 281 the benefits he poured upon me, as a child might, but as might only a child. I had no need to think closely about that till those two fateful years should have expired. But then I should have not only to think but to act. Perhaps my turn would come too — I might find someone asking me to marry him, all unexpectedly. Such things had happened to girls before. Again I shook my head ; that would make no difference. I was not going to be married. Yet I had no claim upon anyone except my own relations. I shivered a little when I thought of them, and of the scene at the Festival at Kirkfence. The fear which had then entered my heart, and had chilled and terrified me, had been lest they should ever think it worth their while to seek me out, and offer now to do what they had at first refused to do by me — what might bluntly be called their duty. I hoped that day might never come. These girls whom I met either got their husbands, I sup- posed, and went off into homes of their own, and were no more heard of; or, if not that, then, as they became older, they left the market-place and retired into private life with their parents or their relations. At any rate they were, mostly, provided for. I was not. The ' future ' of which Madame Prenat had spoken now began to have some meaning for me. Now I understand why I was not to think in particular of two years, but rather of twenty — of the future in general. It had become suddenly clear. I had had a happy life, happier, I felt sure, than the lives of most girls (but I admit that I reasoned on this matter from very imperfect data). I did not feel afraid of the future, but I saw it stretching before me, full of serious purpose, full of gravity, full of responsibility, full of work. 282 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Are you ready, Ines ? I have been waiting more than ten minutes. What on earth has the child been pottering with ?' ' I beg your pardon !' I exclaimed, in deep confusion. ' I will be ready in ten minutes.' And in that space of time we were being quickly driven to our destination. I remember that evening well, and, indeed I have good cause to remember it. It was the beginning of a new phase in my existence, of a kind to which I had scarcely ever given even a passing thought. The party was at the house of a Mrs. Farquharson, whose husband was a journalist of repute, chief editor of a well-known London daily news- paper. Mrs. Farquharson's parties were usually worth going to, more or less, and the people one saw there were worth meeting ; for this reason, if for no other, that her company really was good of its kind — genuine and not imitation. If one met a learned professor at her house, he was a learned professor, and not someone who had merely met a great many learned professors, and listened to them talking, and thought them very interesting, but did not know very much about their subjects himself. If you were introduced there to a politician who had ' something to say about Ireland,' for instance, you might rely upon it that he did know something about Ireland from one point of view, at any rate, if not from more. The facts he might tell you would be facts ; of course there might be many more facts of another kind of which he knew, or told you, nothing, but you might rely upon what you heard from him, as far as it went. And so it was with them all, artists, speciahsts in some department of science, literature, or research : it was seldom you met anyone really insignificant in that house. \ AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S 283 And another pleasing feature about these entertainments was that they were rarely, if ever, overcrowded. We found a rather larger company than usual there on our arrival. Soon after we went in, our hostess led a gentleman up to me and introduced him as Dr. Hermann Barthel. I knew his name ; he was a young German who had already made great fame as an Orientalist, and as an explorer of some of the ' buried cities of the East.' We fell into conversation at once. Professor Willoughby was a common friend, and we talked first of him, and then went on to other topics. ' I have some photographs — some remarkable photographs of some of the tombs at ,' he said at last. ' With your leave I go to fetch them from that other room, and return to you with them. You would like to see them ?' ' Oh, very much, thank you,' I assured him, and, spring- ing up with alacrity, he went towards the small, inner draw- ing-room. Madame Prenat was deep in conversation with some man whom I did not know, at the other end of the room. I leaned back in the vis-a-vis in which I was sitting, and slowly fanned myself, while I awaited the return of Dr. Barthel with the photographs. Voices behind me presently drew my attention. A lady and a gentleman spoke together. ' You were there too ?' he asked, in a tone of interest. ' Yes, of course. I never miss going to hear him, when I can possibly manage it — Felix, I mean. It was very fine, I thought ; but then, what a splendid cast altogether !' I became all ears, unscrupulous ears, at this. ' Yes ; but I think it is a pity that he should begin with that kind of thing unless he means to go on with it exclu- 284 FROM MOOR ISLES sively. And his voice really is too magnificent to be ruined by a course of Wagner opera,' said the gentleman, who spoke the words ' Wagner opera ' in no very loving tones. * Oh, that is not fair. Music like that deserves that those who interpret it should be the best of their kind, and should bring the best they have to the interpretation.' ' I hear you are a convinced devotee of the Master,' said he, laughing. ' One might dispute about it for ever. I don't share your views on the matter, and I don't want Felix to spoil his voice, even to give us a finer Count Telra- mund than anyone else could.' ' Ah, it was that, most certainly. It may be unwise in him, but I'm glad I've lived to hear it.' 'And the Ortruda?' * Equally fine. Reuter certainly can sing Ortruda like no one else.' ' She was in a good humour,' he said provokingly, * be- cause she was singing with FeHx. You know, she likes singing with Felix.' Yes, she does, I assented within myself Had my own eyes not seen it ? They laughed. ' Does he like singing with her ?' asked the lady. ' I should suppose so, unless he is impervious to the charm of a beautiful woman with a beautiful voice, who uses it as only a great artist can. And one would hardly predi- cate that of him.' ' No, I suppose not. She is a beautiful woman, without doubt.' ' It is true that he is not over-fond of his profession — the AT MRS, FARQUHARSON'S 285 dramatic part of it, at any rate. He once told me so him- self.' ' Really ! With all his popularity ?' * Yes, with all his popularity, and all his genius, too.' * Don't you think that may be a bit of affectation ?' ' Oh no, I'm sure it isn't. He is not affected. There have been other instances of the kind, you know. There was Macready, and there was Fanny Kemble, to take only two of them. He hates the stage part of the business. But I don't think he ever makes any fuss about it.' * Still,' persisted his companion, ' he may dislike his pro- fession ever so much, and yet enjoy singing with Madame Renter.' ' Oh yes !' he laughed a little. * I know nothing at all about that. But I know she likes singing with him.' 'Yes. Well, he certainly is wonderful. He's the only one amongst the singing men and singing women who has ever drawn tears from my eyes since ' — she paused — * since I became a hardened old woman of the world — you know what I mean.' Her voice took an accent of weariness. The conversation altogether hinted at a background known to both of them - a blank to me. But I thought, ' O charming woman of the world ! Dear fashionable stranger ! Are there many like you ?' There was a Httle pause between them. Then he said again — ' Willoughby was telling me of a pupil of his who was to be here to-night— a young and lovely and learned person, by whom he sets great store. He says she has an absolute genius for Oriental languages, and that he takes more interest in her and expects more from her than from any of the men 286 FROM MOOR ISLES who attend his lectures at the University ; and he beHeves that if she has her health and doesn't go and get married — his words, I assure you, with his wife standing by — she will leave them all behind, too.' Shortly before the end of this speech it began to dawn upon my mind that I was the pupil in question. My face grew hot. One very pleasant reflection came to me — that it was really true, or the Professor would never have spoken so of me to this stranger. Some day I should be able to do something. In the meantime I fidgeted and felt uneasy, and began to wish that Dr. Barthel would return with those photographs ; which, indeed, he seemed to have been a long time in finding. Perhaps he had fallen in with some- one on the way, and was expounding the mysteries of his pictures to that someone, oblivious of my very existence. The lady stifled a yawn. * Ah,' said she, with great indifference, ' that isn't much in my line. Another of your " sweet girl-graduates." One hears of so many now, but somehow they never seem to come to anything. What does become of them ? Are they the women who write the books, or paint the pictures, or turn out great actresses and singers ? I've often won- dered.' Evidently girl-graduates did not interest her (nor me either, for that matter) so much as the question whether or not Felix liked singing with Madame Reuter. * Oh, well, you put such sweeping questions. There are hundreds of girl-graduates, and Willoughby has hundreds of pupils, of one sort or another. But he doesn't take that profound interest in them all, and she isn't at college, either. She's not going in for cram. She is hving with Madame AT MRS. FARQUHARSON'S 287 Prenat ; and, by the way, it's quite a romantic history ' — he started up — ' now I will tell you a tale that ought to endear me to you for ever. Listen ' It was unbearable. I dared not sit and listen to any more of it. I rose, intending to cross the room to Madame Prenat, and had made two or three steps away from the two friends, when it seemed that someone was standing exactly in front of me, and a voice said to me — ' Good-evening, Cousin Ines. Will you look at me, and kindly try to recall me to your recollection ? We have met before.' Startled, I looked up at the speaker, who was taller than I, and recognised the grave, pale face and dark-gray eyes of the young man called Maurice, who had insisted upon an introduction to me at the musical festival, and whom I had been glad to forget, along with his companions, as much as possible. He looked at me and held out his hand. ' Will you not shake hands with me ? I have seen Madame Prenat, and she sent me here to find you.' CHAPTER III. WHAT WE TALKED OF. I WAS by no means overjoyed at this encounter. Rather would I have met, thus suddenly, either my grandfather himself, or my other cousin, Maud, the young man's sister. The old man, I was sure, hated the sight of me, and the young girl was absolutely indifferent as to whether she ever saw me or heard of me again. Neither of them, I was sure, 288 FROM MOOR ISLES would have made any effort to break the ice, if I had been reserved or distant with them. This was a different case altogether. Dimly I felt that Maurice was as pleased to have met me as I was displeased to have met him. Dimly also, and in a vague and formless way, I felt that if I made myself unpleasant to him, that would only be an incentive to him to persevere in his determination to become ac- quainted with me. I stood and looked at him, without saying a word. * I think you must remember as much as that — that we have met before,' he said, holding his ground unembarrassed, in spite of my stare and my silence. *Oh yes, I have not forgotten you,' I admitted; and he looked pleased, which vexed me, and I was almost sorry I had made the admission, though I must either have done so or maintained silence. I tried to rob my reply of any graciousness it might have had, by adding, ' It was so splendid, that musical festival, and so delightful. I re- member every incident connected with it.' * With pleasure ?' he asked. *By no means altogether with pleasure,' I replied em- phatically, recollecting all at once several very painful episodes belonging to that time. He evidently took my words to refer to himself and our meeting ; he looked very grave, and bowed a little stiffly. * You certainly did not look as if you found it all so very delightful when I saw you there,' he observed. I did not care to pursue this subject. I introduced another. * I did not know you visited here,' I said. * I don't — at least, I have never been here before. I WHAT WE TALKED OF 289 came with Frankland, a friend of mine, who brought me. He said he often came here.' ' Oh yes, I have seen Mr. Frankland here. He does those lovely water-colour drawings of reeds and rivers.' 'The same,' said Maurice, smiling. At that moment Dr. Barthel suddenly made his appearance again, with a smile on his face, and some pictures in his hand. Whether he saw something unusual in my expression, some change since he had left me, I know not — it is very possible that he did. His eyes rested on me, then on Maurice for a moment ; then, with a bow — ' Pardon, met'n Fi'dulein^ I see you are engaged.' ' No,' I began, but not very energetically. My heart was full of wrath against him for not having returned five minutes sooner. And yet, as I knew full well, had he done so, it would only have put off this interview for a time ; it would not have prevented it. My ' no ' was so low that he did not hear it, but turned away and went to show his photographs to someone else. Maurice, without any appearance of haste or discomfiture, went on — ' Frankland told me he had met you here — that was one reason why I came, though I was hoping to see you soon, in any case.' * Indeed !' I said haughtily. I could hear the disagreeable inflection in my own voice, but it did not disturb him. ' I am coming to call upon you soon, if you will be so good as to say that I may.' * You must ask Madame Pr^nat. I do not receive any visitors independently of her.' 19 290 FROM MOOR ISLES ' I have seen her, and spoken to her, and she was good enough to say I might come.' If he had not spoken with such calm, convinced assur- ance that all was right, if there had been a doubt or hesita- tion in his manner, I might have submitted, and said no more. But something in his tone compelled me to oppose him. ' And Madame Prenat,' I said, and then felt that I had begun a difficult statement; 'she knows better than I do who my — who Mr. Arkwright ' I was surprised to see the effect of my words upon this cool and self-possessed young man. He winced suddenly, as if struck on a sore point. His pale face flushed ; the smile which had been hovering about it disappeared ; a look of pride and displeasure replaced it. ' I know Mr. Arkwright,' he said coldly. ' Do you sup- pose I don't understand all about that ? Surely you must remember that he gave me his card that day, at the Festival. I called upon him at his club, and had lunch with him — I didn't want to,' he added, looking vexed at the very recol- lection of it, ' but under the circumstances there was nothing else to be done.' 'You perhaps did not think his company good enough for you,' I said deliberately, and then, curiosity getting the better of displeasure, I went on — ' How long is it since you saw him ? Tell me about it.' * Oh, two or three weeks ago.' ' And he said ' * He said he had not the slightest objection to my calling upon you and becoming further acquainted with you, pro- vided ' WHAT WE TALKED OF 291 ' Provided ?' 'That my grandfather knew all about it, and approved of it.' ' And does he ?' ' He does not — yet. I shall tell him — write to him, that is, to-morrow morning, and say that I met you here, and what Mr. Arkwright and Madame Prenat have said, and what I intend to do.' * And pray, what will he say ?' I asked, leaning back in the sofa on which I was seated. He was still standing, looking down upon me, and we were practically alone. I spoke coldly, though I felt anything but cool. It was so obvious (I thought) that Mr. Grey would not approve. In that idea there was a prospect of relief. If Mr. Grey dis- approved, perhaps Maurice would not call upon me. 'He^^oh, well, I do my own way pretty much,* said Maurice calmly. ' He was very stern to his sons, but he is very indulgent to his grandchildren. They say it's a way that grandfathers often have.' ' Still you have not told me what he is likely to say,' I observed ; ' but from your manner I gather that he will say something very disagreeable.' ' No, I don't think he will,' said Maurice carelessly; 'but if he did, I should not mind it in the least.' * But perhaps I should,' I said quietly, though my heart was beating madly. He looked at me quickly. The spirit moved me to go on, and say all that was in my mind, wise or foolish, digni- fied or the reverse. It burnt me, and I spoke it out. And let it be understood that though I spoke in my own name, it was not of my own rights or deserts that I was thinking. 292 FROM MOOR ISLES ' It seems to me,' I said, ' that you think you have nothing to do but say you are going to call upon me, and that I shall be delighted to receive you, no matter what there may be behind. I almost wonder,' I went on with extreme bitter- ness, ' that you condescended to consult Mr. Arkwright or to ask his permission. He is kindness itself — he would never do anything to hurt anyone's feelings ; but if you suppose that / will allow such a thing, knowing — you cannot deny it — that Mr. Grey has as great an objection as ever to his low relations, you are mistaken.' * Cousin Ines !' His nonchalant attitude changed in a moment ; he bent earnestly forward, and said in low, eager tones, to which I was forced to listen, though I hated it, and which impressed me whether I would or no, * For heaven's sake, don't talk in that way ! That is a very great mistake you are making, you don't know how great a mis- take. Listen ; I must tell you. Excuse me seating myself beside you, but I don't want anyone else to hear. If you knew or had the least idea of what passed between my grandfather and me after we had met you that day at Kirk- fence, you would understand. He is the proudest man in England, I believe, especially on all personal points, and questions of honour, and the conduct of a gentleman. He had never told us about you — he had buried it away, and trusted, I suppose, to our never meeting. He had to explain it all to me that day ; and to do it must have cost him absolute agony. I hate to think of it ; and yet I shall never forget it. He told me everything. He said that a month after he had let you go, in his enmity to his son's wife, he repented it bitterly ; it had been the false step of his life. If he had had a wife to help him out with it, he WHAT WE TALKED OF 293 would have got you back again. But he was too proud and too miserable.' ' If you call that pride ' I began. * It's what people call pride, though it is self-love mostly. That is how he is made. He can't help himself. He said you would haunt him. I said you ought to be with us ; and he said, " Yes, but it's too late now." No, he will be glad that I am to see you. It isn't that that will make him angry,' Maurice continued, wrinkling his brow and passing his hand over his hair. ' No. What then ?' I asked, in a low voice, feeling that I knew well what the answer would be, and feeling at the same time a force of passionate anger, of fierce, increasing indignation and scorn rising quite uncontrollably within me ; which feeling at the moment rather exhilarated me, but afterwards, when I looked back upon it, and realized the capacity for evil emotion which I had suddenly discovered within myself, terrified me. ' What then ?' I repeated. ' The same feeling that made him say to me then, " Maurice, you will be the head of our house when I am gone. This is the wrong I've done you. Can you ever forgive me for it ; for losing my head, and delivering over your cousin — who ought to have been the same to me as your sister — into the absolute power and control of a man who is in no wise related to us, on whom we have no claim, letting her eat the bread and depend on the bounty of a professional singer ?" ' I bent my head, so that he did not see my face, and with the same terrible feelings of passionate, vindictive anger still raging within me, I let him go on, and I heard him, and understood him, though all the time I was saying to 294 FROM MOOR ISLES myself, in a little inner voice, ' Ah, Monsieur Felix, my good, my kind Monsieur Felix, do not be angry that I let him babble on in this way; wait till my turn comes to speak.' * It was a fearful mistake to make,' Maurice went on, in an awestruck kind of voice, ' to let Mr. Arkwright, however good his intentions may have been, establish a claim over you, which we cannot dispute if he opposed it, however unfitting we may feel it that you should be in such a position with regard to him.' He paused, shaking his head, and looked towards the ground. ' Was it ? That will do, sir. You have said enough, and more than enough, to make me more thankful than ever that I am his dependent, and not yours and your grandfather's.' I felt my face going white. I saw the sudden startled look on his face, and I went on — * Unfitting that I should be in such a position with regard to him — why unfitting ? Is it unfitting that one should be bound by ties of gratitude to a person who was kind and generous and self-forgetful, when everyone else was the reverse ? A professional singer ' — I continued — ' all I can see about that is, that a professional singer is better than some people who are not professional singers. What do you think I am made of, that you should say such things to me ? Do you expect me to agree with you ? Why should I ? What are you to me, and what is he not to me ? I have not the slightest, not the faintest interest in any of your family, as relations, and I know nothing of you in any other capacity. I don't care what you think. I don't care how many mistakes your grandfather may have made. You are all nothing to me. I would rather not know any of WHAT WE TALKED OF 295 you, or have anything to do with you. But I believe what you say, when you tell me of your meeting with him. I believe it, because that other time he thought proper to introduce me to you. He has given you permission to come and see me. You say he approved of it, and wished it. I told you he would never hurt anyone's feelings.' * In that you do not resemble him,' said my cousin, in a low voice ; but I was far too excited to attend to him. 'For that reason I will receive you, and for no other — simply because he wishes it, and because whatever he does wish is law to me. So you may come and see me, if you still desire it, after this, since he said so. But I know he wouldn't ask me to know people I hated, and if ever I heard you speak his name again in that tone, I should hate you and would never speak to you any more. Do you under- stand? Why should 1 want to speak to you? Tell me that. Why should I want to have anything to do with you?' I looked at him, breathless. Though Maurice was young, he was a good many years older than I. He could command his feelings, to gain his own purposes. He returned my look, and said — 'Before I answer that question, let me tell you some- thing. The first time I saw you, I thought you had the sweetest face and the gentlest expression I had ever beheld. This evening when I caught sight of you, I still thought the same, but I saw also that you looked proud and reserved. But now, cousin Ines, do you know, I do not think anger and an angry expression suit you. I should hardly know you for the same person whom I saw leaning on Mr. Ark- wright's arm at Kirkfence. And another thing, I do not 296 FROM MOOR ISLES think you mind at all what you say, to hurt the feelings of others. I do not think you try in the least to enter into the position of others. If you will kindly try to think, for one moment, of the sort of life in which such people as my sister Maud and myself are brought up, with regard to every- thing outside their own immediate circle of intimates and equals, and will then recollect that we had grown up almost without knowing of your existence; that suddenly we are confronted by you ; you are led up to us — you remember under what circumstances — I refrain from going into details again ; it comes upon us like a thunderclap. I have just sufficient presence of mind left to introduce myself to Mr. Arkwright and ask for an introduction to you. I go back with my grandfather to his hotel, and hear all this story ; my astonished ears can scarcely take it in. I can scarcely grasp the idea of such a mistake having been made. I have thought constantly since of how I could best show that I could never have approved of such a thing — that I should like us to be on good terms. I have gone so far as to speak very strongly of my grandfather's weakness and wrongness in the matter. I have thought of fifty ways of appealing to you to forgive him his mistake. Don't you think there is something dreadfully hard in your way of visiting his folly upon him, and making it an excuse for hating him? There is such a thing as forgiveness. You do not show any sign of it, I must say.' ' I can forgive that, or most other things, I dare say,' I replied indifferently. ' I do not care enough about what I may have lost by not belonging to you, to trouble myself about that. But what I will not forgive, or even try to for- give, is that you should speak of him with contempt. I — WHAT WE TALKED OF 297 what am I, that such a fuss should be made about me? But he is different. That is what I mean.' ' I meant no contempt. It seems to me that you do not quite understand. But let that pass. I hope never to be so unfortunate as to rouse your anger and enmity in this way again.' (A chilly feeling came creeping over me; I began to feel small. Was this the sole result of madame's teaching — that I was to be beaten in good temper and polite behaviour by a barbarian like my cousin Maurice Grey?) * I will bear in mind all that you have said. I think I can understand it. I think I can see where you were wounded. And I beg your pardon for having spoken of Mr. Arkwright in that way. It shall not happen again. But the time will come when you will be ready to receive me for my own sake, and not merely on that account. You say I may call — well, I shall do so. Apart from yourself, it will be a pleasure to me to kno.v Madame Prenat, a lady of whom I have heard much, and for whose ideas I have great admiration. My grandfather and my sister are down in the country. They come up to town only once a year ; so they need not offend you. I am conceited enough to believe that in time I may succeed in causing you to think not quite so ill of our family.' * You can do what you like,' I replied, still darkly. * I have only told you what I thought ' ' And that is always justifiable, under any circumstances, is it not ?' he said amiably. ' Have you read " The Auto- crat of the Breakfast Table "?' ' Yes.' ' In that book there is a fine passage about telling dis- agreeable truths to people. But he refers to intimate 298 FROM MOOR ISLES friends. It is one of the truest things ever written, and everyone ought to know it by heart. Many a fine friend- ship has been wrecked on that rock — the irrepressible love of saying "what I thought," of one of the parties.' I sighed profoundly. He seemed to me to be a very extraordinary and not altogether satisfactory young man ; and I wondered which of us during this controversy had said the more plainly what he or she thought At that moment Madame Prenat came up. * Ah, Mr. Grey, you have found your cousin ! Have you arranged anything about coming to see her ?' ' Only in a general way,' he said gravely, and, as it seemed to me, ironically. * We must go now, Ines, my child. You have a busy day before you to-morrow. "Only in a general way" is not very satisfactory, is it ? Therefore, I will be particular instead of general, and say, will you dine with us to- morrow at eight ? We shall be alone, and it will give me pleasure to see you.' ' I shall be only too delighted,' he replied, with a grateful smile and a profound bow. ' That is decided, then. We shall expect you,' she said briskly. I made no remark, as Maurice handed us to our carriage. But I wondered at Madame Prenat. We drove home in silence. She did not ask my opinion as to what she had done, and I did not care to speak of what had passed between my cousin and myself. Indeed, the recollection of it all was not wholly satisfactory to my self-esteem. Had I, in attempting to defend my adored Monsieur F^lix, merely showed myself a scold and an uncharitable person ? ' WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' 299 Something very like that had been implied in Maurice's words. I was not satisfied with anything. I thought he looked ready to come whenever he was invited ; and I was glad, very glad that my time was so filled up as not to leave much leisure for the entertaining of idle young gentlemen — in such a light did I choose to regard him. As a matter of fact, I did not know whether he was idle or not — why he lived in London, whether he was going in for any pro- fession — in short, I knew nothing of him and, with childish prejudice, wished I had never seen him or anyone belonging to him. CHAPTER IV. *WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT.' Maurice came to dine with us ; and soon one part of my speculation was fulfilled. He very seldom failed to accept any invitation which Madame Prenat might choose to extend to him. And she chose to do so pretty often. He became a regular guest at the house, and under the influ- ence and questions of Madame, milder and more genial than mine, he related to us all his affairs. I soon found that my first contemptuous ideas as to his idleness was quite unfounded. He was studying, and studying hard, for the bar He said he had not the slightest desire for the position of a country gentleman, merely as a country gentle- man, though it might be an excellent and a pleasant thing to have that position in addition to something else. The life would be too dull for him. He felt within him powers for something far more attractive and, to his mind, higher, 300 FROM MOOR ISLES and he meant to make his mark in the legal world. Some- times he looked tired and fagged when he came, and, on such occasions, Madame Prenat received him with motherly kindness, which evidently gratified him extremely. 'Your house is my earthly paradise,' he would tell her. 'Such an oasis of calm and peace, in the midst of the London desert of vanity and vexation ; and yet not cut off from anything that is good.' ' I am glad you find it so. Come often. I shall be glad to see you.' She did not say *We shall be glad to see you'j and indeed she seemed to look upon him almost more as her friend than as mine. As for me, at first I felt his presence a disturbance and a bore. I felt obliged to give up any employment in which I might be engaged and devote myself to his entertainment, not with a very good grace, it is true, but still to do so. I rebelled against this, and washed more ardently than ever that we had never met. I do not know whether it was with more pleasure than pique — there was certainly something of each sensation present — that I by-and-by discovered that it was wholly unnecessary for me to sacrifice myself thus. Maurice made very small demand upon my time and attention. Often, he hardly seemed to notice me, but would talk the whole evening to Madame Prenat, without asking me a question or seeming to expect me to contribute any remarks to the conversation. It was perhaps quite natural that at first I should feel slightly offended at this change in his demeanour, after his emphatic protestations at Mrs. Far- quharson's. But that soon wore off. It was no laughing matter to me, the possibility of any serious claim being made ' WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' 301 for me by my relations. To belong to them, in any way, meant to me misery. To remain where I was, for the present, to be always more or less bound up in Felix and in some way connected with him — let that connection be never so distant, never so far off — this meant happiness to me, and I was soon glad enough to perceive Maurice's apparent indifference. If he was annoyed by my coldness or dis- gusted by my raw intolerance, so much the better, I told myself, and I gradually withdrew myself even more and more into the background, leaving him to entertain himself or to be entertained by Madame Prenat. It is true that every now and then I saw some slight sign, caught some look, heard some word, on his part which aroused my un- easiness again. I was not altogether tranquil. It was some- times borne in upon my mind that for all his quietness and seeming indifference it was me whom he came to see, and not Madame Prenat, and that his present demeanour might be but a blind. But I thought of this as little as possible. I put it away from me. When I found him in the drawing-room, I made no ado about taking up my needlework, or even, if I were pressed for time or deeply interested, in continuing my preparations for the morrow's reading, or lesson, or lec- ture. It was on one of these occasions that I first began to feel seriously disturbed and to realize that Maurice did not view me and my affairs with the indifference I had hoped for. *You will excuse me,' I said, going into the room, with a book and a note-book in my hand, ' I have a difficult bit of Parsi here to unravel. I don't suppose I can do it myself, 302 FROM MOOR ISLES but the Professor will be very much disappointed to- morrow if he finds that I have not, at any rate, tried to master it.' * Pray don't mention it, I will also take a book,' he adjured me politely; and I w^ithdrew myself into a corner in which stood a sofa and a little table. I lighted a candle, for it was winter — January, and very dark, cold, and bleak — and I was soon honestly absorbed in my work. It was a passage of verse from a Parsi poet ; not long, but involved and difficult. I had been told to take it home and (with a sardonic smile) try if I could make anything of it. If I could, it would be more than most of them had succeeded in doing. I was on fire to make something — something that should at least approximate to sense — out of the obstinate, knotty thing. But it baffled me, time after time. When the first part pro- duced sense, the second became nonsense, and vice versa. Puzzled, vexed, and disappointed, I frowned, heaved a deep sigh, and looked up, having forgotten for the moment that I was not absolutely alone. My eyes encountered those of Maurice, fixed intently upon me with an earnest, seeking, far from indifferent gaze. His book lay half-closed upon his knee, the long slim fingers of one hand keeping the place, while his cheek rested on his other hand. A thrill of startled, suspicious feeling shot through me, a sense of resentment at his thus observing me. I sat with my eyes fixed upon him, and his own countenance changing, he said quickly — ' You seem very much puzzled ; I wish I could help you.' * Thank you,' I replied coldly. ' No one but my master can help me with this.' ' WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' 303 * The learned doctor, do you mean ? He will help you, and make it straight for you, and you will say Thank you.' * Probably he will put me into the way of helping myself,' I corrected him loftily. ' He is not too lavish with his information. What is easily gained, he says, is easily lost.' * Well, he is right, I suppose, in a way. Things that are hard-won are generally taken pretty good care of. I wish I might ask you something.' ' I suppose you can ask me something, or anything,' I replied reluctantly, ' but I won't promise to answer it.' ' No, you are not fond of making promises to me. And perhaps you will consider this question an impertinent one. I wonder how long you will go on grinding at this philology, and what you will do with it all in the end ?' Sometimes Maurice had a way of asking disagreeable questions to which I either did not choose or did not feel able to reply. This was a particularly disagreeable one. I had once or twice put it to myself. I knew what I meant to do in certain contingencies, but I was not prepared to explain my meaning to Maurice, or even to Madame Prenat. I tried a fu quoque. * And I wonder what you will do with all your legal studies in the end ?' I said. ' You only follow them just for some- thing to do now. Whatever you may say about not caring to be nothing but a country gentleman, when the time comes, you will find that it is very pleasant, and gives you plenty to do, and you will forget all this.' 'That shows that you do not understand,' he replied tranquilly. ' Nothing of the kind will happen. But even if such were to be the case, my studies would still have been 304 FROM MOOR ISLES useful to me. They would have opened my mind and taught me to think. A man ought to have some special study, whether he intends to make practical use of it or not. Just to discipline his intellect, to keep his brain polished and his mind up to the mark, he ought to have it.' ' And a woman's brain and intellect do not need polishing and keeping up to the mark. She can get on with smatter- ings ; they are good enough for her,' I said perversely ; not that I really took much interest in the ' woman question.' Under the auspices of Elisabeth and of Madame Prenat, I had begun where some people leave off on that matter. I said that because I loved my studies and wanted to provoke my cousin. ' It is different,' was all he would say. I was determined he should not feel he had asked me a question to which I was unable to reply, so I pursued — * You say I don't understand about your legal studies. I am sure you do not understand about these studies of mine. I have a purpose in them. I may need them some day. I expect I shall need them. Some day I may earn my bread by this knowledge that I am now working to obtain.' He sat up, closed his book, and looked at me severely. ' It amuses you to make a jest,' he said. ' That is a quite impossible contingency.' * Nothing is impossible,' I replied, turning over the leaves of my book. ' What was possible and right for my dear mother to do ' — I bowed my head — ' is possible and right for her child, for she never did wrong. There is no example in the world that I should be prouder to follow than hers.* He winced. ' WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' 305 ' Yes, if it were needful ; and no example could be more honourable. But it never will be needful.' * I wonder why not. When I see Mr. Arkwright again, I intend to speak to him about it, and to tell him that I wish to work. He will consider that quite natural and honour- able — he is a plebeian, you know — he works for his bread. That is another good example, the best I could have. He will consent to my wish.' ' If ever he were so cruel and heartless as to allow the child he had reared in luxury to think of such a thing ' began Maurice. ' Remember !' I cautioned him, with a feeling of malicious pleasure. 'There is another thing which might happen,' Maurice went on dehberately, and looking at me, ' which is far more likely to happen, and which, if it did happen, would really cause you to "look about you," as they say.' 'And that is?' ' That is, that Mr. Arkwright might think proper to get married.' (I did not start. I sat preternaturally still.) ' Where would you be then ?' ' Where I have always been,' I replied at once and decisively. ' In his care, and thankful for his goodness. Do you suppose he would marry anyone who would hate" me? Why should he not get married? His marriage would make no difference.' ' It would make this difference, that you would not wish to make a third party. Then you might begin to talk of earning your bread, and then, as in the other case you have supposed, you would not be allowed to do anything of the kind. We should not allow it. You would simply come 3o6 FROM MOOR ISLES straight to your home, the home that belongs to you, and would find your father and your sister in my grandfather and my sister. I wish he would get married,' he pursued incisively, * that things might be so easily settled. I hope he will. Surely he will. It is most extraordinary that he should not have married before. Will he not marry that Mrs. Reichardt of whom I have heard you speak ?' * If he should, he will marry the only woman worthy to have him,' I replied, with an outward lofty serenity which beHed my inward agitation. ' But he has not confided his intentions on the subject to me. And, as I say, that would not make any difference. It is not because he might get married that I am thinking of working, but because I wish to do so, and it would be good for me, because I have the power to do it. Perhaps in the end I may become Pro- fessor of Oriental Languages at Girton or Newnham — who knows ? At any rate, that is far more probable than that I should ever go to live at Rooley Park.' Rooley Park was the name of the Greys' estate in Somer- setshire. And I announced my intention with peculiar pleasure and satisfaction as I saw the look of anger, which he could not quite conceal, overspreading his face. 'You talk so oddly !' I continued. 'You seem to think I am blind and deaf and unconscious about certain things. Do you suppose I imagine for a moment that I should be welcome at Rooley — to your sister, for instance ?' ' Maud is a kind-hearted girl. She would soon love you dearly.' ' I am not able to love people dearly on such short notice,' I said dryly. ' I require to know them first.' 'And how are you ever to know them when you ' WE SHOULD NOT ALLOW IT' 307 obstinately refuse to approach or be approached by them ? There is such a thing as being determined neither to know nor to hke a person.' 'And your grandfather,' I continued; 'will you try to make me believe that it would be a pleasure to him to have in his house, and introduce to his friends and neighbours, a grown-up grand-daughter whom he has always repudiated, and who would always be making him wretched by allusions to her former life with the low persons — professional singers and the like — whom he despises, but who are to her the best and dearest people in the world ?' ' Who said he would enjoy it?' said Maurice fiercely. ' I never knew anyone so hard as you are. You seem as if you could not respect or appreciate a man's desire to repair, at whatever cost to his feelings, the wrong he may have done.' This was a view of the case which I was anxious to keep as much as possible in the background, so I said — * If he were really anxious, spontaneously anxious. But I never hear anything of his anxiety except through you. There — don't get so angry. It was you who began it, and it always will be you — never me, for I hate it more than any subject in the world. And now, I suppose, it is time to dress for dinner.' As I left the room, Madame Prenat came into it, and perhaps Maurice may have confided to her some of his difficulties. When I look back upon those days, it seems to me almost incredible that the young man should have endured my hardness, suspicion, and impertinence, and still continued to come, still continued to be conciliatory, gentle, complaisant. He had his objects to gain, and was of a resolute character, it is true. As for me, it was not that I 3o8 FROM MOOR ISLES felt enmity to him — it was the terror and the desolation which always seized me at the bare idea of having to leave my present life and begin another with tAem that forced from me many a hard word, many a bitter taunt which it was against my nature to utter. It was the instinct of a weak thing confronted with a strong one ; the weak one, fearing to be coerced or enslaved, tries to show teeth and claws, and to make its poor little natural weapons look like those belonging to something far more ferocious than itself — as if a domestic cat should suddenly set up as a tiger, hoping thereby to overcome the gigantic house-dog which it has in some way offended. CHAPTER V. DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS. I DO not know whether Maurice, after this discussion, judged it best to maintain silence for some time, but many weeks passed before we had any further talk on the subject. Indeed, we began to see rather less of him ; he was studying very hard for his final examinations before being called to the bar. He had almost given up society, except an hour or two now and then at Madame Prenat's. Of course, I was better pleased that this should be so ; and, for my own part, I too was deeply immersed in studies, and, as the spring advanced and the season began, in social engagements. I no longer made any objection to going with Madame Prenat to any place to which she might choose to take me. Now DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 309 and again I heard from Lisa. Those were red-letter days. Often I heard of FeUx, of course, singing here and there, at every great festival or entertainment; but I never saw him. Sometimes in the Park I looked about for him, but he was never there when we were. And at last, somehow or other, eight months had glided away since our parting, and it was June, early June, with the world of London in its full tide of pleasure and gaiety ; with fine weather, and sunshine and blue skies ; with windows and balconies full of flowers ; with fashion, folly, feverish Z?// vertreib^ goii^g on as only in London they can. One morning, soon after we had sat down to breakfast, Madame Prenat said to me — ' Ines, are you very busy to-day ?' 'Yes. This is my morning with the Professor. I am always busy after that. I like to make as many notes as I can while it is all fresh in my memory.' *Yes, of course. Nevertheless, I must ask you to be ready to receive some visitors this afternoon.' * Friends of yours, madame ? With pleasure. I will be ready at whatever time you wish.' ' No, on the contrary, friends — or, at any rate, visitors — of yours. Your Cousin Maurice is bringing his sister tc call upon you.' I was thunderstruck. All my spirits fled. Maurice bringing his sister to call upon me ! ' Madame Prenat !' I ejaculated piteously. * Well, Ines ? Why that look of despair ?' *I do not wish to know his sister,' I said, with sudden anger. ' Can they never let me alone ?' * You cannot wish anything about her until you have met 310 FROM MOOR ISLES her. He is most anxious for you to make her acquaint- ance.' ' I wonder whether she is so anxious to make mine,' I said doggedly. ' I believe he makes both his sister and his grandfather do as he pleases. And Mr. Arkwright ?' I went on, as a forlorn hope. * What would he say ?' 'Really, my child, you make the matter of too much importance,' she said, with a touch of mockery in her tone. ' Do try to realize that you are not the centre of the world. And allow me to use the discretion Mr. Arkwright gave me. I know what I am doing.' I must have looked so downcast that she, relenting, said — * Now, to convince you quite, I will tell you that I did acquaint Mr. Arkwright with your cousin's wishes, and I had a Hne from him to say that he approved.' ' Oh, you have heard from him ? May I not see it ?' ' Really !' she began, and then, with a slight smile, took a letter from a little case and handed it to me. * Dear Madame Pri^nat, ' The young gentleman's wish appears to me to be perfectly natural. Family affection also is a good thing to encourage. By all means let the interview take place, and any other that you may think right. ' Yours truly, 'Felix Arkwright.' I laid this missive down, feeling bitterly mortified. There was no more question of me, it seemed, or of my wishes on the subject, than if I had been a dog or a horse. ' The DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 311 young gentleman's wish,' ' family affection.' My name was not mentioned. It had been less painful if I had not asked to see the letter. Perhaps Madame Prenat knew that, and had allowed me to take the consequences of my curiosity. I handed it back to her. ' Very well. At what time are they coming ?' ' Oh, at the usual time for people to call, I suppose. Some time between four and six.' ' I will be ready,' I said ; and I left the room and went upstairs to get ready for my lesson with Professor Willoughby. But I was not happy. For the first, the very first time, I thought of Felix without feeling happier and gladder for the thought. For the first time, I experienced not the abounding sense of joy and gratitude that I had always known towards him, but the bitter consciousness that I was utterly dependent upon him, and that he did not seem to care what my feelings might be in this matter, or, indeed, whether I had any feelings to be considered at all. Could it possibly be that he wished me, now that I was grown up and had become acquainted with my own family, to rejoin them ? Was that the meaning of the two years' separation ? Was that the fiat I should hear at the end of the time ? These thoughts darted into my mind, and followed one upon the other with the same effect that a physical blow might have had. I felt myself waver, tremble ; I caught hold of the back of a chair to steady myself, and stood for a moment holding by it. When mechanically I went up to the glass with my hat in my hand, I was startled at the reflection of my own face. It was quite white, and my eyes looked large and alarmed. It just passed through my mind that as we live we learn. Eight months ago I should have been ready to swear that 312 FROM MOOR ISLES any wish soever expressed to me by Felix Arkwright would have been obeyed by me readily, joyfully, and without the slightest hesitation. Now I felt, with that same uprising of anger and passionate resolution that I had already experi- enced once or twice, that there were two things I would never do — even for him. I would not remain one instant under his protection, if I had the slightest idea that that pro- tection had ceased to be given as a matter of love, and had lapsed into one of duty ; and I would never enter that family of my father's relations. I could die, or break my heart, I thought — quite unaware how very difficult it is to accom- plish either of these things just when one would choose to do so ; I could beg or starve, but never pretend to become one of them. Somewhat tranquillized by these strong reflections and resolutions, I finished my preparations, took my books, and found myself able to give an undivided attention to my lesson. Then I awaited the unasked-for and unwished-for visit of the afternoon with calmness, if entirely without pleasure. I even went out of my way to make for the occa- sion a particularly fresh and dainty toilette. I never cared in what old clothes Maurice saw me. But Maurice's sister was quite a different thing. Besides, with a perverse ingenuity of imagination, which amazes me now that I recall it, I fancied that Maurice would be better pleased to see me shabby than well dressed. In the former case, he could think that Felix was stingy. In the latter, his vexation would be roused by seeing the elegance of attire which went along with my dependent condition. So I took great pains to arrange in a becoming manner my dove-coloured cash- mere gown and its bands and belt of gold embroidery. I DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 313 spent an unusually long time over this dressing ; in fact, I had never in my life taken so much pains to show to the utmost advantage any gifts of beauty or of grace with which I had been by nature endowed. Surveying myself, when all was complete, I bowed with dignity to my own some- what pale and grave reflection in the glass, and went down- stairs. They came towards five o'clock, and, as it happened, we had no other visitors that afternoon ; so, as I grimly told myself, it was, with the exception of Madame Prenat, quite a family party. Maurice, I could see, was somewhat excited, as he led his sister forward. Yes, it was the same girl — the same rosy, uninteresting face, abundant flaxen hair, and wooden neat- ness of finish in her stiff, firmly-sitting costume. It was gray again this time — handsome and good; well cut and well stitched together — neither behind the fashion nor before it, but proper, trim, and tidy, like herself. ' Ines, this is my sister Maud. She has come to call upon you.' ' How do you do ?' I said, holding out my hand. 'I am very well, thank you,' she replied, her face and eyes becoming quite round in their solemnly negative ex- pression. * Grandpapa wished me to call, and so did Maurice.' I bowed. My tongue utterly refused to say ' It was very kind,' or to make the most trivial concession to conventional politeness of that kind. I felt as if any such word would be received as a concession — an expression of pleasure. ' I suppose you are staying in town now ?' I said. * Yes ; but only for a short time. We are at the West- 314 FROM MOOR ISLES minster Palace Hotel. Grandpapa was not well enough to come up for the whole season this year ; and we both like the country best' 'Yes? I should think it would be rather dull in the country at this time.' ' Oh no ! I have a great deal to do. I see after some of grandpapa's business for him ; and then there are the schools, and the parish, and — oh, many things.' Here Madame Prenat mercifully came to the rescue, saying, 'Then, I suppose, while you are in town you are very busy, and going out a great deal ?' * Oh no, not much. I want to see the pictures. One must see the pictures, and do some shopping, and go to the theatre. There are several theatres that we have to go to. My brother will take me. Everyone is talking about two or three of the plays, and I am sure to be asked about them when I go home again.' (She went on talking in a set, formal manner, as if she could not stop.) 'And we have been to the Academy, but not to the Grosvenor Gallery yet.' 'And were you pleased with the Academy?' I asked politely. I saw that Maurice was fuming. I saw that the fuming grew more fierce every time that Maud with such com- placency mentioned the country and her pursuits in it. This amused me, but I thought I should like to hear what she had to say about the Academy. ' Oh yes, thank you. I do enjoy seeing good pictures ' — with great emphasis, and, on Maurice's part, fresh fuming — 'and I have been very fortunate. My drawing-master at home has been to town, and he marked in my catalogue all DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 315 the pictures that were worth looking at, and told me what were the good points in them ; so I looked at just those, and showed them to grandpapa, and enjoyed it very much. It saved so much fatigue, and made a single visit suffice, you know.' ' Of course, it would save a great deal of trouble,' I said, smiling in spite of myself. I caught Maurice's eye fixed upon me with a reproachful glance. The conversation again seemed about to die a natural death, when Miss Grey herself suddenly galvanized it into life again by turning to me and asking, as if it were an entirely new topic, — * Hsiveyou been to the Academy yet?' * Once or twice.' ' And did you like it ?' ' I like a few things ; not many.' * Oh, did you not like the great picture of the signing of Magna Charta ?' ' No,' I replied dryly. * Maud, don't forget your message,' her brother now inter- posed desperately. She turned towards him with a placidly obstinate ex- pression, and replied, * Oh no, I shall not forget ; in good time.' Tea was now served, and formed a merciful break. Maurice handed the cups round, stood beside me for a few moments, began to tell me what he had been doing for a long time, and asked me what I had been doing. During this interval, Madame Prenat devoted herself to Maud ; and I, watching, soon saw an entirely different expression cross 3i6 FROM MOOR ISLES the girl's face — an intelligence lighted it which had been quite absent before ; the round eyes softened, the solemn, portentous gravity melted into a smile. All at once quite a bright, merry laugh sounded across the room, and it came from Maud. * Madame Prenat can work miracles,' I thought within myself. ' I believe, if a person were actually made of wood or stone, she would make her seem like flesh and blood.' Maud declined a second cup of tea. ' I never take more than one,' she said. * Are you never thirsty for more than one cup ?' I could not help asking. * No, never. I make it a rule never to take more than one. It is time for us to go now. My grandfather,' she added, turning to me, with all the old expression back on her face, so that I thought, ' How she hates me !' — ' my grandfather bade me give his kind regards and say he hoped you would give us the pleasure of your company at luncheon to-morrow.' * Thank you. I shall be happy to lunch with you. At what time ?' *Two o'clock, please. Maurice will come for you, and then you will have no trouble. Good - afternoon ' (to Madame Prenat, with a bow and a slight smile). ' Till to-morrow, then,' she added to me. I bowed in silence. Maurice held out his hand and looked at me appealingly. I said nothing, and he had to follow his sister. ' Aren't they nice ?' I said bitterly, when they were quite gone. * And were not you nice, my dear child ?' DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS 317 ' Would you have had me rush into her arms, especially when she behaved like that to you f I asked with some excitement. * As if you were not fit for her to shake hands with !' Madame smiled — the smile which, though I was inches taller than she was, always made me feel such a very little girl, so ignorant, so blundering. ' My dear, is it your place to watch over people's behaviour to me ? Trust me to take care of myself.' ' She is so wooden, so self-satisfied, with her parish and her schools !' 'And you — with your contempt for her parish and her schools and all the Httle interests of her life ?' ' Was I self-satisfied too ?' I asked hastily, much annoyed at the idea that there could be anything in my manner to be compared with what I so disliked in that of my cousin. * I do not say that. You were repellent. There, let us hear no more about it ; but let me particularly beg that you will try to be a little more amiable to-morrow at your grand- father's table. I mean it, Ines,' she added very gravely. 'You do not show any superiority by giving yourself airs, and you are disappointing me.' I was silent. I never could gainsay Madame Prenat, but on this occasion I could not see that logical force in her remarks which I usually discovered, after a little reflection. Why was I to make myself so amiable to these people ? I could not understand it. I was glad to put it all away from me and go to the study and bury myself in my books and feel that here was a world which no one could deprive me of. 3i8 FROM MOOR ISLES CHAPTER VI. GATHERING CLOUDS. Punctually at half-past one on the following day, Maurice, in a hansom, called for me. I was quite ready, having again devoted a whole half-hour or more to making my toilette— a quite unprecedented circumstance in my career. He did not even sit down, but put me into the cab, gave the word to the driver, and we set off. Almost before I had had time to begin to think how disagreeable was the enter- tainment to which I was on my way, he began suddenly — * Ines, why are you so determined to hate poor Maud ?' It was one of his odious leading questions — questions which occasionally 'floored' me, however little I might have been willing to admit the fact. At first I made no answer ; then I said, not very ingenuously, I fear — ' I might ask, why is Maud determined to hate poor me ?' * She is not. Her feelings are the very reverse of that. She knows what I wish, and she is so kind-hearted that she wishes the same. She was so nervous yesterday afternoon that she hardly knew what she was doing.' ' Oh-h-h !' I cried in a long-drawn note of incredulity and indignation. 'Nervous ! How can you?' ' She was. I know her better than you do. And I don't think you were kind. Of course she has not your brains, nor — your beauty,' he added slowly ; ' but she is a very good sort, is Maud. And when we came out, she said to me, " Oh, Maurice, how I wish to-morrow were over !" ' I was mortified and speechless. This put the case in GATHERING CLOUDS 319 such a very different light from any in which I had as yet seen it — making me the injurer instead of the injured. ' What a deUghtful, amiable character I must be !' I said coldly. ' You can be, when you choose. You can smile upon that musty old Willoughby, till the sunshine penetrates through even his skull of parchment stuffed with dried roots ; and I have seen him look at you sometimes as if he had the dawning of an idea that there are things in the world called young women, and that sometimes they are rather pleasant company.' ' What a refined piece of wit !' ' It is true, whether refined or not. And you encircle Madame Prenat with loving attentions, so that she almost feels as if she had a dear daughter moving about her. But for tis ' He stopped significantly. * The fact is/ said I, slowly but decidedly, ' that it was a mistake our ever becoming acquainted ; or, if that could not be helped, and I suppose it could not, then the matter ought to have ended with acquaintance, and gone no further. I wish you no ill, but good. But I do not see what part or lot I have in any of your concerns.' *That is a fallacy. It just shows what a strength of revengefulness exists in you. Years ago, my poor grand- father made a mistake — a very bad mistake — in the anger and bitterness of his heart, because his son disappointed him ; and now, when he would make it up, you simply hate him, and us, and everything about us.' ' The best way in which he could make it up would be to let things remain as they are, and not step in and want to 320 FROM MOOR ISLES alter the whole shape of a life over which he has forfeited the claims he might have had. How can he make it up ?' * He wants you to come and live with us.' ' And has he asked Mr. Arkwright ?' ' JVo /' said Maurice, with great though suppressed anger. ' How can he ask Mr. Arkwright ? But we know what Mr. Arkwright is — a very sensible man, everyone says. If you chose to make it easier for my grandfather, the rest would be quickly managed. But you will do nothing.' *No, I never will,' said I, leaning back and looking, not at Maurice, but straight before me. ' You seem to expect a good deal from me — that I should be perfectly sweet and amiable at the prospect of giving up all I love best, and, in addition to that, should myself take steps towards that giving up. You would not do it yourself.' He was silent. The dispute seemed to me endless. I was weary of it, and thankful when at last our cab stopped before the entrance to the hotel. After such a pleasing and soothing preparation for the visit, I mounted the stairs with Maurice (they had a suite of private rooms), and found myself once more in the presence of my grandfather and Maud. I had not gathered from Maurice's conversation whether anything was to be said about my going to Rooley, but I had an uneasy fear lest I should hear something of the kind. I had, too, a resentful feeling that Maurice had tutored me a good deal on the way hither, and I had no idea of being tutored — by him. But I remembered Madame Prenat's words — that I was disappointing her — and though a good deal bewildered by the various con- tending elements of the situation, I did this time greet Maud with a smile and more show of cordiality, and I soon GATHERING CLOUDS 321 saw that she was not so wooden as I had supposed. She, too, smiled, and insisted on my going to her room to take off my hat, saying it would not be so formal. While we were in her room, a slight incident took place which again filled me with apprehension. I laid my hat on a table, and she handed me a comb and a hand-glass. I passed the comb through my hair, and was surprised to hear her say — 'What beautiful hair you have !' * Oh, do you think so ? There is plenty of it, at any rate ; but I think it is so dull-looking.' * Oh no ! It suits you exactly — your face, and every- thing; because,' she added, with a rather nervous smile, and a heightened colour, ' the rest of you is beautiful too. Do you not enjoy being so beautiful ?' ' Indeed,' I stammered, feeling my face grow crimson, * I did not know I was so beautiful. I — that is a thing Madame Prenat does not approve of our thinking much about.' She nodded. ' I should not care whether Madame Prenat approved or disapproved, if I were like you,' she said sedately. 'Now, if you are ready, we will go to the sitting-room.' Here was evidence of the most overwhelming kind (to a feminine mind) that Maurice had been right as to his sister's feelings, and I wrong. If anything were said, after this touching proof of disinterested admiration, I should look very hard and disagreeable if I repelled overtures of friend- ship. Feeling the responsibility a heavy one, I followed my cousin into the parlour, where lunch was immediately served. It was not much of a success. How could it have been 322 FROM MOOR ISLES SO ? Mr. Grey tried to talk to me, and I tried to talk to him. He asked me questions as to my past life and present pursuits, which I answered with a candour necessitating constant reference to Felix Arkwright ; and at every mention of his name the old man winced and coloured in a way which showed me that I was not the only member of the Grey family with an uncommonly thin skin and a very sensitive nervous system. The whole scene became to me so tragi-comic that I felt on the verge of hysterical tears and laughter combined. Finally, I managed to extricate the talk from this particular grove by introducing Professor Willoughby's name. Everyone knew it, of course; even the somewhat unlettered country squire knew the name of Willoughby, so I set forth in glowing terms my admiration of him, and my gratitude for his kindness to me. I spoke with enthusiasm of the grammar of the Zend language which he was even now compiling, and which was to surpass all other grammars and beat all other grammarians of that ancient speech out of the field. I had had the honour of searching through certain books and writings and of furnishing him with some lists of words for this work, and I was proud of it. ' He knows more about the religion and sacred writings of the Parsis than any other man in the world^^ I concluded, in solemn triumph. 'He is a great scholar, I have always heard,' said my grandfather ; ' but it seems to me an odd study for a girl like you. It must take up so much of your time.' ' Of course it does. I know very little about it. It is the study of a lifetime really to learn much about it.' * Girls of eighteen are usually more apt to be engaged with GATHERING CLOUDS 323 thoughts of their amusements and their lovers,' said the old gentleman ; ' but if you think it pleases you more just now to dispute over the relative antiquity of the Vedas, or of the — what is the other thing ? — the Zend-Avesta, why, I suppose you must have your own way. It will all vanish like a dream when you get married. That's why I don't approve of learned ladies,' he added, in his rather croaking voice ; 'so much good time wasted. Better learn to manage a household and quahfy for good wives and mothers — like Maudie, here.' I felt somewhat indignant. Of course, I could not dis- pute with an old gentleman like this, and candidly tell him how wide of the mark were his views and how utterly in- applicable to the present altered condition of things. He would evidently never approve of a woman devoting herself to such a pursuit. Then I found Maurice's eyes fixed so earnestly aad intently on my face, as if to watch the effect upon me of his grandfather's words, that I was startled, and felt again suspicious and unhappy. But, by way of some kind of a reply, I said — ' I am not going to be married, and I have no establish- ment to look after. I should not like it if I had. I think it would be a dreadful bore.' * Oho ! not at all. Wait until the time comes,' said he. ' It is then we see what women's great professions come to.' ' But I don't make any professions,' I persisted. ' I have only told you what I do, and how much I like it.' *Yes, yes, of course.' He spoke in an indulgent tone which exasperated me extremely. ' Have you ever lived much in the country ?' * Oh yes !' I cried enthusiastically. * When I was quite 324 FROM MOOR ISLES little, when I lived at Lanehead, with Mr. Arkwright — oh, how I liked that ! He began to teach me Latin and Greek. Yes, I love the country.' * I did not mean that exactly. You have not, I imagine, ever stayed in any house in which you had any interest or share of your own.' * No,' I breathed. I felt what was coming. *We are weak enough to think Rooley a pretty place. Most people Hke it. I think that during the vacation, whenever it falls, you had better also come and try it. Eh?' 'I — I — it is not for me to say,' I murmured, feeling intensely miserable. * You know that if you say, " Yes," Ines, no one else will make any objections,' said Maurice, in a low tone. I looked at them all three. I could not speak. Mr. Grey turned quite pale ; his lips quivered angrily. He was evidently on the verge of saying, * Since our home is not good enough for you, keep away from it,' or words to that effect. It was the ' wooden ' Maud who came to the rescue, saying quietly — ' It need not be settled now, grandpapa. Nearer the time I can write to my cousin, and perhaps she will be able to come.' I was thankful for her kindness, and humbled by it, but I sincerely wished she had allowed her grandfather's anger to explode upon me. It might have resulted in his casting me off for ever. AVe rose from the table, and I did not stay long after this. Though nothing had been definitely settled, I felt as if I were being gradually drawn more and more into the net. GATHERING CLOUDS 325 I would fain have gone home alone, but of course that was not allowed. Maurice came downstairs with me ; another hansom was called, and again side by side we drove to Madame Prenat's. This time my cousin was rather silent till we approached the end of our journey, when he re- marked — 'You did not really answer my grandfather when he said that your studies would vanish like a dream after you got married.' * No. Why should I have answered him ? He does not understand.' 'No. He belongs to a past generation, and so does Maud, though she is but nineteen and as good as gold. He cannot understand that a woman may have the sort of brains that make her love learning for its own sake. And of course he cannot understand that such a thing could exist as a man who would actually rather that his wife cultivated such things than that she should simply be his housekeeper.' I was silent. 'But there are such men, Ines,' he went on earnestly. ' You may believe me, there are.' He looked at me wist- fully. ' I dare say there may be. I don't think men are all monsters. But it makes no difference to me.' ' You will not always say that. The day will come ' ' I will not listen to you,' said I, looking straight at him, * You accuse me of being hard and unkind and revengeful, but you never seem to think how you are tormenting me, and how wretched you are making me. I call it unmanly.' Maurice's face turned very pale. 'I am silenced just 326 FROM MOOR ISLES now,' he replied. * But we are both young, and there is a lifetime before us.' I shuddered a little at his words and at the resolute expression on his mouth. He did not come in, when we arrived at Madame Prenat's, but satisfied himself with shaking hands with me, saying he should go home across the parks ; he wanted a walk. Altogether, it had been a very uncomfortable day, and I felt no security in its being the end, and not the beginning of still further disagreeablenesses. I was not satisfied with the part I had played in it myself, and I was profoundly dissatisfied with all Maurice's looks and words. Why, I asked myself once again with sudden impatience and irrita- tion, why could they not let me alone ? CHAPTER VH. THE HOLIDAYS AND AFTERWARDS. The holidays came. I had said nothing to Madame Prenat about the kind of invitation to Rooley which I had received, hoping against hope that I should hear no more of it. It was planned that we were both to spend the greater part of the time at Lanehead, old Mr. Arkwright's. With an ostrich- like instinct, I made my preparations for this visit, in the hope that no one would notice me, and that by escaping from facing the other project, that project would as it were die a natural death and be heard of no more. In vain were my endeavours. One morning there came a letter from Maud, reminding me of my ' promise,' and containing quite THE HOLIDAYS AND AFTERWARDS 327 a cordial invitation to go and stay with them as long as I could spare the time. There was nothing for it but to hand this missive to Madame Prenat, who read it, and, looking at me in amazement, asked what it meant. ' They invited me when I went to see them, but I hoped they would forget all about it,' I explained. * But she speaks of your " promise " !' ' That is a delusion, at any rate. My words were that it was not in my hands.' ' This puts an end to Lanehead. Of course you must go to them. Ines, this is the first time I ever knew you descend to subterfuge.' ' Madame Prenat !' I cried, and burst into tears. But there was no escape. I felt there was not, and I gave in at once. This time I did not even ask Madame Prenat what Felix would say to it. I knew that she would crush me by replying that he quite approved. Accordingly, our plans were altered. Madame went to visit some friends in France. I proceeded to Rooley Park, and spent five weeks there. I need not enter into the details of the visit ; in some respects it was better, in others worse, than I had expected it would be. As time went on, I grew to like Maud, and to seek her society ; to avoid Maurice as much as possible ; and I did not gain any feeling of Hking for my grandfather. Considering that we looked upon every circumstance of my life from totally opposite standpoints, it was perhaps hardly likely that the affection between us should tend to increase. He regarded an admission into the inner circle of the Grey family as a privilege coming little short of a beatitude. He could not understand that anyone to whom such a prospect was held 32S FROM MOOR ISLES out could be anything but enraptured by it. I, on the con- trary, with the memory of my mother's gallant struggle and slow martyrdom quite vivid in my mind ; with the feelings of love, of admiration, and of gratitude towards the man who had befriended me and dealt generously by me when all others forsook me — which feelings had been growing and accumulating for eleven years, till they had become part of myself, till the idea of being torn away from that life was torment to me — was far from appreciating the bliss of an entrance into this family. My indifference to the prospect was quite visible to my grandfather, and he could not forgive me for it. For my part, I did my best to be civil and poHte while I was there, and longed intensely for the time to come to an end, and for the ten days at old Mr. Ark- wright's, which were to finish the holidays. Madame Prenat was to join me there, and I looked forward to it as to para- dise. Everything in this visit tended to make me more and more dislike the prospect of any prolonged stay with these people. Mr. Grey and Maud were conservatives of the old school, with ancient notions about society and the sort of people whom one might safely visit. Madame Prenat was to them a most estimable person, who had kept a school — a nobody, from a social and family point of view. Felix was, of course, just what Maurice had once unguardedly admitted, ' a professional singer ' — as respectable, doubtless, as such a person could be, but still neither more nor less than a professional singer. They said as little about them as possible. My dear old Mr. Arkwright would have come into something of the same category. Lord Urmston's librarian — oh yes, we know the Urmstons — delightful people THE HOLIDAYS AND AFTERWARDS 329 — what a fine library he has ! But the Hbrarian ? Well, libraries must have librarians ; it does not concern us. Maurice, of course, was far more enlightened, and had no such obsolete notions ; but he frequently, I observed, gained his ends by the practice of a masterly inactivity, and, as in town he saw society enough after his own taste, he never irritated his grandfather or shocked his sister by obtruding any account of his intimates, though he would not have hesitated for a moment to 'own up' to any company he kept. To any hint about my coming to ' settle ' at Rooley, I invariably replied that Mr. Arkwright had said I was to remain for two years with Madame Prenat, and that I did not know what he intended to do at the end of that time. This always silenced my grandfather. But one day, just before my departure, Maud said to me — * Ines, you are so truthful that I feel quite strange every time I hear you talk about staying two years with Madame Prenat.' 'Why? It is perfectly true. It was said to me.' * Yes ; but you know " circumstances alter cases." There are circumstances which might make it absurd to try and carry out that project, if you chose.' I would not ask her what she meant ; but, raising my eyes and looking forth into the garden, I saw the figure of Maurice advancing across the lawn to where he could see us in the drawing-room. Maud looked at me and nodded. I shook my head silently. I had promised Madame Prenat that I would put aside my studies entirely during this visit, and I kept my word ; but it was at a price. Turned loose, as it were, amidst fields and trees, with the pleasant monotony of country life about 330 FROM MOOR ISLES me, even with new persons to become acquainted with, it all was not sufficient to chase away reflection ; it was now that the former days came back to me, and I missed them and the dear ones who had made them full of happiness and hope. Madame Prenat, Elisabeth, Mr. Arkwright, Felix — their absence caused a constant ache at my heart. The past year, when I looked back upon it, seemed a very long one ; the one to come, when I looked forward to it, seemed to stretch into the indefinite future without any prospect of an end. I left Rooley at last, without any definite arrangement for my return having been come to. It was a joyful meeting with Madame Prenat. The ten days at Lanehead, in the beautiful September weather, were sweet, with dashes and flavours of bitterness about them. Here was the garden, there the pond, the trees, the moors — everything as it had been, but with so much gone from it. Nevertheless, it was with the keenest regret that I left it all. We journeyed up to town together, and the beginning of October saw us once more established ' at home ' in the London square, with all the London sights and sounds around us. CHAPTER VHL I SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY. One morning, when I was collecting my books and was full of preparations for plunging into study again, Madame Pre- nat's waiting-maid opened the door and spoke two words — * Mrs. Reichardt.' / SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY 331 For a moment I stood speechless, not realizing it, then, with a loud sob of joy, I cast myself upon the advancing figure of Elisabeth, who indeed was there, holding out her arms to me and smiling with what appeared to me the most angehc sweetness. ' Elisabeth, Elisabeth !' was all I could say, stroking her face, and kissing her again and again. ' Oh, how good to see you ! Oh, how I have longed for you !' EUsabeth did not say very much, but I perceived a sort of mist or dew in her soft dark eyes. She smiled and caressed me, and the sight of her face and the touch of her hand gave me the same sensations that one experiences when spring, unmistakable spring, succeeds to winter. ' Why, child,' said she at last, * you might be unhappy — are you ?' ' Oh no ; that is — it is wretched to be cut off from you as I have been, but I cannot be unhappy ; Madame Prenat is so good, and the Professor is so wonderful. I thought I was quite happy — till this moment — till I saw you.' * Poor little maiden ! Not so little, though,' she held me slightly aloof, and surveyed me. ' You were always tall, Ines. I do believe you have grown — filled out, at any rate ; and, child, what a beautiful pale face you have got ! There ! it is red enough now. Do you blush so at an old woman's compliment? — who never does pay compliments, by the way. Now, listen, my dear. I am here for only a very short time — every hour is filled up, of course ; but this evening is for you and me. I am staying at Limmer's, and you are to come and dine there with me to-night — alone, yes. I have arranged it all with Madame Prenat. Come at seven ; dinner won't be ready then, but I shall. And I will 332 FROM MOOR ISLES see that you come safely back again. So, nothing more till evening. I am late for an appointment now.' ' Oh yes ; I won't keep you. Seven o'clock. Oh, I /ioJ>e nothing will prevent it.' ' Of course nothing will prevent it. I will tell you to- night all you want to know. We shall hardly have time to get it all in. Auf Wiedersehen P She was gone, and it was with a very abstracted mind that I pursued my studies for the rest of the day. Seven o'clock found me installed by the bright fire in her sitting-room at the hotel ; full of eagerness to gain informa- tion on different topics. ' You say Mr. Arkwright is well ? Have you seen him lately ?' ' I saw him last night. He was singing at the concert, so I both saw and heard him, of course.' * Ah !' said I. ' And what did he sing ?' She told me his songs, and then added — ' He is coming down to Irkford soon ' — she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone — ' to spend his last days with us before setting sail.' ' Then it is really true that he is going to America ?' * It is really true. He goes at the end of this month.' * The end of this month !' I seemed unable to do any- thing but repeat her words, with a parrot-like want of originality. ' Yes. They are never satisfied, you know, over there, till they have got a sight of everything of ours that we think the most of — and of course some of us think a great deal of him ; and they tempt people with such sums of money, and so he's going.' / SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY 333 * Ife would never be tempted by money,' I said, with the lofty calm of conviction. 'Wouldn't he? My dear, you know nothing about it. He is tired of the life, and of course the more money he makes, in a short time, the sooner he can leave it and arrange his life to his own satisfaction. Why should he be indifferent about the money ?' I was silent. What I was thinking was that I had never heard him utter a word implying that money was of the slightest importance to him. So, with calm confidence, I had taken him literally, — and made a mistake, it would seem. The next thought I had was that he was (she said) tired of his professional life, and wishful to leave it ; and ready to make plenty of money to enable him quickly to do so. But I was absolutely certain that he had never said anything to Madame Prenat suggestive of retrenchment or economy in my expenses. I could not have given any grounds for this conviction, but I knew it to be a true one. I became lost in thought. Elisabeth was talking. I vaguely heard her voice, but knew nothing of what she said. At last I looked up, and inquired — * Is he going to stay long in America ?' ' At least a year ; and to sing here, there, and every- where.' * Oh !' I said, and became again lost in profound reflec- tion and speculation. At this juncture dinner was announced, and we sat down to it, but while the man was in the room we discoursed only of indifferent things — of the places we had visited, the things we had done, and of my studies with the Professor, in which she took a lively interest. 334 FROM MOOR ISLES At last we were alone again. I was about to attack her with another question relative to Felix, but she suddenly said — * No, I know what you want to say, Ines. But, if you please, we will talk about something else. I don't suppose he would like us to be gossiping about him all the evening. And I want to know all about yourself, and about these wonderful cousins you have been seeing. What are they like ? Tell me about it from the beginning.' 'The beginning was Maurice,' I repHed, with a heavy sigh. ' Oh, the beginning was Maurice, was it ? Well, I think I know who and what Maurice is, though you told me little enough about him till you went to stay with them. So, make it good now. How was it that Maurice began ? I remember him quite well. I have an excellent memory for faces.' I was very unwilling to enter upon this topic. In the cir- cumstances, it appeared to me to be a waste of time. But Elisabeth persisted ; she listened to me, and questioned me with a closeness from which I could not escape. She wanted to hear about his looks, his ways, his capabilities, and his prospects, and especially about the relation in which he stood to his grandfather — in short, about everything con- cerning him. Then I had to tell about my visit to Rooley Park, and all that had happened there. When I ceased, she was silent for a little while, and then said — * So no really definite plan was come to as to your going there ?' ' No. Every time they hinted at it, I said I was to stay two years with Madame Prenatj and, of course, one of / SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY 335 those years is now gone. I would not let it be talked about definitely.' ' Yet, if such a scheme were really broached — if Mr. Grey said it was his wish, and made the right kind of proposals about providing for you, and all that — it would be your duty to agree to it.' ' But, please, tell me,' I said, repressing my agitation as well as I could, ' why would it be my duty to agree to it ? It would not be given from affection — the invitation, I mean. Mr. Grey does not like me ; it would only be because his pride or vanity, or whatever you may call it, cannot bear the idea of one of his family living, as I am doing, on the kind- ness of a person on whom they have no claims.' ' Still, I am almost sure you should go, if it is talked about again,' she said gravely, kindly, but still, as I saw, very decidedly. I felt as if my last rock of refuge had been submerged, when Elisabeth thus declared for the enemy, so to speak. I fell chill, as if I had come in contact with an iceberg. ' Why ?' I asked, in a voice that was nothing more than a loud whisper. ' Because, partly, you are now grown up. You are eighteen, and you are a tall and a stately and a noticeable eighteen, my dear ; and, if other things were right, it would be more suitable that you should be with them than as you are.' ' As I am — with Madame Pr^nat !' I said, desperately clutching at straws. 'With Madame Prenat — but as Felix Arkwright's pro- tegee. ^ * And have I not always been like that ?' 336 FROM MOOR ISLES * Yes ; and when you were otherwise friendless, it was all right. When a man interposes between a helpless creature and misery, or ill-usage, or unhappiness, and there is no one else to do it, conventionality is silenced, and Mrs. Grundy for once must "take a back seat"; no one would listen to her. But when the child has grown into a woman, and there is the kind of home awaiting her which naturally belongs to her — when it is a case like this, everything is changed. Yes, Ines ; it is painful, but it is so.' * Do you mean,' I asked, ' that Mr. Arkwright is tired of me — that he would like to turn me over to someone else ?' * Ines ! What a terrible face ! What a tragic expression ! No, I do not mean anything of the kind. Felix has been a father and a friend to you from the time when you were seven years old. He is not tired of you. He will never want to get rid of you. Don't think it. It is difficult to explain, and, indeed, I don't think you need it explained. You are old enough, and know enough of the ways of the world, to understand. And relations have a kind of claim which no other people can have. This old Mr. Grey seems to have found out that he did very wrong in every way in casting off his own flesh and blood in his anger. He is in a very awkward position. He gave Felix the right to do as he pleased in regard to you. But if he wants to try and rectify his mistake, even so late as this, it seems to me he ought to be allowed to do it.' * No matter what I suffer ?' * Why should you suffer ? No one would want to tear you away from your old friends — we could stipulate very decidedly about that. You could see as much of us as you ever have done. The only difference would be that your / SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY 337 home at the other times would be at this Rooley place instead of with Madame Prenat.' 'Amongst people who don't take the most elementary interest in any of the things which have made up my whole life.' * Ines, have you a very powerful objection to making one of that family ?' * Yes,' I almost groaned. * Shall I tell you what it is that makes you hate it so much ?' I looked at her in silence. * My dear,' said she gently, stroking my hand, ' you are afraid your cousin Maurice would want you to marry him, and that, once there, you would be at a great disadvantage in the matter.' My hand started aside under hers. ' You need not go so white, and look so desperate,' she said. ' Is it not so ?' * Yes,' said I. ' For a long time I would not believe it. I so hated it. But it is so. And when you speak out, I know it is so.' She nodded gravely. ' And you could not marry him ?' ^ Never r I said, with a shudder of affright. * Dear, dear ! Yet he seems so ' * He is almost perfect, I believe. And he is so deter- mined that he gets almost everything he wants. If I went there, perhaps he would make me marry him, and then I should die.' ' Oh no, indeed, you would not. And perhaps it is not only he who is determined.' I sat in gloomy silence. At last she said — 22 338 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Well, I do not think you were so very unwise in insisting on your two years with Madame Prenat. That is some- thing definite, at any rate. Perhaps they wall drop the subject.' I felt sure they w^ould not ; but I had no heart to make any reply. I did not again mention Felix's name. It had got poisoned to me, somehow^ My horizon was clouded. At ten o'clock Elisabeth, on her way to a reception, dropped me at Madame Prenat's. She was leaving on the following morning. She was kindness itself, wished me the most affectionate farewell, and told me to keep her posted up in my concerns ; and she added — * I wish I could help you.' I thanked her, and said I knew it was out of her power to do so. I passed a wakeful night, but during that vigil I came to a knowledge which some people acquire even earlier than I did ; some never have it thrust upon them, and others are incapable of taking it in. I came to the sure and certain conviction that, though I had been sheltered and guarded all my life, protected from every rude blast of fortune, made happy and surrounded by friends, yet, in this first great crisis of my life, the only person who could be of any help to me at all, was — just myself, Ines Grey. * -x- -x- -X- -Jt * On the following morning, after a lesson with Professor Willoughby, at the close of which he expressed himself satisfied with my performances, I said — 'Professor Willoughby, supposing I wanted to earn a little money, do I know anything — can I do anything that would enable me to do so? Do I know enough about philology to be of use to anyone in such a study ?' I SPEAK TO PROFESSOR WILLOUGHBY 339 He looked at me for some time before fully compre- hending me, and said at last — ' Yes, my dear child, you do. I have sometimes said to my wife that I almost wished you were obliged to earn your own livelihood ; for saying which thing she has always scolded me soundly. But I could give you plenty to do. I would make you my own private secretary in the first place, because I know you and can trust you absolutely.' ' And if ever I should come to you — I mean, if I should come to you before long, and ask you for work, would you give it me?' I asked, trembling with excitement and agitation. ' That very day I will give it you,' he answered me, his pale eyes gleaming upon me through his spectacles. His hand — his long, delicate, thin hand, almost transparent in its spareness — rested on the table near me. I stooped and kissed it gently. ' Dear Professor !' I said, ' you have taken away all fear from my heart by that promise. You will not forget it ?' 'I shall not forget it,' said he, with a slow, reflective smile, as he looked down at his hand, and then lifted it from the table and observed it, and seemed to find that it looked much as usual. Then, as if he felt that it behoved him also to do something out of the common, the smile broadened, he patted my shoulder, and said, 'Good child I The best head — and heart too — for the early Sanskrit inflections that I ever met. Find her work ? Yes, indeed, I will find her work — as much as she can do.' I went home, as I had told him, free from all fear, calm and contented. The possibility — nay, almost the prospect —of a great sorrow faced me. In spite of Elisabeth's 340 FROM MOOR ISLES words of kindness, it faced me. Thank God, if it came, I had that within me, it seemed, which would sustain me through it. Thus ended the first year of my separation from Fehx. Shortly afterwards I saw in the newspapers that he had sailed for New York in the Cunarder Batavia. CHAPTER IX. A CORRESPONDENCE. Nearly twelve months later I was still in London, was still under Madame Prenat's roof, outwardly under exactly the same conditions as before. Inwardly, however, things had — progressed, shall I say? — developed, at least. It would be but a tedious task to go in detail into all the causes which at this time made me feel sad and depressed, and for one of the best of reasons, namely, that a certain course lay open before me. Everything invited me to enter upon it ; my friends would all have fully approved, had I done so ; niany painful, embarrassing, and troublesome questions would have been for ever settled by my acting as it was desired that I should act in this matter. Only, to myself alone the deed did not commend itself; the bare contem- plation of it made me chill and cold with desolation. I could not bring myself to it; and yet, weak-minded fool that I was, I could not go on my way without making myself ^^Tetched with constant fears lest those I loved should disapprove of my refusal to comply with their wishes, and think me a bore, or an ungrateful creature. A CORRESPONDENCE 341 Our outside life, as I say, went on in much the same way ; but two things had taken place. My cousin Maurice had proposed to me some two or three months before, and I had refused him. This refusal it was which I had an inward feeling my friends disapproved. Dreading any future pressure on the subject, I had made good my words and had asked Professor Willoughby for work. He had promptly found me some. I did it at his house, but it was not all for him ; it was secretarial work, and the hunting-out of refer- ences and quotations, and the reading and making abstracts from many dry and solid books, both for him and for his friends. For this work I received a small salary, with the assurance on the Professor's part that w/ien I chose to cut myself adrift from the frivolous attractions of society, and really go in for work, I could have enough to support myself humbly but effectually. Madame Prenat knew of this arrangement, and took upon herself to sanction it and assume the responsibility of letting me make it. Maurice, who still continued to visit us, and who had taken my refusal of his offer in very bad part, may have known, or may not have known, that I no longer worked solely for pleasure. I never made any attempt to conceal the fact, if I did not openly and formally declare that it was so. If he knew, he judged it better to make no comments on the matter. Perhaps he felt that to expostulate, or be angry, without the power of enforcing his will upon me, would be undignified. I had written to Lisa a dry, succinct kind of letter, recounting facts, without commenting much upon them. I felt that I owed it to her to let her know how my concerns went, but after her strongly expressed opinion as to its being my duty to go and live at Rooley Park if it 342 FROM MOOR ISLES were seriously required of me, I had little hope that she would see this matter as I saw it. She had replied to my letter, had said she was sorry for my embarrassment, but had added Htde more. This, I was sure, was another proof that I had not altogether pleased her by the line I had taken. All my old, settled habits, my happy looking- forward to a future, which, even if it should be filled with hard work, would be sweetened by the love and good-will and comradeship of friends — all these were disturbed. I felt no security, no sense of permanency, in anything that I did ; and I felt as if I were cut adrift from Felix for ever. In the meantime, the correspondence which follows had been going on ; the two first letters of which correspondence I did not see then, nor for many a long day afterwards. Yet I must give them here, in their due order, and they will suffice to explain a good deal which to me remained dark for a long time after this. From Mrs. Reichardt, /« Irkford, England, to Felix Arkwright, at Chicago, Illi?iois, U.S.A. • Irkford, August 15, 18—. * My dear Felix, ' According to your account of yourself, you will receive this when you are in Chicago for the second time. Two visits ought to have made you quite " larnt up," as they say here, in the manners and customs of Chicago. Is it true that there they live in just twice as much of a hurry as they do in New York, which, with this exception, is the fastest city in the universe ? And is it true that the Chicago girls are very plain, and have immense feet and hands ? I do so want to know the truth on these two points. You A CORRESPONDENCE 343 must have had rather a delightful summer, it seems to me, judging from the account you give of yourself and your doings. How I should revel in a little of that splendid dry heat of which you so ungratefully complain ! I hope it will not be all over by the time we get there ; surely it will be just about the time for Indian summer, won't it ? * From this you will gather that we have decided upon the right and proper course. We are coming, my Vdterchen and I, and I am looking forward to it as if I were a girl of eighteen, only much more intelligently, I flatter myself ! I am reading it up, and asking questions about it of everyone I know, and studying the politics, till I really think I begin to have a glimmering notion as to what Republicans and Democrats actually are. And I have been longing for the moment when we shall leave Queenstown behind us, almost more than for that other moment when we shall see Sandy Hook before us. Only now the father says that, according to your programme, you will be at Baltimore, Maryland, when we arrive, and that we had much better go on one of the Allan liners, and land in the monumental city itself and have a few days' longer sail, than go to New York and have a long, uninteresting railway journey to make before we meet you. And he is right, as usual. ' Now, there is another thing to which you must give your attention. You have been very busy, and very much feted, and so forth, and I dare say you don't want responsi- bilities thrust upon you from three thousand miles off, especially before the time at which they are fairly due. Nevertheless, I must remind you that by the time we join you, it will be nearly the end of those two years during which you told Ines she was not to see anything of you. 344 FROM MOOR ISLES You will not be at home at the end of that time ; that is just because circumstances make it more desirable that you should stay longer where you are, and no one is to blame for that. Of course it will be quite easy to tell her, if you choose to do so, that your tour has been a longer one than you at first contemplated, and that she must stay quietly at home with Madame Prenat till you return. That would be easy, for you, and she would never dispute the fiat. But I must tell you that poor Ines is not at all happy just now. She is persecuted with a suitor — no other than her cousin Maurice Grey, who apparently has some extraordinary influence over his choleric old grandfather, for he has got his consent to the marriage taking place if he can obtain that of Ines. He has not succeeded, so far. Perhaps she really does not care for him ; perhaps she fancies she does not. At any rate, she steadily refuses to listen to him ; and at the same time she has an impression that all her friends would greatly approve of the marriage, including you, to whose views she naturally attaches some importance. She hates to be dis- appointing the people she thinks so much of. At the same time, she hates the marriage, and she knows that old Mr. Grey would not really love it, though he has been subdued into giving his consent. She is in a miserable position. The whole thing makes her wretched. I have not said much to her about it ; you have silenced me on the sub- ject. But I must say 1 hate to see a girl badgered in that way, and I don't think it fair to her, either. She has been too long in the same groove ; she cannot see things clearly or impartially. I think she ought to get out of it all — yes, even out of our good Prenat's influence — for a time. You know the tendency of the latter's influence — to make all A CORRESPONDENCE 345 who come under her hand so fastidious and " utter " in their ideas about men and things, that ordinary mortals seem quite common and unclean to them. I have noticed a little bit of this in Ines lately, and I am of opinion that a journey across the Atlantic, and a taste of the rough fresh air of that undeveloped society and civilization in which you are now " located," would do her a power of good, in every way. Master Maurice is very determined ; let him wait. Perhaps absence will make her fonder. I want her to come with us — there, I have said it. She need not trouble you. [Mrs. Reichardt's face, as she wrote this Machiavelian sentence, may or may not have been worth studying.] And I want you to let me have the pleasure of bringing her with me. She is to be my property for the time being ; my guest, my visitor, my child. I so often spend my money and my energy in such very unsatisfactory ways. Nearly always, when I try to " do good," I make a mess of it, and get horribly cheated into the bargain. T fear mine is one of the "first-class hearts and fourth-class heads " spoken of by a recent social prophet. This time it is the first-class part of me, the heart, that I would consult. I simply want to please myself and gratify myself, and consult my own wishes and inclinations, and I'm sure you will never be the man to thwart me in this design. You shall have no responsibility in the matter ; I will take it all. And, let me tell you, the child is by no means without views of her own, and intentions as to the career she desires to pursue. I think she will do her own way in the end, but most naturally she would like to have your approval before settling down to the life she thinks of. You will have time, if you write at once, to let me have an answer to this some fortnight 346 FROM MOOR ISLES or more before we sail. I am in a great hurry now, and cannot say any more. Write at once. Good-bye. ' Lisa.' J^rom Felix Arkwright fo Mrs. Reichardt. ' Chicago, August 31, 18 — . * My dear Lisa, * Thanks for your letter. Since you yourself have introduced the odious topic of the weather, you must even excuse me for saying that I agree with all my heart with the person, whoever it was, who said that the climate in these Northern States consisted of nine months of winter, and three of— hell — if you will have it. It is perfectly true, and I will say no more about it, but reply to your letter. ' I am delighted that you and Mr. Reichardt are coming, and shall welcome your advent with heartfelt joy. Your father-in-law is right as to its being better for you to come direct to Baltimore, rather than to go first to New York, and, all being well, I expect I shall be there at the time of your arrival. So that is all right. ' All your other remarks are full of wisdom, as usual, and you did well to remind me of what I had almost forgotten — that stipulation about Ines remaining for two years with Madame Prenat, and that the time will have almost expired. I remember, we had quite a discussion about it before I left England ; and you, I could see, scorned my ideas in the matter. I think I did not arrange it so badly, after all. By all means, if it will give you any pleasure to bring Ines with you, in the way you suggest, do so You have my full consent. It is true, she must have quite grown out of the schoolgirl now, and must be rather an independent young person, if she has " views " for the future. I am curious to A CORRESPONDENCE 347 know what they can be. She was a very sweet and lovely child; that I remember quite distinctly. With regard to the young man, I confess I had not thought of his falling in love with her, but upon my word, except for the fact that they are cousins, I see no objection to the match. There's a sort of poetical justice in it, too — don't you think so ? — with regard to the grandfather. Things like this are always happening. But, as you say, she must not be teased into it. They are both very young, and can afford to wait till they know their minds thoroughly. As for my wishing to be relieved of her — what nonsense! Let her "come along" when you do, and I will myself convince her of that, poor girl ! Give her my love, and tell her I shall expect to see her with you. Then she can, if she pleases, tell me her objections to Master Maurice, and I will do my best seriously to consider them. What an odd position for me to attain to in my old age — a kind of Schiedsrichier between these young people ! ' As for what you ask about the Chicago girls, and their feet and hands, I can only tell you that to me their feet and hands look like those of other girls. And as for the fastness of Chicago, I suppose it is rapid enough for those who care for that kind of rapidity — of the market and the stock exchange. Socially considered, I have not found it over- whelming in any way. I like the Southern women ; so will you, when you see them. Some of them you must and shall see, and we shall be well on the way to them at Balti- more. Write to my banker's at New York. I am a little uncertain as to where I go next. "Onwards — but whither?" ' Always yours, 'Felix Arkwright.' 348 FROM MOOR ISLES From Mrs. Reichardt to Ines Grey. * Irkford, September i, i8 — . * My dear Ines, ' I have delayed writing to you for more than a week, because I wanted to be definite when I did write. Now I can write and can be definite too ; so, without beating about the bush, I will tell you my plans, and I hope you will see your way to falling in with them, and giving me a real pleasure at the same time. You know that Mr. Reichardt and I made up our minds to go and join Mr. Arkwright in America for the last part of his tour. It is a journey we have long wished to take, and the opportunity was a tempt- ing one. Of course we shall not be with him all the time, as we shall have a lot of ground to go over which he has done already, but I hope he will be able to come with us to a good many spots we wish to visit. We leave in about a fortnight from now, and I want you to come with us. Do not make any scruples or objections. I have thought it well over, and it is all right. "This is my show," if you please. I have been looking forward to it for a long time, and when I had arranged all my plans I wrote to Mr. Ark- wright and told him what I wished, and with his usual good-nature he at once sent his consent, — his love, and you were to come with us, and he should hope to see us all at the same time. So that will be all right. You are going to be my daughter for some months now, if you will. It will make me so glad. And how delightful for us to get our first glimpse of the New World together ! It will double my pleasure. What a lot of things we shall see before we get back — and hear too. There is one thing we shall miss, on account of the season of the year at which we go — the A CORRESPONDENCE 349 "summer boarders" spoken of by Mr. Howells in his novels. Don't you remember them in "The Lady of the Aroostook " ? I am dying to know what " summer boarders " are really like, but I fancy that as a race they die out annually by the end of September. And " board walks " are another feature that I am anxious to see for myself; also "ocean parlours." We must see an "ocean parlour"; it gives an idea of such space, doesn't it? There are many other things that we shall rejoice in, I know. Felix says their fruits and vegetables are a dream, and that terrapin soup and devilled crabs, once eaten, dwell in the memory foi: ever. What a gourmand I grow in my old age ! * So much for the pleasure part of it. Now for the serious side of the question. My dear, you are no longer a child, as you know ; and though I have said little about it, I have fully realized that you have had great difficulties with regard to your cousin Maurice. I said nothing, because what could I say? But I know all about it, and am con- vinced that the best thing is for you to get away from your present surroundings for a time. Let me be quite frank with you. I have told your guardian how things stand. His views on the matter are, that if it were with your full consent and inclination, he sees no objection to the mar- riage, but in no other circumstances would he think of it. He would not for a moment have you force your feelings on the subject. And I think he would, perhaps, if he saw you, like to ask you a few questions about it. It will be much the most satisfactory way of settling the matter once for all. And you won't be surprised, dear, if he should have for- gotten something of the details of your life. You see, he has had a busy time over there. He has been travelling, 3SO FROM MOOR ISLES seeing new things, becoming acquainted with heaps of new people. He has lived through rather more — to put it mildly — during these two years, than you or I have ] and it is only natural that it will perhaps cost him a little effort to take up the thread of our lives. But we won't mind that, will we ? We will soon refresh his memory. ' If, in the end, you should decide to carry out your own plans, and to make a path in life for yourself — and I am far from disapproving of such a resolution — it will always be a pleasant episode for you to recall — this journey, I mean. So thinks your friend Elisabeth, who hopes ever to be your friend. Now, I have said nothing to Madame Prenat, be- cause I wish to leave your choice free. I have put the matter before you ; it is for yourself to decide in it. If you make up your mind to come, send me a wire, and I will then write fully to her ; but you will tell her, of course, as soon as you have decided. And when I know what you will do, I can give you also some further details in the matter. My love to you, dear child. ' Ever your affectionate *LlSA.' This letter, coming when it did, caused me mixed emotions. As may be imagined, I was highly excited at the prospect opened out to me. Looked at from one point of view, it promised nothing but pleasure. How good Elisa- beth was to me ! How delicate her way of arranging things ; how faithful and lasting her kindness ! For a few moments I gave myself up to the prospect disclosed by this unex- pected invitation with unmixed delight. To travel away from my present surroundings, with friends so dear as these ; to meet Fehx again ; to renew, even in a far-away, distant A CORRESPONDENCE 351 land, some of those happy hours and days which in the past had been so dehghtful — it was nothing short of bhss to con- template such a possibility. By the brightness and light- heartedness which came over me, I suddenly knew how very sad and dejected I had been. And this sadness was not at once to be chased away, for all at once a shadow came athwart the prospect. I was no longer a child — most truly Lisa said it — no longer irre- sponsible and in the hands of others ; I knew it full well. I should go with Elisabeth ; I should see Felix ; I should have to explain to him, and doubtless he would, as she said, have forgotten a great deal out of my life, at any rate. They would be very kind to me, but the hated topic would have to be renewed ; it would once more be broached : Your cousin Maurice wishes to marry you ; what are your objec- tions to him ? I was so well aware that I had no business to have objections. I saw so clearly how easily, charmingly, and harmoniously such a marriage would settle every point in my vexed relations with my father's family, and even with Felix himself. And last of all, but not least — perhaps largest — in spite of what Elisabeth said, I could not help feeling as if Felix not only approved of this match, but wished for it. I suspected him of no sordid motives. I did not for an instant doubt his generosity and goodness, or think he ever had grudged, or ever would grudge, anything he had done or could do for me. It was not that. It was other things. I could not have explained them — at least, I would not try ; but I knew in my heart what they were, and that in all this kindness of Elisabeth's, the greatest kindness was that she proposed for me to make this tour as her protegee and not as that of Felix Arkwright. 352 FROM MOOR ISLES I was alone as I thought it all over. I was not debating whether I should accept her proposal or not — I never had the least intention of doing anything else ; it was the best thing in every way. But I was suddenly overcome with a great loneliness and dreariness. I covered my face with my hands and wept, saying to myself, ' Oh, cruel world ! cruel, cruel world ! and life that is so full of ache and bitterness !' This, however, I soon felt to be folly. In spite of all worries and all anxieties, I found my heart elated by the prospect afforded me. I quickly recovered myself, dried my tears, put on my things to go to Professor Willoughby's, and on my way thither despatched a telegram to Elisabeth, saying, ' I accept your invitation ; shall write to-day.' At the Professor's, when my morning's work was done, and just before the lunch- bell rang, I told him what was going to happen. I had revolved things in my own mind ; I knew what he would say ; and when he had got over his first surprise and vexation at the prospect of the interruption in our work, I said that I did not think I should be more than a few months in America, and that I hoped he would keep open for me on my return the place I now held. I should never like to be with anyone else so much as with him, and I should look forward to rejoining him. At first he promised promptly to do as I wished. Then, with a vast effort bending his learned mind to mundane matters, he said — * But, my dear child, it occurs to my recollection that I have heard vaguely, from someone — who my informant was I cannot remember — something about a young gentle- man, who seeks your hand in marriage — yes ' — he looked at A CORRESPONDENCE 353 me, as if surprised — ' I suppose it might be so ; you are not what they call a schoolgirl any more — and who only awaits your consent and that of your guardian to make you his wife.' ' There is such a person,' said I dryly and uncomfortably ; * but he will never obtain my consent.' * No ? Young ladies, I have heard— and indeed it appears even in the ancient legends of the East, as well as in the so-called poetry of the present day — are given to changing their minds on such matters. You must not do that, and make a fool of me — you must not, indeed.' ' Professor Willoughby, I assure you it is chiefly in order to get this thing settled, to get it absolutely decided that I never need think of marrying him, that I am going away now. I can't bother you with explanations ; but that is how it is. And as soon as it is really arranged, how glad and thankful I shall be to come back to you.' ' Well, well !' said he, wishful to believe me, ' let us leave it so. I shall miss you very much — very much.' And his large pale eyes gleamed upon me again through their spectacles. 'You may safely leave it so,' said I. 'I wish I could make you understand how safely.' This was obstacle the first removed. I could come back to the Professor, and be sure of a welcome, that was evident. I returned in good spirits, and broke my news to Madame Prenat, telling her she would hear from EHsabeth very soon. She was very silent all that day, but on the following morn- ing she received a long letter from Elisabeth, some of which, but not all, she read to me. She uttered many exclama- tions; nodded her head, agreed, disagreed, and finally, 23 354 FROM MOOR ISLES unable to control her interest in the matter, sat down and talked to me about it with eloquence ; giving me full direc- tions as to what I was particularly to observe and study in the great Republic— things social, political, literary; with many a warning and admonition. Then we discussed what I was to take, and what to leave ; and while we were in the midst of this, in the afternoon, Maurice was announced. He had not been for a long time. Instantly he observed our preoccupation. ' You look as if something very interesting and exciting has happened,' he said to me. ' Something has,' I told him. ' I am going to see the world.' And then I revealed the prospects that spread before me. He looked exceedingly grave, and for a time was silent and thoughtful, but at last discussed the matter with some interest. At last, shortly before taking his leave, he said to me — * Have you Mr. Arkwright's address ?' •No.' 'But your friend, Mrs. Reichardt, must have it. I am going to write to him. I ought to have done it before. If I give you a letter, will you get her to send it on to him ?' ' Why trouble to do that ?' said I with great composure. ' I am going to see him myself. I am going to come to some understanding about my own future. I have been made wretched by the false position I am in. Write your letter and give it to me, and I will myself take charge of it, and give it into his own hands. Then the whole thing can be settled at once.' ' I can't understand you. You have been so determined against me, and yet you will give him this letter I I will tell A CORRESPONDENCE 355 you the truth about it. I shall ask him in it to use all his influence in my favour, because I know he has so much influence over you. Now, what do you say ?' ' What I said before. I will give him the letter. It will make no difference — none at all.' ' I cannot help hoping that it will make a difference,' said Maurice, the look of determination which I knew so well settling on his pale face. It had cost me many a pang, that resolute expression. I had seen it so often, since the day on which I had refused him absolutely; and he, equally absolutely, had told me that until he knew I was another man's wife, he would never give me up. I made no reply to his last words, but again said I would take the letter and faithfully deliver it into Felix's own hands. He sent it to me on the following morning. I looked at it all round, from its address to * Felix Arkwright, Esq. ; favoured by Miss Grey,' to the big red seal with the coat-of-arms, which fastened it. Curious, I thought, that I should be the bearer of such a missive. Some months ago I should have been afraid to assume the responsibility ; I should have done all I could to avert the sending of such a letter ; but now I felt as if I did not care anything about it ; only I would give it honestly into Felix's hands. I packed it carefully away with other papers. There it might lie till the time came to discuss it. Maurice did not call to say good-bye, but wrote a note, wishing me enjoyment. There was a certain severity about this note, as, indeed, there was about all that Maurice said and did. Always I felt in my intercourse with him that he looked upon me as a thing to be not only loved very much 356 FROM MOOR ISLES — for I knew he loved me — but also improved in many ways. There was constantly some disapproval implied in his dealings with me, and it was this fault-finding attitude which exasperated me more than anything else. I knew what he wanted, that his standard was high in all matters ; but what I objected to was the fact that it was /lis standard which he wanted everyone else to conform to. His wife, I felt sure, when or if ever he had one, would have very soon to desert any standard of her own and conform to his. Such compulsion set all my feelings into a state of rebellion. I would never conform to his standard. I would give his letter to Felix, and listen to his praises, if need be ; but I would never love him any better, nor submit to his will any more than I did now. And with this resolve, I packed the matter out of my mind as I packed the letter into my trunk, and thought of it as little as possible. Elisabeth's orders to me were — to get all I wanted as quickly as possible, and go down to Irkford to her, that we might have a few days together before sailing. My views as to an outfit were very moderate. I merely thought of purchasing two or three garments supplementary to my existing wardrobe. Madame Prenat was more particular. When I expostulated, she told me she knew what she was doing, and was acting on the best authority. I felt it to be a trifle, and submitted. I cut down the * few days ' with Elisabeth as much as possible ; not because I did not wish to be with her, but because the Professor made loud lamentations over being robbed of my services, and there- fore I stayed with him as long as I could. I had a touching parting from him and Mrs. Willoughby. The latter, a little fat, jolly woman, with a mania for lapdogs A CORRESPONDENCE 357 and expensive dressing-gowns of gorgeous design, kissed me, congratulated me on my prospects of travel, and told me to enjoy myself while I could. * Amuse yourself,' said she. ' I begin to see wrinkles on your forehead already, and it is too early for them to be there. Forget all about your horrid, dry work. He will have plenty of it ready for you when you return. If I had not Rodo and Coco ' — her two spaniels — ' to console me, — dear creatures !— what a dismal life I should lead. Never marry a professor of the oriental languages, Ines ! This advice comes from my heart.' 'Ah, unworthy, unworthy advice!' cried her husband, who had got into a singular frame of mind, had pushed his spectacles back till they rested on the top of his head, and had then forgotten that he had done so. He held my hand for some time, struggling with mixed feelings. At length he placed his left hand on my head, and said in solemn tones — ' God bless you, and keep you, my good child, and be with you in the New World as in the Old, and make you bear your old teacher in your remembrance.' He paused. So solemn were his words, so impressive his tone, that my head sank ; I was so moved by his fatherly kindness, that I was on the verge of bursting into tears. Mrs. Willoughby, who, in reality, was inordinately proud of her husband and his attainments, drew long breaths of emotion as she watched this scene. Suddenly, in a dif- ferent voice, he added — * And if by any chance you should find an opportunity of learning anything — anything at all fresh on the subject of the Indian dialects— no matter which of them, do not 358 FROM MOOR ISLES neglect it, I implore you. Never be without your note- book, and take every occasion to profit by what you hear.' ' I will ; I will indeed,' I assured him, wringing his hand ; and half-laughing, half-crying, I once more wished them * Good-bye,' and left the house. That evening Elisabeth met me at Irkford, and a very few days later, she and Mr. Reichardt, her maid, and myself, full of anticipations of new and exciting scenes, embarked in the good ship Caspiafi for the port of Baltimore. iavt «. CHAPTER I. INES WRITES. Steaming past the coasts of New Jersey, and Delaware, and Maryland, at last we steamed first into and then up Chesa- peake Bay, and past the world-known spots whose names even yet have power to thrill, and will retain that power for countless generations ; past Fortress Munroe and Fort Mac- Henry ; all day long, till it grew dark, and as we went sailing by the smiling shore of Anne Arundel county, or as a native Baltimorean on board persisted to our great bewilderment in calling it, ' Annie 'Randle county,' it was deep twilight, and, before we landed, there was nothing to be seen but multitudes of shimmering lights, rising higher and higher, in Hnes and tiers and terraces of the beautiful city ; and against the clear dark sky masses of buildings, some of those near at hand, which loomed upon us like giant towers rising high into the heavens, out of the very water itself, we after- wards discovered to be nothing more romantic than ' grain elevators.' But before us in the distance these buildings represented the streets, the warehouses, the churches, and the monuments of the capital of * Maryland, my Maryland.' 36o FROM MOOR FSLES How strange it all was, after the voyage ! It seemed to me as if that had been the reality, and this were a dream — this sudden bustle, this proximity to firm ground ; the hurry- ing crowds, the shining, grinning negro faces, the cries, the calls, the hubbub. It was after eight o'clock at night, and we stood on deck, waiting for we hardly knew what, and silent in the midst of the tumult. Elisabeth suddenly said — ' Father ! Ines ! a thought has just struck me. If that unhappy man is singing anywhere to-night he won't be here to meet us. He cannot, you know. And, of course, he will be singing somewhere. Did you ever know such a miser- able idea ? We shall just have to look out for ourselves.' ' I never thought of that,' said I blankly. * Nor I, until this very moment. Look ! here's the tug, I expect — tender, or whatever it is — coming for us. If he is coming, he will be on it. Stand here. We can see each person who passes.' I did not speak, but with my heart beating violently I did as I was bidden — stood still and looked, till at last I saw a face which I felt as if I knew, and yet did not know. I must have seen that face before, and yet it was so strangely altered. I was puzzled. Then I saw that Elisa- beth made a quick step forward. ' Mr. Holgate ! here we are. Has he sent you to meet us?' Mr. Holgate ! My agitation ceased. I did not know whether I was most relieved or most disappointed. I re- membered now all about him. It was our host at Moor Isles, of whose fortunes and misfortunes Elisabeth had one day during our voyage given me a long account, to which I had not paid as much attention as I ought to have done. INES WRITES 361 But I had dimly gathered that for some reason or other he was out here with FeHx, as his secretary and ' help.' He stepped forward now, lifting his hat and smiling at us. 'Yes, Mrs. Reichardt. He is singing to-night at the Academy of Music. The concert began at eight, and so he could not come to meet you. He was awfully disappointed, but he sent me, and I hope you'll let me do anything I can for you.' ' We shall be only too thankful,' said she, with the tact and kindness which never failed her. She rightly divined that the young man, though he put a good face on the matter, felt himself to be no efficient substitute, except as a mere assistant in getting our things together, for the person whom we all wanted to see ; and she had time, even in the midst of her disappointment, to do and say all kinds of pleasant things calculated to make him imagine that his presence and assistance were quite invaluable to us. Felix often told her that she made fools of people in this way ; but I have always thought it exceedingly pleasant to be thus made a fool of. At her cordial words Brian Holgate brightened up wonderfully, found our things for us, and 1 heard him telling Elisabeth that Felix had taken rooms for us at the St. James's Hotel, where he himself was staying, that he was coming to us the instant the concert was over, and that he hoped we should not all be fast asleep by the time he got in. It seemed a long and tedious business before we and our belongings at length were bestowed in the shelter of an uncommonly comfortable hotel. Felix had engaged a private sitting-room for us. * He said he did not want his first meeting with you to 362 FROM MOOR ISLES take place in the reception-room,' said Brian Holgate, laughing. And after he had done all he could for us he went away, saying he would go to the Academy of Music, see Felix in the interval, and report our safe arrival. * Give him our love,' said EUsabeth, ' and tell him to hurry up. We are very tired.' He departed. We went downstairs to sup, with a feeling of disappointment at our hearts, in spite of the charm of novelty over everything — in spite of the array of delightful little dishes and plates and saucers which collected around each of us more Americano. We supped, and returned to our sitting-room. The lamps in the street were lighted, the night was mild and balmy, a delicious air came in at the window. I went towards it. I hardly heard or, rather, hardly heeded Elisabeth's sigh of fatigue, as she said — ' Well, I'm going to see what Bolton is doing, if she has got under way with her unpacking. Ten o'clock — half- past ten, I declare. Surely he can't be much longer.' I had gone to the window and, kneeling down before it, I gazed out upon the street. The sky and the great luminous stars, so huge and so near-looking, were above ; below, the cobble - stoned street, the rattling tram-cars jingling along, white people strolling, coloured ones strut- ting about in the night-air. A coloured waiter had brought a lamp, and set it on the centre table, and in his plaintive voice had warned us against lifting the mosquito net that hung before the window ; but, heedless of the precaution, I moved it a little to one side, and leaned out, and thought and wondered. It seemed as if I had been but a short time there, when INES WRITES 363 on an instant I became conscious of the presence of some- one behind me. I had heard no sound — there was too much noise from the street below. I do not know how or why I became aware of this presence, for I did not even know that I was alone. Instinctively I remained where I was, without turning or moving. Then a hand was placed on my shoulder, and the voice of Felix spoke my name. * Ines — all alone ?' I quickly rose to my feet, and looked at him in silence, but saw at a glance that the room was empty save for us two. He was looking at me with a smile — a kind and welcoming smile, such as I had hundreds of times received from him before ; pleasure and good-will were in this smile, and his hand slid from my shoulder downwards, till it reached my hand and held it. And, as he looked, a change came over his face and into his eyes. The smile died away. Profound gravity succeeded it. He did not follow up his first words by any others, but simply looked at me, till I at last found voice, and said softly — ' Yes ; I did not know they had gone out of the room. So I am the first to see you. Monsieur FeHx, after all !' And I looked at him, smiling too ; while he still held my hand. He made no reply at all for some little time ; but at last said, in a voice totally different from that in which he had first greeted me — * How you are changed — /io7Cf you are changed !' * Am I ? Nobody else has said so. You are not. You look just the same as when I last saw you.' ' I dare say. Two years, at my time of life, do not make the difference that they do at yours.' 364 FROM MOOR ISLES To this I had nothing to reply. But I wished he would loose my hand, for it seemed to me as if every finger must betray by its pulsation the wild beating of my heart. But he did not loose my hand ; he stood still, and looked at me, and seemed to have forgotten that there could be anything to say. As for me, as I stood there, 1 realized, without putting it into words, that whatever might have been the ostensible object of my journey hither ; whatever Lisa and I might have said to ourselves or to each other about my seeing Felix, and getting my future course settled, and so forth ; in this moment — I could not disguise it from myself, it was the most overwhelming one of my life — I knew that it had been better for my peace of mind never to have seen him again ; better to have stayed in London, and battled down disappointment and monotony ; and, if necessary, to have dismissed Maurice periodically, till his pride or his common sense should have disgusted him with the part he was playing. This I knew — knew, too, what the feeling had been which, slumbering deep down in my heart, and not awakened by proximity to Felix, had yet filled me with that horror of even listening to Maurice, which had so mortified him ; had so surprised both Madame Prenat and Elisabeth, by what they thought its exaggerated nature. It takes some time to write it all down ; it took not a minute to possess itself of my mind. The revelation was made ; henceforth, whatever others might think, I knew. And at last I made a little movement to withdraw my hand from his. Then, all at once, he started slightly, gave a half laugh, and said — ' Pray forgive my standing and staring at you in this way. As I told you, I find you changed. Come and sit down INES WRITES 365 here, on this '' lounge," as they call it here ;' and he led me to a sofa which stood near the window, and placed me on it ; and then, half seating himself on the edge of a table, he said, ' It seems so absurd to keep repeating the same thing, but I do really believe you have grown taller. I am sure you were not so tall when — that day we went up to London together. Do you remember?' * Yes, I remember. I have not measured my height since then,' I said, smiling. 'And I hope, as I am so much changed, that you find me improved too.' At this the inexplicably grave and surprised, almost puzzled, expression disappeared from his face. He laughed. ' That question is much more like the Ines of my former acquaintance than anything that I have yet seen or heard from you. Improved ? Oh, certainly ; at least, I think so. By the way,' he added suddenly, and looking keenly at me, ' did you see my letter to Lisa about your coming here ?' ' No ; I have seen no letters, except the one she wrote me, inviting me to come with her.' * Oh !' He looked relieved and, at the same time, amused. ' Of course, she always knows exactly the right thing to do or not to do. And you had a pleasant voyage, I hope?' ' I suppose so. I don't quite see the joys of an ocean passage in a floating palace, but I think it was a good voyage.' * At any rate, you have arrived safely. And you are pre- pared to enjoy yourself here ?' 'I- ' I came to a sudden pause. Enjoyment was not exactly what had been in my thoughts. Excitement, perhaps, dis' 366 FROM MOOR ISLES cussion, and the making straight of crooked paths. But was that enjoyment ? And now I knew that emotion, agitation, self-repression, would take a large share in my life over here. But I did not see my way to enjoyment — not to enjoyment of a calm and serene kind, at any rate. I was saved from the pain of having to give what might seem an ungracious answer. The door was opened, and- Elisa- beth was with us. ' Ines, you might have told me he was here !' she ex- claimed, coming forward. Covered with confusion, I was silent, as I stood up. 'That is a pretty kind of greeting, after all this time !' said Felix, shaking both her hands long and heartily. 'Well, Lisa, this is a " sicht for sair een." I should have known you, at any rate, anywhere. As to Ines, I have been trying to make out who she is.' ' Oh, you find her changed,' said Elisabeth carelessly. ' I don't see that you need be so much surprised at that. Do you know, I began to think you were never coming. They must give inordinately long concerts in this country.' ' Not so very long ; but they don't care for anything that begins early. I suppose the white people go to bed some time or other, but I don't think the darkies ever do.' ' Well,' said she, ' I am but a mortal woman. I've been having some of my things unpacked, with a view to getting into bed with the greatest possible speed, as soon as I should have seen you. Well, how are you ? You look well — you do look well, Felix. Your hard work has done you no harm, at any rate. And here we all are — together ! Can you believe it ?' * Hardly,' said he, in a tone of satisfaction, as he looked INES WRITES 367 from one to the other of us. ' It is almost too good to be true. You are true to your resolution, Lisa; you do not change.' ' Of course not. Did I not always tell you I never meant to grow old ? Then you found no one here but Ines ?' ' Not a soul. Where is your father ?' 'Gone to bed, poor dear. He could not keep awake any longer. It would have been an iniquity to try to make him sit up. He'll see you to-morrow. And I am tired to death. But you two — ^^you both look quite fresh. Yet Ines must be as tired as I am.' ' I am not tired,' said I ; and, indeed, I had never felt fatigue further away from me. We all sat down then, despite Elisabeth's weariness, she and I side by side upon the sofa, and Fehx opposite to us in a chair. I left them to do the talking. I had nothing to say. Elisabeth had a thousand questions to ask. How long was he in Baltimore ? To that he replied that he was not singing there any more just at present. His manager said that not half the people had yet returned from the sea and mountain resorts, to which they fled from the summer heats. Winter^the depth of winter — was the proper social season in this city. He was not sorry for this. He had declined to make any engagements at all for the next fort- night. He would go with us wherever we liked. It was still hot, but he was so pleased with this semi-southern town, and with the people he had met in and about it, that he was loath to leave the neighbourhood. ' But the question of pelf?' began Elisabeth. ' Pelf be hanged ! I have been studying that question ever since I came here. Yes, Ines, I have, in spite of your 368 FROM MOOR ISLES look when I say so. Now you are here, all of you, let us forget filthy lucre for a time, and go in for enjoying our- selves.' 'And Brian Holgate?' said she. Felix smiled. * Brian Holgate has been quite a success,' said he ; 'at any rate, so far as I am concerned. I mean, I made a good bargain, whatever he did. No man ever had a more devoted retainer than 1 have found in him. He is almost painfully conscientious in the discharge of his duties, and he has such tact and feeling, you know ; it is quite wonderful. His friend Alice said I should not repent bringing him, and she was right. But there's something about the lad's manner which is not quite satisfactory to me after all— a sort of smouldering look in his eyes some- times, and a mechanical way of going about his business. What nonsense, is it not, Ines?' he finished, suddenly turning and speaking quickly to me. ' It is very interesting,' said I, with a deep sigh. ' I am glad he is grateful.' ' Will he be with us ?' asked Elisabeth. 'Not all the time. He has some friends of his own. But you won't object to his coming now and then, will you ?' ' Felix — no ! Only where are we going ? We haven't heard that yet.' ' Well, I have made a plan. I don't know how you will Hke it. Instead of rushing you round to all sorts of show places, I thought it would be pleasant to go off quietly somewhere and stay. It will be lovely now at Front Royal, in Virginia. Some people whom I know and like very much live down there. They would put us all up, if we INES WRITES 369 would go, but we won't tax their hospitality to that extent. There's a very fiir inn, of an old-fashioned kind, not far away from their place. Not so fine, perhaps, as one at Saratoga, or Newport, or Narraganset, but much more interesting. The country is splendid, and the autumn will be delicious. Shall we go, say the day after to-morrow, when you have looked about here a little, and be as idle as we please down there ?' 'What do you say, Ines?' she asked kindly, laying her hand on mine. ' I think it would be delightful,' I replied, earnestly and honestly. ' Just lovely,' Felix amended my words. ' Very well. Soif f Meantime, you must go to bed, and awake rested and refreshed. To-morrow I will show you what there is to be seen in this city, and the day after we'll be off.' He rose, and so did we. ' Do you mean,' asked Elisabeth suddenly, ' that there was no one to listen to your singing to-night ?' ' No, I don't mean that. There were plenty of people — most excitable and appreciative people ; but — oh ! I shall be glad to get away from it for a time ; and I can finish here some day, when you are all travelling somewhere else.' We separated, and I went to my room, feeling sleep very far from me indeed. For hours I lay awake, hardly hearing the sounds which arose from the street below through my open window, for, as Felix had said, some part of the population did not seem to go to bed at all, and on this warm, scented night of Indian summer, I think there was scarce an hour's silence throughout. But I heeded not the disturbance. My thoughts were far otherwise occupied. 24 370 FROM MOOR ISLES The voyage, and even our arrival, seemed swept clean from my mind. All I could think of was — this, then, is our meeting, after two years' absence ! So changed — so changed. * How you are changed !' Yes, it was indeed true. I felt it sweep across me with an overwhelming sense of con- viction. I realized it; that was not the same thing as knowing it. Was I actually the same being who had taken leave of him — no, of whom he had taken leave — that after- noon in Madame Prenat's drawing-room? No. He was just the same, as I saw. Not a Une, not a glance, not a tone of his voice had altered; but I — I was pacing restlessly up and down my room. Suddenly I stopped, and laid my hand over my heart, trying to still its ache ; and I said to myself, not in so many words but deep down in my mind, that I had grown into a woman, with emotions, with capa- bilities of love and hatred, of pain and passion, so strong that I feared to let them fully reveal themselves, even to myself. And now, as before, with the woman as with the girl, it was the same thing — the man who had been the idol of my childish heart, and the hero of my schoolgirl enthu- siasms, was the same man before whom my woman's soul bowed, that so it would be always — he, and no other. I felt, too, with this developed strength of love and worship had come also strength of will. My secret was mine. It should remain mine. I would be mistress of myself and of my feelings during this time that we were to be together. And after it was all over, and I was back again in London, there would always be — Madame Prenat and the Professor. As I came to that conclusion, I smiled a little to myself, but the calm brought by my resolution remained with me- COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 37] CHAPTER II. COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING. I DID not forget the letter which I had promised Maurice to deliver into Felix's own hands. But I admit that I d-elayed giving it to him — delayed opening up the conversa- tion to which its production must necessarily give rise. I did not feel, during the two or three days of our sojourn in Baltimore, that there was any reasonable opportunity of bringing it out. Our time was filled to overflowing with sight-seeing, driving, sailing down the bay, visiting Annapolis and Mount Vernon, and with other amusements. I could not persuade myself to intrude my affairs into the midst of it all. Elisabeth, I have reason now to think, knew very well what my state of mind was. At any rate, she knew of my promise to Maurice about the letter, and she gave neither word nor sign on the subject. From Baltimore we moved on to Washington, and spent a night and nearly two days there ; we had introductions, and we were busy and engaged the whole time. But at last all this was over. We had, by means of train and ' stage,' got conveyed to the place Felix was so anxious for us to go to, and in a very short time we felt perfectly at home, as if we had been there for months ; and the life of utter laziness, of which he had spoken with such enthusiasm, began. Very much we all liked it. It was truly delicious, this basking for hours at a time under the shade of the sunny piazza which ran all round the house. As the sun moved, so moved we, keeping ourselves in the shade, and 372 FROM MOOR ISLES as much as possible out of the reach of mosquitoes. We talked and laughed and read, and had a good time of it generally. There we could sit and look forth into the dim blue distance towards the south ; ' O magnet south ; O glistening, perfumed south,' SO full of witchery and attraction. A golden mist shimmered over all the fertile land ; the great blue mountains rose quite near to us, and, nearer still, wooded hills, with here and there the * gaps,' as they called them, which let us see into the distance I have mentioned. Quite near was an old house, where those friends of Felix's Hved of whom he had spoken to us — an old house haunted with memories and associations, tragic, comic, pathetic, for those who knew. We were often there, and learnt what Virginian hospitality meant. Occasionally, under the impression that it was not quite so hot as usual, we summoned up energy enough to hire some kind of a rough native carriage or ' stage ' and team, and under flapping canvas covers drove to some place of interest — battle-field or other historic spot, anywhere within a range of twenty miles. Every inch of this ground had been fought for — generally more than once— savagely, fiercely, tenaciously fought for ; and though we all conceded the right to the North in that struggle, I think our fancy and imaginations were captives to this South. Certainly, our afiections were engaged by the people we met there ; and we revelled in the calm and yet novel pleasures of the life we led amongst these, to us, strange surroundings. In- terviewers did not penetrate there ; indeed, as Felix thank- fully acknowledged, his battles with them were over. The novelty of his appearance had worn off, and he would know COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 373 them no more, until they flocked around him on his depar- ture, to ask what he thought of them and their great country. We had no interviewers, but we had concerts and dancing, and games and amusements in abundance, in the 'parlours' of the hotel, greatly assisted therein by sundry dark-eyed and fascinating Virginian and Carolinian maidens and young matrons, with the mankind belonging to them — an abject, but thoroughly happy race, the latter appeared to be. It was all new, bright, very sweet and delightful, and I delayed in a cowardly manner the giving of the letter, till a day came when my conscience smote me, and I could put it off no longer— a day, in fact, on which I myself received a letter from Maurice, in which he told me he had been thinking every day of my promise ; that he supposed long ere this his letter was in Mr. Arkwright's hands ; perhaps even a reply to it on its way to him. Then I felt, with shame and mortification, that I had behaved badly, and must at once amend. But I lacked the courage, for all my confidence in my own strength of will, to go to Felix and straightway demand an interview with him. In fact, his manner, as I interpreted it, had hardly been encouraging to such a course. I could no longer complain that he treated me as a child : he treated me as a very grown-up person indeed, with a gravity and a ceremony which irked and embarrassed me, and made me very decidedly afraid to attack him with this precious piece of business of mine. I resorted to my usual counsellor, Elisabeth, and confided the state of things to her. * I ought to have given him the letter before,' said I. * I must do it to-day. I feel as if I couldn't wait another hour.' 374 FROM MOOR ISLES * Well, child, give it to him, then.' * But I have more to do than that,' said I, wishing she would see how serious a business it was. ' I shall have to tell him my ideas about Maurice, and hear his.' *Yes, certainly.' Elisabeth's eyes were veiled from my sight, her hands trifled with a lace scarf that lay across her knee. The slightest possible twitch at the corners of her mouth made me wonder what she thought of it all. ' Yes, you must settle all that. You must do it to-day. If you like, I will tell him that you want to speak to him.' ' Oh, if you would !' I cried fervently. ' And if I were only sure I should speak sense !' *0h yes. Why not? You have to a certain extent a " level head," my dear. Did I tell you of that Yankee who was talking to me yesterday, and told me of a flighty friend of his who had a "vurry lovely, level-headed wife," who very often kept him straight ?' ' Oh, dear, how absurd !' I said, unable to relish the joke properly in my anxiety. We were alone in our sitting-room — a spacious upstairs room, with three doors, leading respectively into Elisabeth's and my bedrooms, and into the passage, or 'hall,' as they always called it. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and, almost as we finished speaking, the door was opened and Felix himself came in. ' Oh !' said he, pausing and looking at us. I was stand- ing ; Elisabeth was seated. I had by now begun to be accustomed, if not reconciled, to the gravity of his look when it rested upon me. I could not help feeling, some times, as if it amounted to coldness. On this particular occasion his eyes fell directly upon me, and I felt a chill of COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 375 depression seize me, for it seemed to me as if that look were colder than I had ever seen it before. Though I had told Elisabeth that I felt as if I could not wait another hour, yet I was somewhat dismayed when she, with the prompt and cheerful manner of one who is arranging something disagreeable to be done by someone else, said briskly — ' Felix — the very person who is wanted. Ines is anxious for a business interview with you. She is the bearer of an important document for your perusal, and she wishes your advice thereupon.' 'A document — an interview? I am quite at your ser- vice,' said he, very coldly, it seemed to me, and my heart sank lower. 'Then I'll leave you,' said Elisabeth. *I promised Mrs. van Bibber to go to her room about this time. Au revoir.' She rose, looked at us both with a benevolent smile, waved her hand and her lace scarf, and was gone. Felix pulled a chair forward for me. 'Well, Ines?' 'I must get the letter. Wait one moment,' said I, re- treating into my room for the document. Alas ! it was all too easily accessible. I could not keep him waiting. I was back again in an instant. 'What letter is it?' he asked me politely, but not very enthusiastically. How bored he was, I felt, by the whole business. And how I hated to bore him ! Courage, then, and get it over as quickly as possible. ' It is a letter which Maurice Grey, my cousin, gave me 376 FROM MOOR ISLES for you — at least, he said he was going to write to you, and I offered to bring it and deliver it to you. Here it is.' I stretched out my hand, and he took the letter very slowly, and looked at it without opening it. * To deliver it at your own time, it seems,' he said, with a slight smile. ' I often thought of it, but I was so afraid of teasing you with it,' said J, choking down my confusion, and speaking dryly and steadily. ' Well,' he said, still not opening it, as he looked at me, ' Lisa has told me something about this, Ines. I suppose I have known something about it for a good while. She says your cousin wants you to marry him.' * He says so,' was my almost inaudible reply. 'She says, too, that you are— averse to doing so.' ' Yes,' I said ; and wished I had the courage to look at him and say I would rather die than marry Maurice. ' H'm ! And what have you against him ?' * There is nothing against him. It is only ' 'Only?' ' I don't — love — him.' ' Oh ! And you have told him so ?' 'Yes.' ' And he is unreasonable enough to persist ?' ' Yes. Oh, is it not unreasonable of him ?' I cried, look- ing up excitedly. I met the same alien expression, not inviting to confidence, not offering comfort, and a slight smile as well, which cut me to the quick. ' Very unreasonable, no doubt,' he said, slowly breaking the seal of the letter. ' But I think you should take into consideration that such unreasonableness betokens some COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 377 force of character and power of will ; and you should also ask yourself whether your aversion is as rational as it appears to be strong.' I did not speak. I could never give the real reason of my intense aversion to Maurice. I could only say I did not love him. He read the letter, slowly and carefully, and then, turning to me, asked me if I knew its contents. ' He told me he should write and ask you to use your influence for him.' ' In this he tells me exactly the state of his affairs, and that he has his grandfather's consent if he can get yours. It is the letter of a man of mind and character.' * Yes, he has mind and character.' ' And don't you like mind and character ?' ' Very much. I do not care for Maurice.' * Yet I think you ought to consider it seriously.' * I have considered it till I hate the name of it. Do you mean that you would be pleased if I married him ?' ' I think you would have an unusually good prospect of happiness. There is nothing trivial or light about this letter. He writes from a firm purpose. I have never heard anything but good, very great good, of him. And it would unite you to your own people in the most satisfactory way.' All this in the same grave, judicial, and impartial tones, as he tapped the letter on the table now and then, and having finished, looked at me, but not in a manner that encouraged me to approach any nearer. All at once, a wildly reckless feeling came over me. I felt as if it did not matter in the least what became of me. After all, who and what was I that I should look for happi- ness as for a right ? My happiness consisted in the love 378 FROM MOOR ISLES and approval of Felix and of Elisabeth. It was not that I did not prize the good-will of others, but no good-will of others could make up for the loss of theirs. If Felix, in the face of my strongly-expressed aversion, could still urge me to consider this marriage well before refusing it, could persist in bidding me do so, had not one word to say as to any wish of his own in the matter, no sign to give whether he cared anything about it or not, what did it matter what I thought ? He approved. After all, it was not only I who had changed in these two years ; he had become a stranger to me, he made a stranger of me. I did not feel angry or offended with him. I felt my heart aching over it all, grieving, expostulating with fate, not with him. His attitude in the matter shook my strong resolution to act independently. As I stood there, I felt my will waver somewhat. ' And do you think I ought to be united to my own people ?' I asked, feeling that if the Greys were my own people, and he and Elisabeth were not, then the world was out of joint, and I had no clue whatever by which to guide my steps. ' Yes,' said he slowly, ' I think a great deal ought to be sacrificed to cement a union of that kind. I think it is hard on Mr. Grey for you to continuously hold aloof from him.' (Just what EUsabeth had said.) * But surely I could do a great deal that Mr. Grey wishes, without marrying Maurice.' ' Picture to yourself whether you would have a very com- fortable time, trying to please Mr. Grey, and not married to Maurice !' ' And you would approve of it, and agree to it, if I were to marry him ?' COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 379 Very slowly indeed he answered, and to each word my heart seemed to give an answering throb — ' It would be impossible for me to disapprove.' ' Then,' said I, without pausing an instant, ' I had better accept him. Anything is less horrible than continual wrangling. I will go and do it at once.' But I looked at him once again to ascertain if he really meant what he said, and my depression and wretchedness were only deepened by the sight of his expression of bored and weary indifference. He leaned back in his chair, and threw his head back, passing his hand over his eyes and giving a deep sigh. Let it be my part to put an end to the scene as speedily as possible. As he did not reply to my last desperate words, I said, after a short pause — ' Will you wait just five minutes ? I should like to settle it now. Do you mind ? I am so sorry to give you so much trouble ; but if I do it at once it will be done, and I shall not have to think so much about it.' ' I am at your service till you have settled everything to your satisfaction.' ' To my satisfaction !' I ejaculated, as I went past him towards my ow^n room. He rose as I passed his chair, and suddenly said to me — ' Ines !' 'Yes?' My hand was on the door-handle and I wanted no delay, but I forced myself to turn and listen. There was so long a pause, that at last I looked again. I saw that his face had become quite pale, and he looked at me with an ex- pression which I could not understand. ' I can only tell you what I think is for your good,' said 38o FROM MOOR ISLES he. ' I offer no advice. You are not a child any more. A woman must decide this kind of thing for herself. Do not think I wish our — friendship to be at an end.' I did not think that. I had more to say about it at another time; but the sudden return to a kindlier tone almost overpowered me. I took his hand, said earnestly, ' I think that you are, as you always have been, kind and generous to me.' And, giving his hand a little shake, I went into my room, sat down at the writing-table, and in less than ten minutes rose up again. During this short space of time I had recovered all my determination ; my mind had emerged from the tumult into which it had for a short time been cast. I had had time and strength to be — I felt it in my inmost heart — true to myself, to Maurice, and to Felix. That which a few moments ago had seemed so hopelessly entangled, had all at once become quite clear and simple. I returned to the parlour, and found Felix sitting in the same chair he had been in throughout our interview. I walked up to him and held out the letter. ' That is what I have said to Maurice. Will you please read it ?' He took it reluctantly. *Why should I read it? If you have accepted him — that is all I need to know.' Please, Monsieur Felix, will you read my letter?' Then he read it slowly and dehberately, and I stood before him, waiting in some apprehension for his expression of displeasure to return. I did not mind it so much now, though. It would soon be over, the whole hateful business. But all my feelings had been, and in some respects still COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 381 were, strung up to the highest pitch of tension, and I can hardly describe what I felt when, after he had read it at least twice through, I saw a broad smile come over his face — a smile which he tried to hide by putting his hand before his mouth. He said nothing for some time, but at last looked up at me. The smile was gone from his lips, at any rate, but I could detect no displeasure in his ex- pression. * Souvent femme varie^' he remarked. ' I don't know whether I have read aright. If I have, I think you have played a practical joke upon me which I cannot condemn too strongly. At any rate, do me the favour to read this letter aloud to me. I want to find out whether my ears and my eyesight agree.' And he offered it to me. ' Oh no ; do not ask me to do that.' *I don't ask you; I bid you. I am not a revengeful man, but no one likes to be made a complete fool of. I think that what I desire you to do, is a mild punishment for what you have done. Yes ; read it, please.' Unable to understand him, I took the letter, and in a small voice, and with a far from impressive manner, read aloud what I had written : — '"Dear Maurice, ' " I have only to-day given your letter to Mr. Ark- wright You must pardon the seeming neglect. I have never forgotten it, but I had not a suitable opportunity before. He has read it and, as you expected, he has said a great deal for you. He would very strongly approve of my being engaged to you. But, with his usual kindness, he leaves me quite free to decide finally in the matter. I can 382 FROM MOOR ISLES only tell you what I have told you before — I cannot and I will not marry you. It would be to do you a wrong, and to make me miserable for life. I know it. Please consider this answer as final. I hope we shall always be friends, but I think we had better not meet each other for some time to come. When I come home, I shall return to Professor Willoughby and my work with him. He says I never need be afraid of not finding plenty of employment with him or his friends. It is a life which will suit me exactly. I can- not do what you wish. Do not ask me again. If you should — I am sorry to seem hard, but it is the best — I shall not answer you. ' " Your cousin, *"lNES Grey."' * Ah,' said he, when I had finished, ' I was not wandering, then, in my mind, after all. But it still appears almost incredible to me. I always had an idea that you were a person to be depended upon — not so wonderfully change- able as all that. What, in heaven's name, made you veer round from north to south, so to speak, in less than ten minutes ?' ' When you spoke,' said I, * I felt very unhappy. I thought I saw that you would be glad if I would be sensible and make things easy for everyone ; that I was a trouble to you, as I have been a trouble to myself, since this began. But when I had sat down to write, I remembered what I have said in the letter — that it would be to do a wrong to him and to make me a miserable woman. And I remembered your own words to me,' I added steadily. ' Perhaps you have forgotten them, but I never have : COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 383 "Walk straight," you said, "and you'll come out all right in the end." I should not have been walking straight if I had done that, and I should have had to walk crooked all the rest of my life, too. So I knew all in a moment what was the right thing to do, and I did it.' I stopped, out of breath from this long harangue, and feeling my heart grow lighter every moment. ' Very well argued !' said he, and there was less constraint in his tones, too. ' I will grant you all that. I don't want you to marry the lad to be miserable. But, as you have plenty of arguments of your own against him, it was but fair that I should give you some in his favour. I see, how- ever, you are not to be moved. So, when you get home again, you propose to leave me, and set up for yourself?' ' If that is how you put it.' 'That is how I put it, and it seems to me it is the correct way, too. But I think you have forgotten one or two things. You are only just over nineteen — not your own mistress, therefore, for nearly two more years. Suppose I forbade you to do any such thing?' ' You won't forbid me.' ' And why not ?' ' Because you are not a tyrant, and you don't want me to be unhappy.' ' And you would be unhappy if I said I wished things to go on for some time longer just as they always have done?' ' That would show you to be more changeable than you thought I was. Ten minutes ago you wished me to marry Maurice. How could you, at the same time, wish things to go on as they always have done ?' ' That is certainly one for you. It seems to me that the 384 FROM MOOR ISLES Professor has been teaching you to chop logic, amongst other accomplishments. No, I do not wish you to be un- happy ; nor do I desire to tyrannize over you. But perhaps you will allow me a shred or two of authority still; and I say, quite seriously, that you must not make these important plans in such a hurry.' 'Ah, Monsieur Felix, it is not in a hurry. I have been thinking about them for a long time. I have had to think about them. How could I tell you anything when I was strictly forbidden to write or even send a message to you ?' ' Child, I do not blame you. I think you have come out of it well. There is time enough before us now in which to discuss the future. Another time we will speak of it. Meanwhile, do not arrange everything in your own mind on the implicit idea that I want to get rid of you as quickly as possible. And give me that letter. I will write to your cousin, and can enclose it in mine.' * Do you think,' I said, w^th some embarrassment, 'that he would like the idea of your having read it, when I ' ' When you speak so plainly to him ? He must take the risk of that. He chose to drag me into the matter ; he cannot complain if I know all about it.' I handed it to him, and took courage to ask, ' Then, though you would have approved of my accepting him, you are not displeased that I have refused him ?' ' No, Ines, I am not displeased,' he said slowly, and smiling, though he did not look at me. ' But, at the same time, 1 think it as well to make sure that that very letter goes to him, and not some other. You might change your mind again between now and the mail.' .' Oh, if I could but explain that I have never changed COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING 385 my mwd ! I got discouraged only for a moment, when I saw that you were so vexed and bothered by the whole business.' 'I see. Well, we have said enough about this. It is decided that you do not marry your cousin Maurice, and that for the present you put out of your head all thoughts but those of how best to amuse and enjoy yourself. Do you understand ?' ' I can't enjoy myself when I feel I have done something that you don't approve of.' ' Then rest assured that I do approve— entirely — of what you have done,' he said with much emphasis. And with that he rose. 'Lisa, I suppose, is safely gossiping with Mrs. van Bibber,' he observed, and I was surprised at his accurate memory in the matter. ' It is now much cooler than it was ; suppose you put on your hat and walk with me up the hill to meet the stage. I expect Brian Holgate in this evening, with all my official correspondence. I must not keep up this idle life for ever.' Gladly I got my broad flat hat, threw a light shawl over my arm, and we set out together. We did not converse very volubly, but from something I could not have defined in his voice, manner, expression — everything — I gathered the comforting assurance that he did approve of what I had done ; and my heart was lighter than it had been for many a day. • as 386 FROM MOOR ISLES CHAPTER III. Elisabeth's mission. Felix had said to Ines that he expected Brian Holgate by the mountain ' stage,' and he duly arrived, bearing with him the looked-for budget of letters, especially one from Felix's business manager, sketching out a plan of campaign for the coming weeks. This worthy, the manager, was anxious for his client to be at work again. He saw good money, and plenty of it, thrown away in every day of holiday taken by the star whose affairs he was managing. But Felix refused that evening to do more than glance at the correspondence; he promised Brian and himself a hard morning's work on the morrow. After supper — for they supped in old-fashioned style at this old-fashioned Virginian hostelry — they sat out in great rocking-chairs within the almost dark piazza, and formed one or two groups. Felix had formally introduced the young man to Ines, and he took an opportunity of saying to her, in an undertone — ' Would you mind taking him in hand a bit, Ines ? He is strange here just now, and I want to speak to Elisabeth, if I can manage it' Brian was perfectly amazed to find how easy was con- versation with this silent, haughty-Looking girl, whose pre- sence he had been secretly deprecating to himself He could always get on with Felix ; he feared not old Mr. Reichardt, and he had a lively recollection of Elisabeth's kindness to him, with a conviction that she would not with- hold it in these different circumstances. But he had in- ELISABETH'S MISSION 387 stinctively shrunk into his shell before the young lady; and at first, when he found they were left alone, his impulse had been to take a solitary stroll in the woods with his pipe. He was, however, enabled easily to answer her first question. ' And have you been with Mr. Arkwright all the time he has been in America ?' 'Yes ; I came with him.' 'And you have travelled with him, and gone with him everywhere ?' ' Yes, everywhere.' ' Tell me about it,' she commanded him, in a gentle but decided tone. And with that she leaned back in her chair, swayed herself to and fro with a light touch on the ground of one little slippered foot, as everybody did there, and, resting one elbow on the broad arm, like a shelf, of her rocking chair, and her cheek on her hand, as he dimly saw in the darkness, she quietly waited for him to begin. Without more ado, Brian did begin, and he told the story from beginning to end. It took a long time ; but he had an attentive auditor, who made few comments, though asking many questions. At the other end of the veranda sat Elisabeth, Felix, and Mr. Reichardt. ' Well, Lisa, you haven't asked me how our interview went off.' ' Your interview ?' she said, with well-feigned abstraction. ' Oh, with the child, this afternoon !' ' I d^n't know why you persist in calling her a child. She is tne most grown-up and the clearest-headed child it has been my fate to meet for a long time.' 388 FROM MOOR ISLES ' Fortunate for her. What did you decide ?' 'That she is not to be tortured by the youngster any more.' ' I fancy she had decided that some time ago. ' 'Well, she was quite right. We got it settled. She wrote a letter to him, which I am to inclose with one from myself, to-morrow.' 'Oh!' ' You don't seem to take any interest in it.' ' Oh yes ! I am glad it is all settled. I shall always be interested in Ines. But I'm mourning over your short memory. It was you who scoffed at all my ideas. It was you who said she was a child, and nothing but a child. And now you turn round upon me, and reproach me for doing the same thing.' 'You forget I have not seen her for two years.' ' Oh no, I don't ; not a bit. And she is just what I always thought she would be.' ' She is not in the least what I thought she would be.' ' Candidly speaking, did you ever think much about it ? But in what way does she differ ?' 'She is so still, and pale, and proud. I suppose the " tall white lily " simile is a hackneyed one, but it is true of her. And she has such brains. She has brains in her eyes. She — I don't know what to say to her sometimes.' ' In such a case it is safest to say nothing. That is what I should advise. How much longer do you think of staying here, Felix?' ' I haven't thought about it. When I have gone over my batch of correspondence to-morrow, with Holgate, I shall know better.' ELISABETH'S MISSION 389 The morrow's business investigation decided him to leave in a few days from that time. The others went southwards to see some places of interest, and were to join him later at Washington for some concerts. They did this, and all pro- ceeded together further north. It was during this time — between the middle of Novem- ber and the end of the year — that a firm friendship became established between Brian Holgate and Elisabeth. As has been related, the grudge which she had felt against the young man, on first learning Felix's intention of taking him with him, had all melted away, even before the two men had set sail. She was by nature of an even, cheerful tempera- ment, which, while it might run into great enthusiasms, seldom sank into depression, and never into querulousness. But a sad heart or story always brought out her deepest feelings of sympathy and her strongest desire for helpfulness. At this time, too, as Elisabeth very plainly saw, with a quiet smile to herself, Brian was not likely to get very much attention from, at any rate, two other members of the party. She thought he looked lonesome and sad, and proceeded to see if she could not improve matters for him. It was not very long before she was in his confidence, as she usually was in that of any one when she wished it. She found what she had thought, that Brian's feelings were in anything but a soothed, or healed, or healthy state. He had got away from the conditions which had so crushed him ; he had, as it were, found breathing-space — a place in which to pause and look round him. But that was all. He thought Felix had behaved with incredible kindness to him, for he had a great idea that he was a troublesome and depressing person with his woes and misfortunes. And he adored his 390 FROM MOOR ISLES employer for his kindness — kindness which came so easily to Felix Arkwright, sweet-tempered and successful, that it would have been far more troublesome to him to be unkind, or to find fault, even where everything was not absolute per- fection. It was far easier to Felix to say, ' Poor beggar !' and make allowances, than to be carping and dissatisfied. The kindness was easy enough and, in its way, delicate enough. It had consisted in treating Brian on terms of absolute equality, but with the somewhat protecting attitude of an older man towards a younger one for whom he has a liking. With Brian it had been from the first a matter of honour to do all he could to help Fehx, and as he had naturally any amount of tact and ability, he quickly succeeded in his endeavour. Indeed, there was little need to fear rocks ahead in a progress like that of so popular and great an artist. The chief difficulty which ever confronted them was that of choosing amongst several offers, all equally good. This, with some skill and fi72esse in the art of keep- ing off bores, beggars, and ' cranks ' (a word whose value they both soon learnt to appreciate), and sundry too ardent specimens of appreciation of the opposite sex without intro- ductions, formed the main part of Brian's duties, and he soon became a past master in the performance of them. By way of reward, if reward were needed, he had the entree into most of the society which Felix himself frequented. He had unusual opportunities for studying men, women, and things, in this new world, and, in a certain way, he made great use of it all. He was as adaptive and receptive as a clever, observant woman, and in a very short time he had quietly taken on a polish which differentiated him con- siderably from the Brian Holgate who had set out more ELISABETH'S MISSION 391 than a year ago. Felix was willing to give him any number of hints as regarded his singing, and, taking a genuine interest in him, put it to him whether he had not better, now that - the chance was open, embrace a professional career, offering at the same time to use all his influence to forward him. He thought it would open up a new Hfe to the lad after his misfortunes, and he anticipated success for him, though he told him with kindly candour that he could not hope ever to reach quite the first rank among artists : he had been an amateur too long; he had not young enough entered upon the thorny path of probation which leads to success. Felix could not quite understand why Brian, though overwhelmed with gratitude at the offer, would not accept it, simply saying, when pressed for an explanation — ' My spirit seems to have gone.' His grief, his disaster, had gone deeper with him than Felix, busy as he was with his own concerns, understood. Brian felt as if he should never uplift his voice in song any more. He had his violin with him, but it lay in its case at the bottom of his trunk — neglected. Would it ever speak for him again, sing for him, whisper for him, sigh for him, as in former days it had so often done ? Perhaps, some time; but not now. It made him tremble to think of touching it. But he could not tell this to Felix. He could not explain the complex emotions which combined to make it a sheer impossibility for him to think of coming forward — the wounded animal instinct, which makes for cover and solitude. So, with all his admiration for Felix, and with all Felix's kindly feelings for him, they remained apart. The man of twenty-five, inexperienced in the world 392 FROM MOOR ISLES as he was, had passed through a furnace which had never so much as scorched the skin of the other. Body and soul he had passed through it, and was inwardly seared and scarred almost beyond recognition. As the year went by, he gained calmness and a kind of strength — the strength to endure the loss of joy and hope, without showing it. But it was not till Elisabeth Reichardt appeared upon the scene that he began to feel the warmth of the red glow of sympathy. Then it was that he first felt the ice and snow thawing, which, in spite of his outward composure, had hitherto bound his heart fast and firm to the rock of its woe. She soon found how to make him talk to her. He was full of gratitude to her. He told her his whole story — the history of his childhood and boyhood and young manhood. As in a mirror she saw it all ; and up to the time of his meeting Lucy Barraclough, shortly after she had left school and come to keep her father's house, it was a pleasant story enough, despite the absurdity of the treat- ment to which he had been subjected by his over-ignorant parents, on which treatment he touched lightly, with an indulgent smile. There had been all the homely joys and pleasures, friends and acquaintances, his playmates, Alice and Andrew, at the farm, and their growing up together faithful comrades. And there was his deep love for his old home, of which he told her a great deal. He seemed better able to dwell on that than on some other things. ' It was bonny,' he said one day. ' This country, wherever I go, looks so weary and large and burnt up, in compari- son with that place. Their big rivers are grand, and their big lakes are like seas, and their big prairies are like deserts, but there's no spot in all America that I've seen. ELISABETH'S MISSION 393 fine and grand though it be, that could ever seem as bonny to me as that lane leading past my house towards Thornton ; and there's none of their Rocky Mountains to equal that view of Ravenside from the lane between the fields, a little further on. Eh !' he added, in Ivancashire parlance, ' eh, but it was fine, Mrs. Reichardt, that long curving swell, and the great square head of it, looking up to the north-east, as grim, I used to think, as the north-east itself. All colours I've seen it, from pale silver-gray, more like a mist against the sky than a mountain on the earth, up to a blue that was black, and a blackness that was like ink. I used to feel as if it was mine, my very own ; and so, in a way, it was. But I shall never feel that again. It's the land of witchcraft; I was bewitched — bewitched away from it all into exile.' She tried hard to make him take another view of the case, and feel it possible that some time he might return and make it all good, and be a dweller in his own land once more. She threw out the most subtle, filmy, and delicate kind of hints about Alice — feelers so fine that they were scarce perceptible save by the frequency of their appear- ance. That was all in vain. He shook his head and spoke of Alice in a way which caused Elisabeth to cease her hints, lest she should give him an inkling of the girl's feelings for him, for it was quite obvious that he had none for her, save of the purest friendship and esteem. Though she succeeded in making him both feel and look more brightly on the present, and in the view he took of his immediate surroundings, yet she never succeeded in shaking his firm conviction that the past was the past, dead and buried, never to be connected by even the slightest link 394 FROM MOOR ISLES with the future ; that the ' exile,' as he called it, was final, and his hfe, to use his own expression, ' broken in two.' She did not combat this view too strongly. Elisabeth knew that there are natures and natures, and she began to under- stand somewhat more correctly what Brian's nature was. She dared not contradict him when he told her, as he did frequently, that there are lives which are spoilt, though not extinguished, by circumstances, and that such a life was his. As he very truly said once, before she had ceased to dispute with him on the point, the lives that meet with this fate usually meet with it early. That is in the nature of things. It comes while there are still loves and hates which can be all in all to them. So it had been with him. With this state of friendship gradually growing up between them, and with many an interlude of pleasure, excitement, and amusement, they toured about from one place to another. And as Brian, thawing under the delicate in- fluence of womanly sympathy, became more expansive and confidential, Ines Grey, as Elisabeth observed, but without uneasiness, became less so. She had indeed lost all childish- ness. With all her pride, there had been, hitherto, a naive simplicity, an outspoken frankness about her, which had clearly marked her as still a girl, and a very young girl. That was gone. She was quiet, sedate, composed. No tremor of voice, no wavering of her glance nor unruly colour on her cheek, betrayed to any outsider that her inner state was less tranquil and unmoved than her outer one. She talked less to Elisabeth, but never came near her without the same smile of perfect trust and confidence, which to the elder woman was so sweet. The touch of her hand, the sound of her voice, the tenderness of her caress, were ELISABETH'S MISSION 395 exactly the same. It was only Elisabeth who knew, what- ever one other might sometimes suspect, that they covered a struggle, a passion, and a resolute endurance of what she felt to be a sharp ordeal, which things were making of the dainty, fragile girl, a strong and gracious woman. Her true nature came out in this crisis. The love which had so long, half unknown to herself, been in her heart for Felix, was the love that strengthens — strengthens whether it be ever re- turned and acknowledged or not, because it was based on an utterly unselfish foundation. Sometimes Elisabeth's heart was a little uneasy. ' What,' she asked herself, ' if, after all, he should let the prize slip, the richest and the greatest that has ever been within his grasp ? What if her immovable calm should deceive him, as it must deceive all but me? and his pride, and the recollection of his long authority over her, should deter him from risking a refusal ? He might never know what he had missed ; but she — no !' Elisabeth decided within herself, ' I will never be pessimist enough to give that idea a single thought. It shall not be so.' For she had no clue from him. His propensity, just after their arrival, to talk to her about Ines, seemed to have died away. He was as silent to his old friend as was the girl herself. But she, by nature and experience, versed in hearts and their stories, did not resent this. Only to her father-in-law did she sometimes breathe a hint of her ideas upon the subject. 'Matchmaker!' he answered her, smiling. But she knew that he would have endorsed her whole course of action in the matter. In the middle of December, when it had suddenly turned piercingly cold, they found themselves in Philadelphia, 396 FROM MOOR ISLES where a brilliant series of musical entertainments was to take place. The Quaker city is great at anniversaries, centenaries, inaugural ceremonies, and other functions ; and it was in honour of some such prolonged festivities that the performances for which Felix was engaged were to be given. There were to be concerts, both morning and evening ones, and several isolated acts or scenes from certain operas in which he had made his mark, and it was likely that these entertainments, together with others in the neighbourhood, would keep them in Philadelphia for some three weeks. The Quaker city, besides her first-mentioned propensity, likes, as well as another, any taste of the good things of this world, in the shape of art, beauty, or talent, when successful; and she welcomed with open arms the world-famed artist. Despite innumerable offers of hospitality of the most generous description, Felix found himself best suited by putting up at a hotel, and the rest of the party were in the same house. One evening, almost immediately after their arrival, Elisa- beth, feeling somewhat tired, had decided to remain at home, and let her father-in-law chaperon Ines to a great reception at which Felix also was to be present. For aught she knew, Brian too would sooner or later go, he having received an invitation along with the others. But while she sat alone, her book hanging idly from her hand, he suddenly came into the room, with so strange and excited a look in his eyes, so breathless an expression, that she was startled, and looked at him in silence for a moment. Then, seeing that no ordinary matter must have caused the look — ' Brian, what is it ?' she asked him, half rising. AT THORNTON 397 ' Mrs. Reichardt,' he gasped, going up to her, and looking at her in the same fixed and startled manner, 'I've seen her. I've seen Lucy. She is here — in this house.' CHAPTER IV. AT THORNTON. *Seen Lucy!' repeated Elisabeth, almost stunned by his statement ; and then, collecting herself, ' Is that possible ? Surely you must have deceived yourself.' ' I saw her,' he repeated, his face quite white — * I saw her with a woman who looked like a servant or a nurse. They were going together to the elevator, and she was leaning on the woman's arm. They got in, and I saw her no more.' * It is quite easy to find out,' said she, convinced that he was mistaken, and wishing to calm him. ' Go down to the bureau, and look at the visitors' book.' Without a word he turned on his heel and left the room. In about five minutes he returned. ' Last night,' he said, * they came. 'Mr. and Mrs. Richard Law, Hollowley, Lancashire, England.' He sat down and looked at her, and Elisabeth knew not what to say to him. ' Oh, she looked ill. There is something very wrong with her,' he said at last, more as if speaking to himself than to her. 'Perhaps,' suggested Elisabeth after a pause, 'she has come for her health.' ' Perhaps,' he replied, in the same abstracted tone. 398 FROM MOOR ISLES * Whatever she may have come for, health is far from her.' ' Mr. Holgate, tell me ; have you had no communication at all with any of your friends up there — at Thornton, I mean ?' * No,' said he. ' I did not want them to know anything about me. A few months ago I was able to send Alice back the money which she lent me when I — when I had to come away. But I just sent a draft on an Irkford bank, where I know they have an account. And I only said, on a slip of paper, " With heartfelt thanks from one who can never repay the kindness that went with this loan." I did not know — at least, I had not heard, that she was married — Lucy, I mean. I think I knew all the time,' he went on, * but I had not heard it ; no.' ' What can have brought her here ?' said Elisabeth, deeply interested, and with a wonder, too, as to how it would all end. Brian made no answer. He seemed again to drop off into a reverie, and presently, with a deep sigh, but without speaking a word, he went quietly out of the room. He had said that Lucy was with a woman who looked like a servant or nurse. This was true. It was a trained nurse who was with her; and Elisabeth had a maid with her — an old and confidential retainer. These two worthies, being both English — one a Lancashire, the other a York- shire woman — found each other out, either by freemasonry, or instinct, or clairvoyance, before they had been ten minutes in the same dining-room ; and very soon each was in posses- sion of all that the other could tell her, or invent for her, concerning her own particular employers and their affairs. AT THORNTON 399 Of course, only as much of this as was thought good by the abigails was related to their mistresses ; and Lucy's nurse, knowing well the state her lady was in, told her simply nothing. Elisabeth's maid, Bolton, however, speedily in- formed her mistress of quite as much as the latter needed to know on the subject — that Mr. and Mrs. Law had not been married a year ; that Lucy had not been strong when the marriage took place ; that, some months afterwards, she had been out driving, and had met with a slight accident, nothing in the least degree serious, but that her nerves must have been in a strange condition at the time, as she had never been able to get over this apparently trivial shock, but had from that day been strangely, sadly, and to those by whom she was surrounded, inexplicably ill. She had been not only weak in body, but in a most painfully per- turbed condition mentally. She had been taken by her husband to see one or two well-known English physicians, all of whom agreed in saying that she had no organic disease, but that her nervous system was in a state of collapse; and that, though there was little doubt of her final recovery, yet it must be long, very long, before such a serious disturbance could even begin to amend. And the last doctor had said that travel was excellent in such cases, especially when it included a sea voyage. When America was spoken of, he had said it was the very thing ; had recommended a great doctor in Philadelphia, who had gone deeper into these things, and had more experience in them, than any man living. ' And so they're here, ma'am. And just at the first she seemed to brighten up a bit, and wish to see what sort of a place she'd got to ; but it did her harm, and now she's so 40O FROM MOOR ISLES — ■ — — v tired and weak again, and cries so dreadfully, that they have to keep her quiet. Poor lady, she must be in a bad way, from what they say ; and so young — only just over one-and- twenty !' This information Elisabeth gradually communicated to Brian, for she saw that his thoughts were constantly busied with Lucy, his whole mental being in a state of unrest, and that he spent a great part of his spare time in hanging about in the halls and corridors of the hotel, in the hope of once more catching some such glimpse of her as he had had on that evening when he had first seen her. But he was not rewarded. All that Brian saw on one or two occasions, was Law himself, looking much as he always had done in Brian's recollection. At these times Brian always shrank away, and made himself invisible, not from any fear or timidity, but because he could not trust himself to encounter the glance of the other man, lest he should suddenly become beside himself, spring upon him, and do him some injury. It is necessary to give some few details as to the chain of events, at the end of which she who had been Lucy Barra- clough came at last to be under the same roof with Brian Holgate. After that miserable scene at Jessamine Lawn, in which he had cursed her falsehood and herself, and with scorn which had penetrated even the thick skins of Jim Barra- clough and Richard Law, had left the three together, to digest his words, Lucy had, in a dead silence of the other two, at last crawled away to her room and, locking the door, had flung herself upon her bed and lain there for a long time as one without life. Her mind had been active AT THORNTON 401 enough. Sleep was not for her on that night, nor, except in short, unrefreshing snatches, for many nights afterwards ; and in the midst of her agony she had unwittingly discovered the profoundest truth in regard to herself, when, after her long, motionless vigil, she had raised her face, haggard and drawn in the light of the expiring candles on her dressing- table, and there had escaped from her lips, in a kind of groan, * Oh, I am not strong enough to bear this.' She did not say, either aloud or to herself, ' I have sinned, and I am punished ;' nor did she take the view that it was she who had been altogether sinned against in the matter. Her moral sense and her sense of honour were not keen enough to realize the first ; her regard for the two men who had struggled for her was about equal; she had not suffered in losing Brian ; she cared not a straw for Law. But she had been pushed, and bent, and made to do what she hated, and it was too much for her. She was 'not strong enough to bear this.' Such was the truth. She was not framed by nature to sustain any great weight of either grief or responsibility. Perhaps she could not have borne any great joy much better than any great sorrow or injury. It was not in her. So far, her youth, and immunity from active care and anxiety, had not forced upon her or others the knowledge of her weak- ness ; but now, pushed on by a nature stronger a hundred times than her own, to unscrupulous conduct, the long strain of acting against her inclinations, and under com- pulsion, had told upon her inadequate nervous system ; and the crash at the end, when she had been forced to play as odious a part as any in which a woman can figure, had crushed and overwhelmed her. She was not of the stuff 26 402 FROM MOOR ISLES which can sin, or be pitiless, or treacherous, on the one hand ; which can be strong and true, and immovably faith- ful on the other, can gain strength by its very actions to continue in them, and which does not break down. If Richard Law had known the girl's nature, he would perhaps have chosen some other method of making her his ; but how w^as he to know anything ? How was he to know that she was different from other women ? She looked just the same; she moved, spoke, and acted like another woman. He did not suppose that her late experience had been exactly a pleasant one. He would have spared it her if he could ; but she would recover. It was better to get things of that sort over, and there had been literally no other means of getting that young fool out of the way. It would all settle down now, and he would find means of making her forget it ; for now that he had succeeded in doing what he wanted, he meant to be very kind to her. After a little time Lucy did seem to forget it ; at any rate, she never spoke of it. She was passive when Dicky came and said he wanted to know what was to prevent him from going to her father. She did not forbid him to do so ; and he went and made a formal proposition to Mr. Barraclough for her hand. Mr. Barraclough, after recovering from his surprise at finding that someone was 'after' Lucy, gave a joyful con- sent, for Richard Law was a wealthy man even now, and there was every prospect that some time he would rise to be one of the magnates of money in those parts. Every- thing smiled upon Dicky in his wooing— except the object of his affections ; she confined herself to this unsmilingness — she made no difficulty about accepting him. AT THORNTON 403 Lucy's reasons for this passive acquiescence were diverse. First, she had got an almost superstitious awe of Dicky's cleverness and of his power. He had so distinctly told her all that he meant to do, and then he had at once and dehberately gone and done it ; without faltering, without swerving or making bungles or mistakes, he had done things which she had thought impossible of accomplishment. That was the first reason. The second was that, now the thing had been spoken of openly and was known by her father and brother, she knew that everything short of brute force would be employed to make her do as they wished ; and she did not feel the capacity or the inclination to fight three strong men, who cared nothing for her feelings and every- thing for their own aggrandisement. Reason the third and last was, that the marriage would bring some variety into her life, some change of scene and surroundings, which might perhaps make her feel a little less wretched than at present she felt. * There is nothing to be feared except fear,' says some writer. Lucy had fallen, physically and mentally, into that condition in which fear finds easy entrance and an open door into the spirit's recesses, but in which happier and saner emotions may knock in vain for admittance. Her fears, so far, had taken no tangible shape ; they consisted more of a vague wish to get things settled, and to put an end to the old life. And this was effected by her marriage in the April following Brian's departure. She was wedded, standing full in the beams of the monster golden eye, to Richard Law, and left Jessamine Lawn for ever. Her husband possessed a house much nearer to Hollowley, in the vicinity of his works, but at first he had determined 4