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 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<H FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 to make their chief residence at Moor Isles. He said he 
 would not take Lucy away from her own people. In 
 pursuance of this resolve, he prepared to have the place 
 turned inside out ; all the old furniture, the simple old 
 things which had been there for generations, were to be 
 moved, and new aesthetic splendours to come in their stead. 
 But before this could be carried out, Lucy had spoken ; she 
 uttered her one fiat in opposition to his wishes. 
 
 ' I can't live at Moor Isles,' she said ^ ' I'll go to 
 Hollo wley.' 
 
 He expressed surprise, reasoned with her, but talked in 
 vain. 
 
 ' You reed not ask me to go there,' she said abruptly ; * I 
 won't.' 
 
 So some furnishing and beautifying were done to the 
 house in Hollowley, and Moor Isles was left as it had been. 
 Dicky offered the post of caretaker to Mrs. Stott, who, 
 while unable to conceal her loathing and scorn for him and 
 all appertaining to him, could, cat-like, not tear herself 
 away from the spot while yet a chance remained to her of 
 staying. She did stay, after telling Richard Law that she 
 would never, as long as she lived, hold it to be the house 
 and property of any other than Brian Holgate. 
 
 As a matter of fact, it was Brian's property, as Dicky of 
 course knew. In a court of justice Dicky could never have 
 substantiated any claim to it. But he knew also that as a 
 debt of honour it was his, and that Brian would never claim 
 it. In this capacity he took possession of it, arranging 
 everything in his own methodical and systematic way. He 
 was only enforcing his rights ; he did not want to go beyond 
 them, and he did not consider that those rights included 
 
AT THORNTON 405 
 
 possession of any of the interior furnishings of the house, or 
 any of its plate or pictures, so, laughing gently at Mrs. Stott's 
 wrath, he told her that she would be undisturbed in the 
 guardianship of these and other things, which for years had 
 been the pride of her heart, until, he added with a slight 
 sneer, such time as it should suit him to come and occupy, 
 when both she and the things would have to make them- 
 selves scarce. 
 
 'And the day as you take possession, Richard Law, and 
 drive out them as has lawful rights over this place, will be 
 the same day as the Lord in heaven forgets as how He is a 
 just God,' said the poor old woman, looking at him with 
 some majesty in her rugged form and face — the majesty of 
 righteous wrath. 
 
 ' Oh, I know nothing about that,' he told her. * That's 
 out of Mother Shipton's prophecies, or something as silly. 
 You remember what I've told you. I shall give you a look 
 in every now and then, to see that my orders are carried 
 out.' 
 
 He left her quivering with rage, and yet filled with an 
 almost hysterical joy at not having been forced to leave the 
 old place after all. 
 
 How Sarah contrived to live was a mystery best under- 
 stood by herself and Alice Ormerod. She had some small 
 savings, but had not been very careful in the matter of 
 hoarding, knowing — as she had fancied — that as long as 
 Moor Isles stood, she would not be without a home. Law 
 offered her no money ; had he done so, she would have 
 been more inclined to spit in his face than take it. Her 
 wants were not numerous, her constitution was of the 
 toughest, and Alice Ormerod lived over the way. 
 
4o6 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 Poor Ferran lived between Moor Isles and the farm. In 
 the evenings he usually lay at Alice Ormerod's feet, till she 
 touched his head softly and said, ' Come, lad,' opened the 
 kitchen door, and bade him 'hie away home,' when he 
 betook himself direct to the back door of Moor Isles. 
 Sometimes, during that winter after Brian's departure, when 
 the nights were long and dark, the younger woman would 
 go across to ' th' House,' as they always called it, and sleep 
 on a bed in Sarah Stott's room ; for the poor old body had 
 got a little timorous, and would recall to herself the many 
 sad scenes which had taken place before the brightness of 
 that house had been quenched, telling Alice she felt as 
 if she heard footfalls, sighs, and sobbings, and that she 
 feared ghosts. 
 
 So Brian Holgate's house knew him no more. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LUCY. 
 
 In April, as has been said, Lucy and Richard were married, 
 and for a month or two all seemed, in a quiet way, to go 
 well. It appeared as if she had recovered the balance 
 which had for a brief season been disturbed, though she 
 sometimes complained of not sleeping, and of a disagree- 
 able, abnormal sensitiveness to sounds, which had in former 
 days been unknown to her. Her father and brother said 
 they never saw her unless they went to visit her ; she was 
 too lazy, they declared, to come all the way up the hill to 
 
LUCY 407 
 
 Thornton. And, indeed, she did not seem very fond of 
 going there. 
 
 But one afternoon, rather late in the summer, though it 
 was still hot and fine, she had for once been to her father's 
 house. He was about to give a dinner-party to sundry 
 business acquaintances of his own kind, and she had been 
 requested to go and see the housekeeper, and decide certain 
 knotty points in regard to the bill of fare. 
 
 She had not felt very bright as she drove there. The 
 evening before, she had learnt from Dicky, in a casual kind 
 of way, what an excellent joke (from his point of view) he 
 had succeeded in playing upon her with regard to the lost 
 bracelet, long ago. The bracelet he had given to her had 
 been her own, which he had recovered without difficulty in 
 the ball-room, had carried to a jeweller's to be put into a 
 new case and receive an extra burnish and gloss, and had 
 then brought to her. 
 
 ' I never said in so many words that it had been made 
 new, you know,' he told her, laughing at the strange 
 expression on her face. ' All's fair in love and war. If I'd 
 given it you back and told you the simple truth, I should 
 have lost my hold over you. Don't you see,' he added 
 more urgently, as she did not respond with alacrity, *I 
 wanted you so much, Lucy, and you were so perverse and 
 so maddening. I believe I would have told lies for twenty- 
 four hours at a stretch to get what I wanted.' 
 
 ' Oh, I understand,' was all she had said. But she had 
 passed a wakeful night. 
 
 This afternoon, she stayed as short a time as possible at 
 her father's house, got into her victoria, and was driven 
 away. On the homeward way she soon came opposite to 
 
4o8 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 the gates of Moor Isles and Ormerod's farm. Just as they 
 were passing the latter, a couple of young cattle rushed 
 tumultuously forth, pursued by the collie, vigorously work- 
 ing to drive them back again. Lucy's horses, with one 
 accord, shied at the unexpected disturbance, and for a 
 minute or two her coachman had some difficulty in keeping 
 them from bolting down the hill, but he succeeded, in a 
 very short time, in calming them. Glancing over his 
 shoulder when this was accomplished, he was surprised to 
 see his mistress lying back in her place, her eyes closed, her 
 face white — evidently in a faint. 
 
 The faint was a long one. Before she recovered con- 
 sciousness, she had to be lifted from her carriage and borne 
 into one of the parlours at Moor Isles. When she opened 
 her eyes at last, and began feebly to shudder, she found two 
 women standing near her, who had evidently been attending 
 to her and applying remedies. After a minute or two she 
 recognised them. They were Alice Ormerod and Sarah 
 Stott. 
 
 After some time, but not until several hours had elapsed, 
 her carriage came back, with her husband in it, for Alice 
 had had presence of mind enough to send the coachman to 
 fetch Law, and they took Lucy back to her own home. A 
 scared look was on her face, a strange, indescribable fatigue 
 in her eyes. The doctor was sent for, made many inquiries, 
 examined carefully, and finally said that he could not pro- 
 nounce in the matter. He could call it nothing but a case 
 of nerves. There was nothing organically wrong ; he had 
 used every remedy he could think of. No one in ordinary 
 health could possibly be affected in this way by so slight a 
 shock ; but Lucy denied having been out of health up to 
 
LUCY 409 
 
 now. On the whole, after a week's futile efforts to procure 
 for his patient sleep by night or rest by day, he informed 
 Dicky that he would like to have the advice of a specialist 
 in such matters, to help his own knowledge. 
 
 Accordingly, a 'specialist in such matters' was sent for 
 from afar — a stout man, with a round face and an innocent- 
 looking button of a mouth, which to the uninitiated eye did 
 not promise much. But a certain expression in his eyes, 
 and tone in his voice, speedily inspired respect. And he 
 had a not unkindly expression. 
 
 At first it seemed as if everything would go right. He 
 knew so much, understood so well, was never at fault for a 
 moment. Even Dicky, the unimpressionable, was impressed. 
 *He makes Palmer look like a child,' he said afterwards. 
 This savant did something mysterious with gaslight and 
 glasses, through which he inspected Lucy's eyes, making no 
 sign the while. Her appearance was just what it always 
 had been, only for the terrible exhaustion, which seemed to 
 go down in the eyes to infinite depths. But she had fever, 
 turned with disgust from food, and when he questioned her 
 as to her feelings, the same look of terror, uncontrollable 
 and unlimited, crossed her face, and she said, almost in a 
 whisper — 
 
 ' I am sure I am going mad.' 
 
 Dicky's face blanched in turn. This was the first hint 
 he had heard of the horrid idea. She had been very 
 reserved with the Hollowley doctor, but the specialist 
 seemed to inspire her with at least the confidence to tell 
 him her worst fears. 
 
 * I am sure I am ; and I can't think of anything but my- 
 self and what my mind feels like,' she added. 
 
4IO FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 The physician smiled in a superior manner. 
 
 * Quite a mistake, my dear madam. Your brain is 
 organically sound. You are no more mad than I am. 
 You are suffering from anaemia — cerebral anaemia it is, 
 which paints everything in these black colours just at 
 present. You have nothing to fear on that score. There 
 is no danger to your life, and none to your reason.' 
 
 ' I have done wrong,' said Lucy. * I have been very 
 wicked, and I am going mad' She turned her face aside, 
 and burst into tears — into an agony of helpless, hopeless 
 weeping, betokening, indeed, a functional weakness terrible 
 to contemplate, but no insanity whatsoever. 
 
 Again the great specialist smiled. 
 
 'Doing wrong,' said he, 'has nothing to do with this kind 
 of thing. You might commit a murder and feel com- 
 paratively comfortable, with one sort of temperament. 
 You may be faultless and suffer tortures, with another.' 
 But he looked at Dicky, and asked him, ' Is there the 
 slightest ground for what your wife says of herself, Mr. 
 Law?' 
 
 ' Not a jot,' said Dicky stoutly, and believed he was tell- 
 ing the truth. ' Excepting that she yielded to me in letting 
 something be done that she didn't quite like; that's all.' 
 
 ' I thought as much. But there has been mental strain 
 along with it, considerable strain, evidently. That tells. 
 On certain peculiarly constituted nervous temperaments 
 it tells with most painful results, such as we see here. 
 Mrs. Law ' — he laid his hand kindly upon her shoulder, as 
 she still lay weeping — ' I can only assure you that you have 
 nothing the matter with you that is not perfectly curable. 
 You are very ill — it is best to face facts — and you will not 
 
LUCY 411 
 
 be well for a long time yet. But you tvill get well. You 
 must have rest, absolute rest, of mind and body ; and food 
 — I will give you my ideas about food,' he added, turning 
 to the Hollowley doctor, while the amazed and anxious 
 Dicky, to whom everything connected with ' nerves ' was a 
 sealed book, stood by in astonishment, he being firmly 
 convinced that what Lucy needed was what in his own 
 mind he called a ' strengthening mixture ' of some sort. 
 
 Lucy turned round and said in a hopeless kind of 
 voice — 
 
 ' No one could suffer more than I am suffering, not the 
 worst lunatic in all Bedlam.' 
 
 ' No,' said the specialist readily, ' that is quite true ; and 
 from that very fact you must take consolation. [' Whew !' 
 thought Dicky.] You know just where you are different 
 from what you have been a little while ago — a certain proof 
 of your sanity. Don't fight so desperately with your pain- 
 ful sensations. Just say to yourself, "They may do their 
 worst, I shall get over it." You are not going mad, what- 
 ever you may think. You suffer more, perhaps, than if 
 you were. Rest, food, change, time, and no worry or 
 anxiety — these must be your medicines; there are no 
 others for your illness. You have youth on your side and 
 a constitution that is sound, if not robust. These will pull 
 you through, you may rest assured.' 
 
 She only wept on, hopelessly, helplessly. It was too 
 much trouble to say that she would greatly have preferred 
 sentence of death, and that no recovery could ever com- 
 pensate for the tortures of fear, sleeplessness, depression, in 
 the midst of which she was now living. 
 
 The specialist returned in the course of a week or ten 
 
412 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 days, but found scarcely any alteration in his patient She 
 was still living, still suffering, still hopeless and terrified, 
 still perfectly and almost painfully sane in her intellectual 
 processes, still feeling as if she would be, as she expressed 
 it, ' a raving maniac the next moment.' 
 
 * Do you mean to say that my wife's brain is not weak ?' 
 Dicky asked him in private, after they had left Lucy's room. 
 He felt angry with the man — the anger of ignorance and 
 impotence. 
 
 * Physically it is — not intellectually.' 
 
 This did not do Dicky much good, though he had a 
 glimmering of what was meant. 
 
 ' Her nerves have utterly given way,' continued the 
 physician. ' And it is easier to say that than to set them 
 up again.' 
 
 ' Nerves,' repeated Dicky darkly ; ' if I had a nerve that 
 lifted its head and dared to tell me that it had " given way," 
 I'd so doctor that nerve that it should never complain again. 
 That I would.' 
 
 The specialist suppressed a laugh of amusement, and 
 merely remarked, sotto voce, as he shook his head, ' Gut 
 gebriillt Lowe P 
 
 ' What do you say ?' asked Law. * Is that the name of 
 her illness ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ! The name of her illness, at least the name 
 we give it at present, is neurasthenia. They have a great 
 deal of it in America, and it's from there that we get the 
 best treatment for it — the most successful, so far, at any 
 rate. What I say is, that you must get Mrs. Law away 
 from here as soon as possible — slight changes at first, and 
 then, as soon as she is able to bear it, greater ones. You 
 
LUCY 413 
 
 had better have a nurse for her. It will add to her com- 
 fort.' 
 
 During the month or two that followed, Lucy had ' little 
 changes ' from one place to another ; had food, had rest, 
 had a nurse ; saw other physicians, but remained much the 
 same. It was a London doctor who at last advised a 
 voyage and, when Dicky suggested America, approved of 
 the idea, recommending a great physician in Philadelphia, 
 who was considered to have gone more deeply into these 
 things than any other man in the world. So it came to 
 pass that Dicky made arrangements as soon as he could 
 for leaving his business for a time, and taking his wife and 
 her nurse across the Atlantic, in the hope of speedily curing 
 what time alone, if anything, could in any way ameliorate. 
 Perhaps the specialists knew this. Perhaps they knew, too, 
 that torture itself may be lessened by the idea that one is 
 doing something of an active nature to get rid of it. That 
 the party found themselves in the same hotel with Felix and 
 his friends, was nothing more than a not very startling 
 coincidence. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 *THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS !' 
 
 The details of this story were of course not known to any 
 of the Arkwright party. All that they were acquainted with 
 — and by ' they ' I mean chiefly Brian and Elisabeth, who 
 alone took any active interest in the matter — was what 
 Lucy's nurse had told to Mrs. Reichardt's maid. Through 
 this functionary also they learned that Mrs. Law continued 
 
414 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 very ill indeed ; that, despite the confident predictions of 
 the ' specialist in these matters,' the voyage had produced 
 no good effect upon her ; and that the great physician in 
 Philadelphia, who had been at once consulted, had not 
 expressed himself so sanguinely as those at home. To 
 Lucy herself he had said all that was cheering, but he had 
 told Lucy's husband that her state was serious; that her brain 
 was so weak as to render any shock exceedingly dangerous 
 to either her life or her reason ; but that, nevertheless, it 
 was very bad for her to remain always shut up in herself. 
 As she was unable to take any exercise without the most 
 terrible bodily fatigue and mental depression resulting from 
 it, he advised that she should be driven to his house instead 
 of his going to see her. His chief hope for her recovery 
 consisted in bringing her by slow degrees to get accustomed 
 to little snatches of change and variety. As these accumu- 
 lated, so, he trusted, would her power of bearing them, and 
 her capacity for feeling an interest in something outside that 
 ring of torture, her own morbid mental and physical sensa- 
 tions. They had a small suite of rooms in the quietest part 
 of the hotel, and there lived in a privacy as great as if they 
 had been in their own house — perhaps even greater. 
 
 One day, about a fortnight after the Laws had arrived, 
 and when Felix's engagement in Philadelphia was drawing 
 to a close, there had been an afternoon concert at the 
 Academy of Music, at which Felix had sung several times. 
 He had excited the wildest delight and enthusiasm in his 
 audience; and, feeling very good-natured for some reason 
 which might be connected with the fact that Jnes and 
 Elisabeth sat near the front in full view of him, he had 
 more than once consented to a recall. It was six o'clock 
 
'THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS F 415 
 
 before the concert was over. Joining his two friends, he 
 drove back to the hotel with them in a close carriage. He 
 had not to sing again that night, but there were some 
 arrangements to be made about the morrow. 
 
 *I wonder where Holgate is,' he said, as they all went 
 in ; and he sent in search of him ; but Brian was not to be 
 found. 
 
 He (Brian) had accompanied the others to the concert, 
 though he did not sit with them. He felt to-day a little 
 less restless and unhappy than he had done yet since his 
 knowledge of Lucy's presence in the house. Something, 
 some influence, he knew not what, seemed to lay a soothing 
 hand on his weary spirit. The intense consciousness of 
 Lucy's sufferings was not so keenly burning in his mind 
 as usual. He sat still in his corner, quite in the back- 
 ground, and listened with greater pleasure than usual, and 
 with more attention than for a long time he had been able 
 to give to anything of this kind. It was a fine concert, and 
 he enjoyed it until at last Felix, rising in compliance with 
 an eager demand for a repetition, said two or three words 
 to his accompanist, and began to sing the song which Brian 
 had never forgotten — 
 
 * Der Ernst hat mir bereifet des Hauses Dach 
 Doch warm ist's mir geblieben im Wohngemach.' etc. — 
 
 Riickert's words to Schubert's music, which Felix had sung 
 on the night that always seemed to Brian a hundred years 
 ago, but was never to be forgotten, when he had visited 
 Moor Isles, and soon after the singing of which song Lucy 
 and her brother had marched into the room. 
 
 Dreamily and ideally beautiful now as then, and divinely 
 
4i6 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 sung by the great artist, it was more than the young man 
 could bear to hear. After drinking in a few bars, and feel- 
 ing the pain of recollection and longing rise to the keenest 
 agony, he quietly arose, being near the door, and left the 
 hall, noiselessly and unobserved. A passing wonder seized 
 him, in the course of his torturing introspection. How was 
 it that Felix Arkwright, who had never in his life suffered 
 pains like these which had laid Brian low, had the power to 
 produce tones, inflections, cadences of such piercing sweet- 
 ness and pathos as to open up new depths of emotion and 
 insight in the consciousness even of one who had suffered 
 till he had almost succumbed to his suffering? Perhaps, 
 after all, it was the sufferer himself who read into the music 
 meanings which had not occurred to the artist. 
 
 He smiled a Httle to himself as towards the hotel he 
 threaded his way along the gaily lighted Chestnut and 
 Thirteenth Streets — streets filled with busy people intent on 
 their Christmas shopping, their friends, their amusements. 
 
 Oh, if Lucy could hear that song ! But no, she had 
 come after it had been sung. It would not convey to her 
 the meaning it had for him ; it would tell her nothing. He 
 wondered whether any part of her present illness had arisen 
 from strain, or anxiety, or vexation at the time of his de- 
 parture. He remembered with a shudder the fierce, pitiless 
 words he had said to her ; he remembered how she had 
 almost fallen, as if someone had struck her a physical blow ; 
 he remembered, too, what a little slender thing she was, 
 with a pale face and a habit of being very tired with nothing 
 in particular; and a wild uneasiness seized him. What 
 would he not give to assure her that all was forgiven — if 
 she would only get well and look once again like the Lucy 
 
'THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS!' 417 
 
 Barraclough of old days — yes, if she would only be happy, 
 even though he had lost her and another man had won her, 
 and she had been feeble and false and treacherous ! 
 
 Here he was at the hotel. He entered it and, instead of 
 getting into the elevator and going either to his own room 
 or to that which Felix and he used as a kind of office and 
 reception-room for business purposes, he turned towards the 
 staircase and began slowly and abstractedly to ascend it. 
 He was lost to everything except the thoughts which the 
 hearing of Felix's song had awakened. It was, therefore, 
 perhaps not remarkable that he should stray from the direct 
 way and, instead of turning on a landing and pursuing the 
 grand staircase, go straight before him up a flight of narrower 
 stairs which should have been shut off by a door that some 
 careless person had left open. 
 
 It was only when he had reached the top of these stairs, 
 and found himself standing on a landing with which he was 
 totally unacquainted, that he came to a pause. It was the 
 unfamiliarity of the place which brought him to himself — 
 the fact that he had almost run against a wall where he had 
 expected to find free passage. He stood still and began to 
 look about him, realizing that he had made a mistake and 
 got into a part of the building to him unknown. As a 
 matter of fact, he had penetrated to what was known as 
 * the private wing ' of the hotel — a small annexe containing 
 several suites of rooms held in much favour by such resi- 
 dents as loved quietness and retirement. He had not 
 known of its existence, but, as he stood now, thinking of 
 retracing his steps, he noticed how very quiet it was. The 
 carpets were thick and soft ; one got the impression of 
 double doors softly swinging on noiseless hinges; not a 
 
 27 
 
4i8 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 sound was to be heard of the bustle and traffic outside, 
 which had seemed to penetrate to every other part of the 
 hotel. 
 
 At last it occurred to Brian, in his half-awake state, to 
 look for the staircase up which he had come, and to go 
 down it again. He turned to do so, and was not far from 
 it when two women, who had been slowly climbing it, 
 gained the landing and paused. The younger and slighter 
 of them leaned heavily on her companion, and laid her 
 hand on her heart, panting as though breathless or oppressed. 
 Brian's breath seemed to fail him, and his heart stood still. 
 It w^as Lucy — his love Lucy. Hundreds of times a day, 
 since he knew of her presence here, he had dreamed of 
 meeting her — longed for it, dreaded it, tormented himself 
 by thinking of it ; and here, face to face with her, he was ! 
 
 He moved slowly forward, looking at her, and she, open- 
 ing her eyes at last, for she had closed them in her breath- 
 lessness, beheld him. Her limp and unstrung attitude, 
 drooping, broken, and languid, seemed slowly to stiffen into 
 rigidity as she looked at him. 
 
 * Lucy !' he said, in an imploring whisper, as he stretched 
 out his hands towards her — ' Lucy, I knew you were here. 
 You are ill, they tell me. I'm so unhappy to think you 
 should be ill or grieving. Don't fret for anything that has 
 ever been between us. I'm sorry I ever spoke so harshly 
 to you as I did. I've repented it many a time, and wished 
 to tell you so.' 
 
 ' Sir !' exclaimed the nurse, ' I don't know who you are, 
 but this lady is very ill, and must not be startled. It's as 
 
 much ' She checked herself in time from saying, ' as 
 
 her life is worth ;' but she both looked and was frightened 
 
' THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS!' 419 
 
 and annoyed. Both her master and the doctor had so 
 impressed upon her the danger of any shock to Lucy, that 
 she was in continual anxiety on the subject. * Ah !' she 
 exclaimed in a loud voice, as Lucy swayed unsteadily, and 
 she caught her, and held her up. * Oh, she's fainted,' she 
 added sharply to Brian. 'You don't know what you are 
 doing, startling her in that way.' 
 
 * Where is her room ?' he asked, springing forward and 
 catching Lucy in his arms, wishing at the moment that the 
 room might be miles away. 
 
 'This way— quick!' said the nurse, going rapidly before 
 him. ' Bring her in, and lay her down, and then go away, 
 or there will be a pretty to-do when Mr. Law comes in.' 
 
 It was a bedroom into which she had called him. 
 
 ' Lay her on the bed,' said she. ' Oh dear, oh dear ! now 
 we shall have her ill and crying again for a week or more 
 when she comes out of this. There, I can undress her 
 here. Now, please go at once, sir. I know exactly what 
 to do.' 
 
 But Brian did not go. He laid the motionless figure on 
 the bed, and did not move, even when the nurse came with 
 her remedies. Scolding and grumbling, she went round to 
 the other side of the bed, and was about to unfasten the 
 hood which Lucy wore, when Brian lifted his hand to stop 
 her. He was gazing down into Lucy's face, and he said in 
 a low, steady, but thrilling voice, as if speaking to him- 
 self— . 
 
 ' Don't tease her with any of those things. She'll never 
 want them any more. She is dead.' 
 
 ' Don't say such things !' said the nurse, in angry perturba- 
 tion, ' but go, and let me attend to her.' 
 
420 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 * She is dead,' repeated Brian, with a deep, heart-breaking 
 sob, which seemed to rend his very heart. ' Oh, Lucy, how 
 glad I am that you heard what I said. How glad I am ! 
 Forgive me — forgive me what I ever said to you !' 
 
 He kissed her forehead so lightly that scarce could it be 
 called a kiss, slipped upon his knees by the bedside, laid 
 one hand upon hers, and was silent. In that moment, 
 nothing in the world existed for him, save only her. 
 
 The nurse began to cry. Such a scene was without 
 precedent in her experience. She lived and acted by rule, 
 and knew not what to do in the emergency. 
 
 Suddenly another voice asked — 
 
 ' What is all this ? Is my wife ill ? What ' 
 
 Brian got up, turned swiftly, and discovered himself to 
 Law, who, though he neither started nor shrank, for his 
 nerves were of steel, nevertheless showed a great change of 
 countenance. 
 
 ' Holgate !' he said, hardly above a whisper ; and then, 
 * What are you doing here ?' 
 
 * Saying good-bye,' replied Brian, in a quiet, low voice. 
 ' I met her just now on the stairs, and when I spoke to her 
 she fainted. I carried her in here. You asked if she was 
 ill ; she'll never be ill any more.' 
 
 * I told the gentleman it was as much as ' began the 
 
 nurse, sobbing. 
 
 ' Hush !' said Brian. ' Richard Law, I did not know how 
 ill she was. I only knew she was ill. You may tell me 
 I've killed her. I can't say no. I shall never know 
 whether I am sorry either ; for I shall never know whether 
 she would be the happier, living or dead. That's in God's 
 hands. If I had known, I would not have spoken to her, 
 
* THEN GOOD-NIGHT, ALAS /' 42 1 
 
 I think. I shall be here yet a while, if you have anything 
 to say to me.' 
 
 He paused. Law maintained his composure, though he 
 had gone very white, and his hands clenched themselves. 
 He looked aside, almost stealthily, at the bed on which 
 Lucy lay. Brian, his eyes still fixed upon him, moved 
 aside, as if to make room for him to go nearer, but he 
 did not. 
 
 * You see,' said the young man, after a silence, and in an 
 unnatural, exultant kind of voice — 'you see her, and you 
 see me. You laid a trap to get everything from me — my 
 money, my house, my wife— all that made life worth any- 
 thing to me, and you succeeded ; you got all you wanted. 
 I hope you are satisfied.' 
 
 He turned and went out of the room, leaving them there. 
 He found his way again to the busier part of the hotel, and 
 as he went he began to understand more clearly the mean- 
 ing of what had happened. He felt as if the roof and walls 
 would stifle him, and he went out of the house, into the 
 street, and walked on and on and on, he knew not whither, 
 communing with himself in a strange, excited frame of 
 mind, which was not grief, nor exultation, nor despair, but 
 which perhaps partook of them all. He knew not what the 
 hour was when at last he began to feel a sense of bodily 
 fatigue, and discovered that he was in some quiet suburb, 
 with rows of neat-looking houses on either side, and rather 
 dim lamps burning at considerable distances from one 
 another. As most of these houses were perfectly dark and 
 perfectly quiet, he concluded that the night was advanced. 
 At last a belated * horse-car' came jingling down the road. 
 It was bound for the town. He got into it, and, crouched 
 
422 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 in a corner, felt almost dead with exhaustion, mental and 
 bodily. 
 
 When at last he reached the hotel, he found it also quiet, 
 and no one but the night-porter about. He got to his 
 room, and at last slept the sleep of one who is worn out. 
 Henceforth for him life would contain nothing very agitating. 
 Lucy was dead, and his story was told. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 INES WRITES. 
 
 I PASS over the weeks which flew by with such rapidity after 
 we had left our Virginian paradise, till we found ourselves 
 established for a while in Philadelphia. It would not be 
 particularly interesting to give full particulars of a tour 
 through all the best known parts of Northern and Eastern 
 America; nor would an account of my varying states of 
 mind, my griefs and my joys, my pains and my pleasures, 
 be much more edifying. It is enough to say that, when we 
 arrived at Philadelphia, things were, apparently, much as 
 they had been when we left Front Royal, after my explana- 
 tion to Felix and my letter to Maurice. I had received no 
 answer from the latter. I knew not whether he intended to 
 accept or to ignore my decision. Despite Felix's command 
 that I should forget troubles and give myself up to amuse- 
 ment and enjoyment, I could not always do so. One's 
 feelings are apt to be unruly, however strong the curb 
 which may restrain them outwardly. There were times 
 when my enjoyment was keen and high ; there were other 
 times when my heart ached so cruelly that I longed to get 
 away from all this, and once more be quietly secluded at 
 
INES WRITES 423 
 
 Madame Prenat's. Oftentimes it was hard work, this rush- 
 ing about, sight-seeing, and * enjoying,' with an anxious 
 mind and a preoccupied heart. Elisabeth's kindness never 
 failed me. Felix was kind, too, but in spite of all my 
 struggles not to entertain what I considered ungenerous 
 feelings, I could not help noticing how entirely he treated 
 me as Elisabeth's friend and p7'oiegee. It was all right ; it 
 relieved us all of a vast amount of embarrassment, but it 
 made me more than ever determined to have some clear 
 understanding about the future. It had been settled that, 
 after his engagement at Philadelphia, he was to sing in 
 Washington for a week, then to go once more to New York, 
 fulfil rather a long engagement there, and, about the middle 
 of January, return to England. This was spoken of as 
 decided, and, as I sat listening to him at that afternoon 
 concert, while he sang the lovely ' Greisenge-sang,' I re- 
 solved that I would, that night, get myself excused from 
 attending a grand reception to which we were bidden, and 
 write a long letter to Professor Willoughby, in which I could 
 joyfully tell him that all was now settled and that I hoped 
 to be able to resume work with him by the beginning of 
 February. 
 
 We returned from the concert. Felix, not finding Brian 
 Holgate in his private room, sent to inquire about him and 
 say that he wanted him. But he was not to be found ; only 
 a waiter had some idea that he had seen the gentleman go 
 out about half-past six. He had left no message and was 
 not in his own room. 
 
 ' Odd !' said Felix as we went down into the dining-room. 
 * He is usually so punctilious. I can manage, I dare say, 
 without him.' 
 
424 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 We dined, and returned to our sitting-room. Elisabeth 
 was somewhat opposed to my remaining behind. 
 
 * Oh, a truce to your musty old Professor !' she cried, 
 when she heard my reason. ' Let him wait. You want to 
 tell him about some negro words ? If he thinks a lifetime 
 but a bagatelle to give to the study of Sanskrit alone, what 
 can he want with such frivolities as nigger dialect ?' 
 
 * Let her write to him if she likes,' said Felix, unex- 
 pectedly coming to my assistance. 
 
 Elisabeth had again begun, 'Oh, but ' when I saw 
 
 him look at her, raising his eyebrows slightly, whereupon she 
 became silent, with a half-smile, half-frown, and presently 
 observed — 
 
 ' Well, I shall have to go with you and my father. Per- 
 haps it is best, after all. There will be nothing to distract 
 attention from my new Worth gown ; the folk will have to 
 use all the force of their intellects to grasp the fact that 
 there can be such a thing as an Englishwoman well-dressed. 
 Come along.' 
 
 In a few minutes they had all left the room. I was glad 
 that I was to be allowed to do as I wished. I heard their 
 steps down the passage, and their voices for a minute or 
 two, then there was silence. Our sitting-room was in a 
 rather quiet part of the hotel. As I at last sat down at the 
 table with my writing materials, one interruption, and one 
 only, occurred : I heard the voice of Mrs. van Bibber, the 
 young Virginian lady whose acquaintance we had made at 
 Front Royal and who was wintering in this same hotel, 
 uplifted, as she went along the hall, calling upon her mer- 
 curial son, Dubois — 
 
 * Dubois, Dubois, Boisey ! O Boisey !' 
 
INES WRITES 425 
 
 No reply. The voice wandered further away. I smiled 
 to myself. Dubois was probably not so far away as his 
 unsuspecting mother imagined. I took up my pen, but did 
 not at once begin to write. I could have sat there, dream- 
 ing, the whole evening — dreams of mingled sweetness and 
 bitterness ; but of late I had very much discouraged myself 
 from any such waste of time. Waste of time it was for me, 
 I knew, and nothing else. Those who have to face life, 
 and work, work, work, must not dream at first. When all 
 is over, when the battle has been fought and won — or lost 
 — then is the time for dreams, sad or glad. I had been 
 vigorously inculcating this truism on my own mind, and at 
 last I bent in earnest over the paper, beginning, * Dear Pro- 
 fessor Willoughby.' Then another pause. What did Felix 
 mean by raising his eyebrows and looking, half under his 
 eyelids, at Elisabeth ? What did she mean by so suddenly 
 giving up her point ? Probably it meant that he wished a 
 word with her in private, and that in the comparative shelter 
 of the crowded reception he hoped to get it. Yes ; and my 
 not being there would make the opportunity more easy to 
 secure. I did not feel any resentment at this idea. It 
 seemed to me the most natural thing in the world, but my 
 heart ached, as it often had ached lately, and with an 
 almost savage feeling I wished myself away, out of it all, 
 and at peace. Let them keep their beautiful friendship ! 
 A beautiful friendship it was, and always had been ; enough 
 to dignify and ennoble the lives of both, since they did not 
 choose to cement a closer union. They had a right to it ; 
 I hoped they would live in it for years. But that did not 
 prevent me from feeling as if I could not bear to stand by 
 and see it all. I loved them both — adored them, almost — 
 
426 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 that I would have confessed ; but I must have had a very 
 bad, vicious disposition. Of late it had been unbearable to 
 me to see them together, and to feel how united, how brave 
 and happy they were, while I must, from the very nature of 
 things, remain outside in the cold. 
 
 Stung by these thoughts, and calling pride and self- 
 control to my aid, which things were always a good deal 
 assisted by the arrilre pensee, 'it won't last very much 
 longer now,' I pushed my hair back, and began to write in 
 earnest; and after a time, I found that though not pro- 
 foundly interested in what I was saying, still I had a good 
 many subjects to discuss, and was able to give some 
 attention to them. I-ying beside me on the table was a 
 Zend grammar, to which 1 had been trying to give a little 
 attention for some time past. I would make a list of knotty 
 points which I wanted explamed. How interesting ! I 
 would, in short, do anything which should pass the time, 
 employ my hands and my head, and save me from falling 
 into one of those everlasting dreams, reveries, or broodings, 
 which always now persisted in overtaking me whenever I 
 was idle, and the enervating effect of whose treacherous 
 sweetness I had grown greatly to dread. I thought, hold- 
 ing my pen suspended, I could tell the Professor that it was 
 quite settled we should return in January ; that I was not 
 going to be married ; that I was free, and should be at 
 liberty when I returned to England to undertake for him 
 without fear of interruption any work that he wished me 
 to do. 
 
 Again I was smiling, a little bitterly, as I thought these 
 thoughts. At the same moment I heard a step outside. 
 The door-handle was turned. I sat still, staring in utter 
 
INES WRITES 427 
 
 surprise at Felix, who came into the room, looking at me 
 with an expression I could not quite understand. At last I 
 asked — 
 
 * Have you come away from the party ?' 
 
 * No,' he said, coming up to me and standing beside me, 
 *I have not. I never went' 
 
 ' Never went ? Not when you went out with EHsabeth 
 and Mr. Reichardt ?' 
 
 * No,' he said, rather impatiently ; * not when I went out 
 with Elisabeth and Mr. Reichardt. How frightfully matter 
 of fact you are !' 
 
 I was silent. My theory of his wishing to have an inter- 
 view with Elisabeth was thus shattered to pieces. Then I 
 became conscious that he was still looking at me. Then I 
 was aware of a rapid beating of my heart, and of a wonder 
 and a bewilderment as he went on, in his deep soft voice, 
 and with his rather slow intonation, for Felix, while never 
 behindhand, was never in a hurry — 
 
 *I fully intended going. I don't know what they will 
 think of me. The only chance of escape was the fact that 
 as the party was not given expressly on my account, I could 
 stay away without exciting deadly passions. Yes, I meant 
 to go ; but when I found that you were not going, that 
 suited me better still, and I stayed.' 
 
 In this speech there were certainly several robust, full- 
 blown contradictions and inconsistencies, which occurred 
 to me afterwards. All I found to say in reply to it at that 
 moment was, in a hesitating and embarrassed manner — 
 
 ' What have I to do with it ?' 
 
 ' Ah, I knew you would ask that,' he said, smiling. 
 
 And I began to wonder what had happened to him ; but, 
 
428 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 all the time, that strange, excited beating of my heart never 
 stopped. As for Felix, whatever he may have felt, he was 
 not the man to lose his head and look foolish. He saw my 
 expression of wonder, and began to laugh a little. 
 
 * You look surprised. I expect you will be still more so, 
 and will think me an absolute maniac, when I tell you that 
 we have never finished that conversation we had a few 
 months ago, soon after you came. You may have forgotten 
 all about it ' — [' No !' I murmured, under my breath. I 
 knew what he meant. I had not forgotten a word of it.] 
 — 'but I have not. I have been such a slave to this tour- 
 ing about and party giving, and the "show business" in 
 general, that I have never been able to call an hour my 
 own. To-night I resolved to break my bonds, and finish 
 the discussion — if you will, ' he added in a gentle tone, which 
 caused something to catch unpleasantly in my throat. 
 
 ' I — but we settled everything then. You — oh, you surely 
 did send that letter to Maurice !' I cried, a sudden appre- 
 hension seizing me. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I sent the letter to Maurice. And I had one 
 from him, thanking me for my — intercession for him.' 
 
 * You did not tell me that.' 
 
 * Why should I have told you ? Are you not satisfied 
 with the pain the poor fellow has had ?' 
 
 I merely looked at him. I was angry. 
 
 * I beg your pardon. Do not scorch me out of existence 
 altogether. Let us proceed. I sent him the letter. And I 
 beg you will observe how honourably I am behaving even 
 now. I gave you, in my own mind, an hour in which to 
 write your letter, and I have been patiently sitting in my 
 business-room, without anything to do except read a Seaside 
 
INES WRITES 429 
 
 Library novel, pirated from England, and wait. And here 
 you are at it yet. You must have been " talking a blue 
 streak " on all those sheets of paper. I would give some- 
 thing to know what you can possibly have to say to that 
 most excellent but most knotty and crabbed of savants.^ 
 
 ' There is what I have said to him,' said I. * You can 
 read it all if you like.' 
 
 He glanced at one of the sheets and shook his head, 
 smiling as he drew a chair to the side of the table and 
 placed himself in it. There was a lamp on this table. It 
 was just behind him, and shone straight upon my face. 
 
 * No, no ! Such small writing, and so much of it, with 
 all those curious little characters interspersed. It is no 
 doubt very interesting to you and to him, but quite above 
 my head, as I have often told you before.' 
 
 I said nothing. Formerly I had always contradicted this 
 statement aloud ; but formerly I had done many things 
 which I now did no more. 
 
 ' I have often observed,' he went on, 'that if one can do 
 one thing well and be not a complete fool in other respects, 
 one gets a reputation for being clever all round. I have 
 such a reputation amongst some of my friends, but 
 fortunately I know my true worth, or worthlessness, better 
 than they do.' 
 
 ' I have heard that you know a great deal more than you 
 pretend, about some things,' said I, not looking at him. 
 * French history, in ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't let us be personal !' he said, quickly inter- 
 rupting me. ' Seriously, I should like to have a talk w4th 
 you, if you will permit it. Do you object ?' 
 
 'Certainly not,' I replied, once more frozen by his 
 
430 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 assumption of the grown-up tone towards me — ceremonious 
 and dignified. It might have been natural enough if I had 
 been a stranger, but it always embarrassed me seriously 
 when I reflected upon our real relations. For, with a 
 deep-seated instinct, I knew that only so long as in his 
 eyes I was a child could I tolerate those relations at all. 
 
 * Well, have you any idea how much you have changed, 
 since we parted after the festival at Kirkfence ?' 
 
 ' You said so, when we first met' 
 'And don't you feel it yourself?' 
 
 * Yes. I was a child then ; now I am — a grown-up person.' 
 
 * And which would you rather be ? which do you enjoy 
 the most ?' 
 
 ' Each state has its advantages,' I said oracularly. 
 
 ' That night at Baltimore,' he went on, ' how you startled 
 me ! I can't describe it. I went into the room, and saw 
 no one at first. Then I perceived a wild buzzing of mos- 
 quitoes, and then I saw the person who had recklessly let 
 them in, with her back towards rne, leaning out of the 
 window. I recognised the way in which you do your hair 
 — you haven't changed that — and the shape of your neck 
 and shoulder, and I said joyfully to myself, "Oh, here is 
 Ines !" and I put my hand on your shoulder quite naturally, 
 didn't I ?' 
 
 ' It was done not unnaturally, so far as I know,' I said, 
 with rather a nervous laugh, wondering why he would go 
 into all these — to me — embarrassing details. 
 
 * I expected — for one forgets how people can change, at 
 your age, and I had led a busy life since I crossed the 
 Atlantic — I expected to see my little girl turn and look at 
 me, and instead of that ' 
 
INES WRITES 431 
 
 I looked at him inquiringly. I was really curious to 
 know what he had seen, or thought he had seen, instead of 
 his little girl. 
 
 * I was confronted by a stately, and I may say, haughty- 
 looking young lady — so different, so utterly different. I 
 felt as if I had committed an unpardonable freedom in 
 touching you. I give you my word, I was never more 
 abashed in my life. So self-possessed, you were; so still, 
 and pale, and proud-looking ! Your eyes, your expression 
 — everything about you, was so altered. I did not know 
 what to say to you. I told Lisa so, afterwards. She said 
 it was exactly what she had expected to hear.' 
 
 He ceased, and then I knew that he had been speaking 
 much more rapidly than usual, and with something like 
 vehemence, though in a low voice. 'Still, and pale, and 
 proud,' seemed to ring in my ears, as I aimlessly turned 
 over the leaves of my book. What extraordinary language 
 to address to me ! Was it a reproach ? What was I to 
 say? 
 
 * And so grave,' he went on. ' Since then I have learnt 
 that the pride was only skin-deep — at least to me; and I 
 am grateful. It was crushing at first.' 
 
 ' I think it is cruel of you to say that to me,' I said, in 
 great agitation. ' As if — / proud — and to you !' I could 
 hardly restrain my tears, and my voice shook. 
 
 ' I don't mean that it was at all what one calls " nasty 
 pride," ' he went on, and I thought I heard a laugh in his 
 voice. " It is only a part of yourself, and when I had got 
 over the first shock of it, I rather liked it. But the gravity 
 — are you always grave now ?' 
 
 ' I don't know that I am particularly grave.' 
 
432 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 *But you are. You are very grave. And I think you 
 feel very grave sometimes, don't you ?' 
 
 'Surely everyone must, who has begun to think, and 
 understand things.' 
 
 ' Think, and understand things I I wonder what that 
 means? We are now coming to what I wished to talk 
 about. What have you thought about, what do you under- 
 stand, that should give you that almost melancholy gravity?' 
 
 * I'm sorry if I am so depressing.' 
 
 * I never said you were depressing. I perceive you can 
 be malicious. What a reproachful look ! Indeed, I am 
 not jesting with you. May I tell you what I think you 
 mean ?' 
 
 * Oh yes.' 
 
 ' As you say, you have passed from a child — or almost a 
 child — into a woman, and you have had to begin to think 
 about things. Maurice made you think about things, didn't 
 he?' 
 
 I tried to nod my head. I could not speak. But I 
 planted my elbows firmly on the table and shielded my 
 face with my left hand, feeling desperate. What had 
 prompted him to come and put me through a catechism 
 like this ? It was horrible. I wished that the others would 
 return before their time, or that ' Boisey ' would, as was his 
 wont sometimes, burst into the room, clatter madly round 
 it, and go out again — that anything would happen which 
 should give me an excuse for moving away from the scrutiny 
 under which I felt myself sitting. But nothing did happen, 
 and Felix went on, unperturbed. 
 
 ' Yes, just as I thought ! You need not cover up your 
 face in that way. That story with Maurice is over and 
 
INES WRITES 433 
 
 done. Still, it made you think about things, as you admit. 
 As for understanding them, I want to get to the bottom of 
 that idea, too. When you found that Lisa spoke favour- 
 ably of this marriage, and when you found that I, without 
 asking you anything about it, gave my consent — I speak as 
 a monitor and guardian — then you thought you understood 
 that your oldest friend, Ines--your oldest friend, who has 
 never had one thought towards you but of kindness — 
 wanted, to use your own harsh expression, to "get rid of 
 you "? — that was what in your wisdom you understood, was 
 it not ?' 
 
 I had nothing to say, not a word. 
 
 'You could credit the idea, and give it house-room, 
 though you had promised to trust him, and had sworn you 
 did trust him — that after he had cared for you and been 
 fond of you and proud of you for twelve years, he could 
 then, suddenly and without a cause, feel sick and tired of 
 you, and eagerly seize upon the first opportunity — decent — 
 that offered, to relieve himself of the burden which you had 
 become to him.' 
 
 'You are cruel!' I said, suddenly uncovering my face, 
 which I felt to be burning hot, and looking at him with 
 passionate remonstrance. ' You can put it all in that way, 
 and it sounds very well, and there is something in it, too. 
 I have never been worthy of anything you have done for 
 me. Perhaps I knew that; but you can't see; you don't 
 see. You say I am no longer a child — oh, cannot you 
 understand that a child may take things from a man which 
 no woman who is not helpless may, unless he is her — rela- 
 tion, of some sort? Oh,' I went on, shaking from head to 
 foot in my emotion, ' I think I shall die if you talk to me in 
 
 28 
 
434 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 this way, telling me I am grown-up, and then rebuking me 
 for not going on as if I were still a baby. What have I 
 done ? What have I done ? Proud ! It would become 
 me to be proud ! I can't bear it !' 
 
 ' Ines !' 
 
 I looked at him for a moment, wildly if my looks were 
 like my feelings. I saw that he was very grave, his lips set, 
 his eyes searching me with a new and unknown expression. 
 I could not read it all, but it seemed to me as if there was 
 something like exultation in it. And, starting aside from 
 the subject we had been discussing, he suddenly said, in a 
 low voice which caused me to tremble with another feel- 
 ing,— 
 
 *If you had accepted Maurice, I should have ka/ed 
 you.' 
 
 I drew a long breath. And, almost without a pause, he 
 went on — 
 
 'We shall get to the truth by degrees. So you had all 
 these unspeakable feelings and, without saying a word to 
 me, you went and made arrangements with the Professor. 
 May his shadow never be less, and after his death may he 
 have a marble tomb covered with inscriptions from the Rig- 
 Veda, if that would give him any satisfaction ! And you 
 were going to be an independent young woman, as so many 
 young women are nowadays — " on your own hook," if you 
 will excuse the fearful levity of the expression.' 
 
 * If I was, I — and the other young women — perhaps felt 
 ourselves obliged to be so. Not all girls have fathers and 
 mothers to look after them.' 
 
 * I meant no unkindness to you — or to the other young 
 women. Whenever I see a woman walking alone and 
 
INES WRITES 435 
 
 honestly through the world, I feel inclined to stand aside 
 and take off my hat to her as she goes by. But you will 
 own that this was what you purposed ?' 
 
 ' Yes, it was.' 
 
 ' And you did not take into consideration what I might 
 say or wish ?' 
 
 I hung my head. I was convinced that he knew perfectly 
 well what my motives had been, and was taking advantage 
 of me. But I could not prevent it.' 
 
 * You did not. Did Lisa tell you that 1 had a long talk 
 with her about you, and that she upheld your course ?' 
 
 ' She did approve ? Thank God ! No, she did not 
 tell me.' 
 
 * She told me I might manage this affair for myself. Lisa 
 was very hard upon me — very. I may say, brutal.' 
 
 ' Was she ?' 
 
 'Yes, she was. Ines !' 
 
 Again I looked up and met his eyes, and realized that 
 that proud reticence and self-command of which I had 
 felt so secure, and which I had promised myself should 
 never fail me, in relation to him, hardly depended on myself 
 alone. I clasped my hands under my chin, fixed my eyes 
 upon the grammar which lay open before me, and said to 
 myself-— 
 
 ' If you do fail, and degrade and make a fool of yourself 
 now, you will deserve a whipping ; and in some shape or 
 other you shall have it. A fitting reward for his goodness 
 to you, to let him see what your self-love and self-indulgence 
 have led you to — drivelling sentimentality. How he would 
 hate any girl to make an ass of herself about him in this 
 way ; and you — unprovoked and outrageously to do thus ! 
 
436 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 No ; if you give way now, you shall never know again what 
 self-respect is !' 
 
 After this fearful tumult in my own mind, his words 
 seemed to come cool and quiet, as he said — 
 
 * I think we are getting to the end of our explanation 
 now. You had come to a crisis in your life. There were 
 the usual " three courses " open to you. The first was to 
 marry your cousin — you declined. The second was, since 
 you would have some change, to go to Professor Willoughby, 
 as you purposed, and have the proud consciousness of being 
 independent and — happy, we'll hope. Do you think you 
 would have been happy ?' 
 
 I shook my head speechlessly. 
 
 ' The third— I would have told you before of the third, 
 only you have repelled me so by your steady, consistent 
 coldness, ever since we met. You shake your head. Ah, 
 but it is true. You have been ice to me, and, like a fool, I 
 have loved you the better for it. Ines, do not be so hard — 
 look at me. I ask you only to look at me !' 
 
 I wondered dimly what people looked like who really felt 
 hard, if I was considered to look hard now. But I raised 
 my eyes to his face, and looked at him without flinching. 
 
 'Do you not think,' he said, with a slow distinctness, 
 ' that you could make up your mind to let that excellent 
 scholar find another secretary, and you ' 
 
 * And I ?' I said somehow. ' Tell me what you 7msk me 
 to do. You have never told me that yet.' 
 
 ' And you stay with me — always.' 
 
 ' Stay with ' I began. 
 
 Don't look at me like that !' he exclaimed, almobt angrily. 
 ' Don't look down at me as if I had said something beyond 
 
INES WRITES 43 
 
 description insulting to you ! Am I so utterly repulsive to 
 you?' (His voice suddenly changed, and I sat as if trans- 
 fixed.) 'You have been dear to me for twelve long years, 
 but now — this time only, I know what you will always be 
 to me.' A pause. 'You look at me as if you would crush 
 me, but you shall not ; you must hear it now. Listen ! I 
 believe you wt7/ not believe me.' 
 
 He rose suddenly, stooped over me as I sat at the end of 
 the table, and in a low but distinct voice spoke some 
 sentences to me in words which, as I listened to them, 
 swept away every chance of misconception, doubt, or mis- 
 understanding ; which burnt into my heart and left me face 
 to face with the truth. As these words reached my con- 
 sciousness, my eyes saw no more the books or the papers, 
 or any of the objects around me — nothing but a white 
 blank, and my pulses stood still. 
 
 He ceased, and there was a little silence. Then I knew 
 that he laid a hand upon mine, and said — 
 
 ' Now I have told you. And you ?' 
 
 Again there was a silent pause, till he asked, in a voice 
 that strove to be steady — 
 
 ' You heard what I said ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' I whispered 
 
 * Speak to me, then. Don't go on torturing me. Can't 
 you tell me the same thing, now, or — some time ?' 
 
 With a deep sigh I lifted up his hand, and pressed my 
 cheek upon it. 
 
 * Ines, how long will you keep me waiting ?' 
 
 * You know it,' I said ; and it cost me agony to make the 
 avowal, though I knew all that I had gained, and was 
 resolved to speak the truth. ' It cannot be that you do not 
 
438 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 know it. You say I have been torturing you. It was 
 because I feared I was telling you what you want to know, 
 every time I looked at you or spoke to you.' 
 
 * And you hate to admit it ? How like you ! But you do 
 admit it? Ines, I'll never doubt it or you, as long as 
 I live.' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FROM MOOR ISLES. 
 
 On another October night, years and years after these 
 things had happened, had passed and gone, and had be- 
 come almost as a tale that is told, the south-west wind 
 was again rioting across hill and dale, was rushing with wild 
 strength up the slopes of Ravenside Hill, and striking the 
 summit of it, much as it had done at a later hour that night 
 on which Brian Holgate had returned home at midnight 
 from the Irkford concert. 
 
 On this occasion the darkness of midnight was not over 
 the scene ; the hour, indeed, was comparatively early, be- 
 tween nine and ten in the evening. There was in the sky 
 a pallid moon, \vhich sometimes gleamed forth for a few 
 minutes when the rack parted and allowed it to show. It 
 shone fitfully upon the walls and roof of Moor Isles, and 
 showed the gate leading to the door of the farm. Save the 
 roar of the wind, there was no sound to disturb the quiet- 
 ness of the night. In the great kitchen of the farm, there 
 were the glowing red remains of what had been a large hot 
 fire. At some little distance from it, out of the shadow of 
 the ingle, sat Alice Ormerod beside a little round table 
 with a lamp on it. A book was in her hand, and she had 
 been quietly reading for some time. 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 439 
 
 The lamp, though bright enough just beside her, did not 
 penetrate far into the gloom of the immense kitchen. Deep 
 cavernous recesses were filled with black shadows. Here 
 and there the light caught one of the great beams of the 
 ceiling, but the general effect was that of spacious darkness, 
 illumined by the one small lamp and the red glow from the 
 fire. 
 
 Alice has not altered much during the seven or eight 
 years which have passed since you saw her. Her beauty is 
 of the kind that wears well, and also she has a strong soul 
 with which to resist the ravages of grief and time. There is 
 a look of stately, well-to-do repose about her just now ; 
 perhaps her present occupation best shows the difference 
 between what she was and what she has become. Seven 
 years ago she would not have sat for more than an hour 
 engrossed in a book. Her face, though undoubtedly grave 
 and more set, is very little altered ; the fashion of her hair, 
 the simple style of her plain black gown, are all just as they 
 used to be. 
 
 As a louder gust of wind rushed wildly past the windows, 
 it seemed to rouse her. Her book drooped a little back- 
 wards. She raised her head and listened. 
 
 'It's a wild night,' she thought, 'and getting on for half- 
 past nine. I must go and see if that lad has all he wants 
 before he goes to sleep.' 
 
 At that moment, her attention became suddenly fixed 
 and absorbed. Her eyes dilated. She laid her book upon 
 the table, and sat, wide eyed, gazing into the darkness and 
 listening. 
 
 A low knocking was audible at the door, and then both 
 the dogs in the yard began to bark loudly. Ferran, now 
 
440 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 well advanced into middle life, who had been lying at her 
 feet, pricked up his ears, and began to growl angrily. 
 
 'What's it all about?' she half-muttered to herself, and 
 then rose and went to the door. 
 
 She was discreet and cautious, but not nervous for an 
 instant. It was not often that an unknown hand knocked 
 at their door at that hour. The said door was secured by 
 a chain as well as by a great bolt. The latter she undid, 
 and, leaving the chain on, opened the heavy old oaken 
 door and, drawing it back as far as the chain would allow, 
 asked — 
 
 'Who's there?' 
 
 She saw indistinctly a man's figure in the darkness, and 
 there was a slight pause before the visitor said a single 
 word — 
 
 ' Alice !' 
 
 As she heard it, her heart sprang to her throat. With 
 eager, trembling hands she began to undo the chain, and 
 simultaneously Ferran set up a wild whimpering, scratching 
 and crying. At last, in about two seconds, which seemed 
 to her an eternity, the door was flung as wide as it could go, 
 the wayfarer's hand was seized in both hers ; he was drawn 
 into the house; Ferran, with a shriek of delight and re- 
 cognition, sprang upon him, and Alice spoke in a voice 
 almost choked with feeling — 
 
 ' Brian, Brian, you have come home to us !' 
 
 Then he was inside, in the warmth and the shelter ; the 
 door closed between him and the storm. She had led, or 
 pushed, or dragged him within the effluence of the lamp's 
 rays ; she was holding his hand still, and looking, looking, 
 without the power of uttering another word, with a strange, 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 441 
 
 excited emotion that made her whole frame feel weak and 
 feeble, but filled her heart with strength and gladness. 
 
 He who had gone away a broken-hearted boy, now stands 
 confronting her — a tall, upgrown man, whose shoulders are 
 broad, whose strength is great, whose once smooth face, 
 though still shaven, is hollowed with the lines and inequali- 
 ties of maturity, whose fair skin is bronzed and roughened, 
 and whose blue eyes, looking out of his much-changed 
 countenance with startling effect, are the only things about 
 him which have remained the same. They seem to Alice 
 like ghosts. 
 
 ' So you knew me again — you remembered my voice ?' he 
 said, in deep soft tones. * It's more than ever I deserved. 
 And this poor old fellow, too. Ferran, old lad, I do 
 believe thou'rt glad to see me.' 
 
 'Did you ever doubt that we should be glad to see you?' 
 she asked. She had seated herself now, and, though her 
 heart was still wildly beating, she had managed to draw a 
 veil of composure over her face. It was only her eyes 
 which could not conceal their delight. She scanned him 
 from head to foot. He looked strong, healthy, prosperous. 
 There was no sign of poverty or distress about him. What 
 had made him choose this hour for coming ? 
 
 ' I should never have doubted, Alice, if I'd ever allowed 
 myself to think about it at all. But I never did, till a few 
 months ago ; and then so many little things happened, one 
 after another, making it plain that it was best for me to 
 come across and get them settled, that I made up my mind 
 to face it — and here I am.' 
 
 *And where do you come from?' she asked quickly. 
 * Sit you down there and tell me.' She seized another log 
 
442 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 and threw it upon the fire, which quickly blazed up with 
 brilliance. 
 
 He named a rich young giant city of far- western America. 
 
 *And do you live there now? That's in ' She 
 
 named the state. 
 
 * I've lived there for five years now, and I suppose I shall 
 go back and stay there till I die. I seemed to hit on a way 
 of earning my living, somehow. It was hard work that I 
 wanted. It settles you down, does a bit of hard work. 
 When I first got there, it was two years after she' (in a 
 whisper) 'died. You heard about that, Alice?' 
 
 ' Yes. Mrs. Reichardt told me.' 
 
 ' At the end of those two years, Alice, I seemed to feel as 
 badly as I had done at the beginning of them. They had 
 been so kind to me. Mr. Arkwright — I'll never forget his 
 goodness — he never spoke an impatient word to me all that 
 time that I was so dazed and helpless, though he had all my 
 work to do, and he'd just got engaged to Miss Grey, and 
 must have wished me at Jericho many a time.' 
 
 ' He was happy,' said Alice quietly. ' It would have been 
 a shame if he couldn't have dealt gently by one in sorrow.' 
 
 ' He did deal gently by me, anyhow. As for Mrs. 
 
 Reichardt ' He paused. There was a catch in his 
 
 voice. 
 
 Alice nodded. ' Ay, I know.' 
 
 ' I felt as if I was a curse to myself and everyone else. I 
 couldn't think of anyone who was the happier or the better 
 for knowing me, but nearly everyone was the worse, in some 
 way or other. I stopped with them till they left America. 
 I promised Mrs. Reichardt to write to her, but I broke my 
 word. I'd nothing good to tell her. It would have been 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 443 
 
 easy many a time to make away with myself while I was 
 wandering up and down, and for no one to be the wiser. 
 Perhaps,' he added, with a smile at once sad and shrewd, 
 'that was why I didn't do it.' 
 
 ' And how did you come to feel better, then ?' she asked 
 eagerly. ' But you've come to stay, haven't you, Brian ? 
 Why don't you take off your coat? I can have father's 
 room ready for you in ten minutes. Oh, Brian, father is 
 dead ! Dear old father ! Did you know ?' 
 
 ' Dead ! Nay, I knew nothing, I want to know all. 
 But I can't stay, Alice. I'm bound to go away from here 
 again to-night. It's a sort of forbidden luxury, this visit. I 
 meant to be hard and strong, and not come ; but I gave 
 way in the end. I felt as if I must travel over the old road 
 once again, and have a look at the old place. It will be 
 my last. Dead ! He was always so kind to me, was your 
 father. Are you in black for him now ? Is it only a short 
 time ago ?' 
 
 ' It is three years ago now. He died quite suddenly and 
 quietly. He'd said to me many a time when we used 
 to walk home from church together, " Ailsy, I've often 
 wondered why they say in the Prayer-book, * From battle, 
 murder, and sudden death,' like as if they were one as bad 
 as the other." So he had his wish, and died quite suddenly. 
 He left Andy and me so that we need not have gone on 
 with the farm, but we couldn't bear to leave it. We took 
 it on. It's something for him to think about and for me to 
 do. It keeps us up many a time when we should be sad, 
 but for that. But go on ; tell me more. How did you get 
 to that city ?' 
 
 ' I'll tell you afterwards. I'm just thirsting to know one 
 
444 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 or two things. There's Moor Isles, AHce; does anyone 
 Hve at my old house ?' 
 
 ' It's your house yet, Brian, and always will be, thank 
 God ! When Richard Law came home from America, 
 after — you know — he was quite quiet for a long time. No 
 one ever heard him say that he had felt it much : he isn't 
 one to let on about his feelings, but some of us think he 
 had, for all that. One day he came up here, and he said 
 to Sarah Stott and me that he'd nothing more to do with it. 
 It wasn't his, really ; we could see after it ourselves, as we 
 were your friends, and as for him, he washed his hands of it 
 Well, we were thankful to get rid of him on any terms, and 
 knowing that you and I could never quarrel over it, I took 
 on myself to behave as if it was mine, Brian. V^'hat do you 
 think of that ?' 
 
 * I think it was just like your goodness. Well ?' 
 
 * So I saw after it, and had it kept aired and tidy. And 
 one day in the spring Mrs. Reichardt came up. She'd 
 come over from Irkford to see me and tell me everything 
 she could about you, and others as well. Eh, but she is 
 good ; such a kind heart she has, and she never hurts any- 
 one's feelings. She always seems to know what to say to 
 you, and how to say it too. So she stayed all day, and we 
 talked nearly the whole time ; and when she went away, I 
 felt I'd found one that would never change to me. I told 
 her everything that had happened to us. And it was after 
 that a bit that I saw her again, and she proposed to me that, 
 if I approved — she said she was sure you would if I did — 
 she would rent Moor Isles from me, as your agent, like. I 
 was glad. I knew you'd say yes to that, if you knew. And 
 it's all right. There's all the accounts and everything quite 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 445 
 
 correct. She said she had a great fancy for the place. She 
 said she'd Hke to have me for a neighbour, and she told 
 me, too, that she wanted some such place, that it was a rest 
 only to be in, not only for herself, but for Mr. and Mrs. 
 Ark Wright, whenever they wanted to come.' 
 
 ' They got married, then ?' he asked, with a sad half- 
 smile. 
 
 'Yes, directly after they got back to England. She's 
 never tired of talking about them. She says they're the 
 dearest things she has in the world, and I don't wonder 
 she loves them.' 
 
 ' Ay, I could see what was going on there, in the midst 
 of my own misery,' said Brian musingly. ' I remember 
 how Mr. Arkwright was a changed man from that very 
 night of their landing — from the time he saw Miss Grey 
 again. After they were engaged, Mrs. Reichardt told me 
 how he'd always been in the habit of thinking her a mere 
 child, with having adopted her from the time she was a baby, 
 and when he saw her again after two years, grown into such 
 a stately and beautiful young woman, he — well, we all could 
 see. I believe Miss Grey was the only one that didn't, till 
 he made it plain to her. So they come here sometimes ?' 
 
 'They come here often. At first they used to come 
 alone, or with Mrs. Reichardt ; and they come alone now 
 sometimes, but very often they send their two little ones 
 with their governess and maids, and I can tell you Mrs. 
 Reichardt spends a deal of her time here then. Of course 
 they live in London, but he doesn't sing as much as he used 
 to do. He has a great deal to do about some school of 
 singing ; I never know what it is. Oh, but what I meant 
 to say was, Mrs. Reichardt said she would keep all the old 
 
446 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 things in the house ; there's not one gone, though there's 
 some new ones come in. She said, if ever you came back 
 it would be ready for you. She thought you would not 
 object.' 
 
 ' Object !' he echoed. ' It's the best bit of news I've 
 heard this many a day — that there are good people and 
 little children who come to my house and are happy there. 
 I'll see Mrs. Reichardt about it. I have business in Irkford, 
 and the least I can do is to go and apologize to her for not 
 writing. There's only one thing to prevent me from offer- 
 ing it to her if she'd like to buy it, or take it on an endless 
 lease, or something of that kind.' 
 
 'And what's that?' she asked him. The fire was flicker- 
 ing ; the light was uncertain ; but it shone into her eyes as 
 she looked at him, and it shone upon his face, Hned and 
 thoughtful, turned towards the blaze, as he leaned forward, 
 his elbows on his knees. 
 
 ' That some time or other my own little child — my boy 
 Brian, when he is grown up, might feel that I had done 
 wrong to him in not giving him a chance of having it for 
 his own. He knows that I have an old house in England, 
 and that I was going to see it, and his mother, for all she is 
 an American, never lets him forget that he has an English 
 father.' 
 
 There was a pause, not so very long as to be noticeable. 
 Then Alice said, in a voice scarcely altered from the one 
 in which she had all along been speaking — 
 
 ' Brian, you might think I knew by instinct everything 
 that had happened to you all this time. Do you mean 
 that you are married ?' 
 
 * By George ! Of course you couldn't know. How 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 447 
 
 Stupid of me ! Yes ; and that was how I came to myself 
 after that dreadful time. After I'd settled in this business 
 
 house at , I met the sister of one of the other fellows 
 
 there— Ferris, his name was. She was called Anne Ferris — 
 Nannie, they always called her. I don't know how it came 
 about exactly. I found she was as good as an angel to me. 
 I think it was once when she went away for a time that I 
 learnt how much she meant in my life. I told her every- 
 thing that had happened — the whole story, and concealed 
 nothing from her. I even told her about Lucy, and that 
 there could never be anyone the same to me as she had 
 been, and I asked her, could she take me, knowing it all, 
 and she consented. It was wonderful.' 
 
 (' Lucy was dead,' was the thought concealed by Alice's 
 half-smile.) 
 
 *We have been married four years,' he went on, 'and 
 that one boy is our only child. She is a good woman, if 
 ever one lived.' 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 ' So many things happen when people have been parted 
 for so long,' she said. ' And are you happy ?' 
 
 ' I'm contented, when I don't think too much of what's 
 past and gone. Yes, and sometimes I am happy, I think. 
 And you see why it would not be right in me to part with 
 Moor Isles altogether.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I see. You are quite right,' said Alice, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 ' And poor old Sally ?' he asked. 
 
 * She lives between here and Moor Isles. She's getting 
 very feeble, and past her work, but Mrs. Reichardt is very 
 kind to her, and will never turn her away.' 
 
448 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 ' She's an angel. But I'll see that she is not put to 
 expense in the matter. I'll settle all that. I'm going to 
 Irkford to-morrow. And Andy, Alice, where is he, and 
 how ?' 
 
 * He's much the same. He gets no stronger. Sometimes 
 he's better, and sometimes he's worse. To-day he has been 
 very poorly, and in bed all day.' 
 
 She did not offer to take him to Andrew, nor did he ask 
 to go. 
 
 * And you, Alice,' he said. ' You look well. I hope 
 you're happy, as you deserve to be.' 
 
 'Oh, I'm well enough,' she said tranquilly. 'I've been 
 much happier since Mrs. Reichardt and her friends came 
 up here. They've been so good to me — told me things, 
 and lent me books, and we are friends — yes, they are real 
 friends. You can always get on when you have friends.' 
 
 ' I should have thought — I felt almost sure I should find 
 you were married,' he said, with rather a sad smile. 
 
 'Why?' she asked deliberately. 'Did you ever hear of 
 anyone as I wanted to have ?' 
 
 ' No ; but there must have been many who wanted to 
 have you.' 
 
 He paused. Whether some faint gleam of the truth was 
 borne into his mind by the mere fact of their having spoken 
 together on the subject, who shall say? He finished his 
 sentence in a kind of embarrassment ; but she replied, 
 calmly and cheerfully — 
 
 ' There have been some, Brian — one or two — poor things ! 
 But I never felt as if any one of them could tempt me away 
 from this. You may believe me, I'm best as I am.' 
 
 ' I believe you speak the truth, as you always did,' he 
 
FROM MOOR ISLES 449 
 
 said, rising. 'I must go away now. I'm going to walk 
 back into Hollowley. But first, Alice, come with me into 
 the Moor Isles garden, that I may look across, and feel the 
 wind that comes blowing from those moors. It doesn't 
 come off Ravenside to-night. I'm fain to stand in the old 
 garden once again.' 
 
 She rose. ' Yes, I'll go with you. But listen, Brian. 
 I've thought of some little things I should like to send to 
 your wife and your little boy — if — did you tell her you once 
 had a friend ' 
 
 * Oh, she knows all about you, Alice, and everything that 
 you've done for me ! She says — no, never mind what she 
 says. But she does say you must be just lovely, and she 
 sent her love to you.' 
 
 ' Very well. You can give mine to her. Tell her I'll 
 give her a welcome when she ever comes to Moor Isles. 
 You must leave me your address, and I'll send the things to 
 you before you sail again. They'll like them, because they 
 come from your old home. Now w^e can go out.' 
 
 They went out, Alice casting a shawl over her head and 
 shoulders. They passed out of the farmyard and into the 
 Moor Isles garden. All was still. It was now half-past 
 ten, and the servants had gone to bed. Softly she led the 
 way to the botton of the garden, and opened the gate which 
 led into the great sloping pasture. They stood there, side 
 by side, and the soft, delicious wind blew wildly about them. 
 Then the clouds parted, and showed great swells of moor- 
 land sleeping dark under the stormy sky, with the nearer 
 fields and uplands, and the lines of twinkling lights travel- 
 ling up the hills in all directions from the town in the valley 
 below. 
 
 29 
 
450 FROM MOOR ISLES 
 
 * Oh,' he suddenly exclaimed, with a kind of passion in 
 his choked voice, — ^ oh, God ! it's my home, Alice ! it's my 
 home ! I never knew till now what it meant to me. I 
 believe I love it better than wife or child, or anything living. 
 I think I was a fool to come back to it.' He dropped on 
 to his knees on the ground, bent to the grassy embankment 
 by which they were standing, pressed his face upon it, 
 kissed the earth of it, and took some green leaves into his 
 hand. But on rising, he threw them down, saying, ' No, I 
 won't carry so much as a blade of grass with me ; it might 
 witch me back again here. Come away !' 
 
 In a few minutes they stood together beside the farmhouse 
 door. 
 
 * Good-bye, Alice. There's nothing else to say. I shall 
 think of this night many a time, to the end of my life.' 
 
 ' You won't come in again ?' she asked, pushing open the 
 door. 
 
 * No, no.' 
 
 They stood for a moment, holding each other's hands 
 fast, till he again said, in an unsteady voice — 
 
 ' Good-bye.' 
 
 And she answered, in a sweet and steady tone, ' Good- 
 bye, Brian. I am glad you came. God bless you I' 
 
 ) 
 
 THE END, 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD. 
 
 /. D. &* Co.